Milton in america, p.1
Milton in America, page 1
BY PETER ACKROYD
FICTION
The Great Fire of London
The Last Testament of Oscar Wilde
Hawksmoor
Chatterton
First Light
English Music
The House of Doctor Dee
The Trial of Elizabeth Cree
Milton in America
BIOGRAPHY
T. S. Eliot
Dickens
Blake
POETRY
The Diversions of Purley
CRITICISM
Notes for a New Culture
PUBLISHED BY NAN A. TALESE
an imprint of Doubleday
a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.
1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036
DOUBLEDAY is a trademark of Doubleday, a division of
Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.
This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events; to real people, living or dead; or to real locales are intended only to give the fiction a setting in historical reality. Other names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Ackroyd, Peter, 1949—
Milton in America / Peter Ackroyd. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Milton, John, 1608–1674—Journeys—America—Fiction.
I. Title.
PR6051.C64M55 1997
823′.914—DC20 96-22234
First published in the United Kingdom by Sinclair-Stevenson, London.
eISBN: 978-0-307-81624-5
Copyright © 1996 by Peter Ackroyd
All Rights Reserved
v3.1
FOR CARL DENNISON
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Introduction
Part One: Eden Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Part Two: Fall Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
John Milton, the poet of Comus and of “Il Penseroso,” was also Latin Secretary for Foreign Tongues to the Council of Oliver Cromwell. His sympathies had been with the regicides, therefore, and he had even written a tract justifying the execution of Charles I. So by the early months of 1660, when it became clear that the Commonwealth was about to fall and Charles II return to England, Milton believed himself to be a man forsaken. He would be hunted down, imprisoned and no doubt executed for his collusion with the new king’s enemies. He had been struck by blindness eight years before, and could scarcely remain unknown or unrecognized in London. He had no choice but to escape, while there was still opportunity to do so. And where better to flee than New England, where he would be assured of a joyful welcome from the Puritans who had already settled there?
PART ONE
Eden
ONE
Come on board, friend Menippus, and float in the Tartarean air. The sparkling waves do smoke again, and there is sorrow on the sea. From the face of the deep, I call to thee. Sirens. Leviathan. The white-headed waters will not be quiet. Fair blow the winds, now strike your happy sails. Port after stormy seas is best. Spice, and ivory, and apes. The unmeasured ocean of my mind is forever beating.
Mr. Milton, sir.
To bed, John. The candle is dwindling. You punish your eyes with too much study. The dawn comes, and the sun strikes the rooftops of Bread Street, but you brood over fables and histories. What book is this, lying open on your elbow chair? Nel mezzo del camin di nostra vita. The poetry of Italy, in which I once wandered. Lycidas. Wandering down East Cheap. Odes. Heroes. I see blind Samson, snared and taken in the darkness. The fruit of lechery is woe, yet I am tempted still. Ah, Samson, in the eternity of East Cheap. In my youth I was handsome and beardless. In my youth I was desirous of great things. Come away, sir, come away. You must involve yourself in the affairs of men. Here are letters for the Council. The envoy waits.
Mr. Milton, wake up.
The voyage of Palinurus was not more blessed than this. I have sailed upon the rivers of London, the Walbrook and the Fleet, and I have crossed the lakes of Italy. The storm within your head, Aeneas, is known to me. Your journey is mine. And when the goddess Diana prophesied of Britain, he awoke and found the vision to be holy. He sailed away to that blessed isle, that isle of angels, as I am sailing now. England, new England. Will the towers of Elysium rise in the land? Or will this vision be dimmed? Oh yes, the stars move. We drift across the sky as well as the sea. Arthur. Arcturus. Pleiades. Sevenfold. When I was born, the wind was north. When the morning stars sang together, I started my journey.
Awake, Mr. Milton. Sir. Please.
Then the sun shone between the clouds as a blessing, lighting my face, and I could hear the mariners. Store away. Make safe. A storm. A tempest upon the waters. We are hard-pressed upon the rocks of Attica, and the flames on the headland presage our fate. Oh, you spirits of the deep, restore us. Revive my hopes, for I am blind. I am drifting down, and with Odysseus I walk among the drowned men with imploring eyes. Dark and deep. Oh, Lord, deliver us from the dream. And after this our exile.
Please rouse yourself, Mr. Milton.
What? What is it?
We have caught sight of the new land!
TWO
Is this our ending? Is this the long-wished-for shore?” His ebony chair was tied to a barrel of pickled herring on the deck, and a thick rope bound his waist securely. He was wearing a canvas coat, with long sleeves which billowed in the wind he had felt upon his face. His eyes were very wide. “Tell me, Goosequill. What do you see?”
“Grey stones like a marble. Great pebbles. Tall grass. It might be Hackney marshes on a wet morning.”
“Fool. Look again.”
