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opponents and injudicious apologists, there seems no reason to think that Milton disapproved of the general policy of Cromwell. He willingly lent his services till the close of the Protectorate, and he was not the man to co-operate in a government he deemed inimical to the true interests of his country. During the convulsions that succeeded, the probability of his writing being productive of any benefit was still more doubtful, and he remarked on it in a letter to an old pupil,

"My country does not now stand in need of a person to record her intestine commotions, but of one qualified to bring them to an auspicious conclusion."

The crisis that seemed rapidly approaching, at length urged him to make a last effort in the cause of liberty; and he published, almost immediately before the Restoration had been determined on by the leaders that now assumed the government, an eloquent remonstrance against abandoning "this goodly tower of a Commonwealth which they had begun to build," fortelling in strong language what proved to be the consequences of restoring the hereditary claimant to the throne. But the courageous effort in behalf of his favourite scheme of a Republic was addressed to unwilling ears. General Monk had already taken his resolution, and this display of Milton's patriot zeal was made in vain.

CHAPTER IV.

THE RESTORATION.

GENERAL MONK having perfected his arrangements, and the parliament concluded their negotiations with Charles II. at Breda, Milton was discharged from his office as Latin secretary. He was compelled to secrete himself for a time in a friend's house in St. Bartholomew Close until the first burst of vindictive rage in the triumphant royalists was past; and the more effectually to screen him from the search that would otherwise have been instituted, his friends spread a report of his death, and, assembling in mournful procession, followed his supposed corpse to the grave. On the king afterwards

learning of this device, it is said to have afforded him much mirth, and he commended his policy "in escaping death by a seasonable show of dying."

In this concealment he remained safe, while some of his old friends expiated their alleged offences by bloody execution, and other cruel indignities, as regicides. Even his public funeral did not stay the issue of a proclamation for his arrest, though it probably prevented any further search. The parliament endeavoured to testify their loyalty hy ordering the AttorneyGeneral to commence a prosecution against him; and immediately before the passing of the general Act of Oblivion, his two books, the "Eiconoclastes," and the "Defence of the People," were publicly burnt by the common hangman. The same had been done to the latter work long before at Paris; and now the unfinished reply of Salmasius was published, to crown the whole; it may well be believed only exciting a smile in him against whom these annoyances were directed.

Fortunately for the honour of England, the name of Milton was not included in the list of exceptions to the Act of Oblivion; and, accordingly, on its passing, he left his place of concealment, where he had continued nearly four months, only three days after the burning of his writings.

He was arrested on his appearance by the obsequious parliament, but released after a time on the payment of costly fees. From this time till his death, he interfered no more in politics, though ever faithful to his cause; he withdrew entirely into private life, content, like Bacon, to leave his reputation to the judgment of posterity.

He had on many occasions exercised his influence during the period of the Commonwealth, in acts of generosity and benevolence to the discomfited royalists. Sir William Davenant, the poet-laureate of Charles, owed his life to his intercession, and it became a grateful act of gratitude to use his influence in returning the favour. But from this period the few friends of the blind old man seem to have been found among those who, having sympathized with him in his high aspirations for the people's liberty, now mourned over the dissolute excesses in which every hope of it was being swept

away.

The account furnished by Aubrey as to the periods at which

he wrote the Paradise Lost, is further corroborated both by external and internal evidence. According to him, it was begun two years before the restoration of the king, and finished about three years after that event. It formed his solace and occupation during these months of concealment, to which a passage in the seventh book is, with much probability, supposed to allude.

Released, however, as we have seen, from his anxious durance, he withdrew to a small house in the Artillery Walk, near Bunhill Fields; a humble dwelling, suited to his reduced circumstances, where he continued to reside during the remainder of his life.

The poet, now experiencing the premature advances of age, with his name held up to public scorn, his hopes blighted, and his means of support withdrawn, had yet added to all these the bitterness of ungrateful children. His two elder daughters seem to have been destitute alike of affection and pity; and he who was, from his infirmities, so peculiarly dependent on domestic enjoyments, found there his sharpest sorrows. Such circumstances must almost have compelled him to seek again to supply their undutiful neglect by marriage; and, accordingly, shortly after this, in his fifty-fourth year, he married his third wife, Elizabeth Minshall, the daughter of a gentleman in Cheshire. He is said to have formed this attachment on the recommendation of his friend, Dr. Paget, an eminent physician of the city, to whom the lady was related.

