“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!” “His daughter,” the Earl continued, “beheld me; they told their father that an armed stranger was present. His sword was on the table--he grasped it--but instantly laid it down. ‘He is welcome, though I cannot see him. All is dark--dark--not even shadows. But your errand, sir stranger?’--and his sightless orbs seemed to turn upon me, with the sweetest, and yet most dignified expression. I dared not announce with what views I had come, but I went close to his side, and took the hand (it scarcely touched as if it were human) which was stained with my master’s blood, and I kissed it in profoundest admiration. I remained for hours, happy, useful hours. He arose, as I prepared to depart; I yet see his form; I yet hear his step. He led me to the door, and blessed me. I have often thought of the interview, and as I passed the Darwen a few hours ago, I repeated his lines--though they were commemorative of the king’s defeat,-- ‘And Darwen’s streams with blood of Scots embrued.’” Here the stranger was much moved, and frequently repeated to himself, “my Milton! my Milton!” “Yes,” added Sir Thomas Tyldesley, “it was on such a night as this, three years ago, that Cromwell defeated the Duke of Hamilton.” “It was,” replied the stranger, averting his gaze. The conversation now began to turn upon their warlike plans, and Henry Tyldesley, conceiving that he might be more agreeably occupied, led Anne to a seat in the recess, where our fair readers, we doubt not, have been frequently wishing them to be, together and alone.