1 me to the world, becomes a pattern for me by | terian clergymen in their black Genevan gowns, her piety, helps me to bear my grievous mis- dinned his ears; all sects tried to gain access fortunes, and, by her sympathy and refined to him, and either to fathom the intentions of judgment, encourages me in writing my epic, the general or to lead them into a special chanwhich, but for her advice, would perhaps never nel. The fickleness and want of principle of have been finished. Such a woman restores the multitude became more and more apparent; to me my lost paradise, and I praise the good- and while Milton was waiting in the anteroom, ness of the Lord, who, even though so late, has he could not but notice that his old friends and had mercy upon me, and revealed to me the acquaintances anxiously shunned him now that true and exalted nature of woman." he had lost his former influence, and the current of public opinion was favorable to the Stuarts. The blind poet felt a gentle, chaste kiss on his lips; but before he was able to return it, his muse had disappeared. CHAPTER IX. THE RESTORATION-MILTON'S CONCEALMENT. ALTHOUGH Milton was thus restored to poetry, his heart was still ardently devoted to the liberties of his country, which at this juncture were more seriously threatened than ever before. General Monk, who, as we have said, was master of the situation, hesitated, it is true, to take the last decisive step; but all symptoms indicated the speedy overthrow of the republic. With profound affliction Milton saw his fondest ideals ruthlessly swept away, and he beheld the rapid return to power of a reactionary party, which, in anticipation of its overwhelming triumph, already exulted at the humiliation of its republican adversaries. As yet, however, he thought the cause that was so dear and sacred to him was not irretrievably Jost; him of his duty. The blind poet caused him- At last he was admitted. The general received him with the coldness and imperturbable equanimity which always give a shrewd, calculating mind the advantage over a fervent enthusiast. "What do you want of me?" asked Monk, with his characteristic bluntness. "Solicitude for the welfare of the country leads me to you; the fate of England is in your hands. At no time, perhaps, has so much been intrusted to a single man as to you, general. On your decision depends the weal or woe of England. A whole people looks up to you and holds you responsible for its fate. History, with uplifted pencil, stands ready to engrave your name on her tablets, either as the benefactor or the worst enemy of your country." "Come to the point. Who sent you to me? "Who sent me to you? My love of liberty, general, and the voice of the Spirit. As the Lord of old raised up prophets in Israel when His people was in danger, so He calls forth to-day also men that will fearlessly proclaim the truth." "The time of miracles is past," replied the general, sneeringly. "And yet the events of the last fifteen years prove the falsehood of that adage. Has not a miracle happened under our own eyes? A throne fell before the mighty will of a nation, and the anointed head of a king was laid on the block. A man of lowly descent became | whole people who themselves know not what ruler of England, and at the very moment when he was stretching out his hand for the crown, death overtook him. Is it not a miracle, too, that you yourself have reached a position where you may decide upon the future of three kingdoms ? " law, what reason, what right and wrong, what crooked and straight, what licit and illicit mean? who think that all power consists in outrage, all dignity in the parade of insolence? who neglect every other consideration for the corrupt gratification of their friendships, or the "And what are your views, your wishes? prosecution of their resentments? who disWhat do you advise me to do?" "To preserve the republic and protect it against its enemies; to save to the nation those liberties which it has purchased with rivers of precious blood." "Pray ask the people whether they want freedom; and ask yourself whether the multitude is ripe for it." "In my opinion, freedom is not a gift of mercy, which must be solicited and humbly obtained, but it is the birthright of individuals as well as nations. I will not deny that it may be abused and degenerate into anarchy; hence, I demand wise laws and institutions to prevent such abuse of freedom." "And who is to enact these laws?" "An assembly of the best men, to be freely elected by the people." "In that case we shall have another Parliament such as that of the miserable Barebone," said Monk, shrugging his shoulders. "It is true, if the right of unrestrained suffrage were adopted, not wisdom and authority, but turbulence and greed would prevail, and would soon exalt the vilest miscreants from our towns and villages to the rank and dignity of senators. Should the management of the republic be intrusted to persons to whom no one would willingly intrust the management of his private concerns; and the treasury of the state be left to the care of those who lavished their own fortunes in an infamous prodigality? Should they have the charge of the public purse, which they would soon empty into private ones by their unprincipled peculations? Are they fit to be the legislators of a perse their own relations and creatures through the provinces, for the sake of levying taxes and confiscating goods? men, for the greater part, the most profligate and vile, who in a moment emerge from penury and rags to a state of splendor and wealth? Who could believe that the masters and patrons of banditti could be the proper guardians of liberty?" Monk was silent, and his cold features did not betray the slightest symptom of sympathy; yet Milton continued to defend liberty in the most enthusiastic manner. To save the republic, no sacrifice seemed to him too great. He anticipated all possible objections, and even consented to concessions at which the members of his party took deep umbrage, and