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The marriage was probably rather dictated by prudence and mutual respect than any deeper feelings; but Aubrey, to whom she was personally known, mentions her as a gentle person, of a peaceful and agreeable humour." Her memory deserves to be had in grateful remembrance by the admirers of the great poet; she alleviated his sufferings, soothed his cares, and proved to him a tender and affectionate wife.

It is painful to reflect on this great and good man needing a protector against his own daughters; and with those who have proved so ready to avail themselves of every means of blasting his reputation, and casting a shadow around his great name, this has not been overlooked as a source of defamation. But there is some satisfaction in knowing that he had, in his youngest daughter, Deborah, one dutiful and favourite child,

who deemed it no cruelty to be required to read to her blind father, or pen for him his immortal works.

The discovery of Milton's will, which had been long sought in vain, brought to light interesting information regarding his domestic life, exhibiting the suffering to which he was subjected by the ingratitude of those most bound to alleviate his misfortunes; while it brings out his own disposition in a remarkably pleasing and amiable light. It may in some degree account for the conduct of the daughters—though it cannot be an excuse for it—that they were early left without a mother, and their father from studious habits and his official duties, as well as his early loss of sight, was unable to take any charge of them, so that they may have been exposed to injurious influence from those around them. But, however it may be accounted for, their freatment of their father is proved to have been most heartless and cruel.

The will was set aside from some technical objection, and owing to the litigation consequent on its being disputed, a collection of evidence relating to its author has been preserved, of an unusually minute and interesting character. A servant gives evidence that her deceased master, a little before his marriage, had lamented to her the ingratitude and cruelty of his children; and it is shown that they had defrauded him in a way that must have been doubly felt by him, not only overreaching him in the economy of the house, but disposing of his books, and often bartering them with the hucksters at the door for any trifle they might offer.

We have already seen the dangers to which Milton was exposed at the Restoration, and abundant evidence exists to show that the rancorous feelings of the royalists followed him till his death; that they exulted over him in his poverty, and rejoiced at his sufferings as marks of the special vengeance of God, and a doom worse than the axe he had escaped.

The following story has been preserved, exhibiting this in a very characteristic manner :

The Duke of York, afterwards James II., expressed one day to the king, his brother, a great desire to see old Milton, of whom he had heard so much. The king replied that he had not the slightest objection to the duke's satisfying his curiosity; and, accordingly soon afterwards, James went pri

vately to Milton's house, where, after an introduction, which explained to the old republican the rank of his guest, a free conversation ensued between these very dissimilar and discordant characters. In the course, however, of the conversation, the duke asked Milton whether he did not regard the loss of his eyesight as a judgment inflicted on him for what he had written against the late king. Milton's reply was to this effect: "If your highness thinks that the calamities which befall us here are indications of the wrath of heaven, in what manner are we to account for the fate of the king, your father? The displeasure of heaven must, upon this supposition, have been much greater against him than me-for I have only lost my eyes, but he lost his head.”

Much discomposed by this answer, the duke speedily took his leave. On his return to court, the first words which he spoke to the king were, "Brother, you are greatly to blame that you don't have that old rogue Milton hanged." "Why, what is the matter, James? Have you seen Milton ?" "Yes," answered the duke, "I have seen him." "Well," said the king, "in what condition did you find him?" "Condition! why, he is old and very poor. and he is blind too-is he not?" "Why, then," observed the king, to have him hanged as a punishment: to hang him will be doing him a service; it will be taking him out of his miseries. No; if he is old, poor, and blind, he is miserable enough; in all conscience, let him live."

"Old and poor! Well,

66 Yes, blind as a beetle." "you are a fool, James,

The story is so consistent throughout, and so characteristic of the different dispositions of the parties, that it bears internal evidence of authenticity, and exhibits very strikingly the gay and gloomy malignity of the two royal brothers, Charles and James.

CHAPTER V.

PARADISE LOST.

THE labours of Milton, altogether independent of his great Epic, were such as must have rendered his memory an object of interest to after ages; but his immortal poem, as we have

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