his reader (an enviable post to such a man) and to whom an affectionate regard is apparent, first saw a complete copy of "Paradise Lost." He read it and remarked, "Thou hast said a great deal upon 'Paradise Lost,' what hast thou to say upon' Paradise Found?'"

Milton's humility, as he said once "let us be humbly wise," made him attach far too much importance to the average judgment of this common sense critic, and three years after he showed Elwood "Paradise Regained," of which he said the question proposed at Chalfont suggested the idea. This and "Samson Agonistes," were both published in 1671.

"Samson Agonistes" seems to interpret the questionings of Milton's mind with relation to England under the Restoration, and to his own sad state as an individual. The cause of freedom to which he had devoted the best years of his life was apparently lost, and he who when a youth had dedicated himself to his Master's service, was now blind like Samson, and like him, among the Philistines, shorn of his strength by constant suffering; he asks

These painful questionings are answered in the final chorus, in words. which have stilled many a doubting heart:

"All is best, though oft we doubt
What the unsearchable dispose

Of highest wisdom being about,

And even best found in the close."

Milton married thrice; his first wife left three daughters, and his

second, Catharine Woodcock, who was, probably, the wife of his heart, lived only a year; to her memory he wrote the beautiful sonnet

"Methought I saw my late espoused saint."

His third was Elizabeth Minshull, a niece of his friend Dr. Page, who suggested the marriage as a means of securing the attentions of a faithful nurse, which he knew the increasing maladies of his patient required. This act was a great mistake; the daughters were grown up, the wife was young, and therefore quite unacceptable to them as a step-mother, and Milton, if we may credit his biographers, was arbitrary in his household, in which there was an entire want of family harmony.

The poet's anxious troubled life was closed at the age of 66. He died on Sunday, November 8th, 1674, from an attack of gout. He had suffered for years, but had borne both this and his blindness with admirable patience; in a sonnet he says—

"Does God exact day labour, light denied?

I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent

That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts; who best

Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best; this state

Is kingly.-Thousands at His bidding speed,

And post o'er land and ocean without rest;

They also serve who only stand and wait.'

He always thought that his sight was permanently injured by his political labours in the cause of freedom, and instead of regretting such labours he rather glorified in them. To his friend Cyriac Skinner he writes :

"What supports me dost thou ask?

The conscience, friend, t'have lost them overply'd

In Liberty's defence, my noble task,

Whereof all Europe rings from side to side;

This thought might lead me thro' this world's vain mask

Content, tho' blind, had I no other guide."

Milton, as well as Shakespeare, was a practical man in the affairs of life, and in his personal habits and in the daily routine of his every

day life he combined temperance with simplicity. He went to rest at an early hour, and rose at four o'clock, and then gave the first hours of his day to Bible reading and meditation. He studied hard and had no self indulgent habits. His recreations were music and the companionship of friends, to whose society he devoted two hours each evening. A life like this must have been a striking contrast to that of the English Court, of which the influence spread so rapidly over the nation, and tended to hasten the revolution of 1688.

We leave the study of Milton's works with the impression of esteem rather than of love. We admire him from a distance, but do not envy those who were closely associated with him. From his youth an austerity of mind and a stoic scorn of temptation fostered a degree of self-esteem which was in accordance with the moral seriousness of his nature, but which destroyed any sympathy with a fellow creature's frailty. He had a strong English sense of duty, and to the cause of freedom he willingly sacrificed for twenty years the poetical dreams of his youth, and the best part of his life. He was self-conscious, and though he dwelt habitually in the presence of God he never seems to have felt the full glow of its light, or to have been thoroughly warmed by the beams of the Sun of Righteousness. It is this want of warmth in Milton's character, and of sympathy with man, as man, which has rendered his works dear only to Englishmen and not like those of Shakespeare, the common property of all nations.

E. M. L. D.

Through Deep Waters.

BY INA LEON DREWRY.

CHAPTER III.

THE stately saloons at the Spanish Embassy were filling fast when Cola de Cambaceres and Albrecht von Elsinger entered them. The advent of the Spanish artist created no small sensation, and the guests crowded round the new comer, some, the few, as he was a total stranger in England, claiming former acquaintance, others eager to be introduced. Cambaceres received the attentions showered upon him in a manner that showed, not only that he was accustomed to similar attentions, but that, young as he still was, they had not spoiled him. There was not a particle of pride or of conscious superiority in look or bearing. With his usual graceful ease he conversed with one and another, in French, Spanish, Italian, even German, according to the nation of the person addressed, each language being employed with equal ease, apparently. English he spoke but little, and had small cause to resort to, as among that distinguished company there were, perhaps, none, even of the English guests, who could not at least understand French. The remarkable beauty of his person, the charm of his voice and of his grave and dignified manner, would in themselves have inevitably attracted attention, especially in such an assembly as the present, even had they not been connected with a name which was, in cultivated circles, on everyone's lips, and Elsinger, who, incapable of jealousy, watched with pleasure the reception accorded by this gathering of the élite of London society to his friend, might have trembled

for him had he not seen him pass unscathed through a similar ordeal elsewhere. Cola-Maria was either too proud or too high-souled to feel any thrill of flattered vanity at the adulation of the glittering throngs of cognoscenti, savants, and fashionables, who crowded round him in the salons of Rome, Paris, Vienna and London.

Sir Selwyn Grant-Faulkner was among the first to shake hands with the Spanish artist, and the Spanish ambassador's daughters, two blackeyed senoritas, for whose album the artist had made more than one sketch, speedily came up to remind him in their liquid Castilian of the days when he had met them among the Pyrénées, and sketched peasants for them, and the senora, their mother, who was very stout, and clung to her Spanish black velvet and flowing lace, drew near to congratulate the artist upon having at length attained the foggy shores of England, and then tried to speak to Elsinger, who Don Cola introduced to her, in German, and breaking down hopelessly in the attempt, was constrained to resort to French with a decided Castilian accent.

"We expect Lady de Clifford and her daughter," said the Spanish ambassador to Cambaceres, "and your artist soul will have a treat, Don Cola."

"So my friend Elsinger has already given me to understand, your Excellency," replied the painter.

"She is certainly the belle," said a young guardsman, standing near, and the Dona Isidora, who was leaning on the arm of Sir Selwyn GrantFaulkner, tossed her pretty head slightly.

"Is she so very beautiful?" she said to her companion, in an undertone.

"She is indeed," replied the baronet, who having no particular reason for flattering the olive-skinned Castilian, allowed himself the treat of saying what he thought. "Who is that-there is a stir at the lower end," he continued, looking towards the doors of the salon; "it is Miss de Clifford."

He turned to Cambaceres, but the artist had moved away from the spot, and despite his impression with regard to Teresa Colonna the