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that may at any time slip us back to the reformation in
Scotland or the settlement of
New England; when we consider, moreover, that
Milton's life overlapped the
grand siecle of French literature, with its irresistible temptations to digression and homily for a man of
Mr. Masson's temperament, we may be pardoned if a sigh of doubt and discouragement escape us. We envy the secular leisures of Methusaleh, and are thankful that
his biography at least (if written in the same longeval proportion) is irrecoverably lost to us. What a subject would that have been for a person of
Mr.;
Masson's spacious predilections!
Even if he himself can count on patriarchal prorogations of existence, let him hang a print of the
Countess of
Desmond in his study to remind him of the ambushes which Fate lays for the toughest of us. For myself, I have not dared to climb a cherry-tree since I began to read his work.
Even with the promise of a speedy third volume before me, I feel by no means sure of living to see
Mary Powell back in her husband's house; for it is just at this crisis that
Mr. Masson, with the diabolical art of a practised serial writer, leaves us while he goes into an exhaustive account of the Westminster Assembly and the political and religious notions of the
Massachusetts Puritans.
One could not help thinking, after having got
Milton fairly through college, that he was never more mistaken in his life than when he wrote,
How soon hath Time, that subtle thief of youth,
Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
Or is it
Mr. Masson who has scotched
Time's wheels?
It is plain from the Preface to the second volume that Mr. Masson himself has an uneasy consciousness that something is wrong, and that Milton ought somehow to be more than a mere incident of his own biography.
