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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/21431-8.txt b/21431-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4d49fc0 --- /dev/null +++ b/21431-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6456 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Mary Powell & Deborah's Diary, by Anne Manning + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Mary Powell & Deborah's Diary + +Author: Anne Manning + +Release Date: May 14, 2007 [EBook #21431] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARY POWELL & DEBORAH'S DIARY *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + +Mary Powell & Deborah's Diary + + +by + +Anne Manning + + + + + + A tale which holdeth children from play + & old men from the chimney corner + --Sir Philip Sidney + + + + +London: published by J. M. Dent & Co. + +and in New York by E. P. Dutton & Co. + +1908 + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +In the Valhalla of English literature Anne Manning is sure of a little +and safe place. Her studies of great men, in which her imagination +fills in the hiatus which history has left, are not only literature in +themselves, but they are a service to literature: it is quite +conceivable that the ordinary reader with no very keen _flair_ for +poetry will realise John Milton and appraise him more highly, having +read _Mary Powell_ and its sequel, _Deborah's Diary_, than having read +_Paradise Lost_. In _The Household of Sir Thomas More_ she had for +hero one of the most charming, whimsical, lovable, heroical men God +ever created, by the creation of whose like He puts to shame all that +men may accomplish in their literature. In John Milton, whose first +wife Mary Powell was, Miss Manning has a hero who, though a supreme +poet, was "gey ill to live with," and it is a triumph of her art that +she makes us compunctious for the great poet even while we appreciate +the difficulties that fell to the lot of his women-kind. John Milton, +a Parliament man and a Puritan, married at the age of thirty-four, Mary +Powell, a seventeen-year-old girl, the daughter of an Oxfordshire +squire, who, with his family, was devoted to the King. It was at one +of the bitterest moments of the conflict between King and Parliament, +and it was a complication in the affair of the marriage that Mary +Powell's father was in debt five hundred pounds to Milton. The +marriage took place. Milton and his young wife set up housekeeping in +lodgings in Aldersgate Street over against St. Bride's Churchyard, a +very different place indeed from Forest Hill, Shotover, by Oxford, Mary +Powell's dear country home. They were together barely a month when +Mary Powell, on report of her father's illness, had leave to revisit +him, being given permission to absent herself from her husband's side +from mid-August till Michaelmas. She did not return at Michaelmas; nor +for some two years was there a reconciliation between the bride and +groom of a month. During those two years Milton published his +pamphlet, _On the Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce_, begun while his +few-weeks-old bride was still with him. In this pamphlet he states +with violence his opinion that a husband should be permitted to put +away his wife "for lack of a fit and matchable conversation," which +would point to very slender agreement between the girl of seventeen and +the poet of thirty-four. This was that Mary Powell, who afterwards +bore him four children, who died in childbirth with the youngest, +Deborah (of the _Diary)_, and who is consecrated in one of the +loveliest and most poignant of English sonnets. + + Methought I saw my late-espouséd Saint + Brought to me like Alkestis from the grave, + Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave, + Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint. + Mine, as whom washed from spot of child-bed taint + Purification in the Old Law did save; + And such, as yet once more, I trust to have + Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint, + Came vested all in white, pure as her mind: + Her face was veiled, yet to my fancied sight + Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined +So clear, as in no face with more delight. + But oh! as to embrace me she inclined, + I waked; she fled; and Day brought back my Night. + + +It is a far cry from the woman so enshrined to the child of seventeen +years who was without "fit and matchable conversation" for her +irritable, intolerant poet-husband. + +A good many serious writers have conjectured and wondered over this +little tragedy of Milton's young married life: but since all must needs +be conjecture one is obliged to say that Miss Manning, with her gift of +delicate imagination and exquisite writing, has conjectured more +excellently than the historians. She does not "play the sedulous ape" +to Milton or Mary Powell: but if one could imagine a gentle and tender +Boswell to these two, then Miss Manning has well proved her aptitude +for the place. Of Mary Powell she has made a charming creature. The +diary of Mary Powell is full of sweet country smells and sights and +sounds. Mary Powell herself is as sweet as her flowers, frank, honest, +loving and tender. Her diary catches for us all the enchantment of an +old garden; we hear Mary Powell's bees buzz in the mignonette and +lavender; we see her pleached garden alleys; we loiter with her on the +bowling-green, by the fish ponds, in the still-room, the dairy and the +pantry. The smell of aromatic box on a hot summer of long ago is in +our nostrils. We realise all the personages--the impulsive, hot-headed +father; the domineering, indiscreet mother; the cousin, Rose Agnew, and +her parson husband; little Kate and Robin of the Royalist household--as +well as John Milton and his father, and the two nephews to whom the +poet was tutor--and a hard tutor. Miss Manning's delightful humour +comes out in the two pragmatical little boys. But Mary herself +dominates the picture. She is so much a thing of the country, of +gardens and fields, that perforce one is reminded of Sir Thomas +Overbury's _Fair and Happy Milkmaid_:-- + +"She doth all things with so sweet a grace it seems ignorance will not +suffer her to do ill, being her mind is to do well. . . . The garden +and bee-hive are all her physic and chirugery, and she lives the longer +for it. She dares go alone and unfold sheep in the night and fears no +manner of ill because she means none: yet to say truth she is never +alone, for she is still accompanied by old songs, honest thoughts and +prayers, but short ones. . . . Thus lives she, and all her care is +that she may die in the spring-time, to have store of flowers stuck +upon her winding-sheet." + +The last remnants of Forest Hill, Mary Powell's home, were pulled down +in 1854. A visitor to it three years before its demolition tells us:-- + +"Still the rose, the sweet-brier and the eglantine are reddest beneath +its casements; the cock at its barn-door may be seen from any of the +windows. . . . In the kitchen, with its vast hearth and overhanging +chimney, we discovered tokens of the good living for which the old +manor-house was famous in its day. . . . The garden, in its massive +wall, ornamental gateway and old sun-dial, retains some traces of its +manorial dignities." The house indeed is gone, but the sweet country +remains, the verdant slopes and the lanes with their hedges full of +sweet-brier that stretch out towards Oxford. And there is the church +in which Mary Powell prayed. I should have liked to quote another of +Miss Manning's biographers, the Rev. Dr. Hutton, who tells us of old +walls partly built into the farmhouse that now stands there, and of the +old walnut trees in the farmyard, and in a field hard by the spring of +which John Milton may have tasted, and the church on the hill, and the +distant Chilterns. + +Milton's cottage at Chalfont St. Giles's is happily still in a good +state of preservation, although Chalfont and its neighbourhood have +suffered a sea-change even since Dr. Hutton wrote, a decade ago. All +that quiet corner of the world, for so long green and secluded,--a +"deare secret greennesse"--has now had the light of the world let in +upon it. Motor-cars whizz through that Quaker country; money-making +Londoners hurry away from it of mornings, trudge home of evenings, bag +in hand; the jerry-builder is in the land, and the dust of much traffic +lies upon the rose and eglantine wherewith Milton's eyes were +delighted. The works of our hands often mock us by their durability. +Years and ages and centuries after the busy brain and the feeling heart +are dust, the houses built with hands stand up to taunt our mortality. +Yet the works of the mind remain. Though Forest Hill be only a +party-wall, and Chalfont a suburb of London, the Forest Hill of Mary +Powell, the Chalfont of Milton, yet live for us in Anne Manning's +delightful pages. + +Miss Manning did not wish her _Life_ to be written, but we do get some +glimpses of her real self from herself in a chance page here and there +of her reminiscences. + +Here is one such glimpse:-- + +"I must confess I have never been able to write comfortably when music +was going on. I think I have always written to most purpose coming in +fresh from a morning walk when the larks were singing and lambs +bleating and distant cocks in farmyards crowing, and a distant dog +barking to an echo which answered his voice, and when the hedges and +banks were full of wild flowers with quaint and pretty names. + +"Next to that, I have found the best time soon after early tea, when my +companions were all in the garden, and likely to remain there till +moonlight." + +Not very much by way of a literary portrait, and yet one can fill it in +for oneself, can place her in old-world Reigate, fast, alas! becoming +over-built and over-populated like all the rest of the country over +which falls the ever-lengthening London shadow. As one ponders upon +Forest Hill for Mary Powell's sake--is not Shotover as dear a name as +Shottery?--and Chalfont for Milton's sake, one thinks on Reigate +surrounded by its hills for Anne Manning's sake, and keeps the place in +one's heart. + +_Mary Powell_, with its sequel, _Deborah's Diary_--Deborah was the +young thing whom to bring into the world Mary Powell died--is one of +the most fragrant books in English literature. One thinks of it side +by side with John Evelyn's _Mrs. Godolphin_. Miss Manning had a +beautiful style--a style given to her to reconstruct an idyll of +old-world sweetness. Limpid as flowing water, with a thought of +syllabubs and new-made hay in it, it is a perpetual delight. This +mid-Victorian, dark-haired lady, with the aquiline nose and high +colour, although she may not have looked it, possessed a charming +style, in which tenderness, seriousness, gaiety, humour, poetry, appear +in the happiest atmosphere of sweetness and light. + +KATHARINE TYNAN. + +_April_ 1908 + + + + +Bibliography + +The following is a complete list of her published works:-- + +The Household of Sir Thomas More, 1851; Queen Phillippa's Golden Booke, +1851; The Colloquies of Edward Osborne, Citizen and Clothworker of +London, 1852; The Drawing-room Table Book, 1852; Cherry and Violet, a +Tale of the Great Plague, 1853; The Provocations of Madame Palissy, +1853; Chronicles of Merry England, 1854; Claude the Colporteur, 1854; +The Hill Side, 1854; Jack and the Tanner of Wymondham, 1854; Adventures +of Haroun al Raschid, 1855; Maiden and Married Life of Mary Powell, +afterwards Mistress Milton, 1855; Old Chelsea Bun-House, 1855; Some +Account of Mrs. Clarinda Singlehart, 1855; A Sabbath at Home, 1855; +Tasso and Leonora, 1856; The Week of Darkness, 1856; Lives of Good +Servants, 1857; The Good Old Times, 1857; Helen and Olga, a Russian +Tale, 1857; The Year Nine: a Tale of the Tyrol, 1858; The Ladies of +Bever Hollow, 1858; Poplar House Academy, 1859; Deborah's Diary, 1859; +The Story of Italy, 1859; Village Belles, 1859; Town and Forest, 1860; +The Day of Small Things, 1860; Family Pictures, 1861; Chronicle of +Ethelfled, 1861; A Noble Purpose Nobly Won, 1862; Meadowleigh, 1863; +Bessy's Money, 1863; The Duchess of Tragetto, 1863; The Interrupted +Wedding: a Hungarian Tale, 1864; Belforest: a Tale, 1865; Selvaggio: a +Tale of Italian Country Life, 1865; The Masque at Ludlow, and other +Romanesques, 1866; The Lincolnshire Tragedy (Passages in the life of +Anne Askewe), 1866; Miss Biddy Frobisher: a Salt-water Story, 1866; The +Cottage History of England, 1867; Jacques Bonneval, 1868; Diana's +Crescent, 1868; The Spanish Barber, 1869; One Trip More, 1870; Margaret +More's Tagebuch, 1870; Compton Friars, 1872; The Lady of Limited +Income, 1872; Lord Harry Bellair, 1874; Monk's Norton, 1874; Heroes of +the Desert (Moffat, Livingstone, etc.), 1875; An Idyll of the Alps, +1876. + +LIFE.--C. M. Yonge, Women Novelists of Queen Victoria's Reign, 1897. + + + + +THE MAIDEN AND MARRIED LIFE + +OF + + +MARY POWELL + +AFTERWARDS MISTRESS MILTON + + +JOURNALL + +_Forest Hill, Oxon, May 1st, 1643_. + +. . . Seventeenth Birthdaye. A Gypsie Woman at the Gate woulde faine +have tolde my Fortune; but _Mother_ chased her away, saying she had +doubtlesse harboured in some of the low Houses in _Oxford_, and mighte +bring us the Plague. Coulde have cried for Vexation; she had promised +to tell me the Colour of my Husband's Eyes; but _Mother_ says she +believes I shall never have one, I am soe sillie. _Father_ gave me a +gold Piece. Dear _Mother_ is chafed, methinks, touching this Debt of +five hundred Pounds, which _Father_ says he knows not how to pay. +Indeed, he sayd, overnighte, his whole personal Estate amounts to but +five hundred Pounds, his Timber and Wood to four hundred more, or +thereabouts; and the Tithes and Messuages of _Whateley_ are no great +Matter, being mortgaged for about as much moore, and he hath lent +Sights of Money to them that won't pay, so 'tis hard to be thus prest. +Poor _Father_! 'twas good of him to give me this gold Piece. + + + +_May 2nd, 1643_. + +Cousin _Rose_ married to Master _Roger Agnew_. Present, _Father, +Mother_, and _Brother_ of _Rose_. _Father, Mother, Dick, Bob, Harry_, +and I; Squire _Paice_ and his Daughter _Audrey_; an olde Aunt of Master +_Roger's_, and one of his Cousins, a stiffe-backed Man with large +Eares, and such a long Nose! Cousin _Rose_ looked bewtifulle--pitie so +faire a Girl should marry so olde a Man--'tis thoughte he wants not +manie Years of fifty. + + + +_May 7th, 1643_. + +New Misfortunes in the Poultrie Yarde. Poor _Mother's_ Loyalty cannot +stand the Demands for her best Chickens, Ducklings, etc., for the Use +of his Majesty's Officers since the King hath beene in _Oxford_. She +accuseth my _Father_ of having beene wonne over by a few faire Speeches +to be more of a Royalist than his natural Temper inclineth him to; +which, of course, he will not admit. + + + +_May 8th, 1643_. + +Whole Day taken up in a Visit to _Rose_, now a Week married, and growne +quite matronlie already. We reached _Sheepscote_ about an Hour before +Noone. A long, broade, strait Walke of green Turf, planted with +Hollyoaks, Sunflowers, etc., and some earlier Flowers alreadie in +Bloom, led up to the rusticall Porch of a truly farm-like House, with +low gable Roofs, a long lattice Window on either Side the Doore, and +three Casements above. Such, and no more, is _Rose's_ House! But she +is happy, for she came running forthe, soe soone as she hearde +_Clover's_ Feet, and helped me from my Saddle all smiling, tho' she had +not expected to see us. We had Curds and Creame; and she wished it +were the Time of Strawberries, for she sayd they had large Beds; and +then my _Father_ and the Boys went forthe to looke for Master _Agnew_. +Then _Rose_ took me up to her Chamber, singing as she went; and the +long, low Room was sweet with Flowers. Sayd I, "_Rose_, to be Mistress +of this pretty Cottage, 'twere hardlie amisse to marry a Man as olde as +Master _Roger_." "Olde!" quoth she, "deare _Moll_, you must not deeme +him olde; why, he is but fortytwo; and am not I twenty-three?" She +lookt soe earneste and hurte, that I coulde not but falle a laughing. + + + +_May 9th, 1643_. + +_Mother_ gone to _Sandford_. She hopes to get Uncle _John_ to lend +_Father_ this Money. _Father_ says she may _try_. Tis harde to +discourage her with an ironicalle Smile, when she is doing alle she +can, and more than manie Women woulde, to help _Father_ in his +Difficultie; but suche, she sayth somewhat bitterlie, is the lot of our +Sex. She bade _Father_ mind that she had brought him three thousand +Pounds, and askt what had come of them. Answered; helped to fille the +Mouths of nine healthy Children, and stop the Mouth of an easie +Husband; soe, with a Kiss, made it up. I have the Keys, and am left +Mistresse of alle, to my greate Contentment; but the Children clamour +for Sweetmeats, and _Father_ sayth, "Remember, _Moll_, Discretion is +the better Part of Valour." + +After _Mother_ had left, went into the Paddock, to feed the Colts with +Bread; and while they were putting their Noses into _Robin's_ Pockets, +_Dick_ brought out the two Ponies, and set me on one of them, and we +had a mad Scamper through the Meadows and down the Lanes; I leading. +Just at the Turne of _Holford's Close_, came shorte upon a Gentleman +walking under the Hedge, clad in a sober, genteel Suit, and of most +beautifulle Countenance, with Hair like a Woman's, of a lovely pale +brown, long and silky, falling over his Shoulders. I nearlie went over +him, for _Clover's_ hard Forehead knocked agaynst his Chest; but he +stoode it like a Rock; and lookinge firste at me and then at _Dick_, he +smiled and spoke to my Brother, who seemed to know him, and turned +about and walked by us, sometimes stroaking _Clover's_ shaggy Mane. I +felte a little ashamed; for _Dick_ had sett me on the Poney just as I +was, my Gown somewhat too shorte for riding: however, I drewe up my +Feet and let _Clover_ nibble a little Grasse, and then got rounde to +the neare Side, our new Companion stille between us. He offered me +some wild Flowers, and askt me theire Names; and when I tolde them, he +sayd I knew more than he did, though he accounted himselfe a prettie +fayre Botaniste: and we went on thus, talking of the Herbs and Simples +in the Hedges; and I sayd how prettie some of theire Names were, and +that, methought, though Adam had named alle the Animals in Paradise, +perhaps Eve had named alle the Flowers. He lookt earnestlie at me, on +this, and muttered "prettie." Then _Dick_ askt of him News from +_London_, and he spoke, methought, reservedlie; ever and anon turning +his bright, thoughtfulle Eyes on me. At length, we parted at the Turn +of the Lane. + +I askt _Dick_ who he was, and he told me he was one Mr. _John Milton_, +the Party to whom _Father_ owed five hundred Pounds. He was the Sonne +of a _Buckinghamshire_ Gentleman, he added, well connected, and very +scholarlike, but affected towards the Parliament. His Grandsire, a +zealous Papiste, formerly lived in _Oxon_, and disinherited the Father +of this Gentleman for abjuring the _Romish_ Faith. + +When I found how faire a Gentleman was _Father's_ Creditor, I became +the more interested in deare _Mother's_ Successe. + + + +_May 13th, 1643_. + +_Dick_ began to harpe on another Ride to _Sheepscote_ this Morning, and +persuaded _Father_ to let him have the bay Mare, soe he and I started +at aboute Ten o' the Clock. Arrived at Master _Agnew's_ Doore, found +it open, no one in Parlour or Studdy; soe _Dick_ tooke the Horses +rounde, and then we went straite thro' the House, into the Garden +behind, which is on a rising Ground, with pleached Alleys and turfen +Walks, and a Peep of the Church through the Trees. A Lad tolde us his +Mistress was with the Bees, soe we walked towards the Hives; and, from +an Arbour hard by, hearde a Murmur, though not of Bees, issuing. In +this rusticall Bowre, found _Roger Agnew_ reading to _Rose_ and to Mr. +_Milton_. Thereupon ensued manie cheerfulle Salutations, and _Rose_ +proposed returning to the House, but Master _Agnew_ sayd it was +pleasanter in the Bowre, where was Room for alle; soe then _Rose_ +offered to take me to her Chamber to lay aside my Hoode, and promised +to send a Junkett into the Arbour; whereon Mr. _Agnew_ smiled at Mr. +_Milton_, and sayd somewhat of "neat-handed _Phillis_." + +As we went alonge, I tolde _Rose_ I had seene her Guest once before, +and thought him a comely, pleasant Gentleman. She laught, and sayd, +"Pleasant? why, he is one of the greatest Scholars of our Time, and +knows more Languages than you or I ever hearde of." I made Answer, +"That may be, and yet might not ensure his being pleasant, but rather +the contrary, for I cannot reade _Greeke_ and _Latin_, _Rose_, like +you." Quoth _Rose_, "But you can reade _English_, and he hath writ +some of the loveliest _English_ Verses you ever hearde, and hath +brought us a new Composure this Morning, which _Roger_, being his olde +College Friend, was discussing with him, to my greate Pleasure, when +you came. After we have eaten the Junkett, he shall beginne it again." +"By no Means," said I, "for I love Talking more than Reading." +However, it was not soe to be, for _Rose_ woulde not be foyled; and as +it woulde not have been good Manners to decline the Hearinge in +Presence of the Poet, I was constrayned to suppresse a secret Yawne, +and feign Attention, though, Truth to say, it soone wandered; and, +during the last halfe Hour, I sat in a compleat Dreame, tho' not +unpleasant one. _Roger_ having made an End, 'twas diverting to heare +him commending the Piece unto the Author, who as gravely accepted it; +yet, with nothing fullesome about the one, or misproud about the other. +Indeed, there was a sedate Sweetnesse in the Poet's Wordes as well as +Lookes; and shortlie, waiving the Discussion of his owne Composures, he +beganne to talke of those of other Men, as _Shakspeare, Spenser, +Cowley, Ben Jonson_, and of _Tasso_, and _Tasso's_ Friend the Marquis +of _Villa_, whome, it appeared, Mr. _Milton_ had Knowledge of in +_Italy_. Then he askt me, woulde I not willingly have seene the +Country of _Romeo_ and _Juliet_, and prest to know whether I loved +Poetry; but finding me loath to tell, sayd he doubted not I preferred +Romances, and that he had read manie, and loved them dearly too. I +sayd, I loved _Shakspeare's_ Plays better than _Sidney's_ Arcadia; on +which he cried "Righte," and drew nearer to me, and woulde have talked +at greater length; but, knowing from _Rose_ how learned he was, I +feared to shew him I was a sillie Foole; soe, like a sillie Foole, held +my Tongue. + +Dinner; Eggs, Bacon, roast Ribs of Lamb, Spinach, Potatoes, savoury +Pie, a _Brentford_ Pudding, and Cheesecakes. What a pretty Housewife +_Rose_ is! _Roger's_ plain Hospitalitie and scholarlie Discourse +appeared to much Advantage. He askt of News from Paris; and Mr. +_Milton_ spoke much of the _Swedish_ Ambassadour, _Dutch_ by Birth; a +Man renowned for his Learning, Magnanimity, and Misfortunes, of whome +he had seene much. He tolde _Rose_ and me how this Mister _Van der +Groote_ had beene unjustlie caste into Prison by his Countrymen; and +how his good Wife had shared his Captivitie, and had tried to get his +Sentence reversed; failing which, she contrived his Escape in a big +Chest, which she pretended to be full of heavie olde Bookes. Mr. +_Milton_ concluded with the Exclamation, "Indeede, there never was such +a Woman;" on which, deare _Roger_, whome I beginne to love, quoth, "Oh +yes, there are manie such,--we have two at Table now." Whereat, Mr. +_Milton_ smiled. + +At Leave-taking pressed Mr. _Agnew_ and _Rose_ to come and see us +soone; and _Dick_ askt Mr. _Milton_ to see the Bowling Greene. + +Ride Home, delightfulle. + + + +_May 14th, 1643_. + +Thought, when I woke this Morning, I had been dreaminge of St. _Paul_ +let down the Wall in a Basket; but founde, on more closely examining +the Matter, 'twas _Grotius_ carried down the Ladder in a Chest; and +methought I was his Wife, leaninge from the Window above, and crying to +the Souldiers, "Have a Care, have a Care!" 'Tis certayn I shoulde have +betraied him by an Over-anxietie. + +Resolved to give _Father_ a _Sheepscote_ Dinner, but _Margery_ affirmed +the Haunch woulde no longer keepe, so was forced to have it drest, +though meaninge to have kept it for Companie. Little _Kate_, who had +been out alle the Morning, came in with her Lap full of Butter-burs, +the which I was glad to see, as _Mother_ esteemes them a sovereign +Remedie 'gainst the Plague, which is like to be rife in _Oxford_ this +Summer, the Citie being so overcrowded on account of his Majestie. +While laying them out on the Stille-room Floor, in bursts _Robin_ to +say Mr. _Agnew_ and Mr. _Milton_ were with _Father_ at the Bowling +Greene, and woulde dine here. Soe was glad _Margery_ had put down the +Haunch. Twas past One o' the Clock, however, before it coulde be sett +on Table; and I had just run up to pin on my Carnation Knots, when I +hearde them alle come in discoursing merrilie. + +At Dinner Mr. _Milton_ askt _Robin_ of his Studdies; and I was in Payne +for the deare Boy, knowing him to be better affected to his out-doore +Recreations than to his Booke; but he answered boldlie he was in +_Ovid_, and I lookt in Mr. _Milton's_ Face to guesse was that goode +Scholarship or no; but he turned it towards my _Father_, and sayd he +was trying an Experiment on two young Nephews of his owne, whether the +reading those Authors that treate of physical Subjects mighte not +advantage them more than the Poets; whereat my _Father_ jested with +him, he being himselfe one of the Fraternitie he seemed to despise. +But he uphelde his Argumente so bravelie, that _Father_ listened in +earneste Silence. Meantime, the Cloth being drawne, and I in Feare of +remaining over long, was avised to withdrawe myself earlie, _Robin_ +following, and begging me to goe downe to the Fish-ponds. Afterwards +alle the others joyned us, and we sate on the Steps till the Sun went +down, when, the Horses being broughte round, our Guests tooke Leave +without returning to the House. _Father_ walked thoughtfullie Home +with me, leaning on my Shoulder, and spake little. + + + +_May 15th, 1643_. + +After writing the above last Night, in my Chamber, went to Bed and had +a most heavenlie Dreame. Methoughte it was brighte, brighte +Moonlighte, and I was walking with Mr. _Milton_ on a Terrace,--not +_our_ Terrace, but in some outlandish Place; and it had Flights and +Flights of green Marble Steps, descending, I cannot tell how farre, +with Stone Figures and Vases on every one. We went downe and downe +these Steps, till we came to a faire Piece of Water, still in the +Moonlighte; and then, methoughte, he woulde be taking Leave, and sayd +much aboute Absence and Sorrowe, as tho' we had knowne eache other some +Space; and alle that he sayd was delightfulle to heare. Of a suddain +we hearde Cries, as of Distresse, in a Wood that came quite down to the +Water's Edge, and Mr. _Milton_ sayd, "Hearken!" and then, "There is +some one being slaine in the Woode, I must goe to rescue him;" and soe, +drewe his Sword and ran off. Meanwhile, the Cries continued, but I did +not seeme to mind them much; and, looking stedfastlie downe into the +cleare Water, coulde see to an immeasurable Depth, and beheld, oh, +rare! Girls sitting on glistening Rocks, far downe beneathe, combing +and braiding their brighte Hair, and talking and laughing, onlie I +coulde not heare aboute what. And theire Kirtles were like spun Glass, +and theire Bracelets Coral and Pearl; and I thought it the fairest +Sight that Eyes coulde see. But, alle at once, the Cries in the Wood +affrighted them, for they started, looked upwards and alle aboute, and +began swimming thro' the cleare Water so fast, that it became troubled +and thick, and I coulde see them noe more. Then I was aware that the +Voices in the Wood were of _Dick_ and _Harry_, calling for _me_; and I +soughte to answer, "Here!" but my Tongue was heavie. Then I commenced +running towards them, through ever so manie greene Paths, in the Wood; +but still, we coulde never meet; and I began to see grinning Faces, +neither of Man nor Beaste, peeping at me through the Trees; and one and +another of them called me by Name; and in greate Feare and Paine I +awoke! + +. . . Strange Things are Dreames. Dear _Mother_ thinks much of them, +and sayth they oft portend coming Events. My _Father_ holdeth the +Opinion that they are rather made up of what hath alreadie come to +passe; but surelie naught like this Dreame of mine hath in anie Part +befallen me hithertoe? + +. . . What strange Fable or Masque were they reading that Day at +_Sheepscote_? I mind not. + + + +_May 20th, 1643_. + +Too much busied of late to write, though much hath happened which I +woulde fain remember. Dined at _Shotover_ yesterday. Met _Mother_, +who is coming Home in a Day or two; but helde short Speech with me +aside concerning Housewifery. The _Agnews_ there, of course: alsoe Mr. +_Milton_, whom we have seene continuallie, lately; and I know not how +it shoulde be, but he seemeth to like me. _Father_ affects him much, +but _Mother_ loveth him not. She hath seene little of him: perhaps the +less the better. _Ralph Hewlett_, as usuall, forward in his rough +endeavours to please; but, though no Scholar, I have yet Sense enough +to prefer Mr. _Milton's_ Discourse to his. . . . I wish I were fonder +of Studdy; but, since it cannot be, what need to vex? Some are born of +one Mind, some of another. _Rose_ was alwaies for her Booke; and, had +_Rose_ beene no Scholar, Mr. _Agnew_ woulde, may be, never have given +her a second Thoughte: but alle are not of the same Way of thinking. + +. . . A few Lines received from _Mother's_ "spoilt Boy," as _Father_ +hath called Brother _Bill_, ever since he went a soldiering. Blurred +and mis-spelt as they are, she will prize them. Trulie, we are none of +us grate hands at the Pen; 'tis well I make this my Copie-booke. + +. . . Oh, strange Event! Can this be Happinesse? Why, then, am I soe +feared, soe mazed, soe prone to weeping? I woulde that _Mother_ were +here. Lord have Mercie on me a sinfulle, sillie Girl, and guide my +Steps arighte. + +. . . It seemes like a Dreame, (I have done noughte but dreame of late, +I think,) my going along the matted Passage, and hearing Voices in my +_Father's_ Chamber, just as my Hand was on the Latch; and my +withdrawing my Hand, and going softlie away, though I never paused at +disturbing him before; and, after I had beene a full Houre in the +Stille Room, turning over ever soe manie Trays full of dried Herbs and +Flower-leaves, hearing him come forthe and call, "_Moll_, deare _Moll_, +where are you?" with I know not what of strange in the Tone of his +Voice; and my running to him hastilie, and his drawing me into his +Chamber, and closing the Doore. Then he takes me round the Waiste, and +remains quite silent awhile; I gazing on him so strangelie! and at +length, he says with a Kind of Sigh, "Thou art indeed but young yet! +scarce seventeen,--and fresh, as Mr. _Milton_ says, as the earlie May; +too tender, forsooth, to leave us yet, sweet Child! But what wilt say, +_Moll_, when I tell thee that a well-esteemed Gentleman, whom as yet +indeed I know too little of, hath craved of me Access to the House as +one that woulde win your Favour?" + +Thereupon, such a suddain Faintness of the Spiritts overtooke me, (a +Thing I am noe way subject to,) as that I fell down in a Swound at +_Father's_ Feet; and when I came to myselfe again, my Hands and Feet +seemed full of Prickles, and there was a Humming, as of _Rose's_ Bees, +in mine Ears. _Lettice_ and _Margery_ were tending of me, and _Father_ +watching me full of Care; but soe soone as he saw me open mine Eyes, he +bade the Maids stand aside, and sayd, stooping over me, "Enough, dear +_Moll_; we will talk noe more of this at present." "Onlie just tell +me," quoth I, in a Whisper, "who it is." "Guesse," sayd he. "I +cannot," I softlie replied, and, with the Lie, came such a Rush of +Blood to my Cheeks as betraied me. "I am sure you have though," sayd +deare _Father_, gravelie, "and I neede not say it is Mr. _Milton_, of +whome I know little more than you doe, and that is not enough. On the +other Hand, _Roger Agnew_ sayth that he is one of whome we can never +know too much, and there is somewhat about him which inclines me to +believe it." "What will _Mother_ say?" interrupted I. Thereat +_Father's_ Countenance changed; and he hastilie answered, "Whatever she +likes: I have an Answer for her, and a Question too;" and abruptlie +left me, bidding me keepe myselfe quiet. + +But can I? Oh, no! _Father_ hath sett a Stone rolling, unwitting of +its Course. It hath prostrated me in the first Instance, and will, I +misdoubt, hurt my _Mother_. _Father_ is bold enow in her Absence, but +when she comes back will leave me to face her Anger alone; or else, +make such a Stir to shew that he is not governed by a Woman, as wille +make Things worse. Meanwhile, how woulde I have them? Am I most +pleased or payned? dismayed or flattered? Indeed, I know not. + +. . . I am soe sorry to have swooned. Needed I have done it, merelie +to heare there was one who soughte my Favour? Aye, but one soe wise! +so thoughtfulle! so unlike me! + + + +Bedtime: same Daye. + +. . . Who knoweth what a Daye will bring forth? After writing the +above, I sate like one stupid, ruminating on I know not what, except on +the Unlikelihood that one soe wise woulde trouble himselfe to _seeke_ +for aught and yet fail to _win_. After abiding a long Space in mine +owne Chamber, alle below seeming still, I began to wonder shoulde we +dine alone or not, and to have a hundred hot and cold Fitts of Hope and +Feare. Thought I, if Mr. _Milton_ comes, assuredlie I cannot goe down; +but yet I must; but yet I will not; but yet the best will be to conduct +myselfe as though nothing had happened; and, as he seems to have left +the House long ago, maybe he hath returned to _Sheepscote_, or even to +_London_. Oh that _London_! Shall I indeede ever see it? and the rare +Shops, and the Play-houses, and _Paul's_, and the _Towre_? But what +and if that ever comes to pass? Must I leave Home? dear _Forest Hill_? +and _Father_ and _Mother_, and the Boys? more especiallie _Robin_? Ah! +but _Father_ will give me a long Time to think of it. He will, and +must. + +Then Dinner-time came; and, with Dinner-time, Uncle _Hewlett_ and +_Ralph_, Squire _Paice_ and Mr. _Milton_. We had a huge Sirloin, soe +no Feare of short Commons. I was not ill pleased to see soe manie: it +gave me an Excuse for holding my Peace, but I coulde have wished for +another Woman. However, _Father_ never thinks of that, and _Mother_ +will soone be Home. After Dinner the elder Men went to the +Bowling-greene with _Dick_ and _Ralph_; the Boys to the Fish-ponds; +and, or ever I was aware, Mr. _Milton_ was walking with me on the +Terrace. My Dreame came soe forcibly to Mind, that my Heart seemed to +leap into my Mouth; but he kept away from the Fish-ponds, and from +Leave-taking, and from his morning Discourse with my _Father_,--at +least for awhile; but some Way he got round to it, and sayd soe much, +and soe well, that, after alle my _Father's_ bidding me keepe quiete +and take my Time, and mine owne Resolution to think much and long, he +never rested till he had changed the whole Appearance of Things, and +made me promise to be his, wholly and trulie.--And oh! I feare I have +been too quickly wonne! + + + +_May 23d, 1643_. + +_May 23d_. At leaste, so sayeth the Calendar; but with me it hath +beene trulie an _April_ Daye, alle Smiles and Teares. And now my +Spiritts are soe perturbed and dismaid, as that I know not whether to +weepe or no, for methinks crying would relieve me. At first waking +this Morning my Mind was elated at the Falsitie of my _Mother's_ +Notion, that no Man of Sense woulde think me worth the having; and soe +I got up too proude, I think, and came down too vain, for I had spent +an unusuall Time at the Glasse. My Spiritts, alsoe, were soe unequall, +that the Boys took Notice of it, and it seemed as though I coulde +breathe nowhere but out of Doors; so the Children and I had a rare Game +of Play in the Home-close; but ever and anon I kept looking towards the +Road and listening for Horses' Feet, till _Robin_ sayd, "One would +think the King was coming:" but at last came Mr. _Milton_, quite +another Way, walking through the Fields with huge Strides. _Kate_ saw +him firste, and tolde me; and then sayd, "What makes you look soe pale?" + +We sate a good Space under the Hawthorn Hedge on the Brow of the Hill, +listening to the Mower's Scythe, and the Song of Birds, which seemed +enough for him, without talking; and as he spake not, I helde my Peace, +till, with the Sun in my Eyes, I was like to drop asleep; which, as his +own Face was _from_ me, and towards the Landskip, he noted not. I was +just aiming, for Mirthe's Sake, to steale away, when he suddainlie +turned about and fell to speaking of rurall Life, Happinesse, Heaven, +and such like, in a Kind of Rapture; then, with his Elbow half raising +him from the Grass, lay looking at me; then commenced humming or +singing I know not what Strayn, but 'twas of '_begli Occhi_' and +'_Chioma aurata_;' and he kept smiling the while he sang. + +After a time we went In-doors; and then came my firste Pang: for +_Father_ founde out how I had pledged myselfe overnighte; and for a +Moment looked soe grave, that my Heart misgave me for having beene soe +hastie. However, it soone passed off; deare _Father's_ Countenance +cleared, and he even seemed merrie at Table; and soon after Dinner alle +the Party dispersed save Mr. _Milton_, who loitered with me on the +Terrace. After a short Silence he exclaimed, "How good is our God to +us in alle his Gifts! For Instance, in this Gift of _Love_, whereby +had he withdrawn from visible Nature a thousand of its glorious +Features and gay Colourings, we shoulde stille possess, _from within_, +the Means of throwing over her clouded Face an entirelie different Hue! +while as it is, what was pleasing before now pleaseth more than ever! +Is it not soe, sweet _Moll_? May I express thy Feelings as well as +mine own, unblamed? or am I too adventurous? You are silent; well, +then, let me believe that we think alike, and that the Emotions of the +few laste Hours have given such an Impulse to alle that is high, and +sweete, and deepe, and pure, and holy in our innermoste Hearts, as that +we seeme now onlie firste to taste the _Life of Life_, and to perceive +how much nearer Earth is to Heaven than we thought! Is it soe? Is it +not soe?" and I was constrayned to say, "Yes," at I scarcelie knew +what; grudginglie too, for I feared having once alreadie sayd "Yes" too +soone. But he saw nought amisse, for he was expecting nought amisse; +soe went on, most like Truth and Love that Lookes could speake or Words +founde: "Oh, I know it, I feel it:--henceforthe there is a Life +reserved for us in which Angels may sympathize. For this most +excellent Gift of Love shall enable us to read together the whole Booke +of Sanctity and Virtue, and emulate eache other in carrying it into +Practice; and as the wise _Magians_ kept theire Eyes steadfastlie fixed +on the Star, and followed it righte on, through rough and smoothe, soe +we, with this bright Beacon, which indeed is set on Fire of Heaven, +shall pass on through the peacefull Studdies, surmounted Adversities, +and victorious Agonies of Life, ever looking steadfastlie up!" + +Alle this, and much more, as tedious to heare as to write, did I listen +to, firste with flagging Attention, next with concealed +Wearinesse;--and as Wearinesse, if indulged, never _is_ long concealed, +it soe chanced, by Ill-luck, that Mr. _Milton_, suddainlie turning his +Eyes from Heaven upon poor me, caughte, I can scarcelie expresse how +slighte, an Indication of Discomforte in my Face; and instantlie a +Cloud crossed his owne, though as thin as that through which the Sun +shines while it floats over him. Oh, 'twas not of a Moment! and yet +_in that Moment_ we seemed eache to have seene the other, though but at +a Glance, under new Circumstances:--as though two Persons at a +Masquerade had just removed their Masques and put them on agayn. This +gave me my seconde Pang:--I felt I had given him Payn; and though he +made as though he forgot it directly, and I tooke Payns to make him +forget it, I coulde never be quite sure whether he had. + +. . . My Spiritts were soe dashed by this, and by learning his Age to +be soe much more than I had deemed it, (for he is thirty-five! who +coulde have thoughte it?) that I had, thenceforthe, the Aire of being +much more discreete and pensive than belongeth to my Nature; whereby he +was, perhaps, well pleased. As I became more grave he became more gay; +soe that we met eache other, as it were, half-way, and became righte +pleasant. If his Countenance were comely before, it is quite heavenlie +now; and yet I question whether my Love increaseth as rapidlie as my +Feare. Surelie my Folly will prove as distastefull to him, as his +overmuch Wisdom to me. The Dread of it hath alarmed me alreadie. What +has become, even now, of alle my gay Visions of Marriage, and _London_, +and the Play-houses, and the _Touire_? They have faded away thus +earlie, and in their Place comes a Foreboding of I can scarce say what. +I am as if a Child, receiving frome some olde Fairy the Gift of what +seemed a fayre Doll's House, shoulde hastilie open the Doore thereof, +and starte back at beholding nought within but a huge Cavern, deepe, +high, and vaste; in parte glittering with glorious Chrystals, and the +Rest hidden in obscure Darknesse. + + + +_May 24th, 1643_. + +Deare _Rose_ came this Morning. I flew forthe to welcome her, and as I +drew near, she lookt upon me with such a Kind of Awe as that I could +not forbeare laughing. Mr. _Milton_ having slept at _Sheepscote_, had +made her privy to our Engagement; for indeede, he and Mr. _Agnew_ are +such Friends, he will keep nothing from him. Thus _Rose_ heares it +before my owne Mother, which shoulde not be. When we had entered my +Chamber, she embraced me once and agayn, and seemed to think soe much +of my uncommon Fortune, that I beganne to think more of it myselfe. To +heare her talke of Mr. _Milton_ one would have supposed her more in +Love with him than I. Like a Bookworm as she is, she fell to praysing +his Composures. "Oh, the leaste I care for in him is his Versing," +quoth I; and from that Moment a Spiritt of Mischief tooke Possession of +me, to do a thousand heedlesse, ridiculous Things throughoute the Day, +to shew _Rose_ how little I set by the Opinion of soe wise a Man. Once +or twice Mr. _Milton_ lookt earnestlie and questioninglie at me, but I +heeded him not. + +. . . Discourse at Table graver and less pleasant, methoughte, than +heretofore. Mr. _Busire_ having dropt in, was avised to ask Mr. +_Milton_ why, having had an university Education, he had not entered +the Church. He replied, drylie enough, because he woulde not subscribe +himselfe _Slave_ to anie Formularies of Men's making. I saw _Father_ +bite his Lip; and _Roger Agnew_ mildly observed, he thought him wrong; +for that it was not for an Individual to make Rules for another +Individual, but yet that the generall Voice of the Wise and Good, +removed from the pettie Prejudices of private Feeling, mighte pronounce +authoritativelie wherein an Individual was righte or wrong, and frame +Laws to keepe him in the righte Path. Mr. _Milton_ replyed, that manie +Fallibles could no more make up an Infallible than manie Finites could +make an Infinite. Mr. _Agnew_ rejoyned, that ne'erthelesse, an +Individual who opposed himselfe agaynst the generall Current of the +Wise and Good, was, leaste of alle, likelie to be in the Right; and +that the Limitations of human Intellect which made the Judgment of +manie wise Men liable to Question, certainlie made the Judgment of +_anie_ wise Man, self-dependent, more questionable still. Mr. _Milton_ +shortlie replied that there were Particulars in the required Oaths +which made him unable to take them without Perjurie. And soe, an End: +but 'twas worth a World to see _Rose_ looking soe anxiouslie from the +one Speaker to the other, desirous that eache should be victorious; and +I was sorry that it lasted not a little longer. + +As _Rose_ and I tooke our Way to the Summer-house, she put her Arm +round me, saying, "How charming is divine Philosophie!" I coulde not +helpe asking if she did not meane how charming was the Philosophie of +one particular Divine? Soe then she discoursed with me of Things more +seemlie for Women than Philosophie or Divinitie either. Onlie, when +Mr. _Agnew_ and Mr. _Milton_ joyned us, she woulde aske them to repeat +one Piece of Poetry after another, beginning with _Carew's_-- + + "He who loves a rosie Cheeke, + Or a coral Lip admires,--" + +And crying at the End of eache, "Is not that lovely? Is not that +divine?" I franklie sayd I liked none of them soe much as some Mr. +_Agnew_ had recited, concluding with-- + + "Mortals that would, follow me, + Love Virtue: she alone is free." + +Whereon Mr. _Milton_ surprised me with a suddain Kiss, to the +immoderate Mirthe of _Rose_, who sayd I coulde not have looked more +discomposed had he pretended he was the Author of those Verses. I +afterwards found he _was_; but I think she laught more than there was +neede. + +We have ever been considered a sufficientlie religious Familie: that +is, we goe regularly to Church on Sabbaths and Prayer-dayes, and keepe +alle the Fasts and Festivalles. But Mr. _Milton's_ Devotion hath +attayned a Pitch I can neither imitate nor even comprehende. The +spirituall World seemeth to him not onlie reall, but I may almoste say +visible. For instance, he told _Rose_, it appears, that on _Tuesday_ +Nighte, (that is the same Evening I had promised to be his,) as he went +homewards to his Farm-lodging, he fancied the Angels whisperinge in his +Eares, and singing over his Head, and that instead of going to his Bed +like a reasonable Being, he lay down on the Grass, and gazed on the +sweete, pale Moon till she sett, and then on the bright Starres till he +seemed to see them moving in a slowe, solemn Dance, to the Words, "_How +glorious is our God!