which had prompted the king in his defection | republics. Every religious reformation is acfrom Rome, the people, instead of the earthly companied by a similar movement in the riches for which the crown had principally sphere of politics. Hence, the crown was longed, sought for the eternal boons of toler- threatened with a twofold danger; not only its ation and freedom of conscience. From the spiritual prerogatives, but even its political rich inheritance of the Roman Catholic clergy, privileges, were disputed by the people. In from the treasuries of the convents, they chose, opposition to the Episcopal Church, which in place of the golden vessels, the precious was based upon the authority of the king and trinkets, and the estates of the Church, nothing the delegated power exercised by the bishops, but the Bible, which had hitherto been with- the popular religious party demanded the free held from them. From the Word of God they election of their clergymen and superintendderived an exuberance of information and an ents, who were called presbyters or elders, entirely novel view of the government of the whence their adherents were afterward styled world. The Bible became, in the hands of the Presbyterians. The people demanded the people, the powerful weapon with which they right of regulating their own religious affairs, achieved their ultimate victory over tyranny, and in justification quoted the precepts of the and conquered, at length, religious and po- Bible and the example of the first Christian litical freedom. From this time on arose the congregations. Besides, most of the Presbystruggle against the king's authority, which terians rejected all the rites and usages of the had so arbitrarily arrogated the place of that Catholic service, which the Episcopal Church of the pope. The successors of Henry VIII. had partially retained, and which reminded acted more or less in the same spirit. His them of hateful Rome. Hence, they were great daughter, Queen Elizabeth, established called Puritans. This sectarian spirit had the Church of England npon that firmer footing made especial headway in Scotland, where which it has retained to the present day, and many of Calvin's disciples preached their dogleft its supervision in the hands of the bishops mas and enlisted the liveliest sympathies of and archbishops. By virtue of this arrange- the people. ment, the sovereigns always remained the head of the Church and exercised supreme power in it; their power in this respect was supported by the bishops, who seconded the king's authority on these conditions by all means at their command. Thus originated the so-called Anglican or Episcopal Church. The king had taken the place of the pope, and the bishops were only dependent officers of unlimited authority in all clerical affairs. Such a system could not possibly satisfy the newly-awakened religious cravings of the people, and it met at the very outset with determined opposition. The doctrines of the great Swiss reformer, Calvin, had penetrated from Geneva to England, and with them the liberal political views which usually prevail in small The religious parties were soon arrayed in open hostility against each other. The persecutions of the government aroused the resistance of the people. The greater the pressure became on one side, the more intense grew the zeal on the other, soon bursting into the devouring flames of irresistible fanaticism. At the head of the Episcopal Church stood the well-known Laud, Bishop of London, who exerted a most deplorable influence over the king. He was the soul of those relentless persecutions, and the dreaded Star-Chamber, which tried all religious offenders, proceeded, under his leadership, with inexorable severity and cruelty against the dissenters. But neither the most exorbitant fines, nor long imprisonment, nor the whole host of penalties of every description, were able to set bounds to the religious zeal and enthusiasm of the people. The sufferers were extolled as martyrs by the people, and their examples were constantly imitated by others. With admirable courage they braved the most cruel persecutions, ready and willing to give up their lives rather than their convictions. the arrogance and intolerance of the Episcopal Church, and he would not have been a poet had he not taken sides with the more liberal faith, and approved of the position taken by its adherents. All these reflections which arose in his soul imparted to his surroundings a different and much gloomier color. The beautiful landscape lost its charms in his eyes, and the magnificent castle no longer excited his enthusiasm. His vivid imagination conveyed him to the lowly cottages of the people, where poor peasants were worshipping behind locked doors. He saw Henderson, the accused, torn from his bed, loaded with chains, and standing tremblingly before his stern judge. The splendid edifice, which had filled All these facts stood before Milton's soul, after he had listened to the conversation between the Episcopal chaplain and the earl's steward. He himself was an adherent of religious freedom, although he was entirely destitute of fanaticism and zealotry. From the example set him by his own father, he had learned to appreciate toleration and moderation. Old Mr. Milton had embraced the Prot-him a few minutes ago with heart-felt admiraestant faith, and been disinherited by his bigoted Catholic parent. The poet knew of no greater boon than freedom of conscience. This was the sole reason why he had given up the study of theology, and renounced the clerical career, which offered to him at that time, on account of his talents and industry, the most brilliant prospects. "On perceiving," he wrote in his own justification, "that the despotism to which the Church laws compel him who takes orders to subscribe his own servitude, and moreover impose on him an oath which only men of easy conscience can take, I preferred a blameless silence to what I considered servitude and forswearing." These considerations had induced Milton, despite his father's earnest wishes, to give up the study of theology and choose another career. He had replaced the Fathers of the Church by the poets and prose writers of classical antiquity, but, nevertheless, he took the liveliest interest in the religious