for which he was bitterly denounced by a great many. We have seen that he gave up universal suffrage; the members of the senate (the Parliament which he advocated) were to be elected for life, except some who were to lose their seats from time to time, and in whose places new members were to be elected. In return, he demanded freedom of conscience for all those who recognized the Bible as the foundation of their faith. He rejected emphatically the House of Lords, pointing to the influence of the large landed proprietors, an evil of the English constitution by which the country injuriously affected even at the present time. Thus he strove to render good service to the republic, not as a mere enthusiast, but as a practical statesman, even at the moment when it was expiring, and when its adherents were exposed to grave dangers. "If we return to kingship," he exclaimed at the end of the conversation, “and soon repent | tively decorated. Charles rode by the side of (as undoubtedly we shall, when we begin to his gloomy brother, the Duke of York. He find the old encroachments coming on by little kindly greeted the same populace which a few and little upon our consciences, which must, years before had hailed his father's execution, necessarily proceed from king and bishop and had wished the same fate to be inflicted united inseparably in one interest), we may be upon him. The merry, jovial king, jested and forced, perhaps, to fight over again all that we laughed with his companions and friends, have fought, and spend over again all that we among whom the licentious Buckingham renhave spent, but are never like to attain thus dered himself most noticeable by his coarse far as we are now advanced to the recovery jests and his handsome appearance. Thus of our freedom, never to have it in possession Charles repaired to the palace, surrounded by as we now have it, never to be vouchsafed a brilliant suite and an innumerable multitude, hereafter the like mercies and signal assist- which set no bounds to its rejoicings. His ances from Heaven in our cause, if by our un- adherents now flocked to him from all quarters grateful backsliding we make these fruitless; and rallied around him; and many of his former flying now to regal concessions from His di- adversaries deserted their party and passed vine condescensions, and gracious answers to over to him. Now commenced that disgusting our once importuning prayers against the tyr- spectacle which is never wanting to a restoraanny which we then groaned under; making tion. Many partisans of the republic, many vain and viler than dirt the blood of so many Puritans dropped their masks, which they had thousand faithful and valiant Englishmen, who worn only while they were benefited by so doleft us in this liberty, bought with their lives." ing, and joined the court. The very noisiest The general turned a deaf ear to these elo- democrats suddenly became the most enthuquent appeals; he was unable to discern the siastic adherents of the king, and persecuted requirements and struggles of the future, and their former friends and associates. Not only his sober mind did not rise above the questions fellows like Billy Green, but men that had with which he had to deal at the present mo- filled the most distinguished positions, gave ment. Milton's words made no impression the most unmistakable proofs of their venality upon him, and he dismissed the blind poet and want of principle. Edmund Waller, the without revealing his intentions to him. poet, who had celebrated Cromwell's death in one of his most vigorous and impressive poems, presented a congratulatory address to Charles II. The royal offering was considered inferior to the panegyric on Cromwell, and the king himself told him of the disparity. A few days afterward the general and the Parliament declared for Charles II. The people received this intelligence approvingly, nay, with manifestations of exultation. Tired of civil war, of military rule, and of the arrogance of the generals, they looked upon the restora- "Poets, sire," replied the witty, self-postion of the Stuarts as their only salvation, and assessed, and unprincipled Waller, "succeed the safest road to the reëstablishment of law, better in fiction than in truth.” order, and tranquillity. The change which public opinion had undergone became strikingly manifest at Charles II.'s solemn entrance into London. The most jubilant acclamations greeted him on all sides; the streets were strewed with flowers, and all the houses fes Charles smiled, and from that hour forward Waller was admitted to the circle of those dissolute courtiers who, by their vices and immorality, have gained a lasting though most unenviable name in the annals of English history. In a short time St. James's palace was converted into a rendezvous of indescribable | not hope to escape from the vindictiveness of the royalists. His friends were afraid lest sentence of death should be passed upon him, and advised him to conceal himself until the first storm had blown over. To mislead the persecutors, they even circulated the rumor that he was dead. While he found a quiet and safe asylum at Lady Carbury's house, a coffin, attended by a small number of mourners, was carried from his own dwelling to the cemetery. This stratagem saved him, at least, for the time being. licentiousness and corruption. Here were celebrated the orgies to which none but the intimate friends of the king were admitted. Frivolous women, such as the adventurous niece of Cardinal Mazarin, Barbara Villiers (Mrs. Palmer), afterward Duchess of Cleveland, and the accomplished but frail actress Nell Gwynn, played the most prominent parts on these occasions; the most notorious reprobates vied with them. Here reigned a tone and manners that defied the dictates of decorum and decency; obscene witticisms were levelled at the most sacred things, and the more vicious a man was, the more he was courted as a boon companion. At that time appeared first those frivolous roues who boasted