_" And alle about him, he said, he _knew_, tho' he +coulde not see them, were spirituall Beings repairing the Ravages of +the Day on the Flowers, amonge the Trees, and Grasse, and Hedges; and +he believed 'twas onlie the Filme that originall Sin had spread over +his Eyes, that prevented his seeing them. I am thankful for this same +Filme,--I cannot abide Fairies, and Witches, and Ghosts--ugh! I +shudder even to write of them; and were it onlie of the more harmlesse +Sort, one woulde never have the Comforte of thinkinge to be alone. I +feare Churchyardes and dark Corners of alle Kinds; more especiallie +Spiritts; and there is onlie one I would even wish to see at my +bravest, when deepe Love casteth out Feare; and that is of Sister +_Anne_, whome I never associate with the Worme and Winding-sheete. Oh +no! I think _she_, at leaste, dwells amonge the Starres, having sprung +straite up into Lighte and Blisse the Moment she put off Mortalitie; +and if she, why not others? Are _Adam_ and _Abraham_ alle these Yeares +in the unconscious Tomb? Theire Bodies, but surelie not their +Spiritts? else, why dothe _Christ_ speak of _Lazarus_ lying in +_Abraham's_ Bosom, while the Brothers of _Dives_ are yet riotouslie +living? Yet what becomes of the Daye of generall Judgment, if some be +thus pre-judged? I must aske Mr. _Milton,--_yes, I thinke I can finde +it in my Heart to aske him about this in some solemn, stille Hour, and +perhaps he will sett at Rest manie Doubts and Misgivings that at +sundrie Times trouble me; being soe wise a Man. + + + +_Bedtime_. + +. . . Glad to steale away from the noisie Companie in the Supper-roome, +(comprising some of _Father's_ Fellow-magistrates,) I went down with +_Robin_ and _Kate_ to the Fish-ponds; it was scarce Sunset: and there, +while we threw Crumbs to the Fish and watched them come to the Surface, +were followed, or ever we were aware, by Mr. _Milton_, who sate down on +the stone Seat, drew _Robin_ between his Knees, stroked his Haire, and +askt what we were talking about. _Robin_ sayd I had beene telling them +a fairie Story; and Mr. _Milton_ observed that was an infinite +Improvement on the jangling, puzzle-headed Prating of Country Justices, +and wished I woulde tell it agayn. But I was afrayd. But _Robin_ had +no Feares; soe tolde the Tale roundlie; onlie he forgot the End. Soe +he found his Way backe to the Middle, and seemed likelie to make it +last alle Night; onlie Mr. _Milton_ sayd he seemed to have got into the +Labyrinth of _Crete_, and he must for Pitie's Sake give him the Clew. +Soe he finished _Robin's_ Story, and then tolde another, a most lovelie +one, of Ladies, and Princes, and Enchanters, and a brazen Horse, and he +sayd the End of _that_ Tale had been cut off too, by Reason the Writer +had died before he finished it. But _Robin_ cryed, "Oh! finish this +too," and hugged and kist him; soe he did; and methoughte the End was +better than the Beginninge. Then he sayd, "Now, sweet _Moll_, you have +onlie spoken this Hour past, by your Eyes; and we must heare your +pleasant Voice." "An Hour?" cries _Robin_. "Where are alle the red +Clouds gone, then?" quoth Mr. _Milton_, "and what Business hathe the +Moon yonder?" "Then we must go Indoors," quoth I. But they cried +"No," and _Robin_ helde me fast, and Mr. Milton sayd I might know even +by the distant Sounds of ill-governed Merriment that we were winding up +the Week's Accounts of Joy and Care more consistentlie where we were +than we coulde doe in the House. And indeede just then I hearde my +_Father's_ Voice swelling a noisie Chorus; and hoping Mr. _Milton_ did +not distinguish it, I askt him if he loved Musick. He answered, soe +much that it was Miserie for him to hear anie that was not of the +beste. I secretlie resolved he should never heare mine. He added, he +was come of a musicalle Familie, and that his Father not onlie sang +well, but played finely on the Viol and Organ. Then he spake of the +sweet Musick in _Italy_, until I longed to be there; but I tolde him +nothing in its Way ever pleased me more than to heare the Choristers of +_Magdalen_ College usher in _May_ Day by chaunting a Hymn at the Top of +the Church Towre. Discoursing of this and that, we thus sate a good +While ere we returned to the House. + +. . . Coming out of Church he woulde shun the common Field, where the +Villagery led up theire Sports, saying, he deemed Quoit-playing and the +like to be unsuitable Recreations on a Daye whereupon the _Lord_ had +restricted us from speakinge our own Words, and thinking our own (that +is, secular) Thoughts: and that he believed the Law of _God_ in this +Particular woulde soone be the Law of the Land, for Parliament woulde +shortlie put down _Sunday_ Sports. I askt, "What, the _King's_ +Parliament at _Oxford_?" He answered, "No; _the Country's_ Parliament +at _Westminster_." I sayd, I was sorrie, for manie poore hard-working +Men had no other Holiday. He sayd, another Holiday woulde be given +them; and that whether or no, we must not connive at Evil, which we doe +in permitting an _holy Daye_ to sink into a Holiday. I sayd, but was +it not the _Jewish_ Law, which had made such Restrictions? He sayd, +yes, but that _Christ_ came not to destroy the moral Law, of which +Sabbath-keeping was a Part, and that even its naturall Fitnesse for the +bodily Welfare of Man and Beast was such as no wise Legislator would +abolish or abuse it, even had he no Consideration for our spiritual and +immortal Part: and that 'twas a well-known Fact that Beasts of Burthen, +which had not one Daye of Rest in seven, did lesse Worke in the End. +As for oure Soules, he sayd, they required theire spiritual Meales as +much as our Bodies required theires; and even poore, rusticall Clownes +who coulde not reade, mighte nourish their better Parts by an holie +Pause, and by looking within them, and around them, and above them. I +felt inclined to tell him that long Sermons alwaies seemed to make me +love _God_ less insteade of more, but woulde not, fearing he mighte +take it that I meant _he_ had been giving me one. + + + +_Monday_. + +_Mother_ hath returned! The Moment I hearde her Voice I fell to +trembling. At the same Moment I hearde _Robin_ cry, "Oh, _Mother_, I +have broken the greene Beaker!" which betraied Apprehension in another +Quarter. However, she quite mildlie replied, "Ah, I knew the Handle +was loose," and then kist me with soe great Affection that I felt quite +easie. She had beene withhelde by a troublesome Colde from returning +at the appointed Time, and cared not to write. 'Twas just Supper-time, +and there were the Children to kiss and to give theire Bread and Milk, +and _Bill's_ Letter to reade; soe that nothing particular was sayd till +the younger Ones were gone to Bed, and _Father_ and _Mother_ were +taking some Wine and Toast. Then says _Father_, "Well, Wife, have you +got the five hundred Pounds?" "No," she answers, rather carelesslie. +"I tolde you how 'twoulde be," says _Father_; "you mighte as well have +stayed at Home." "Really, Mr. _Powell,"_ says _Mother_, "soe seldom as +I stir from my owne Chimney-corner, you neede not to grudge me, I +think, a few Dayes among our mutuall Relatives." "I shall goe to +Gaol," says _Father_. "Nonsense," says _Mother_; "to Gaol indeed!" +"Well, then, who is to keepe me from it?" says _Father_, laughing. "I +will answer for it, Mr. _Milton_ will wait a little longer for his +Money," says _Mother_, "he is an honourable Man, I suppose." "I wish +he may thinke me one," says _Father_; "and as to a little longer, what +is the goode of waiting for what is as unlikelie to come eventuallie as +now?" "You must answer that for yourselfe," says _Mother_, looking +wearie: "I have done what I can, and can doe no more." "Well, then, +'tis lucky Matters stand as they do," says _Father_. "Mr. _Milton_ has +been much here in your Absence, my Dear, and has taken a Liking to our +_Moll_; soe, believing him, as you say, to be an honourable Man, I have +promised he shall have her." "Nonsense," cries _Mother_, turning red +and then pale. "Never farther from Nonsense," says _Father_, "for 'tis +to be, and by the Ende of the Month too." "You are bantering me, Mr. +_Powell_," says _Mother_. "How can you suppose soe, my Deare?" says +_Father_, "you doe me Injustice." "Why, _Moll_!" cries _Mother_, +turning sharplie towards me, as I sate mute and fearfulle, "what is +alle this, Child? You cannot, you dare not think of wedding this +round-headed Puritan." "Not round-headed," sayd I, trembling; "his +Haire is as long and curled as mine." "Don't bandy Words with me, +Girl," says _Mother_ passionatelie, "see how unfit you are to have a +House of your owne, who cannot be left in Charge of your _Father's_ for +a Fortnighte, without falling into Mischiefe!" "I won't have _Moll_ +chidden in that Way," says _Father_, "she has fallen into noe +Mischiefe, and has beene a discreete and dutifull Child." "Then it has +beene alle your doing," says _Mother_, "and you have forced the Child +into this Match." "Noe Forcing whatever," says _Father_, "they like +one another, and I am very glad of it, for it happens to be very +convenient." "Convenient, indeed," repeats _Mother_, and falls a +weeping. Thereon I must needs weepe too, but she says, "Begone to Bed; +there is noe Neede that you shoulde sit by to heare your owne _Father_ +confesse what a Fool he has beene." + +To my Bedroom I have come, but cannot yet seek my Bed; the more as I +still heare theire Voices in Contention below. + + + +_Tuesday_. + +This Morninge's Breakfaste was moste uncomfortable, I feeling like a +checkt Child, scarce minding to looke up or to eat. _Mother_, with +Eyes red and swollen, scarce speaking save to the Children; _Father_ +directing his Discourse chieflie to _Dick_, concerning Farm Matters and +the Rangership of _Shotover_, tho' 'twas easie to see his Mind was not +with them. Soe soone as alle had dispersed to theire customed Taskes, +and I was loitering at the Window, _Father_ calls aloud to me from his +Studdy. Thither I go, and find him and _Mother_, she sitting with her +Back to both. "_Moll_," says _Father_, with great Determination, "you +have accepted Mr. _Milton_ to please yourself, you will marry him out +of hand to please me." "Spare me, spare me, Mr. _Powell_," interrupts +_Mother_, "if the Engagement may not be broken off, at the least +precipitate it not with this indecent haste. Postpone it till----" +"Till when?" says _Father_. "Till the Child is olde enough to know her +owne Mind." "That is, to put off an honourable Man on false +Pretences," says _Father_, "she is olde enough to know it alreadie. +Speake, _Moll_, are you of your _Mother's_ Mind to give up Mr. _Milton_ +altogether?" I trembled, but sayd, "No." "Then, as his Time is +precious, and he knows not when he may leave his Home agayn, I save you +the Trouble, Child, of naming a Day, for it shall be the _Monday_ +before _Whitsuntide_." Thereat _Mother_ gave a Kind of Groan; but as +for me, I had like to have fallen on the Ground, for I had had noe +Thought of suche Haste. "See what you are doing, Mr. _Powell_," says +_Mother_, compassionating me, and raising me up, though somewhat +roughlie; "I prophecie Evil of this Match." "Prophets of Evil are sure +to find Listeners," says _Father_, "but I am not one of them;" and soe +left the Room. Thereon my _Mother_, who alwaies feares him when he has +a Fit of Determination, loosed the Bounds of her Passion, and chid me +so unkindlie, that, humbled and mortified, I was glad to seeke my +Chamber. + +. . . Entering the Dining-room, however, I uttered a Shriek on seeing +_Father_ fallen back in his Chair, as though in a Fit, like unto that +which terrified us a Year ago; and _Mother_ hearing me call out, ran +in, loosed his Collar, and soone broughte him to himselfe, tho' not +without much Alarm to alle. He made light of it himselfe, and sayd +'twas merelie a suddain Rush of Blood to the Head, and woulde not be +dissuaded from going out; but _Mother_ was playnly smote at the Heart, +and having lookt after him with some anxietie, exclaimed, "I shall +neither meddle nor make more in this Businesse: your _Father's_ suddain +Seizures shall never be layd at my Doore;" and soe left me, till we met +at Dinner. After the Cloth was drawne, enters Mr. _Milton_, who goes +up to _Mother_, and with Gracefulnesse kisses her Hand; but she +withdrewe it pettishly, and tooke up her Sewing, on the which he lookt +at her wonderingly, and then at me; then at her agayne, as though he +woulde reade her whole Character in her Face; which having seemed to +doe, and to write the same in some private Page of his Heart, he never +troubled her or himself with further Comment, but tooke up Matters just +where he had left them last. Ere we parted we had some private +Conference touching our Marriage, for hastening which he had soe much +to say that I coulde not long contend with him, especiallie as I founde +he had plainlie made out that _Mother_ loved him not. + + + +_Wednesday_. + +House full of Companie, leaving noe Time to write nor think. _Mother_ +sayth, tho' she cannot forbode an happie Marriage, she will provide for +a merrie Wedding, and hathe growne more than commonlie tender to me, +and given me some Trinkets, a Piece of fine _Holland_ Cloth, and +enoughe of green Sattin for a Gown, that will stand on End with its +owne Richnesse. She hathe me constantlie with her in the Kitchen, +Pastrie, and Store-room, telling me 'tis needfulle I shoulde improve in +Housewiferie, seeing I shall soe soone have a Home of my owne. + +But I think _Mother_ knows not, and I am afeard to tell her, that Mr. +_Milton_ hath no House of his owne to carry me to, but onlie Lodgings, +which have well suited his Bachelor State, but may not, 'tis likelie, +beseeme a Lady to live in. He deems so himself, and sayeth we will +look out for an hired House together, at our Leisure. Alle this he +hath sayd to me in an Undertone, in _Mother's_ Presence, she sewing at +the Table and we sitting in the Window; and 'tis difficult to tell how +much she hears, she for will aske no Questions, and make noe Comments, +onlie compresses her Lips, which makes me think she knows. + +The Children are in turbulent Spiritts; but _Robin_ hath done nought +but mope and make Moan since he learnt he must soe soone lose me. A +Thought hath struck me,--Mr. _Milton_ educates his Sister's Sons; two +Lads of about _Robin's_ Age. What if he woulde consent to take my +Brother under his Charge? perhaps _Father_ woulde be willing. + + + +_Saturday_. + +Last Visitt to _Sheepscote,--_at leaste, as _Mary Powell_; but kind +_Rose_ and _Roger Agnew_ will give us the Use of it for a Week on our +Marriage, and spend the Time with dear _Father_ and _Mother_, who will +neede their Kindnesse. _Rose_ and I walked long aboute the Garden, her +Arm round my Neck; and she was avised to say, + + "Cloth of Frieze, be not too bold, + Tho' thou be matcht with Cloth of Gold,--" + +And then craved my Pardon for soe unmannerly a Rhyme, which indeede, +methoughte, needed an Excuse, but exprest a Feare that I knew not (what +she called) my high Destiny, and prayed me not to trifle with Mr. +_Milton's_ Feelings nor in his Sighte, as I had done the Daye she dined +at _Forest Hill_. I laught, and sayd, he must take me as he found me: +he was going to marry _Mary Powell_, not the _Wise Widow of Tekoah_. +_Rose_ lookt wistfullie, but I bade her take Heart, for I doubted not +we shoulde content eache the other; and for the Rest, her Advice +shoulde not be forgotten. Thereat, she was pacyfied. + + + +_May 22d, 1643_. + +Alle Bustle and Confusion,--slaying of Poultrie, making of Pastrie, +etc. People coming and going, prest to dine and to sup, and refuse, +and then stay, the colde Meats and Wines ever on the Table; and in the +Evening, the Rebecks and Recorders sent for that we may dance in the +Hall. My Spiritts have been most unequall; and this Evening I was +overtaken with a suddain Faintnesse, such as I never but once before +experienced. They would let me dance no more; and I was quite tired +enoughe to be glad to sit aparte with Mr. _Milton_ neare the Doore, +with the Moon shining on us; untill at length he drew me out into the +Garden. He spake of Happinesse and Home, and Hearts knit in Love, and +of heavenlie Espousals, and of Man being the Head of the Woman, and of +our _Lord's_ Marriage with the Church, and of white Robes, and the +Bridegroom coming in Clouds of Glory, and of the Voices of singing Men +and singing Women, and eternall Spring, and eternall Blisse, and much +that I cannot call to Mind, and other-much that I coulde not +comprehende, but which was in mine ears as the Song of Birds, or +Falling of Waters. + + + +_May 23d, 1643_. + + +_Rose_ hath come, and hath kindlie offered to help pack the Trunks, +(which are to be sent off by the Waggon to _London_,) that I may have +the more Time to devote to Mr. _Milton_. Nay, but he will soon have +all my Time devoted to himself, and I would as lief spend what little +remains in mine accustomed Haunts, after mine accustomed Fashion. I +had purposed a Ride on _Clover_ this Morning, with _Robin_; but the +poor Boy must I trow be disappointed. + +----And for what? Oh me! I have hearde such a long Sermon on +Marriage-duty and Service, that I am faine to sit down and weepe. But +no, I must not, for they are waiting for me in the Hall, and the Guests +are come and the Musick is tuning, and my Lookes must not betray +me.--And now farewell, _Journall_; for _Rose_, who first bade me keepe +you (little deeming after what Fashion), will not pack you up, and I +will not close you with a heavie Strayn. _Robin_ is calling me beneath +the Window,--_Father_ is sitting in the Shade, under the old Pear-tree, +seemingly in gay Discourse with Mr. _Milton_. To-morrow the +Village-bells will ring for the Marriage of + +MARY POWELL. + + + +_London, + Mr. Russell's, Taylor, + Bride's Churchyard_. + +Oh Heaven! is this my new Home? my Heart sinkes alreadie. After the +swete fresh Ayre of _Sheepscote_, and the Cleanliness, and the Quiet +and the pleasant Smells, Sightes, and Soundes, alle whereof Mr. +_Milton_ enjoyed to the Full as keenlie as I, saying they minded him of +_Paradise,--_how woulde _Rose_ pitie me, could she view me in this +close Chamber, the Floor whereof of dark, uneven Boards, must have +beene layd, methinks, three hundred Years ago; the oaken Pannells, +utterlie destitute of Polish and with sundrie Chinks; the Bed with dull +brown Hangings, lined with as dull a greene, occupying Half the Space; +and Half the Remainder being filled with dustie Books, whereof there +are Store alsoe in every other Place. This Mirror, I should thinke, +belonged to faire _Rosamond_. And this Arm-chair to King _Lew_. Over +the Chimnie hangs a ruefull Portrait,--maybe of _Grotius_, but I +shoulde sooner deeme it of some Worthie before the Flood. Onlie one +Quarter of the Casement will open, and that upon a Prospect, oh +dolefulle! of the Churchyarde! Mr. _Milton_ had need be as blythe as +he was all the Time we were at _Sheepscote_, or I shall be buried in +that same Churchyarde within the Twelvemonth. 'Tis well he has stepped +out to see a Friend, that I may in his Absence get ridd of this Fit of +the Dismalls. I wish it may be the last. What would _Mother_ say to +his bringing me to such a Home as this? I will not think. Soe this is +_London_! How diverse from the "towred Citie" of my Husband's versing! +and of his Prose too; for as he spake, by the way, of the Disorders of +our Time, which extend even into eache domestick Circle, he sayd that +alle must, for a While, appear confused to our imperfect View, just as +a mightie Citie unto a Stranger who shoulde beholde around him huge, +unfinished Fabrics, the Plan whereof he could but imperfectlie make +out, amid the Builders' disorderlie Apparatus; but that, _from afar_, +we mighte perceive glorious Results from party Contentions,--Freedom +springing up from Oppression, Intelligence succeeding Ignorance, Order +following Disorder, just as that same Traveller looking at the Citie +from a distant Height, should beholde Towres, and Spires glistering +with Gold and Marble, Streets stretching in lessening Perspectives, and +Bridges flinging their white Arches over noble Rivers. But what of +this saw we all along the _Oxford_ Road? Firstlie, there was noe +commanding Height; second, there was the Citie obscured by a drizzling +Rain; the Ways were foul, the Faces of those we mett spake less of +Pleasure than Business, and Bells were tolling, but none ringing. Mr. +_Milton's_ Father, a grey-haired, kind old Man, was here to give us +welcome: and his firste Words were, "Why, _John_, thou hast stolen a +March on us. Soe quickly, too, and soe snug! but she is faire enoughe, +Man, to excuse thee, Royalist or noe." + +And soe, taking me in his Arms, kist me franklie.--But I heare my +Husband's Voice, and another with it. + + + +_Thursday_. + +'Twas a Mr. _Lawrence_ whom my Husband brought Home last Nighte to sup; +and the Evening passed righte pleasantlie, with News, Jestes, and a +little Musicke. Todaye hath been kindlie devoted by Mr. _Milton_ to +shewing me Sights:--and oh! the strange, diverting Cries in the +Streets, even from earlie Dawn! "New Milk and Curds from the +Dairie!"--"Olde Shoes for some Brooms!"--"Anie Kitchen-stuffe, have +you, Maids?"--"Come buy my greene Herbes!"--and then in the Streets, +here a Man preaching, there another juggling: here a Boy with an Ape, +there a Show of _Nineveh_: next the News from the North; and as for the +China Shops and Drapers in the _Strand_, and the Cook's Shops in +_Westminster_, with the smoking Ribs of Beef and fresh Salads set out +on Tables in the Street, and Men in white Aprons crying out, "Calf's +Liver, Tripe, and hot Sheep's Feet"--'twas enoughe to make One +untimelie hungrie,--or take One's Appetite away, as the Case might be. +Mr. _Milton_ shewed me the noble Minster, with King _Harry_ Seventh's +Chapel adjoining; and pointed out the old House where _Ben Jonson_ +died. Neare the _Broade Sanctuarie_, we fell in with a slighte, +dark-complexioned young Gentleman of two or three and twenty, whome my +Husband espying cryed, "What, _Marvell_!" the other comically +answering, "What Marvel?" and then, handsomlie saluting me and +complimenting Mr. _Milton_, much lighte and pleasant Discourse ensued; +and finding we were aboute to take Boat, he volunteered to goe with us +on the River. After manie Hours' Exercise, I have come Home fatigued, +yet well pleased. Mr. _Marvell_ sups with us. + + + +_Friday_. + +I wish I could note down a Tithe of the pleasant Things that were sayd +last Nighte. First, olde Mr. _Milton_ having slept out with his +Son,--I called in _Rachael_, the younger of Mr. _Russel's_ +Serving-maids, (for we have none of our owne as yet, which tends to +much Discomfiture,) and, with her Aide, I dusted the Bookes and sett +them up in half the Space they had occupied; then cleared away three +large Basketfuls, of the absolutest Rubbish, torn Letters and the like, +and sent out for Flowers, (which it seemeth strange enoughe to me to +_buy_,) which gave the Chamber a gayer Aire, and soe my Husband sayd +when he came in, calling me the fayrest of them alle; and then, sitting +down with Gayety to the Organ, drew forthe from it heavenlie Sounds. +Afterwards Mr. _Marvell_ came in, and they discoursed about _Italy_, +and Mr. _Milton_ promised his Friend some Letters of Introduction to +_Jacopo Gaddi, Clementillo_, and others.-- + +After Supper, they wrote Sentences, Definitions, and the like, after a +Fashion of _Catherine de Medici_, some of which I have layd aside for +_Rose_. + + +--_To-day_ we have seene St. _Paul's_ faire Cathedral, and the School +where Mr. _Milton_ was a Scholar when a Boy; thence, to the Fields of +_Finsbury_; where are Trees and Windmills enow: a Place much frequented +for practising Archery and other manlie Exercises. + + + +_Saturday_. + +Tho' we rise betimes, olde Mr. _Milton_ is earlier stille; and I always +find him sitting at his Table beside the Window (by Reason of the +Chamber being soe dark,) sorting I know not how manie Bundles of Papers +tied with red Tape; eache so like the other that I marvel how he knows +them aparte. This Morning, I found the poore old Gentleman in sad +Distress at missing a Manuscript Song of Mr. _Henry Lawes'_, the onlie +Copy extant, which he persuaded himselfe that I must have sent down to +the Kitchen Fire Yesterday. I am convinced I dismist not a single +Paper that was not torne eache Way, as being utterlie uselesse; but as +the unluckie Song cannot be founde, he sighs and is certayn of my +Delinquence, as is _Hubert_, his owne Man; or, as he more frequentlie +calls him, his "odd Man;"--and an odd Man indeede is Mr. _Hubert_, +readie to address his Master or Master's Sonne on the merest Occasion, +without waiting to be spoken to; tho' he expecteth Others to treat them +with far more Deference than he himself payeth. + +--Dead tired, this Daye, with so much Exercise; but woulde not say soe, +because my Husband was thinking to please me by shewing me soe much. +Spiritts flagging however. These _London_ Streets wearie my Feet. We +have been over the House in _Aldersgate Street_, the Garden whereof +disappointed me, having hearde soe much of it; but 'tis far better than +none, and the House is large enough for Mr. _Milton's_ Familie and my +_Father's_ to boote. Thought how pleasant 'twould be to have them alle +aboute me next _Christmasse_; but that holie Time is noe longer kept +with Joyfullnesse in _London_. Ventured, therefore, to expresse a +Hope, we mighte spend it at _Forest Hill_; but Mr. _Milton_ sayd 'twas +unlikelie he should be able to leave Home; and askt, would I go +alone?--Constrained, for Shame, to say no; but felt, in my Heart, I +woulde jump to see _Forest Hill_ on anie Terms, I soe love alle that +dwell there. + + + +_Sunday Even_. + +Private and publick Prayer, Sermons, and Psalm-singing from Morn until +Nighte. The onlie Break hath been a Visit to a quaint but pleasing +Lady, by Name _Catherine Thompson_, whome my Husband holds in great +Reverence. She said manie Things worthy to be remembered; onlie _as_ I +remember them, I need not to write them down. Sorrie to be caughte +napping by my Husband, in the Midst of the third long Sermon. This +comes of over-walking, and of being unable to sleep o' Nights; for +whether it be the _London_ Ayre, or the _London_ Methods of making the +Beds, or the strange Noises in the Streets, I know not, but I have +scarce beene able to close my Eyes before Daybreak since I came to Town. + + + +_Monday_. + +And now beginneth a new Life; for my Husband's Pupils, who were dismist +for a Time for my Sake, returne to theire Tasks this Daye, and olde Mr. +_Milton_ giveth place to his two Grandsons, his widowed Daughter's +Children, _Edward_ and _John Phillips_, whom my Husband led in to me +just now. Two plainer Boys I never sett Eyes on; the one weak-eyed and +puny, the other prim and puritanicall--no more to be compared to our +sweet _Robin_! . . . After a few Words, they retired to theire Books; +and my Husband, taking my Hand, sayd in his kindliest Manner,--"And now +I leave my sweete _Moll_ to the pleasant Companie of her own goode and +innocent Thoughtes; and, if she needs more, here are both stringed and +keyed Instruments, and Books both of the older and modern Time, soe +that she will not find the Hours hang heavie." Methoughte how much +more I should like a Ride upon _Clover_ than all the Books that ever +were penned; for the Door no sooner closed upon Mr. _Milton_ than it +seemed as tho' he had taken alle the Sunshine with him; and I fell to +cleaning the Casement that I mighte look out the better into the +Churchyarde, and then altered Tables and Chairs, and then sate downe +with my Elbows resting on the Window-seat, and my Chin on the Palms of +my Hands, gazing on I knew not what, and feeling like a Butterflie +under a Wine-glass. + +I marvelled why it seemed soe long since I was married, and wondered +what they were doing at Home,--coulde fancy I hearde _Mother_ chiding, +and see _Charlie_ stealing into the Dairie and dipping his Finger in +the Cream, and _Kate_ feeding the Chickens, and _Dick_ taking a Stone +out of _Whitestar's_ Shoe. + +--Methought how dull it was to be passing the best Part of the Summer +out of the Reache of fresh Ayre and greene Fields, and wondered, woulde +alle my future Summers be soe spent? + +Thoughte how dull it was to live in Lodgings, where one could not even +go into the Kitchen to make a Pudding; and how dull to live in a Town, +without some young female Friend with whom one might have ventured into +the Streets, and where one could not soe much as feed Colts in a +Paddock; how dull to be without a Garden, unable soe much as to gather +a Handfulle of ripe Cherries; and how dull to looke into a Churchyarde, +where there was a Man digging a Grave! + +--When I wearied of staring at the Grave-digger, I gazed at an olde +Gentleman and a young Lady slowlie walking along, yet scarce as if I +noted them; and was thinking mostlie of _Forest Hill_, when I saw them +stop at our Doore, and presently they were shewn in, by the Name of +Doctor and Mistress _Davies_. I sent for my Husband, and entertayned +'em bothe as well as I could, till he appeared, and they were polite +and pleasant to me; the young Lady tall and slender, of a cleare brown +Skin, and with Eyes that were fine enough; onlie there was a supprest +Smile on her Lips alle the Time, as tho' she had seen me looking out of +the Window. She tried me on all Subjects, I think; for she started +them more adroitlie than I; and taking up a Book on the Window-seat, +which was the _Amadigi_ of _Bernardo Tasso_, printed alle in +_Italiques_, she sayd, if I loved Poetry, which she was sure I must, +she knew she shoulde love me. I did not tell her whether or noe. Then +we were both silent. Then Doctor _Davies_ talked vehementlie to Mr. +_Milton_ agaynst the King; and Mr. _Milton_ was not so contrarie to him +as I could have wished. Then Mistress _Davies_ tooke the Word from her +Father and beganne to talke to Mr. _Milton_ of _Tasso_, and _Dante_, +and _Boiardo_, and _Ariosto_; and then Doctor _Davies_ and I were +silent. Methoughte, they both talked well, tho' I knew so little of +their Subject-matter; onlie they complimented eache other too much. I +mean not they were insincere, for eache seemed to think highlie of the +other; onlie we neede not say alle we feele. + +To conclude, we are to sup with them to-morrow. + + + +_Wednesday_. + +_Journall_, I have Nobodie now but you, to whome to tell my little +Griefs; indeede, before I married, I know not that I had anie; and even +now, they are very small, onlie they are soe new, that sometimes my +Heart is like to burst. + +--I know not whether 'tis safe to put them alle on Paper, onlie it +relieves for the Time, and it kills Time, and perhaps, a little While +hence I may looke back and see how small they were, and how they mighte +have beene shunned, or better borne. 'Tis worth the Triall. + +--Yesterday Morn, for very Wearinesse, I looked alle over my Linen and +Mr. _Milton's_, to see could I finde anie Thing to mend; but there was +not a Stitch amiss. I woulde have played on the Spinnette, but was +afrayd he should hear my indifferent Musick. Then, as a last Resource, +I tooke a Book--_Paul Perrin's Historie of the Waldenses_;--and was, I +believe, dozing a little, when I was aware of a continuall Whispering +and Crying. I thought 'twas some Child in the Street; and, having some +Comfits in my Pocket, I stept softlie out to the House-door and lookt +forth, but no Child could I see. Coming back, the Door of my Husband's +Studdy being ajar, I was avised to look in; and saw him, with awfulle +Brow, raising his Hand in the very Act to strike the youngest +_Phillips_. I could never endure to see a Child struck, soe hastilie +cryed out "Oh, don't!"--whereon he rose, and, as if not seeing me, +gently closed the Door, and, before I reached my Chamber, I hearde soe +loud a Crying that I began to cry too. Soon, alle was quiet; and my +Husband, coming in, stept gently up to me, and putting his Arm about my +Neck, sayd, "My dearest Life, never agayn, I beseech you, interfere +between me and the Boys: 'tis as unseemlie as tho' I shoulde interfere +between you and your Maids, when you have any,--and will weaken my +Hands, dear _Moll_, more than you have anie Suspicion of." + +I replied, kissing that same offending Member as I spoke, "Poor _Jack_ +would have beene glad, just now, if I _had_ weakened them."--"But that +is not the Question," he returned, "for we shoulde alle be glad to +escape necessary Punishment; whereas, it is the Power, not the Penalty +of our bad Habits, that we shoulde seek to be delivered from."--"There +may," I sayd, "be necessary, but need not be corporal Punishment." +"That is as may be," returned he, "and hath alreadie been settled by an +Authoritie to which I submit, and partlie think you will dispute, and +that is, the Word of _God_. Pain of Body is in Realitie, or ought to +be, sooner over and more safelie borne than Pain of an ingenuous Mind; +and, as to the _Shame_,--why, as _Lorenzo de' Medici_ sayd to +_Soccini_, 'The Shame is in the Offence rather than in the Punishment.'" + +I replied, "Our _Robin_ had never beene beaten for his Studdies;" to +which he sayd with a Smile, that even I must admit _Robin_ to be noe +greate Scholar. And so in good Humour left me; but I was in no good +Humour, and hoped Heaven might never make me the Mother of a Son, for +if I should see Mr. _Milton_ strike him, I should learn to hate the +Father.-- + +Learning there was like to be Companie at Doctor _Davies'_, I was +avised to put on my brave greene Satin Gown; and my Husband sayd it +became me well, and that I onlie needed some Primroses and Cowslips in +my Lap, to look like _May_;--and somewhat he added about mine Eyes' +"clear shining after Rain," which avised me he had perceived I had +beene crying in the Morning, which I had hoped he had not. + +Arriving at the Doctor's House, we were shewn into an emptie Chamber; +at least, emptie of Companie, but full of every Thing else; for there +were Books, and Globes, and stringed and wind Instruments, and stuffed +Birds and Beasts, and Things I know not soe much as the Names of, +besides an Easel with a Painting by Mrs. _Mildred_ on it, which she +meant to be seene, or she woulde have put it away. Subject, "_Brutus's +Judgment:"_ which I thought a strange, unfeeling one for a Woman; and +did not wish to be _her_ Son. Soone she came in, drest with studdied +and puritanicall Plainnesse; in brown Taffeta, guarded with black +Velvet, which became her well enough, but was scarce suited for the +Season. She had much to say about limning, in which my Husband could +follow her better than I; and then they went to the Globes, and +_Copernicus_, and _Galileo Galilei_, whom she called a Martyr, but I do +not. For, is a Martyr one who is unwillinglie imprisoned, or who +formally recants? even tho' he affected afterwards to say 'twas _but_ a +Form, and cries, "_Eppure, si muove_?" The earlier Christians might +have sayd 'twas but a Form to burn a Handfull of Incense before +_Jove's_ Statua; _Pliny_ woulde have let them goe. + +Afterwards, when the Doctor came in and engaged my Husband in +Discourse, Mistress _Mildred_ devoted herselfe to me, and askt what +Progresse I had made with _Bernardo Tasso_. I tolde her, none at alle, +for I was equallie faultie at _Italiques_ and _Italian_, and onlie knew +his best Work thro' Mr. _Fairfax's_ Translation; whereat she fell +laughing, and sayd she begged my Forgivenesse, but I was confounding +the Father with the Sonne; then laught agayn, but pretended 'twas not +at me but at a Lady I minded her of, who never coulde remember to +distinguish betwixt _Lionardo da Vinci_ and _Lorenzo dei Medici_. That +last Name brought up the Recollection of my Morning's Debate with my +Husband, which made me feel sad; and then, Mrs. _Mildred_, seeminge +anxious to make me forget her Unmannerliness, commenced, "Can you +paint?"--"Can you sing?"--"Can you play the Lute?"--and, at the last, +"What _can_ you do?" I mighte have sayd I coulde comb out my Curls +smoother than she coulde hers, but did not. Other Guests came in, and +talked so much agaynst Prelacy and the Right divine of Kings that I +woulde fain we had remained at Astronomie and Poetry. For Supper there +was little Meat, and noe strong Drinks, onlie a thinnish foreign Wine, +with Cakes, Candies, Sweetmeats, Fruits, and Confections. Such, I +suppose, is Town Fashion. At the laste, came Musick; Mistress +_Mildred_ sang and played; then prest me to do the like, but I was soe +fearfulle, I coulde not; so my Husband sayd he woulde play for me, and +that woulde be alle one, and soe covered my Bashfullenesse handsomlie. + +Onlie this Morning, just before going to his Studdy, he stept back and +sayd, "Sweet _Moll_, I know you can both play and sing--why will you +not practise?" I replyed, I loved it not much. He rejoyned, "But you +know I love it, and is not that a Motive?" I sayd, I feared to let him +hear me, I played so ill. He replyed, "Why, that is the very Reason +you shoulde seek to play better, and I am sure you have Plenty of Time. +Perhaps, in your whole future Life, you will not have such a Season of +Leisure as you have now,--a golden Opportunity, which you will surelie +seize."--Then added, "Sir _Thomas More's_ Wife learnt to play the Lute, +solely that she mighte please her Husband." I answered, "Nay, what to +tell me of Sir _Thomas More's_ Wife, or of _Hugh Grotius's_ Wife, when +I was the Wife of _John Milton_?" He looked at me twice, and quicklie, +too, at this Saying; then laughing, cried, "You cleaving Mischief! I +hardlie know whether to take that Speech amisse or well--however, you +shall have the Benefit of the Doubt." + +And so away laughing; and I, for very Shame, sat down to the Spinnette +for two wearie Hours, till soe tired, I coulde cry; and when I +desisted, coulde hear _Jack_ wailing over his Task. 'Tis raining fast, +I cannot get out, nor should I dare to go alone, nor where to go to if +'twere fine. I fancy ill Smells from the Churchyard--'tis long to +Dinner-time, with noe Change, noe Exercise; and oh, I sigh for _Forest +Hill_. + + +--A dull Dinner with Mrs. _Phillips_, whom I like not much. +_Christopher Milton_ there, who stared hard at me, and put me out of +Countenance with his strange Questions. My Husband checked him. He is +a Lawyer, and has Wit enoughe. + +Mrs. _Phillips_ speaking of second Marriages, I unawares hurt her by +giving my Voice agaynst them. It seems she is thinking of contracting +a second Marriage. + +--At Supper, wishing to ingratiate myself with the Boys, talked to them +of Countrie Sports, etc.: to which the youngest listened greedilie; and +at length I was advised to ask them woulde they not like to see _Forest +Hill_? to which the elder replyed in his most methodicall Manner, "If +Mr. _Powell_ has a good Library." For this Piece of Hypocrisie, at +which I heartilie laught, he was commended by his Uncle. Hypocrisie it +was, for Master _Ned_ cryeth over his Taskes pretty nearlie as oft as +the youngest. + + + +_Friday_. + +To rewarde my zealous Practice to-day on the Spinnette, Mr. _Milton_ +produced a Collection of "_Ayres, and Dialogues, for one, two, and +three Voices_," by his Friend, Mr. _Harry Lawes_, which he sayd I +shoulde find very pleasant Studdy; and then he tolde me alle about +theire getting up the Masque of _Comus_ in _Ludlow_ Castle, and how +well the Lady's Song was sung by Mr. _Lawes'_ Pupil, the Lady _Alice_, +then a sweet, modest Girl, onlie thirteen Yeares of Age,--and he told +me of the Singing of a faire _Italian_ young Signora, named _Leonora +Barroni_, with her Mother and Sister, whome he had hearde at _Rome_, at +the Concerts of Cardinal _Barberini_; and how she was "as gentle and +modest as sweet _Moll_," yet not afrayed to open her Mouth, and +pronounce everie Syllable distinctlie, and with the proper Emphasis and +Passion when she sang. And after this, to my greate Contentment, he +tooke me to the _Gray's Inn Walks_, where, the Afternoon being fine, +was much Companie. + +After Supper, I proposed to the Boys that we shoulde tell Stories; and +Mr. _Milton_ tolde one charminglie, but then went away to write a +_Latin_ Letter. Soe _Ned's_ Turn came next; and I must, if I can, for +very Mirthe's Sake, write it down in his exact Words, they were soe +pragmaticall. + +"On a Daye, there was a certain Child wandered forthe, that would play. +He met a Bee, and sayd, 'Bee, wilt thou play with me?' The Bee sayd, +'No, I have my Duties to perform, tho' you, it woulde seeme, have none. +I must away to make Honey.' Then the Childe, abasht, went to the Ant. +He sayd, 'Will you play with me, Ant?' The Ant replied, 'Nay, I must +provide against the Winter.' In shorte, he found that everie Bird, +Beaste, and Insect he accosted, had a closer Eye to the Purpose of +their Creation than himselfe. Then he sayd, 'I will then back, and con +my Task.'--_Moral_. The Moral of the foregoing Fable, my deare _Aunt_, +is this--We must love Work better than Play." + +With alle my Interest for Children, how is it possible to take anie +Interest in soe formall a little Prigge? + + + +_Saturday_. + +I have just done somewhat for Master _Ned_ which he coulde not doe for +himselfe--_viz_. tenderly bound up his Hand, which he had badly cut. +Wiping away some few naturall Tears, he must needs say, "I am quite +ashamed, _Aunt_, you shoulde see me cry; but the worst of it is, that +alle this Payne has beene for noe good; whereas, when my Uncle beateth +me for misconstruing my _Latin_, tho' I cry at the Time, all the while +I know it is for my Advantage."--If this Boy goes on preaching soe, I +shall soon hate him. + +--Mr. _Milton_ having stepped out before Supper, came back looking soe +blythe, that I askt if he had hearde good News. He sayd, yes: that +some Friends had long beene persuading him, against his Will, to make +publick some of his _Latin_ Poems; and that, having at length consented +to theire Wishes, he had beene with _Mosley_ the Publisher in St. +_Paul's Churchyard_, who agreed to print them. I sayd, I was sorrie I +shoulde be unable to read them. He sayd he was sorry too; he must +translate them for me. I thanked him, but observed that Traductions +were never soe good as Originalls. He rejoyned, "Nor am I even a good +Translator." I askt, "Why not write in your owne Tongue?" He sayd, +"_Latin_ is understood all over the Worlde." I sayd, "But there are +manie in your owne Country do not understand it." He was silent soe +long upon that, that I supposed he did not mean to answer me; but then +cried, "You are right, sweet _Moll.--_Our best Writers have written +their best Works in _English_, and I will hereafter doe the same,--for +I feel that my best Work is still _to come_. Poetry hath hitherto been +with me rather the Recreation of a Mind conscious of its Health, than +the deliberate Task-work of a Soule that must hereafter give an Account +of its Talents. Yet my Mind, in the free Circuit of her Musing, has +ranged over a thousand Themes that lie, like the Marble in the Quarry, +readie for anie Shape that Fancy and Skill may give. Neither Laziness +nor Caprice makes me difficult in my Choice; for, the longer I am in +selecting my Tree, and laying my Axe to the Root, the sounder it will +be and the riper for Use. Nor is an Undertaking that shall be one of +high Duty, to be entered upon without Prayer and Discipline:--it woulde +be Presumption indeede, to commence an Enterprise which I meant shoulde +delighte and profit every instructed and elevated Mind without so much +Paynes-takinge as it should cost a poor Mountebank to balance a Pole on +his Chin." + + + +_Sunday Even_. + +In the Clouds agayn. At Dinner, to-daye, Mr. _Milton_ catechised the +Boys on the Morning's Sermon, the Heads of which, though amounting to a +Dozen_, Ned_ tolde off roundlie. Roguish little _Jack_ looked slylie +at me, says, "_Aunt_ coulde not tell off the Sermon." "Why not?" says +his Uncle. "Because she was sleeping," says _Jack_. Provoked with the +Child, I turned scarlett, and hastilie sayd, "I was not." Nobodie +spoke; but I repented the Falsitie the Moment it had escaped me; and +there was _Ned_, a folding of his Hands, drawing down his Mouth, and +closing his Eyes. . . . My Husband tooke me to taske for it when we +were alone, soe tenderlie that I wept. + + + +_Monday_. + +_Jack_ sayd this Morning, "I know Something--I know _Aunt_ keeps a +Journall." "And a good Thing if you kept one too, _Jack,"_ sayd his +Uncle, "it would shew you how little you doe." _Jack_ was silenced; +but _Ned_, pursing up his Mouth, says, "I can't think what _Aunt_ can +have to put in a Journall--should not you like, _Uncle_, to see?" "No, +_Ned,"_ says his Uncle, "I am upon Honour, and your dear Aunt's +Journall is as safe, for me, as the golden Bracelets that King _Alfred_ +hung upon the High-way. I am glad she has such a Resource, and, as we +know she cannot have much News to put in it, we may the more safely +rely that it is a Treasury of sweet, and high, and holy, and profitable +Thoughtes." + +Oh, how deeplie I blusht at this ill-deserved Prayse! How sorrie I was +that I had ever registered aught that he woulde grieve to read! I +secretly resolved that this Daye's Journalling should be the last, +untill I had attained a better Frame of Mind. + + + +_Saturday Even_. + +I have kept Silence, yea, even from good Words, but it has beene a Payn +and Griefe unto me. Good Mistress _Catherine Thompson_ called on me a +few Dayes back, and spoke so wisely and so wholesomelie concerning my +Lot, and the Way to make it happy, (she is the first that hath spoken +as it 'twere possible it mighte not be soe alreadie,) that I felt for a +Season quite heartened; but it has alle faded away. Because the Source +of Cheerfulnesse is not _in_ me, anie more than in a dull Landskip, +which the Sun lighteneth for awhile, and when he has set, its Beauty is +gone. + +Oh me! how merry I was at Home!--The Source of Cheerfulnesse seemed in +me _then_, and why is it not _now_? Partly because alle that I was +there taught to think right is here thought wrong; because much that I +there thought harmlesse is here thought sinfulle; because I cannot get +at anie of the Things that employed and interested me _there_, and +because the Things within my Reach _here_ do not interest me. Then, +'tis no small Thing to be continuallie deemed ignorant and misinformed, +and to have one's Errors continuallie covered, however handsomelie, +even before Children. To say nothing of the Weight upon the Spiritts +at firste, from Change of Ayre, and Diet, and Scene, and Loss of +habituall Exercise and Companie and householde Cares. These petty +Griefs try me sorelie; and when Cousin _Ralph_ came in unexpectedlie +this Morn, tho' I never much cared for him at Home, yet the Sighte of +_Rose's_ Brother, fresh from_ Sheepscote_ and _Oxford_ and _Forest +Hill_, soe upset me that I sank into Tears. No wonder that Mr. +_Milton_, then coming in, shoulde hastilie enquire if _Ralph_ had +brought ill Tidings from Home; and, finding alle was well there, +shoulde look strangelie. He askt _Ralph_, however, to stay to Dinner; +and we had much Talk of Home; but now, I regret having omitted to ask a +thousand Questions. + + + +_Sunday Even., Aug. 15, 1643_. + +Mr. _Milton_ in his Closet and I in my Chamber.--For the first Time he +seems this Evening to have founde out how dissimilar are our Minds. +Meaning to please him, I sayd, "I kept awake bravelie, tonighte, +through that long, long Sermon, for your Sake." "And why not for +_God's_ Sake?" cried he, "why not for your owne Sake?--Oh, sweet +_Wife_, I fear you have yet much to learn of the Depth of Happinesse +that is comprised in the Communion between a forgiven Soul and its +Creator. It hallows the most secular as well as the most spirituall +Employments; it gives Pleasure that has no after Bitternesse; it gives +Pleasure to _God_--and oh! thinke of the Depth of Meaning in those +Words! think what it is for us to be capable of giving _God_ Pleasure!" + +--Much more, in the same Vein! to which I could not, with equal Power, +respond; soe, he away to his Studdy, to pray perhaps for my Change of +Heart, and I to my Bed. + + + +_Saturday, Aug. 21, 1643_. + +Oh Heaven! can it be possible? am I agayn at _Forest Hill_? How +strange, how joyfulle an Event, tho' brought about with Teares!