religion and morality, but as a device of Presbyterianism to restrain this outpouring of the spirit and silence Independents as well as Royalists.  Presbyterianism had indeed been weighed in the balance and found wanting, and Milton’s pamphlet was the handwriting on the wall.  The fine gold must have become very dim ere a Puritan pen could bring itself to indite that scathing satire on the “factor to whose care and credit the wealthy man may commit the whole managing of his religious affairs; some divine of note and estimation that must be.  To him he adheres; resigns the whole warehouse of his religion, with all the locks and keys into his custody; and, indeed, makes the very person of that man his religion—­esteems his associating with him a sufficient evidence and commendation of his own piety.  So that a man may say his religion is now no more within himself, but is become a dividual movable, and goes and comes near him according as that good man frequents the house.  He entertains him, gives him gifts, feasts him, lodges him, his religion comes home at night, prays, is liberally supped and sumptuously laid to sleep, rises, is saluted; and after the malmsey or some well-spiced brewage, and better breakfasted than He whose morning appetite would have gladly fed on green figs between Bethany and Jerusalem, his religion walks abroad at eight, and leaves his kind entertainer in the shop, trading all day without his religion.”  This is a startling passage.  We should have pronounced hitherto that Milton’s one hopeless, congenital, irremediable want, alike in literature and in life, was humour.  And now, surely as ever Saul was among the prophets, behold Milton among the wits.

CHAPTER IV.

Ranging with Milton’s spirit over the “fresh woods and pastures new,” foreshadowed in the closing verse of “Lycidas,” we have left his mortal part in its suburban dwelling in Aldersgate Street, which he seems to have first inhabited shortly before the convocation of the Long Parliament in November, 1640.  His visible occupations are study and the instruction of his nephews; by and by he becomes involved in the revolutionary tempest that rages around; and, while living like a pedagogue, is writing like a prophet.  He is none the less cherishing lofty projects for epic and drama; and we also learn from Phillips that his society included “some young sparks,” and may assume that he then, as afterwards—­

   “Disapproved that care, though wise in show,
    That with superfluous burden loads the day,
    And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.”

There is eloquent testimony of his interest in public affairs in his subscription of four pounds, a large sum in those days, for the relief of the homeless Protestants of Ulster.  The progress of events must have filled him with exultation, and when at length civil war broke out in September, 1642, Parliament had no more zealous champion.  His zeal, however, did not carry him into the ranks, for which some biographers blame him.  But if he thought that he could serve his cause better with a pamphlet than with a musket, surely he had good reason for what he thought.  It should seem, moreover, that if Milton detested the enemy’s principles, he respected his pikes and guns:—­