of their vices, and lauded meanness and infamy as praiseworthy qualities. The very literature of that time was demoralized, and pandered to the basest lust. The most vicious plays were performed on the stage, and more lascivious utterances fell from the lips of the actresses than from those of the actors. "I would," said the poet, during this sham funeral, "I were really dead and buried! Life has no longer any value for me since I have to lament the subversion of liberty, and this fearful demoralization prevailing everywhere." Why so gloomy?" replied Alice, who was seated at his side. "Resurrection succeeds to death. To-day they inter only Milton the politician, while Milton the poet celebrates his resurrection. You possess the greatest conThis immoder-solation in your poetical genius, which raises you above all earthly troubles. You should never have bid farewell to your Muse, never have plunged into the whirlpool of party-life; you would suffer less at this juncture." ate thirst for amusements and dissipation did not exclude the most vindictive spirit of persecution. The resentment of victorious reactionists knew no bounds. The king himself was not very bloodthirsty, but his courtiers urged him to commit a number of actions entirely at variance with his originally careless and indifferent nature. Sentence of death was passed upon the judges of his father, and they were executed amid the most excruciating tortures. The very grave did not shield the deceased republicans from the cavaliers, whose revenge extended beyond the bounds of death. The remains of Cromwell and Ireton, and even the corpse of the noble and magnanimous Lady Claypole, were torn from their coffins and hanged on the gallows. Death, imprisonment, or exile, menaced all the partisans of the commonwealth. Milton had occupied so prominent a position among them, that he could "No, no! I followed only the dictates of my own conscience, and never shall I regret having courageously raised my voice in favor of freedom of conscience and thought. The true poet must not stand aloof from the world and its aspirations; he must not turn a deaf ear to the claims which life and his country make upon him. He is, at the same time, a bard and a prophet, a seer and an exhorter, enlisted in the service of truth. Life and art must commingle in him, and only if he serves humanity, takes part in its struggles, fearlessly enters upon the solution of great public questions, and undauntedly professes his principles and convictions, does he deserve the name of a poet." CHAPTER X. ARREST AND PARDON OF MILTON. MILTON, therefore, was believed to be dead; but in his soul, as Alice had predicted to him, he celebrated the resurrection of poetry. In his safe retreat he worked at his "Paradise Lost," the great struggle of light with darkness, of truth with falsehood. Only from time to time his friends informed him of the events of the day. Parliament caused his "Defence of the People of England" to be burned by the public executioner. This act of baseness and resentment grieved him profoundly. His health began to give way under so many mournful impressions, and his voluntary loneliness produced a most injurious effect on his constitution. Gradually reassured in regard to his personal security, he left his asylum after nightfall and wandered through the streets of the city. Whenever he took such walks a shadow was noticed dogging his steps and seemingly watching his movements. He paid no attention to it, for life had lost all value in his eyes. He had long desired to see his daughters, and, contrary to Alice's advice, he went to his house in order to meet his children, who lived there under the care of his sisters. After spending a short time in their midst, he left the house again to return to his safe asylum. On stepping out of the door, he was surrounded by armed men headed by Billy Green, who had been lurking for him. "You are my prisoner!" cried Cromwell's former spy, who was now in the service of the government. servants to disturb him. In vain the noble lady mentioned her devotion to the Stuarts and the great sacrifices she had made to their cause; the chamberlain was ordered not to admit her. Charles II. was utterly forgetful of the faithful services which his adherents had rendered to him, and they had often enough cause to charge him with ingratitude. Alice, however, was firmly determined not to leave the palace until she had seen the king himself and prevailed upon him to pardon Milton. While she was waiting in the anteroom, the poet Davenant came in on his way to the apartments of the king, with whom he was on the most intimate terms. Without knowing him, Alice hastened to meet him. On seeing her, Davenant involuntarily stood still. "Pardon me if I detain you, and ask you to render me an important service." "Ask of me all that you like, except money." "I must see the king, and you must procure me an audience." "I am afraid that that is altogether impossible; for, when his majesty is at the dinnertable with a full goblet before him, he does not allow himself to be disturbed, even though an angel should come from paradise to see him. Let me advise you to come back some other time." "My business brooks no delay. I am here to obtain the pardon of a noble, magnanimous man, who is, moreover, so unfortunate as to be blind." "I hope you do not refer to my friend Milton?" he asked eagerly. "If that is the case, I will myself speak to the king, and I pledge you my word I will get him pardoned!" "Are you a friend of Milton?" The news of Milton's arrest spread like ♦wildfire, and his friends were in great trepidation on his account. Alice hastened to the palace to intercede in behalf of the unfortunate poet. She vainly demanded admittance to the king; Charles II. was at dinner with his favorites, and had strictly forbidden his | lican, and I am a royalist; he is an enthu "Of course I am, although we bear no more resemblance to one another than the eagle does to the merry bullfinch. He is a repub |