--Can it +be, that it is onlie a Month since I stoode at this Toilette as a +Bride? and lay awake on that Bed, thinking of _London_? How long a +Month! and oh! this present one will be alle too short. + +It seemeth that _Ralph Hewlett_, shocked at my Teares and the +Alteration in my Looks, broughte back a dismall Report of me to deare +_Father_ and _Mother_, pronouncing me either ill or unhappie. +Thereupon, _Richard_, with his usuall Impetuositie, prevayled on +_Father_ to let him and _Ralph_ fetch me Home for a While, at leaste +till after _Michaelmasse_. + +How surprised was I to see _Dick_ enter! My Arms were soe fast about +his Neck, and my Face prest soe close to his Shoulder, that I did not +for a While perceive the grave Looke he had put on. At the last, I was +avised to ask what broughte him soe unexpectedlie to _London_; and then +he hemmed and looked at _Ralph_, and _Ralph_ looked at _Dick_, and then +_Dick_ sayd bluntly, he hoped Mr. _Milton_ woulde spare me to go Home +till after _Michaelmasse_, and _Father_ had sent him on Purpose to say +soe. Mr. _Milton_ lookt surprised and hurte, and sayd, how could he be +expected to part soe soone with me, a Month's Bride? it must be some +other Time: he had intended to take me himselfe to _Forest Hill_ the +following Spring, but coulde not spare Time now, nor liked me to goe +without him, nor thought I should like it myself. But my Eyes said I +_shoulde_, and then he gazed earnestlie at me and lookt hurt; and there +was a dead Silence. Then _Dick_, hesitating a little, sayd he was +sorrie to tell us my _Father_ was ill; on which I clasped my Hands and +beganne to weepe; and Mr. _Milton_, changing Countenance, askt sundrie +Questions, which _Dick_ answered well enough; and then said he woulde +not be soe cruel as to keepe me from a Father I soe dearlie loved, if +he were sick, though he liked not my travelling in such unsettled Times +with so young a Convoy. _Ralph_ sayd they had brought _Diggory_ with +them, who was olde and steddy enough, and had ridden my _Mother's_ Mare +for my Use; and _Dick_ was for our getting forward a Stage on our +Journey the same Evening, but Mr. _Milton_ insisted on our abiding till +the following Morn, and woulde not be overruled. And gave me leave to +stay a Month, and gave me Money, and many kind Words, which I coulde +mark little, being soe overtaken with Concern about dear _Father_, +whose Illness I feared to be worse than _Dick_ sayd, seeing he seemed +soe close and dealt in dark Speeches and Parables. After Dinner, they +went forth, they sayd, to look after the Horses, but I think to see +_London_, and returned not till Supper. + +We got them Beds in a House hard by, and started at earlie Dawn. + +Mr. _Milton_ kissed me most tenderlie agayn and agayn at parting, as +though he feared to lose me; but it had seemed to me soe hard to brook +the Delay of even a few Hours when _Father_, in his Sicknesse, was +wanting me, that I took leave of my Husband with less Affection than I +mighte have shewn, and onlie began to find my Spiritts lighten when we +were fairly quit of _London_, with its vile Sewers and Drains, and to +breathe the sweete, pure Morning Ayre, as we rode swiftlie along. +_Dick_ called _London_ a vile Place, and spake to _Ralph_ concerning +what they had seen of it overnighte, whence it appeared to me, that he +had beene pleasure-seeking more than, in _Father's_ state, he ought to +have beene. But _Dick_ was always a reckless Lad;--and oh, what Joy, +on reaching this deare Place, to find _Father_ had onlie beene +suffering under one of his usual Stomach Attacks, which have no Danger +in them, and which _Dick_ had exaggerated, fearing Mr. _Milton_ woulde +not otherwise part with me;--I was a little shocked, and coulde not +help scolding him, though I was the gainer; but he boldlie defended +what he called his "Stratagem of War," saying it was quite allowable in +dealing with a _Puritan_. + +As for _Robin_, he was wild with Joy when I arrived; and hath never +ceased to hang about me. The other Children are riotous in their +Mirth. Little _Joscelyn_ hath returned from his Foster-mother's Farm, +and is noe longer a puny Child--'tis thought he will thrive. I have +him constantly in my Arms or riding on my Shoulder; and with Delight +have revisited alle my olde Haunts, patted _Clover_, etc. Deare +_Mother_ is most kind. The Maids as oft call me Mrs. _Molly_ as Mrs. +_Milton_, and then smile, and beg Pardon. _Rose_ and _Agnew_ have been +here, and have made me promise to visit _Sheepscote_ before I return to +_London_. The whole House seems full of Glee. + + + +_Monday_. + +It seemes quite strange to heare _Dick_ and _Harry_ singing loyal Songs +and drinking the _King's_ Health after soe recentlie hearing his M. soe +continuallie spoken agaynst. Also, to see a Lad of _Robin's_ Age, +coming in and out at his Will, doing aniething or nothing; instead of +being ever at his Taskes, and looking at Meal-times as if he were +repeating them to himselfe. I know which I like best. + +A most kind Letter from Mr. _Milton_, hoping _Father_ is better, and +praying for News of him. How can I write to him without betraying +_Dick_? _Robin_ and I rode, this Morning, to _Sheepscote_. Thoughte +Mr. _Agnew_ received me with unwonted Gravitie. He tolde me he had +received a Letter from my Husband, praying News of my Father, seeing I +had sent him none, and that he had writ to him that _Father_ was quite +well, never had been better. Then he sayd to me he feared Mr. _Milton_ +was labouring under some false Impression. I tolde him trulie, that +_Dick_, to get me Home, had exaggerated a trifling Illness of +_Father's_, but that I was guiltlesse of it. He sayd _Dick_ was +inexcusable, and that noe good End coulde justifie a Man of Honour in +overcharging the Truth; and that, since I was innocent, I shoulde write +to my Husband to clear myself. I said briefly, I woulde; and I mean to +do soe, onlie not to-daye. Oh, sweet countrie Life! I was made for +you and none other. This riding and walking at one's owne free Will, +in the fresh pure Ayre, coming in to earlie, heartie, wholesome Meals, +seasoned with harmlesse Jests,--seeing fresh Faces everie Daye come to +the House, knowing everie Face one meets out of Doores,--supping in the +Garden, and remaining in the Ayre long after the Moon has risen, +talking, laughing, or perhaps dancing,--if this be not Joyfulnesse, +what is? + +For certain, I woulde that Mr. _Milton_ were here; but he woulde call +our Sports mistimed, and throw a Damp upon our Mirth by not joining in +it. Soe I will enjoy my Holiday while it lasts, for it may be long ere +I get another--especiallie if his and _Father's_ Opinions get wider +asunder, as I think they are doing alreadie. My promised Spring +Holiday may come to nothing. + + + +_Monday_. + +My Husband hath writ to me strangelie, chiding me most unkindlie for +what was noe Fault of mine, to wit, _Dick's_ Falsitie; and wondering I +can derive anie Pleasure from a Holiday so obtayned, which he will not +curtayl, but will on noe Pretence extend. Nay! but methinks Mr. +_Milton_ presumeth somewhat too much on his marital Authoritie, writing +in this Strayn. I am no mere Child neither, nor a runaway Wife, nor in +such bad Companie, in mine own Father's House, where he firste saw me; +and, was it anie Fault of mine, indeed, that _Father_ was not ill? or +can I wish he had beene? No, truly! + +This Letter hath sorelie vexed me. Dear _Father_, seeing me soe dulle, +askt me if I had had bad News. I sayd I had, for that Mr. _Milton_ +wanted me back at the Month's End. He sayd, lightlie, Oh, that must +not be, I must at all Events stay over his Birthdaye, he could not +spare me sooner; he woulde settle all that. Let it be soe then--I am +content enoughe. + +To change the Current of my Thoughts, he hath renewed the Scheme for +our Visit to Lady _Falkland_, which, Weather permitting, is to take +Place tomorrow. 'Tis long since I have seene her, soe I am willing to +goe; but she is dearer to _Rose_ than to me, though I respect her much. + + + +_Wednesday_. + +The whole of Yesterday occupyde with our Visit. I love Lady _Falkland_ +well, yet her religious Mellanchollie and Presages of Evil have left a +Weight upon my Spiritts. To-daye, we have a Family Dinner. The +_Agnews_ come not, but the _Merediths_ doe, we shall have more Mirthe +if less Wit. My Time now draweth soe short, I must crowd into it alle +the Pleasure I can; and in this, everie one conspires to help me, +saying, "Poor _Moll_ must soon return to _London_." Never was Creature +soe petted or spoylt. How was it there was none of this before I +married, when they might have me alwaies? ah, therein lies the Secret. +Now, we have mutuallie tasted our Losse. + +_Ralph Hewlett_, going agayn to Town, was avised to ask whether I had +anie Commission wherewith to charge him. I bade him tell Mr. _Milton_ +that since we should meet soe soone, I need not write, but would keep +alle my News for our Fire-side. _Robin_ added, "Say, we cannot spare +her yet," and _Father_ echoed the same. + +But I begin to feel now, that I must not prolong my Stay. At the +leaste, not beyond _Father's_ Birthday. My Month is hasting to a Close. + + + +_Sept. 21, 1643_. + +Battle at _Newbury--_Lord _Falkland_ slayn. Oh, fatal Loss! _Father_ +and _Mother_ going off to my Lady: but I think she will not see them. +Aunt and Uncle _Hewlett_, who brought the News, can talk of nothing +else. + + + +_Sept. 22, 1643_. + +Alle Sadnesse and Consternation. I am wearie of bad News, public and +private, and feel less and less Love for the Puritans, yet am forced to +seem more loyal than I really am, soe high runs party Feeling just now +at Home. + +My Month has passed! + + + +_Sept. 28, 1643_. + +A most displeased Letter from my Husband, minding me that my Leave of +Absence hath expired, and that he likes not the Messages he received +through _Ralph_, nor the unreasonable and hurtfulle Pastimes which he +finds have beene making my quiet Home distastefulle. Asking, are they +suitable, under Circumstances of nationall Consternation to _my owne_ +Party, or seemlie in soe young a Wife, apart from her Husband? To +conclude, insisting, with more Authoritie than Kindnesse, on my +immediate Return. + +With Tears in my Eyes, I have beene to my Father. I have tolde him I +must goe. He sayth, Oh no, not yet. I persisted, I must, my Husband +was soe very angry. He rejoined, What, angry with my sweet _Moll_? and +for spending a few Days with her old Father? Can it be? hath it come +to this alreadie? I sayd, my Month had expired. He sayd, Nonsense, he +had always askt me to stay over _Michaelmasse_, till his Birthday; he +knew _Dick_ had named it to Mr. _Milton_. I sayd, Mr. _Milton_ had +taken no Notice thereof, but had onlie granted me a Month. He grew +peevish, and said, "Pooh, pooh!" Thereat, after a Silence of a Minute +or two, I sayd yet agayn, I must goe. He took me by the two Wrists and +sayd, Doe you wish to go? I burst into Teares, but made noe Answer. +He sayd, That is Answer enough,--how doth this Puritan carry it with +you, my Child? and snatched his Letter. I sayd, Oh, don't read that, +and would have drawn it back; but _Father_, when heated, is impossible +to controwl; therefore, quite deaf to Entreaty, he would read the +Letter, which was unfit for him in his chafed Mood; then, holding it at +Arm's Length, and smiting it with his Fist,--Ha! and is it thus he +dares address a Daughter of mine? (with Words added, I dare not +write)--but be quiet, _Moll_, be at Peace, my Child, for he shall not +have you back for awhile, even though he come to fetch you himself. +The maddest Thing I ever did was to give you to this Roundhead. He and +_Roger Agnew_ talked me over with soe many fine Words.--What possessed +me, I know not. Your Mother always said evil woulde come of it. But +as long as thy Father has a Roof over his Head, Child, thou hast a Home. + +As soone as he woulde hear me, I begged him not to take on soe, for +that I was not an unhappy Wife; but my Tears, he sayd, belied me; and +indeed, with Fear and Agitation, they flowed fast enough. But I sayd, +I _must_ goe home, and wished I had gone sooner, and woulde he let +_Diggory_ take me! No, he sayd, not a Man Jack on his Land shoulde +saddle a Horse for me, nor would he lend me one, to carry me back to +Mr. _Milton_; at the leaste not for a While, till he had come to +Reason, and protested he was sorry for having writ to me soe harshly. + +"Soe be content, _Moll_, and make not two Enemies instead of one. Goe, +help thy Mother with her clear-starching. Be happy whilst thou art +here." + +But ah! more easily said than done. "Alle Joy is darkened; the Mirthe +of the Land is gone!" + + + +_Michaelmasse Day_. + +At Squire _Paice's_ grand Dinner we have been counting on soe many +Days; but it gave me not the Pleasure expected. + + + +_Oct. 13, 1643_. + +The Weather is soe foul that I am sure Mr. _Milton_ woulde not like me +to be on the Road, even would my Father let me goe. + +--While writing the above, heard very angrie Voices in the Courtyard, +my Father's especiallie, louder than common; and distinguished the +Words "Knave," and "Varlet," and "begone." Lookt from my Window and +beheld a Man, booted and cloaked, with two Horses, at the Gate, +parleying with my Father, who stood in an offensive Attitude, and +woulde not let him in. I could catch such Fragments as, "But, Sir?" +"What! in such Weather as this?" "Nay, it had not overcast when I +started." "'Tis foul enough now, then." "Let me but have speech of my +Mistress." "You crosse not my Threshold." "Nay, Sir, if but to give +her this Letter:"--and turning his Head, I was avised of its being +_Hubert_, old Mr. _Milton's_ Man; doubtless sent by my Husband to fetch +me. Seeing my Father raise his Hand in angrie Action (his Riding-whip +being in it), I hasted down as fast as I coulde, to prevent Mischiefe, +as well as to get my Letter; but, unhappilie, not soe fleetlie as to +see more than _Hubert's_ flying Skirts as he gallopped from the Gate, +with the led Horse by the Bridle; while my Father flinging downe the +torne Letter, walked passionatelie away. I clasped my Hands, and stood +mazed for a while,--was then avised to piece the Letter, but could not; +onlie making out such Words as "Sweet _Moll_," in my Husband's Writing. + + + +_Oct. 14, 1643_. + +_Rose_ came this Morning, through Rain and Mire, at some Risk as well +as much Inconvenience, to intreat of me, even with Teares, not to vex +Mr. _Milton_ by anie farther Delays, but to return to him as soon as +possible. Kind Soule, her Affection toucht me, and I assured her the +more readilie I intended to return Home as soone as I coulde, which was +not yet, my Father having taken the Matter into his own Hands, and +permitting me noe Escort; but that I questioned not, Mr. _Milton_ was +onlie awaiting the Weather to settle, to fetch me himself. That he +will doe so, is my firm Persuasion. Meanwhile, I make it my Duty to +joyn with some Attempt at Cheerfullenesse in the Amusements of others, +to make my Father's Confinement to the House less irksome; and have in +some Measure succeeded. + + + +_Oct. 23, 1643_. + +Noe Sighte nor Tidings of Mr. _Milton_.--I am uneasie, frighted at +myself, and wish I had never left him, yet hurte at the Neglect. +_Hubert_, being a crabbed Temper, made Mischief on his Return, I fancy. +_Father_ is vexed, methinks, at his owne Passion, and hath never, +directlie, spoken, in my Hearinge, of what passed; but rayleth +continuallie agaynst Rebels and Roundheads. As to _Mother_,--ah me! + + + +_Oct. 24, 1643_. + +Thro' dank and miry Lanes and Bye-roads with _Robin_, to _Sheepscote_. + +Waiting for _Rose_ in Mr. _Agnew's_ small Studdy, where she mostlie +sitteth with him, oft acting as his Amanuensis, was avised to take up a +printed Sheet of Paper that lay on the Table; but finding it to be of +_Latin_ Versing, was about to laye it downe agayn, when _Rose_ came in. +She changed Colour, and in a faltering Voice sayd, "Ah, _Cousin_, do +you know what that is? One of your Husband's Proofe Sheets. I woulde +that it coulde interest you in like manner as it hath me." Made her +noe Answer, laying it aside unconcernedlie, but secretlie felt, as I +have oft done before, how stupid it is not to know _Latin_, and +resolved to get _Robin_ to teach me. He is noe greate Scholar +himselfe, soe will not shame me.--I am wearie of hearing of War and +Politicks; soe will try Studdy for a while, and see if 'twill cure this +dull Payn at my Heart. + + + +_Oct. 28, 1643_. + +_Robin_ and I have shut ourselves up for three Hours dailie, in the +small Book-room, and have made fayre Progresse. He liketh his Office +of Tutor mightilie. + + + +_Oct. 31, 1643_. + +My Lessons are more crabbed, or I am more dull and inattentive, for I +cannot fix my Minde on my Book, and am secretlie wearie, _Robin_ +wearies too. But I will not give up as yet; the more soe as in this +quiete Studdy I am out of Sighte and Hearinge of sundrie young Officers +_Dick_ is continuallie bringing over from _Oxford_, who spend manie +Hours with him in Countrie Sports, and then come into the House, +hungry, thirstie, noisie, and idle. I know Mr. _Milton_ woulde not +like them. + +--Surelie he will come soone?--I sayd to _Father_ last Night, I wanted +to hear from Home. He sayd, "Home! Dost call yon Taylor's Shop your +Home?" soe ironicalle that I was shamed to say more. + +Woulde that I had never married!--then coulde I enjoy my Childhoode's +Home. Yet I knew not its Value before I quitted it, and had even a +stupid Pleasure in anticipating another. Ah me! had I loved Mr. +_Milton_ more, perhaps I might better have endured the Taylor's Shop. + + + +_Sheepscote, Nov. 20, 1643_. + +Annoyed by _Dick's_ Companions, I prayed _Father_ to let me stay awhile +with _Rose_; and gaining his Consent, came over here Yester-morn, +without thinking it needfulle to send Notice, which was perhaps +inconsiderate. But she received me with Kisses and Words of +Tendernesse, though less Smiling than usualle, and eagerlie accepted +mine offered Visitt. Then she ran off to find _Roger_, and I heard +them talking earnestlie in a low Voice before they came in. His Face +was grave, even stern, when he entred, but he held out his Hand, and +sayd, "Mistress _Milton_, you are welcome! how is it with you? and how +was Mr. _Milton_ when he wrote to you last?" I answered brieflie, he +was well: then came a Silence, and then _Rose_ took me to my Chamber, +which was sweet with Lavender, and its hangings of the whitest. It +reminded me too much of my first Week of Marriage, soe I resolved to +think not at all lest I shoulde be bad Companie, but cheer up and be +gay. Soe I askt _Rose_ a thousand Questions about her Dairie and Bees, +laught much at Dinner, and told Mr. _Agnew_ sundrie of the merrie +Sayings of _Dick_ and his _Oxford_ Friends. And, for my Reward, when +we were afterwards apart, I heard him tell _Rose_ (by Reason of the +Walls being thin) that however she might regard me for old Affection's +sake, he thought he had never knowne soe unpromising a character. This +made me dulle enoughe all the rest of the Evening, and repent having +come to _Sheepscote_: however, he liked me the better for being quiete: +and _Rose_, being equallie chekt, we sewed in Silence while he read to +us the first Division of _Spencer's Legend of Holinesse_, about _Una_ +and the Knight, and how they got sundered. This led to much serious, +yet not unpleasing, Discourse, which lasted till Supper. For the first +Time at _Sheepscote_, I coulde not eat, which Mr. _Agnew_ observing, +prest me to take Wine, and _Rose_ woulde start up to fetch some of her +Preserves; but I chekt her with a Motion, not being quite able to +speak; for their being soe kind made the Teares ready to starte, I knew +not why. + +Family Prayers, after Supper, rather too long; yet though I coulde not +keep up my Attention, they seemed to spread a Calm and a Peace alle +about, that extended even to me; and though, after I had undressed, I +sat a long while in a Maze, and bethought me how piteous a Creature I +was, yet, once layed down, I never sank into deeper, more composing +Sleep. + + + +_Nov. 21,1643_. + +This Morning, _Rose_ exclaimed, "Dear _Roger_! onlie think! _Moll_ has +begun to learn _Latin_ since she returned to _Forest Hill_, thinking to +surprise Mr. _Milton_ when they meet." "She will not onlie surprise +but _please_ him," returned dear _Roger_, taking my Hand very kindlie; +"I can onlie say, I hope they will meet long before she can read his +_Poemata_, unless she learnes much faster than most People." I +replyed, I learned very slowly, and wearied _Robin's_ Patience; on +which _Rose_, kissing me, cried, "You will never wearie mine; soe, if +you please, deare _Moll_, we will goe to our Lessons here everie +Morning; and it may be that I shall get you through the Grammar faster +than _Robin_ can. If we come to anie Difficultie we shall refer it to +_Roger_." + +Now, Mr. _Agnew's_ Looks exprest such Pleasure with both, that it were +difficult to tell which felt the most elated; soe calling me deare +_Moll_ (he hath hitherto Mistress _Miltoned_ me ever since I sett Foot +in his House), he sayed he would not interrupt our Studdies, though he +should be within Call, and soe left us. I had not felt soe happy since +_Father's_ Birthday; and, though _Rose_ kept me close to my Book for +two Hours, I found her a far less irksome Tutor than deare _Robin_. +Then she went away, singing, to make _Roger's_ favourite Dish, and +afterwards we took a brisk Walke, and came Home hungrie enoughe to +Dinner. + +There is a daily Beauty in _Rose's_ Life, that I not onlie admire, but +am readie to envy. Oh! if _Milton_ lived but in the poorest House in +the Countrie, methinks I coulde be very happy with him. + + + +_Bedtime_. + +Chancing to make the above Remark to _Rose_, she cried, "And why not be +happy with him in _Aldersgate Street_?" I briefly replied that he must +get the House first, before it were possible to tell whether I coulde +be happy there or not. _Rose_ started, and exclaimed, "Why, where do +you suppose him to be now?" "Where but at the Taylor's in _Bride's +Churchyard_?" I replied. She claspt her Hands with a Look I shall +never forget, and exclaimed in a Sort of vehement Passion, "Oh, +_Cousin, Cousin_, how you throw your own Happinesse away! How awfulle +a Pause must have taken place in your Intercourse with the Man whom you +promised to abide by till Death, since you know not that he has long +since taken Possession of his new Home; that he strove to have it ready +for you at _Michaelmasse_!" + +Doubtlesse I lookt noe less surprised than I felt;--a suddain Prick at +the Heart prevented Speech; but it shot acrosse my Heart that I had +made out the Words "_Aldersgate_" and "new Home," in the Fragments of +the Letter my Father had torn. _Rose_, misjudging my Silence, burst +forth anew with, "Oh, _Cousin_! _Cousin_! coulde anie Home, however +dull and noisesome, drive me from _Roger Agnew_? Onlie think of what +you are doing,--of what you are leaving undone!--of what you are +preparing against yourself! To put the Wickednesse of a selfish Course +out of the Account, onlie think of its Mellancholie, its +Miserie,--destitute of alle the sweet, bright, fresh Well-springs of +Happinesse;--unblest by _God_!" + +Here _Rose_ wept passionatelie, and claspt her Arms about me; but, when +I began to speak, and to tell her of much that had made me miserable, +she hearkened in motionlesse Silence, till I told her that _Father_ had +torn the Letter and beaten the Messenger. Then she cried, "Oh, I see +now what may and shall be done! _Roger_ shall be Peacemaker," and ran +off with Joyfulnesse; I not withholding her. But I can never be +joyfulle more--he cannot be Day's-man betwixt us now--'tis alle too +late! + + + +_Nov. 28, 1643_. + +Now that I am at _Forest Hill_ agayn, I will essay to continue my +Journalling.-- + +Mr. _Agnew_ was out; and though a keene wintry Wind was blowing, and +_Rose_ was suffering from Colde, yet she went out to listen for his +Horse's Feet at the Gate, with onlie her Apron cast over her Head. +Shortlie, he returned; and I heard him say in a troubled Voice, "Alle +are in Arms at _Forest Hill_." I felt soe greatlie shocked as to neede +to sit downe instead of running forthe to learn the News. I supposed +the parliamentarian Soldiers had advanced, unexpectedlie, upon +_Oxford_. His next Words were, "_Dick is_ coming for her at +Noone--poor Soul, I know not what she will doe--her Father will trust +her noe longer with you and me." Then I saw them both passe the +Window, slowlie pacing together, and hastened forth to joyn them; but +they had turned into the pleached Alley, their Backs towards me; and +both in such earnest and apparentlie private Communication, that I +dared not interrupt them till they turned aboute, which was not for +some While; for they stood for some Time at the Head of the Alley, +still with theire Backs to me, _Rose's_ Hair blowing in the cold Wind; +and once or twice she seemed to put her Kerchief to her Eyes. + +Now, while I stood mazed and uncertain, I hearde a distant Clatter of +Horse's Feet, on the hard Road a good Way off, and could descrie _Dick_ +coming towards _Sheepscote_. _Rose_ saw him too, and commenced running +towards me; Mr. _Agnew_ following with long Strides. _Rose_ drew me +back into the House, and sayd, kissing me, "Dearest _Moll_, I am soe +sorry; _Roger_ hath seen your Father this Morn, and he will on no +Account spare you to us anie longer; and _Dick_ is coming to fetch you +even now." I sayd, "Is _Father_ ill?" "Oh no," replied Mr. _Agnew_; +then coming up, "He is not ill, but he is perturbed at something which +has occurred; and, in Truth, soe am I.--But remember, Mistress +_Milton_, remember, dear _Cousin_, that when you married, your +_Father's_ Guardianship of you passed into the Hands of your +Husband--your Husband's House was thenceforthe your Home; and in +quitting it you committed a Fault you may yet repaire, though this +offensive Act has made the Difficultie much greater."--"Oh, what has +happened?" I impatientlie cried. Just then, _Dick_ comes in with his +usual blunt Salutations, and then cries, "Well, _Moll_, are you ready +to goe back?" "Why should I be?" I sayd, "when I am soe happy here? +unless _Father_ is ill, or Mr. _Agnew_ and _Rose_ are tired of me." +They both interrupted, there was nothing they soe much desired, at this +present, as that I shoulde prolong my Stay. And you know, _Dick, I_ +added, that _Forest Hill_ is not soe pleasant to me just now as it hath +commonlie beene, by Reason of your _Oxford_ Companions. He brieflie +sayd, I neede not mind that, they were coming no more to the House, +_Father_ had decreed it. And you know well enough, _Moll_, that what +_Father_ decrees, must be, and he hath decreed that you must come Home +now; soe no more Ado, I pray you, but fetch your Cloak and Hood, and +the Horses shall come round, for 'twill be late ere we reach Home. +"Nay, you must dine here at all Events," sayd _Rose_; "I know, _Dick_, +you love roast Pork." Soe _Dick_ relented. Soe _Rose_, turning to me, +prayed me to bid _Cicely_ hasten Dinner; the which I did, tho' thinking +it strange _Rose_ should not goe herself. But, as I returned, I hearde +her say, Not a Word of it, dear _Dick_, at the least, till after +Dinner, lest you spoil her Appetite. Soe _Dick_ sayd he shoulde goe +and look after the Horses. I sayd then, brisklie, I see somewhat is +the Matter--pray tell me what it is. But _Rose_ looked quite dull, and +walked to the Window. Then Mr. _Agnew_ sayd, "You seem as dissatisfied +to leave us, _Cousin_, as we are to lose you; and yet you are going +back to _Forest Hill_--to that Home in which you will doubtlesse be +happy to live all your Dayes."--"At _Forest Hill_?" I sayd, "Oh no! I +hope not." "And why?" sayd he quicklie. I hung my Head, and muttered, +"I hope, some Daye, to goe back to Mr. _Milton_." "And why not at +once?" sayd he. I sayd, "_Father_ would not let me." "Nay, that is +childish," he answered, "your Father could not hinder you if you wanted +not the Mind to goe--it was your first seeming soe loth to return, that +made him think you unhappie and refuse to part with you." I sayd, "And +what if I were unhappie?" He paused; and knew not at the Moment what +Answer to make, but shortlie replyed by another Question, "What Cause +had you to be soe?" I sayd, "That was more easily askt than answered, +even if there were anie Neede I shoulde answer it, or he had anie Right +to ask it." He cried in an Accent of Tendernesse that still wrings my +Heart to remember, "Oh, question not the Right! I only wish to make +you happy. Were you not happy with Mr. _Milton_ during the Week you +spent together here at _Sheepscote_?" Thereat I coulde not refrayn +from bursting into Tears. _Rose_ now sprang forward; but Mr. _Agnew_ +sayd, "Let her weep, let her weep, it will do her good." Then, alle at +once it occurred to me that my Husband was awaiting me at Home, and I +cried, "Oh, is Mr. _Milton_ at _Forest Hill_?" and felt my Heart full +of Gladness. Mr. _Agnew_ answered, "Not soe, not soe, poor _Moll_:" +and, looking up at him, I saw him wiping his Brow, though the Daye was +soe chill. "As well tell her now," sayd he to _Rose_; and then taking +my Hand, "Oh, Mrs. _Milton_, can you wonder that your Husband should be +angry? How can you wonder at anie Evil that may result from the +Provocation you have given him? What Marvell, that since you cast him +off, all the sweet Fountains of his Affections would be embittered, and +that he should retaliate by seeking a Separation, and even a +Divorce?"--There I stopt him with an Outcry of "Divorce?" "Even soe," +he most mournfully replyd, "and I seeke not to excuse him, since two +Wrongs make not a Right." "But," I cried, passionately weeping, "I +have given him noe Cause; my Heart has never for a Moment strayed to +another, nor does he, I am sure, expect it." "Ne'erthelesse," enjoyned +Mr. _Agnew_, "he is soe aggrieved and chafed, that he has followed up +what he considers your Breach of the Marriage Contract by writing and +publishing a Book on Divorce; the Tenor of which coming to your +Father's Ears, has violently incensed him. And now, dear _Cousin_, +having, by your Waywardness, kindled this Flame, what remains for you +but to--nay, hear me, hear me, _Moll_, for _Dick_ is coming in, and I +may not let him hear me urge you to the onlie Course that can regayn +your Peace--Mr. _Milton_ is still your Husband; eache of you have now +Something to forgive; do you be the firste; nay, seeke _his_ +Forgivenesse, and you shall be happier than you have been yet." + +--But I was weeping without controule; and _Dick_ coming in, and with +_Dick_ the Dinner, I askt to be excused, and soe soughte my Chamber, to +weep there without Restraynt or Witnesse. Poor _Rose_ came up, as +soone as she coulde leave the Table, and told me she had eaten as +little as I, and woulde not even presse me to eat. But she carest me +and comforted me, and urged in her owne tender Way alle that had beene +sayd by Mr. _Agnew_; even protesting that if she were in my Place, she +woulde not goe back to _Forest Hill_, but straight to _London_, to +entreat with Mr. _Milton_ for his Mercy. But I told her I could not do +that, even had I the Means for the Journey; for that my Heart was +turned against the Man who coulde, for the venial Offence of a young +Wife, in abiding too long with her old Father, not onlie cast her off +from his Love, but hold her up to the World's Blame and Scorn, by +making their domestic Quarrel the Matter for a printed Attack. _Rose_ +sayd, "I admit he is wrong, but indeed, indeed, _Moll_, you are wrong +too, and you were wrong _first_:" and she sayd this soe often, that at +length we came to crosser Words; when _Dick_, calling to me from below, +would have me make haste, which I was glad to doe, and left +_Sheepscote_ less regrettfullie than I had expected. _Rose_ kist me +with her gravest Face. Mr. _Agnew_ put me on my Horse, and sayd, as he +gave me the Rein, "Now think! now think! even yet!" and then, as I +silently rode off, "_God_ bless you." + +I held down my Head; but, at the Turn of the Road, lookt back, and saw +him and _Rose_ watching us from the Porch. _Dick_ cried, "I am righte +glad we are off at last, for _Father_ is downright crazie aboute this +Businesse, and mistrustfulle of _Agnew's_ Influence over you,"--and +would have gone on railing, but I bade him for Pitie's Sake be quiete. + +The Effects of my owne Follie, the Losse of Home, Husband, Name, the +Opinion of the _Agnews_, the Opinion of the Worlde, rose up agaynst me, +and almost drove me mad. And, just as I was thinking I had better +lived out my Dayes and dyed earlie in _Bride's Churchyarde_ than that +alle this should have come about, the suddain Recollection of what +_Rose_ had that Morning tolde me, which soe manie other Thoughts had +driven out of my Head, viz. that Mr. _Milton_ had, in his Desire to +please me, while I was onlie bent on pleasing myself, been secretly +striving to make readie the _Aldersgate Street_ House agaynst my +Return,--soe overcame me, that I wept as I rode along. Nay, at the +Corner of a branch Road, had a Mind to beg _Dick_ to let me goe to +_London_; but a glance at his dogged Countenance sufficed to foreshow +my Answer. + +Half dead with Fatigue and Griefe when I reached Home, the tender +Embraces of my Father and Mother completed the Overthrowe of my +Spiritts. I tooke to my Bed; and this is the first Daye I have left +it; nor will they let me send for _Rose_, nor even tell her I am ill. + + + +_Jan. 1, 1644_. + +The new Year opens drearilie, on Affairs both publick and private. The +Loaf parted at Breakfast this Morning, which, as the Saying goes, is a +Sign of Separation; but _Mother_ onlie sayd 'twas because it was badly +kneaded, and chid _Margery_. She hath beene telling me, but now, how I +mighte have 'scaped all my Troubles, and seene as much as I woulde of +her and _Father_, and yet have contented Mr. _Milton_ and beene counted +a good Wife. Noe Advice soe ill to bear as that which comes too late. + + + +_Jan. 7, 1644_. + +I am sick of this journalling, soe shall onlie put downe the Date of +_Robin's_ leaving Home. _Lord_ have Mercy on him, and keepe him in +Safetie. This is a shorte Prayer; therefore, easier to be often +repeated. When he kissed me, he whispered, "_Moll_, pray for me." + + + +_Jan. 27, 1644_. + +_Father_ does not seeme to miss _Robin_ much, tho' he dailie drinks his +Health after that of the King. Perhaps he did not miss me anie more +when I was in _London_, though it was true and naturall enough he +should like to see me agayn. We should have beene used to our +Separation by this Time; there would have beene nothing corroding in +it. . . . + +I pray for _Robin_ everie Night. Since he went, the House has lost its +Sunshine. When I was soe anxious to return to _Forest Hill_, I never +counted on his leaving it. + + + +_Feb. 1, 1644_. + +Oh Heaven, what would I give to see the Skirts of Mr. _Milton's_ +Garments agayn! My Heart is sick unto Death. I have been reading some +of my _Journall_, and tearing out much childish Nonsense at the +Beginning; but coulde not destroy the painfulle Records of the last +Year. How unhappy a Creature am I!--wearie, wearie of my Life, yet no +Ways inclined for Death. _Lord_, have Mercy upon me. + + +_March 27, 1644_. + +I spend much of my Time, now, in the Book-room, and, though I essay not +to pursue the _Latin_, I read much _English_, at the least, more than +ever I did in my Life before; but often I fancy I am reading when I am +onlie dreaming. _Oxford_ is far too gay a Place for me now ever to goe +neare it, but my Brothers are much there, and _Father_ in his Farm, and +_Mother_ in her Kitchen; and the Neighbours, when they call, look on me +strangelie, so that I have noe Love for them. How different is +_Rose's_ holy, secluded, yet cheerefulle Life at _Sheepscote_! She +hath a Nurserie now, soe cannot come to me, and _Father_ likes not I +should goe to her. + + + +_April 5, 1644_. + +They say their Majestyes' Parting at _Abingdon_ was very sorrowfulle +and tender. The _Lord_ send them better Times! The Queen is to my +Mind a most charming Lady, and well worthy of his Majesty's Affection; +yet it seems to me amisse, that thro' her Influence, last Summer, the +Opportunitie of Pacification was lost. But she was elated, and +naturallie enoughe, at her personall Successes from the Time of her +landing. To me, there seems nothing soe good as Peace. I know, +indeede, Mr. _Milton_ holds that there may be such Things as a holy War +and a cursed Peace. + + + +_April 10, 1644_. + +_Father_, having a Hoarseness, hath deputed me, of late, to read the +Morning and Evening Prayers. How beautifulle is our Liturgie! I +grudge at the Puritans for having abolished it; and though I felt not +its comprehensive Fullessse [Transcriber's note: Fullnesse?] before I +married, nor indeed till now, yet I wearied to Death in _London_ at the +puritanicall Ordinances and Conscience-meetings and extempore Prayers, +wherein it was soe oft the Speaker's Care to show Men how godly he was. +Nay, I think Mr. _Milton_ altogether wrong in the View he takes of +praying to _God_ in other Men's Words; for doth he not doe soe, everie +Time he followeth the Sense of another Man's extempore Prayer, wherein +he is more at his Mercy and Caprice than when he hath a printed Form +set down, wherein he sees what is coming? + + + +_June 8, 1644_. + +Walking in the Home-close this Morning, it occurred to me that Mr. +_Milton_ intended bringing me to _Forest Hill_ about this Time; and +that if I had abided patientlie with him through the Winter, we might +now have beene both here happily together; untroubled by that Sting +which now poisons everie Enjoyment of mine, and perhaps of his. +_Lord_, be merciful to _me a Sinner_. + + + +_June 23, 1644_. + +Just after writing the above, I was in the Garden, gathering a few +Coronation Flowers and Sops-in-Wine, and thinking they were of deeper +crimson at_ Sheepscote_, and wondering what _Rose_ was just then about, +and whether had I beene born in her Place, I shoulde have beene as +goode and happy as she,--when _Harry_ came up, looking somewhat grave. +I sayd, "What is the Matter?" He gave Answer, "_Rose_ hath lost her +Child." Oh!----that we should live but a two Hours' Journey apart, and +that she coulde lose a Child three Months olde _whom I had never seene_? + +I ran to _Father_, and never left off praying him to let me goe to her +till he consented. + +--What, and if I had begged as hard, at the firste, to goe back to Mr. +_Milton_? might he not have consented _then_? + +. . . Soe _Harry_ took me; and as we drew neare _Sheepscote_, I was +avised to think how grave, how barely friendlie had beene our last +Parting; and to ponder, would _Rose_ make me welcome now? The Infant, +_Harry_ tolde me, had beene dead some Dayes; and, as we came in Sight +of the little grey old Church, we saw a Knot of People coming out of +the Churchyard, and guessed the Baby had just beene buried. Soe it +proved--Mr. _Agnew's_ House-door stood ajar; and when we tapped softlie +and _Cicely_ admitted us we could see him standing by _Rose_, who was +sitting on the Ground and crying as if she would not be comforted. +When she hearde my Voice, she started up, flung her Arms about me, +crying more bitterlie than before, and I cried too; and Mr. _Agnew_ +went away with _Harry_. Then _Rose_ sayd to me, "You must not leave me +agayn." . . . + +. . . In the Cool of the Evening, when _Harry_ had left us, she took me +into the Churchyarde, and scattered the little Grave with Flowers; and +then continued sitting beside it on the Grasse, quiete, but not +comfortlesse. I am avised to think she prayed. Then Mr. _Agnew_ came +forthe and sate on a flat Tombstone hard by; and without one Word of +Introduction took out his _Psalter_, and commenced reading the Psalms +for that Evening's Service; to wit, the 41st, the 42d, the 43de; in a +low solemne Voice; and methoughte I never in my Life hearde aniething +to equall it in the Way of Consolation. _Rose's_ heavie Eyes +graduallie lookt up from the Ground into her Husband's Face, and thence +up to Heaven. After this, he read, or rather repeated, the Collect at +the end of the Buriall Service, putting this Expression,--"As our Hope +is, this our deare Infant doth." Then he went on to say in a soothing +Tone, "There hath noe misfortune happened to us, but such as is common +to the Lot of alle Men. We are alle Sinners, even to the youngest, +fayrest, and seeminglie purest among us; and Death entered the World by +Sin, and, constituted as we are, we would not, even if we could, +dispense with Death. For, where doth it convey us? From this +burthensome, miserable World, into the generall Assemblie of _Christ's_ +First-born, to be united with the Spiritts of the Just made perfect, to +partake of everie Enjoyment which in this World is unconnected with +Sin, together with others that are unknowne and unspeakable. And +there, we shall agayn have _Bodies_ as well as Soules; Eyes to see, but +not to shed Tears; Voices to speak and sing, not to utter Lamentations; +Hands, to doe _God's_ Work; Feet, and it may be, Wings, to carry us on +his Errands. Such will be the Blessedness of his glorified Saints; +even of those who, having been Servants of Satan till the eleventh +Hour, laboured penitentlie and diligentlie for their heavenlie Master +one Hour before Sunset; but as for those who, dying in mere Infancie, +never committed actuall Sin, they follow the Lamb whithersoever he +goeth! 'Oh, think of this, dear _Rose_, and Sorrow not as those +without Hope; for be assured, your Child hath more reall Reason to be +grieved for you, than you for _him_.'" + +With this, and like Discourse, that distilled like the Dew, or the +small Rain on the tender Grasse, did _Roger Agnew_ comfort his Wife, +untill the Moon had risen. Likewise he spake to us of those who lay +buried arounde, how one had died of a broken Heart, another of suddain +Joy, another had let Patience have her perfect Work through Years of +lingering Disease. + +hen we walked slowlie and composedlie Home, and ate our Supper +peacefullie, _Rose_ not refusing to eat, though she took but little. + +Since that Evening, she hath, at Mr. _Agnew's_ Wish, gone much among +the Poor, reading to one, working for another, carrying Food and +Medicine to another; and in this I have borne her Companie. I like it +well. Methinks how pleasant and seemlie are the Duties of a country +Minister's Wife! a God-fearing Woman, that is, who considereth the Poor +and Needy, insteade of aiming to be frounced and purfled like her +richest Neighbours. Mr. _Agnew_ was reading to us, last Night, of +_Bernard Gilpin_--he of whom the _Lord Burleigh_ sayd, "Who can blame +that Man for not accepting a Bishopric?" How charmed were we with the +Description of the Simplicitie and Hospitalitie of his Method of living +at _Houghton_!--There is another Place of nearlie the same Name, in +_Buckinghamshire_--not _Houghton_, but _Horton_, . . . where one Mr. +_John Milton_ spent five of the best Years of his Life,--and where +methinks his Wife could have been happier with him than in _Bride's +Churchyarde_.--But it profits not to wish and to will.--What was to be, +had Need to be, soe there's an End. + + + +_Aug. 1, 1644_. + +Mr. _Agnew_ sayd to me this Morning, somewhat gravelie, "I observe, +_Cousin_, you seem to consider yourselfe the Victim of Circumstances." +"And am I not?" I replied. "No," he answered, "Circumstance is a false +God, unrecognised by the Christian, who contemns him, though a stubborn +yet a profitable Servant."--"That may be alle very grand for a Man to +doe," I sayd. "Very grand, but very feasible, for a Woman as well as a +Man," rejoined Mr. _Agnew_, "and we shall be driven to the Wall alle +our Lives, unless we have this victorious Struggle with Circumstances. +I seldom allude, _Cousin_, to yours, which are almoste too delicate for +me to meddle with; and yet I hardlie feele justified in letting soe +many opportunities escape. Do I offend? or may I go on?--Onlie think, +then, how voluntarilie you have placed yourself in your present +uncomfortable Situation. The Tree cannot resist the graduall Growth of +the Moss upon it; but you might, anie Day, anie Hour, have freed +yourself from the equallie graduall Formation of the Net that has +enclosed you at last. You entered too hastilie into your firste--nay, +let that pass,--you gave too shorte a Triall of your new Home before +you became disgusted with it. Admit it to have beene dull, even +unhealthfulle, were you justified in forsaking it at a Month's End? +But your Husband gave you Leave of Absence, though obtayned on false +Pretences.--When you found them to be false, should you not have +cleared yourself to him of Knowledge of the Deceit? Then your Leave, +soe obtayned, expired--shoulde you not have returned then?--Your Health +and Spiritts were recruited; your Husband wrote to reclaim you--shoulde +you not have returned then? He provided an Escort, whom your Father +beat and drove away.--If you had insisted on going to your Husband, +might you not have gone _then_? Oh, _Cousin_, you dare not look up to +Heaven and say you have been the Victim of Circumstances." + +I made no Answer; onlie felt much moven, and very angrie. I sayd, "If +I wished to goe back, Mr. _Milton_ woulde not receive me now." + +"Will you try?" sayd _Roger_. "Will you but let me try? Will you let +me write to him?" + +I had a Mind to say "Yes."--Insteade, I answered "No." + +"Then there's an End," cried he sharplie. "Had you made but one fayre +Triall, whether successfulle or noe, I coulde have been satisfied--no, +not satisfied, but I woulde have esteemed you, coulde have taken your +Part. As it is, the less I say just now, perhaps, the better. Forgive +me for having spoken at alle." + +----Afterwards, I hearde him say to _Rose_ of me, "I verilie believe +there is Nothing in her on which to make a permanent Impression. I +verilie think she loves everie one of those long Curls of hers more +than she loves Mr. _Milton_." + +(Note:--I will cut them two Inches shorter tonight. And they will grow +all the faster.) + +. . . Oh, my sad Heart, _Roger Agnew_ hath pierced you at last! + +I was moved, more than he thought, by what he had sayd in the Morning; +and, in writing down the Heads of his Speech, to kill Time, a kind of +Resentment at myselfe came over me, unlike to what I had ever felt +before; in spite of my Folly about my Curls. Seeking for some Trifle +in a Bag that had not been shaken out since I brought it from _London_, +out tumbled a Key with curious Wards--I knew it at once for one that +belonged to a certayn Algum-wood Casket Mr. _Milton_ had Recourse to +dailie, because he kept small Change in it; and I knew not I had +brought it away! 'Twas worked in Grotesque, the Casket, by +_Benvenuto_, for _Clement_ the Seventh, who for some Reason woulde not +have it; and soe it came somehow to _Clementillo_, who gave it to Mr. +_Milton_. Thought I, how uncomfortable the Loss of this Key must have +made him! he must have needed it a hundred Times! even if he hath +bought a new Casket, I will for it he habituallie goes agayn and agayn +to the old one, and then he remembers that he lost the Key the same Day +that he lost his Wife. I heartilie wish he had it back. Ah, but he +feels not the one Loss as he feels the other. Nay, but it is as well +that one of them, tho' the Lesser, should be repaired. 'Twill shew +Signe of Grace, my thinking of him, and may open the Way, if _God_ +wills, to some Interchange of Kindnesse, however fleeting. + +Soe I soughte out Mr. _Agnew_, tapping at his Studdy Doore. He sayd, +"Come in," drylie enoughe; and there were he and _Rose_ reading a +Letter. I sayd, "I want you to write for me to Mr. _Milton_." He gave +a sour Look, as much as to say he disliked the Office; which threw me +back, as 'twere; he having soe lately proposed it himself. _Rose's_ +Eyes, however, dilated with sweete Pleasure, as she lookt from one to +the other of us. + +"Well,--I fear 'tis too late," sayd he at length reluctantlie, I mighte +almost say grufflie,--"what am I to write?" + +"To tell him I have this Key," I made Answer faltering. + +"That Key!" cried he. + +"Yes, the Key of his Algum-wood Casket, which I knew not I had, and +which I think he must miss dailie." + +He lookt at me with the utmost Impatience. "And is that alle?" he sayd. + +"Yes, alle," I sayd trembling. + +"And have you nothing more to tell him?" sayd he. + +"No--" after a Pause, I replyed. _Rose's_ Countenance fell. + +"Then you must ask some one else to write for you, Mrs. _Milton,"_ +burste forthe _Roger Agnew_, "unless you choose to write for yourself. +I have neither Part nor Lot in it." + +I burste forthe into Teares. + +--"No, _Rose_, no," repeated Mr. _Agnew_, putting aside his Wife, who +woulde have interceded for me,--"her Teares have noe Effect on me +now--they proceed, not from a contrite Heart, they are the Tears of a +Child that cannot brook to be chidden for the Waywardnesse in which it +persists." + +"You doe me Wrong everie Way," I sayd; "I came to you willing and +desirous to doe what you yourselfe woulde, this Morning, have had me +doe." + +"But in how strange a Way!" cried he. "At a Time when anie Renewal of +your Intercourse requires to be conducted with the utmost Delicacy, and +even with more Shew of Concession on your Part than, an Hour ago, I +should have deemed needfulle,--to propose an abrupt, trivial +Communication about an old Key!" + +"It needed not to have been abrupt," I sayd, "nor yet trivial; for I +meant it to have beene exprest kindlie." + +"You said not that before," answered he. + +"Because you gave me not Time.--Because you chid me and frightened me." + +He stood silent, some While, upon this; grave, yet softer, and +mechanicallie playing with the Key, which he had taken from my Hand. +_Rose_ looking in his Face anxiouslie. At lengthe, to disturbe his +Reverie, she playfulle tooke it from him, saying, in School-girl Phrase, + +"This is the Key of the Kingdom!" + +"Of the Kingdom of Heaven, it mighte be!" exclaimed _Roger_, "if we +knew how to use it arighte! If we knew but how to fit it to the Wards +of _Milton's_ Heart!--there's the Difficultie. . . . a greater one, +poor _Moll_, than you know; for hitherto, alle the Reluctance has been +on your Part. But now . . ." + +"What now?" I anxiouslie askt. + +"We were talking of you but as you rejoyned us," sayd Mr. _Agnew_, "and +I was telling _Rose_ that hithertoe I had considered the onlie Obstacle +to a Reunion arose from a false Impression of your own, that Mr. +_Milton_ coulde not make you happy. But now I have beene led to the +Conclusion that you cannot make _him_ soe, which increases the +Difficultie." + +After a Pause, I sayd, "What makes you think soe?" + +"You and he have made me think soe," he replyed. "First for yourself, +dear _Moll_, putting aside for a Time the Consideration of your Youth, +Beauty, Franknesse, Mirthfullenesse, and a certayn girlish Drollerie +and Mischiefe that are all very well in fitting Time and Place,--what +remains in you for a Mind like _John Milton's_ to repose upon? what +Stabilitie? what Sympathie? what steadfast Principle? You take noe +Pains to apprehend and relish his favourite Pursuits; you care not for +his wounded Feelings, you consult not his Interests, anie more than +your owne Duty. Now, is such the Character to make _Milton_ happy?" + +"No one can answer that but himself," I replyed, deeplie mortyfide. + +"Well, he _has_ answered it," sayd Mr. _Agnew_, taking up the Letter he +and _Rose_ had beene reading when I interrupted them. . . . "You must +know, _Cousin_, that his and my close Friendship hath beene a good deal +interrupted by this Matter. 