Warburton was the first, I believe, to remark how exactly these concluding lines describe the situation of the poet himself afflicted by his loss of property, and "his gout, not caused by intemperance," The same acute but very unequal critic is by no means so happy in his observation, that Milton seems to have chosen the subject of this sublime drama for the sake of the satire on bad wives; it would be hardly less absurd to say, that he chose the subject of Paradise Lost for the sake of describing a connubial altercation. The nephew of Milton has told us, that he could not ascertain the time when this drama was written; but it probably flowed from the heart of the indignant poet soon after his spirit had been wounded by the calamitous destiny of his friends, to which he alludes with so much energy and pathos. He did not design the drama for a theatre, nor has it the kind of action requisite for theatrical interest; but in one point of view the Sampson Agonistes is the most singularly affecting composition, that was ever produced by sensibility of

heart and vigour of imagination. To give it this peculiar effect, we must remember, that the lot of Milton had a marvellous coincidence with that of his hero, in three remarkable points; first (but we should regard this as the most inconsiderable article of resemblance) he had been tormented by a beautiful but disaffectionate and disobedient wife; secondly, he had been the great champion of his country, and as such the idol of public admiration; lastly, he had fallen from that height of unrivalled glory, and had experienced the most humiliating reverse of fortune:

His foes' derision, captive, poor, and blind.

In delineating the greater part of Samson's sensations under calamity, he had only to describe his own. No dramatist can have ever conformed so literally as Milton to the Horatian precept.

Si vis me flere, dolendum est

And if, in reading the Samson Agonistes, we observe how many passages, expressed with the most energetic sensibility, exhibit to our fancy the sufferings and real sentiments of the poet, as well as those of his hero, we may derive from this extraordinary composition a kind of pathetic delight, that no drama can afford; we may applaud the felicity of genius, that contrived in this. manner, to relieve a heart overburthened with anguish and indignation, and to pay a half concealed yet hallowed tribute to the memories of dear though dishonored friends, whom the state of the times allowed not the afflicted poet more openly to deplore.

The concluding verses of the beautiful chorus (which I have already cited in part) appear to me particularly affecting, from the persuasion that Milton, in composing them, addressed the two last immediately to Heaven, as a prayer for himself:

In fine,

Just or unjust alike seem miserable,
For oft alike both come to evil end.

So deal not with this once thy glorious champion, The image of thy strength, and mighty minister. What do I beg? how hast thou dealt already? Behold him in his state calamitous, and turn His labours, for thou can'st, to peaceful end.

If the conjecture of this application be just, we may add, that never was the prevalence of a righteous prayer more happily conspicuous; and let me here remark, that however various the opinions of men may be concerning the merits or demerits of Milton's political character, the integrity of his heart appears to have secured to him the favor of Providence: since it pleased the Giver of all good not only to turn his labours to a peaceful end, but to irradiate his declining life with the most abundant portion of those pure and sublime mental powers, for which he had constantly and fervently prayed, as the choicest bounty of Heaven.

At this period, his kind friend and physician, who had proved so serviceable to him in the recommendation of an attentive, and affectionate wife, introduced to his notice a

young reader of Latin, in that singular character, Thomas Ellwood, the quaker, who has written a minute history of his own life; a book, which suggests the reflection, how strangely a writer may sometimes mistake his way in his endeavours to engage posterity. Had the honest quaker bequeathed to the world as circumstantial an account of his great literary friend, as he has done of himself, his book would have engrossed no common share of public regard: we are indebted to him, however, for his incidental mention of the great poet; and as there is a pleasing air of simplicity and truth in his narrative, I shall gratify the reader by inserting it with very little abridgment:

"John Milton, a gentleman of great note for learning throughout the learned world, having filled a public station in former times, lived now a private life in London; and having wholly lost his sight, kept always a man to read to him, which usually was the son of some gentlemon of his acquaintance, whom in kindness he took to improve in his learning.