It was at this time that “Paradise Lost,” the one matchless epic of English literature, was conceived.  Rough jottings were made as to divisions and heads, and a few stanzas were written of the immortal poem that was not to be completed for a score of years.

The first volume of Milton’s poems was issued in Sixteen Hundred Forty-five, when he was thirty-seven years of age.  But before this he was known as the author of some pamphlets which had made political London reel.  The writer was at once seen to be a man of remarkable learning and marvelous intellect, and the work secured Milton a few friends and divers enemies.

From a man of leisure Milton had suddenly become a worker, whose every daylight hour was crammed with duties.  His skill as a teacher brought him all the pupils he cared for, and he moved into better quarters in Aldersgate.  He was immersed in his work, was making valuable acquaintances among literary people, was revered by his pupils, and the happiness was his of knowing that he was influential and independent.  A fine intoxication comes to every brain-worker when the world acknowledges with tangible remittances that the product of his mind has a value on the Rialto.  Such was Milton’s joy in Sixteen Hundred Forty-three.

The “Comus,” “Il Penseroso,” “L’Allegro” and “Lycidas” had established his place as a poet; and the power of his pen had been proven in sundry religious and political controversies.

In his household were two sons of his sister and several other pupils who had sought his tutorship.  He was contented in his work, pleased and happy with the young friends who sat at his board, and in an hour or two snatched each day from toil, for music and reverie.

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Seize upon the moments as they fly, O John Milton, and hug them to your heart!  Those were days of gold when your mother was your patient listener and friend.  Her love enveloped you as an aura; and her voice, soft and low, upheld you when courage faltered.  But these, too, are glorious days—­days full of work, and health, and hope, and high endeavor.  But these days of peace and freedom are the last you shall ever know.  Even now they flee as a shadow and fade into mist!  Gross stupidity, silent and insensate, sits waiting for you at the door; calumny is near; taunting hate comes riding fast!

The sympathy for which you yearn shall be yours only in dreams, and you shall be cheated of all the tenderness for which your heart prays.  The love and gentleness which you associate with your mother, you ascribe in innocence and ignorance to all women; but Fate shall undeceive you, O John Milton, and make mock of all your high ideals.  You dote on liberty, but liberty is not for you.  You shall see the funeral of the Republic; the defamation of your honor; the proscription of all the sacred things you prize.  Your companions shall not be of your own choosing, but shall be those