to post, but we could still see
that the house was a plain house to look at, differing little from its
associate dwellings; a common house, a house you would pass without a
thought, unless the remembrance of thoughts that had been given to you
from within the shelter of those plain, ordinary walls, caused you to
reflect; aye, and to thank God, who has left with you the memories and
sympathies which elevate human nature. Here, while Latin secretary to
the Protector, was JOHN MILTON to be found when "at home;" and in his
society, at times, were met all the men who with their great originator,
Cromwell, astonished Europe. Just think of those who entered that
portal; think of them all if you can--statesmen and warriors; or, if you
are really of a gentle spirit, think of two--but two; either of whom has
left enough to engross your thoughts and fill your hearts. Think of JOHN
MILTON and ANDREW MARVEL! think of the Protector of England, with two
such secretaries!

Evening had deepened into night; busy hands were closing shutters, and
drawing curtains, to exclude the dense fog, that crept slowly and
silently, like an assassin, through the streets; the pavement was
clammy, and the carriages rushing through the mist, like huge-eyed,
misshapen spectres, proved how eager even the poor horses were to find
shelter; yet for a long while we stood on the steps of this building,
and at length retraced our steps homeward. Our train of thought,
although checked, was not changed, when seated by a comfortable fire. We
took down a volume of Milton; but "Paradise Lost" was too sublime for
the mood of the moment, and we "got to thinking" of Andrew Marvel, and
displaced a volume of Captain Edward Thompson's edition of his works;
and then it occurred to us to walk to Highgate, and once again enjoy the
sight of his quaint old cottage on the side of the hill just facing
"Cromwell House," and next to that which once owned for its master the
great Earl of Lauderdale.

We know nothing more invigorating than to breast the breeze up a hill,
with a bright clear sky above, and the crisp ground under foot. The wind
of March is as pure champagne to a healthy constitution; and let
mountain-men laugh as they will at Highgate-hill, it is no ordinary
labor to go and look down upon London from its height.

Here then we are, once more, opposite the house where lived the
satirist, the poet, the incorruptible patriot.

It is, as you will see presently, a peculi