the rule of his life, and which rested especially on his experience during the first months of the restoration, a time when apostacy and shameless venality were fearfully prevalent. When the audience, during which Charles's respect for the noble lady had constantly increased, was drawing to a close, he alluded of his own accord to the sacrifices which she had made for the royal cause.

"Your noble husband died for us," he said, kindly. "You yourself have lost most of your estates by confiscation. It is meet, there fore, that so far as I am able, I should indemnify you for the losses which you have sustained. Golden Grove Castle and its domains, which were confiscated during the commonwealth, rightfully belong to you. I restore them to you and to your sons. They shall always be the property of your family."

"That is too much," faltered out Alice, in surprise. "I came to implore your mercy, not for myself, but in behalf of another."

"But it does not behoove the king," said Charles, in a dignified manner, which he saw fit to assume but very rarely, "to enrich himself with the property of widows and orphans. Go, Lady Carbury, and tell your republican friend that we princes are not so bad as he and his political friends paint us."

After this act of justice and magnanimity, the king returned to the banquet, where, intoxicated with wine and with the kisses of his mistresses, he soon forgot the lady who had stirred the better feelings of his heart.

found him in the company of his eldest daughter Anna, who had received permission to visit her father from time to time. He was just dictating to her a portion of his "Paradise Lost." Carried away by his enthusiasm, he did not notice the entrance of his friends, who, profoundly moved by the sublime spectacle, did not venture to disturb him. In prison, and exposed to the terrors of an ignominious death, he yielded fearlessly to the inspirations of his lofty imagination. He had just arrived at the description of the parents of mankind, whom he portrayed as follows:

"Two of far nobler shape, erect and tall,
Godlike erect, with native honor clad,
In naked majesty, seemed lords of all;
And worthy seemed; for in their looks divine
The image of their glorious Maker shone;
Truth, wisdom, sanctitude severe and pure,
Severe, but in true filial freedom placed;
Whence true authority in men: though both
Not equal, as their sex not equal, seemed;
For contemplation he and valor formed,
For softness she and sweet attractive grace;
He for God only, she for God in him.
His fair large front and eye sublime declared
Absolute rule; and hyacinthine locks
Round from his parted forelock manly hung
Clustering, but not beneath his shoulders broad;
She, as a veil, down to the siender waist
Her unadorned golden tresses wore
Dishevelled, but in wanton ringlets waved
As the vine curls her tendrils; which implied
Subjection, but required with gentle sway,
And by her yielded, by him best received,
Yielded with coy submission, modest pride,
And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay.

Nor those mysterious parts were then concealed;
Then was not guilty shame: dishonest shame
Of Nature's works, honor dishonorable,
Sin-bred, how have ye troubled all mankind
With shows instead, mere shows of seeming pure,
And banished from man's life his happiest life,
Simplicity and spotless innocence!

So passed they naked on, nor shunned the sight
Of God or angel, for they thought no ill:
So hand in hand they passed, the loveliest pair
That ever since in love's embraces met;
Adam the goodliest man of men since born
His sons, the fairest of her daughters Eve.
Under a tuft of shade, that on a green
Stood whispering soft, by a fresh fountain-side,
They sat them down; and, after no more toil
Of their sweet gardening labor than sufficed
To recommend cool Zephyr, and made ease
More easy,
wholesome thirst and appetite
More grateful, to their supper fruits they fell,
Nectarine fruits, which the compliant boughs

Yielded them, sidelong as they sat reclined
On the soft downy bank damasked with flowers.
The savory pulp they chew, and in the rind,
Still as they thirsted, scoop the brimming stream:
Nor gentle purpose, nor endearing smiles
Wanted, nor youthful dalliance, as beseems
Fair couple, linked in happy nuptial league,
Alone as they. About them frisking played

All beasts of the earth, since wild, and of all chase
In wood or wilderness, forest or den:
Sporting the lion ramped, and in his paw
Dandled the kid; bears, tigers, ounces, pards,
Gambolled before them; the unwieldy elephant,
To make them mirth, used all his might, and
wreathed

His lithe proboscis; close the serpent sly,
Insinuating, wove with Gordian twine
His braided train, and of his fatal guile
Gave proof unheeded; others on the grass
Couched, and now filled with pasture, gazing sat,
Or bedward ruminating; for the sun,
Declined, was hasting now with prone career
To the ocean isles, and in the ascending scale
Of heaven the stars that usher evening rose."

It was not till Milton paused, that Alice and Davenant made known their arrival to the blind poet.

"You see," said Davenant, "how soon my predictions have been verified. To-day I return the visit which you paid me in prison, and am happy to inform you that you have heen pardoned."

"You owe your life and liberty to this excellent gentleman," added Alice. “The king, whom may God save! was exceedingly gracious toward me, and toward you too."

"And it depends only on yourself," added Davenant, "to resume your former office as secretary to the Council of State. His majesty seemed greatly inclined to reappoint you to that office. If I were in your place, I should not hesitate a moment."

"Never!" replied Milton, with solemn earnestness; never will I take such a step, and prove recreant to my principles. I will eat the dry crust of poverty rather than repudiate my convictions."

