“Friend,” replied the knight, “that speech savours too much of a roundhead, who must always be quoting scripture. I once knew one of them, whom Cromwell advised to read carefully the account of Jael and Sisera; and after he had done so, he would inquire at every old woman whom he met, whether she had got such articles as a long nail, a heavy hammer, and a strong arm; and told her to operate upon the head of a cavalier, assuring her ‘that the Lord had delivered all such into her hand,’ and that she would henceforth be a mother in Israel. No, no, colonel,—I do not say let soldiers leave piety to monks, but let them, I say, leave sermons, homilies, and long faces.”
“Well spoken,” said Sir Richard Houghton, “but our friend hates the roundheads.”
“I do,” replied the Colonel, “God save King Charles.”
At this moment a blast was heard, and Sir Richard arose, when Seaton again interrupted them. “Keep your seat, worthy knight, and entertain your guests. I will go and parley with the new comer; it is the blast of a royalist.” He strode away saying in his heart, “God save Cromwell.”
In a short time he returned with the stranger, who was of an athletic frame, altogether destitute of grace, though not of dignity; for he strode into the hall with a commanding air. His eye moved restlessly over the forms of the warriors, when the Earl of Derby started up, with his hand on his sword.
Colonel Seaton stepped between them, “You behold a friend, noble Earl! the governor of a loyal castle, who has come to deliberate with Sir Richard Houghton, in reference to their garrison: not knowing whether they ought to join the King at Worcester, or keep to their castle.”
The Earl was satisfied, and only remarked that “he had been deceived by a resemblance.”
The stranger was invited cordially to partake of the cheer; during which he spoke but little, and yet seemed interested in the conversation. At length Sir Thomas Tyldesley proposed that a song should be sung, adding “that amongst royalists there were to be found the only true poets.”
“Nay, Sir Thomas,” replied the Earl of Derby, “the republicans can boast of one whose name shall be the boast of our country to latest ages, whose lays are wild and majestic. When in London, I was desirous of seeing the man who wrote so bitterly against the king; expecting to see a fiend in human disguise. His house was mean: I thought that he surely had not taken bribes, otherwise he might have lived in a magnificent mansion. As I entered, two females were writing, and the sound of an organ came from the further end of the room. I turned there, and beheld a beautiful man, seated behind the faded hangings, with a countenance so serene and angelic, and his eyes looking up to heaven, as if his soul was ascending on the breath of the music. He was dictating to the ladies, who called him father. He moved not his eyes: his face was pale, but every muscle seemed to vibrate with thought and feeling. His hair was parted in front, over a beautifully formed brow, and fell in brown ringlets over his shoulders. He could not be young—there was so much of thought:—he could not be old—there was so much of happiness. ‘Dorothy,’ he said, ‘I have given you the last sentence:—subscribe Joannis Miltonus.’”
“Milton!” exclaimed the stranger with enthusiasm. “John Milton!”