MILTON, JOHN, an English poet and prosewriter, born in London, December 9, 1608; died there, November 8, 1674. His father, likewise John Milton, acquired a competence as a "scrivener," or, as we should now say, a "conveyancer." Of his parents and early life, Milton thus wrote in after years:

I was born in London of an honest family. My father was distinguished by the undeviating integrity of his life; my mother by the esteem in which she was held, and by the alms which she bestowed. My father destined me from a child to the pursuits of humane letters. He had me daily instructed in the grammarschool and by other masters at home. After I had acquired a proficiency in various languages, and had made considerable progress in philosophy, he sent me to the University of Cambridge, where I passed seven years in the usual course of studies, with the approbation of the good, and without any stain upon my character, till I took the degree of Master of Arts.

Milton left the university at the age of twentyfour. His father had retired from active business to an estate which he had purchased at Horton, about seventeen miles from London. This was Milton's home for the ensuing five years. He thus describes his way of life there:

On my father's estate I enjoyed an interval of uninterrupted leisure, which I entirely devoted to the perusal of the Greek and Latin classics, though I occasionally visited the metropolis either for the sake of

purchasing books or learning something new in mathematics or in music. In this manner I spent five years until my mother's death. I then became anxious to visit foreign parts, and particularly Italy. My father gave his consent, and I left home with one servant.

Milton, in his Second Defence, written at fortyfive, describes himself as he had been in early manhood, and as he then was:

My stature certainly is not tall; but it rather approaches the middle than the diminutive. Nor, though very thin, was I ever deficient in courage or in strength; and I was wont constantly to exercise myself in the use of the broadsword as long as it comported with my habit and my years. Armed with this weapon, as I usually was, I should have thought myself quite a match for anyone, though much stronger than myself. At this moment I have the same courage, the same strength, though not the same eyes. Yet so little do they betray any external appearance of injury, that they are as unclouded and as bright as the eyes of those who most distinctly see. Though I am more than forty-five years old, there is scarcely anyone to whom I do not appear ten years younger than I really

am.

We know pretty well what Milton had written up to the time when at thirty he set out for Italy. There are several college exercises, mostly in Latin; the Odes on the Nativity, the Circumcision, and the Passion; the companion poems L'Allegro and Il Penseroso, and a few other short pieces. These were all that he had to show for his university life. In the fine sonnet On Being Arrived at the Age of Twenty-three he takes himself somewhat to task for having as yet done so little. The fruits of his five years at Horton were the masque of Comus, and the elegy of Lycidas.

The history of Comus runs thus: In 1634 John Egerton, Earl of Bridgewater, had been made "President of Wales." It was resolved that this event should be appropriately celebrated at his seat, Ludlow Castle, not far from Horton. Among the attractions was to be a "masque," or what we should style an "amateur musical entertainment," for which Milton's friend, tuneful Harry Lawes, was to compose the music, and he induced Milton to write the words. It so happened that not long before two young sons of the Earl, and their sis ter, the Lady Alice Egerton, had lost their way at night in the neighboring forest. This incident furnished the theme for the masque. The human characters were represented by the Lady Alice and her two brothers. The supra-human characters were the Attendant Spirit, represented by Harry Lawes, who did much of the singing; Comus, a magician, leader of a crew of half-human, half-bestial revellers, who were wont to hold nightly orgies in the forest, and Sabrina, the pure "Water Nymph of the Severn," whose aid had to be invoked to free the lady from the spell which had been thrown over her by Comus. The masque opens with a prologue, said or sung by the Attendant Spirit.

THE PROLOGUE TO COMUS.

Before the starry threshold of Jove's court
My mansion is, where those immortal shapes
Of bright aërial spirits live insphered

In regions mild of calm and serene air,

Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot

Which men call earth; and, with low-thoughted care,

Confined and pestered in this pinfold here,
Strive to keep up a frail and feverish being,
Unmindful of the crown that Virtue gives,
After this mortal change, to her true servants
Amongst the enthroned gods on sainted seats.
Yet some there be that by due steps aspire
To lay their just hands on the golden key
That opes the palace of eternity.

To such my errand is, and, but for such,
I would not soil these pure, ambrosial weeds
With the rank vapors of this sin-worn world.

And so on, for nearly a hundred lines. Then, hearing the approach of Comus and his crew, the spirit vanishes. The crew have hardly begun their orgies, when their leader hears the sound of footsteps. He assumes the disguise of a homely shepherd. Presently the lady appears, and breaks out into song, in the hope that she may be heard by her brothers. Comus draws near, speaking first to himself and then to the lady.

COMUS AND THE LADY.

Comus.-Can any earthly mixture of earth's mould
Breathe such divine, enchanting ravishment?
Sure something holy lodges in that heart,

And with these raptures moves the vocal air
To testify his hidden residence.

How sweetly did they float upon the wings
Of silence, through the empty-vaulted night,
At every fall smoothing the raven down
Of darkness till it smiled. I'll speak to her,
And she shall be my queen. Hail, foreign wonder!
Whom certain these rough shades did never breed,
Dwell'st thou with Pan or Silvanus, by blest song
Forbidding every bleak, unkindly fog

To touch the prosperous growth of this tall wood?
Lady.-Nay, gentle shepherd, ill is lost that praise
That is addressed to unattending ears.