'Twas under my Roof you met. _Rose_ had +imparted to me much of her earlie Interest in you. I fancied you had +good Dispositions which, under masterlie Trayning, would ripen into +noble Principles; and therefore promoted your Marriage as far as my +Interest with your Father had Weight. I own I was surprised at his +easilie obtayned Consent . . . but, that _you_, once domesticated with +such a Man as _John Milton_, shoulde find your Home uninteresting, your +Affections free to stray back to your owne Family, was what I had never +contemplated." + +Here I made a Show of taking the Letter, but he held it back. + +"No, _Moll_, you disappointed us everie Way. And, for a Time, _Rose_ +and I were ashamed, _for_ you rather than of you, that we left noe +Means neglected of trying to preserve your Place in your Husband's +Regard. But you did not bear us out; and then he beganne to take it +amisse that we upheld you. Soe then, after some warm and cool Words, +our Correspondence languished; and hath but now beene renewed." + +"He hath written us a most kind Condolence," interrupted _Rose_, "on +the Death of our Baby." + +"Yes, most kindlie, most nobly exprest," sayd Mr. _Agnew_; "but what a +Conclusion!" + +And then, after this long Preamble, he offered me the Letter, the +Beginning of which, tho' doubtlesse well enough, I marked not, being +impatient to reach the latter Part; wherein I found myself spoken of +soe bitterlie, soe harshlie, as that I too plainly saw _Roger Agnew_ +had not beene beside the Mark when he decided I could never make Mr. +_Milton_ happy. Payned and wounded Feeling made me lay aside the +Letter without proffering another Word, and retreat without soe much as +a Sigh or a Sob into mine own Chamber; but noe longer could the +Restraynt be maintained. I fell to weeping soe passionatelie that +_Rose_ prayed to come in, and condoled with me, and advised me, soe as +that at length my Weeping bated, and I promised to return below when I +shoulde have bathed mine Eyes and smoothed my Hair; but I have not gone +down yet. + + + +_Bedtime_. + +I think I shall send to _Father_ to have me Home at the Beginning of +next Week. _Rose_ needes me not, now; and it cannot be pleasant to Mr. +_Agnew_ to see my sorrowfulle Face about the House. His Reproofe and +my Husband's together have riven my Heart; I think I shall never laugh +agayn, nor smile but after a piteous Sorte; and soe People will cease +to love me, for there is Nothing in me of a graver Kind to draw their +Affection; and soe I shall lead a moping Life unto the End of my Dayes. + +--Luckilie for me, _Rose_ hath much Sewing to doe; for she hath +undertaken with great Energie her Labours for the Poore, and +consequentlie spends less Time in her Husband's Studdy; and, as I help +her to the best of my Means, my Sewing hides my Lack of Talking, and +Mr. _Agnew_ reads to us such Books as he deems entertayning; yet, half +the Time, I hear not what he reads. Still, I did not deeme so much +Amusement could have beene found in Books; and there are some of his, +that, if not soe cumbrous, I woulde fain borrow. + + + +_Friday_. + +I have made up my Mind now, that I shall never see Mr. _Milton_ more; +and am resolved to submitt to it without another Tear. + +_Rose_ sayd, this Morning, she was glad to see me more composed; and +soe am I; but never was more miserable. + + + +_Saturday Night_. + +Mr. _Agnew's_ religious Services at the End of the Week have alwaies +more than usuall Matter and Meaninge in them. They are neither soe +drowsy as those I have beene for manie Years accustomed to at Home, nor +soe wearisome as to remind me of the _Puritans_. Were there manie such +as he in our Church, soe faithfulle, fervent, and thoughtfulle, +methinks there would be fewer Schismaticks; but still there woulde be +some, because there are alwaies some that like to be the uppermost. + +. . . To-nighte, Mr. _Agnew's_ Prayers went straight to my Heart; and I +privilie turned sundrie of his generall Petitions into particular ones, +for myself and _Robin_, and also for Mr. _Milton_. This gave such +unwonted Relief, that since I entered into my Closet, I have repeated +the same particularlie; one Request seeming to grow out of another, +till I remained I know not how long on my Knees, and will bend them yet +agayn, ere I go to Bed. + +How sweetlie the Moon shines through my Casement to-night! I am +almoste avised to accede to _Rose's_ Request of staying here to the End +of the Month:--everie Thing here is soe peacefulle; and _Forest Hill_ +is dull, now _Robin_ is away. + + + +_Sunday Evening_. + +How blessed a Sabbath!--Can it be, that I thought, onlie two Days back, +I shoulde never know Peace agayn? Joy I may not, but Peace I can and +doe. And yet nought hath amended the unfortunate Condition of mine +Affairs; but a different Colouring is caste upon them--the _Lord_ grant +that it may last! How hath it come soe, and how may it be preserved? +This Morn, when I awoke, 'twas with a Sense of Relief such as we have +when we miss some wearying bodilie Payn; a Feeling as though I had +beene forgiven, yet not by Mr. _Milton_, for I knew he had not forgiven +me. Then, it must be, I was forgiven by _God_; and why? I had done +nothing to get his Forgivenesse, only presumed on his Mercy to ask +manie Things I had noe Right to expect. And yet I felt I _was_ +forgiven. Why then mighte not Mr. _Milton_ some Day forgive me? +Should the Debt of ten thousand Talents be cancelled, and not the Debt +of a hundred Pence? Then I thought on that same Word, Talents; and +considered, had I ten, or even one? Decided to consider it at leisure, +more closelie, and to make over to _God_ henceforthe, be they ten, or +be it one. Then, dressed with much Composure, and went down to +Breakfast. + +Having marked that Mr. _Agnew_ and _Rose_ affected not Companie on this +Day, spent it chieflie by myself, except at Church and Meal-times; +partlie in my Chamber, partlie in the Garden Bowre by the Beehives. +Made manie Resolutions, which, in Church, I converted into Prayers and +Promises. Hence, my holy Peace. + + + +_Monday_. + +_Rose_ proposed, this Morning, we shoulde resume our Studdies. Felt +loath to comply, but did soe neverthelesse, and afterwards we walked +manie Miles, to visit some poor Folk. This Evening, Mr. _Agnew_ read +us the Prologue to the _Canterbury Tales_. How lifelike are the +Portraitures! I mind me that Mr. _Milton_ shewed me the _Talbot_ Inn, +that Day we crost the River with Mr. _Marvell_. + + + +_Tuesday_. + +How heartilie do I wish I had never read that same Letter!--or rather, +that it had never beene written. Thus it is, even with our Wishes. We +think ourselves reasonable in wishing some small Thing were otherwise, +which it were quite as impossible to alter as some great Thing. +Neverthelesse I cannot help fretting over the Remembrance of that Part +wherein he spake such bitter Things of my "most ungoverned Passion for +Revellings and Junketings." Sure, he would not call my Life too merrie +now, could he see me lying wakefulle on my Bed, could he see me +preventing the Morning Watch, could he see me at my Prayers, at my +Books, at my Needle. . . . He shall find he hath judged too hardlie of +poor _Moll_, even yet. + + + +_Wednesday_. + +Took a cold Dinner in a Basket with us to-day, and ate our rusticall +Repast on the Skirt of a Wood, where we could see the Squirrels at +theire Gambols. Mr. _Agnew_ lay on the Grasse, and _Rose_ took out her +Knitting, whereat he laught, and sayd she was like the _Dutch_ Women, +that must knit, whether mourning or feasting, and even on the Sabbath. +Having laught her out of her Work, he drew forth Mr. _George Herbert's_ +Poems, and read us a Strayn which pleased _Rose_ and me soe much, that +I shall copy it herein, to have always by me. + + + How fresh, oh Lord: how sweet and clean + Are thy Returns! e'en as the Flowers in Spring, + To which, beside theire owne Demesne, + The late pent Frosts Tributes of Pleasure bring. + Grief melts away like Snow in May, + As if there were noe such cold Thing. + + Who would have thought my shrivelled Heart + Woulde have recovered greenness? it was gone + Quite Underground, as Flowers depart + To see their Mother-root, when they have blown, + Where they together, alle the hard Weather, + Dead to the World, keep House alone. + + These are thy Wonders, Lord of Power! + Killing and quickening, bringing down to Hell + And up to Heaven, in an Hour, + Making a Chiming of a passing Bell, + We say amiss "this or that is:" + Thy Word is alle, if we could spell. + + Oh that I once past changing were! + Fast in thy Paradise, where no Flowers can wither; + Manie a Spring I shoot up faire, + Offering at Heaven, growing and groaning thither, + Nor doth my Flower want a Spring Shower, + My Sins and I joyning together. + + But while I grow in a straight Line, + Still upwards bent, as if Heaven were my own, + Thy Anger comes, and I decline.-- + What Frost to that! What Pole is not the Zone + Where alle Things burn, when thou dost turn, + And the least Frown of thine is shewn? + + And now, in Age, I bud agayn, + After soe manie Deaths, I bud and write, + I once more smell the Dew and Rain, + And relish Versing! Oh my onlie Light! + It cannot be that I am he + On whom thy Tempests fell alle Night? + + These are thy Wonders, Lord of Love, + To make us see we are but Flowers that glide, + Which, when we once can feel and prove, + Thou hast a Garden for us where to bide. + Who would be more, swelling their Store, + Forfeit their Paradise by theire Pride. + + + +_Thursday_. + +_Father_ sent over _Diggory_ with a Letter for me from deare _Robin_: +alsoe, to ask when I was minded to return Home, as _Mother_ wants to +goe to _Sandford_. Fixed the Week after next; but _Rose_ says I must +be here agayn at the Apple-gathering. Answered _Robin's_ Letter. He +looketh not for Choyce of fine Words; nor noteth an Error here and +there in the Spelling. + + + +_Tuesday_. + +Life flows away here in such unmarked Tranquilitie, that one hath +Nothing whereof to write, or to remember what distinguished one Day +from another. I am sad, yet not dulle; methinks I have grown some +Yeares older since I came here. I can fancy elder Women feeling much +as I doe now. I have Nothing to desire. Nothing to hope, that is +likelie to come to pass--Nothing to regret, except I begin soe far +back, that my whole Life hath neede, as 'twere, to begin over +agayn. . . . + +Mr. _Agnew_ translates to us Portions of _Thuanus_ his Historie, and +the Letters of _Theodore Bexa_, concerning the _French_ Reformed +Church; oft prolix, yet interesting, especially with Mr. _Agnew's_ +Comments, and Allusions to our own Time. On the other Hand, _Rose_ +reads _Davila_, the sworne Apologiste of _Catherine de' Medicis_, whose +charming _Italian_ even I can comprehende; but alle is false and +plausible. How sad, that the wrong Partie shoulde be victorious! Soe +it may befall in this Land; though, indeede, I have hearde soe much +bitter Rayling on bothe Sides, that I know not which is right. The +Line of Demarcation is not soe distinctly drawn, methinks, as 'twas in +_France_. Yet it cannot be right to take up Arms agaynst constituted +Authorities?--Yet, and if those same Authorities abuse their Trust? +Nay, Women cannot understand these Matters, and I thank Heaven they +need not. Onlie, they cannot help siding with those they love; and +sometimes those they love are on opposite Sides. + +Mr. _Agnew_ sayth, the secular Arm shoulde never be employed in +spirituall Matters, and that the _Hugenots_ committed a grave Mistake +in choosing Princes and Admirals for their Leaders, insteade of simple +Preachers with Bibles in their hands; and he askt, "did _Luther_ or +_Peter_ the Hermit most manifestlie labour with the Blessing of _God_?" + +. . . I have noted the Heads of Mr. _Agnew's_ Readings, after a Fashion +of _Rose's_, in order to have a shorte, comprehensive Account of the +Whole; and this hath abridged my journalling. It is the more +profitable to me of the two, changes the sad Current of Thought, and, +though an unaccustomed Task, I like it well. + + + +_Saturday_. + +On _Monday_, I return to _Forest Hill_. I am well pleased to have yet +another _Sheepscote_ Sabbath. To-day we had the rare Event of a +Dinner-guest; soe full of what the Rebels are doing, and alle the +Horrors of Strife, that he seemed to us quiete Folks, like the Denizen +of another World. + + + +_Forest Hill, August 3, 1644_. + +Home agayn, and _Mother_ hath gone on her long intended Visitt to Uncle +_John_, taking with her the two youngest. _Father_ much preoccupide, +by reason of the Supplies needed for his Majesty's Service; soe that, +sweet _Robin_ being away, I find myselfe lonely. _Harry_ rides with me +in the Evening, but the Mornings I have alle to myself; and when I have +fulfilled _Mother's_ Behests in the Kitchen and Still-room, I have +nought but to read in our somewhat scant Collection of Books, the moste +Part whereof are religious. And (not on that Account, but by reason I +have read the most of them before), methinks I will write to borrow +some of _Rose_; for Change of Reading hath now become a Want. I am +minded also, to seek out and minister unto some poore Folk after her +Fashion. Now that I am Queen of the Larder, there is manie a wholesome +Scrap at my Disposal, and there are likewise sundrie Physiques in my +Mother's Closet, which she addeth to Year by Year, and never wants, we +are soe seldom ill. + + + +_Aug. 5, 1644_. + +Dear _Father_ sayd this Evening, as we came in from a Walk on the +Terrace, "My sweet _Moll_, you were ever the Light of the House; but +now, though you are more staid than of former Time, I find you a better +Companion than ever. This last Visitt to _Sheepscote_ hath evened your +Spiritts." + +Poor _Father_! he knew not how I lay awake and wept last Night, for one +I shall never see agayn, nor how the Terrace Walk minded me of him. My +Spiritts may seem even, and I exert myself to please; but, within, all +is dark Shade, or at best, grey Twilight; and my Spiritts are, in Fact, +worse here than they were at _Sheepscote_, because, here, I am +continuallie thinking of one whose Name is never uttered; whereas, +there, it was mentioned naturallie and tenderlie, though sadly. . . . + +I will forthe to see some of the poor Folk. + + + +_Same Night_. + +Resolved to make the Circuit of the Cottages, but onlie reached the +first, wherein I found poor _Nell_ in such Grief of Body and Mind, that +I was avised to wait with her a long Time. Askt why she had not sent +to us for Relief; was answered she had thought of doing soe, but was +feared of making too free. After a lengthened Visitt, which seemed to +relieve her Mind, and certaynlie relieved mine, I bade her Farewell, +and at the Wicket met my Father coming up with a playn-favoured but +scholarlike looking reverend Man. He sayd, "_Moll_, I could not think +what had become of you." I answered, I hoped I had not kept him +waiting for Dinner--poor _Nell_ had entertayned me longer than I wisht, +with the Catalogue of her Troubles. The Stranger looking attentively +at me, observed that may be the poor Woman had entertayned an Angel +unawares; and added, "Doubt not, Madam, we woulde rather await our +Dinner than that you should have curtayled your Message of Charity." +Hithertoe, my Father had not named this Gentleman to me; but now he +sayd, "Child, this is the Reverend Doctor _Jeremy Taylor_, Chaplain in +Ordinarie to his Majesty, and whom you know I have heard more than once +preach before the King since he abode in _Oxford_." Thereon I made a +lowly Reverence, and we walked homewards together. At first, he +discoursed chiefly with my Father on the Troubles of the Times, and +then he drew me into the Dialogue, in the Course of which I let fall a +Saying of Mr. _Agnew's_, which drew from the reverend Gentleman a +respectfulle Look I felt I no Way deserved. Soe then I had to explain +that the Saying was none of mine, and felt ashamed he shoulde suppose +me wiser than I was, especiallie as he commended my Modesty. But we +progressed well, and he soon had the Discourse all to himself, for +Squire _Paice_ came up, and detained _Father_, while the Doctor and I +walked on. I could not help reflecting how odd it was, that I, whom +Nature had endowed with such a very ordinarie Capacitie, and scarce +anie Taste for Letters, shoulde continuallie be thrown into the +Companie of the cleverest of Men,--first, Mr. _Milton_: then Mr. +_Agnew_; and now, this Doctor _Jeremy Taylor_. But, like the other +two, he is not merely clever, he is Christian and good. How much I +learnt in this short Interview! for short it seemed, though it must +have extended over a good half Hour. He sayd, "Perhaps, young Lady, +the Time may come when you shall find safer Solace in the Exercise of +the Charities than of the Affections. Safer: for, not to consider how +a successfulle or unsuccessfulle Passion for a human Being of like +Infirmities with ourselves, oft stains and darkens and shortens the +Current of Life, even the chastened Love of a Mother for her Child, as +of _Octavia_, who swooned at '_Tu, Marcellus, eris_,'--or of Wives for +their Husbands, as _Artemisia_ and _Laodamia_, sometimes amounting to +Idolatry--nay, the Love of Friend for Friend, with alle its sweet +Influences and animating Transports, yet exceeding the Reasonableness +of that of _David_ for _Jonathan_, or of our blessed _Lord_ for _St. +John_ and the Family of _Lazarus_, may procure far more Torment than +Profit: even if the Attachment be reciprocal, and well grounded, and +equallie matcht, which often it is not. Then interpose human Tempers, +and Chills, and Heates, and Slyghtes fancied or intended, which make +the vext Soul readie to wish it had never existed. How smalle a Thing +is a human Heart! you might grasp it in your little Hand; and yet its +Strifes and Agonies are enough to distend a Skin that should cover the +whole World! But, in the Charities, what Peace! yea, they distill +Sweetnesse even from the Unthankfulle, blessing him that gives more +than him that receives; while, in the Main, they are laid out at better +Interest than our warmest Affections, and bring in a far richer Harvest +of Love and Gratitude. Yet, let our Affections have their fitting +Exercise too, staying ourselves with the Reflection, that there is +greater Happinesse, after alle Things sayd, in loving than in being +loved, save by the _God_ of Love who first loved us, and that they who +dwell in Love dwell in _Him_." + +Then he went on to speak of the manifold Acts and Divisions of Charity; +as much, methought, in the Vein of a Poet as a Preacher; and he minded +me much of that Scene in the tenth Book of the _Fairie Queene_, soe +lately read to us by Mr. _Agnew_, wherein the _Red Cross Knight_ and +_Una_ were shown _Mercy_ at her Work. + + + +_Aug. 10, 1644_. + +A Pack-horse from _Sheepscote_ just reported, laden with a goodlie +Store of Books, besides sundrie smaller Tokens of _Rose's_ thoughtfulle +Kindnesse. I have now methodicallie divided my Time into stated Hours, +of Prayer, Exercise, Studdy, Housewiferie, and Acts of Mercy, on +however a humble Scale; and find mine owne Peace of Mind thereby +increased notwithstanding the Darknesse of publick and Dullnesse of +private Affairs. + +Made out the Meaning of "Cynosure" and "Cimmerian Darknesse." . . . + + + +_Aug. 15, 1644_. + +Full sad am I to learn that Mr. _Milton_ hath published another Book in +Advocacy of Divorce. Alas, why will he chafe against the Chain, and +widen the cruel Division between us? My Father is outrageous on the +Matter, and speaks soe passionatelie of him, that it is worse than not +speaking of him at alle, which latelie I was avised to complain of. + + + +_Aug. 30, 1644_. + +_Dick_ beginneth to fancie himself in Love with _Audrey Paice--_an +Attachment that will doe him noe good: his Tastes alreadie want +raising, and she will onlie lower them, I feare,--a comely, romping, +noisie Girl, that, were she but a Farmer's Daughter, woulde be the Life +and Soul of alle the Whitsun-ales, Harvest-homes, and Hay-makings in +the Country: in short, as fond of idling and merrymaking as I once was +myself: onlie I never was soe riotous. + +I beginne to see Faults in _Dick_ and _Harry_ I never saw before. Is +my Taste bettering, or my Temper worsenning? At alle Events, we have +noe cross Words, for I expect them not to alter, knowing how hard it is +to doe soe by myself. + +I look forward with Pleasure to my _Sheepscote_ Visitt. Dear _Mother_ +returneth to-morrow. Good Dr. _Taylor_ hath twice taken the Trouble to +walk over from _Oxford_ to see me, but he hath now left, and we may +never meet agayn. His Visitts have beene very precious to me: I think +he hath some Glimmering of my sad Case: indeed, who knows it not? At +parting he sayd, smiling, he hoped he should yet hear of my making +Offerings to _Viriplaca_ on _Mount Palatine_; then added, gravelie, +"You know where reall Offerings may be made and alwaies +accepted--Offerings of spare Half-hours and Five-minutes, when we shut +the Closet Door and commune with our own Hearts and are still." Alsoe +he sayd, "There are Sacrifices to make which sometimes wring our very +Hearts to offer; but our gracious _God_ accepts them neverthelesse, if +our Feet be really in the right Path, even though, like _Chryseis_, we +look back, weeping." + +He sayd . . . But how manie Things as beautifulle and true did I hear +my Husband say, which passed by me like the idle Wind that I regarded +not! + + + +_Sept. 8, 1644_. + +_Harry_ hath just broughte in the News of his Majesty's Success in the +West. Lord _Essex's_ Army hath beene completely surrounded by the +royal Troops; himself forct to escape in a Boat to _Plymouth_, and all +the Arms, Artillerie, Baggage, etc., of _Skippon's_ Men have fallen +into the Hands of the King. _Father_ is soe pleased that he hath +mounted the Flag, and given double Allowance of Ale to his Men. + +I wearie to hear from _Robin_. + + + +_Sheepscote, Oct. 10, 1644_. + +How sweete a Picture of rurall Life did _Sheepscote_ present, when I +arrived here this Afternoon! The Water being now much out, the Face of +the Countrie presented a new Aspect: there were Men threshing the +Walnut Trees, Children and Women putting the Nuts into Osier Baskets, a +Bailiff on a white Horse overlooking them, and now and then galloping +to another Party, and splashing through the Water. Then we found Mr. +_Agnew_ equallie busie with his Apples, mounted half Way up one of the +Trees, and throwing Cherry Pippins down into _Rose's_ Apron, and now +and then making as though he would pelt her: onlie she dared him, and +woulde not be frightened. Her Donkey, chewing Apples in the Corner, +with the Cider running out of his Mouth, presented a ludicrous Image of +Enjoyment, and 'twas evidently enhanct by _Giles'_ brushing his rough +Coat with a Birch Besom, instead of minding his owne Businesse of +sweeping the Walk. The Sun, shining with mellow Light on the mown +Grass and fresh dipt Hornbeam Hedges, made even the commonest Objects +distinct and cheerfulle; and the Air was soe cleare, we coulde hear the +Village Childreh afar off at theire Play. + +_Rose_ had abundance of delicious new Honey in the Comb, and Bread hot +from the Oven, for our earlie Supper. _Dick_ was tempted to stay too +late; however, he is oft as late, now, returning from _Audrey Paice_, +though my Mother likes it not. + + + +_Oct. 15, 1644_. + +_Rose_ is quite in good Spiritts now, and we goe on most harmoniouslie +and happilie. Alle our Tastes are now in common; and I never more +enjoyed this Union of Seclusion and Society. Besides, Mr. _Agnew_ is +more than commonlie kind, and never speaks sternlie or sharplie to me +now. Indeed, this Morning, looking thoughtfullie at me, he sayd, "I +know not_, Cousin_, what Change has come over you, but you are now alle +that a wise Man coulde love and approve." I sayd, It must be owing +then to Dr. _Jeremy Taylor_, who had done me more goode, it woulde +seeme, in three Lessons, than he or Mr. _Milton_ coulde imparte in +thirty or three hundred. He sayd he was inclined to attribute it to a +higher Source than that; and yet, there was doubtlesse a great Knack in +teaching, and there was a good deal in liking the Teacher. He had +alwaies hearde the Doctor spoken of as a good, pious, and clever Man, +though rather too high a Prelatist. I sayd, "There were good Men of +alle Sorts: there was Mr. _Milton_, who woulde pull the Church down; +there was Mr. _Agnew_, who woulde onlie have it mended; and there was +Dr. _Jeremy Taylor_, who was content with it as it stoode." Then +_Rose_ askt me of the puritanicall Preachers. Then I showed her how +they preached, and made her laugh. But Mr. _Agnew_ woulde not laugh. +But I made him laugh at last. Then he was angrie with himself and with +me; only not very angry; and sayd, I had a Right to a Name which he +knew had beene given me, of "cleaving Mischief." I knew not he knew of +it, and was checked, though I laught it off. + + + +_Oct. 16, 1644_. + +Walking together, this Morning, _Rose_ was avised to say, "Did Mr. +_Milton_ ever tell you the Adventures of the _Italian_ Lady?" "Rely on +it he never did," sayd Mr. _Agnew.--"Milton_ is as modest a Man as ever +breathed--alle Men of first class Genius are soe." "What was the +Adventure?" I askt, curiouslie. "Why, I neede not tell you, _Moll_, +that _John Milton_, as a Youth, was extremelie handsome, even +beautifull. His Colour came and went soe like a Girl's, that we of +_Christ's_ College used to call him 'the Lady,' and thereby annoy him +noe little. One summer Afternoone he and I and young _King_ +(_Lycidas_, you know) had started on a country Walk, (the Countrie is +not pretty, round _Cambridge_) when we met in with an Acquaintance whom +Mr. _Milton_ affected not, soe he sayd he would walk on to the first +rising Ground and wait us there. On this rising Ground stood a Tree, +beneath which our impatient young Gentleman presentlie cast himself, +and, having walked fast, and the Weather being warm, soon falls asleep +as sound as a Top. Meantime, _King_ and I quit our Friend and saunter +forward pretty easilie. Anon comes up with us a Caroche, with +something I know not what of outlandish in its Build; and within it, +two Ladies, one of them having the fayrest Face I ever set Eyes on, +present Companie duly excepted. The Caroche having passed us, _King_ +and I mutuallie express our Admiration, and thereupon, preferring Turf +to Dust, got on the other Side the Hedge, which was not soe thick but +that we could make out the Caroche, and see the Ladies descend from it, +to walk up the Hill. Having reached the Tree, they paused in Surprise +at seeing _Milton_ asleep beneath it; and in prettie dumb Shew, which +we watcht sharplie, exprest their Admiration of his Appearance and +Posture, which woulde have suited an _Arcadian_ well enough. The +younger Lady, hastilie taking out a Pencil and Paper, wrote something +which she laughinglie shewed her Companion, and then put into the +Sleeper's Hand. Thereupon, they got into their Caroche, and drove off. +_King_ and I, dying with Curiositie to know what she had writ, soon +roused our Friend and possest ourselves of the Secret. The Verses ran +thus. . . . + + Occhi, Stelle mortali, + Ministre de miei Mali, + Se, chiusi, m' uccidete, + Aperti, che farete? + +"_Milton_ coloured, crumpled them up, and yet put them in his Pocket; +then askt us what the Lady was like. And herein lay the Pleasantry of +the Affair; for I truly told him she had a Pear-shaped Face, lustrous +black Eyes, and a Skin that shewed '_il bruno il bel non toglie_;' +whereas, _King_, in his Mischief, drew a fancy Portrait, much liker +you, _Moll_, than the Incognita, which hit _Milton's_ Taste soe much +better, that he was believed for his Payns; and then he declared that I +had beene describing the Duenna! . . . Some Time after, when _Milton_ +beganne to talk of visiting _Italy_, we bantered him, and sayd he was +going to look for the Incognita. He stoode it well, and sayd, 'Laugh +on! do you think I mind you? Not a Bit.' I think he did." + +Just at this Turn, Mr. _Agnew_ stumbled at something in the long Grass. +It proved to be an old, rustic Horse-pistol. His Countenance changed +at once from gay to grave. "I thought we had noe such Things +hereabouts yet," cried he, viewing it askance.--"I suppose I mighte as +well think I had found a Corner of the Land where there was noe +originall Sin." And soe, flung it over the Hedge. + +----First class Geniuses are alwaies modest, are they?--Then I should +say that young _Italian_ Lady's Genius was not of the first Class. + + + +_Oct. 19, 1644_. + +Speaking, to-day, of Mr. _Waller_, whom I had once seen at Uncle +_John's_, Mr. _Agnew_ sayd he had obtayned the Reputation of being one +of our smoothest Versers, and thereupon brought forth one or two of his +small Pieces in Manuscript, which he read to _Rose_ and me. They were +addrest to the Lady _Dorothy Sydney_; and certainlie for specious +Flatterie I doe not suppose they can be matcht; but there is noe +Impress of reall Feeling in them. How diverse from my Husband's +Versing! He never writ anie mere Love-verses, indeede, soe far as I +know; but how much truer a Sence he hath of what is reallie beautifulle +and becoming in a Woman than Mr. _Waller_! The Lady _Alice Egerton_ +mighte have beene more justlie proud of the fine Things written _for_ +her in _Comus_, than the Lady _Dorothea_ of anie of the fine Things +written _of_ her by this courtier-like Poet. For, to say that Trees +bend down in homage to a Woman when she walks under them, and that the +healing Waters of _Tonbridge_ were placed there by Nature to compensate +for the fatal Pride of _Sacharissa_, is soe fullesome and untrue as noe +Woman, not devoured by Conceite, coulde endure; whereas, the Check that +Villanie is sensible of in the Presence of Virtue, is most nobly, not +extravagantlie, exprest by _Comus_. And though my Husband be almost +too lavish, even in his short Pieces, of classic Allusion and +Personation, yet, like antique Statues and Busts well placed in some +statelie Pleasaunce, they are alwaies appropriate and gracefulle, which +is more than can be sayd of Mr. _Waller's_ overstrayned Figures and +Metaphors. + + + +_Oct. 20, 1644_. + +News from Home: alle well. _Audrey Paice_ on a Visitt there. I hope +_Mother_ hath not put her into my Chamber, but I know that she hath +sett so manie Trays full of Spearmint, Peppermint, Camomiles, and +Poppie-heads in the blue Chamber to dry, that she will not care to move +them, nor have the Window opened lest they shoulde be blown aboute. I +wish I had turned the Key on my ebony Cabinett. + + + +_Oct. 24, 1644_. + +_Richard_ and _Audrey_ rode over here, and spent a noisie Afternoone. +_Rose_ had the Goose dressed which I know she meant to have reserved +for to-morrow. _Clover_ was in a Heat, which one would have thoughte +he needed not to have beene, with carrying a Lady; but _Audrey_ is +heavie. She treats _Dick_ like a boy; and, indeede he is not much +more; but he is quite taken up with her. I find she lies in the blue +Chamber, which she says smells rarelie of Herbs. They returned not +till late, after sundrie Hints from Mr. _Agnew_. + + + +_Oct. 27, 1644_. + +Alas, alas, _Robin's_ Silence is too sorrowfullie explained! He hath +beene sent Home soe ill that he is like to die. This Report I have +from _Diggory_, just come over to fetch me, with whom I start, soe +soone as his Horse is bated. _Lord_, have Mercie on _Robin_. + +The Children are alle sent away to keep the House quiete. + + + +_At Robin's Bedside, + Saturday Night_. + +Oh, woefulle Sight! I had not known that pale Face, had I met it +unawares. So thin and wan,--and he hath shot up into a tall Stripling +during the last few Months. These two Nights of Watching have tried me +sorelie, but I would not be witholden from sitting up with him yet +agayn--what and if this Night should be his last? how coulde I forgive +myself for sleeping on now and taking my Rest? The first Night, he +knew me not; yet it was bitter-sweet to hear him chiding at sweet +_Moll_ for not coming. Yesternight he knew me for a While, kissed me, +and _fell_ into an heavie Sleepe, with his Hand locked in mine. We +hoped the Crisis was come; but 'twas not soe. He raved much of a Man +alle in red, riding hard after him. I minded me of those Words, "The +Enemy sayd, I will overtake, I will pursue,"--and, noe one being by, +save the unconscious Sufferer, I kneeled down beside him, and most +earnestlie prayed for his Deliverance from all spirituall Adversaries. +When I lookt up, his Eyes, larger and darker than ever, were fixt on me +with a strange, wistfulle Stare, but he spake not. From that Moment he +was quiete. + +The Doctor thought him rambling this Morning, though I knew he was not, +when he spake of an Angel in a long white Garment watching over him and +kneeling by him in the Night. + + + +_Sunday Evening_. + +Poor _Nell_ sitteth up with _Mother_ to-night--right thankfulle is she +to find that she can be of anie Use: she says it seems soe strange that +she should be able to make any Return for my Kindnesse. I must sleep +to-night, that I may watch to-morrow. The Servants are nigh spent, and +are besides foolishlie afrayd of Infection. I hope _Rose_ prays for +me. Soe drowsie and dulle am I, as scarce to be able to pray for +myself. + + + +_Monday_. + +_Rose_ and Mr. _Agnew_ come to abide with us for some Days. How +thankfulle am I! Tears have relieved me. + +_Robin_ worse to-day. _Father_ quite subdued. Mr. _Agnew_ will sit up +to-night, and insists on my sleeping. + +_Crab_ howled under my Window yesternight as he did before my Wedding. +I hope there is nothing in it. _Harry_ got up and beat him, and at +last put him in the Stable. + + + +_Tuesday_. + +After two Nights' Rest, I feel quite strengthened and restored this +Morning. Deare _Rose_ read me to sleep in her low, gentle Voice, and +then lay down by my Side, twice stepping into _Robin's_ Chamber during +the Night, and bringing me News that all was well. Relieved in Mind, I +slept heavilie nor woke till late. Then, returned to the sick Chamber, +and found _Rose_ bathing dear _Robin's_ Temples with Vinegar, and +changing his Pillow--his thin Hand rested on Mr. _Agnew_, on whom he +lookt with a composed, collected Gaze. Slowlie turned his Eyes on me, +and faintlie smiled, but spake not. + +Poor dear _Mother_ is ailing now. I sate with her and _Father_ some +Time; but it was a true Relief when _Rose_ took my Place and let me +return to the sick Room. _Rose_ hath alreadie made several little +Changes for the better; improved the Ventilation of _Robin's_ Chamber, +and prevented his hearing soe manie Noises. Alsoe, showed me how to +make a pleasant cooling Drink, which he likes better than the warm +Liquids, and which she assures me he may take with perfect Safetie. + + + +_Same Evening_. + +_Robin_ vext, even to Tears, because the Doctor forbids the use of his +cooling Drink, though it hath certainlie abated the Fever. At his Wish +I stept down to intercede with the Doctor, then closetted with my +Father, to discourse, as I supposed, of _Robin's_ Symptoms. Insteade +of which, found them earnestlie engaged on the never-ending Topick of +Cavaliers and Roundheads. I was chafed and cut to the Heart, yet what +can poor _Father_ do; he is useless in the Sick-room, he is wearie of +Suspense, and 'tis well if publick Affairs can divert him for an odd +Half-hour. + +The Doctor would not hear of _Robin_ taking the cooling Beverage, and +warned me that his Death woulde be upon my Head if I permitted him to +be chilled: soe what could I doe? Poor _Robin_ very impatient in +consequence; and raving towards Midnight. _Rose_ insisted in taking +the last Half of my Watch. + +I know not that I was ever more sorelie exercised than during the first +Half of this Night. _Robin_, in his crazie Fit, would leave his Bed, +and was soe strong as nearlie to master _Nell_ and me, and I feared I +must have called _Richard_. The next Minute he fell back as weak as a +Child: we covered him up warm, and he was overtaken either with Stupor +or Sleep. Earnestlie did I pray it might be the latter, and conduce to +his healing. Afterwards, there being writing Implements at Hand, I +wrote a Letter to Mr. _Milton_, which, though the Fancy of sending it +soon died away, yet eased my Mind. When not in Prayer, I often find +myself silently talking to him. + + + +_Wednesday_. + +Waking late after my scant Night's Rest, I found my Breakfaste neatlie +layd out in the little Ante-chamber, to prevent the Fatigue of going +down Stairs. A Handfulle of Autumn Flowers beside my Plate, left me in +noe Doubt it was _Rose's_ doing; and Mr. _Agnew_ writing at the Window, +tolde me he had persuaded my Father to goe to _Shotover_ with _Dick_. +Then laying aside his Pen, stept into the Sick-chamber for the latest +News, which was good: and, sitting next me, talked of the Progress of +_Robin's_ Illness in a grave yet hopefulle Manner; leading, as he +chieflie does, to high and unearthlie Sources of Consolation. He +advised me to take a Turn in the fresh Ayr, though but as far as the +two Junipers, before I entered _Robin's_ Chamber, which, somewhat +reluctantlie, I did; but the bright Daylight and warm Sun had no good +Effect on my Spiritts: on the Contrarie, nothing in blythe Nature +seeming in unison with my Sadnesse, Tears flowed without relieving me. + +----What a solemne, pompous Prigge is this Doctor! He cries "humph!" +and "aye!" and bites his Nails and screws his Lips together, but I +don't believe he understands soe much of Physick, after alle, as Mr. +_Agnew_. + +_Father_ came Home fulle of the Rebels' Doings, but as for me, I +shoulde hear them thundering at our Gate with Apathie, except insofar +as I feared their distressing _Robin_. + +_Audrey_ rode over with her Father, this Morn, to make Enquiries. She +might have come sooner had she meant to be anie reall Use to a Family +she has thought of entering. Had _Rose_ come to our Help as late in +the Day, we had been poorlie off. + + + +_Thursday_. + +May _Heaven_ in its Mercy save us from the evil Consequence of this new +Mischance!--_Richard_, jealous at being allowed so little Share in +nursing _Robin_, whom he sayd he loved as well as anie did, would sit +up with him last Night, along with _Mother_. Twice I heard him +snoring, and stept in to prevail on him to change Places, but coulde +not get him to stir. A third Time he fell asleep, and, it seems, +_Mother_ slept too; and _Robin_, in his Fever, got out of Bed and drank +near a Quart of colde Water, waking _Dick_ by setting down the Pitcher. +Of course the Bustle soon reached my listening Ears. _Dick_, to do him +Justice, was frightened enough, and stole away to his Bed without a +Word of Defence; but poor _Mother_, who had been equallie off her +Watch, made more Noise about it than was good for _Robin_; who, +neverthelesse, we having warmlie covered up, burst into a profuse Heat, +and fell into a sound Sleep, which hath now holden him manie Hours. +Mr. _Agnew_ augureth favourablie of his waking, but we await it in +prayerfulle Anxietie. + +----The Crisis is past! and the Doctor sayeth he alle along expected it +last Night, which I cannot believe, but _Father_ and _Mother_ doe. At +alle Events, praised be _Heaven_, there is now hope that deare _Robin_ +may recover. _Rose_ and I have mingled Tears, Smiles, and +Thankgivings; Mr. _Agnew_ hath expressed Gratitude after a more +collected Manner, and endeavoured to check the somewhat ill-governed +Expression of Joy throughout the House; warning the Servants, but +especiallie _Dick_ and _Harry_, that _Robin_ may yet have a Relapse. + +With what Transport have I sat beside dear _Robin's_ Bed, returning his +fixed, earnest, thankfulle Gaze, and answering the feeble Pressure of +his Hand!--Going into the Studdy just now, I found _Father_ crying like +a Child--the first Time I have known him give Way to Tears during +_Robin's_ Ilnesse. Mr. _Agnew_ presentlie came in, and composed him +better than I coulde. + + + +_Saturday_. + +_Robin_ better, though still very weak. Had his Bed made, and took a +few Spoonfuls of Broth. + + + +_Sunday_. + +A very different Sabbath from the last. Though _Robin's_ Constitution +hath received a Shock it may never recover, his comparative Amendment +fills us with Thankfulnesse; and our chastened Suspense hath a sweet +Solemnitie and Trustfullenesse in it, which pass Understanding. + +Mr. _Agnew_ conducted our Devotions. This Morning, I found him praying +with _Robin_--I question if it were for the first Time. _Robin_ +looking on him with eyes of such sedate Affection! + + + +_Thursday_. + +_Robin_ still progressing. Dear _Rose_ and Mr. _Agnew_ leave us +to-morrow, but they will soon come agayn. Oh faithful Friends! + + * * * * * * + +_April, 1646_. + +Can Aniething equall the desperate Ingratitude of the human Heart? +Testifie of it, Journall, agaynst me. Here did I, throughout the +incessant Cares and Anxieties of _Robin's_ Sicknesse, find, or make +Time, for almoste dailie Record of my Trouble; since which, whole +Months have passed without soe much as a scrawled Ejaculation of +Thankfullenesse that the Sick hath beene made whole. + +Yet, not that that Thankfullenesse hath beene unfelt, nor, though +unwritten, unexprest. Nay, O _Lord_, deeplie, deeplie have I thanked +thee for thy tender Mercies. And he healed soe slowlie, that Suspense, +as 'twere, wore itself out, and gave Place to a dull, mournful +Persuasion that an Hydropsia would waste him away, though more slowlie, +yet noe less surelie than the Fever. + +Soe Weeks lengthened into Months, I mighte well say Years, they seemed +soe long! and stille he seemed to neede more Care and Tendernesse; +till, just as he and I had learnt to say, "Thy Will, O _Lord_, be +done," he began to gain Flesh, his craving Appetite moderated, yet his +Food nourished him, and by _God's_ Blessing he recovered! + +During that heavie Season of Probation, our Hearts were unlocked, and +we spake oft to one another of Things in Heaven and Things in Earth. +Afterwards, our mutuall Reserves returned, and _Robin_, methinks, +became shyer than before, but there can never cease to be a dearer Bond +between us. Now we are apart, I aim to keep him mindfulle of the high +and holie Resolutions he formed in his Sicknesse; and though he never +answers these Portions of my Letters, I am avised to think he finds +them not displeasing. + +Now that _Oxford_ is like to be besieged, my Life is more confined than +ever; yet I cannot, and will not leave _Father_ and _Mother_, even for +the _Agnews_, while they are soe much harassed. This Morning, my +Father hath received a Letter from Sir _Thomas Glemham_, requiring a +larger Quantitie of winnowed Wheat, than, with alle his Loyaltie, he +likes to send. + + + +_April 23, 1646_. + +_Ralph Hewlett_ hath just looked in to say, his Father and Mother have +in Safetie reached _London_, where he will shortlie joyn them, and to +ask, is there anie Service he can doe me? Ay, truly; one that I dare +not name--he can bring me Word of Mr. _Milton_, of his Health, of his +Looks, of his Speech, and whether . . . + +_Ralph_ shall be noe Messenger of mine. + + + +_April 24, 1646_. + +Talking of Money Matters this Morning, _Mother_ sayd Something that +brought Tears into mine Eyes. She observed, that though my Husband had +never beene a Favourite of hers, there was one Thing wherein she must +say he had behaved generously: he had never, to this Day, askt _Father_ +for the 500 pounds which had brought him, in the first Instance, to +_Forest Hill_, (he having promised old Mr. _Milton_ to try to get the +Debt paid,) and the which, on his asking for my Hand, _Father_ tolde +him shoulde be made over sooner or later, in lieu of Dower. + +Did _Rose_ know the Bitter-sweet she was imparting to me, when she gave +me, by Stealth as 'twere, the latelie publisht Volume of my Husband's +_English_ Versing? It hath beene my Companion ever since; for I had +perused the _Comus_ but by Snatches, under the Disadvantage of crabbed +Manuscript. This Morning, to use his owne deare Words:-- + + I sat me down to watch, upon a Bank, + With Ivy canopied, and interwove + With flaunting Honeysuckle, and beganne, + Wrapt in a pleasing Fit of Melancholic, + To meditate. + + +The Text of my Meditation was this, drawne from the same loved Source:-- + + This I hold firm: + Virtue may be assayled, but never hurt, + Surprised by unjust Force, but not enthralled: + Yea, even that which Mischief meant most Harm, + Shall, in the happy Trial, prove most Glory. + + +But who hath such Virtue? have I? hath he? No, we have both gone +astray, and done amiss, and wrought sinfullie; but I worst, I first, +therefore more neede that I humble myself, and pray for both. + +There is one, more unhappie, perhaps, than either. The _King_, most +misfortunate Gentleman! who knoweth not which Way to turn, nor whom to +trust. Last Time I saw him, methought never was there a Face soe full +of Woe. + + + +_May 6, 1646_. + +The _King_ hath escaped! He gave Orders overnight at alle the Gates, for +three Persons to passe; and, accompanied onlie by Mr. _Ashburnham_, and +Mr. _Hurd_, rode forthe at Nightfalle, towards _London_. Sure, he will +not throw himselfe into the Hands of Parliament? + +_Mother_ is affrighted beyond Measure at the near Neighbourhood of +_Fairfax's_ Army, and entreats _Father_ to leave alle behind, and flee +with us into the City. It may yet be done; and we alle share her Feares. + + + +_Saturday Even_. + +Packing up in greate haste, after a confused Family Council, wherein some +fresh Accounts of the Rebels' Advances, broughte in by _Diggory_, made my +Father the sooner consent to a stolen Flight into _Oxford_, _Diggory_ +being left behind in Charge. Time of Flight, to-morrow after Dark, the +_Puritans_ being busie at theire Sermons. The better the Day, the better +the Deede.--_Heaven_ make it soe! + + + +_Tuesday_. + +_Oxford_; in most most confined and unpleasant Lodgings; but noe Matter, +manie better and richer than ourselves fare worse, and our King hath not +where to lay his Head. 'Tis sayd he hath turned his Course towards +_Scotland_. There are Souldiers in this House, whose Noise distracts us. +Alsoe, a poor Widow Lady, whose Husband hath beene slayn in these Wars. +The Children have taken a feverish Complaynt, and require incessant +tending. Theire Beds are far from cleane, in too little Space, and ill +aired. + + + +_May 20, 1646_. + +The Widow Lady goes about visiting the Sick, and woulde faine have my +Companie. The Streets have displeased me, being soe fulle of Men; +however, in a close Hoode I have accompanied her sundrie Times. 'Tis a +good Soul, and full of pious Works and Alms-deedes. + + + +_May 27, 1646_. + +_Diggory_ hath found his Way to us, alle dismaied, and bringing Dismay +with him, for the Rebels have taken and ransacked our House, and turned +him forthe. "A Plague on these Wars!" as _Father_ says. What are we to +doe, or how live, despoyled of alle? _Father_ hath lost, one Way and +another, since the Civil War broke out, three thousand Pounds, and is now +nearlie beggared. _Mother_ weeps bitterlie, and _Father's_ Countenance +hath fallen more than ever I saw it before. "Nine Children!" he +exclaimed, just now; "and onlie one provided for!" His Eye fell upon me +for a Moment, with less Tendernesse than usuall, as though he wished me +in _Aldersgate Street_. I'm sure I wish I were there,--not because +_Father_ is in Misfortune; oh, no. + + + +_June, 1646_. + +The Parliament requireth our unfortunate King to issue Orders to this and +alle his other Garrisons, commanding theire Surrender; and _Father_, +finding this is likelie to take Place forthwith, is busied in having +himself comprised within the Articles of Surrender. 