of time and space, and there he found that rest for his soul, without
which he would have sunk to earth and been covered by the kindly, drifting
leaves of oblivion.

For some, the secrets of music, the wonder of love, and the misty,
undefined prayers of the soul constitute true religion. When you place a
creed in a crucible and afterward study the particles on a slide encased
in balsam, you are apt to get a residuum or something--a something that
does not satisfy the heart.

Milton got well acquainted with theology. It was interesting, but not what
he had supposed. He came to regard the Church as a useful part of the
Government--divine, of course, as all good things are divine. But to
become a priest and play a part--he would not do it. He was
honest--stubbornly honest.

Seven years he had been at Cambridge, and now that he was just ready to
step into a "living"--right in the line of promotion of which his beauty
and intellect tokened a sure presage--he balked.

It was a great blow to his parents. His mother pleaded; his father
threatened; but they soon perceived that this son they had brought forth
had a will stronger than theirs. Their fond dreams of his preferment--the
handsome face of their boy above an oaken pulpit, with thousands feeding
on his words, the public honors, and all that--faded away into tears and
misty nothingness. But parenthood is doomed to disappointment--it does not
endure long enough to see the end. Youth is so headstrong and wilful: it
will not learn from the experience of others.

And all these years of preparation and expense! Better had he died and