court, and I should not be surprised if the pope himself should come to Whitehall one day to put the crown on his highness's head." So saying, the gay poet moved on and disappeared in the crowd. Milton remained, a prey to mournful thoughts and apprehensions. He feared more and more lest the republic, to which he was so ardently attached, should be on the brink of ruin. A new despotism, more intolerable than any other, because it rested on the brute force of arms, threatened to take the place of the former tyranny. Milton had hailed Cromwell as the liberator of his fatherland, the protector of freedom of conscience, the greatest man of his age; and now his ideal lay before his eyes broken and trampled in the dust. What he had revered he could not but despise; what he had loved he could not but hate. It is the greatest affliction that can befall a noble soul to be compelled to tear its idols with its own hands from its heart and hurl them from their exalted pedestals. It is not love deceived, but faith and trust betrayed and abused, that strikes the deepest wounds, because it envenoms man's heart and mind, and buries and destroys all his ideals at one fell blow. The poet's soul was filled with bitter grief, and he wept in secret not only over his country, but over the fate of the whole world. He asked himself if liberty was only an empty illusion, only the dream of a heated imagination. On gazing upon the unprincipled crowd about him, and observing their doings and aspirations, he felt doubts arising in his soul whether the people would ever be ripe for freedom. The degradation of human nature and the innate slavishness of the vile multitude impressed him with crushing force, and he experienced the disdain with which lofty spirits so often look upon the miseries and weaknesses of mankind. But soon these mournful thoughts gave place to the sense of his own dignity, which restored to him his faith in liberty and truth. He deemed himself in duty bound to utter his convictions fearlessly and unreservedly, even in the presence of Cromwell, and at the peril of incurring the wrath of the powerful ruler. While he was engrossed with these thoughts, Sir Kenelm Digby, who recognized him, in spite of their long separation, approached him. After greeting him with seeming cordiality, he said to the poet : "Well, Mr. Milton, I am sure you are likewise here for the purpose of saluting the sun that has lately risen over England. I am almost inclined to bet that you have in your pocket some poem written in honor of the great man." "You are mistaken," replied the poet, indignantly. "I have come to Whitehall to wait on the lord protector in my capacity as Secretary to the Council of State." "Then you have really followed my advice. You have bid farewell to poetry, and turned politician. Well, I am glad of it, and wish you joy of your new career. Beware only of being impeded in your path by your poetical vagaries. A politician must be cool, sober, and destitute of poetical illusions. I am afraid you still possess too much imagination and enthusiasm; at least, I have noticed these pecu. liarities in your late writings, which, as an old friend of yours, I read with a great deal of interest." "I thank you for the sympathy which you vouchsafe to my writings, but I cannot share your views. In my judgment, a great and true politician must possess a heart throbbing for the liberty and welfare of the people. If he lack this, he will never exercise an enduring influence over public affairs, and, at the best, obtain only the reputation of a skilful intriguer. If Moses had not sympathized so profoundly with the sufferings of his people, if he had not revolted at the tyranny of its oppressors, he would never have performed the miracles which God caused him to do, He was chosen by the Lord, because he had | her death-bed, and had to promise her to visit a heart for the sufferings of his people." "Precisely like our lord protector," said Sir Kenelm Digby, sneeringly; "only, I believe, with this difference, that his highness will not content himself with viewing the land of promise from afar. Unless all symptoms deceive me, I believe we shall presently have a coronation in London, and in that case it would have been a better policy for you not to have so openly avowed your love of liberty and your republican sentiments. Believe me, my dear friend, liberty is nothing but a chimera of the poets, and a republic exists only till the right man arises to subvert it. Nowadays it is generally only a production of weakness and impotence, a sort of fever which closes with general exhaustion, and is cured by a skilful physician. But in talking politics, I forgot to communicate to you intelligence which concerns you personally. I have been at Rome and seen Leonora Baroni." "Leonora !" echoed the poet, giving a start. "I thought," continued Sir Kenelm Digby, "that you had not yet forgotten the signora. She fares no better than you; she told me to greet you, and I bring you, perhaps, her last farewell." "She is dead?" asked Milton, mournfully. "Oh, tell me what has become of her." "Shortly after your departure she was taken sick, she loved you so fondly. As she was growing weaker from day to day, she caused herself to be conveyed to a cloister. There I saw her; her cheeks were very pale, but her eyes beamed with heavenly radiance. She resembled a saint in her divine beauty. In devout contrition she repented of her past, and with fervent ardor turned her eyes from the joys of this world to the blessedness above. The signora will soon intercede for you in heaven. Ah! how anxious she always was for the salvation of your soul; with how touching an affection she thought of you! I left her on you and convey her last greetings to you." Milton's eyes filled involuntarily with tears, which he consecrated to Leonora's memory. This noble and artistic nature, then, which had once divided his heart with Alice, had also departed this life! "Poor