CHAPTER III.

Then happy, low, lie down!

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown!

King Henry IV. Part II.

The garlands wither on your brow,

Then boast no more your mighty deeds;

Upon death's purple altar now

See where the victor victim bleeds.

All hands must come

To the cold tomb;

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.

SHIRLEY.

ON a sweet August evening the streets were fast growing thin, as the many-tongued and busy crowd that had chafed and fretted throughout the day, like waves, in every channel of the great metropolis, gradually

passed away to seek for relaxation in their peaceful homes from all the cares, anxieties, and sorrows, which had increased to them the heat and burden of their daily labours. A few, however, might be still seen standing in scattered groups in the shadowy thoroughfares, some hurrying, as belated men, with hasty footsteps homeward, some loitering aimlessly along as if to catch the pleasant coolness of the evening breeze.

Among these groups was one, if it could properly be termed so, consisting of two persons, the one a man perhaps a little past the middle age, with soft and pensive features, and long light-brown hair waving in loose and natural curls over the collar of his plain gray doublet; the other a boy, richly attired as might beseem the page of a high family, upon whose shoulder the elder person leaned somewhat heavily with his left hand, while with the right he moved a staff of ebony before him as if to feel his way, for he was blind, although no scrutiny could have discovered any speck or blemish in the clear but cold gray eyes

which, seeming to see all things, were in truth sealed up in rayless night.

No words were interchanged between the pair as they passed onward to Whitehall, at a pace suitable to the infirmity of the chief personage; but when they reached the palacegate, the page spoke shortly in a low voice to the sentinel on duty-who was engaged in parleying with a gentleman on horseback of military air, and noble bearing. The blind man was already passing in, when suddenly the stranger, who, it seemed, had been refused admittance, cast his eye on the boy's companion, and instantly addressed him.

"Well met and in good season!" he exclaimed, "if my eyes play me not a trick, my excellent friend Milton."- The blind man's countenance flashed with a joyous light, as he replied, "Well met, indeed! Well met, and welcome, after long ye ars of absence; for sure I am mine ears deceive me not, though it be one, whose accents I but little counted should ever greet them more, Sir Edgar Ardenne!"

"It is indeed!" answered the horseman.

"After long years of wandering in the transatlantic wilds, I have at length turned my feet homeward; I landed only three days since at Portsmouth, and riding with all diligence, have but this hour arrived in London. Right glad am I to see one of the two sole persons, with whom I have now any ties on earth, so early, and, if I may judge from appearances, so well in health."

"I thank you," answered the poet, grasping affectionately his friend's hand, “I thank you heartily, by His great mercy, and beside my one infirmity, I am sound, as I trust, both mind and body! But, tell me for in that I see you here, I judge who is the other person with whom you still esteem yourself united-can I do aught for you - I am, you know, his secretary?"

"I would, if it were possible," Sir Edgar answered, "see the Protector-I owe him some amends, and would fain tell him, how highly I esteem the fruits of his good government at home, and his wise policy abroad. The soldier, here on duty, tells me that he is ill at

ease, and has denied me entrance. I trust he

is not seriously diseased?"

Milton shook his head, and the expression of his countenance, so joyful at the recognition of his friend, altered perceptibly.

"He is indeed much ailing-we trust not mortally; but his old ague hath returned to him, and what with that, and deep anxiety for Lady Claypole's health, and over labouring in the service of the state, he is reduced so greatly that his physicians fear. Yet is he marvellously held up by faith in the Lord; and all his chaplains have assurance, strongly impressed upon their hearts, that he shall live, not die! I doubt not he will see you, and forthwith; for often hath he spoken of you lately, and as of one whom he once cherished greatly, and greatly regrets alway!"

Without further words, Milton bade the page send some one straightway to lead hence Sir Edgar's horse, and to desire the chamberlain acquaint his highness that John Milton was below with an old friend and comrade, Sir Edgar Ardenne.