daylight hour was crammed with duties. His skill as a teacher brought him
all the pupils he cared for, and he moved into better quarters in
Aldersgate. He was immersed in his work, was making valuable acquaintances
among literary people, was revered by his pupils, and the happiness was
his of knowing that he was influential and independent. A fine
intoxication comes to every brain-worker when the world acknowledges with
tangible remittances that the product of his mind has a value on the
Rialto. Such was Milton's joy in Sixteen Hundred Forty-three.

The "Comus," "Il Penseroso," "L'Allegro" and "Lycidas" had established his
place as a poet; and the power of his pen had been proven in sundry
religious and political controversies.

In his household were two sons of his sister and several other pupils who
had sought his tutorship. He was contented in his work, pleased and happy
with the young friends who sat at his board, and in an hour or two
snatched each day from toil, for music and reverie.

* * * * *

Seize upon the moments as they fly, O John Milton, and hug them to your
heart! Those were days of gold when your mother was your patient listener
and friend. Her love enveloped you as an aura; and her voice, soft and
low, upheld you when courage faltered. But these, too, are glorious
days--days full of work, and health, and hope, and high endeavor. But
these days of peace and freedom are the last you shall ever know. Even now
they flee as a shadow and fade into mist! Gross stupidity, silent and
insensate, sits waiting for you at the door; calumny is near; taunting
hate comes riding fast!