The boy stood by his master, with his hand resting lightly upon his shoulder. “I can see little bays and sandy places. I see bushes.” He began to whistle an old refrain, until his master asked him to be quiet. “The sea is calm enough now, sir. Shall I untie you?”
“No. Wait a little. I sense a movement through the water.”
Goosequill was familiar with the blind man’s unexpected but accurate impressions, and he remained quite still beside him; as he looked out toward Massachusetts Bay, the ship did indeed begin to toss and sway. “Oh, Lord. There is something else. Something on the foreshore.”
“Speak.”
“There is some kind of fire, and there are figures dancing around it. They might be foxes.”
“Foxes never dance, except in masques. They frisk and gambol, but they have no flowing motions. These things may be natives, or devils. Do you believe in devils, Goosequill?” John Milton smiled, but then shivered in the strengthening wind. “Lead me within.”
The boy untied him from the barrel, and helped him rise from his chair before guiding him through a narrow door and passage which led to the interior of the ship. There was always the same odor of corn and camphor, of orange peel and pepper, of vermin and gunpowder, of beef, and oatmeal, and beer, and cheese, all mingled but not mixed. After the sea breezes and the fresh wind of New England, they might have been entering the stale air of their London past. Some other passengers, hastening eagerly to the deck, waited reverently for John Milton to pass them. They bowed to him as he walked slowly towards his cabin, and then rushed out for their first sight of the new land. “It is truly the Lord’s country,” one of them called out. “It is an Eden in the wilderness.” Milton stopped and smiled, as another traveler took up the refrain. “So proud a people will take root here, that a tree will grow towards heaven. We will be the cedars of the promised land!”
“I wish to God,” Milton whispered, “that they would talk more sense and less simile.”
The wind had strengthened, but someone called back into the ship. “Mr. Milton, we will soon have our port within sight! Freedom and glory, sir!” The blind man muttered a word or two, and Goosequill laughed out loud. “What was that, sir?”
“I was glossing the sacred text, Mr. Jackson, that God loveth a cheerful speaker.”
Goosequill took his arm again, and led him down the passageway; Milton was so accustomed to this short journey to his cabin that he instinctively bowed his head as he passed under two great beams. His quarters were next to those of the captain of the Gabriel, Daniel Farrel; he was the most honored of the travelers upon this vessel, and had been given the greatest room. They had been eight weeks at sea but Milton’s “lodgings,” as he insisted upon calling them, were as clean and orderly as if they had left England only the day before. Will you open the chest,” he asked the boy as soon as they entered. “I yearn for ginger.”
“I see conserve of roses, sir. Very good for the bowels. No? Wormwood for the stomach? Oh, here are some cinnamon and sugar, which sit nicely with good wine. I see no ginger, Mr. Milton.”
“I was sucking upon a stick yesterday. Pass me the leather bag.” It contained only dried herbs and the juice of lemons, which could not cure the sickness of the sea. “We are reduced to cinnamon, Goose.” He sighed, and lay back against his canvas bedding stuffed with straw. “So is this the region? Is this the soil and clime?”
“I hope it is, sir. Otherwise we have made a long voyage to Blankshire in the realm of Nothing.”
“Not a realm, you worm, a land. We will be free of all kingly follies here.”
“I am glad to hear it. I never liked a ruler.”
There was a loud knock upon the door, and they heard the voice of Captain Farrel. “Good morning, sir! May I?”
“It is the captain of brandy and barley sugar, Goose. Please to open the door.” He waited until he knew that the captain was standing in front of him. “What news?”
“We are riding by Cape Ann. If we are not becalmed, we are only a few hours from Boston Harbor.”
“So in the darkness of the night we have passed Winicowett and the mouth of the Merrimack?”
“I trust so.”
“And our precise point now?” John Milton had, in his blindness, visualized the entire map of this region so that it had assumed full shape and volume in his mind; he could touch each bay or coast, and New England lay before him like a sleeper ready to awake.
The captain already knew his skill. “We are forty-four degrees and thirty minutes of north latitude, sir.”
“So we have passed half of our New Albion. But the wind is stirring from the southwest, is it not?”
“So it is.”
“Then surely we must stand about west-northwest in order to make our way?”
“Beautiful!” Goosequill pressed his knees together with pure pleasure at Milton’s sagacity; there were times when he was almost convinced that his companion could still see.
“I have given those precise orders. You have a maritime humor, Mr. Milton.”
After the captain had left them and returned to the deck, Milton rubbed his eyes savagely. “Maritime,” he murmured to himself. “Merry time. Mary’s time.”
“Sir?”
“I was ringing the bells of our language. If I am not mistaken, there will be many a carillon issuing from this land. Better by far than our own sad and cracked notes. Yet will it still be our language after we have traveled so far?”
“I can still understand it, sir, except when you talk in rhymes or riddles.”
“But think of that dreadful waste we have crossed. Nine hundred leagues.”
