1865.] VACATION REMINISCENCE. 247 found repose. I tried no more experiments. I was well pleased After passing at least a dozen fields in which Putnam left his plow when the news of Lexington came, I arrived safely at my destination. The "Den" is situated about three-quarters of a mile from the main road, the path to it leading through woods and underbrush. Its entrance is near the top of a hill sloping toward the east. It presents externally the appearance of two masses of rock placed about three feet asunder, with a third mass placed above. The sides and top of the cave, at the entrance, are almost as smooth as if hewn. On entering with a lighted candle, I found that nowhere was there enough room to enable me to rise upon my knees, or to turn in any way. The only way to effect an entrance was to lie down flat and crawl in ; no very pleasant operation when the bottom of the cave is wet from recent rain, and strewn with decaying vegetable matter. The cave extends directly back into the hill for about fifteen feet, then turns abruptly to the right, and runs about ten feet further, where it terminates. A large piece of rock has now fallen near the angle, effectually preventing passage to the upper end of the cave. The old inhabitants near by say that the cave has been gradually contracting for many years. The scenery about the "Den" is wild and romantic. The woods have, however, already commenced to fall before the ax, and in a few years the crowning beauty of the place will be gone. It is a pity, I think, that the few places we have of classic interest are not looked upon with more veneration. This indeed is but a simple matter, simply a place where a resolute action was once performed, but the place is in itself beautiful, and the principal actor was one who, for his after services, deserved a lasting place in our remembrance. Would that all the places of interest connected with our Revolutionary heroes might be cared for and preserved, for as we grow older as a nation, our interest in them will increase. There is now but little veneration in our people. This sentiment, however, is rapidly increasing. This war has nourished it. We were growing materially in a manner unexampled, and were apparently fast approaching that period of ripeness which must be inevitably followed by corruption and decay. But it was the premature ripeness caused by the canker worm. We were suddenly checked. The destructive elements have been removed, and now there seems to be nothing to hinder our healthy growth and development. We will become more conservative. Our land has become venerable by the sacrifices made for it, VOL. XXX. 23* and we who have now learned the value of our institutions, will look back with greater reverence than ever before upon our Revolutionary fathers, and will regard with deeper interest everything connected with their names, and about the simple subject of our narrative there will cluster a deeper and deeper interest as the years go by, because through it a hero of the Revolution is presented vividly to us, and those traits of his character for which he was most noted are plainly marked out. The Close of Winter. MOURNFULLY sigh the leafless limbs, And the tree-tops bend low beneath the blast, White, cheerless frost each pane bedíms, And the traveler fights with a bitter foe, The lark through the air no longer skims, And the low, sweet lament of the nightingale The demons of death are chanting hymns, For all nature is shrouded in a winter's night, For three long months of tedious gloom, Unhappy, chilled in every vein, Of children walking in the snow; A cruel king! Hark! how clearly the chimes Of the sleigh-bells resound, And how tuneful their rhymes, As the steeds paw the ground! Oh! merry, merry, merry 'tis to fly o'er meadows white, When the glistening stars are paling 'neath the full moon's mellow light, When the pulse beats fast and faster, and the heart is all delight. Hear the ringing of the ice, As the skaters dart along; In a far-extending throng! And swiftly, very swiftly now the youths and maidens fair, See the radiance of the flames In the fireplace antique, Reddening every youthful cheek! Oh! the winter, yes, the winter, though its hurricanes be drear, Plaintively sigh the leafless limbs, And the murmuring brooklets court the breeze And the birds now returning are singing hymns, Warbling melodious lays, For all nature revives as the vernal days near, And each creature that breathes, as the buds re-appear, March, 1865. C. S. E. Milton in his Old Age. "The prerogative of true greatness is to glorify itself in adversity."-Chalmers. "THE flower of youth," and "the vigor of manhood," are familiar phrases in song and story, but poets and historians have found little of beauty or greatness in "crude old age." Yet if we would know Milton the Christian, the patriot, the poet, we must view him, not in his youth or manhood, but in his declining years. His early life is interesting only as the preparation for his good old age. In his youth he conceived a love of "beholding the bright countenance of truth, in the quiet and still air of delightful studies." Meditation in solitude was ever his chief delight, yet he was cheerful and light-hearted. At home, at College, at Horton, he was always happy. "Life went a Maying With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, Knowing nothing of the busy world, he cared for it less, and was content to let his young imagination soar aloft on giddy wings, sometimes to bring back from the realms of fancy a beautiful "Comus" or "Lycidas." But this was not often; the poet was but forming. His happy youth was soon gone, and seeing the necessity of a practical knowledge of the world, he set out to visit foreign lands. He passed through France and Italy, where he was received with marks of distinction, and paused at Naples. There he heard the fearful news of a civil war in England. He was a Republican, and his heart was with Cromwell; so he forthwith abandoned his travels, set sail for England, forsook the muses, and became a leading actor in the great rebellion, using the powerful weapons which God had given him, a mighty intellect and ready pen. He engaged in controversy with the most learned scholars of his age, (and "there were giants in those days,") and became known throughout Europe as an enthusiastic and ambitious politician, and a most severe and witty controvertist. He raised himself to the position of Latin Secretary under Cromwell, and at this time wrote to a friend, "I am meditating, by the help of Heaven, an immortality of fame. ПITεpopvw! I am letting my wings grow and preparing to fly!" Alas, for the political ambition of Milton's manhood! It was doomed to disappointment. His vigorous manhood was thus spent in the blaze of public life, but his severe study and unremitting exertion began at length to tell upon his system, and at forty-six he was blind. Blindness was the first mark of withering old age. It came upon him gradually, until noonday was as midnight; but as the light of earth faded away, the brighter light of Heaven shone in upon his soul. "O, happiness of blindness!" Sight departed and gave way to faith. One "veil of flesh" was gone. Having lost sight of the visible, he approached and communed with the invisible, and it was this sacred communion that wrought within him the spirituality which, entering into the poems of his old age, has made his name immortal; it was "the golden key that opes the palace of eternity," by which he was permitted to behold the mysteries of Heaven and Hell, the angel host, and "gorgons, hydras, and chimeras dire," which he has described in his "Epic vision of the unborn."* Often and devoutly had he prayed that the seraphim might come with the hallowed fire to purify his lips for the utterance of truth. His prayer was heard; the seraphim came, but in the form of blindness; and from the lips thus purified came Paradise Lost. The work of old age once begun, was not abandoned. Soon following blindness came infirmity and lingering disease. He who was once called " the beautiful lady of Christ's College," is now a wrin kled old man, with silvered locks and tremulous voice. His brow is contracted with pain, and his eyes, "though clear to outward view of blemish or of spot," roll as if vainly searching for the light. Sad change of a few years! But though Milton's body had grown old and helpless, his mind was stronger and more vigorous than ever. He was "perfected by feebleness, and irradiated by obscurity." His words were not the mumbled accents of second childhood, but the *It is almost awful to think of him, issuing from the arena of controversy, victorious and blind, putting away from his dark brows the victorious laurels,-left alone after the heat of the day, by those for whom he had combated,—and originating in that enforced dark silence, his epic vision of the unborn."-Mrs. Browning. |