Leonora !" he sighed, forgiving her the pain which she had caused him. CHAPTER V. THE CROWN REFUSED BY CROMWELL. STILL profoundly moved by the news he had just received, Milton entered the cabinet, where the protector gave his audiences. Cromwell sat, with his eyes almost closed, and absorbed in his reflections. Before him lay an open Bible, in which he seemed to have just been reading. His eyes wandered from the sacred volume to the ceiling and the wainscoting of the walls. He contemplated musingly the golden crown and the royal initials which were everywhere to be seen in the room. This was the goal of his wishes. At present he was the most powerful man in England. Europe bowed to him; France courted his friendship, and the wily Mazarin flattered him in the name of his sovereign by means of complimentary letters and costly presents. The whole Protestant world looked upon him as its protector. His mere word had sufficed to intimidate the Duke of Savoy, who, with unheard-of cruelty, had persecuted the descendants of the old Waldenses in the mountain-valleys of the Alps for the sake of their Protestant faith. He stood, honored and dreaded, on the summit of an almost absolute power, to which he had risen solely by his merits and the strength of his mind. Nothing was wanting to him, except that crown which was here flashing toward him on all sides. It was only necessary for him to stretch out his hand for it, for the newly- | seemed hewn out of granite; his flushed face summoned Parliament had voluntarily offered indicated extraordinary strength of will, and on it to him, or rather sought to force it upon him; his coarse features was stamped a firmness and yet he hesitated to accept it. He thought commanding respect. Peculiar to him was his it was not time yet; public opinion had not | glance and the expression of his large, clear been sufficiently prepared for this last and most eyes, which now gleamed with enthusiastic fire, decisive step. Through it he had become strong now seemed apathetic, as if turned inward and and powerful; to him it was the voice of God, sunk into their sockets, until they suddenly to which, he said, he would never turn a deaf and unexpectedly shot flashes and threatened ear. This was on his part no hypocrisy, but to crush the beholder. On the other hand, the his innermost conviction, for he regarded him- poet's figure was slender and almost feeble; self as an instrument of Providence, and as the fine dark-brown hair surrounded his delicate chosen warrior of the Lord. His belief in his face and pale cheeks; from his high forehead mission was deeply rooted in his soul, and this beamed the noble expression of a profound faith enhanced his greatness. Thus religious thinker, and the traces of his intellectual toils fanaticism was blended in this wonderful nature and long-continued exertions were imprinted with a clear, sober understanding, which, in on his fragile frame. It is true, his suffering thinking of heaven, did not forget the earth eyes had retained their old radiance, but the and its worldly schemes; his fear of the Lord immobility of the pupils indicated the almost was coupled with a high sense of his own dig- entire extinction of his eyesight. However, nity and an insatiable ambition. Fanaticism the light that was departing from them seemed and a spirit of intrigue penetrated one another, now to float around his whole being; he reand thereby added to their mutual strength. sembled a transparent alabaster lamp illumined But for his religious fanaticism, Cromwell from within. Thus the two representative men would have remained a common schemer all of their time stood face to face-the energy of his lifetime; and but for his cool, sober sa- the ruler and the enthusiasm of the poet, the gacity, he would have been a blind fanatic like beautiful ideal and the stern reality. Colonel Harrison. Possessed of these two antagonistic qualities, he was the greatest man of his age. Milton's entrance put an end to his medita Milton addressed the protector, and entreated him to pardon Overton, whom Cromwell had sent to the Tower. "I should gladly grant your request," said tion. He drew his strong hand repeatedly | the protector, "but your friend himself renders across his broad forehead, as if to dispel the it difficult for me to do so. I call God to spirits that bad haunted him. He feigned per- witness that I am a well-wisher of his, and fect tranquillity and indifference, which he that I am sorry to treat an old comrade with dropped only in the course of the conversation. so much rigor. It is no fault of mine; but With a kind gesture he invited the poet to be both he and Harrison have forced me to adopt seated. Although he himself had not enjoyed this course. The Lord alone knows my heart, a very good education, he esteemed the more and will judge between me and them. Say highly the learning and knowledge of others. yourself if I can act otherwise. They conspired against the government, and stirred up a mutiny in the army. Had they been royalists, I should have caused them to be be headed; but, as they are old friends of mine, To the beholder the two men presented the most striking contrast. Cromwell was heavyset; his body, in spite of the fatigues and privations which it had undergone during the war, I have contented myself with imprisoning them." "So far as I know, their only crime consists in their intense devotion to the republic." "Both are fanatics, incorrigible madcaps, bent on accomplishing impossibilities, and thereby breeding confusion and disorder. If their views were carried into effect, we should have no government whatever. They dream of a state of society that would be nothing but utter anarchy. This I cannot tolerate, and therefore nothing remained for me but to render them harmless. I swear to you that no harm shall befall either Overton or Harrison. God forbid that I should consent to the execution of such brave men, who shed their blood for the good