in the middle, and fell in clustering curls upon his shoulders. Ilis cast of countenance was oval; his eyes had the piercing appearance that usually accompanies the dark grey eye. His frame inclined to be slight in its make. His manners were most refined, yet he was open and frank, somewhat impetuous. His delight for bodily exercise amounted to a passion, and he was expert in fencing and other athletic exercises. He passed in the University under the nom de plume, "Lady of Christ's." It is not intimated that there was anything effeminate in him; but his peculiarly refined manners, and the clearness of his complexion, and slight figure, gave rise to the by-name. Let anyone examine his portrait taken when twentyone, an excellent engraving of which is now before us, and he will be struck with the beauty and manliness of the countenance, and the high and noble bearing of the whole man.

Much has been said against him for the little praise he bestows upon his Alma Mater in his writings. It must be admitted that his references to the subject were few, and his praise very scant. Something, however, must be said in explanation on the score of his utter abhorrence to the scenery. He complains of the wearisome flats about Cambridge; there was nothing to entice or excite the muse. Robert Hall speaks testily of it, and describes the scenery as "Nature laid out ;" and when referring to the scarcity of wood, some one said there were willows, he rejoined in his own way, "Yes, sir, it's Nature holding out signals of distress!" There was nothing in the natural aspects of the place to endear it to Milton, hence his allusions to the "reedy Cam," to the "bare and shadless fields," &c. The dictum of the great Dr. Johnson in reference to his feelings toward Cambridge, in that most one-sided Life of Milton, which the doctor wrote, has swayed multitudes. His bitter insinuations have been received without caveat or demur. He says: There is reason to believe that he was regarded in his college with no great fondness. That he obtained no fellowship is certain; but the unkindness with which he was treated was not merely negative. I am ashamed to relate what I fear is true, that Milton was one of the last students in either university that suffered the indignity of corporal correction." Respecting these statements, the following things can be made out with tolerable certainty:1st. The affirmation relating to his flagellation was not an original part of Aubrey's text, but was an interlineation, and added when the story was told him, which fact casts a shade of doubt over the story. 2nd. It could not have been an official and public chastisement, as Johnson would intimate, for the good reason that the statutes of the university only allowed such flagellation in case of students under eighteen years of age, and at this time Milton was considerably above eighteen. 3rd. To take Aubrey's account, which Johnson has perverted, we find it was a mere personal

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quarrel between his tutor Mr. Chappell and himself; and the dispute ran so high that they struggled together, and Chappell inflicted some blows upon the young man. 5th. That our student

was rusticated for the rest of the term by Bainbrigge, the master of the college, whose authority Chappell had invoked. 6th. It was during this rustication that he wrote to his friend Diodati, evidently much chafed and humiliated, saying, that "he was no minor to bear the threats of a harsh master, and other things which his genius could not bear." It was arranged that he might change his tutor, so Tovey took the place of Chappell. The circumstance in itself does not deserve this notice, but his enemies have used it to damage and hurt his great fame. That part of Dr. Johnson's statement, which declares he was not esteemed in Cambridge, is flatly contradicted by his own authority Aubrey. Aubrey, Wood, and Phillips all declare that the admiration he excited in the university was warm and general. These slanders were only breathed against him when he commenced his career as a polemic. Then he dealt such titanic blows at what he considered the vices of Church and State, that we cannot wonder the soul of his venerable and excellent Alma Mater was vexed within her, and she turned rather tartly upon her outspeaking child. If he did manifest some coldness when leaving this great seat of education, he was only like many other very eminent men, among whom may be mentioned Bacon and Wordsworth. Milton was evidently disappointed in not getting a fellowship in his college, but others having friends in court, prevailed over him. Who will say he ought not to have felt galled when he saw men much younger and inferior passing by him to the head of the table among the fellows?

In very early life, as we have mentioned, he evinced strong literary tastes, and made no despicable attempts in literary performance. When a mere prattling he wrote respectable poems. His "Elegy on the Death of an Infant," just as he went to Cambridge, is a fine poem. He was but a lad when he wrote his "Ode on the Morning of Christ's Nativity," which no less eminent a critic than Mr. Hallam has pronounced to be "perhaps the most beautiful in the English language." The poet wakes early, and remembers the season, and he longs to "afford a present to the infant God." What shall it be? "A verse, a hymn, or solemn strain to welcome him?" Yes, let it be a hymn or solemn strain. And he calls attention

"See how from far upon the eastern road

The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet!

O run, prevent them with thy humble ode,
And lay it lowly at his blessed feet:

Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,

And join thy face unto the angel quire,

From out his secret altar touched with hallowed fire."

S

Then he breaks out into "Solemn strains," singing of the glorious memories of Christmas tide. Another and shorter ode Upon the Circumcision," was written just after the ode on the Nativity. Both would be written at the end of 1629. About the same period he wrote a piece "On Time," and somewhere in the same period he wrote that fine piece called "At a Solemn Musick;" evidently some great choral service had moved him, and raised his thoughts and numbers to

"That undisturbed song of pure concert,

Aye sung before the sapphire-coloured throne,
To Him that sits thereon."

This grand poem was set to fitting musical harmony by Handel. All these juvenile productions were adumbrant of the genius that gave birth to Comus and the Paradise Lost.

