at hanging from the back of an arm-chair. The rambling
meditations of Balsamo were soon concentrated upon a loftier theme, by
the voice of Milton singing in a subdued tone the antistrophe of a
favourite ode of Pindar. As the noble words of the Greek lyrist rolled
with an indescribable gusto from the lips of Milton, it seemed to the
Rosicrucian that he had never before comprehended the true euphony of
the language. And the visage of the old bard responded to the strain of
Pindar; it was illumined with a certain majesty of expression that
imparted additional dignity to a countenance at all times beaming with
wisdom. In appreciating the Pagan poet, the poet of Christianity
appeared to glow with enthusiasm like that which entranced his whole
soul in the moments of his own superb inspiration.[15] Nor was the
grandeur of the head diminished in any manner by the unpoetical
proportions of the body, for, to the acknowledgment of his most partial
biographer, Richardson, the stature of Milton was so much below the
ordinary height, and so much beyond the ordinary bulk, that he might
almost be described as "short and thick." Yet, notwithstanding these
peculiarities of the frame, an august radiance seemed to envelope the
brow--a brow, hoary alike from years and from misfortunes--and to invest
with a sublime air the figure of that old man huddled in that old gray
coat. Cagliostro gazed with profound interest upon Milton as the rolling
melody of Pindar streamed into his ears, when suddenly the song ceased,
and the face of the singer was raised to the resplendent light of the
heavens. Alas! those eyes turned vacantly in their sockets--those eyes
which had once looked so sorrowfully on the sightless Galileo--those
eyes which had mourned over the ashes of _Lycidas_, and rained upon them
tears transmuted by poetry into a shower of precious stones! The misery
of his blindness recurred to Milton himself at that same instant. A
cloud of grief descended upon his countenance. He experienced one of
those poignant feelings of regret which, in our own day, occasionally
oppress the heart of Augustin Thierry--for with the sensibility of a
poet he _knew_ that the hour was beautiful. Never had Cagliostro seen
human face express such exquisite but patient suffering; it seemed to be
_listening_ to the loveliness of the earth; it seemed to be _inhaling_
the glories of nature, as it were, through those channels which were not
obliterated. The stirring of th