'Twill be hard +indeed, shoulde this be denied. His Estate lying in the King's Quarters, +howe coulde he doe less than adhere to his Majesty's Partie during this +unnaturall War? I am sure _Mother_ grudged the Royalists everie Goose +and Turkey they had from our Yard. + + + +_June 27, 1646_. + +Praised be _Heaven_, deare _Father_ hath just received Sir _Thomas +Fairfax's_ Protection, empowering him quietlie and without let to goe +forthe "with Servants, Horses, Arms, Goods, etc." to "_London_ or +elsewhere," whithersoever he will. And though the Protection extends but +over six Months, at the Expiry of which Time, _Father_ must take Measures +to embark for some Place of Refuge beyond Seas, yet who knows what may +turn up in those six Months! The King may enjoy his Owne agayn. +Meantime, we immediatelie leave _Oxford_. + + + +_Forest Hill_. + +At Home agayn; and what a Home! Everiething to seeke, everiething +misplaced, broken, abused, or gone altogether! The Gate off its Hinges; +the Stone Balls of the Pillars overthrowne, the great Bell stolen, the +clipt Junipers grubbed up, the Sun-diall broken! Not a Hen or Chicken, +Duck or Duckling, left! _Crab_ half-starved, and soe glad to see us, +that he dragged his Kennel after him. _Daisy_ and _Blanch_ making such +piteous Moans at the Paddock Gate, that I coulde not bear it, but helped +_Lettice_ to milk them. Within Doors, everie Room smelling of Beer and +Tobacco; Cupboards broken upon, etc. On my Chamber Floor, a greasy +steeple-crowned Hat! Threw it forthe from the Window with a Pair of +Tongs. + +_Mother_ goes about the House weeping. _Father_ sits in his broken +Arm-chair, the Picture of Disconsolateness. I see the _Agnews_, true +Friends! riding hither; and with them a Third, who, methinks, is _Rose's_ +Brother _Ralph_. + + + +_London. St. Martin's le Grand_. + +Trembling, weeping, hopefulle, dismaied, here I sit in mine Uncle's hired +House, alone in a Crowd, scared at mine owne Precipitation, readie to +wish myselfe back, unable to resolve, to reflect, to pray . . . + + + +_Twelve at Night_. + +Alle is silent; even in the latelie busie Streets. Why art thou cast +down, my Heart? why art thou disquieted within me? Hope thou stille in +the _Lord_, for he is the Joy and Light of thy Countenance. Thou hast +beene long of learning him to be such. Oh, forget not thy Lesson now! +Thy best Friend hath sanctioned, nay, counselled this Step, and overcome +alle Obstacles, and provided the Means of this Journey; and to-morrow at +Noone, if Events prove not cross, I shall have Speech of him whom my Soul +loveth. To-night, let me watch, fast, and pray. + + + +_Friday; at Night_. + +How awfulle it is to beholde a Man weepe! mine owne Tears, when I think +thereon, well forthe . . . + +_Rose_ was a true Friend when she sayd, "Our prompt Affections are oft +our wise Counsellors." Soe, she suggested and advised alle; wrung forthe +my Father's Consent, and sett me on my Way, even putting Money in my +Purse. Well for me, had she beene at my Journey's End as well as its +Beginning. + +'Stead of which, here was onlie mine Aunt; a slow, timid, uncertayn +Soule, who proved but a broken Reed to lean upon. + +Soe, alle I woulde have done arighte went crosse, the Letter never +delivered, the Message delayed till he had left Home, soe that methought +I shoulde goe crazie. + +While the Boy, stammering in his lame Excuses, bore my chafed Reproaches +the more humblie because he saw he had done me some grievous Hurt, though +he knew not what, a Voice in the adjacent Chamber in Alternation with +mine Uncle's, drove the Blood of a suddain from mine Heart, and then sent +it back with impetuous Rush, for I knew the Accents right well. + +Enters mine Aunt, alle flurried, and hushing her Voice. "Oh, _Niece_, he +whom you wot of is here, but knoweth not you are at Hand, nor in +_London_. Shall I tell him?" + +But I gasped, and held her back by her Skirts; then, with a suddain +secret Prayer, or Cry, or maybe, Wish, as 'twere, darted up unto Heaven +for Assistance, I took noe Thought what I shoulde speak when confronted +with him, but opening the Door between us, he then standing with his Back +towards it, rushed forth and to his Feet--there sank, in a Gush of Tears; +for not one Word coulde I proffer, nor soe much as look up. + +A quick Hand was laid on my Head, on my Shoulder--as quicklie +removed . . . and I was aware of the Door being hurriedlie opened and +shut, and a Man hasting forthe; but 'twas onlie mine Uncle. Meantime, my +Husband, who had at first uttered a suddain Cry or Exclamation, had now +left me, sunk on the Ground as I was, and retired a Space, I know not +whither, but methinks he walked hastilie to and fro. Thus I remained, +agonized in Tears, unable to recal one Word of the humble Appeal I had +pondered on my Journey, or to have spoken it, though I had known everie +Syllable by Rote; yet not wishing myself, even in that Suspense, Shame, +and Anguish, elsewhere than where I was cast, at mine Husband's Feet. + +Or ever I was aware, he had come up, and caught me to his Breast: then, +holding me back soe as to look me in the Face, sayd, in Accents I shall +never forget, + +"Much I coulde say to reproach, but will not! Henceforth, let us onlie +recall this darke Passage of our deeplie sinfulle Lives, to quicken us to +_God's_ Mercy, in affording us this Re-union. Let it deepen our +Penitence, enhance our Gratitude." + +Then, suddainlie covering up his Face with his Hands, he gave two or +three Sobs; and for some few Minutes coulde not refrayn himself; but, +when at length he uncovered his Eyes and looked down on me with Goodness +and Sweetnesse, 'twas like the Sun's cleare shining after Raine. . . . + + +Shall I now destroy the disgracefulle Records of this blotted Book? I +think not; for 'twill quicken me perhaps, as my Husband sayth, to "deeper +Penitence and stronger Gratitude," shoulde I henceforthe be in Danger of +settling on the Lees, and forgetting the deepe Waters which had nearlie +closed over mine Head. At present, I am soe joyfulle, soe light of Heart +under the Sense of Forgivenesse, that it seemeth as though Sorrow coulde +lay hold of me noe more; and yet we are still, as 'twere, disunited for +awhile; for my Husband is agayn shifting House, and preparing to move his +increased Establishment into _Barbican_, where he hath taken a goodly +Mansion; and, until it is ready, I am to abide here. I might pleasantlie +cavill at this; but, in Truth, will cavill at Nothing now. + +I am, by this, full persuaded that _Ralph's_ Tale concerning Miss +_Davies_ was a false Lie; though, at the Time, supposing it to have some +Colour, it inflamed my Jealousie noe little. The cross Spight of that +Youth led, under his Sister's Management, to an Issue his Malice never +forecast; and now, though I might come at the Truth for Inquiry, I will +not soe much as even soil my Mind with thinking of it agayn; for there is +that Truth in mine Husband's Eyes, which woulde silence the Slanders of a +hundred Liars. Chafed, irritated, he has beene, soe as to excite the +sarcastic Constructions of those who wish him evill; but his Soul, and +his Heart, and his Mind require a Flighte beyond _Ralph's_ Witt to +comprehende; and I know and feel that they are _mine_. + +He hath just led in the two _Phillips's_ to me, and left us together. +_Jack_ lookt at me askance, and held aloof; but deare little _Ned_ threw +his Arms about me and wept, and I did weep too; seeing the which, _Jack_ +advanced, gave me his Hand, and finally his Lips, then lookt at much as +to say, "Now, Alle's right." They are grown, and are more comely than +heretofore, which, in some Measure, is owing to theire Hair being noe +longer cut strait and short after the Puritanicall Fashion I soe hate, +but curled like their Uncle's. + +I have writ, not the Particulars, but the Issue of my Journey, unto +_Rose_, whose loving Heart, I know, yearns for Tidings. Alsoe, more +brieflie unto my Mother, who loveth not Mr. _Milton_. + + + +_Barbican, September, 1646_. + +In the Night-season, we take noe Rest; we search out our Hearts, and +commune with our Spiritts, and checque our Souls' Accounts, before we +dare court our Sleep; but in the Day of Happinesse we cut shorte our +Reckonings; and here am I, a joyfulle Wife, too proud and busie amid my +dailie Cares to have Leisure for more than a brief Note in my _Diarium_, +as _Ned_ woulde call it. 'Tis a large House, with more Rooms than we can +fill, even with the _Phillips's_ and their Scholar-mates, olde Mr. +_Milton_, and my Husband's Books to boot. I feel Pleasure in being +housewifelie; and reape the Benefit of alle that I learnt of this Sorte +at _Sheepscote_. Mine Husband's Eyes follow me with Delight; and once +with a perplexed yet pleased Smile, he sayd to me, "Sweet Wife, thou art +strangelie altered; it seems as though I have indeede lost 'sweet _Moll_' +after alle!" + +Yes, I am indeed changed; more than he knows or coulde believe. And he +is changed too. With Payn I perceive a more stern, severe Tone +occasionallie used by him; doubtlesse the Cloke assumed by his Griefe to +hide the Ruin I had made within. Yet a more geniall Influence is fast +melting this away. Agayn, I note with Payn that he complayns much of his +Eyes. At first, I observed he rubbed them oft, and dared not mention it, +believing that his Tears on Account of me, sinfulle Soule! had made them +smart. Soe, perhaps, they did in the first Instance, for it appears they +have beene ailing ever since the Year I left him; and Overstuddy, which +my Presence mighte have prevented, hath conduced to the same ill Effect. +Whenever he now looks at a lighted Candle, he sees a Sort of Iris alle +about it; and, this Morning, he disturbed me by mentioning that a total +Darknesse obscured everie Thing on the left Side of his Eye, and that he +even feared, sometimes, he might eventuallie lose the Sight of both. "In +which Case," he cheerfully sayd, "you, deare Wife, must become my +Lecturer as well as Amanuensis, and content yourself to read to me a +World of crabbed Books, in Tongues that are not nor neede ever be yours, +seeing that a Woman has ever enough of her own!" + +Then, more pensivelie, he added, "I discipline and tranquillize my Mind +on this Subject, ever remembering, when the Apprehension afflicts me, +that, as Man lives not by Bread alone, but by everie Word that proceeds +out of the Mouth of _God_, so Man likewise lives not by _Sight_ alone, +but by Faith in the Giver of Sight. As long, therefore, as it shall +please Him to prolong, however imperfectlie, this precious Gift, soe long +will I lay up Store agaynst the Days of Darknesse, which may be many; and +whensoever it shall please Him to withdrawe it from me altogether, I will +cheerfully bid mine Eyes keep Holiday, and place my Hand trustfullie in +His, to be led whithersoever He will, through the Remainder of Life." + +A Honeymoon cannot for ever last; nor Sense of Danger, when it long hath +past;--but one little Difference from out manie greater Differences +between my late happie Fortnighte in _St. Martin's-le-Grand_, and my +present dailie Course in _Barbican_, hath marked the Distinction between +Lover and Husband. There it was "sweet _Moll_," "my Heart's Life of +Life," "my dearest cleaving Mischief;" here 'tis onlie "Wife," "Mistress +_Milton_," or at most "deare or sweet Wife." This, I know, is +masterfulle and seemly. + +Onlie, this Morning, chancing to quote one of his owne Lines, + + These Things may startle well, but not astounde,-- + +he sayd, in a Kind of Wonder, "Why, _Moll_, whence had you +that?--Methought you hated Versing, as you used to call it. When learnt +you to love it?" I hung my Head in my old foolish Way, and answered, +"Since I learnt to love the Verser." "Why, this is the best of Alle!" he +hastilie cried, "Can my sweet Wife be indeede Heart of my Heart and +Spirit of my Spirit? I lost, or drove away a Child, and have found a +Woman." Thereafter, he less often wifed me, and I found I was agayn +sweet _Moll_. + +This Afternoon, _Christopher Milton_ lookt in on us. After saluting me +with the usuall Mixture of Malice and Civilitie in his Looks, he fell +into easie Conversation; and presentlie says to his Brother quietlie +enough, "I saw a curious Pennyworth at a Book-stall as I came along this +Morning." "What was that?" says my Husband, brightening up. "It had a +long Name," says _Christopher_,--"I think it was called _Tetrachordon_." +My Husband cast at me a suddain, quick Look, but I did not soe much as +change Colour; and quietlie continued my Sewing. + +"I wonder," says he, after a Pause, "that you did not invest a small +Portion of your Capitall in the Work, as you 'ay 'twas soe greate a +Bargain. However, Mr. _Kit_, let me give you one small Hint with alle +the goode Humour imaginable; don't take Advantage of our neare and deare +Relation to make too frequent Opportunities of saying to me Anything that +woulde certainlie procure for another Man a Thrashing!" + +Then, after a short Silence betweene Alle, he suddainlie burst out +laughing, and cried, "I know 'tis on the Stalk, I've seene it, _Kit_, +myself! Oh, had you seene, as I did, the Blockheads poring over the +Title, and hammering at it while you might have walked to _Mile End_ and +back!" + +"That's Fame, I suppose," says _Christopher_ drylie; and then goes off to +talk of some new Exercise of the Press-licenser's Authoritie, which he +seemed to approve, but it kindled my Husband in a Minute. + +"What Folly! what Nonsense!" cried he, smiting the Table; "these _Jacks_ +in Office sometimes devise such senselesse Things that I really am +ashamed of being of theire Party. Licence, indeed! their Licence! I +suppose they will shortlie license the Lengthe of _Moll's_ Curls, and +regulate the Colour of her Hoode, and forbid the Larks to sing within +Sounde of _Bow Bell_, and the Bees to hum o' _Sundays_. Methoughte I had +broken _Mabbot's_ Teeth two Years agone; but I must bring forthe a new +Edition of my _Areopagitica_; and I'll put your Name down, _Kit_, for a +hundred Copies!" + + + +_October, 1646_. + +Though a rusticall Life hath ever had my Suffrages, Nothing can be more +pleasant than our regular Course. We rise at five or sooner: while my +Husband combs his Hair, he commonly hums or sings some Psalm or Hymn, +versing it, maybe, as he goes on. Being drest, _Ned_ reads him a Chapter +in the _Hebrew_ Bible. With _Ned_ stille at his Knee, and me by his +Side, he expounds and improves the Same; then, after a shorte, heartie +Prayer, releases us both. Before I have finished my Dressing, I hear him +below at his Organ, with the two Lads, who sing as well as Choristers, +hymning Anthems and _Gregorian_ Chants, now soaring up to the Clouds, as +'twere, and then dying off as though some wide echoing Space lay betweene +us. I usuallie find Time to tie on my Hoode and slip away to the +Herb-market for a Bunch of fresh Radishes or Cresses, a Sprig of Parsley, +or at the leaste a Posy, to lay on his Plate. A good wheaten Loaf, fresh +Butter and Eggs, and a large Jug of Milk, compose our simple Breakfast; +for he likes not, as my Father, to see Boys hacking a huge Piece of Beef, +nor cares for heavie feeding, himself. Onlie, olde Mr. _Milton_ +sometimes takes a Rasher of toasted Bacon, but commonly, a Basin of +Furmity, which I prepare more to his Minde than the Servants can. + +After Breakfast, I well know the Boys' Lessons will last till Noone. I +therefore goe to my Closett Duties after my _Forest Hill_ Fashion; thence +to Market, buy what I neede, come Home, look to my Maids, give forthe +needfulle Stores, then to my Needle, my Books, or perchance to my Lute, +which I woulde faine play better. From twelve to one is the Boys' Hour +of Pastime; and it may generallie be sayd, my Husband's and mine too. He +draws aside the green Curtain,--for we sit mostly in a large Chamber +shaped like the Letter T, and thus divided while at our separate Duties: +my End is the pleasantest, has the Sun most upon it, and hath a Balcony +overlooking a Garden. At one, we dine; always on simple, plain Dishes, +but drest with Neatnesse and Care. Olde Mr. _Milton_ sits at my right +Hand and says Grace; and, though growing a little deaf, enters into alle +the livelie Discourse at Table. He loves me to help him to the +tenderest, by Reason of his Losse of Teeth. My Husband careth not to +sitt over the Wine; and hath noe sooner finished the Cheese and Pippins +than he reverts to the Viol or Organ, and not onlie sings himself, but +will make me sing too, though he sayth my Voice is better than my Ear. +Never was there such a tunefulle Spiritt. He alwaies tears himself away +at laste, as with a Kind of Violence, and returns to his Books at six o' +the Clock. Meantime, his old Father dozes, and I sew at his Side. + +From six to eight, we are seldom without Friends, chance Visitants, often +scholarlike and witty, who tell us alle the News, and remain to partake a +light Supper. The Boys enjoy this Season as much as I doe, though with +Books before them, their Hands over their Ears, pretending to con the +Morrow's Tasks. If the Guests chance to be musicalle, the Lute and Viol +are broughte forthe, to alternate with Roundelay and Madrigal: the old +Man beating Time with his feeble Fingers, and now and then joining with +his quavering Voice. (By the way, he hath not forgotten, to this Hour, +my imputed Crime of losing that Song by _Harry Lawes_: my Husband takes +my Part, and sayth it will turn up some Day when leaste expected, like +_Justinian's Pandects_.) _Hubert_ brings him his Pipe and a Glass of +Water, and then I crave his Blessing and goe to Bed; first, praying +ferventlie for alle beneathe this deare Roof, and then for alle at +_Sheepscote_ and _Forest Hill_. + +On Sabbaths, besides the publick Ordinances of Devotion, which I cannot, +with alle my striving, bring myself to love like the Services to which I +have beene accustomed, we have much Reading, Singing, and Discoursing +among ourselves. The Maids sing, the Boys sing, _Hubert_ sings, olde Mr. +_Milton_ sings; and trulie with soe much of it, I woulde sometimes as +lief have them quiete. The _Sheepscote_ Sundays suited me better. The +Sabbath Exercise of the Boys is to read a Chapter in the _Greek_ +Testament, heare my Husband expounde the same; and write out a System of +Divinitie as he dictates to them, walking to and fro. In listening +thereto, I find my Pleasure and Profitt. + +I have alsoe my owne little Catechising, after a humbler Sorte, in the +Kitchen, and some poore Folk to relieve and console, with my Husband's +Concurrence and Encouragement. Thus, the Sabbath is devoutlie and +happilie passed. + +My Husband alsoe takes, once in a Fortnighte or soe, what he blythelie +calls "a gaudy Day," equallie to his owne Content, the Boys', and mine. +On these Occasions, it is my Province to provide colde Fowls or Pigeon +Pie, which _Hubert_ carries, with what else we neede, to the Spot +selected for our Camp Dinner. Sometimes we take Boat to _Richmond_ or +_Greenwich_. Two young Gallants, Mr. _Alphrey_ and Mr. _Miller_, love to +joyn our Partie, and toil at the Oar, or scramble up the Hills, as +merrilie as the Boys. I must say they deal savagelie with the Pigeon Pie +afterwards. They have as wild Spiritts as our _Dick_ and _Harry_, but +withal a most wonderfull Reverence for my Husband, whom they courte to +read and recite, and provoke to pleasant Argument, never prolonged to +Wearinesse, and seasoned with Frolic Jest and Witt. Olde Mr. _Milton_ +joyns not these Parties. I leave him alwaies to _Dolly's_ Care, firste +providing for him a Sweetbread or some smalle Relish, such as he loves. +He is in Bed ere we return, which is oft by Moonlighte. + +How soone must Smiles give Way to Tears! Here is a Letter from deare +_Mother_, taking noe Note of what I write to her, and for good Reason, +she is soe distraught at her owne and deare _Father's_ ill Condition. +The Rebels (I must call them such,) have soe stript and opprest them, +they cannot make theire House tenantable; nor have Aught to feede on, had +they e'en a whole Roof over theire Heads. The Neighbourhoode is too hot +to holde them; olde Friends cowardlie and suspicious, olde and new Foes +in League together. Leave _Oxon_ they must; but where to goe? _Father_, +despite his broken Health and Hatred of the Foreigner, must needes depart +beyond Seas; at leaste within the six Months; but how, with an emptie +Purse, make his Way in a strange Land, with a Wife and seven Children at +his Heels? Soe ends _Mother_ with a "_Lord_ have Mercy upon us!" as +though her House were as surelie doomed to destruction as if it helde the +Plague. + +Mine Eyes were yet swollen with Tears, when my Husband stept in. He +askt, "What ails you, precious Wife?" I coulde but sigh, and give him +the Letter. Having read the Same, he says, "But what, my dearest? Have +we not ample Room here for them alle? I speak as to Generalls, you must +care for Particulars, and stow them as you will. There are plenty of +small Rooms for the Boys; but, if your Father, being infirm, needes a +Ground-floor Chamber, you and I will mount aloft." + +I coulde but look my Thankfullenesse and kiss his Hand. "Nay," he added, +with increasing Gentlenesse, "think not I have seene your Cares for my +owne Father without loving and blessing you. Let Mr. _Powell_ come and +see us happie; it may tend to make him soe. Let him and his abide with +us, at the leaste, till the Spring; his Lads will studdy and play with +mine, your Mother will help you in your Housewiferie, the two olde Men +will chirp together beside the _Christmasse_ Hearth; and, if I find thy +Weeklie Bills the heavier 'twill be but to write another Book, and make a +better Bargain for it than I did for the last. We will use Hospitalitie +without grudging; and, as for your owne Increase of Cares, I suppose +'twill be but to order two Legs of Mutton insteade of one!" + +And soe, with a Laugh, left me, most joyfulle, happy Wife! to drawe +Sweete out of Sowre, Delighte out of Sorrowe; and to summon mine owne +Kindred aboute me, and wipe away theire Tears, bid them eat, drink, and +be merry, and shew myselfe to them, how proud, how cherished a Wife! + +Surelie my Mother wille learne to love _John Milton_ at last! If she +doth not, this will be my secret Crosse, for 'tis hard to love dearlie +two Persons who esteeme not one another. But she will, she must, not +onlie respect him for his Uprightnesse and Magnanimitie, coupled with +what himselfe calls "an honest Haughtinesse and Self-esteeme," but _like_ +him for his kind and equall Temper, (_not_ "harsh and crabbed," as I have +hearde her call it,) his easie Flow of Mirthe, his Manners, unaffectedlie +cheerfulle; his Voice, musicall; his Person, beautifull; his Habitt, +gracefull; his Hospitalitie, naturall to him; his Purse, Countenance, +Time, Trouble, at his Friend's Service; his Devotion, humble; his +Forgivenesse, heavenlie! May it please _God_, that my Mother shall like +_John Milton_! . . . + + + + +DEBORAH'S DIARY + + +A FRAGMENT + +_Bunhill Fields, + Feb. 17, 1665_. + +. . . Something geniall and soothing beyond ordinarie in the Warmth and +fitfulle Lighte of the Fire, made us delaye, I know not how long, to trim +the Evening Lamp, and sitt muzing in Idlenesse about the Hearth; _Mary_ +revolving her Thumbs and staring at the Embers; _Anne_ quite in the +Shadowe, with her Arms behind her Head agaynst the Wall; Father in his +tall Arm-chair, quite uprighte, as his Fashion is when very thoughtfulle; +I on the Cushion at his Feet, with mine Head on's Knee and mine Eyes on +his Shadowe on the Wall, which, as it happened, shewed in colossal +Proportions, while ours were like Pigmies. Alle at once he exclaims, "We +all seem very comfortable--I think we shoulde reward ourselves with some +Egg-flip!" + +And then offered us Pence for our Thoughts. _Anne_ would not tell hers; +_Mary_ owned she had beene trying to account for the Deficiencie of a +Groat in her housekeeping Purse; and I contest to such a Medley, that +Father sayd I deserved _Anne's_ Penny in addition to mine own, for my +Strength of Mind in submitting such a Farrago of Nonsense to the Ridicule +of my Friends. + +Soe then I bade for his Thoughts, and he sayd he had beene questioning +the Cricket on the Hearth, upon the Extinction of the Fairies; and I +askt, Did anie believe in 'em now? and he made Answer, Oh, yes, he had +known a Serving-Wench in Oxon depone she had beene nipped and haled by +'em; and, of Crickets, he sayd he had manie Times seene an old Wife in +_Buckinghamshire_, who was soe pestered by one, that she cried, "I can't +heare myself talk! I'd as lief heare Nought as heare thee;" soe poured a +Kettle of boiling Water into the Cranny wherein the harmlesse Creature +lay, and scalded it to Death; and, the next Day, became as deaf as a +Stone, and remained soe ever after, a Monument of God's Displeasure, at +her destroying one of the most innocent of His Creatures. + +After this, he woulde tell us of this and that worn-our [Transcriber's +note: worn-out?] Superstition, as o' the Friar's Lantern, and of +Lob-lie-by-the-Fire, untill _Mary_, who affects not the Unreall, went off +to make the Flip. _Anne_ presentlie exclaimed, "Father! when you sayd-- + + 'The Shepherds on the Lawn, + Or e'er the Point of Dawn, + Sat simply chatting in a rustic Row, + Full little thought they then + That the mighty _Pan_ + Was kindly come to live with them, below,' + +whom meant you by _Pan_? Sure, you would not call our Lord by the Name +of a heathen Deity?" + +"Well, Child," returns Father, "you know He calls Himself a Shepherd, and +was in truth what _Pan_ was onlie supposed to be, the God of Shepherds; +albeit _Lavaterus_, in his Treatise _De Lemuribus_, doth indeede tell us, +that by _Pan_ some understoode noe other than the great _Sathanas_, whose +Kingdom being overturned at _Christ's_ Coming, his inferior Demons +expelled, and his Oracles silenced, he is some sort was himself +overthrown. And the Story goes, that, about the Time of our Lord's +Passion, certain Persons sailing from _Italy_ to _Cyprus_, and passing by +certayn Islands, did heare a Voice calling aloud, _Thamus, Thamus_, which +was the Name of the Ship's Pilot, who, making Answer to the unseene +Appellant, was bidden, when he came to _Palodas_, to tell that the great +God _Pan_ was dead; which he doubting to doe, yet for that when he came +to _Palodas_, there suddainlie was such a Calm of Wind that the Ship +stoode still in the Sea, he was constrayned to cry aloud that _Pan_ was +dead; whereupon there were hearde such piteous Shrieks and Cries of +invisible Beings, echoing from haunted Spring and Dale, as ne'er smote +human Ears before nor since: Nymphs and Wood-Gods, or they that had +passed for such, breaking up House and retreating to their own Place. I +warrant you, there was Trouble among the Sylvan People that Day--Satyrs +hirsute and cloven-footed Fauns. + +". . . Many a Time and oft have _Charles Diodati_ and I discust fond +Legends, such as this, over our Winter Hearth; with our Chestnuts +blackening and crackling on the Hob, and our o'er-ripe Pears sputtering +in the Fire, while the Wind raved without among the creaking Elms. . . ." + +Father still hammering on old Times, and his owne young Days, I beganne +to frame unto myself an Image of what he might then have beene; piecing +it out by Help of his Picture on the Wall; but coulde get no cleare +Apprehension of my Mother, she dying soe untimelie. Askt him, Was she +beautifulle? He sayth, Oh yes, and clouded over o' the suddain; then +went over her Height, Size, and Colour, etc.; dwelt on the Generalls of +personal Beauty, how it shadowed forthe the Mind, was desirable or +dangerous, etc. + +On dispersing for the Night, he noted, somewhat hurt, _Anne's_ abrupt +Departure without kissing his Hand, and sayd, "Is she sulky or unwell?" + +In our Chamber, found her alreadie half undrest, a reading of her Bible; +sayd, "Father tooke your briefe Good-nighte amisse." She made Answer +shortlie, "Well, what neede to marvell; he cannot put his Arm about me +without being reminded how mis-shapen I am." + +Poor _Nan_! we had been speaking of faire Proportions, and had +thoughtlessly cut her to the Quick; yet Father _knoweth_, though he +cannot _see_, that her Face is that of an Angel. + +About One o' the Clock, was rouzed (though _Anne_ continued sleeping +soundly) by hearing Father give his three Signal-taps agaynst the Wall. +Half drest, and with bare Feet thrust into Slippers, I hastily ran in to +him; he cried, "_Deb_, for the Love of Heaven get Pen and Paper to sett +Something down." I replied, "Sure, Father, you gave me quite a Turn; I +thought you were ill," and sett to my Task, marvellous ill-conditioned, +expecting some Crotchet had taken him concerning his Will. + +'Stead of which, out comes a Volley of Poetry he had lain a brewing till +his Brain was like to burst; and soe I, in my thin Night Cotes, must +needs jot it all down, for Feare it should ooze away before Morning. +Sure, I thought he never woulde get to the End, and really feared at +firste he was crazing a little, but indeede all Poets doe when the Vein +is on 'em. At length, with a Sigh of Relief, he says, "That will +doe--Good-night, little Maid." I coulde not help saying, "'Twas a lucky +Thing for you, Father, that Step-mother was from Home;" he laught, drew +me to him, kissed me, and sayd, "Why, your Face is quite cold--are your +Feet unslippered?" + +"Unstockinged," I replyed. + +"I am quite concerned I knew it not sooner," he rejoyned, in an Accent of +such Kindnesse, that all my Vexation melted away, and I e'en protested I +did not mind it a Bit. + +"Since it is soe," quoth he, "I shall the less mind having Recourse to +you agayn; onlie I must insist on your taking Care to wrap yourself up +more warmly, since you need not feare my being ill." + +I bit my Lip, and onlie saying Good-night, stole off to my warm Bed. + +Returning from Morning Prayers with _Anne_ this Forenoon, I found _Mary_ +mending a Pen with the utmost Imperturbabilitie, and Father with a +Heat-spot on his Cheek, which betraied some Inquietation. Being +presentlie alone with him, "_Mary_ is irretrievably heavy," sighs he, +"she would let the finest Thought escape one while she is blowing her +Nose or brushing up the Cinders. I am confident she has beene writing +Nonsense even now--Do run through it for me, _Deb_, and lett me heare +what it is." + +I went on, enough to his Satisfaction, till coming to + + "Bring to their Sweetness no Sobriety." + + +"Sobriety?" interrupted he, "Satiety, Satiety! the Blockhead!--and that I +should live to call a Woman soe.--Sobriety, indeede! poor _Mary_, her +Wits must have been wool-gathering. 'Bring to their Sweetness no +Sobriety!' What Meaning coulde she possibly affix to such Folly?" + +"Sure, Father," sayd I, "here's Enough that she could affix no Meaning +to, nor I neither, without your condescending to explayn it--Cycle, +Epicycle, nocturnal Rhomb." + +"Well, well," returned he, beginning to smile, "'twas unlikely she +shoulde be with such Discourse delighted. Not capable, alas! poor +_Mary's_ Ear, of what is high. And yet, thy Mother, Child, woulde have +stretched up towards Truths, though beyond her Reach, yet to the +inquiring Mind offering rich Repast. And now write Satiety for Sobriety, +if you love me." + +While erasing the obnoxious Word, I cried, "Dear Father, pray answer me +one Question--What is a Rhomb?" + +"A Rhomb, Child?" repeated he, laughing, "why, a Parallelogram or +quadrangular Figure, consisting of parallel Lines, with two acute and two +obtuse Angles, and formed by two equal and righte Cones, joyned together +at their Base! There, are you anie wiser now? No, little Maid, 'tis +best for such as you + + Not with perplexing Thoughts + To interrupt the Sweet of Life, from which + God hath bid dwell far off all anxious Cares, + And not molest us, unless we ourselves + Seek them, with wandering Thoughts and Notions vain.'" + + + +_April 19, 1665_. + +I heartilie wish our Stepmother were back, albeit we are soe comfortable +without her! _Mary_, taking the Maids at unawares last Night, found a +strange Man in the Kitchen. Words ensued; he slunk off like a Culprit, +which lookt not well, while _Betty Fisher_, brazening it out, woulde have +at firste that he was her Brother, then her Cousin, and ended by vowing +to be revenged on _Mary_ when she lookt not for it. I would have had +_Mary_ speak to Father, but she will not; perhaps soe best. _Polly_ is +in the Sulks to Daye, as well as _Betty_, saying, "As well live in a +Nunnerie." + + + +_April 20, 1665_. + +When the Horse is stolen, shut the Stable Door. _Mary_ locked the lower +Doors, and brought up the Keys herselfe, yestereven at Duske. Anon +dropped in Doctor _Paget_, Mr. _Skinner_, and Uncle _Dick_, soe that we +had quite a merrie Party. Dr. _Paget_ sayd how that another Case of the +Plague had occurred in _Long Acre_; howbeit, this onlie makes three, soe +that we trust it will not spread, though 'twoulde be unadvised to goe +needlesslie into the infected Quarter. Uncle _Dick_ would fayn take us +Girls down to _Oxon_, but Father sayd he could not spare us while Mother +was at _Stoke_; and that there was noe prevalent Distemper, this bracing +Weather, in our Parish. Then felle a musing; and Uncle _Dick_, who loves +a Jeste, outs with a large brown Apple from's Pocket, and holds it aneath +Father's Nose. Sayth Father, rousing, "How far Phansy goes! thy Voice, +_Dick_, carried me back to olde Dayes, and affected, I think, even my +Nose; for I could protest I smelled a _Sheepscote_ Apple." And, feeling +himselfe touched by its cold Skin, laught merrilie, and ate it with a +Relish; saying, noe Sorte ever seemed unto him soe goode--he had received +manie a Hamper of 'em about Christmasse. After a Time, alle but he and I +went up, and out on the Leads, to see the Comet; and we two sitting quite +still, and Father, doubtlesse, supposed to be alone, I saw a great +round-shouldered mannish Shadowe glide acrosse the Passage, and hearde +the Front-door Latch click. Darted forthe, but too late, and then into +the Kitchen; with some Warmth chid _Betty_ for soe soone agayn disobeying +Orders, and threatened to tell my Mamma. She cryed pertlie, "Law, Miss +_Deb_, I wish to Goodnesse your Mamma was here to heare you, for I'd +sooner have one Mistress than three. A Shadowe, indeed! I'm sure you +saw no Substance--very like, 'twas a Spirit; or, liker still, onlie the +Cat. Here, Puss, Puss!" . . . and soe into the Passage, as though to +look for what she was sure not to find. I had noe Patience with her; +but, returning to Father, askt him if he had not heard the Latch click? +He sayd, No; and, indeede, I think, had been dozing; soe then sate still, +and bethoughte me what 'twere best to doe. Three Brains are too little +agaynst one that is resolved to cheat. 'Tis noe Goode complayning to a +Man; he will not see, even though unafflicted like Father, who cannot. +Men's Minds run on greater Things, and soe they are fretted at domestic +Appeals, and generallie give Judgment the wrong Way. Thus we founde it +before, poor motherlesse Girls, to our Cost; and I reallie believe it was +more in Kindnesse for us than himself, that Father listened to the +Doctor's Overtures in behalfe of Miss _Minshull_; for what Companion can +soe illiterate a Woman be to him? But he believed her gentle, hearde +that she was a good Housewife, and apprehended she would be kind to +us. . . . Alas the Daye! What Tears we three shed in our Chamber that +Night! and wished, too late, we had ne'er referred to him a Grievance, +nor let him know we had a Burthen. Soone we founde King _Log_ had been +succeeded by King _Stork_; soone made common Cause, tryed our Strength +and found it wanting, and soone submitted to our new Yoke, and tried to +make the best of it. + +Yes, that is the onlie Course; we alle feele it; onlie, as Ill-luck will +have it, we do not always feel it simultaneouslie. _Anne_, mayhap, has +one of her dogged humours; _Mary_ and I see how much better 'twould be, +did she overcome it, or shut herself up till in better Temper. _Mary_ is +crabbed and exacting; _Anne_ and I cannot put her straight. Well for us +when we succeed just soe far as to keep it from the Notice of Father. +Thus we rub on; I wonder if we ever shall pull all together? + + + +_April 22, 1665_. + +Like unto a wise Master-builder, who ordereth the Disposition of eache +Stone till the whole Building is fitly compacted together, so doth Father +build up his noble Poem, which groweth under our Hands. Three Nights +have I, without Complaynt, lost my Rest while writing at his Bedside; +this hath made me yawnish in the Day-time, or, as Mother will have it, +lazy. However, I bethink me of _Damo_, Daughter of _Pythagoras_. + +Mother came Home yesterday, and _Betty_, the Picture of Neatnesse, tooke +goode Heede to be the first to welcome her, with officious Smiles, and +Prayses of her Looks. For my Part, I thoughte it fullsome, but knew her +Motives better than Mother, who took it alle in goode Part. Indeede, noe +one would give this Girl credit for soe false a Heart; she is pretty, +modest looking, and for a while before my Father's Marriage was as great +a Favourite with _Mary_ as now with my Mother; flattered her the same, +and tempted her to idle gossiping Confidences. She was slow to believe +herself cheated; and when 'twas as cleare as Day, could not convince +Father of it. + +On _Mary's_ mentioning this Morning (unadvisedlie, I think,) the Kitchen +Visitor, Mother made short Answer-- + +"Tilly-vally! bad Mistresses make bad Maids; there will be noe such +Doings now, I warrant. . . . I am sure, my Dear," appealing to Father, +"you think well in the main of _Betty_?" + +"Yes," says he, smiling, "I think well of both my _Betties_." + +"At any rate," persists _Mary_, "the Man coulde not be at once her Cousin +and her Brother." + +"Why no," replies Father, "therein she worsened her Story, by saying too +much, as _Dorothea_ did, when she pretended to have heard of the Knight +of _La Mancha's_ Fame, when she landed at _Ossuna_; which even a Madman +as he was, knew to be noe Sea-port. It requires more Skill than the +General possess, to lie with a Circumstance." + +Had a Valentine this Morning, though onlie from_ Ned Phillips_, whom +Mother is angry with, for filling my Head betimes with such Nonsense. +Howbeit, I am close on sixteen. + +_Mary_ was out of Patience with Father yesterday, who, after keeping her +a full Hour at _Thucydides_, sayd, + +"Well, now we will refresh ourselves with a Canto of _Ariosto_," which +was as much a sealed Book to her as t'other. Howbeit, this Morning he +sayd, + +"Child, I have noted your Wearinesse in reading the dead Languages to me; +would that I needed not to be beholden unto any, whether bound to me by +Blood and Affection or not, for the Food that is as needfulle to me as my +daily Bread. Nevertheless, that I be not further wearisome unto thee, I +have engaged a young Quaker, named _Ellwood_, to relieve thee of this +Portion of thy Task, soe that thou mayst have the more Leisure to enjoy +the glad Sunshine and fair Sights I never more shall see." + +_Mary_ turned red, and dropt a quiet Tear; but alas, he knew it not. + +"One part of my Children's Burthen, indeed," he continued, "I cannot, for +obvious Reasons, relieve them of--they must still be my Secretaries, for +in them alone can I confide. Soe now to your healthfulle Exercises and +fitting Recreations, dear Maids, and Heaven's Blessing goe with you!" + +We kissed his Hand and went, but our Walk was not merry. + +_Ellwood_ is a young Man of seven-and-twenty, of good Parts, but +pragmaticalle; Son of an Oxfordshire Justice of the Peace, but not on +good Terms with him, by Reason of his religious Opinions, which the +Father affects not. + + + +_April 23, 1665_. + +Spring is coming on apace. Father even sits between the wood Fire and +the open Casement, enjoying the mild Air, but it is not considered +healthfulle. + +"My Dear," says Mother to him this Morning, after some Hours' Absence, "I +have bought me a new Mantle of the most absolute Fancy. 'Tis +sad-coloured, which I knew you would approve, but with a Garniture of +Orange-tawny; three Plaits at the Waist behind, and a little stuck-up +Collar." + +"You are a comical Woman," says Father, "to spend soe much Money and Mind +on a Thing your Husband will never see." + +"Oh! but it cost no Money at alle," says she; "that is the best of it." + +"What is the best of it?" rejoyned he. "I suppose you bartered for it, +if you did not buy it--you Women are always for cheap Pennyworths. Come, +what was the Ransom? One of my old Books, or my new Coat?" + +"Your last new Coat may be called old too, I'm sure," says Mother; "I +believe you married me in it." + +"Nay," says Father, "and what if I did? 'Twas new then, at any rate; and +the Cid _Ruy Diaz_ was married in a black Satin Doublet, which his Father +had worn in three or four Battles." + +"A poor Compliment to the Bride," says Mother. + +"Well, but, dear _Betty_, what has gone for this copper-coloured +Mantle?--_Sylvester's_ 'Du Bartas?'" . . . + +"Nothing of the sort,--nothing you value or will ever miss. An old Gold +Pocket-piece, that hath lain perdue, e'er soe long, in our Dressing-table +Drawer." + +He smote the Table with his Hand. "Woman!" cried he, changing Colour, +"'twas a Medal of Honour given to my Father by a Polish Prince! It +should have been an Heir-loom. There, say noe more about it now. 'Tis +in your Jew's Furnace ere this. 'The Fining-pot for Silver and the +Furnace for Gold, but . . . the Lord trieth the Spirits.' Ay me! mine is +tried sometimes." + +Uncle _Kit_ most opportunelie entering at this Moment, instantaneouslie +changed his Key-note. + +"Ha, _Kit_!" he cries, gladly, "here you find me, as usual, maundering +among my Women. Welcome, welcome! How is it with you, and what's the +News?" + +"Why, the News is, that the Plague's coming on amain," says my Uncle; +"they say it's been smouldering among us all the Winter, and now it's +bursting out." + +"Lord save us!" says Mother, turning pale. + +"You may say that," says Uncle, "but you must alsoe try to save +yourselves. For my Part, I see not what shoulde keep you in Town. Come +down to us at _Ipswich_; my Brother and you shall have the haunted +Chamber; and we can make plenty of Shakedowns for the Girls in the +Atticks. Your Maids can look after Matters here. By the way, you have a +Merlin's Head sett up in your Neighbourhood; I saw your black-eyed Maid +come forthe of it as I passed." + +Mother bit her lip; but Father broke forthe with, "What can we expect but +that a judiciall Punishment shoulde befall a Land where the Corruption of +the Court, more potent and subtile in its Infection than anie Pestilence, +hath tainted every open Resorte and bye Corner of the Capital and +Country? Our Sins cry aloud; our Pulpits, Counters, and Closetts alike +witness against us. 'Tis, as with the People soe with the Priest, as +with the Buyer soe with the Seller, as with the Maid soe with the +Mistress. Plays, Interludes, Gaming-houses, Sabbath Debauches, +Dancing-rooms, Merry-Andrews, Jack Puddings, Quacks, false Prophesyings--" + +"Ah! we can excuse a little Bitternesse in the losing Party now," says +Uncle; "but do you seriously mean to say you think us more deserving of +judiciall Punishment under the glorious Restoration than during the +unnatural Rebellion? Sure you have had Time to cool upon that." + +"Certainly I mean to say so," answers Father. "During the unnatural +Rebellion, as you please to call it, the Commonwealth, whose Duration was +very short--" + +"Very short, indeed," observes Uncle, coughing. "Only from _Worcester_ +Fight, Fifty-one, to _Noll's_ Dissolution of the Long Parliament, +Fifty-three; yet quite long enough to see what it was." + +"I deny that, as well as your Dates," says Father. "We enjoyed a +Commonwealth under the Protector, who, had he not assumed that high +Office which gave him his Name, would have lacked Opportunity of showing +that he was capable of filling the most exalted Station with Vigour and +Ability. He secured a wise Peace, obtained the respectfull Concurrence +of foreign Powers, filled our domestick Courts with upright Judges, and +respected the Rights of Conscience." + +"Why, suppose I admitted all this, which I am far from doing," says +Uncle, "what was he but a King, except by just Title? What had become, +meantime, of your Commonwealth?" + +"Softly, _Kit_," returns Father. "The Commonwealth was progressing, +meantime, like a little Rivulet that rises among the Hills, amid Weeds +and Moss, and gradually works itself a widening Channel, filtering over +Beds of Gravel, and obstructed here and there by Fragments of Rock, that +sorely chafe and trouble it, at the very Time that, to the distant +Observer, it looks most picturesque and beautiful." + +"Well, I suppose I was never distant enough to see it in this picturesque +Point of View," says Uncle. "Legitimate Monarchy was, to my Mind, the +Rock over which the brawling River leaped awhile, and which, in the End, +successfully opposed it; and as to your _Oliver_, he was a cunning +Fellow, that diverted its Course to turn his own Mill." + +"They that can see any Virtue or Comeliness in a _Charles Stuart_," says +Father, "can hardly be expected to acknowledge the rugged Merits of a +plain Republican." + +"Plain was the very last Thing he was," says Uncle, "either in speaking +or dealing. He was as cunning as a Fox, and as rough as a Bear." + +"We can overlook the Roughness of a good Man," says Father; "and if a +Temper subject to hasty Ebullitions is better than one which, by Blows +and hard Usage, has been silenced into Sullenness, a Republic is better +than an absolute Sovereignty." + +"Aye; and if a Temper under the Control of Reason and Principle," rejoins +Uncle, "is better than one unaccustomed to restrain its hasty +Ebullitions, a limited Monarchy is better than a Republic." + +"But ours is not limited enough," persists Father. + +"Wait awhile," returns Uncle, "till, as you say, we have filtered over +the Gravel a little longer, and then see how clear we shall run." + +"I don't see much present Chance of it," says Father. "Such a King, and +such a Court!" + +"The King and Court will soon shift Quarters, I understand," says Uncle; +"for Fear of this coming Sickness. 'Twould be a rare Thing, indeed, for +the King to take the Plague!" + +"Why not the King, as well as any of his Commons?" says Father. "Tush! +I am tired of the Account People make of him. 'Is _Philip_ dead?' 'No; +but he is sick.' Pray, what is it to us, whether _Philip_ is sick or +not?" + +"Which of the _Phillipses_, my Dear?" asks Mother. "Did you say _Jack +Phillips_ was sick?" + +"No, dear _Betty_; only a King of _Macedon_, who lived a long Time ago." + +"Doctor _Brice_ commends you much for your grounding the _Phillipses_ so +excellently in the Classicks," says Uncle. + +"He should think whether his Praise is much worth having," says Father, +rather haughtily. "The young Men were indebted to me for a competent +Knowledge of the learned Tongues--no more." + +"Nay, somewhat more," rejoined Uncle; "and the Praise of a worthy Man is +surely always worth having." + +"If he be our Superior in the Thing wherein he praises us," returned +Father. "His Praise is then a Medal of Reward; but it should never be a +current Coin, bandied from one to another. And the Inferior may never +praise the Superior." + +Uncle was silent a Moment, and then softly uttered, "My Soul, praise the +Lord." + +"There you have me," says Father, instantly softening. "Laud we the Name +of the Lord, but let's not laud one another." + +"Ah! I can't wait to argue the Point," says Uncle. "I must back to the +_Temple_." + +"Stay a Moment, _Kit_. Have you seen 'the Mysterie of Jesuitism?'" + +"No; have _you_ seen the Proof that _London_, not _Rome_, is the City on +seven Hills? _Ludgate Hill, Fishstreet Hill, Dowgate Hill, Garlick Hill, +Saffron Hill, Holborn Hill_, and _Tower Hill_. Clear as Day!" + +"Where's _Snow Hill_? Come, don't go yet. We will fight over some of +our old Feuds. There will be a roast Pig on Table at one o'clock, and, I +fancy, a Tansy-pudding." + +"_I_ can't fancy Tansy-pudding," says Uncle, shuddering; "I cannot abide +Tansies, even in Lent. Besides, I'm expecting a Reference." + +"Oh! very well; then drop in again in the Evening, if you will; and very +likely you will meet _Cyriack Skinner_. And you shall have cold Pig for +Supper, not forgetting the Current-sauce, _Wiltshire_ Cheese, Carraways, +and some of your own Wine." + +"Well, that sounds good. I don't mind if I do," says Uncle; "but don't +expect me after nine." + +"I'm in Bed by nine," says Father. + +"Oh, oh!" says Uncle; and with a comical Look at us, he went off. + + +Uncle _Kit_ did not come last Night; I did not much expect he woulde; nor +Mr. _Skinner_. Insteade, we had Dr. _Paget_, and one or two others, who +talked dolefully alle the Evening of Signs of the Times, till they gave +me the Horrors. One had seen a Ghost, or at least, seen a Crowd looking +at a Ghost, or for a Ghost, in _Bishopgate_ Churchyard, that comes out +and points hither and thither at future Graves. Another had seene an +Apparition, or Meteor, somewhat of human or angelic Shape in the Air. +Father laught at the first, but did not so discredit _in toto_ the other; +observing that _Theodore Beza_ believed at one Time in astrologick Signs; +and thought that the Appearance of the notable Star in _Cassiopeiea_ +betokened the universal End. And as for Angels, he sayd they were, +questionless, ministering Spiritts, not onlie sent forth to minister unto +the Heirs of Salvation, but sometimes Instruments of God's Wrath, to +execute Judgments upon ungodly Men, and convince them of the ill Deeds +which they have ungodly committed; as during the Pestilence in _David's_ +Time, when the King saw the Destroying Angel standing between Heaven and +Earth, having a drawn Sword in his Hand, stretched over Jerusalem. Such +Delegates we might, without Fanaticism, suppose to be the generall, +though unseen. Instruments of public Chastisements; and, for our +particular Comfort, we had equall Reason to repose on the Assurance, that +even amid the Pestilence that walked in Darkness, and the Destruction +that wasted by Noon-day, the Angels had charge over each particular +Believer, to keep them in all their Ways. Adding, that, though he +forbore, with _Calvin_, to pronounce that each Man had his own Guardian +Spiritt,--a Subject whereon Scripture was silent,--we had the Lord's own +Word for it, that little Children were the particular Care of holy Angels. + +And this, and othermuch to same Purport, had soe soothing and sedative an +Effect, that we might have gone to Bed in peacefull Trust, onlie that Dr. +_Paget_ must needs bring up, after Supper, the correlative Theme of the +great _Florentine_ Plague, and the poisoned Wells, which sett Father off +upon the Acts of Mercy of Cardinal _Borromeo,--_not him called St. +_Charlest_ but the Cardinal-Archbishop,--and soe, to the Pestilence at +_Geneva_, when even the Bars and Locks of Doors were poisoned by a Gang +of Wretches, who thought to pillage the Dwellings of the Dead; till we +all went to Bed, moped to Death. + +Howbeit, I had been warmly asleep some Hours, (more by Token I had read +the ninety-first Psalm before getting into Bed), when _Anne_, clinging to +me, woke me up with a shrill Cry. I whispered fearfullie, "What is't?