n we came to pass the hill at its foot, we found
it was not nearly so steep as some we had already passed over.

Two or three hours over narrow and generally bad roads for England
brought us to the village of Chalfont St. Giles, where John Milton made
his residence while writing "Paradise Lost." It is a retired little
place, mere lanes leading into it. The shriek of the railroad train does
not disturb its quietude, the nearest station being several miles away.
The village doubtless appears much as it did in Milton's time, three
hundred years ago, and the cottage which he occupied stands practically
unaltered. A notice posted outside stated that the cottage would not be
shown on Sunday. But such announcements had little terror for us by this
time, and we found no difficulty in gaining admittance to the quaint
little building. It is in the Elizabethan style, with half-timber frame
and sagging tile roof. The windows have small, diamond-shaped panes of
leaded glass set in rude iron frames and open on a typical English
flower garden. The villagers purchased the cottage by public
subscription and its preservation is thus fortunately insured. The
tenant acts as caretaker and apparently takes pride in keeping the place
in order. The poet's room, directly on the right when entering, is
rather dark, and has a low-beamed ceiling. There is a wide fireplace
with the old time appliances accompanying it, and one can imagine the
blind poet sitting by his fireside on winter days or enjoying the
sweetness that in summertime came through the antique windows from the
flower garden. Here he dictated "Paradise Lost" to his daughter, who
acted as his secretary. One can not help contrasting the unsurpassed
majesty and dignity of the great poem with the humble and even rude
surroundings of the cottage. Milton came here in 1665 to escape the
plague which was then devastating London. His eldest daughter was at
that time about seventeen years of age, and there is reason to believe
that she was with him during his stay in St. Giles. We were delighted
with the place, for we had seen little else more typical of old-time
England than this cottage, which would have been worth seeing aside from
its connection with the great epic poet. In front was the garden, a
blaze of bright colors, and the walls were half hidden by climbing
rose-vines in full boom--for the roses in England stay much later in
the summer than they do with us. The entrance to the cottage