terrupted Constance; "let not your thoughtless mirth
light upon John Milton; there is that about the poet, which made me feel
the very first time I saw him, that--

'Something holy lodges in that breast.'

I remember the day well, now more than three years ago, while staying at
Hampton Court, (whither your gracious mother had commanded me,) and
reading to the Lady Claypole, near the small window of her
dressing-room, which opened into the conservatory, one sultry July
evening, when the last rays of the golden sun disturbed the sober and to
me more touching beauty of the silver night--at last I could no longer
see, and closed the volume; your sister, in sweet and gentle voice,
stayed me to repeat some passages from the 'Masque of Comus.' How
accurately I can call to mind her every tone, as it mingled with the
perfume of the myrtle and orange trees, impregnating the air at once
with harmony and fragrance.

'So dear to Heaven is saintly chastity,
That, when a soul is found sincerely so,
A thousand liveried angels lackey her,
Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt;
And in clear dream and solemn vision
Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear,
Till oft converse with heavenly habitants
Begin to cast a beam on the outward shape,
The unpolluted temple of the mind.
And turns it by degrees to the soul's essence,
Till all be made immortal.'

I was so absorbed by the beauty of the poetry, and the exquisite grace
and feeling with which it was repeated, that my eyes were riveted on
your sister; nor could I withdraw them, even when she ceased to speak.
Thus abstracted, I was perfectly unconscious that a gentleman was
standing close to the great orange-tree, so that the rays of the full
moon rested on his uncovered head: his hair was parted in the centre,
and fell on his shoulders at either side, and his deportment was of
mingled dignity and sweetness. 'John Milton!' exclaimed Lady Claypole,
rising; 'I knew not,' she continued, 'that you had been so near
us.'--'The temptation was great, indeed, madam: a poet never feels that
he has true fame, until lips such as yours give utterance to his lines.'
He bowed low, and I thought coldly, over Lady Claypole's extended hand.
She walked into the conservatory, and called on me to follow. How my
heart throbbed! how I trembled! I felt in the almost divine presence of
one whose genius I had worshipped with a devotion which, enthusiast