“Dark and deep.”
“Those black-browed waves. Vaulted high and yawning wide to devour us.”
“We must have been very bitter. We were spewed out fast enough.”
“The mind has its oceans, too, Goosequill. It has its gulfs and currents. You have often told me that the sea is mild and temperate, but I have my own inward sight that reaches the highest altitudes and the furthest depths—”
Goosequill mouthed at the blind man, “Ordure of the highest altitudes.”
“—to bring angels or devils back into the thoughts of men.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, sucking companionably upon the cinnamon. “I am told,” Milton said, “that Boston is a very fair town.”
“They say that the streets are paved with pebble stone.”
“Who are they?” He did not wait for an answer. “It has no parishes, but there are three fine churches where we will be welcomed. Do you think I should present them with my new translations of the psalms?”
“It would be a charitable offering, sir.”
“Not that I need introduction or recommendation.”
“Of course not.”
“I do not flatter myself. And it is better to be great here, Goosequill, than to serve evil men in London.”
The Gabriel had kept its course, and to the starboard side the crowd of voyagers observed a lowland of cliffs, sand hills and rough vegetation; in this last week of June a mist had settled upon the sea, and the new land sometimes seemed to shiver and disappear into the haze. They had known only England: when the coast appeared again it was as if their own country had emerged from the waves, newborn, as empty and as pure as it had been before the Druids subdued it with their magic.
“The bay ahead!” One of the crew was crying out, and his voice could be heard even in Milton’s quarters. “We sound ninety-three fathoms!”
Goosequill took Milton’s arm and, putting the cinnamon in the pocket of his master’s coat, led him back to the deck. “That yonker on the mast has an eye as good as Cyclops,” he said.
“Do not employ classical allusions. What do you see?”
“White cliffs.”
“Like those at Dover. No wonder that our fathers knew it to be home.”
“It is in the shape of a half-moon, with two arms outstretched towards us.” As the ship was driven closer to the coastline, Goosequill leaned over the rail of the deck. “There is a high shore, sir, but many places of lowland. I see three rivers, or streams, running down into the low places.”
“It is the bay of our hopes.” John Milton held out his arms. “All hail, you happy fields!” Then a shadow passed across his face, and he put his finger up to his cheek. “What was that?”
“A little cloud. A little cloud coming to greet us.”
“It is from the northwest?”
“I think it may be.”
“Is it black?”
“An ash color. No. Grey like a pickled herring, with spots of a darker hue.”
“Then I am sure that our good captain will soon have something to tell us. Do you sense the wind once more?”
“You sense it before I feel it, sir. Oh yes. Here it comes.”
“A wind from that quarter is an evil omen, Goosequill. It is a harbinger of storm.”
“A harbinger?”
“Messenger. Herald. Forerunner in the race. Do I have to be your primer as well as your provider?”
“If I am your eyes, sir, then surely you can be my words.”
“Enough. Do you feel the air growing colder? This is an envious wind, Goose, frustrated, vagabond.”
Already Captain Farrel was calling to his men; there was a general activity around Milton which caused him to turn his head eagerly, trying to catch every shouted word and hurried footfall. The other travelers were still huddled by the rail; the men held on to their hats, while the women tightened the pigskin threads of their hoods, as the deck shifted beneath them and the rigging began to beat against the wood. One of the sailors began to sing an old-fashioned rhyme about the curling sea, and all those who heard him knew that a storm approached. But it came more quickly than even the captain anticipated; the dark clouds bore down from the northwest, and with them came a cold wind so strong that the Gabriel was driven out to sea again. Milton clung to the rail, and shouted to his boy in the face of the encroaching gale, “Once more we are forced to commit ourselves to the troubled ocean!” Yet he loved a tempest. “Tie me to the rail. God plays with us like a boy with cherry stones. He is always the gamester!” Goosequill knotted the cord around Milton’s waist, and then fastened it to the wooden rail. His master’s fear seemed to have turned to exaltation and, as the wind and the rain whipped about him, he began to sing very loudly:
“So with thy whirlwind them pursue
And with thy tempest chase
And till they yield the honor due
Lord fill with shame their face.”
“You are soaked to the bone, sir …”
“Ashamed and troubled let them be,
Troubled and shamed for ever,
Ever confounded, and so then die
With shame and evil weather.”
He had a strong clear voice which could easily be heard between the blasts of the storm; he was singing death to his enemies, but this was in fact his translation of the Eighty-third Psalm which he had completed before leaving London and had committed to memory. The rain beat upon his upturned face and open eyes, as the Gabriel was drawn out to the open sea. His canvas coat was thoroughly sodden, and his long hair clung upon the skin of his neck and lay flat upon his damp collar. Goosequill stood behind with his hands firmly grasping Milton’s shoulders, in case his master should be pitched upon the heaving deck or into the troubled waters, and still Milton sang.
