{"id":1965,"date":"2026-08-12T20:54:01","date_gmt":"2026-08-12T20:54:01","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/thefirstfolio.com\/?p=1965"},"modified":"2026-08-12T22:22:29","modified_gmt":"2026-08-12T22:22:29","slug":"darkness-visible-john-martin-and-the-1827-paradise-lost","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/thefirstfolio.com\/?p=1965","title":{"rendered":"Darkness Visible: John Martin and the 1827 Paradise Lost"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

A book dealer I know once told me about a copy of the 1827 Septimus Prowett ‘Paradise Lost<\/em>‘ that passed through his hands \u2014 two imperial quarto volumes, the paper gone the color of weak tea, the plates loose in their guards the way those of old, well loved tomes so often are. He said that when he lifted the tissue off the first plate, the print stopped him where he stood. Not because it was beautiful, though it was, but because it seemed to be lit from within. Lucifer and his infernal band of miscreants, cast out of Heaven and plummeting into the abyss, black as a coal cellar, with the faintest of light trickling down from above. He said he had been selling books for twenty years and it still made the hair go up on his arms. I believe him, because I feel that same enchantment each time I crack the cover of my own copy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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That story is a good place to start, because it says something true about John Martin’s illustrations that no amount of art history can quite convey: they are not illustrations in the tame sense of pictures that sit obediently beside a text and repeat what it says. They are events. You don’t so much look at them as get swept into them, the way you get caught by a wave you didn’t see coming, and it seems to me that this is exactly the effect Milton was after in the poem itself \u2014 and exactly the reason the two of them, poet and engraver, separated by a hundred and sixty years, turn out to be such fitting collaborators.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Paradise Lost<\/em> is, ironically, a poem written by a blind man about light and its opposite. Milton composed it in darkness, dictating to his daughters or whoever else happened to be in the room, and yet no poem in English is more obsessed with seeing \u2014 with what can and cannot be looked at, with the difference between light that reveals and light that blinds, between “darkness visible” and darkness that simply is. That phrase, from the first book, describing the flames of Hell that give off “no light, but rather darkness visible,” is one of the great paradoxes in the language, and it is also, I think, an uncannily exact description of what a mezzotint does.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mezzotint was known in the trade as “the black art,” and the name is not decorative. Unlike an etching or an engraving, which starts from a blank plate and builds up dark lines on a light ground, a mezzotint begins entirely black. The engraver roughens the whole copper plate with a tool called a rocker until it will hold ink everywhere and print as a solid, velvety black, and then works backwards, burnishing the surface smooth in the places that need to catch light, coaxing the image up out of the darkness rather than laying it down on top of brightness. A mezzotint isn’t drawn as much as it’s excavated. Whatever glow appears on the page has been dug out of black, the way Milton’s Creation is dug out of Chaos. It is hard to imagine a technique better suited to a poem whose entire cosmology runs on the tension between the two, and it is hard to believe Martin didn’t feel that fitness in his hands as he worked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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He came to the commission an odd but obvious choice. John Martin was a coach-painter’s apprentice from Northumberland who taught himself to paint apocalypses \u2014 cities toppling, floods rising, angels falling out of skies the size of counties \u2014 and who became, for a while, the most popular painter in England for exactly the pictures the critics most despised him for. Belshazzar’s Feast<\/em>, exhibited in 1821, had crowds queuing round the block and needed a rail to hold them back from the canvas; Ruskin, not long after, dismissed the whole enterprise as scene-painting dressed up as art, more theatre than truth. His own brother set fire to York Minster in a fit of religious mania, and the newspapers, never able to resist a good coincidence, took to calling the painter “Mad Martin” too, as if scale and darkness and thousands of tiny doomed figures were themselves a symptom rather than a style. He was, by all accounts, nothing of the sort \u2014 a careful, methodical man who moonlighted as an amateur civil engineer and submitted his own carefully considered proposals for solving London’s sewage crisis. But he had, undeniably, a taste for the sublime in Edmund Burke’s specific sense of the word: the pleasure that comes from contemplating vastness and danger from a position of safety, the thrill of a universe too large to be borne looking directly at it. Milton, who built Chaos as “a dark \/ Illimitable ocean without bound,” and who sent Satan flying nine days and nights through the void to reach it, had been writing Martin’s subject matter a century and a half before Martin was born.