--a +Thief under the Bed?" + +"No, no," she replies. "Listen!" + +Soe I did for a While; and was just going to say, "You were dreaming," +when a hollow Voice in the Street, beneath our Window, distinctlie +proclaimed, + +"Yet forty Days, and _London_ shall be destroyed! I will overturn, +overturn, overturn it! Oh! Woe, Woe, Woe!" + +I sprang out of Bed, fell over my Shoes, got up again, and ran to the +Window. There was Nothing to be seen but long, black Shadows in the +Streets. The Moon was behind the House. After looking forthe awhile, +with Teeth chattering, I was about to drop the Curtain, when, afar off, +whether in or over some distant Quarter of the Town, I heard the same +Voice, clearlie enow to recognise the Rhythm, though not the Words. I +crept to Bed, chilled and awe-stricken; yet, after cowering awhile, and +saying our Prayers, we both fell asleep. + + +The first Sounde this Morning was of Weeping and Wayling. Mother had +beene scared by the Night-warning, and wearied Father to have us alle +into the Countrie. He thought the Danger not yet imminent, the Expense +considerable, and the Outcry that of some crazy Fanatick; ne'erthelesse, +consented to employ _Ellwood_ to look us out some country Lodgings; +having noe Mind to live upon my Uncle at _Ipswich_. + +_Mary_, strange to say, had heard noe Noise; nor had the Maids; but +Servants always sleep heavily. + +Some of the Pig having beene sett aside for my Uncle, and Mother fancying +it for her Breakfast, was much putt out, on going into the Larder, to +find it gone. _Betty_, of course, sayd it was the Cat. Mother made +Answer, she never knew a Cat partiall to cold Pig; and the Door having +been latched, was suspicious of a Puss in Boots. + +_Betty_ cries--"Plague take the Cat!" + +Mother rejoyns--"If the Plague does take him, I shall certainly have him +hanged." + +"Then we shall be overrun with Rats," says _Betty_. + +"I shall buy Ratsbane for them," says Mother; and soe into the Parlour, +where Father, having hearde the whole Dialogue, had been greatlie amused. + +At Twilight, she went to look at the Pantry Fastenings herselfe, but, +suddenlie hearing a dolorous Voyce either within or immediately without, +cry, "Oh! Woe, Woe!" she naturallie drew back. However, being a Woman +of much Spiritt, she instantlie recovered herselfe, and went forward; but +no one was in the Pantry. The Occurrence, therefore, made the more +Impression; and she came up somewhat scared, and asked if we had heard it. + +"My Dear," says Father, "you awoke me in the midst of a very interesting +Colloquy between _Sir Thomas More_ and _Erasmus_. However, I think a Dog +barked, or rather howled, just now. Are you sure the words were not +'Bow, wow, wow?'" + + +Another Night-larum; but onlie from Father, who wanted me to write for +him,--a Task he has much intromitted of late. Mother was hugelie annoyed +at it, and sayd,--"My Dear, I am persuaded that if you would not persist +in going to Bed soe earlie, you woulde not awake at these untimelie +Hours." + +"That is very well for you to say," returned he, "who can sew and spin +the whole Evening through; but I, whose long entire Day is Night, grow +soe tired of it by nine o'clock, that I am fit for Nothing but Bed." + +"Well," says she, "I often find that brushing my Hair wakes me up when I +am drowsy. I will brush yours To-morrow Evening, and see if we cannot +keep you up a little later, and provide sounder Rest for you when you do +turn in." + +Soe, this Evening, she casts her Apron over his Shoulders, and commences +combing his Hair, chatting of this and that, to keep him in good Humour. + +"What beautiful Hair this is of yours, my Dear!" says she; "soe fine, +long, and soft! scarcelie a Silver Thread in it. I warrant there's manie +a young Gallant at Court would be proud of such." + +"Girls, put your Scissars out of your Mother's Way," says Father; "she's +a perfect _Dalilah_, and will whip off Half my Curls before I can count +Three, unless you look after her. And I," he adds, with a Sigh, "am, in +one Sort, a _Samson_." + +"I'm sure _Dalilah_ never treated _Samson's_ old Coat with such Respect," +says Mother, finishing her Task, resuming her Apron, and kissing him. +"Soe now, keep your Eyes open--I mean, keep awake, till I bring you a +Gossip's Bowl." + +When she was gone, Father continued sitting bolt upright, _his Eyes_, as +she sayd (his beautifull Eyes!), open and wakefull, and his Countenance +composed, yet grave, as if his Thoughts were at least as far off as +_Tangrolipix_ the _Turk_. All at once, he says, + +"_Deb_, are my Sleeves white at the Elbow?" + +"No, Father." + +"Or am I shiny about the Shoulders?" + +"No, Father." + +"Why, then," cries he, gaily, this Coat can't be very old, however long I +may have worn it. I'll rub on in it still; and your Mother and you will +have the more Money for copper-coloured Clokes. But don't, at any Time, +let your Father get shabby, Children. I would never be threadbare nor +unclean. Let my Habitt be neat and spotless, my Bands well washed and +uncrumpled, as becometh a Gentleman. As for my Sword in the Corner, your +Mother may send that after my Medal as soon as she will. The _Cid_ +parted with his _Tizona_ in his Life-time; soe a peaceable Man, whose +Eyes, like the Prophet _Abijah's_, are set, may well doe the same." + + + +_May 12, 1665_. + +Yesterday being the _Lord's Day_, Mother was hugely scared during Morning +Service, by seeing an old Lady put her Kerchief to her Nose, look hither +and thither, and, finally, walk out of Church. One whispered another, "A +Plague-Smell, perchance." "No Doubt on't;" and soe, one after another +left, as, at length, did Mother, who declared she beganne to feel herself +ill. On the Cloth being drawn after Dinner, she made a serious Attack on +my Father, upon the Subject of Country Lodgings, which he stoutly +resisted at first, saying, + +"If, Wife and Daughters, either the Danger were so immediate, or the +Escape from it so facile as to justify these womanish Clamours, Reason +would that I should listen to you. But, since that the Lord is about our +Bed, and about our Path, in the Capital no less than in the Country, and +knoweth them that are his, and hideth them under the Shadowe of his +Wings--and since that, if the Fiat be indeed issued agaynst us, no +Stronghold, though guarded with triple Walls of Circumvallation, like +_Ecbatana_, nor pastoral Valley, that might inspire _Theocritus_ with a +new Idyl, can hide us, either by its Strength or its Obscurity, from the +Arrow of the Destroying Angel; ye, therefore, seeing these Things cannot +be spoken agaynst, ought to be quiet, and do Nothing rashly. Wherefore, +I pray you, Wife and Daughters, get you to your Knees, before Him who +alone can deliver you from these Terrors; and having cast your Burthen +upon Him, eat your Bread in Peacefulness and Cheerfulness of Heart." + +However, we really are preparing for Country Quarters, for young +_Ellwood_ hath this Morning brought us Note of a rustick Abode near his +Friends, the _Penningtons_, at _Chalfont_, in _Bucks_, the Charges of +which suit my Father's limited Means; and we hope to enter on it by the +End of the Week. _Ellwood's_ Head seems full of _Guli Springett_, the +Daughter of Master _Pennington's_ Wife by her first Husband. If Half he +says of her be true, I shall like to see the young Lady. We part with +one Maid, and take the other. _Betty_ was very forward to be left in +Charge; and protest herself willing to abide any Risk for the Sake of the +Family; more by Token she thoughte there was no Risk at alle, having +boughte a sovereign Charm of Mother _Shipton_. Howbeit, on inducing her, +much agaynst her Will, to open it, Nought was founde within but a +wretched little Print of a Ship, with the Words, scrawled beneath it, "By +Virtue of the above Sign." Father called her a silly Baggage, and sayd, +he was glad, at any Rate, there was no Profanity in it; but, in Spite of +_Betty_, and _Polly_, and Mother too, he is resolved to leave the House +under the sole Charge of Nurse _Jellycott_. Indeed, there Will probably +be more rather than less Work to do at _Chalfont_; but Mother means to +get a little Boy, such as will be glad to come for Threepence a-Week, to +fetch the Milk, post the Letters, get Flour from the Mill and Barm from +the Brewhouse, carry Pies to the Oven, clean Boots and Shoes, bring in +Wood, sweep up the Garden, roll the Grass, turn the Spit, draw the Water, +lift Boxes and heavy Weights, chase away Beggars and infectious Persons, +and any little odd Matter of the Kind. + + +Mother has drowned the Cats, and poisoned the Rats. The latter have +revenged 'emselves by dying behind the Wainscot, which makes the lower +Part of the House soe unbearable, 'speciallie to Father, that we are +impatient to be off. Mother, intending to turn _Chalfont_ into a +besieged Garrison, is laying in Stock of Sope, Candles, Cheese, Butter, +Salt, Sugar, Raisins, Pease, and Bacon; besides Resin, Sulphur, and +Benjamin, agaynst the Infection; and Pill Ruff, and _Venice_ Treacle, in +Case it comes. + +As to Father, his Thoughts naturallie run more on Food for the Mind; soe +he hath layd in goodlie Store of Pens, Paper, and Ink, and sett me to +pack his Books. At first, he sayd he should onlie require a few, and +good ones. These were all of the biggest; and three or four Folios broke +out the Bottom of the Box. So then Mother sayd the onlie Way was to cord +'em up in Sacking; which greatlie relaxed the Bounds of his Self-denial, +and ended in his having a Load packed that would break a Horse's Back. +Alsoe, hath had his Organ taken to Pieces; but as it must goe in two +severall Loads, and we cannot get a bigger Wagon,--everie Cart and +Carriage, large or little, being on such hard Duty in these Times,--I'm +to be left behind till the Wagon returns, and till I've finished +cataloguing the Books; after which _Ned Phillips_ hath promised to take +me down on a Pillion. + +Nurse _Jellycott_, being sent for from _Wapping_, looked in this +Forenoon, for Father's Commands. Such Years have passed since we lost +Sight of her, that I remembered not her Face in the least, but had an +instant Recollection of her chearfulle, gentle Voyce. Spite of her +Steeple Hat, and short scarlet Cloke, which gave her an antiquated Ayr, +her cleare hazel Eyes and smooth-parted Silver Locks gave her an engaging +Appearance. The World having gone ill with her, she thankfullie takes +Charge of the Premises; and though her Eyes filled with Tears, 'twas with +looking at Father. He, for his Part, spake most kindlie, and gave her +his Hand, which she kissed. + + +They are all off. Never was House in such a Pickle! The Carpets rolled +up, but the Boards beneath 'em unswept, and black with Dirt; as Nurse +gladlie undertook everie Office of that Kind, and sayd 'twould help to +amuse her when we were away. But she has tidied up the little Chamber +over the House-door she means to occupy, and sett on the Mantell a +Beau-pot of fresh Flowers she brought with her. The whole House smells +of aromatick Herbs, we have burnt soe many of late for Fumigation; and, +though we fear to open the Window, yet, being on the shady Side, we doe +not feel the Heat much. + +Yesterday, while in the Thick of packing, and Nobody being with Father +but me, a Messenger arrived, with a few Lines, writ privily by a Friend +of poor _Ellwood_, saying he was in _Aylesbury_ Gaol, not for Debt, but +for his Opinions, and praying Father to send him twenty or thirty +Shillings for immediate Necessaries. Mother having gone to my Lord Mayor +for Passports, and Father having long given up to her his Purse, . . . +(for us Girls, we rarelie have a Crown,) he was in a Strait, and at +length said, + +"This poor young Fellow must not be denied. . . . A Friend in Need is a +Friend indeed. . . . Tie on thy Hood, Child, and step out with the +Volume thou hadst in thy Hand but now, to the Stall at the Corner. See +_Isaac_ himself; shew him _Tasso's_ Autograph on the Fly-leaf, and ask +him for thirty or forty Shillings on it till I come back; but bid him on +no Pretence to part with it." + +I did so, not much liking the Job--there are often such queer People +there; for old _Isaac_ deals not onlie in old Books, but old Silver +Spoons. Howbeit, I took the Volume to his Shop, and as I went in, +_Betty_ came out! What had been _her_ Businesse, I know not; but she +lookt at me and my Book as though she should like to know _mine_; but, +with her usual demure Curtsey, made Way for me, and walked off. I got +the Money with much Waiting, but not much other Dimcultie, and took it to +Father, who sent twenty Shillings to _Ellwood_, and gave me five for my +Payns. Poor _Ellwood_! he hath good Leisure to muse now on _Guli +Springett_. + + +Mother was soe worried by the Odour of the Rats, that they alle started +off a Day sooner than was first intended, leaving me merelie a little +extra Packing. Consequence was, that this Morning, before Dawn, being +earlie at my Task, there taps me at the Window an old Harridan that +Mother can't abide, who is always a crying, "Anie Kitchen-stuff have you, +Maids?" + +Quoth I, "We've Nothing for you." + +"Sure, my deary," answers she, in a cajoling voyce, "there's the Dripping +and Candles you promised me this Morning, along with the Pot-liquor." + +"Dear Heart, Mrs. _Deb_!" says Nurse, laughing, "there is, indeed, a Lot +of Kitchen-stuff hid up near the Sink, which I dare say your Maid told +her she was to have; and as it will only make the House smell worse, I +don't see why she should not have it, and pay for it too." + +Soe I laught, and gave it her forthe, and she put into my Hand two +Shillings; but then says, "Why, where's the Cheese?" + +"We've no Cheese for you," sayd I. + +"Well," says she, "it's a dear Bargayn; but . . ." peering towards me, +"is t'other Mayd gone, then?" + +"Oh, yes! both of 'em," says I; "and I'm the Mistress," soe burst out a +laughing, and shut the Window, while she stumped off, with Something +between a Grunt and a Grone. Of course, I gave the Money to Nurse. + +We had much Talk overnight of my poor dear Mother. Nurse came to her +when _Anne_ was born, and remained in the Family till after the Death of +Father's second Wife. _She_ was a fayr and delicate Gentlewoman, by +Nurse's Account, soft in Speech, fond of Father, and kind to us and the +Servants; but all Nurse's Suffrages were in Favour of mine own loved +Mother. + +I askt Nurse how there came to have beene a Separation betweene Father +and Mother, soone after their Marriage. She made Answer, she never could +understand the Rights of it, having beene before her Time; but they were +both so good, and tenderly affectioned, she never could believe there had +beene anie reall Wrong on either Side. She always thought my Grandmother +must have promoted the Misunderstanding. Men were seldom fond of their +Mothers-in-law. He was very kind to the whole Family the Winter before +_Anne_ was born, when, but for him, they would not have had a Roof over +their Heads. Old Mr. _Powell_ died in this House, the very Day before +_Christmas_, which cast a Gloom over alle, insomuch that my Mother would +never after keep _Christmas Eve_; and, as none of the Puritans did, they +were alle of a Mind. My other Grandfather dropt off a few Months after; +he was very fond of Mother. At this time Grandmother was going to Law +for her Widow's Thirds, which was little worth the striving for, except +to One soe extreme poor. Yet, spite of Gratitude and Interest, she must +quarrel with Father, and remove herself from his House; which even her +own Daughter thought very wrong. Howbeit, Mother would have her first +Child baptized after her; and sent her alle the little Helps she could +from her owne Purse, from Time to Time, with Father's Privity and +Concurrence. He woulde have his next Girl called _Mary_, after Mother; +though the Name _she_ went by with him was "Sweet _Moll_;"--'tis now +always "Poor _Moll_," or "Your Mother." Her health fayled about that +Time, and they summered at _Forest Hill_--a Place she was always +hankering after; but when she came back she told Nurse she never wished +to see it agayn, 'twas soe altered. Father's Sight was, meantime, +getting worse and worse. She read to him, and wrote for him often. He +had become _Cromwell's_ Secretary, and had received the public Thanks of +the Commonwealth. . . . Great as his Reputation was at Home, 'twas +greater Abroad; and Foreigners came to see him, as they still +occasionally doe, from all Parts. My Mother not onlie loved him, but was +proud of him. All her Pleasures were in Home. From my Birth to that of +the little Boy who died, her Health and Spiritts were good; after that +they failed; but she always tried to be chearfull with Father. She read +her _Bible_ much, and was good to the Poor. Nurse says 'twas almost +miraculous how much Good she did at how little Cost, except of +Forethought and Trouble; and all soe secretlie. She began to have an +Impression she was for an early Grave, but did not seem to lament it. +One Night, Nurse being beside her, awoke her from what she supposed an +uneasie Dream, as she was crying in her Sleep; but as soone as she oped +her Eyes, she looked surprised, and said it was a Vision of Peace. She +thought the Redeemer of alle Men had been talking with her. Face to +Face, as a Man talketh with his Friend, and that she had fallen at his +Feet in grateful Joy, and was saying, "Oh! I can't express . . . I can't +express--" + +About a Week after, she dyed, without any particular Warning, except a +short Prick or two at the Heart. My Father was by. 'Twas much talked of +at the Time, she being soe young. + +Discoursing of this and that, 'twas Midnight ere we went to Bed. + + + +_Chalfont_. + +ARRIVED at last; after what a Journey! _Ned_ had sent me Word Overnight +to expect, this Forenoon, a smart young Cavalier, on a fine prancing +Steed, with rich Accoutrements. Howbeit, Cousin is neither smart nor +handsome; and, at the Time specifyde, there was brought up to the Door an +old white Horse, blind of one Eye, with an aquiline Nose, and, I should +think, eight Feet high. The Bridle was diverse from the Pillion, which +was finely embroidered, but tarnish, with the Stuffing oozing out in +severall Places. Howbeit, 'twas the onlie Equipage to be hired in the +Ward, for Love or Money . . . so _Ned_ sayd. . . . And he had a huge +Pair of gauntlett Gloves, a Whip, that was the smartest Thing about him, +and a kind of Vizard over his Nose and Mouth, which, he sayd, was to +prevent his being too alluring; but I know 'twas to ward off Infection. +I had meant to be brave; and Nurse and I had brushed up the green camblet +Skirt, but the rent Mother had made in it would show; however, Nurse +thought that, when I was up she could conceal it with a Corking-pin. +Thus appointed, _Ned_ led the Way, saying, the onlie Occasion on which a +Gentleman needed not to excuse himself to a Lady for going first, was +when they were to ride a Pillion. Noe more jesting when once +a-Horseback; for, after pacing through a few deserted Streets, we found +ourselves amidst such a Medly of Carts, Coaches, and Wagons, full of +People and Goods, all pouring out of Town, that _Ned_ had enough to do to +keep cleare of 'em, and of the Horsemen and empty Vehicles coming back +for fresh Loads. Dear Heart! what jostling, cursing, and swearing! And +how awfull the Cause! Houses padlocked and shuttered wherever we passed, +and some with red Crosses on the Doors. At the first Turnpike 'twas +worst of all--a complete Stoppage; Men squabbling, Women crying, and much +good Daylight wasted. Howbeit, _Ned_ desired me to keep my Mouth shut, +my Eyes open, and to trust to his good Care; and, by Dint of some shrewd +Pilotage, weathered the Strait; after which, our old Horse, whose Paces, +to do him Justice, proved very easie, took longer Steps than anie other +on the Road, by which Means we soon got quit of the Throng; onlie, we +continuallie gained on fresh Parties,--some dreadfully overloaded, some +knocked up alreadie, some baiting at the Roadside, and many of the poorer +Sort erecting 'emselves rude Tents and Cabins under the Hedges. Soon I +began to rejoyce in the green Fields, and sayd how sweet was the Air; and +_Ned_ sayd, "Ah!--a Brick-kiln," and signed at one with his Whip. But I +knew the Wind came t'other Way; and e'en Bricks are better than dead Rats. + +Half-way to _Amersham_ found _Hob Carter's_ Wagon, with Father's Organ +in't, sticking in the Hedge, without Man or Horse; and, by-and-by, came +upon _Hob_ himself, with a Party, carousing. _Ned_ gave it him well, and +sent him back at double-quick Time. 'Twas too bad. He had left Town +overnight, and promised to be at _Chalfont_ by Noon. I should have beene +fain to keep him in Advance of us; howbeit, we were forct to leave him in +the Rear; and, about two Miles beyond _Amersham_, we turned off the high +Road into a country Lane, which soon brought us to a small retired +Hamlet, shaded with Trees, and surrounded with pleasant Meadows and +Orchards, which was no other than _Chalfont_. There was Mother near the +Gate, putting some fine Things to bleach on a Sweetbriar-hedge. _Ned_ +stopt to chat with her, and learn where he might put his Horse, while I +went to seek Father; and soon found him, sitting up in a strait Chair, +outside the Garden-door. Sayd, kissing him, "Dear Father, how is't with +you? Are you comfortable here?" + +"Anything but that," replies he, very shortlie. "I am not in any Way at +my Ease in this Place. I can get no definite Notion of what 'tis like, +and what Notion I have is unfavourable. To finish all, they have stuck +me up here, like a Bottle in the Smoke." + +"But here is a Cushion for you," quoth I, running in and back agayn; "and +I will set your Seat in the Sun, and out of the Wind, and put your Staff +within Reach." + +"Thanks, dear _Deb_. And now, look about, Child, and tell me, with +Precision, what the Place is like." + +Soe I told him 'twas an irregular two-storied Tenement, parcel Wood, +parcel Brick, with a deep Roof of old Tiles that had lost their Colour, +and were curiouslie variegated with green and yellow Moss; and that the +Eaves were dentilled, with Birds' Nests built in 'em, and a big +Honeysuckle growing to the upper Floor; and there was a great and a +little Gable, and a heavy Chimney-stack; a Casement of four Compartments +next the Door, and another of two over it; four Lattice-windows at +t'other End. In Front, a steep Meadow, enamelled with King-cups and +Blue-bells; alongside the Gable-end, a Village Road, with deep Cart-ruts, +and Hawthorn Hedges. Onlie one small Dwelling at hand, little better +than a crazy Haystack; Sheep in the Field, Bees in the Honeysuckle; and a +little rippling Rivulet flowing on continually. + +"Why, now you have sett me quite at Ease!" cries he, turning his bright +Eyes thankfully towards the Sky. "I begin to like the Place, and to +bless the warm Sun and pure Air. Ha! so there is a rippling Rivulet, +that floweth on continually! . . . Lord, forgive me for my peevish +Petulance . . . for forgetting that I could still hear the Lark sing her +Morning Hymn, scent the Meadow-sweet and new-mown Hay, detect the Bee at +his Industry, and the Woodpecker at his Mischief, discern the Breath of +Cows, and hear the Lambs bleat, and the Rivulet ripple continually! +Come! let us go and seek _Ned_." + +And, throwing his Arm about me, draws me to him, saying, "This is my best +Walking-stick," and steps forward briskly and fearlessly. + +Truly, I think _Ned_ loves him as though he were his own Father; and, +indeed, he hath scarce known any other. Kissing his Hand reverently, he +says,--"Honoured _Nunks_, how fares it with you? Do you like _Chalfont_?" + +"Indeed I do, _Ned_," responds Father heartily. "'Tis a little _Zoar_, +whither I and my fugitive Family have escaped from the wicked City; and, +I thank God, my Wife has no Mind to look back." + +"We may as well go in now," says Mother. + +"No, no," says Father; "I feel there is an Hour of Summer's Sunset still +left. We will abide where we are, and keep as long as we can out of the +Smell of your Soapsuds. . . . Let's sit upon the Ground." + +"And tell strange Stories of the Deaths of Kings," says _Ned_, laughing, + +"That was the Saying, _Ned_, of one who writ much well, and much amiss." + +"Let's forgive what he writ amiss, for the Sake of what he writ well," +says _Ned_. + +"That will I never," says Father. "If paltry Wits cannot be holy and +witty at the same Time, that does not hold good with nobler +Spiritts. . . . If it did, they had best never be witty at all. Thy +Brother _Jack_ hath yet to learn that Strength is not Coarseness." + +_Ned_ softly hummed-- + + "Sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's Child!" + + +"Ah! you may quote me against myself," says Father; "you may quote _Beza_ +against _Beza_, and _Erasmus_ against _Erasmus_; but that will not shake +the eternal Laws of Purity and Truth. But, mind you, _Ned_, never did +anie reach a more lofty or tragic Height than this Child of Fancy; never +did any represent Nature more purely to the Life; and e'en where the +Polishments of Art are most wanting in him, he pleaseth with a certain +wild and native Elegance." + +"And what have you now in Hand, Uncle?" _Ned_ asks. + +"_Firmianus Chlorus_," says Father. "But I don't find Much in him." + +"I mean, what of your own?" + +"Oh!" laughing; "Things in Heaven, _Ned_, and Things on Earth, and Things +under the Earth. The old Story, whereof you have alreadie seen many +Parcels; but, you know, my Vein ne'er flows so happily as from the +autumnal to the vernal Equinox. Howbeit, there is Something in the +Quality of this Air would arouse the old Man of _Chios_ himself." + +"Sure," cries _Ned_, "you have less Need than any blind Man to complayn, +since you have but closed your Eyes on Earth to look on Heaven!" + +Father paused; then, stedfastly, in Words I've since sett down, sayd:-- + + "When I consider how my Light is spent, + Ere half my Days, in this dark World and wide, + And that one Talent, which is Death to hide, + Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent + To serve therewith my Maker, and present + My true Account, lest He, returning, chide; + 'Doth God exact Day-labour, Light denied?' + I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent + That Murmur, soon replies,--'God doth not need. + Either Man's Work, or his own Gifts. Who best + Bear his mild Yoke, they serve him best. His State + Is kingly; Thousands at his Bidding speed, + And post o'er Land and Ocean without Rest, + They also serve who only stand and wait.'" + + +. . . We were all quiet enough for a while after this . . . _Ned_ onlie +breathing hard, and squeezing Father's Hand. At length, Mother calls +from the House, "Who will come in to Strawberries and Cream?" + +"Ah!" says Father, "that is not an ill Call. And when we have discussed +our neat Repast, thou, _Ned_, shalt touch the Theorbo, and let us hear +thy balmy Voice. Time was, when thou didst sing like a young Chorister." + +. . . Just as we were returning to the House, _Mary_ ran forth, crying, +"Oh, _Deb_! you have not seen our Cow. She has just been milked, and is +being turned out, even now, to the Pasture. See, there she is; but all +the Others have gone out of Sight, over the Hill." + +Mother observed, "Left to herself, she will go, her own Calf speedily +seeking." + +"My Dear," says Father, "that's a Hexameter: do try to make another." + +"Indeed, Mr. _Milton_, I know nothing of Hexameters or Hexagons either: +'tis enough for me to keep all straight and tight. Let's to Supper." + +_Anne_ had crushed his Strawberries, and mixed them with Cream, and now +she put his Spoon into his Hand, saying, in jest, "Father, this is +Angels' Food, you know. I Have pressed the Meath from many a Berry, and +tempered dulcet Creams." + +"Hush, you Rogue," says he; "_Ned_ will find us out." + +"Is Uncle still at his great Work?" whispers Cousin to Mother. + +"Indeed, I know not if you call it such," she replies, in the same +Undertone. "He hath given over all those grand Things with hard Names, +that used to make him so notable abroad, and so esteemed by his own Party +at Home; and now only amuses himself by making the _Bible_ a Peg to hang +his Idlenesse upon." + +Sure what a Look _Ned_ gave her! Fearful lest Father should overhear +(for Blindness quickens the other Senses), he runs up to the Bookshelf, +and cries, "Why, Uncle, you have brought down Plenty of Entertainment +with you! Here are _Plato, Xenophon_, and _Sallust, Homer_ and +_Euripides, Dante_ and _Petrarch, Chaucer_ and _Spenser_, . . . and . . . +oh, oh! you read Plays sometimes, though you were so hard upon +_Shakspeare_. . . . Here's 'La Scena Tragica d' _Adamo_ ed _Eva_,' +dedicated to the Duchess of _Mantua_." + +"Come away from that Corner, _Ned,"_ says Father; "there's a Rat behind +the Books; he will bite your Fingers--I hear him scratching now. You had +best attack your Strawberries." + +"I think this Sort will preserve well," says Mother. "_Betty_, in +'lighting from the Coach, must needs sett her Foot on the only Pot of +Preserve I had left; which she had stuffed under the Seat, instead of +carrying it, as she was bidden, in her Hand." + +"How fine it is, though," says Father, laughing, "to peacock it in a +Coach now and then! _Pavoneggiarsi in un Cocchio_! Only, except for the +Bravery of it, I doubt if little _Deb_ were not better off on her +Pillion. I remember, on my Road to _Paris_, the Bottom of the Caroche +fell out; and there sate I, with _Hubert_, who was my Attendant, with our +Feet dangling through. Even the grave _Grotius_ laughed at the Accident." + +"Was _Grotius_ grave?" says _Ned_. + +"Believe me, he was," says Father. "He had had Enough to make him so. +One feels taller in the Consciousness of having known such a Man. He was +great in practical! Things; he was also a profound Scholar, though he +made out the fourth Kingdom in _Daniel's_ Prophecy to be the Kingdoms of +the _Lagidae_ and the _Seleucidae_; which, you know, _Ned_, could not +possibly be." + +Chatting thus of this and that, we idled over Supper, had some Musick, +and went to Bed. And soe much for the only Guest we are like to have for +some Months. + +_Anne_ told me, at Bed-time, of the Journey down. The Coach, she sayd, +was most uncomfortable, Mother having so over-stuffed it. For her Share, +she had a Knife-box under her Feet, a Plate-basket at her Back, a +Bird-cage bobbing over her Head, and a Lapfull of Crockery-ware. +Providentially, _Betty_ turned squeamish, and could not ride inside, soe +she was put upon the Box, to the great Comfort of all within. Father, at +the Outset, was chafed and captious, but soon settled down, improved the +Circumstances of the Times, made Jokes on Mother, recalled old Journies +to _Buckinghamshire_, and, finally, set himself to silent Self-communion, +with a pensive Smile on his Face, which, as _Anne_ said, let her know +well enow what he was about. Arrived at _Chalfont_, her first Care was +to make him comfortable; while Mother, _Mary_, and _Betty_ were turning +the House upside down; and in this her Care, she so well succeeded, that, +to her Dismay, he bade her take Pen and Ink, and commenced dictating to +her as composedly as if they were in _Bunhill Fields_. This was somewhat +inopportune, for every Thing was to seek and to set in Order; and, +indeed, Mother soon came in, all of a Heat, and sayd, "I wonder, my Dear, +you can keep _Nan_ here, at such idling, when she has her Bed to make, +and her Box to unpack." Father let her go without a Word, and sate in +peacefull Cogitation all the Rest of the Evening--the only Person at +Leisure in the House. Howbeit, the next Time he heard Mother +chiding--which was after Supper--at _Anne_, for trying to catch a Bat, +which was a Creature she longed to look at narrowly, he sayd, "My Dear, +we should be very cautious how we cut off another Person's Pleasures. +'Tis an easy Thing to say to them, 'You are wrong or foolish,' and soe +check them in their Pursuit; but what have we to give them that will +compensate for it? How many harmless Refreshments and Refuges from sick +or tired Thought may thus be destroyed! We may deprive the Spider of his +Web, and the Robin of his Nest, but can never repair the Damage to them. +Let us live, and let live; leave me to hunt my Butterfly, and _Anne_ to +catch her Bat." + + +Our Life here is most pleasant. Father and I pass almost the whole of +our Time in the open Air--he dictating, and I writing; while Mother and +_Mary_ find 'emselves I know not whether more of Toyl or Pastime, within +Doors,--washing, brewing, baking, pickling, and preserving; to say Nought +of the Dairy, which supplies us with endless Variety of Country Messes, +such as Father's Soul loveth. 'Tis well we have this Resource, or our +Bill of Fare would be somewhat meagre; for the Butcher kills nothing but +Mutton, except at _Christ-mass_. Then, we make our own Bread, for we now +keep strict Quarantine, the Plague having now so much spread, that there +have e'en been one or two Cases in _Chalfont_. The only One to seek for +Employment has been poor _Anne_, whose great Resources at Home have ever +been Church-going and visiting poor Folk. She can do neither here, for +we keep close, even on the Sabbath; and she can neither read to Father, +take long, lonely Rambles, nor help Mother in her Housewifery. Howbeit, +a Resource hath at length turned up; for the lonely Cot (which is the +only Dwelling within Sight) has become the Refuge of a poor, pious Widow, +whose only Daughter, a Weaver of Gold and Silver Lace, has been thrown +out of Employ by the present Stagnation of all Business. _Anne_ picked +up an Acquaintance with 'em shortly after our coming; and, being by +Nature a Hoarder, in an innocent Way, so as always to have a few +Shillings by her for charitable Uses, when _Mary_ and I have none, she +hath improved her Commerce with _Joan Elliott_ to that Degree, as to get +her to teach her her pretty Business, at the Price of the Contents of her +little Purse. So these two sit harmoniously at their Loom, within +Earshot of Father and me, while he dictates to me his wondrous Poem. We +are nearing the End of it now, and have reached the Reconciliation of +_Adam_ and _Eve_, which, I think, affected him a good deal, and +abstracted his Mind all the Evening; for why, else, should he have so +forgotten himself as to call me sweet _Moll_? . . . _Mary_ lookt up, +thinking he meant her; but he never calls her _Moll_ or _Molly_; and, I +believe, was quite unaware he had done so to me: but it showed the Course +his Mind was taking. + +This Morning, I was straying down a Blackthorn Lane, when a blue-eyed, +fresh-coloured young Lady, in a sad-coloured Skirt, and large-flapped +Beaver, without either Feather or Buckle, swept by me on a small white +Palfrey. She held a Bunch of Tiger Lilies in her Hand, the gayety of +which contrasted strangelie enow with her sober Apparell; and I wondered +why a peculiar Classe of Folks should deem they please God by wearing the +dullest of Colours, when He hath arrayed the Flowers of the Field in the +liveliest of Hues. Somehow, I conceited her to be Mistress _Gulielma +Springett_--and so, indeed, she proved; for, on reaching Home after a +lengthened Ramble, I saw the Tiger Lilies lying on the Table, and found +she had spent a full Hour with Father, who much relished her Talk. Sure, +she might have brought a blind Man Flowers that had some Fragrance, +however dull of hue. + +To-day, as we were sitting under the Hedge, we heard a rough Voice +shouting, "Hoy! hoy! what are you about there?" To which another Man's +Voice, just over against us, deprecatingly replied, "No Harm, I promise +you, Master. . . . We have clean Bills of Health; and my Wife and I, +Foot-sore and hungry, do but Purpose to set up our little Cabin against +the Bank, till the Sabbath is overpast." + +"But you must set it up Somewhere else," cries the other, who was the +_Chalfont_ Constable; "for we _Chalfont_ Folks are very particular, and +can't have Strangers come harbouring here in our Highways and +Hedges,--dying, and making themselves disagreeable." + +"But we don't mean to die or be disagreeable," says the other. "We are +on our Way to my Wife's Parish; and, sure, you cannot stop us on the +King's Highway." + +"Oh! but we can, though," says the Constable. "And, besides, this is not +the King's Highway, but only a Bye-way, which is next to private +Property; and the Gentleman at present in Occupation of that private +Property will be highly and justly offended if you go to give him the +Plague." + +"That's me," says Father. "Do tell him, _Deb_, not to be so hard on the +poor People, but to let them abide where they are till the Sabbath is +over. I dare say they have clean Bills of Health, as they state, and the +Spot is so lonely, they need not be denied Fire and Water, which is next +to Excommunication." + +So I parleyed with _John Constable_, and he parleyed with the Travellers, +who really had Passports, and seemed Honest as well as Sound. So they +were permitted, without Let or Hindrance, to erect their little Booth; +and in a little while they had collected Sticks enough to light a Fire, +the Smoke of which annoyed us not, because we were to Windward. + +"What have we for Dinner To-day?" says Father. + +"A cold Shoulder of Mutton," says Mother, who had thrown 'em a couple of +Cabbages. + +"Well," says Father, "'twas to a cold Shoulder of Mutton that _Samuel_ +set down _Saul_; and what was good enough for a Prophet may well content +a Poet. I propose, that what we leave of ours To-day, should be given to +these poor People for their Sabbath's Dinner; and I, for one, shall eat +no Meat To-day." + +In fact, none did but _Mary_ and Mother, who find fasting not good for +their Stomachs; soe _Anne_, who is the most fearlesse of us all, handed +the Joint over to them, with some broken Bread and Dripping, which was +most thankfully received. In Truth, I believe them harmless People, for +they are now a singing Psalms. + + +_Ellwood_ has turned up agayn, to the great Pleasure of Father, who +delights in his Company, and likes his Reading better than ours, though +he _will_ call Pater Payter. Consequence is, I have infinitely more +Leisure, and can ramble hither and thither, (always shunning Wayfarers), +and bring Home my Lap full of Flowers and Weeds, with rusticall Names, +such as _Ragged Robin, Sneezewort, Cream-and-Codlins, Jack-in-the-Hedge_, +or _Sauce-alone_. Many of these I knew not before; but I describe them +to Father, and he tells me what they are. He hath finished his Poem, and +given it _Ellwood_ to read, in the most careless Fashion imaginable, +saying, "You can take this Home, and run through it at your Leisure. I +should like to hear your Judgment on it some Time or other." Nor do I +believe he has ever since given himself an uneasy Thought of what that +Judgment may be, nor what the World at large may think of it. His +Pleasure is not in Praise but Production; the last makes him now and then +a little feverish; the other, or its want, never. Just at last, 'twas +hard Work to us both; he was like a Wheel running downhill, that must get +to the End before it stopped. Mother scolded him, and made him promise +he would leave off for a Week or so; at least, she says he did, and he +says he did not, and asks her whether, if the Grass had promised not to +grow she would believe it. + +Poor _Ellwood's_ Love-bonds prove rather more irksome to him than those +of his Gaol; he hath renewed his Intercourse with our Friends at the +_Grange_, only to find a dangerous Rival stept into his Place, in the +Person of one _William Penn_--in fact, I suspect Mistress _Guli_ is +engaged to him already. _Ellwood_ hath been closetted with my Father +this Morning, pouring out his Woes--methinks he must have been to seek +for a Confidant! When he came forth, the poor young Man's Eyes were red. +I cannot but pity him, tho' he is such a Formalist. + +I wish _Anne_ were a little more demonstrative; Father would then be as +assured of her Affection as of mine, and treat her with equal Tenderness. +But, no, she cannot be; she will sitt and look piteously on his blind +Face, but, alas! he cannot see that; and when he pours forth the full +Tide of Melody on his Organ, and hymns mellifluous Praise, the Tears rush +to her eyes, and she is oft obliged to quit the Chamber; but, alas! he +knows not that. So he goes on, deeming her, I fear me, stupid as well as +silent, indifferent as well as infirm. + +I am not avised of her ever having let him feel her Sympathy, save when +he was inditing to me his third Book, while she sate at her Sewing. +'Twas at these lines:-- + + "Thus with the Year, + Seasons return; but not to me returns + Day, or the sweet Approach of Even or Morn, + Or Sight of vernal Bloom or Summer's Rose, + Or Flocks or Herds, or human Face divine, + But Clouds instead, and over-during Dark + Surrounds me; from the cheerful Ways of Men + Cut off: and for the Book of Knowledge fair, + Presented with an universal Blank." + + +His Brow was a little contracted, but his Face was quite composed; while +she, on t'other Hand, with her Work dropped from her Lap, and her Eyes +streaming, sate gazing on him, the Image of Woe. At length, timidly +stole to his Side, and, after hesitating awhile, kissed both his Eyelids. +He caught her to him, quite taken by Surprise, and, for a Moment, both +wept bitterly. This was soon put a Stop to, by Mother's coming in, with +her Head full of stale Fish; howbeit Father treated _Anne_ with uncommon +Tenderness all that Evening, calling her his sweet _Nan_; while she, +shrinking back again into her Shell, was shyer than ever. But his +Spiritts were soothed rather than dashed by this little Outbreak; and at +Bedtime, he said, even cheerfully, "Now, good-night, Girls: . . . may it, +indeed, be as good to you as to me. You know, Night brings back my +Day--_I am not blind in my Dreams_." + + +I wish I knew the Distinction between Temperament and Genius: how far +Father's even Frame is attributable to one or t'other. If to the former, +why, we might hope to attain it as well as he;--yet, no; this is equallie +the Gift of God's Grace. Our Humours we may controwl, but our +Temperament is born with us; and if one should say, "Why are you a Vessel +of glorious things, while I am a Vessel of Things weak and vile?"--nay, +but oh! Man or Woman, who art thou that questionest the Will of God? His +Election is shewn no less in the Gift of Genius or of an equable +Temperament than of spirituall Life; and the Thing formed may not say to +him that formed it, "Why hast thou made me thus?" + +Father, indeed, can flame out in political Controversy, and lay about him +as with a Flail, right and left, making the Chaff, and sometimes the +Wheat too, fly about his Ears. 'Twas while threshing the Wheat by the +Wine-press at _Ophrah_, that _Gideon_ was called by the Angel; and +methinks Father hath in like Manner been summoned from the Floor of his +Threshing, to discourse of Heaven and Earth, and bring forth from his +Mind's Storehouse Things new and old. I wonder if the World will ever +give heed to his Teaching. Suppose a Spark of Fire should drop some +Night on the Manuscript, while _Ettwood_ is dozing over it;--why, there's +an end on't. I suppose Father could never do it over again. I wonder +how many fine Things have been lost in suchlike Ways; or whether God ever +permitts a truly fine Thing to be utterly lost. We may drop a Diamond +into the Sea; but there it is, at the Bottom of the Great Deep. +_Justinian's Pandects_ turned up again. The Art of making Glass was lost +once. The Passage round the _Cape_ was made and forgotten.----If I pore +over this, I shall puzzle my Head. Howbeit, were I to round the _Cape_, +I should hardly look for stranger and more glorious Scenes than Father +hath in his Poem made familiar to me. He hath done more for me than +_Columbus_ for Queen _Isabel_--hath revealed to me a far better _New +World_. Now, I scarce ever look on the setting Sun, surrounded by Hues +more gorgeous than those of the High-priest's Breast-plate, without +picturing the Angel of the Sun seated on that bright Beam which bore him, +Slope downward, beneath the _Azores_. And, in the less brilliant Hour, +I, by Faith or Fancy, discern _Ithuriel_ and _Zephon_ in the Shade; and +by their Side a third, of regal Port, but faded Splendour wan. A little +later still, can sometimes hear the Voice of God, or, as I suppose, we +might say, the Word of God, walking in the Garden. _Pneuma_! His +Breath! His Spirit! How hushed and still! Then, the Night cometh, when +no Man can work--when the young Lions, in tropical Climes, waking from +their Day-sleep, seek their Meat from God. Albeit they may prowl about +the Dwellings of his people, they cannot enter, for He that watcheth them +neither slumbers nor sleeps. Moreover, heavenly Vigils relieve one +another at their Posts, and go their Midnight Rounds; sometimes, singing +(Father says), with heavenly Touch of instrumental Sounds, in full +harmonic Number joined . . . yes, and Shepherds, once, at least, have +heard them. + +And then . . . and then Mother cries, "How often, _Deb_, shall I bid you +lock the Gate at nine o'clock, and bring me in the Key?" + + + +_Sept. 2nd, 1665_. + +Good so! Master _Ellwood_ hath brought back the MS. at last, and +delivered his Approbation thereon with the Air of a competent Authority, +which Father took in the utmost good part, and chatted with him on the +Subject for some Time. Howbeit, he is not much flattered, I fancy, by +the Quaker's pragmatick Sanction, qualifyde, too, as it was, to show his +own Discernment; and when I consider that the major part of Criticks may +be as little fitted to take the Measure of their Subject as _Ellwood_ is +of Father, I cannot but see that the gleaning of Father's Grapes is +better than the Vintage of the Critick's _Abiezer_. + +To wind up all, _Ellwood_, primming up his Mouth, says, "Thou hast found +much to tell us, Friend _Milton_, on _Paradise Lost_;--now, what hast +thou to tell of _Paradise Regained_?" + +Father said nothing at the Time, but hath since been brooding a good +deal, and keeping me much to the Reading of the _New Testament_; and I +think my Night-work will soon begin again. + +_Ellwood's_ Talk was much of _Guli Springett_, whom I have seen sundry +times, and think high-flown, in spight of her levelling Principles and +demure Carriage. The Youth is bewitched with her, I think; what has a +Woman to do with Logique? My Belief is, he might as well hope to marry +the Moon as to win Mistress _Springett's_ Hand; however, his Self-opinion +is considerable. He chode Father this Morning for Organ-playing, saying +he doubted its lawfullness. Oh, the Prigg! + +I grieve to think _Mary_ can sometimes be a little spightfull as well as +unduteous. She is ill at her Pen, and having To-day made some Blunder, +for which Father chid her, not overmuch, she rudely made Answer, "I never +had a Writing-master." _Betty_, being by, treasured up, as I could see, +this ill-natured Speech: and 'twas unfair too; for, if we never had a +Writing-master, yet my Aunt _Agar_ taught us; and 'twas our own Fault if +we improved no more. Indeed, we have had a scrambling Sort of Education; +but, in many respects, our Advantages have exceeded those of many young +Women; and among them I reckon, first and foremost, continuall +Intercourse with a superior Mind. + +If a Piece of mere Leather, by frequent Contact with Silver, acquires a +certain Portion of the pure and bright Metal; sure, the Children of a +gifted Parent must, by the Collision of their Minds, insensibly, as +'twere, imbibe somewhat of his finer Parts. _Ned Phillips_, indeed, +sayth we are like People living so close under a big Mountain, as not to +know how high it is; but I think we . . . at least, I do. And, whatever +be our scant Learnings, Father, despite his limited Means, hath never +grutched us the Supply of a reall Want; and is, at this Time, paying +_Joan Elliott_ at a good Rate for perfecting _Anne_ in her pretty Work. +I am sorry _Mary_ should thus have sneaped him; and I am sorry I ever +either hurt him--by uncivil Speech, or wronged him by unkind Thought. +Poor _Nan_, with all her Infirmities, is, perhaps, his best Child. Not +that I am a bad one, neither. + +My Night-tasks have recommenced of late; because, as he says-- + + "I suoi Pensieri in lui Dormir non ponno:" + +which, being interpreted, means, "His Thoughts would let him and his +Daughter take no rest." + + + +_12th_. + +I know not that any one but Father hath ever concerned themselves to +imagine the Anxieties of the blessed Virgin during her Son's forty Days' +mysterious Absence. No wonder that + + "Within her Breast, tho' calm, her Breast, tho' pure, + Motherly Fears got Head." + +Father hath touched her with a very tender and reverent Hand, dwelling +less on her than he did on _Eve_, whom he with perfect Beauty adorned, +onlie to make her Sin appear more Sad. Well, we know not ourselves; but +methinks I should not have transgrest as she did, neither, for an Apple. + + + +_15th_. + +And now I have transgrest about a Pin! O me! what weak, wicked Wretches +we are! "Behold, how great a Matter a little Fire kindleth!" And the +Tongue is a Fire, an unruly Member. Sure, when I was writing, at +Father's Dictation, such heavy Charges against _Eve_, I privily thought I +was better than she; and, sifting the Doings of _Mary_ and _Anne_ through +a somewhat censorious Judgment, maybe I thought I was better than they. +Alas! we know not our own selves. And so, dropping a Stitch in my +Knitting, I must needs cry out--"Here, any of you . . . oh, Mother! do +bring me a Pin." My Sisters, as Ill-luck would have it, not being by, +cries she, "Forsooth, Manners have come to a fine Pass in these Days! +Bring her a Pin, quotha!" Instead of making answer, "Well, 'twas +disrespectful; I ask your Pardon;" I must mutter, "I see what I'm valued +at--less than a Pin." + +"_Deb_, don't be unduteous," says Father to me. "Woulde it not have been +better to fetch what you wanted, than strangely ask your Mother to bring +it?" + +"And thereby spoil my Work," answered I; "but 'tis no Matter." + +"Tis a great Matter to be uncivil," says Father. + +"Oh! dear Husband, do not concern yourself," interrupts Mother; "the +Girl's incivility is no new Matter, I protest." + +On this, a Battle of Words on both sides, ending in Tears, Bitterness, +and my being sent by Father to my Chamber till Dinner. "And, _Deb_," he +adds, gravely, but not harshly, "take no Book with you, unless it be your +_Bible_." + +Soe, hither, with swelling Heart, I have come. I never drew on myself +such Condemnation before--at least, since childish Days; and could be +enraged with Mother, were I not enraged with myself. I'm in no Hurry for +Dinner-time; I cannot sober down. My Temples beat, and my Throat has a +great Lump in it. Why was _Nan_ out of the Way? Yet, would she have +made Things better? I was in no Fault at first, that's certain; Mother +took Offence where none was meant; but I meant Offence afterwards. Lord, +have mercy upon me! I can ask Thy Forgiveness, though not hers. And I +could find it in me to ask Father's too, and say, "I have sinned against +Heaven, and in thy . . . thy _Hearing_.'" And now I come to write that +Word, I have a Mind to cry; and the Lump goes down, and I feel earnest to +look into my _Bible_, and more humbled towards Mother. And . . . what is +it Father says?