struggles of his times; and, whenever he was reminded of them, he sided with the oppressed and persecuted. The conversation to which he had just listened filled him anew with intense aversion to tion, seemed now transformed into a vast prison, in whose deepest dungeons the tormented dissenters were groaning. He felt an irrepressible desire to become their defender, and to speak a great word and perform a deed of deliverance for the freedom of religion and the rights of the oppressed people. Such ideas had already arisen from time to time in the poet's soul, but his love of the sciences, and his occupation with the ideal creations of antiquity and with poetry, had silenced them, and the splendor of the past had made him forget the sufferings and troubles of the present. As yet the time had not come for him to take the active part in the political and religious struggles of his country which he did at a later period of his life. At this moment, too, his thoughts were soon led into a different channel. A beautiful girl stepped from a side-gate leading into the garden. He recognized Alice immediately, although she wore an entirely different costume. She had exchanged her splendid riding-dress of gold-embroidered green velvet for a light white morning-gown, which floated like a silver wave round her charming figure in the gentle morning breeze. Instead of the handsome barret-cap, with the waving plume, a veil surrounded her youthful head, concealing only partially the luxuriant exuberance of her golden ringlets. By her side stood a lady's maid, bearing a basket filled with all sorts of grain. From time to time Alice plunged her white hands into it and strewed a part of its contents on the ground, uttering at the same time a sweet, gentle call. It was not long before the spot where she was standing was filled with the feathered tribe, and even the quadrupeds of the courtyard. Voracious chickens, headed by the stately rooster, and ducks of all sorts, gathered round their benefactress. From the sunny height of the roof and the pinnacles, cooing doves flitted down, and the proud peacock strutted about amidst all this poultry, displaying its magnificent tail, and uttering its disagreeable notes. A tame white roe hastened likewise to its mistress, and plucked her gown to remind her not to forget it. the share allotted to it, swallowed it, and then withdrew, moving its wings disdainfully from the company so unworthy of the proud bird's presence. Alice treated with especial liberality her favorites; the hen, with its little ones, and the doves, which were flitting caressingly around her. The white roe was much better off than any of the others, for it was permitted to take its breakfast from its mistress's hands, which it kissed gratefully. Soon the ample contents of the basket were emptied, and Alice handed it back to her maid. She then clapped her hands, and the whole flock dispersed. The doves rose like a silver cloud from the ground, and rocked to and fro in the air, until they disappeared. Only the white roe followed with its wonted fidelity the kind mistress, who went into the garden to pay her daily morning visit to her flowers. CHAPTER VII. ALICE AND MILTON. THE human heart, and especially that of a poet, is a wonderful thing. It sways to and fro like a reed in the breeze, moved by the slightest gust of air. A glance from two beautiful eyes, a word from sweet lips, the waving of a blond ringlet, the springing step of a slender form, and all our resolutions and purposes are gone, and we see the world in a different light. Where a dark cloud stood a moment ago, beams now the most radiant sunshine; where we saw only sharp thorns, we behold now a wealth of blooming roses. What a magician is our imagination! what a foolish thing the human heart, which is guided by it! The poet watched this charming scene with indescribable delight. He thought he had never beheld a sweeter spectacle. Amidst this crowing, chirping, and cooing crowd stood the lovely girl, like a goddess distributing their daily bread with blessed hands among all these creatures. A cheerful smile of content played round her lips, and she often burst into a peal of laughter when one of the animals, in its too great eagerness, fell down, or when the grains intended for it were snatched away by another right under its nose. At the next moment, however, she indemnified the sufferers by liberal offerings. No one was allowed to depart hungry from her banquet. Even from the melancholy turkey she drew those deep, guttural notes, by which it indicates its satisfaction and gratitude; nay, it forgot its pride and ill-humor so far as to mingle, at her call, among the common rabble of barn-yard fowls, to which, however, it did not vouchsafe a glance. It pounced hastily upon | again a poet, intoxicated with the charming This is what happened to Milton, whom Alice's appearance suddenly withdrew from all his former thoughts. All at once he was spectacle which he had just enjoyed. After | been his meeting with her; he would have . the lovely girl had disappeared in the direction of the garden, he suddenly felt an irrepressible desire to enjoy the beautiful morning in the open air. Now, nowhere did Nature seem to him lovelier, the air balmier, or the | sun brighter, than in the garden, where he knew Alice was. He was about carrying his resolution into effect, but at the last moment an inexplicable embarrassment seized him. He felt as though he were about to commit a crime. For a few moments he was as undecided as Hercules at the cross-roads, but finally he succumbed to the temptation. He cast a glance on his friend, who was still fast asleep, and then left the room. He descended the broad staircase of sandstone very slowly, considering at every step whether it was becoming in him to follow the fair magician who drew him after her so irresistibly. His way led him through a long gallery, whose walls were adorned with the portraits of the ancestors of the house. Casting a fugitive glance on the fine-looking men and richly-attired ladies, among whom were the highest dignitaries and greatest beauties of the country, he felt for the first time the almost impassable gulf separating him from the descendant of these august persons. He seemed to read a decided disapproval of his