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Septimus Prowett, the publisher, put up something in the region of two thousand pounds for the commission \u2014 an enormous sum for the book trade of the 1820s \u2014 and the plates came out two at a time, month by month, sold by subscription from 1825 to 1827, so that the poem’s first Regency readers received their Milton in installments, with the darkness accumulating a little further each month until the whole thing closed, quite fittingly, on the image of Adam and Eve walking out of Eden into the world.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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The authors own copy of the 1827 Septimus Prowett ‘Paradise Lost’<\/em> in imperial quarto. The original early 19th century bindings are worn with use, but present, with previous ownership clearly not content to simply allow them to collect dust on a shelf.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Take the plate usually called Satan Presiding at the Infernal Council<\/em>, illustrating the opening of Book II. Milton gives us Pandemonium as an architectural marvel, a palace raised out of the ground “like an exhalation,” with a roof “fretted gold.” Martin gives us something closer to a vision out of Piranesi crossed with a Gothic novel \u2014 a vast black rotunda ringed with galleries and colonnades receding into a gloom that never quite resolves into a back wall, so that you can’t tell if the building has an edge at all. Satan sits enthroned on what looks like a small black planet, lit from above as if by gaslight, dwarfed by his own hall the way an ant is dwarfed by a cathedral. It shouldn’t work as a portrait of power \u2014 you’d think making your central figure tiny would diminish him \u2014 but it does the opposite. The smallness is the point. Milton’s Satan is grand because the poem keeps handing him grandeur, rhetoric, sympathy even; Martin’s Satan is grand because the architecture around him is so enormous that anything able to command it, however small, must be terrible indeed. It’s the same trick Milton plays when he compares Satan’s shield to the moon seen through Galileo’s telescope, and his spear to a Norwegian pine \u2014 the mind is made to leap between scales, and the vertigo of that leap is what creates our perspective.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Or take the Bridge over Chaos<\/em> \u2014 that infernal piece of engineering Sin and Death build across the void after the Fall, a causeway flung over nothingness so that evil can commute more easily between Hell and Earth. It is one of the odder inventions in the poem, a bit of infrastructure in the middle of a cosmic tragedy, and Martin, the amateur engineer, seems to relish it more than any illustrator has before or since: a craggy black filament of a bridge crossing an abyss lit by streaks of fire, so slender and so improbably long that it reads less like an engraving of a place than an engraving of an idea \u2014 the idea that once the door between good and evil has been forced open even a crack, someone will inevitably find a way to build a road through it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The book closes, as the poem closes, on the expulsion \u2014 and this is the plate I keep coming back to, because it does something none of the infernal scenes attempt. After twenty three plates of thrones and abysses and armies, the final image is eerily quiet. Adam and Eve are two small figures in the corner of an enormous, weather-torn landscape, hand in hand, walking away from a light that is closing behind them like a door. Milton’s own last lines do the same thing in words: “The world was all before them, where to choose \/ Their place of rest, and Providence their guide: \/ They hand in hand with wandering steps and slow, \/ Through Eden took their solitary way.” It is one of the most quietly devastating endings in English poetry, precisely because it refuses to tell you whether it’s tragic or hopeful (although we know it to be both), and Martin’s plate refuses in exactly the same way. When you spot the figures, small against the landscape, you can’t stop noticing how alone they are, and how the whole enormous, ruined, magnificent world is now, somehow, theirs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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A book dealer I know once told me about a copy of the 1827 Septimus Prowett ‘Paradise Lost‘ that passed through his hands \u2014 two imperial quarto volumes, the paper gone the color of weak tea, the plates loose in their guards the way those of old, well loved tomes so often are. He said that when he lifted the tissue off the first plate, the print stopped him where he stood. Not because it was beautiful, though it was, but because it seemed to be lit from within. Lucifer and his infernal band of miscreants, cast out of Heaven<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":1665,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[29,22],"tags":[45,42,44],"class_list":["post-1965","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-hands-on","category-stories","tag-john-martin","tag-john-milton","tag-paradise-lost"],"yoast_head":"\nDarkness Visible: John Martin and the 1827 Paradise Lost - The First Folio<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"noindex, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Darkness Visible: John Martin and the 1827 Paradise Lost - The First Folio\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"A book dealer I know once told me about a copy of the 1827 Septimus Prowett ‘Paradise Lost‘ that passed through his hands \u2014 two imperial quarto volumes, the paper gone the color of weak tea, the plates loose in their guards the way those of old, well loved tomes so often are. 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