cause! I will only keep them imprisoned until they have seen the errors to which they have yielded. Do not grieve, Mr. Secretary, and do not be angry with me, if I cannot grant this request of yours. You know that I am your friend, and am always glad to see you. If you wish to say any thing else to me, speak, for I regard you as a man alike wise and modest." The protector thus unwittingly came to meet the poet, and Milton seized unhesitatingly the opportunity to lay his views before him. "I grieve not only for the sake of my friend," he said gravely, "but still more for the fate of a fair woman, I might almost say the beloved of my youth." "By a man whom Providence has raised higher than any other mortal, who delivered England from intolerable oppression, who achieved glorious victories in countless battles over the enemies of the people, and whom the grateful country calls the father of the people." "And what do they say of this man now?" "That he is stretching out his hand for a crown, and hankering after a title unworthy the transcendent majesty of his character. As yet the friends of freedom will not and cannot credit this rumor; they refuse to think the great man capable of such littleness. He will respect the fond expectations which we cherish, the solicitudes of his anxious country." Milton paused to await the impression produced by his bold words. Cromwell, however, remained silent and seemed absorbed in deep thought. Carried away by his own enthusiasm, the poet discarded all timidity as unworthy of his character, and addressed the protector without further circumlocution. Respect," he exclaimed, with flushed cheeks, and in a voice of noble enthusiasm, "the looks and the wounds of your brave companions-in-arms, who, under your banners, have so strenuously fought for liberty; respect the shades of those who perished in the contest; respect also the opinions and the hopes which foreign states entertain concerning us, which promise to themselves so many advantages from that liberty which we have so bravely acquired, from the establishment of that new government which has begun to shed its splendor over the world, and which, if it be suffered to vanish like a dream, would involve us in the deepest abyss of shame." "I am only an instrument in the hand of the Lord," interrupted Cromwell, as if to excuse himself to Milton, and to himself. “Therefore, respect yourself. After having endured so many sufferings and encountered so many perils for the sake of liberty, do not suffer it, now it is obtained, either to be vi- | to penetrate into the remotest parts of the olated by yourself, or in any one instance im- country, to have the mind present and operapaired by others. Indeed, you cannot be tive in every quarter, to watch against surtruly free unless we are free also; for such is prise, to provide against danger, to reject the the nature of things, that he who trenches blandishments of pleasure and the pomp of on the liberty of others is the first to lose his power-these are exertions compared with own, and become a slave. But if you, who which the labor of war is a mere pastime; have hitherto been the patron and tutelary which will require all the energy, and employ genius of liberty-if you, who are exceeded by every faculty that you possess; which demand. no one in justice, in piety, and goodness, a man supported from above, and almost inshould hereafter invade that liberty which you structed by immediate inspiration.” have defended, your conduct must be fatally operative, not only against the cause of liberty, but the general interests of piety and virtue. Your integrity and virtue will appear to have evaporated, your faith in religion to have been small; your character with posterity will dwindle into insignificance, and thus a most destructive blow will be levelled against the happiness of mankind." Was Cromwell really moved? At all events he heaved a deep sigh. Milton continued, without taking any notice of his real or feigned emotion: "I know full well that the work which you have undertaken is of incalculable moment; that it will thoroughly sift and expose every principle and sensation of your heart; that it will fully display the vigor and genius of your and that it will determine whether character; "I am only a weak man, an instrument in His hands," murmured the protector. "In truth, the Lord speaks out of your mouth; therefore, speak out fearlessly." "At once wisely and discreetly to hold the sceptre over three powerful nations," added Milton, thus encouraged, "to persuade people to relinquish inveterate and corrupt for new and more beneficial maxims and institutions, "What you say is true, very true," replied Cromwell. "The Lord Himself will. illumipate me." "I have no doubt that He is with you. But you will bear my feeble words in mind, and consider especially how you may discharge all these important duties in such a manner as not only to secure our liberties, but to add to them." When Milton ceased, the protector rose from his chair and strode, as was his habit, up and down the room. "Go, go," he said, laying his hand on Milton's shoulder. "You are an honest, excellent man, and I would I possessed your genius and virtue; but the Lord has endowed us all with different gifts. To you He has vouchsafed learning and eloquence; but to me—” Cromwell did not finish his sentence. With a kind gesture he dismissed the poet, who left the great man with renewed hope and confidence. After he was gone, the protector became again absorbed in his reflections. In his mind arose once more that long struggle between his ambition and his sense of duty. The temptation was too strong, and the old demon soon seized him again. An old augury came into his mind. In his boyhood, in a Latin play performed by the pupils of Cambridge, and representing the struggle of the human limbs, he had played "the Tongue," and finally been crowned as victor, all his schoolmates kneeling down and paying homage |