steps in the proud features of these noble lords and pious prelates, some of whose portraits were masterpieces of illustrious Dutch painters. Only when he had walked through the gallery, and stood at the open gate leading into the garden, did this embarrassment, mixed as it was with a feeling of awe, wear off. The fragrant odor of the flowers, and the sweet notes of the birds, speedily dissipated the poet's apprehensions. How differently and more freely throbbed his heart under the rustling trees than in the high halls, whose immense pile threatened to crush him! Had he found Alice there, how different would have scarcely ventured to address her! Here in the garden he lacked neither courage nor desire to do so. A considerable while elapsed, however, before he was able to attain his object. The carefully-kept gravel-walks led in the most various directions, of which Alice could have taken only one. Hence, Milton traversed a labyrinth of flower-beds, cozy bosquets, and shady alleys, before he succeeded in finding the beautiful girl. The garden was laid out in accordance with, the taste of that time; it was of vast dimensions, and divided into several sections. As yet the French style of landscape gardening was in its infancy in France itself, and its stiff forms had not been adopted in England. By far more prevalent was the Italian style, adapted to the peculiarities of the country, in the gardens of the aristocracy. A special portion of the grounds was allotted as a kitchen-garden, another for the culture of the most important medicinal plants, and then followed the pleasure-garden. Several steps led up to it, as it ascended in terraces the hill on which the castle was situated. Long lines of orange and lemon trees, then far more rare than they are now, bordered the main avenue. Between the trees stood some statues, made by English sculptors after Greek models, and hearing witness that this branch of art, hitherto neglected, was now cultivated with much zeal and success. be sure, the flower-beds could not bear a comparison with the highly-developed culture of the present time, as they were mostly confined to domestic plants, and were destitute of the beautiful exotics which are to be found everywhere nowadays. But this defect was made up for by the luxuriant bosquets, and several groups of trees of extraordinary beauty. A rivulet, bubbling from the rock, meandered through the whole garden, and spread everywhere a refreshing coolness. It fell noisily into a pond, in the midst of which was to be Το seen a group of bathing nymphs and swim- | ingly splendid tree, now a flower which she ming Tritons, blowing shells. Round the herself had planted, now the prospect of a ruin edge of the pond had been fixed benches of dating from the era of the Romans, or a desandstone, surrounded everywhere by shady cayed stronghold of the ancient Britons. At shrubbery. Those seated in this cozy nook times, such a sight excited her enthusiasm enjoyed at the same time a splendid view of again, and she interrupted the just started the castle, and the prospect of the fertile land- conversation more than once by exclaiming: scape, visible between the neighboring hills. "Oh, how magnificent! how charming!" MilThis spot was the favorite resort of Alice, and ton never failed to share her transports, and, here it was that the poet found her at length, with his refined and poetical spirit, did the after traversing the garden in all directions. fullest justice to the beauty of the landscape and the castle. Both always agreed in their appreciation of the scenery, and that which carried her away was sure to delight the enthusiastic poet. Never before had he discovered and enjoyed so many beauties of nature as by the side of his lovely companion. Indeed, the garden seemed to him a paradise, where he conferred in his mind the parts of Adam and Eve upon himself and Alice. Thus they passed, as if in a dream, the fragrant Her delicate form in the white dress' reminded him of the nymph of the spring. He approached her timidly and with a hesitating step. She rose from her seat, and a gentle blush suffused her cheeks on meeting him so unexpectedly after the events of the previous day. "Pardon me," said Milton, bowing deeply, "if I disturb you in your solitude. The splendid morning and the beauty of the garden tempted me, and, finding the gate open, I en-flower-beds, the white marble statues, and tered without permission. Do not be angry at my boldness. I will withdraw at once." "You do not disturb me," she replied, not without embarrassment. "As a guest of our house, you are welcome everywhere, and I am glad if you like our garden. I presume you have already looked around a little, but you do not yet know the most beautiful points. I will show them to you." Before Milton could thank her, she was already by his side. The tame roe, which had hitherto lain at her feet, now leaped gracefully by her side, and all three sauntered through the fragrant garden. At first their conversation was somewhat incoherent, but both soon surmounted the bashfulness so natural under such circumstances. Alice was the first to recover her presence of mind. As hostess, she conducted her guest from one of her favorite spots to another, and called his attention to the numerous beauties of the landscape and the garden. Now he had to admire a surpass walked through shady alleys formed by luxuriant vine-leaves. They ascended slowly to the terrace, where, leaning against the balustrade of stone, they scanned thoughtfully the varied scene. At their feet extended the sunny valley, with its scattered houses and huts. The quiet river flowed amidst luxuriant meadows and waving cornfields. Driven by its waters, the mill-wheel revolved rapidly, and the spray dashed from its spokes sparkled in the bright morning light like strings of diamonds and pearls. A boat glided gently on the water, and the morning bells of the Cathedral of Ludlow, which was concealed from their eyes, penetrated like distant spirit-voices to their ears. Here they enjoyed moments such as never return in life, moments of the most unalloyed happiness. What Alice said to Milton sounded to him like a revelation. The wondrously beautiful surroundings, the glorious May-day, unlocked the innermost recesses of her soul. |