He was son of a preacher at Kingston-upon-Hull (or, by metonomy, Hull) in the north of England. In a very singular way, the occasion of his father’s sudden death by drowning (if current tradition may be trusted) was also the occasion of the young poet’s entrance upon greatly improved worldly fortune. The story of it is this, which I tell to fix his memory better in mind. Opposite his father’s home, on the other bank of the Humber, lived a lady with an only daughter, the idol of her mother. This daughter chanced to visit Hull, that she might be present at the baptism of one of Mr. Marvell’s children. A tempest came up before night, and the boatmen declared the crossing of the river to be dangerous; but the young lady, with girlish wilfulness insisted, notwithstanding the urgence of Mr. Marvell; who, finding her resolved, went with her; and the sea breaking over the boat both were lost. The despairing mother found what consolation she could in virtually adopting the young Andrew Marvell, and eventually bestowing upon him her whole fortune. This opened a career to him which he was not slow to follow upon with diligence and steadiness. Well-taught, well-travelled, well-mannered, he went up to London, and was there befriended by those whose friendship insured success. He was liberal in his politics, beautifully tolerant in religious matters, kept a level head through the years of Parliamentary rule, and was esteemed and admired by both Puritans and Royalists. He used a sharp pen in controversy and wrote many pamphlets, some of which even now might serve as models for incisive speech; he was witty with the wittiest; was caustic, humorous; his pages adrip with classicisms; and he had a delicacy of raillery that amused, and a power of logic that smote heavily, where blows were in order. He was for a long time member of Parliament for Hull, and by his honesties of speech and pen, made himself so obnoxious to the political jackals about Charles’s court--that he was said to be in danger again and again of assassination; he finally died under strong (but unfounded) suspicion of poisoning. Those who knew him described him as “of middling stature, strong set, roundish face, cherry-cheeked, hazel-eyed, brown-haired.”[75] There are dainty poems of his, which should be read, and which are worth remembering. Take this, for instance, from his _Garden_, which was written by him first in Latin, and then rendered thus: “What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of a vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.