His father had indulged the hope of seeing his son in the orders of the Episcopal Church, and the student's mind leant that way for some time. But the sycophancy of many of the dons and dignitaries, and the Popish innovations of "Parva Laus," or "Little Laud," and his creatures, awoke a revulsion of feeling and opinion, and so he forswore his purpose of entering the Church. It was no repugnance to any subscriptions to doctrine, for he had repeatedly and willingly subscribed to all the tenets of the Church; but he could not tolerate the priestly assumptions of the dominant clergy. He turned away from the Church door with feelings akin to disgust, It was well he did, for he became instead of a parish priest a minister of truth and beauty for all time to come and to all people. What his career might have been in the Anglican Church we will not speculate as many have done, but we can hardly conceive of his doing any nobler work for human progress than taking part in one of the most manful and heroic struggles that the history of the world records; to say nothing of the ever-enduring and ever-widening benefits resulting to the world from his poems and prose writings. As far as deep reverence for divine things and seriousness of spirit are concerned, he was eminently fitted for the Christian ministry. These feelings were inborn, and nourished by education, and were evinced in all his habits and pursuits in life. Of all musical instruments the organ and viol were his chief delight. These of all others harmonised with his deep-seated seriousness. That seriousness of habit was also seen in his abstaining from the amusements young men generally delight in. He considered them harmless enough, and did not condemn others for indulging in them, only his liking and preference lay in other directions. When he was shaking the world some years after by his denunciations of kingcraft, prelacy, and tyranny, one of his enemies, who turned out to be a prelate, taunted the serious, unworldly Puritan, who was so

indignant against the prevailing customs of his day, with showing an acquaintance in his writings with theatres and worse places, that evidenced his own habits could not have been very moral, and he might have spared his indignation for himself. He turned upon his assailant, and very quickly unhorsed the doughty knight, and covered him with shame and confusion. He proves that he derived his knowledge of the playhouse from the plays written by English clergymen and from the college scenes in their own Cambridge. He thus accounts for his supposed familiarity with theatres and their furniture:-" But, since there is such necessity for the hearsay of a tire, a periwig, or a vizard, that plays must have been seen, what difficulty was there in that, when in the colleges so many of the young divines, and those of next aptitude to divinity, have been seen so oft upon the stage, writhing and unboning their clergy limbs to all the antic and dishonest gestures of Trineuloes, buffoons, and bawds, prostituting the shame of that ministry, which either they had or were nigh having, to the eyes of courtiers and court ladies? There while they acted and overacted, among other young scholars I was a spectator; they thought themselves gallant men, and I thought them fools; they made sport, and I laughed; they mis-pronounced, and I misliked; and, to make up the Atticism, they were out, and I hissed." Closely connected with this seriousness, and in a measure fed by it, was a modest self-esteem-a consciousness of his own powers and attainments. He when young used to compare himself with others, and resolve to be something-to compel men to pronounce his name with respect. This no doubt helped to give him a dignity of feeling, and a sense of self-reliance and firmness, which was of infinite service to him in his brave contention for personal and national liberty. But the great strength, the very backbone of his character, was its unimpeachable moral integrity. His Argus-eyed fees could not find aught against him. They desired to impeach his moral standing most earnestly, and left no stone unturned to find whereof to accuse him; but all was in vain: nor have modern researches set aside the verdict of more than two hundred years standing.

Towards the great results of his life here are three important factors: First, seriousness, leading him to fly the frivolities and vanities that bewitched his fellows. Second, a true estimate of his own powers, making him feel that he was equal to any task he might be called upon to perform. Third, this wholeness and integrity of heart lifted him high above the censures and frowns of men, and made him lean upon his God. Without this there can be no true nobleness of character or greatness of life.

In turning away from the church door an important question had to be settled, what course should he pursue in life? what pro

So Milton

fession should he adopt? For some time the legal profession was thought of, but no steps were taken to qualify him for the Bar. He had secretly and fondly cherished the desire to devote himself wholly to literary pursuits. He little expected to secure the approval of his revered father in this, but to his delight when he mentioned it he obtained his father's willing consent. began his novitiate in the high guild of literature. At this period some of the greatest works in our language were given to the world; Hobbes, George Herbert, Lord Herbert, Hales, Chillingworth, Selden, Lightfoot, Burton, Andrews, Donne, Sibbes, Ussher, Ben Jonson, Withers, and many others were pouring out their rich treasures for the behoof of the world. Having determined his course and taken his honours he left Cambridge for Horton, in the county of Bucks, close adjoining the counties of Berks, Surrey, and Middlesex. It formed a part of the well-known Chiltern Hundreds. It appears that his father had retired from business, having realised a handsome competency. He leased a house and small estate in this village, where he spent the remainder of his days. In the varied and beautiful scenery of this country village Milton lived for four years. There was but himself at home with the old people. The daughter was in her London house with husband and family, Christopher was engaged in reading for the Bar. Here, then, was everything favouring our young student, and a most diligent student he was. He now more particularly entered the esoteric "shady paces of philosophy," while he did not forget the "laurelled fraternity of poets, orators, and historians." In the first three years of his residence in Horton his muse was actively engaged in giving birth to the Ode to the Nightingale, L'Allegro, Il Penseroso, Arcades, and Comus. In L'Allegro and Il Penseroso we have two mental states most graphically bodied forth cheerfulness even to exhilaration, and melancholy even to despair. In the former, a poem of one hundred and fifty lines, the poet bids all gloom begone, and invokes jest, mirth, and laughter. There is a fine description of the sunrise in summer time. We see the

The many and ever-varying scenes in the poem are all cheery and pleasant; cares are drowned in soft Lydian airs that raise the soul into raptures. The finale is

"These delights if thou canst give,

Mirth, with thee I mean to live."

Penseroso is a perfect contrast to this. Mirth is driven away as ■ deceiver, and the divine Maid Melancholy is invoked. So she