in Milton’s work we see himself.  Over and over again we can say here Milton speaks of himself, here he shows us his own heart, his own pain.  He is one of the most self-ful of all poets.  He has none of the dramatic power of Shakespeare, he cannot look through another’s eyes, so he sees things only from one standpoint and that his own.  He stands far apart from us, and is almost inhumanly cold.  That is the reason why so many of us find him hard to love.

Professor Raleigh.

When, on a bleak December day in 1606, more than three hundred years ago, Milton was born, Elizabeth was dead, and James of Scotland sat upon the throne, but many of the great Elizabethans still lived.  Shakespeare was still writing, still acting, although he had become a man of wealth and importance and the owner of New Place.  Ben Jonson was at the very height of his fame, the favorite alike of Court and Commons.  Bacon was just rising to power and greatness, his Novum Organum still to come.  Raleigh, in prison, was eating his heart out in the desire for freedom, trying to while away the dreary hours with chemical experiments, his great history not yet begun.  Of the crowd of lyric writers some were boys at college, some but children in the nursery, and some still unborn.  Yet in spite of the many writers who lived at or about the same time, Milton stands alone in our literature.

John Milton was the son of a London scrivener, that is, a kind of lawyer.  He was well-to-do and a Puritan.  Milton’s home, however, must have been brighter than many a Puritan home, for his father loved music, and not only played well, but also composed.  He taught his son to play too, and all through his life Milton loved music.

John was a pretty little boy with long golden brown hair, a fair face and dark gray eyes.  But to many a strict Puritan, beauty was an abomination, and we are told that one of Milton’s schoolmasters “was a Puritan in Essex who cut his hair short.”  No doubt to him a boy with long hair was unseemly.  John was the eldest and much beloved son of his father, who perhaps petted and spoiled him.  He was clever as well as pretty, and already at the age of ten he was looked upon by his family as a poet.  He was very studious, for besides going to St. Paul’s School he had a private tutor.  Even with that he was not satisfied, but studied alone far into the night.  “When he went to schoole, when he was very young,” we are told, “he studied hard and sate up very late:  commonly till twelve or one at night.  And his father ordered the mayde to sitt up for him.  And in those years he composed many copies of verses, which might well become a riper age."* We can imagine to ourselves the silence of the house, when all the Puritan household had been long abed.  We can picture the warm quiet room where sits the little fair-haired boy poring over his books by the light of flickering candles, while in the shadow a stern-faced white-capped Puritan