“Where the remote Bermudas ride,”

but had returned home, became in 1652 a Fellow of Eton College.  Oliver St. John, who at this time was Chancellor of the University of Cambridge, and had married Oxenbridge’s sister, was known to Marvell, and may have introduced him to his brother-in-law.  At all events Marvell frequently visited Eton, where, however, he had the good sense to frequent not merely the cloisters, but the poor lodgings where the “ever memorable” John Hales, ejected from his fellowship, spent the last years of his life.

   “I account it no small honour to have grown up into some part of his
   acquaintance and conversed awhile with the living remains of one of
   the clearest heads and best prepared breasts in Christendom."[51:1]

Hales died in 1656, and his Golden Remains were first published three years later.  Marvell’s words of panegyric are singularly well chosen.  It is a curious commentary upon the confused times of the Civil War and Restoration that perhaps never before, and seldom, if ever, since, has England contained so many clear heads and well-prepared breasts as it did then.  Small indeed is the influence of men of thought upon their immediate surroundings.

The Lord Bradshaw, we know, had a home in Eton, and on the occasion of one of Marvell’s evidently frequent visits to the Oxenbridges, Milton entrusted him with a letter to Bradshaw and a presentation copy of the Secunda defensio.  Marvell delivered both letter and book, and seems at once to have informed the distinguished author that he had done so.  But alas for the vanity of the writing man!  The sublime poet, who in his early manhood had composed Lycidas, and was in his old age to write Paradise Lost, demanded further and better particulars as to the precise manner in which the chief of his office received, not only the book, but the letter which accompanied it.  Nobody is now left to think much of Bradshaw, but in 1654 he was an excellent representative of the class Carlyle was fond of describing as the alors celebre.  Prompted by this desire, Milton must have written to Marvell hinting, as he well knew how to do, his surprise at the curtness of his friend’s former communication, and Marvell’s reply to this letter has come down to us.  It is Marvell’s glory that long before Paradise Lost he recognised the essential greatness of the blind secretary, and his letter is a fine example of the mode of humouring a great man.  Be it remembered, as we read, that this letter was not addressed to one of the greatest names in literature, but to a petulant and often peevish scholar, living of necessity in great retirement, whose name is never once mentioned by Clarendon, and about whom the voluminous Thurloe, who must have seen him hundreds of times, has nothing to say except that he was “a blind man who wrote Latin letters.”  Odder still, perhaps, Richard Baxter, whose history of his own life and times is one of the most informing books in the world, never so much as mentions the one and only man whose name can, without any violent sense of unfitness, be given to the age about which Baxter was writing so laboriously.