"Bah! one must not be so very scrupulous. Look about you: I could name a great many republicans who have now become ardent royalists. Believe me, my old friend, it does

not pay to sacrifice one's happiness for a mere chimera. The first of all laws is self-preservation."

"I should think it was self-respect," replied Milton, and then turned the conversation into a different channel, Alice helping him kindly to do so.

Milton preferred his honorable poverty to the royal offer, and did not shrink from the sacrifices which he voluntarily imposed upon himself. Henceforth he lived in retirement in the environs of London, occupied exclusively with the completion of his great epic. His three daughters shared his retirement only with the greatest reluctance. They had inherited the character and predilections of their deceased mother, and requited his tenderness with coldness and ingratitude. Only his youngest daughter Deborah was an exception, and treated her father more affectionately than her undutiful and unkind sisters. The latter complained bitterly of the tyranny of Milton, who taught them to read and pronounce Latin, Greek, and even Hebrew, and caused them to read to him daily for several consecutive hours. He was now totally blind, "dark, dark, irrecoverably dark," and needed more than ever a support which he did not meet with at the hands of his undutiful daughters. With the assistance of the servant-girl they defrauded the blind helpless man by selling be hind his back the most valuable books of his library, and extorted from him for household expenses a great deal of money which they spent for dresses and amusements. In this manner they indemnified themselves for the ennui which they felt in his company.

His good angel also left him. Alice was obliged to return to her estates, where her presence was indispensable. She deemed herself in duty bound to preserve from decay the inheritance of her only son, who had grown up in the mean time, and to rebuild the castle of his ancestors. She deferred as long as pos

sible her departure, by which her friend was to be deprived of his last support. At last she informed him, profoundly moved, of her resolution.

"I must look after my neglected estates, and try to preserve to my son the inheritance of his ancestors. One idea only, that I must leave you here, grieves me profoundly. You have more than ever need of female care and solicitude, and your daughters fail to do their duty toward you."

"I am destined to drink the bitter cup of adversity to its very dregs," replied Milton, heaving a deep sigh. "My daughters resemble the unnatural children of King Lear. Oh, how truthfully did the great Shakespeare depict in his immortal tragedy the grief and despair of their poor old father! May God preserve me from madness!"

your life and become to you a stay and staff in your old age. If you consent to take herand I am convinced that you will not turn a deaf ear to the voice of reason-you shall have this very day an interview with your intended at my own house."

"It is your wish, and I will comply with it, although my heart cannot love another woman."

"Let us forget the past, which is irrevocable for us two. We must submit to the requirements of life. I shall bid you farewell with less sorrow if I leave you under the tender care of this excellent creature."

Milton appreciated the sacrifice which Alice made to him unmurmuringly. Fate had sundered them forever, and vouchsafed to them only a spiritual and intellectual union. At Alice's house he got acquainted with the amiable girl she had destined for him. With womanly devotion and self-abnegation, the noble creature had resolved to sweeten the last days of the blind poet; free from all selfishness, she sacrificed to him her youth and a bright future. Alice was her friend, and, in

"I know best the reasons which will render it difficult for you to make up your mind to take this step; but nevertheless you yourself cannot fail to perceive how necessary it is." "And what girl would bestow her hand on a blind old man, the father of three daughters, who is not even rich enough to compensate her for the sacrifice she would make to him?"

"I know such a girl, the daughter of an excellent man, who has lived for some time past in my neighborhood, and shares my veneration for you. She herself has confessed to me her love for you, and is willing to become yours notwithstanding your blindness. At my hands you shall receive the wife who entertains no more ardent wish than to sweeten

the young girl with love and veneration for Milton. She herself encouraged her to persevere in her intention.

"Can there be any thing more beautiful for a woman," she said, "than to accompany a man of genius on the thorny pathway of his life, to protect him from the cares of stern reality, and to belong to him? Were I not a mother, and had I not other duties to fulfil, I should have joyfully remained with him. But as it is, I must leave him, and he needs a helpmate. You, my daughter, are the only woman to whom I should not grudge his friendship and his affections."

"And I pledge you my word that I will be to him a faithful companion and assistant." It was an affecting scene when Alice introduced to the blind poet the young woman who

was to share the evening of his life. All three were profoundly moved.

"I accept your sacrifice," said Milton to the weeping girl. "Alas! I have become so poor that I have nothing to offer you, not even my love, which belongs to another woman."

"I know it, she replied; and yet I am proud of the name of your wife, for I revere in you the most sublime genius, the greatest poet. My only apprehension is, lest, with my feeble abilities, I should not fulfil your expectations. Never till now have I been so painfully alive to my own worthlessness."

"It is not knowledge, but love, that makes us rich," said Alice, putting the girl's hand into that of the poet. "God bless you!" she added, with tears in her eyes. "I shall be with you, even though you do not see me."

With a mournful embrace, and shedding bitter tears, she bade farewell to the beloved of her youth; however, she left him more calmly as she had given him a faithful wife, though her heart bled and grieved in secret.

CHAPTER XII.