-- + + "What better can I do, than to the Place + Repairing, where he judged me, there confess + Humbly my Fault, and Pardon beg, with Tears + Of Sorrow unfeign'd, and Humiliation meek?" + + +. . . He met me at the very first Word. "I knew you would," he said; "I +knew the kindest Thing was to send you to commune with your own Heart in +your Chamber, and be still. 'Tis there we find the Holy Spirit and Holy +Saviour in waiting for us; and in the House where they abide, as long as +they abide in it, there is no Room for _Satan_ to enter. But let this +Morning's Work, _Deb_, be a Warning to you, not thus to transgress again. +As long as we are in peaceful Communion among ourselves, there is a fine, +invisible Cobweb, too clear for mortal Sight, spun from Mind to Mind, +which the least Breath of Discord rudely breaks. You owe to your Mother +a Daughter's Reverence; and if you behave like a Child, you must look to +be punisht like a Child." + +"I am not a mere Baby, neither," I said. + +"No," he replied. "I see you can make Distinction between _Teknia_ and +_Paidia_; but a Baby is the more inoffensive and less responsible Agent +of the two. If you are content to be a Baby in Grace, you must not +contend for a Baby's Immunities. I have heard a Baby cry pretty loudly +about a Pin." + +This shut my Mouth close enough. + +"You are now," he added gently, "nearly as old as your Mother was when I +married her." + +I said, "I fear I am not much like her." + +He said nothing, only smiled. I made bold to pursue:--"What was she +like?" + +Again he was silent, at least for a Minute; and then, in quite a changed +Tone, with somewhat hurried in it, cried,-- + + "Like the fresh Sweetbriar and early May! + Like the fresh, cool, pure Air of opening Day . . . + Like the gay Lark, sprung from the glittering Dew . . . + An Angel! yet . . . a very Woman too!" + + +And, kicking back his Chair, he got up, and began to walk hastily about +the Chamber, as fearlessly as he always does when he is thinking of +something else, I springing up to move one or two Chairs out of his Way. +Hearing some high Voices in the Offices, he presently observed, "A +contentious Woman is like a continuall Dropping. _Shakspeare_ spoke well +when he said that a sweet, low Voice is an excellent Thing in Woman. I +wish you good Women would recollect that one Avenue of my Senses being +stopt, makes me keener to any Impression on the others. Where Strife is, +there is Confusion and every evil Work. Why should not we dwell in +Peace, in this quiet little Nest, instead of rendering our Home liker to +a Cage of unclean Birds?" + + + +_Bunhill Fields, London, Oct. 1666_. + +People have phansied Appearances of Armies in the Air, flaming Swords, +Fields of Battle, and other Images; and, truly, the Evening before we +left _Chalfont_, methought I beheld the Glories of the ancient City +_Ctesiphon_ in the Sunset Clouds, with gilded Battlements, conspicuous +far--Turrets, and Terraces, and glittering Spires. The light-armed +_Parthians_ pouring through the Gates, in Coats of Mail, and military +Pride. In the far Perspective of the open Plain, two ancient Rivers, the +one winding, t'other straight, losing themselves in the glowing Distance, +among the Tents of the ten lost Tribes. Such are One's Dreams at Sunset. +And, when I cast down my dazed Eyes on the shaded Landskip, all looked in +Comparison, so black and bleak, that methought how dull and dreary this +lower World must have appeared to _Moses_ when he descended from _Horeb_, +and to our Saviour, when he came down from the _Mount of +Transfiguration_, and to St. _Paul_, when he dropt from the seventh +Heaven. + +What a Click, Click, the Bricklayers make with their Trowels, thus +bringing me down from my Altitudes! Sure, we hardly knew how well off we +were at _Chalfont_, till we came back to this unlucky Capital, looking as +desolate as _Jerusalem_, when the City was ruinated and the People +captivated. Weeds in the Streets--smouldering Piles--blackened, +tottering Walls--and inexhaustible Heaps of vile Rubbish. Even with +closed Windows, everything gets covered with a Coating of fine Dust. +Cousin _Jack_ Yesterday picked up a half-burnt Acceptance for twenty +thousand Pounds. There is a fine Time coming for Builders and +Architects--_Anne's_ Lover among the Rest. The Way she picked him up was +notable. Returning to Town, she falls to her old Practices of daily +Prayer, and visiting the Poor. At Church she sits over against a +good-looking young Man, recovered from the Plague, whose near Approach to +Death's Door had made him more godly in his Walk than the general of his +Age and Condition. He notes her beautiful Face--marks not her deformed +Shape; and, because that, by Reason of the late Distresses, the +Calamities of the Poor have been met by unusuall Charities of the upper +Classes, he, on his Errands of Mercy among the Rest, presently falls in +with her at a poor sick Man's House, and marvels when the limping +Stranger turns about and discovers the beautiful Votaress. After one or +two chance Meetings, respectfully accosts her--_Anne_ draws back--he +finds a mutuall Friend--the Acquaintance progresses; and at length, by +Way of first Introduction to my Father, he steps in to ask him (preamble +supposed) to give him his eldest Daughter. Then what a Storm ensues! +Father's Objections do not transpire, no one being by but Mother, who is +unlikely to soften Matters. But, so soon as _John Herring_ shuts the +Door behind him, and walks off quickly, _Anne_ is called down, and I +follow, neither bidden nor hindered. Thereupon, Father, with a red +Heat-spot on his Cheek, asks _Anne_ what she knows of this young Man. +Her answer, "Nothing but good." "How came she to know him at all?" . . . +Silent; then makes Answer, "Has seen him at Mrs. _French's_ and +elsewhere." "Where else?" "Why, at Church, and other Places." Mother +here puts in, "What other Places?" . . . "Sure what can it signify," +_Anne_ asks, turning short round upon her; "and especially to you, who +would be glad to get quit of me on any Terms?" + +"_Anne, Anne_!" interrupts Father, "does this Concern of ours for you +look like it? You know you are saying what is uncivil and untrue." + +"Well," resumes _Anne_, her breath coming quick, "but what's the +Objection to _John Herring_?" + +"_John_? is he _John_ with you already?" cries Mother. "Then you must +know more of him than you say." + +"Sure, Mother," cries _Anne_, bursting into Tears, "you are enough to +overcome the Patience of _Job_. I know nothing of the young Man, but +that he is pious, and steady, and well read, and a good Son of reputable +Parents, as well to do in the World as ourselves; and that he likes me, +whom few like, and offers me a quiet, happy Home." + +"How fast some People can talk when they like," observes Mother; at which +Allusion to _Anne's_ Impediment, I dart at her a Look of Wrath; but _Nan_ +only continues weeping. + +"Come hither, Child," interposes Father, holding his Hand towards her; +"and you, good _Betty_, leave us awhile to talk over this without +Interruption." At which, Mother, taking him literally, sweeps up her +Work, and quits the Room. "The Address of this young Man," says Father, +"has taken me wholly by Surprise, and your Encouragement of it has +incontestably had somewhat of clandestine in it; notwithstanding which, I +have, and can have, nothing in View, dear _Nan_, but your Well-being. As +to his Calling, I take no Exceptions at it, even though, like +_Caementarius_, he should say, I am a Bricklayer, and have got my Living +by my Labour--" + +"A Master-builder, not a Bricklayer," interposes _Anne_. + +Father stopt for a Moment; then resumed. "You talk of his offering you a +quiet Home: why should you be dissatisfied with your own, where, in the +Main, we are all very happy together? In these evil Times, 'tis +something considerable to have, as it were, a little Chamber on the Wall, +where your Candle is lighted by the Lord, your Table spread by him, your +Bed made by him in your Health and Sickness, and where he stands behind +the Door, ready to come in and sup with you. All this you will leave for +One you know not. How bitterly may you hereafter look back on your +present Lot! You know, I have the Apostle's Word for it, that, if I give +you in Marriage, I may do well; but, if I give you not, I shall do +better. The unmarried Woman careth for the Things of the Lord, that she +may be holy in Body and Spirit, and attend upon him without Distraction. +Thus was it with the five wise Maidens, who kept their Lamps ready +trimmed until the Coming of their Lord. I wish we only knew of five that +were foolish. Time would fail me to tell you of all the godly Women, +both of the elder and later Time, who have led single Lives without +Superstition, and without Hypocrisy. Howbeit, you may marry if you will; +but you will be wiser if you abide as you are, after my Judgment. Let me +not to the Marriage of true Minds oppose Impediment; but, in your own +Case--" + +"Father," interrupts _Anne_, "you know I am ill at speaking; but permit +me to say, you are now talking wide of the Mark. Without going back to +the Beginning of the World, or all through the _Romish Calendar_, I will +content me with the more recent Instance of yourself, who have thrice +preferred Marriage, with all its concomitant Evils, to the single State +you laud so highly. Is it any Reason we should not dwell in a House, +because St. _Jerome_ lived in a Cave? The godly Women of whom you speak +might neither have had so promising a Home offered to them, nor so ill a +Home to quit." + +"What call you an ill Home?" says Father, his Brow darkening. + +"I call that an ill Home," returns _Anne_, stoutly, "where there is +neither Union nor Sympathy--at least, for my Share,--where there are no +Duties of which I can well acquit myself, and where those I have made for +myself, and find suitable to my Capacity and Strength, are contemned, +let, and hindered,--where my Mother-Church, my Mother's Church, is +reviled--my Mother's Family despised,--where the few Friends I have made +are never asked, while every Attention I pay them is grudged,--where, for +keeping all my hard Usage from my Father's Hearing, all the Reward I get +is his thinking I have no hard Usage to bear--" + +"Hold, ungrateful Girl!" says Father; "I've heard enough, and too much. +Tis Time wasted to reason with a Woman. I do believe there never yet was +one who would not start aside like a broken Bow, or pierce the Side like +a snapt Reed, at the very Moment most Dependance was placed in her. Let +her Husband humour her to the Top of her Bent,--she takes French Leave of +him, departs to her own Kindred, and makes Affection for her Childhood's +Home the Pretext for defying the Laws of God and Man. Let her Father +cherish her, pity her, bear with her, and shelter her from even the +Knowledge of the Evils of the World without,--her Ingratitude will keep +Pace with her Ignorance, and she will forsake him for the Sweetheart of a +Week. You think Marriage the supreme Bliss: a good many don't find it +so. Lively Passions soon burn out; and then come disappointed +Expectancies, vain Repinings, fretful Complainings, wrathful Rejoinings. +You fly from Collision with jarring Minds: what Security have you for +more Forbearance among your new Connexions? Alas! you will carry your +Temper with you--you will carry your bodily Infirmities with you;--your +little Stock of Experience, Reason, and Patience will be exhausted before +the Year is out, and at the End, perhaps, you will--die--" + +"As well die," cries _Anne_, bursting into Tears, "as live to hear such a +Rebuke as this." And so, passionately wringing her Hands, runs out of +the Room. + +"Follow after her, _Deb_," cries Father; "she is beside herself. Unhappy +me! tried every Way! An _Oedipus_ with no _Antigone_!" + +And, rising from his Seat, he began to pace up and down, while I ran up +to _Nan_. But scarce had I reached the Stair-head, when we both heard a +heavy Fall in the Chamber below. We cried, "Sure, that is Father!" and +ran down quicker than we had run up. He was just rising as we entered, +his Foot having caught in a long Coil of Gold Lace, which _Anne_, in her +disorderly Exit, had unwittingly dragged after her. I saw at a Glance he +was annoyed rather than hurt; but _Nan_, without a Moment's Pause, darts +into his Arms, in a Passion of Pity and Repentance, crying, "Oh, Father, +Father, forgive me! oh, Father!" + +"Tis all of a Piece, _Nan_," he replies; "alternate hot and cold; every +Thing for Passion, nothing for Reason. Now all for me; a Minute ago, I +might go to the Wall for _John Herring_." + +"No, never, Father!" cries _Anne_; "never, dear Father--" + +"Dark are the Ways of God," continues he, unheeding her; "not only +annulling his first best Gift of Light to me, and leaving me a Prey to +daily Contempt, Abuse, and Wrong, but mangling my tenderest, most +apprehensive Feelings--" + +_Anne_ again breaks in with, "Oh! Father, Father!" + +"Dark, dark, for ever dark!" he went on; "but just are the Ways of God to +Man. Who shall say, 'What doest Thou?'" + +"Father, I promise you," says _Anne_, "that I will never more think of +_John Herring_." + +"Foolish Girl!" he replies sadly; "as ready now to promise too Much, as +resolute just now to hear Nothing. How can you promise never to think of +him? I never asked it of you." + +"At least I can promise not to speak of him," says _Anne_. + +"Therein you will do wisely," rejoins Father. "My Consent having been +asked is an Admission that I have a Right to give or withhold it; and, as +I have already told _John Herring_, I shall certainly not grant it before +you are of Age. Perhaps by that Time you may be your own Mistress, +without even such an ill Home as I, while I live, can afford you." + +"No more of that," says _Anne_, interrupting him; and a Kiss sealed the +Compact. + +All this Time, Mother and _Mary_ were, providentially, out of the Way. +Mother had gone off in a Huff, and _Mary_ was busied in making some +marbled Veal. + +The rest of the Day was dull enough: violent Emotions are commonly +succeeded by flat Stagnations. _Anne_, however, seemed kept up by some +Energy from within, and looked a little flushed. At Bed-time she got the +start of me, as usuall; and, on entering our Chamber, I found her quite +undrest, sitting at the Table, not reading of her _Bible_, but with her +Head resting on it. I should have taken her to be asleep, but for the +quick Pulsation of some Nerve or Muscle at the back of the Neck, +somewhere under the right Ear. She looks up, commences rubbing her Eyes, +and says, "My Eyes are full of Sand, I think. I will give you my new +Crown-piece, _Deb_, if you will read me to sleep without another Word." +So I say, "A Bargain," though without meaning to take the Crown; and she +jumps into Bed in a Minute, and I begin at the Sermon on the Mount, and +keep on and on, in more and more of a Monotone; but every Time I lookt +up, I saw her Eyes wide open, agaze at the top of the Bed; and so I go on +and on, like a Bee humming over a Flower, till she shuts her Eyes; but, +at last, when I think her off, having just got to _Matthew_, eleven, +twenty-eight, she fetches a deep sigh, and says, "I wish I could hear Him +saying so to me . . . 'Come, _Anne_, unto me, and I will give you Rest.' +But, in fact, He does so as emphatically in addressing all the weary and +heavy-laden, as if I heard Him articulating, 'Come, _Anne_, come!'" + + + + +POST SCRIPTUM + + +_Spitalfields, 1680_. + +A generous Mind finds even its just Resentments languish and die away +when their Object becomes the unresisting prey of Death. Such is my +Experience with regard to _Betty Fisher_, whose ill Life hath now +terminated, and from whom, confronted at the Bar of their great Judge, +Father will, one Day, hear the Truth. As to my Stepmother, Time and +Distance have had their soothing Effect on me even regarding her. She +is down in _Cheshire_, among her own People; is a hale, hearty Woman +yet, and will very likely outlive me. If she looked in on me this +Moment, and saw me in this homely but decent Suit, sitting by my clear +Coal-fire, in this little oak-panelled Room, with a clean, though +coarse Cloth neatly laid on the Supper Table, with Covers for two, +could she sneer at the Spouse of the _Spitalfields_ Weaver? Belike she +might, for Spight never wanted Food; but I would have her into the +Nursery, shew her the two sleeping Faces, and ask her. Did I need her +Pity then? + +_Betty's_ Death, calling up Memories of old Times, hath made me +somewhat cynical, I think. I cannot but call to Mind her many ill +Turns. 'Twas shortly after the Rupture of _Anne's_ Match with _John +Herring_. Poor _Nan_ had over-reckoned on her own Strength of Mind, +when she promised Father to speak of him no more; and, after the first +Fervour of Self-denial, became so captious, that Father said he heard +_John Herring_ in every Tone. This set them at Variance, to commence +with; and then, _Mary_ detecting _Betty_ in certain Malpractices, +Mother could no longer keep her, for Decency's Sake; and _Betty_, in +revenge, came up to Father before she left, and told him a tissue of +Lies concerning us,--how that _Mary_ had wished him dead, and I had +made away with his Books and Kitchen-stuff. I, being at _Hackney_ at +the Time, on a Visitt to _Rosamond Woodcock_, was not by to refute the +infamous Charge, which had Time to rankle in Father's Mind before I +returned; and _Mary_ having lost his Opinion by previous Squabbles with +Mother and the Maids, I came back only to find the House turned upside +down. 'Twas under these misfortunate Circumstances that poor Father +commenced his_ Sampson Agonistes_; and, though his Object was, +primarily, to divert his Mind, it too often ran upon Things around him, +and made his Poem the Shadow and Mirrour of himself. When he got to +_Dalilah_, I could not forbear saying, "How hard you are upon Women, +Father!" + +"Hard?" repeated he; "I think I am anything but that. Do you call me +hard on _Eve_, and the Lady in _Comus_?" + +"No, indeed," I returned. "The Lady, like _Una_, makes Sunshine in a +shady Place; and, in fact, how should it be otherwise? For Truth and +Purity, like Diamonds, shine in the Dark." + +He smiled, and, passing his Hand across his Brow to re-collect himself, +went on in a freer, less biting Spirit, to the Encounter with _Harapha_ +of _Gath_, in which he evidently revelled, even to making me laugh, +when the big, cowardly Giant excused himself from coming within the +blind Man's Reach, by saying of him, that he had need of much washing +to be willingly touched. He went on flowingly to + + "But take good Heed my Hand survey not thee; + My Heels are fetter'd, but my Fist is free," + +and then broke into a merry Laugh himself; adding, a Line or two after, + + "His Giantship is gone, somewhat crest-fallen; + +". . . there, Girl, that will do for To-day." + +Meantime, his greater Poem had come out, for which he had got an +immediate Payment of five Pounds, with a conditional Expectance of +fifteen Pounds more on the three following Editions, should the Public +ever call for 'em. And truly, when one considers how much Meat and +Drink One may buy for Twenty Pounds, and how capricious is the Taste of +the critikal World, 'tis no mean Venture of a Bookseller on a +Manuscript of which he knows the actual value as little as a Salvage of +the Gold-dust he parts with for a Handful of old Nails. At all events, +the Sale of the Work gave Father no Reason to suppose he had made an +ill Bargain; but, indeed, he gave himself very little Concern about it; +and was quite satisfied when, now and then, Mr. _Marvell_ and Mr. +_Skinner_, or some other old Crony, having waded through it, looked in +on him to talk it over. Money, indeed, a little more of it, would have +been often acceptable. Mother now began to pinch us pretty short, and +lament the unsaleable Quality of Father's Productions; also to call us +a Set of lazy Drones, and wonder what would come of us some future Day; +insomuch that Father, turning the Matter sedately in his Mind, did +seriously conclude 'twould be well for us to go forth for a While, to +learn some Method of Self-support. And this was accelerated by an +unhappy Collision 'twixt my Mother and me, which, in a hasty Moment, +sent me, with swelling Heart, to take Counsel of Mrs. _Lefroy_, my +sometime Playfellow _Rosamond Woodcock_, then on the Point of embarking +for _Ireland_; who volunteered to take me with her, and be at my +Charges; so I took leave of Father with a bursting Heart, not troubling +him with an Inkling of my Ill-usage, which has been a Comfort to me +ever since, though he went to the Grave believing I had only sought my +own Well-doing. + +We never met again. Had I foreseen it, I could not have left him. The +next Stroke was to get away _Mary_ and _Anne_, and take back _Betty +Fisher_. Then the nuncupative Will was hatched up; for I never will +believe it authentick--no, never; and Sir _Leoline Jenkins_, that +upright and able Judge, set it aside, albeit _Betty Fisher_ would swear +through thick and thin. + +Sure, Things must have come to a pretty Pass, when Father was brought +to take his Meals in the Kitchen! a Thing he had never been accustomed +to in his Life, save at _Chalfont_, by Reason of the Parlour being so +small. And the Words, both as to Sense and Choice, which _Betty_ put +into his Mouth, betrayed the Counterfeit, by favouring over-much of the +Scullion. "God have Mercy, _Betty_! I see thou wilt perform according +to thy Promise, in providing me such Dishes as I think fit whilst I +live; and when I die, thou knowest I have left thee all!" Phansy +Father talking like that! Were I not so provoked, I could laugh. And +he to sell his Children's Birthright for a Mess of Pottage, who, +instead of loving savoury Meat, like blind _Isaac_, was, in fact, the +most temperate of Men! who cared not what he ate, so 'twas sweet and +clean; who might have said with godly Mr. _Ball_ of _Whitmore_, that he +had two Dishes of Meat to his Sabbath-dinner,--a Dish of hot Milk, and +a Dish of cold Milk; and that was enough and enough. Whose Drink was +from the Well;--often have I drawn it for him at _Chalfont!--_and who +called Bread-and-butter a lordly Dish;--often have I cut him thick +Slices, and brought him Cresses from the Spring! Well placed he his +own Principle and Practice in the Chorus's Mouth, where they say, + + "Oh, Madness! to think Use of strongest Wines + And strongest Drinks our chief Support of Health!" + + +So that Story carries its Confutation with it: _Ned Phillips_ says so, +too. As to what passed, that _July_ Forenoon, between him and Uncle +_Kit_, before the latter left Town in the _Ipswich_ Coach, and with +_Betty Fisher_ fidgetting in and out of the Chamber all the Time . . . +he may, or may not have called us his unkind Children; for we can never +tell what Reasons had been given him to make him think us so. That +must stand over. How many human Misapprehensions must do the same! +Enough that one Eye sees all, that one Spirit knows all . . . even all +our Misdoings; or else, how could we bear to tell Him even the least of +them? But it requires great Faith in the greatly wronged, to obtain +that Calm of Mind, all Passion spent, which some have arrived at. When +we can stand firm on that Pinnacle, _Satan_ falls prone. He sets us on +that dizzy Height, as he did our Master; saying, in his taunting +Fashion,-- + + "There stand, if thou canst stand; to stand upright + Will ask thee Skill;" + +but the Moment he sees we can, down he goes himself!--falls whence he +stood to see his Victor fall! This is what Man has done, and Man may +do,--and Woman too; the Strength, for asking, being promised and given. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Mary Powell & Deborah's Diary, by Anne Manning + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARY POWELL & DEBORAH'S DIARY *** + +***** This file should be named 21431-8.txt or 21431-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/1/4/3/21431/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/21431-8.zip b/21431-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..680fe09 --- /dev/null +++ b/21431-8.zip diff --git a/21431.txt b/21431.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..10bf261 --- /dev/null +++ b/21431.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6456 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Mary Powell & Deborah's Diary, by Anne Manning + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Mary Powell & Deborah's Diary + +Author: Anne Manning + +Release Date: May 14, 2007 [EBook #21431] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARY POWELL & DEBORAH'S DIARY *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + +Mary Powell & Deborah's Diary + + +by + +Anne Manning + + + + + + A tale which holdeth children from play + & old men from the chimney corner + --Sir Philip Sidney + + + + +London: published by J. M. Dent & Co. + +and in New York by E. P. Dutton & Co. + +1908 + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +In the Valhalla of English literature Anne Manning is sure of a little +and safe place. Her studies of great men, in which her imagination +fills in the hiatus which history has left, are not only literature in +themselves, but they are a service to literature: it is quite +conceivable that the ordinary reader with no very keen _flair_ for +poetry will realise John Milton and appraise him more highly, having +read _Mary Powell_ and its sequel, _Deborah's Diary_, than having read +_Paradise Lost_. In _The Household of Sir Thomas More_ she had for +hero one of the most charming, whimsical, lovable, heroical men God +ever created, by the creation of whose like He puts to shame all that +men may accomplish in their literature. In John Milton, whose first +wife Mary Powell was, Miss Manning has a hero who, though a supreme +poet, was "gey ill to live with," and it is a triumph of her art that +she makes us compunctious for the great poet even while we appreciate +the difficulties that fell to the lot of his women-kind. John Milton, +a Parliament man and a Puritan, married at the age of thirty-four, Mary +Powell, a seventeen-year-old girl, the daughter of an Oxfordshire +squire, who, with his family, was devoted to the King. It was at one +of the bitterest moments of the conflict between King and Parliament, +and it was a complication in the affair of the marriage that Mary +Powell's father was in debt five hundred pounds to Milton. The +marriage took place. Milton and his young wife set up housekeeping in +lodgings in Aldersgate Street over against St. Bride's Churchyard, a +very different place indeed from Forest Hill, Shotover, by Oxford, Mary +Powell's dear country home. They were together barely a month when +Mary Powell, on report of her father's illness, had leave to revisit +him, being given permission to absent herself from her husband's side +from mid-August till Michaelmas. She did not return at Michaelmas; nor +for some two years was there a reconciliation between the bride and +groom of a month. During those two years Milton published his +pamphlet, _On the Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce_, begun while his +few-weeks-old bride was still with him. In this pamphlet he states +with violence his opinion that a husband should be permitted to put +away his wife "for lack of a fit and matchable conversation," which +would point to very slender agreement between the girl of seventeen and +the poet of thirty-four. This was that Mary Powell, who afterwards +bore him four children, who died in childbirth with the youngest, +Deborah (of the _Diary)_, and who is consecrated in one of the +loveliest and most poignant of English sonnets. + + Methought I saw my late-espoused Saint + Brought to me like Alkestis from the grave, + Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave, + Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint. + Mine, as whom washed from spot of child-bed taint + Purification in the Old Law did save; + And such, as yet once more, I trust to have + Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint, + Came vested all in white, pure as her mind: + Her face was veiled, yet to my fancied sight + Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined +So clear, as in no face with more delight. + But oh! as to embrace me she inclined, + I waked; she fled; and Day brought back my Night. + + +It is a far cry from the woman so enshrined to the child of seventeen +years who was without "fit and matchable conversation" for her +irritable, intolerant poet-husband. + +A good many serious writers have conjectured and wondered over this +little tragedy of Milton's young married life: but since all must needs +be conjecture one is obliged to say that Miss Manning, with her gift of +delicate imagination and exquisite writing, has conjectured more +excellently than the historians. She does not "play the sedulous ape" +to Milton or Mary Powell: but if one could imagine a gentle and tender +Boswell to these two, then Miss Manning has well proved her aptitude +for the place. Of Mary Powell she has made a charming creature. The +diary of Mary Powell is full of sweet country smells and sights and +sounds. Mary Powell herself is as sweet as her flowers, frank, honest, +loving and tender. Her diary catches for us all the enchantment of an +old garden; we hear Mary Powell's bees buzz in the mignonette and +lavender; we see her pleached garden alleys; we loiter with her on the +bowling-green, by the fish ponds, in the still-room, the dairy and the +pantry. The smell of aromatic box on a hot summer of long ago is in +our nostrils. We realise all the personages--the impulsive, hot-headed +father; the domineering, indiscreet mother; the cousin, Rose Agnew, and +her parson husband; little Kate and Robin of the Royalist household--as +well as John Milton and his father, and the two nephews to whom the +poet was tutor--and a hard tutor. Miss Manning's delightful humour +comes out in the two pragmatical little boys. But Mary herself +dominates the picture. She is so much a thing of the country, of +gardens and fields, that perforce one is reminded of Sir Thomas +Overbury's _Fair and Happy Milkmaid_:-- + +"She doth all things with so sweet a grace it seems ignorance will not +suffer her to do ill, being her mind is to do well. . . . The garden +and bee-hive are all her physic and chirugery, and she lives the longer +for it. She dares go alone and unfold sheep in the night and fears no +manner of ill because she means none: yet to say truth she is never +alone, for she is still accompanied by old songs, honest thoughts and +prayers, but short ones. . . . Thus lives she, and all her care is +that she may die in the spring-time, to have store of flowers stuck +upon her winding-sheet." + +The last remnants of Forest Hill, Mary Powell's home, were pulled down +in 1854. A visitor to it three years before its demolition tells us:-- + +"Still the rose, the sweet-brier and the eglantine are reddest beneath +its casements; the cock at its barn-door may be seen from any of the +windows. . . . In the kitchen, with its vast hearth and overhanging +chimney, we discovered tokens of the good living for which the old +manor-house was famous in its day. . . . The garden, in its massive +wall, ornamental gateway and old sun-dial, retains some traces of its +manorial dignities." The house indeed is gone, but the sweet country +remains, the verdant slopes and the lanes with their hedges full of +sweet-brier that stretch out towards Oxford. And there is the church +in which Mary Powell prayed. I should have liked to quote another of +Miss Manning's biographers, the Rev. Dr. Hutton, who tells us of old +walls partly built into the farmhouse that now stands there, and of the +old walnut trees in the farmyard, and in a field hard by the spring of +which John Milton may have tasted, and the church on the hill, and the +distant Chilterns. + +Milton's cottage at Chalfont St. Giles's is happily still in a good +state of preservation, although Chalfont and its neighbourhood have +suffered a sea-change even since Dr. Hutton wrote, a decade ago. All +that quiet corner of the world, for so long green and secluded,--a +"deare secret greennesse"--has now had the light of the world let in +upon it. Motor-cars whizz through that Quaker country; money-making +Londoners hurry away from it of mornings, trudge home of evenings, bag +in hand; the jerry-builder is in the land, and the dust of much traffic +lies upon the rose and eglantine wherewith Milton's eyes were +delighted. The works of our hands often mock us by their durability. +Years and ages and centuries after the busy brain and the feeling heart +are dust, the houses built with hands stand up to taunt our mortality. +Yet the works of the mind remain. Though Forest Hill be only a +party-wall, and Chalfont a suburb of London, the Forest Hill of Mary +Powell, the Chalfont of Milton, yet live for us in Anne Manning's +delightful pages. + +Miss Manning did not wish her _Life_ to be written, but we do get some +glimpses of her real self from herself in a chance page here and there +of her reminiscences. + +Here is one such glimpse:-- + +"I must confess I have never been able to write comfortably when music +was going on. I think I have always written to most purpose coming in +fresh from a morning walk when the larks were singing and lambs +bleating and distant cocks in farmyards crowing, and a distant dog +barking to an echo which answered his voice, and when the hedges and +banks were full of wild flowers with quaint and pretty names. + +"Next to that, I have found the best time soon after early tea, when my +companions were all in the garden, and likely to remain there till +moonlight." + +Not very much by way of a literary portrait, and yet one can fill it in +for oneself, can place her in old-world Reigate, fast, alas! becoming +over-built and over-populated like all the rest of the country over +which falls the ever-lengthening London shadow. As one ponders upon +Forest Hill for Mary Powell's sake--is not Shotover as dear a name as +Shottery?--and Chalfont for Milton's sake, one thinks on Reigate +surrounded by its hills for Anne Manning's sake, and keeps the place in +one's heart. + +_Mary Powell_, with its sequel, _Deborah's Diary_--Deborah was the +young thing whom to bring into the world Mary Powell died--is one of +the most fragrant books in English literature. One thinks of it side +by side with John Evelyn's _Mrs. Godolphin_. Miss Manning had a +beautiful style--a style given to her to reconstruct an idyll of +old-world sweetness. Limpid as flowing water, with a thought of +syllabubs and new-made hay in it, it is a perpetual delight. This +mid-Victorian, dark-haired lady, with the aquiline nose and high +colour, although she may not have looked it, possessed a charming +style, in which tenderness, seriousness, gaiety, humour, poetry, appear +in the happiest atmosphere of sweetness and light. + +KATHARINE TYNAN. + +_April_ 1908 + + + + +Bibliography + +The following is a complete list of her published works:-- + +The Household of Sir Thomas More, 1851; Queen Phillippa's Golden Booke, +1851; The Colloquies of Edward Osborne, Citizen and Clothworker of +London, 1852; The Drawing-room Table Book, 1852; Cherry and Violet, a +Tale of the Great Plague, 1853; The Provocations of Madame Palissy, +1853; Chronicles of Merry England, 1854; Claude the Colporteur, 1854; +The Hill Side, 1854; Jack and the Tanner of Wymondham, 1854; Adventures +of Haroun al Raschid, 1855; Maiden and Married Life of Mary Powell, +afterwards Mistress Milton, 1855; Old Chelsea Bun-House, 1855; Some +Account of Mrs. Clarinda Singlehart, 1855; A Sabbath at Home, 1855; +Tasso and Leonora, 1856; The Week of Darkness, 1856; Lives of Good +Servants, 1857; The Good Old Times, 1857; Helen and Olga, a Russian +Tale, 1857; The Year Nine: a Tale of the Tyrol, 1858; The Ladies of +Bever Hollow, 1858; Poplar House Academy, 1859; Deborah's Diary, 1859; +The Story of Italy, 1859; Village Belles, 1859; Town and Forest, 1860; +The Day of Small Things, 1860; Family Pictures, 1861; Chronicle of +Ethelfled, 1861; A Noble Purpose Nobly Won, 1862; Meadowleigh, 1863; +Bessy's Money, 1863; The Duchess of Tragetto, 1863; The Interrupted +Wedding: a Hungarian Tale, 1864; Belforest: a Tale, 1865; Selvaggio: a +Tale of Italian Country Life, 1865; The Masque at Ludlow, and other +Romanesques, 1866; The Lincolnshire Tragedy (Passages in the life of +Anne Askewe), 1866; Miss Biddy Frobisher: a Salt-water Story, 1866; The +Cottage History of England, 1867; Jacques Bonneval, 1868; Diana's +Crescent, 1868; The Spanish Barber, 1869; One Trip More, 1870; Margaret +More's Tagebuch, 1870; Compton Friars, 1872; The Lady of Limited +Income, 1872; Lord Harry Bellair, 1874; Monk's Norton, 1874; Heroes of +the Desert (Moffat, Livingstone, etc.), 1875; An Idyll of the Alps, +1876. + +LIFE.--C. M. Yonge, Women Novelists of Queen Victoria's Reign, 1897. + + + + +THE MAIDEN AND MARRIED LIFE + +OF + + +MARY POWELL + +AFTERWARDS MISTRESS MILTON + + +JOURNALL + +_Forest Hill, Oxon, May 1st, 1643_. + +. . . Seventeenth Birthdaye. A Gypsie Woman at the Gate woulde faine +have tolde my Fortune; but _Mother_ chased her away, saying she had +doubtlesse harboured in some of the low Houses in _Oxford_, and mighte +bring us the Plague. Coulde have cried for Vexation; she had promised +to tell me the Colour of my Husband's Eyes; but _Mother_ says she +believes I shall never have one, I am soe sillie. _Father_ gave me a +gold Piece. Dear _Mother_ is chafed, methinks, touching this Debt of +five hundred Pounds, which _Father_ says he knows not how to pay. +Indeed, he sayd, overnighte, his whole personal Estate amounts to but +five hundred Pounds, his Timber and Wood to four hundred more, or +thereabouts; and the Tithes and Messuages of _Whateley_ are no great +Matter, being mortgaged for about as much moore, and he hath lent +Sights of Money to them that won't pay, so 'tis hard to be thus prest. +Poor _Father_! 'twas good of him to give me this gold Piece. + + + +_May 2nd, 1643_. + +Cousin _Rose_ married to Master _Roger Agnew_. Present, _Father, +Mother_, and _Brother_ of _Rose_. _Father, Mother, Dick, Bob, Harry_, +and I; Squire _Paice_ and his Daughter _Audrey_; an olde Aunt of Master +_Roger's_, and one of his Cousins, a stiffe-backed Man with large +Eares, and such a long Nose! Cousin _Rose_ looked bewtifulle--pitie so +faire a Girl should marry so olde a Man--'tis thoughte he wants not +manie Years of fifty. + + + +_May 7th, 1643_. + +New Misfortunes in the Poultrie Yarde. Poor _Mother's_ Loyalty cannot +stand the Demands for her best Chickens, Ducklings, etc., for the Use +of his Majesty's Officers since the King hath beene in _Oxford_. She +accuseth my _Father_ of having beene wonne over by a few faire Speeches +to be more of a Royalist than his natural Temper inclineth him to; +which, of course, he will not admit. + + + +_May 8th, 1643_. + +Whole Day taken up in a Visit to _Rose_, now a Week married, and growne +quite matronlie already. We reached _Sheepscote_ about an Hour before +Noone. A long, broade, strait Walke of green Turf, planted with +Hollyoaks, Sunflowers, etc., and some earlier Flowers alreadie in +Bloom, led up to the rusticall Porch of a truly farm-like House, with +low gable Roofs, a long lattice Window on either Side the Doore, and +three Casements above. Such, and no more, is _Rose's_ House! But she +is happy, for she came running forthe, soe soone as she hearde +_Clover's_ Feet, and helped me from my Saddle all smiling, tho' she had +not expected to see us. We had Curds and Creame; and she wished it +were the Time of Strawberries, for she sayd they had large Beds; and +then my _Father_ and the Boys went forthe to looke for Master _Agnew_. +Then _Rose_ took me up to her Chamber, singing as she went; and the +long, low Room was sweet with Flowers. Sayd I, "_Rose_, to be Mistress +of this pretty Cottage, 'twere hardlie amisse to marry a Man as olde as +Master _Roger_." "Olde!" quoth she, "deare _Moll_, you must not deeme +him olde; why, he is but fortytwo; and am not I twenty-three?" She +lookt soe earneste and hurte, that I coulde not but falle a laughing. + + + +_May 9th, 1643_. + +_Mother_ gone to _Sandford_. She hopes to get Uncle _John_ to lend +_Father_ this Money. _Father_ says she may _try_. Tis harde to +discourage her with an ironicalle Smile, when she is doing alle she +can, and more than manie Women woulde, to help _Father_ in his +Difficultie; but suche, she sayth somewhat bitterlie, is the lot of our +Sex. She bade _Father_ mind that she had brought him three thousand +Pounds, and askt what had come of them. Answered; helped to fille the +Mouths of nine healthy Children, and stop the Mouth of an easie +Husband; soe, with a Kiss, made it up. I have the Keys, and am left +Mistresse of alle, to my greate Contentment; but the Children clamour +for Sweetmeats, and _Father_ sayth, "Remember, _Moll_, Discretion is +the better Part of Valour." + +After _Mother_ had left, went into the Paddock, to feed the Colts with +Bread; and while they were putting their Noses into _Robin's_ Pockets, +_Dick_ brought out the two Ponies, and set me on one of them, and we +had a mad Scamper through the Meadows and down the Lanes; I leading. +Just at the Turne of _Holford's Close_, came shorte upon a Gentleman +walking under the Hedge, clad in a sober, genteel Suit, and of most +beautifulle Countenance, with Hair like a Woman's, of a lovely pale +brown, long and silky, falling over his Shoulders. I nearlie went over +him, for _Clover's_ hard Forehead knocked agaynst his Chest; but he +stoode it like a Rock; and lookinge firste at me and then at _Dick_, he +smiled and spoke to my Brother, who seemed to know him, and turned +about and walked by us, sometimes stroaking _Clover's_ shaggy Mane. I +felte a little ashamed; for _Dick_ had sett me on the Poney just as I +was, my Gown somewhat too shorte for riding: however, I drewe up my +Feet and let _Clover_ nibble a little Grasse, and then got rounde to +the neare Side, our new Companion stille between us. He offered me +some wild Flowers, and askt me theire Names; and when I tolde them, he +sayd I knew more than he did, though he accounted himselfe a prettie +fayre Botaniste: and we went on thus, talking of the Herbs and Simples +in the Hedges; and I sayd how prettie some of theire Names were, and +that, methought, though Adam had named alle the Animals in Paradise, +perhaps Eve had named alle the Flowers. He lookt earnestlie at me, on +this, and muttered "prettie." Then _Dick_ askt of him News from +_London_, and he spoke, methought, reservedlie; ever and anon turning +his bright, thoughtfulle Eyes on me. At length, we parted at the Turn +of the Lane. + +I askt _Dick_ who he was, and he told me he was one Mr. _John Milton_, +the Party to whom _Father_ owed five hundred Pounds. He was the Sonne +of a _Buckinghamshire_ Gentleman, he added, well connected, and very +scholarlike, but affected towards the Parliament. His Grandsire, a +zealous Papiste, formerly lived in _Oxon_, and disinherited the Father +of this Gentleman for abjuring the _Romish_ Faith. + +When I found how faire a Gentleman was _Father's_ Creditor, I became +the more interested in deare _Mother's_ Successe. + + + +_May 13th, 1643_. + +_Dick_ began to harpe on another Ride to _Sheepscote_ this Morning, and +persuaded _Father_ to let him have the bay Mare, soe he and I started +at aboute Ten o' the Clock. Arrived at Master _Agnew's_ Doore, found +it open, no one in Parlour or Studdy; soe _Dick_ tooke the Horses +rounde, and then we went straite thro' the House, into the Garden +behind, which is on a rising Ground, with pleached Alleys and turfen +Walks, and a Peep of the Church through the Trees. A Lad tolde us his +Mistress was with the Bees, soe we walked towards the Hives; and, from +an Arbour hard by, hearde a Murmur, though not of Bees, issuing. In +this rusticall Bowre, found _Roger Agnew_ reading to _Rose_ and to Mr. +_Milton_. Thereupon ensued manie cheerfulle Salutations, and _Rose_ +proposed returning to the House, but Master _Agnew_ sayd it was +pleasanter in the Bowre, where was Room for alle; soe then _Rose_ +offered to take me to her Chamber to lay aside my Hoode, and promised +to send a Junkett into the Arbour; whereon Mr. _Agnew_ smiled at Mr. +_Milton_, and sayd somewhat of "neat-handed _Phillis_." + +As we went alonge, I tolde _Rose_ I had seene her Guest once before, +and thought him a comely, pleasant Gentleman. She laught, and sayd, +"Pleasant? why, he is one of the greatest Scholars of our Time, and +knows more Languages than you or I ever hearde of." I made Answer, +"That may be, and yet might not ensure his being pleasant, but rather +the contrary, for I cannot reade _Greeke_ and _Latin_, _Rose_, like +you." Quoth _Rose_, "But you can reade _English_, and he hath writ +some of the loveliest _English_ Verses you ever hearde, and hath +brought us a new Composure this Morning, which _Roger_, being his olde +College Friend, was discussing with him, to my greate Pleasure, when +you came. After we have eaten the Junkett, he shall beginne it again." +"By no Means," said I, "for I love Talking more than Reading." +However, it was not soe to be, for _Rose_ woulde not be foyled; and as +it woulde not have been good Manners to decline the Hearinge in +Presence of the Poet, I was constrayned to suppresse a secret Yawne, +and feign Attention, though, Truth to say, it soone wandered; and, +during the last halfe Hour, I sat in a compleat Dreame, tho' not +unpleasant one. _Roger_ having made an End, 'twas diverting to heare +him commending the Piece unto the Author, who as gravely accepted it; +yet, with nothing fullesome about the one, or misproud about the other. +Indeed, there was a sedate Sweetnesse in the Poet's Wordes as well as +Lookes; and shortlie, waiving the Discussion of his owne Composures, he +beganne to talke of those of other Men, as _Shakspeare, Spenser, +Cowley, Ben Jonson_, and of _Tasso_, and _Tasso's_ Friend the Marquis +of _Villa_, whome, it appeared, Mr. _Milton_ had Knowledge of in +_Italy_. Then he askt me, woulde I not willingly have seene the +Country of _Romeo_ and _Juliet_, and prest to know whether I loved +Poetry; but finding me loath to tell, sayd he doubted not I preferred +Romances, and that he had read manie, and loved them dearly too. I +sayd, I loved _Shakspeare's_ Plays better than _Sidney's_ Arcadia; on +which he cried "Righte," and drew nearer to me, and woulde have talked +at greater length; but, knowing from _Rose_ how learned he was, I +feared to shew him I was a sillie Foole; soe, like a sillie Foole, held +my Tongue. + +Dinner; Eggs, Bacon, roast Ribs of Lamb, Spinach, Potatoes, savoury +Pie, a _Brentford_ Pudding, and Cheesecakes. What a pretty Housewife +_Rose_ is! _Roger's_ plain Hospitalitie and scholarlie Discourse +appeared to much Advantage. He askt of News from Paris; and Mr. +_Milton_ spoke much of the _Swedish_ Ambassadour, _Dutch_ by Birth; a +Man renowned for his Learning, Magnanimity, and Misfortunes, of whome +he had seene much. He tolde _Rose_ and me how this Mister _Van der +Groote_ had beene unjustlie caste into Prison by his Countrymen; and +how his good Wife had shared his Captivitie, and had tried to get his +Sentence reversed; failing which, she contrived his Escape in a big +Chest, which she pretended to be full of heavie olde Bookes. Mr. +_Milton_ concluded with the Exclamation, "Indeede, there never was such +a Woman;" on which, deare _Roger_, whome I beginne to love, quoth, "Oh +yes, there are manie such,--we have two at Table now." Whereat, Mr. +_Milton_ smiled. + +At Leave-taking pressed Mr. _Agnew_ and _Rose_ to come and see us +soone; and _Dick_ askt Mr. _Milton_ to see the Bowling Greene. + +Ride Home, delightfulle. + + + +_May 14th, 1643_. + +Thought, when I woke this Morning, I had been dreaminge of St. _Paul_ +let down the Wall in a Basket; but founde, on more closely examining +the Matter, 'twas _Grotius_ carried down the Ladder in a Chest; and +methought I was his Wife, leaninge from the Window above, and crying to +the Souldiers, "Have a Care, have a Care!" 