Father, indeed, can flame out in political Controversy, and lay about him as with a Flail, right and left, making the Chaff, and sometimes the Wheat too, fly about his Ears. 'Twas while threshing the Wheat by the Wine-press at _Ophrah_, that _Gideon_ was called by the Angel; and methinks Father hath in like Manner been summoned from the Floor of his Threshing, to discourse of Heaven and Earth, and bring forth from his Mind's Storehouse Things new and old. I wonder if the World will ever give heed to his Teaching. Suppose a Spark of Fire should drop some Night on the Manuscript, while _Ettwood_ is dozing over it;--why, there's an end on't. I suppose Father could never do it over again. I wonder how many fine Things have been lost in suchlike Ways; or whether God ever permitts a truly fine Thing to be utterly lost. We may drop a Diamond into the Sea; but there it is, at the Bottom of the Great Deep. _Justinian's Pandects_ turned up again. The Art of making Glass was lost once. The Passage round the _Cape_ was made and forgotten.----If I pore over this, I shall puzzle my Head. Howbeit, were I to round the _Cape_, I should hardly look for stranger and more glorious Scenes than Father hath in his Poem made familiar to me. He hath done more for me than _Columbus_ for Queen _Isabel_--hath revealed to me a far better _New World_. Now, I scarce ever look on the setting Sun, surrounded by Hues more gorgeous than those of the High-priest's Breast-plate, without picturing the Angel of the Sun seated on that bright Beam which bore him, Slope downward, beneath the _Azores_. And, in the less brilliant Hour, I, by Faith or Fancy, discern _Ithuriel_ and _Zephon_ in the Shade; and by their Side a third, of regal Port, but faded Splendour wan. A little later still, can sometimes hear the Voice of God, or, as I suppose, we might say, the Word of God, walking in the Garden. _Pneuma_! His Breath! His Spirit! How hushed and still! Then, the Night cometh, when no Man can work--when the young Lions, in tropical Climes, waking from their Day-sleep, seek their Meat from God. Albeit they may prowl about the Dwellings of his people, they cannot enter, for He that watcheth them neither slumbers nor sleeps. Moreover, heavenly Vigils relieve one another at their Posts, and go their Midnight Rounds; sometimes, singing (Father says), with heavenly Touch of instrumental Sounds, in full harmonic Number joined . . . yes, and Shepherds, once, at least, have heard them. And then . . . and then Mother cries, "How often, _Deb_, shall I bid you lock the Gate at nine o'clock, and bring me in the Key?" _Sept. 2nd, 1665_.