MILTON AND THE DUKE OF YORK.

MILTON'S wife kept her word, and became a stay and staff to her blind husband. Peace returned to his house, although his unnatural daughters persisted in their heartless conduct toward their old father. New dangers and persecutions, however, threatened him from without; for his enemies were again intent on involving him in serious trouble. The attention of the king's brother, James, Duke of York, who afterward ascended the throne, and, owing to his tyranny, was deprived of his crown, was called to Milton. He dinned Charles's ears with entreaties, until the king allowed him to go and see the blind poet. Attended by Sir Kenelm Digby, with whom he

was on terms of special intimacy, he repaired to Milton's house. They found him in an open bower, where he spent most of his time; he was engaged in dictating to a young man a letter to a distant friend. Hidden in the shrubbery, they listened to the words of the blind poet. Notwithstanding the twofold burden of age and adversity, his features had not by any means lost the noble intellectual expression for which they were distinguished. His gray hair fell in long ringlets upon his shoulders; from his high forehead beamed the majesty of his mind; and round his finelychiselled lips played a melancholy smile, the only symptom of his sufferings, which he bore with manly resignation. His costume was simple, but neat; his slender, unbowed form was wrapped in a comfortable gray coat. Thus he was seated in the small garden where he used to pass most of his time during the fine season. The autumnal sun illumined his venerable face, and seemed to surround his head with a halo. The breeze whispered gently in the foliage surrounding the bower. Some late flowers bloomed in gay colors, while yellow leaves flitted from time to time to the ground. In the top of the linden a bird sang the melancholy notes with which he took leave of the parting season. The whole was a picture of peace, blended with a spirit of gentle melancholy. The poet, who was reclining in his easy-chair, involuntarily inspired the visitors, despite the hostile intention with which they had come, with a feeling of respect and admiration.

"I had formed a different idea of this enemy of religion and of our cause," said the gloomy Duke of York to his companion.

"And yet," whispered Sir Kenelm Digby, "no man in England has more fatally injured our sacred cause. You know his writings, which breathe the most intense hatred of Catholicism and of the Holy Father in Rome." James, who had turned Catholic in France,

and become one of the most fanatical adherents of his Church, was irritated again by the insidious remark of Sir Kenelm Digby. The milder mood which had involuntarily seized him at the sight of Milton, gave place to his vindictiveness and spirit of persecution. "It would be a downright outrage if such a heretic and republican should not suffer any punishment whatever. But, in the first place, I will speak with him, and enjoy the misfortunes which have so justly befallen him."

"He deserves his fate the more as he rejected in Rome the most brilliant offers made to him on the part of our holy Church. I myself took the greatest pains, and left no means untried, to prevail upon him to accept them. Already I thought I had won him over to our side, when he escaped me, and rewarded my efforts by deriding and reviling me. Oh, I cannot tell you how intensely I hate that man, who has always frustrated my most important plans!"

"Depend on it, I shall revenge myself and you on him. The time is no longer distant when I shall openly proclaim my convictions, and annihilate our enemies."

"You really intend, then, to avow your adoption of the Catholic religion in the face of the whole world?"

"I have already too long deferred this. You yourself and our Roman friends advised me to proceed very cautiously; but the moment when I may put off the irksome mask is at hand. The throne has been so firmly reëstablished that nothing is able to shake it. My brother, too, is secretly attached to our Church. However, he cannot yet openly adopt our faith; and, besides, his mind is too frivolous to fathom and appreciate the sublime task imposed upon our house. I for one am firmly resolved to subvert Protestantism in England for all time to come. I swear that I will do so as soon as I have ascended the throne! The task of my life will be accom

plished then. The innocent blood of my father, who died for his faith, will no longer cry to Heaven, and my vengeance will be fully satiated.”

"We will commence avenging your father's death upon this fanatic. Come, I will speak to him, but he shall not learn immediately who I am.”

So saying, the duke and his companion approached the poet, who heard them, and rose from his easy-chair.

"Who is there?" he asked.

"A good friend," said Sir Kenelm Digby, with feigned cordiality. "I have long intended to afford myself the pleasure of visiting you in your retirement."

"I bid you welcome, Sir Kenelm; but you have brought a companion with you?"

"You cannot wonder that an admirer of your genius has accompanied me in order to pay his respects to you."

"Sir Kenelm tells you the truth," added the duke, with a sinister smile. "Already long ago I wished to get acquainted with the celebrated poet and republican, who has sworn everlasting hatred to kings.”

"Not to kings, but only to tyrants and unjust princes."

"Moreover, you are the standard-bearer of Protestantism, and the sworn foe of the Roman Church."

There was in the tone of these words a bitterness which could not but attract Milton's attention, the more so as the speaker had come with Sir Kenelm Digby, whose attachment to Rome was generally known. Hence Milton avoided at first making any reply to the remark. Soon, however, the duke no longer contented himself with these covert attacks; both he and Sir Kenelm put off their hypocritical masks more and more.

"You have attained your object now," said Digby, sneeringly; "your high-flying dreams and expectations have been fulfilled in a most