'Tis certayn I shoulde have +betraied him by an Over-anxietie. + +Resolved to give _Father_ a _Sheepscote_ Dinner, but _Margery_ affirmed +the Haunch woulde no longer keepe, so was forced to have it drest, +though meaninge to have kept it for Companie. Little _Kate_, who had +been out alle the Morning, came in with her Lap full of Butter-burs, +the which I was glad to see, as _Mother_ esteemes them a sovereign +Remedie 'gainst the Plague, which is like to be rife in _Oxford_ this +Summer, the Citie being so overcrowded on account of his Majestie. +While laying them out on the Stille-room Floor, in bursts _Robin_ to +say Mr. _Agnew_ and Mr. _Milton_ were with _Father_ at the Bowling +Greene, and woulde dine here. Soe was glad _Margery_ had put down the +Haunch. Twas past One o' the Clock, however, before it coulde be sett +on Table; and I had just run up to pin on my Carnation Knots, when I +hearde them alle come in discoursing merrilie. + +At Dinner Mr. _Milton_ askt _Robin_ of his Studdies; and I was in Payne +for the deare Boy, knowing him to be better affected to his out-doore +Recreations than to his Booke; but he answered boldlie he was in +_Ovid_, and I lookt in Mr. _Milton's_ Face to guesse was that goode +Scholarship or no; but he turned it towards my _Father_, and sayd he +was trying an Experiment on two young Nephews of his owne, whether the +reading those Authors that treate of physical Subjects mighte not +advantage them more than the Poets; whereat my _Father_ jested with +him, he being himselfe one of the Fraternitie he seemed to despise. +But he uphelde his Argumente so bravelie, that _Father_ listened in +earneste Silence. Meantime, the Cloth being drawne, and I in Feare of +remaining over long, was avised to withdrawe myself earlie, _Robin_ +following, and begging me to goe downe to the Fish-ponds. Afterwards +alle the others joyned us, and we sate on the Steps till the Sun went +down, when, the Horses being broughte round, our Guests tooke Leave +without returning to the House. _Father_ walked thoughtfullie Home +with me, leaning on my Shoulder, and spake little. + + + +_May 15th, 1643_. + +After writing the above last Night, in my Chamber, went to Bed and had +a most heavenlie Dreame. Methoughte it was brighte, brighte +Moonlighte, and I was walking with Mr. _Milton_ on a Terrace,--not +_our_ Terrace, but in some outlandish Place; and it had Flights and +Flights of green Marble Steps, descending, I cannot tell how farre, +with Stone Figures and Vases on every one. We went downe and downe +these Steps, till we came to a faire Piece of Water, still in the +Moonlighte; and then, methoughte, he woulde be taking Leave, and sayd +much aboute Absence and Sorrowe, as tho' we had knowne eache other some +Space; and alle that he sayd was delightfulle to heare. Of a suddain +we hearde Cries, as of Distresse, in a Wood that came quite down to the +Water's Edge, and Mr. _Milton_ sayd, "Hearken!" and then, "There is +some one being slaine in the Woode, I must goe to rescue him;" and soe, +drewe his Sword and ran off. Meanwhile, the Cries continued, but I did +not seeme to mind them much; and, looking stedfastlie downe into the +cleare Water, coulde see to an immeasurable Depth, and beheld, oh, +rare! Girls sitting on glistening Rocks, far downe beneathe, combing +and braiding their brighte Hair, and talking and laughing, onlie I +coulde not heare aboute what. And theire Kirtles were like spun Glass, +and theire Bracelets Coral and Pearl; and I thought it the fairest +Sight that Eyes coulde see. But, alle at once, the Cries in the Wood +affrighted them, for they started, looked upwards and alle aboute, and +began swimming thro' the cleare Water so fast, that it became troubled +and thick, and I coulde see them noe more. Then I was aware that the +Voices in the Wood were of _Dick_ and _Harry_, calling for _me_; and I +soughte to answer, "Here!" but my Tongue was heavie. Then I commenced +running towards them, through ever so manie greene Paths, in the Wood; +but still, we coulde never meet; and I began to see grinning Faces, +neither of Man nor Beaste, peeping at me through the Trees; and one and +another of them called me by Name; and in greate Feare and Paine I +awoke! + +. . . Strange Things are Dreames. Dear _Mother_ thinks much of them, +and sayth they oft portend coming Events. My _Father_ holdeth the +Opinion that they are rather made up of what hath alreadie come to +passe; but surelie naught like this Dreame of mine hath in anie Part +befallen me hithertoe? + +. . . What strange Fable or Masque were they reading that Day at +_Sheepscote_? I mind not. + + + +_May 20th, 1643_. + +Too much busied of late to write, though much hath happened which I +woulde fain remember. Dined at _Shotover_ yesterday. Met _Mother_, +who is coming Home in a Day or two; but helde short Speech with me +aside concerning Housewifery. The _Agnews_ there, of course: alsoe Mr. +_Milton_, whom we have seene continuallie, lately; and I know not how +it shoulde be, but he seemeth to like me. _Father_ affects him much, +but _Mother_ loveth him not. She hath seene little of him: perhaps the +less the better. _Ralph Hewlett_, as usuall, forward in his rough +endeavours to please; but, though no Scholar, I have yet Sense enough +to prefer Mr. _Milton's_ Discourse to his. . . . I wish I were fonder +of Studdy; but, since it cannot be, what need to vex? Some are born of +one Mind, some of another. _Rose_ was alwaies for her Booke; and, had +_Rose_ beene no Scholar, Mr. _Agnew_ woulde, may be, never have given +her a second Thoughte: but alle are not of the same Way of thinking. + +. . . A few Lines received from _Mother's_ "spoilt Boy," as _Father_ +hath called Brother _Bill_, ever since he went a soldiering. Blurred +and mis-spelt as they are, she will prize them. Trulie, we are none of +us grate hands at the Pen; 'tis well I make this my Copie-booke. + +. . . Oh, strange Event! Can this be Happinesse? Why, then, am I soe +feared, soe mazed, soe prone to weeping? I woulde that _Mother_ were +here. Lord have Mercie on me a sinfulle, sillie Girl, and guide my +Steps arighte. + +. . . It seemes like a Dreame, (I have done noughte but dreame of late, +I think,) my going along the matted Passage, and hearing Voices in my +_Father's_ Chamber, just as my Hand was on the Latch; and my +withdrawing my Hand, and going softlie away, though I never paused at +disturbing him before; and, after I had beene a full Houre in the +Stille Room, turning over ever soe manie Trays full of dried Herbs and +Flower-leaves, hearing him come forthe and call, "_Moll_, deare _Moll_, +where are you?" with I know not what of strange in the Tone of his +Voice; and my running to him hastilie, and his drawing me into his +Chamber, and closing the Doore. Then he takes me round the Waiste, and +remains quite silent awhile; I gazing on him so strangelie! and at +length, he says with a Kind of Sigh, "Thou art indeed but young yet! +scarce seventeen,--and fresh, as Mr. _Milton_ says, as the earlie May; +too tender, forsooth, to leave us yet, sweet Child! But what wilt say, +_Moll_, when I tell thee that a well-esteemed Gentleman, whom as yet +indeed I know too little of, hath craved of me Access to the House as +one that woulde win your Favour?" + +Thereupon, such a suddain Faintness of the Spiritts overtooke me, (a +Thing I am noe way subject to,) as that I fell down in a Swound at +_Father's_ Feet; and when I came to myselfe again, my Hands and Feet +seemed full of Prickles, and there was a Humming, as of _Rose's_ Bees, +in mine Ears. _Lettice_ and _Margery_ were tending of me, and _Father_ +watching me full of Care; but soe soone as he saw me open mine Eyes, he +bade the Maids stand aside, and sayd, stooping over me, "Enough, dear +_Moll_; we will talk noe more of this at present." "Onlie just tell +me," quoth I, in a Whisper, "who it is." "Guesse," sayd he. "I +cannot," I softlie replied, and, with the Lie, came such a Rush of +Blood to my Cheeks as betraied me. "I am sure you have though," sayd +deare _Father_, gravelie, "and I neede not say it is Mr. _Milton_, of +whome I know little more than you doe, and that is not enough. On the +other Hand, _Roger Agnew_ sayth that he is one of whome we can never +know too much, and there is somewhat about him which inclines me to +believe it." "What will _Mother_ say?" interrupted I. Thereat +_Father's_ Countenance changed; and he hastilie answered, "Whatever she +likes: I have an Answer for her, and a Question too;" and abruptlie +left me, bidding me keepe myselfe quiet. + +But can I? Oh, no! _Father_ hath sett a Stone rolling, unwitting of +its Course. It hath prostrated me in the first Instance, and will, I +misdoubt, hurt my _Mother_. _Father_ is bold enow in her Absence, but +when she comes back will leave me to face her Anger alone; or else, +make such a Stir to shew that he is not governed by a Woman, as wille +make Things worse. Meanwhile, how woulde I have them? Am I most +pleased or payned? dismayed or flattered? Indeed, I know not. + +. . . I am soe sorry to have swooned. Needed I have done it, merelie +to heare there was one who soughte my Favour? Aye, but one soe wise! +so thoughtfulle! so unlike me! + + + +Bedtime: same Daye. + +. . . Who knoweth what a Daye will bring forth? After writing the +above, I sate like one stupid, ruminating on I know not what, except on +the Unlikelihood that one soe wise woulde trouble himselfe to _seeke_ +for aught and yet fail to _win_. After abiding a long Space in mine +owne Chamber, alle below seeming still, I began to wonder shoulde we +dine alone or not, and to have a hundred hot and cold Fitts of Hope and +Feare. Thought I, if Mr. _Milton_ comes, assuredlie I cannot goe down; +but yet I must; but yet I will not; but yet the best will be to conduct +myselfe as though nothing had happened; and, as he seems to have left +the House long ago, maybe he hath returned to _Sheepscote_, or even to +_London_. Oh that _London_! Shall I indeede ever see it? and the rare +Shops, and the Play-houses, and _Paul's_, and the _Towre_? But what +and if that ever comes to pass? Must I leave Home? dear _Forest Hill_? +and _Father_ and _Mother_, and the Boys? more especiallie _Robin_? Ah! +but _Father_ will give me a long Time to think of it. He will, and +must. + +Then Dinner-time came; and, with Dinner-time, Uncle _Hewlett_ and +_Ralph_, Squire _Paice_ and Mr. _Milton_. We had a huge Sirloin, soe +no Feare of short Commons. I was not ill pleased to see soe manie: it +gave me an Excuse for holding my Peace, but I coulde have wished for +another Woman. However, _Father_ never thinks of that, and _Mother_ +will soone be Home. After Dinner the elder Men went to the +Bowling-greene with _Dick_ and _Ralph_; the Boys to the Fish-ponds; +and, or ever I was aware, Mr. _Milton_ was walking with me on the +Terrace. My Dreame came soe forcibly to Mind, that my Heart seemed to +leap into my Mouth; but he kept away from the Fish-ponds, and from +Leave-taking, and from his morning Discourse with my _Father_,--at +least for awhile; but some Way he got round to it, and sayd soe much, +and soe well, that, after alle my _Father's_ bidding me keepe quiete +and take my Time, and mine owne Resolution to think much and long, he +never rested till he had changed the whole Appearance of Things, and +made me promise to be his, wholly and trulie.--And oh! I feare I have +been too quickly wonne! + + + +_May 23d, 1643_. + +_May 23d_. At leaste, so sayeth the Calendar; but with me it hath +beene trulie an _April_ Daye, alle Smiles and Teares. And now my +Spiritts are soe perturbed and dismaid, as that I know not whether to +weepe or no, for methinks crying would relieve me. At first waking +this Morning my Mind was elated at the Falsitie of my _Mother's_ +Notion, that no Man of Sense woulde think me worth the having; and soe +I got up too proude, I think, and came down too vain, for I had spent +an unusuall Time at the Glasse. My Spiritts, alsoe, were soe unequall, +that the Boys took Notice of it, and it seemed as though I coulde +breathe nowhere but out of Doors; so the Children and I had a rare Game +of Play in the Home-close; but ever and anon I kept looking towards the +Road and listening for Horses' Feet, till _Robin_ sayd, "One would +think the King was coming:" but at last came Mr. _Milton_, quite +another Way, walking through the Fields with huge Strides. _Kate_ saw +him firste, and tolde me; and then sayd, "What makes you look soe pale?" + +We sate a good Space under the Hawthorn Hedge on the Brow of the Hill, +listening to the Mower's Scythe, and the Song of Birds, which seemed +enough for him, without talking; and as he spake not, I helde my Peace, +till, with the Sun in my Eyes, I was like to drop asleep; which, as his +own Face was _from_ me, and towards the Landskip, he noted not. I was +just aiming, for Mirthe's Sake, to steale away, when he suddainlie +turned about and fell to speaking of rurall Life, Happinesse, Heaven, +and such like, in a Kind of Rapture; then, with his Elbow half raising +him from the Grass, lay looking at me; then commenced humming or +singing I know not what Strayn, but 'twas of '_begli Occhi_' and +'_Chioma aurata_;' and he kept smiling the while he sang. + +After a time we went In-doors; and then came my firste Pang: for +_Father_ founde out how I had pledged myselfe overnighte; and for a +Moment looked soe grave, that my Heart misgave me for having beene soe +hastie. However, it soone passed off; deare _Father's_ Countenance +cleared, and he even seemed merrie at Table; and soon after Dinner alle +the Party dispersed save Mr. _Milton_, who loitered with me on the +Terrace. After a short Silence he exclaimed, "How good is our God to +us in alle his Gifts! For Instance, in this Gift of _Love_, whereby +had he withdrawn from visible Nature a thousand of its glorious +Features and gay Colourings, we shoulde stille possess, _from within_, +the Means of throwing over her clouded Face an entirelie different Hue! +while as it is, what was pleasing before now pleaseth more than ever! +Is it not soe, sweet _Moll_? May I express thy Feelings as well as +mine own, unblamed? or am I too adventurous? You are silent; well, +then, let me believe that we think alike, and that the Emotions of the +few laste Hours have given such an Impulse to alle that is high, and +sweete, and deepe, and pure, and holy in our innermoste Hearts, as that +we seeme now onlie firste to taste the _Life of Life_, and to perceive +how much nearer Earth is to Heaven than we thought! Is it soe? Is it +not soe?" and I was constrayned to say, "Yes," at I scarcelie knew +what; grudginglie too, for I feared having once alreadie sayd "Yes" too +soone. But he saw nought amisse, for he was expecting nought amisse; +soe went on, most like Truth and Love that Lookes could speake or Words +founde: "Oh, I know it, I feel it:--henceforthe there is a Life +reserved for us in which Angels may sympathize. For this most +excellent Gift of Love shall enable us to read together the whole Booke +of Sanctity and Virtue, and emulate eache other in carrying it into +Practice; and as the wise _Magians_ kept theire Eyes steadfastlie fixed +on the Star, and followed it righte on, through rough and smoothe, soe +we, with this bright Beacon, which indeed is set on Fire of Heaven, +shall pass on through the peacefull Studdies, surmounted Adversities, +and victorious Agonies of Life, ever looking steadfastlie up!" + +Alle this, and much more, as tedious to heare as to write, did I listen +to, firste with flagging Attention, next with concealed +Wearinesse;--and as Wearinesse, if indulged, never _is_ long concealed, +it soe chanced, by Ill-luck, that Mr. _Milton_, suddainlie turning his +Eyes from Heaven upon poor me, caughte, I can scarcelie expresse how +slighte, an Indication of Discomforte in my Face; and instantlie a +Cloud crossed his owne, though as thin as that through which the Sun +shines while it floats over him. Oh, 'twas not of a Moment! and yet +_in that Moment_ we seemed eache to have seene the other, though but at +a Glance, under new Circumstances:--as though two Persons at a +Masquerade had just removed their Masques and put them on agayn. This +gave me my seconde Pang:--I felt I had given him Payn; and though he +made as though he forgot it directly, and I tooke Payns to make him +forget it, I coulde never be quite sure whether he had. + +. . . My Spiritts were soe dashed by this, and by learning his Age to +be soe much more than I had deemed it, (for he is thirty-five! who +coulde have thoughte it?) that I had, thenceforthe, the Aire of being +much more discreete and pensive than belongeth to my Nature; whereby he +was, perhaps, well pleased. As I became more grave he became more gay; +soe that we met eache other, as it were, half-way, and became righte +pleasant. If his Countenance were comely before, it is quite heavenlie +now; and yet I question whether my Love increaseth as rapidlie as my +Feare. Surelie my Folly will prove as distastefull to him, as his +overmuch Wisdom to me. The Dread of it hath alarmed me alreadie. What +has become, even now, of alle my gay Visions of Marriage, and _London_, +and the Play-houses, and the _Touire_? They have faded away thus +earlie, and in their Place comes a Foreboding of I can scarce say what. +I am as if a Child, receiving frome some olde Fairy the Gift of what +seemed a fayre Doll's House, shoulde hastilie open the Doore thereof, +and starte back at beholding nought within but a huge Cavern, deepe, +high, and vaste; in parte glittering with glorious Chrystals, and the +Rest hidden in obscure Darknesse. + + + +_May 24th, 1643_. + +Deare _Rose_ came this Morning. I flew forthe to welcome her, and as I +drew near, she lookt upon me with such a Kind of Awe as that I could +not forbeare laughing. Mr. _Milton_ having slept at _Sheepscote_, had +made her privy to our Engagement; for indeede, he and Mr. _Agnew_ are +such Friends, he will keep nothing from him. Thus _Rose_ heares it +before my owne Mother, which shoulde not be. When we had entered my +Chamber, she embraced me once and agayn, and seemed to think soe much +of my uncommon Fortune, that I beganne to think more of it myselfe. To +heare her talke of Mr. _Milton_ one would have supposed her more in +Love with him than I. Like a Bookworm as she is, she fell to praysing +his Composures. "Oh, the leaste I care for in him is his Versing," +quoth I; and from that Moment a Spiritt of Mischief tooke Possession of +me, to do a thousand heedlesse, ridiculous Things throughoute the Day, +to shew _Rose_ how little I set by the Opinion of soe wise a Man. Once +or twice Mr. _Milton_ lookt earnestlie and questioninglie at me, but I +heeded him not. + +. . . Discourse at Table graver and less pleasant, methoughte, than +heretofore. Mr. _Busire_ having dropt in, was avised to ask Mr. +_Milton_ why, having had an university Education, he had not entered +the Church. He replied, drylie enough, because he woulde not subscribe +himselfe _Slave_ to anie Formularies of Men's making. I saw _Father_ +bite his Lip; and _Roger Agnew_ mildly observed, he thought him wrong; +for that it was not for an Individual to make Rules for another +Individual, but yet that the generall Voice of the Wise and Good, +removed from the pettie Prejudices of private Feeling, mighte pronounce +authoritativelie wherein an Individual was righte or wrong, and frame +Laws to keepe him in the righte Path. Mr. _Milton_ replyed, that manie +Fallibles could no more make up an Infallible than manie Finites could +make an Infinite. Mr. _Agnew_ rejoyned, that ne'erthelesse, an +Individual who opposed himselfe agaynst the generall Current of the +Wise and Good, was, leaste of alle, likelie to be in the Right; and +that the Limitations of human Intellect which made the Judgment of +manie wise Men liable to Question, certainlie made the Judgment of +_anie_ wise Man, self-dependent, more questionable still. Mr. _Milton_ +shortlie replied that there were Particulars in the required Oaths +which made him unable to take them without Perjurie. And soe, an End: +but 'twas worth a World to see _Rose_ looking soe anxiouslie from the +one Speaker to the other, desirous that eache should be victorious; and +I was sorry that it lasted not a little longer. + +As _Rose_ and I tooke our Way to the Summer-house, she put her Arm +round me, saying, "How charming is divine Philosophie!" I coulde not +helpe asking if she did not meane how charming was the Philosophie of +one particular Divine? Soe then she discoursed with me of Things more +seemlie for Women than Philosophie or Divinitie either. Onlie, when +Mr. _Agnew_ and Mr. _Milton_ joyned us, she woulde aske them to repeat +one Piece of Poetry after another, beginning with _Carew's_-- + + "He who loves a rosie Cheeke, + Or a coral Lip admires,--" + +And crying at the End of eache, "Is not that lovely? Is not that +divine?" I franklie sayd I liked none of them soe much as some Mr. +_Agnew_ had recited, concluding with-- + + "Mortals that would, follow me, + Love Virtue: she alone is free." + +Whereon Mr. _Milton_ surprised me with a suddain Kiss, to the +immoderate Mirthe of _Rose_, who sayd I coulde not have looked more +discomposed had he pretended he was the Author of those Verses. I +afterwards found he _was_; but I think she laught more than there was +neede. + +We have ever been considered a sufficientlie religious Familie: that +is, we goe regularly to Church on Sabbaths and Prayer-dayes, and keepe +alle the Fasts and Festivalles. But Mr. _Milton's_ Devotion hath +attayned a Pitch I can neither imitate nor even comprehende. The +spirituall World seemeth to him not onlie reall, but I may almoste say +visible. For instance, he told _Rose_, it appears, that on _Tuesday_ +Nighte, (that is the same Evening I had promised to be his,) as he went +homewards to his Farm-lodging, he fancied the Angels whisperinge in his +Eares, and singing over his Head, and that instead of going to his Bed +like a reasonable Being, he lay down on the Grass, and gazed on the +sweete, pale Moon till she sett, and then on the bright Starres till he +seemed to see them moving in a slowe, solemn Dance, to the Words, "_How +glorious is our God!_" And alle about him, he said, he _knew_, tho' he +coulde not see them, were spirituall Beings repairing the Ravages of +the Day on the Flowers, amonge the Trees, and Grasse, and Hedges; and +he believed 'twas onlie the Filme that originall Sin had spread over +his Eyes, that prevented his seeing them. I am thankful for this same +Filme,--I cannot abide Fairies, and Witches, and Ghosts--ugh! I +shudder even to write of them; and were it onlie of the more harmlesse +Sort, one woulde never have the Comforte of thinkinge to be alone. I +feare Churchyardes and dark Corners of alle Kinds; more especiallie +Spiritts; and there is onlie one I would even wish to see at my +bravest, when deepe Love casteth out Feare; and that is of Sister +_Anne_, whome I never associate with the Worme and Winding-sheete. Oh +no! I think _she_, at leaste, dwells amonge the Starres, having sprung +straite up into Lighte and Blisse the Moment she put off Mortalitie; +and if she, why not others? Are _Adam_ and _Abraham_ alle these Yeares +in the unconscious Tomb? Theire Bodies, but surelie not their +Spiritts? else, why dothe _Christ_ speak of _Lazarus_ lying in +_Abraham's_ Bosom, while the Brothers of _Dives_ are yet riotouslie +living? Yet what becomes of the Daye of generall Judgment, if some be +thus pre-judged? I must aske Mr. _Milton,--_yes, I thinke I can finde +it in my Heart to aske him about this in some solemn, stille Hour, and +perhaps he will sett at Rest manie Doubts and Misgivings that at +sundrie Times trouble me; being soe wise a Man. + + + +_Bedtime_. + +. . . Glad to steale away from the noisie Companie in the Supper-roome, +(comprising some of _Father's_ Fellow-magistrates,) I went down with +_Robin_ and _Kate_ to the Fish-ponds; it was scarce Sunset: and there, +while we threw Crumbs to the Fish and watched them come to the Surface, +were followed, or ever we were aware, by Mr. _Milton_, who sate down on +the stone Seat, drew _Robin_ between his Knees, stroked his Haire, and +askt what we were talking about. _Robin_ sayd I had beene telling them +a fairie Story; and Mr. _Milton_ observed that was an infinite +Improvement on the jangling, puzzle-headed Prating of Country Justices, +and wished I woulde tell it agayn. But I was afrayd. But _Robin_ had +no Feares; soe tolde the Tale roundlie; onlie he forgot the End. Soe +he found his Way backe to the Middle, and seemed likelie to make it +last alle Night; onlie Mr. _Milton_ sayd he seemed to have got into the +Labyrinth of _Crete_, and he must for Pitie's Sake give him the Clew. +Soe he finished _Robin's_ Story, and then tolde another, a most lovelie +one, of Ladies, and Princes, and Enchanters, and a brazen Horse, and he +sayd the End of _that_ Tale had been cut off too, by Reason the Writer +had died before he finished it. But _Robin_ cryed, "Oh! finish this +too," and hugged and kist him; soe he did; and methoughte the End was +better than the Beginninge. Then he sayd, "Now, sweet _Moll_, you have +onlie spoken this Hour past, by your Eyes; and we must heare your +pleasant Voice." "An Hour?" cries _Robin_. "Where are alle the red +Clouds gone, then?" quoth Mr. _Milton_, "and what Business hathe the +Moon yonder?" "Then we must go Indoors," quoth I. But they cried +"No," and _Robin_ helde me fast, and Mr. Milton sayd I might know even +by the distant Sounds of ill-governed Merriment that we were winding up +the Week's Accounts of Joy and Care more consistentlie where we were +than we coulde doe in the House. And indeede just then I hearde my +_Father's_ Voice swelling a noisie Chorus; and hoping Mr. _Milton_ did +not distinguish it, I askt him if he loved Musick. He answered, soe +much that it was Miserie for him to hear anie that was not of the +beste. I secretlie resolved he should never heare mine. He added, he +was come of a musicalle Familie, and that his Father not onlie sang +well, but played finely on the Viol and Organ. Then he spake of the +sweet Musick in _Italy_, until I longed to be there; but I tolde him +nothing in its Way ever pleased me more than to heare the Choristers of +_Magdalen_ College usher in _May_ Day by chaunting a Hymn at the Top of +the Church Towre. Discoursing of this and that, we thus sate a good +While ere we returned to the House. + +. . . Coming out of Church he woulde shun the common Field, where the +Villagery led up theire Sports, saying, he deemed Quoit-playing and the +like to be unsuitable Recreations on a Daye whereupon the _Lord_ had +restricted us from speakinge our own Words, and thinking our own (that +is, secular) Thoughts: and that he believed the Law of _God_ in this +Particular woulde soone be the Law of the Land, for Parliament woulde +shortlie put down _Sunday_ Sports. I askt, "What, the _King's_ +Parliament at _Oxford_?" He answered, "No; _the Country's_ Parliament +at _Westminster_." I sayd, I was sorrie, for manie poore hard-working +Men had no other Holiday. He sayd, another Holiday woulde be given +them; and that whether or no, we must not connive at Evil, which we doe +in permitting an _holy Daye_ to sink into a Holiday. I sayd, but was +it not the _Jewish_ Law, which had made such Restrictions? He sayd, +yes, but that _Christ_ came not to destroy the moral Law, of which +Sabbath-keeping was a Part, and that even its naturall Fitnesse for the +bodily Welfare of Man and Beast was such as no wise Legislator would +abolish or abuse it, even had he no Consideration for our spiritual and +immortal Part: and that 'twas a well-known Fact that Beasts of Burthen, +which had not one Daye of Rest in seven, did lesse Worke in the End. +As for oure Soules, he sayd, they required theire spiritual Meales as +much as our Bodies required theires; and even poore, rusticall Clownes +who coulde not reade, mighte nourish their better Parts by an holie +Pause, and by looking within them, and around them, and above them. I +felt inclined to tell him that long Sermons alwaies seemed to make me +love _God_ less insteade of more, but woulde not, fearing he mighte +take it that I meant _he_ had been giving me one. + + + +_Monday_. + +_Mother_ hath returned! The Moment I hearde her Voice I fell to +trembling. At the same Moment I hearde _Robin_ cry, "Oh, _Mother_, I +have broken the greene Beaker!" which betraied Apprehension in another +Quarter. However, she quite mildlie replied, "Ah, I knew the Handle +was loose," and then kist me with soe great Affection that I felt quite +easie. She had beene withhelde by a troublesome Colde from returning +at the appointed Time, and cared not to write. 'Twas just Supper-time, +and there were the Children to kiss and to give theire Bread and Milk, +and _Bill's_ Letter to reade; soe that nothing particular was sayd till +the younger Ones were gone to Bed, and _Father_ and _Mother_ were +taking some Wine and Toast. Then says _Father_, "Well, Wife, have you +got the five hundred Pounds?" "No," she answers, rather carelesslie. +"I tolde you how 'twoulde be," says _Father_; "you mighte as well have +stayed at Home." "Really, Mr. _Powell,"_ says _Mother_, "soe seldom as +I stir from my owne Chimney-corner, you neede not to grudge me, I +think, a few Dayes among our mutuall Relatives." "I shall goe to +Gaol," says _Father_. "Nonsense," says _Mother_; "to Gaol indeed!" +"Well, then, who is to keepe me from it?" says _Father_, laughing. "I +will answer for it, Mr. _Milton_ will wait a little longer for his +Money," says _Mother_, "he is an honourable Man, I suppose." "I wish +he may thinke me one," says _Father_; "and as to a little longer, what +is the goode of waiting for what is as unlikelie to come eventuallie as +now?" "You must answer that for yourselfe," says _Mother_, looking +wearie: "I have done what I can, and can doe no more." "Well, then, +'tis lucky Matters stand as they do," says _Father_. "Mr. _Milton_ has +been much here in your Absence, my Dear, and has taken a Liking to our +_Moll_; soe, believing him, as you say, to be an honourable Man, I have +promised he shall have her." "Nonsense," cries _Mother_, turning red +and then pale. "Never farther from Nonsense," says _Father_, "for 'tis +to be, and by the Ende of the Month too." "You are bantering me, Mr. +_Powell_," says _Mother_. "How can you suppose soe, my Deare?" says +_Father_, "you doe me Injustice." "Why, _Moll_!" cries _Mother_, +turning sharplie towards me, as I sate mute and fearfulle, "what is +alle this, Child? You cannot, you dare not think of wedding this +round-headed Puritan." "Not round-headed," sayd I, trembling; "his +Haire is as long and curled as mine." "Don't bandy Words with me, +Girl," says _Mother_ passionatelie, "see how unfit you are to have a +House of your owne, who cannot be left in Charge of your _Father's_ for +a Fortnighte, without falling into Mischiefe!" "I won't have _Moll_ +chidden in that Way," says _Father_, "she has fallen into noe +Mischiefe, and has beene a discreete and dutifull Child." "Then it has +beene alle your doing," says _Mother_, "and you have forced the Child +into this Match." "Noe Forcing whatever," says _Father_, "they like +one another, and I am very glad of it, for it happens to be very +convenient." "Convenient, indeed," repeats _Mother_, and falls a +weeping. Thereon I must needs weepe too, but she says, "Begone to Bed; +there is noe Neede that you shoulde sit by to heare your owne _Father_ +confesse what a Fool he has beene." + +To my Bedroom I have come, but cannot yet seek my Bed; the more as I +still heare theire Voices in Contention below. + + + +_Tuesday_. + +This Morninge's Breakfaste was moste uncomfortable, I feeling like a +checkt Child, scarce minding to looke up or to eat. _Mother_, with +Eyes red and swollen, scarce speaking save to the Children; _Father_ +directing his Discourse chieflie to _Dick_, concerning Farm Matters and +the Rangership of _Shotover_, tho' 'twas easie to see his Mind was not +with them. Soe soone as alle had dispersed to theire customed Taskes, +and I was loitering at the Window, _Father_ calls aloud to me from his +Studdy. Thither I go, and find him and _Mother_, she sitting with her +Back to both. "_Moll_," says _Father_, with great Determination, "you +have accepted Mr. _Milton_ to please yourself, you will marry him out +of hand to please me." "Spare me, spare me, Mr. _Powell_," interrupts +_Mother_, "if the Engagement may not be broken off, at the least +precipitate it not with this indecent haste. Postpone it till----" +"Till when?" says _Father_. "Till the Child is olde enough to know her +owne Mind." "That is, to put off an honourable Man on false +Pretences," says _Father_, "she is olde enough to know it alreadie. +Speake, _Moll_, are you of your _Mother's_ Mind to give up Mr. _Milton_ +altogether?" I trembled, but sayd, "No." "Then, as his Time is +precious, and he knows not when he may leave his Home agayn, I save you +the Trouble, Child, of naming a Day, for it shall be the _Monday_ +before _Whitsuntide_." Thereat _Mother_ gave a Kind of Groan; but as +for me, I had like to have fallen on the Ground, for I had had noe +Thought of suche Haste. "See what you are doing, Mr. _Powell_," says +_Mother_, compassionating me, and raising me up, though somewhat +roughlie; "I prophecie Evil of this Match." "Prophets of Evil are sure +to find Listeners," says _Father_, "but I am not one of them;" and soe +left the Room. Thereon my _Mother_, who alwaies feares him when he has +a Fit of Determination, loosed the Bounds of her Passion, and chid me +so unkindlie, that, humbled and mortified, I was glad to seeke my +Chamber. + +. . . Entering the Dining-room, however, I uttered a Shriek on seeing +_Father_ fallen back in his Chair, as though in a Fit, like unto that +which terrified us a Year ago; and _Mother_ hearing me call out, ran +in, loosed his Collar, and soone broughte him to himselfe, tho' not +without much Alarm to alle. He made light of it himselfe, and sayd +'twas merelie a suddain Rush of Blood to the Head, and woulde not be +dissuaded from going out; but _Mother_ was playnly smote at the Heart, +and having lookt after him with some anxietie, exclaimed, "I shall +neither meddle nor make more in this Businesse: your _Father's_ suddain +Seizures shall never be layd at my Doore;" and soe left me, till we met +at Dinner. After the Cloth was drawne, enters Mr. _Milton_, who goes +up to _Mother_, and with Gracefulnesse kisses her Hand; but she +withdrewe it pettishly, and tooke up her Sewing, on the which he lookt +at her wonderingly, and then at me; then at her agayne, as though he +woulde reade her whole Character in her Face; which having seemed to +doe, and to write the same in some private Page of his Heart, he never +troubled her or himself with further Comment, but tooke up Matters just +where he had left them last. Ere we parted we had some private +Conference touching our Marriage, for hastening which he had soe much +to say that I coulde not long contend with him, especiallie as I founde +he had plainlie made out that _Mother_ loved him not. + + + +_Wednesday_. + +House full of Companie, leaving noe Time to write nor think. _Mother_ +sayth, tho' she cannot forbode an happie Marriage, she will provide for +a merrie Wedding, and hathe growne more than commonlie tender to me, +and given me some Trinkets, a Piece of fine _Holland_ Cloth, and +enoughe of green Sattin for a Gown, that will stand on End with its +owne Richnesse. She hathe me constantlie with her in the Kitchen, +Pastrie, and Store-room, telling me 'tis needfulle I shoulde improve in +Housewiferie, seeing I shall soe soone have a Home of my owne. + +But I think _Mother_ knows not, and I am afeard to tell her, that Mr. +_Milton_ hath no House of his owne to carry me to, but onlie Lodgings, +which have well suited his Bachelor State, but may not, 'tis likelie, +beseeme a Lady to live in. He deems so himself, and sayeth we will +look out for an hired House together, at our Leisure. Alle this he +hath sayd to me in an Undertone, in _Mother's_ Presence, she sewing at +the Table and we sitting in the Window; and 'tis difficult to tell how +much she hears, she for will aske no Questions, and make noe Comments, +onlie compresses her Lips, which makes me think she knows. + +The Children are in turbulent Spiritts; but _Robin_ hath done nought +but mope and make Moan since he learnt he must soe soone lose me. A +Thought hath struck me,--Mr. _Milton_ educates his Sister's Sons; two +Lads of about _Robin's_ Age. What if he woulde consent to take my +Brother under his Charge? perhaps _Father_ woulde be willing. + + + +_Saturday_. + +Last Visitt to _Sheepscote,--_at leaste, as _Mary Powell_; but kind +_Rose_ and _Roger Agnew_ will give us the Use of it for a Week on our +Marriage, and spend the Time with dear _Father_ and _Mother_, who will +neede their Kindnesse. _Rose_ and I walked long aboute the Garden, her +Arm round my Neck; and she was avised to say, + + "Cloth of Frieze, be not too bold, + Tho' thou be matcht with Cloth of Gold,--" + +And then craved my Pardon for soe unmannerly a Rhyme, which indeede, +methoughte, needed an Excuse, but exprest a Feare that I knew not (what +she called) my high Destiny, and prayed me not to trifle with Mr. +_Milton's_ Feelings nor in his Sighte, as I had done the Daye she dined +at _Forest Hill_. I laught, and sayd, he must take me as he found me: +he was going to marry _Mary Powell_, not the _Wise Widow of Tekoah_. +_Rose_ lookt wistfullie, but I bade her take Heart, for I doubted not +we shoulde content eache the other; and for the Rest, her Advice +shoulde not be forgotten. Thereat, she was pacyfied. + + + +_May 22d, 1643_. + +Alle Bustle and Confusion,--slaying of Poultrie, making of Pastrie, +etc. People coming and going, prest to dine and to sup, and refuse, +and then stay, the colde Meats and Wines ever on the Table; and in the +Evening, the Rebecks and Recorders sent for that we may dance in the +Hall. My Spiritts have been most unequall; and this Evening I was +overtaken with a suddain Faintnesse, such as I never but once before +experienced. They would let me dance no more; and I was quite tired +enoughe to be glad to sit aparte with Mr. _Milton_ neare the Doore, +with the Moon shining on us; untill at length he drew me out into the +Garden. He spake of Happinesse and Home, and Hearts knit in Love, and +of heavenlie Espousals, and of Man being the Head of the Woman, and of +our _Lord's_ Marriage with the Church, and of white Robes, and the +Bridegroom coming in Clouds of Glory, and of the Voices of singing Men +and singing Women, and eternall Spring, and eternall Blisse, and much +that I cannot call to Mind, and other-much that I coulde not +comprehende, but which was in mine ears as the Song of Birds, or +Falling of Waters. + + + +_May 23d, 1643_. + + +_Rose_ hath come, and hath kindlie offered to help pack the Trunks, +(which are to be sent off by the Waggon to _London_,) that I may have +the more Time to devote to Mr. _Milton_. Nay, but he will soon have +all my Time devoted to himself, and I would as lief spend what little +remains in mine accustomed Haunts, after mine accustomed Fashion. I +had purposed a Ride on _Clover_ this Morning, with _Robin_; but the +poor Boy must I trow be disappointed. + +----And for what? Oh me! I have hearde such a long Sermon on +Marriage-duty and Service, that I am faine to sit down and weepe. But +no, I must not, for they are waiting for me in the Hall, and the Guests +are come and the Musick is tuning, and my Lookes must not betray +me.--And now farewell, _Journall_; for _Rose_, who first bade me keepe +you (little deeming after what Fashion), will not pack you up, and I +will not close you with a heavie Strayn. _Robin_ is calling me beneath +the Window,--_Father_ is sitting in the Shade, under the old Pear-tree, +seemingly in gay Discourse with Mr. _Milton_. To-morrow the +Village-bells will ring for the Marriage of + +MARY POWELL. + + + +_London, + Mr. Russell's, Taylor, + Bride's Churchyard_. + +Oh Heaven! is this my new Home? my Heart sinkes alreadie. After the +swete fresh Ayre of _Sheepscote_, and the Cleanliness, and the Quiet +and the pleasant Smells, Sightes, and Soundes, alle whereof Mr. +_Milton_ enjoyed to the Full as keenlie as I, saying they minded him of +_Paradise,--_how woulde _Rose_ pitie me, could she view me in this +close Chamber, the Floor whereof of dark, uneven Boards, must have +beene layd, methinks, three hundred Years ago; the oaken Pannells, +utterlie destitute of Polish and with sundrie Chinks; the Bed with dull +brown Hangings, lined with as dull a greene, occupying Half the Space; +and Half the Remainder being filled with dustie Books, whereof there +are Store alsoe in every other Place. This Mirror, I should thinke, +belonged to faire _Rosamond_. And this Arm-chair to King _Lew_. Over +the Chimnie hangs a ruefull Portrait,--maybe of _Grotius_, but I +shoulde sooner deeme it of some Worthie before the Flood. Onlie one +Quarter of the Casement will open, and that upon a Prospect, oh +dolefulle! of the Churchyarde! Mr. _Milton_ had need be as blythe as +he was all the Time we were at _Sheepscote_, or I shall be buried in +that same Churchyarde within the Twelvemonth. 'Tis well he has stepped +out to see a Friend, that I may in his Absence get ridd of this Fit of +the Dismalls. I wish it may be the last. What would _Mother_ say to +his bringing me to such a Home as this? I will not think. Soe this is +_London_! How diverse from the "towred Citie" of my Husband's versing! +and of his Prose too; for as he spake, by the way, of the Disorders of +our Time, which extend even into eache domestick Circle, he sayd that +alle must, for a While, appear confused to our imperfect View, just as +a mightie Citie unto a Stranger who shoulde beholde around him huge, +unfinished Fabrics, the Plan whereof he could but imperfectlie make +out, amid the Builders' disorderlie Apparatus; but that, _from afar_, +we mighte perceive glorious Results from party Contentions,--Freedom +springing up from Oppression, Intelligence succeeding Ignorance, Order +following Disorder, just as that same Traveller looking at the Citie +from a distant Height, should beholde Towres, and Spires glistering +with Gold and Marble, Streets stretching in lessening Perspectives, and +Bridges flinging their white Arches over noble Rivers. But what of +this saw we all along the _Oxford_ Road? Firstlie, there was noe +commanding Height; second, there was the Citie obscured by a drizzling +Rain; the Ways were foul, the Faces of those we mett spake less of +Pleasure than Business, and Bells were tolling, but none ringing. Mr. +_Milton's_ Father, a grey-haired, kind old Man, was here to give us +welcome: and his firste Words were, "Why, _John_, thou hast stolen a +March on us. Soe quickly, too, and soe snug! but she is faire enoughe, +Man, to excuse thee, Royalist or noe." + +And soe, taking me in his Arms, kist me franklie.--But I heare my +Husband's Voice, and another with it. + + + +_Thursday_. + +'Twas a Mr. _Lawrence_ whom my Husband brought Home last Nighte to sup; +and the Evening passed righte pleasantlie, with News, Jestes, and a +little Musicke. Todaye hath been kindlie devoted by Mr. _Milton_ to +shewing me Sights:--and oh! the strange, diverting Cries in the +Streets, even from earlie Dawn! "New Milk and Curds from the +Dairie!"--"Olde Shoes for some Brooms!"--"Anie Kitchen-stuffe, have +you, Maids?"--"Come buy my greene Herbes!"--and then in the Streets, +here a Man preaching, there another juggling: here a Boy with an Ape, +there a Show of _Nineveh_: next the News from the North; and as for the +China Shops and Drapers in the _Strand_, and the Cook's Shops in +_Westminster_, with the smoking Ribs of Beef and fresh Salads set out +on Tables in the Street, and Men in white Aprons crying out, "Calf's +Liver, Tripe, and hot Sheep's Feet"--'twas enoughe to make One +untimelie hungrie,--or take One's Appetite away, as the Case might be. +Mr. _Milton_ shewed me the noble Minster, with King _Harry_ Seventh's +Chapel adjoining; and pointed out the old House where _Ben Jonson_ +died. Neare the _Broade Sanctuarie_, we fell in with a slighte, +dark-complexioned young Gentleman of two or three and twenty, whome my +Husband espying cryed, "What, _Marvell_!" the other comically +answering, "What Marvel?" and then, handsomlie saluting me and +complimenting Mr. _Milton_, much lighte and pleasant Discourse ensued; +and finding we were aboute to take Boat, he volunteered to goe with us +on the River. After manie Hours' Exercise, I have come Home fatigued, +yet well pleased. Mr. _Marvell_ sups with us. + + + +_Friday_. + +I wish I could note down a Tithe of the pleasant Things that were sayd +last Nighte. First, olde Mr. _Milton_ having slept out with his +Son,--I called in _Rachael_, the younger of Mr. _Russel's_ +Serving-maids, (for we have none of our owne as yet, which tends to +much Discomfiture,) and, with her Aide, I dusted the Bookes and sett +them up in half the Space they had occupied; then cleared away three +large Basketfuls, of the absolutest Rubbish, torn Letters and the like, +and sent out for Flowers, (which it seemeth strange enoughe to me to +_buy_,) which gave the Chamber a gayer Aire, and soe my Husband sayd +when he came in, calling me the fayrest of them alle; and then, sitting +down with Gayety to the Organ, drew forthe from it heavenlie Sounds. +Afterwards Mr. _Marvell_ came in, and they discoursed about _Italy_, +and Mr. _Milton_ promised his Friend some Letters of Introduction to +_Jacopo Gaddi, Clementillo_, and others.-- + +After Supper, they wrote Sentences, Definitions, and the like, after a +Fashion of _Catherine de Medici_, some of which I have layd aside for +_Rose_. + + +--_To-day_ we have seene St. _Paul's_ faire Cathedral, and the School +where Mr. _Milton_ was a Scholar when a Boy; thence, to the Fields of +_Finsbury_; where are Trees and Windmills enow: a Place much frequented +for practising Archery and other manlie Exercises. + + + +_Saturday_. + +Tho' we rise betimes, olde Mr. _Milton_ is earlier stille; and I always +find him sitting at his Table beside the Window (by Reason of the +Chamber being soe dark,) sorting I know not how manie Bundles of Papers +tied with red Tape; eache so like the other that I marvel how he knows +them aparte. This Morning, I found the poore old Gentleman in sad +Distress at missing a Manuscript Song of Mr. _Henry Lawes'_, the onlie +Copy extant, which he persuaded himselfe that I must have sent down to +the Kitchen Fire Yesterday. I am convinced I dismist not a single +Paper that was not torne eache Way, as being utterlie uselesse; but as +the unluckie Song cannot be founde, he sighs and is certayn of my +Delinquence, as is _Hubert_, his owne Man; or, as he more frequentlie +calls him, his "odd Man;"--and an odd Man indeede is Mr. _Hubert_, +readie to address his Master or Master's Sonne on the merest Occasion, +without waiting to be spoken to; tho' he expecteth Others to treat them +with far more Deference than he himself payeth. + +--Dead tired, this Daye, with so much Exercise; but woulde not say soe, +because my Husband was thinking to please me by shewing me soe much. +Spiritts flagging however. These _London_ Streets wearie my Feet. We +have been over the House in _Aldersgate Street_, the Garden whereof +disappointed me, having hearde soe much of it; but 'tis far better than +none, and the House is large enough for Mr. _Milton's_ Familie and my +_Father's_ to boote. Thought how pleasant 'twould be to have them alle +aboute me next _Christmasse_; but that holie Time is noe longer kept +with Joyfullnesse in _London_. Ventured, therefore, to expresse a +Hope, we mighte spend it at _Forest Hill_; but Mr. _Milton_ sayd 'twas +unlikelie he should be able to leave Home; and askt, would I go +alone?--Constrained, for Shame, to say no; but felt, in my Heart, I +woulde jump to see _Forest Hill_ on anie Terms, I soe love alle that +dwell there. + + + +_Sunday Even_. + +Private and publick Prayer, Sermons, and Psalm-singing from Morn until +Nighte. The onlie Break hath been a Visit to a quaint but pleasing +Lady, by Name _Catherine Thompson_, whome my Husband holds in great +Reverence. She said manie Things worthy to be remembered; onlie _as_ I +remember them, I need not to write them down. Sorrie to be caughte +napping by my Husband, in the Midst of the third long Sermon. This +comes of over-walking, and of being unable to sleep o' Nights; for +whether it be the _London_ Ayre, or the _London_ Methods of making the +Beds, or the strange Noises in the Streets, I know not, but I have +scarce beene able to close my Eyes before Daybreak since I came to Town. + + + +_Monday_. + +And now beginneth a new Life; for my Husband's Pupils, who were dismist +for a Time for my Sake, returne to theire Tasks this Daye, and olde Mr. +_Milton_ giveth place to his two Grandsons, his widowed Daughter's +Children, _Edward_ and _John Phillips_, whom my Husband led in to me +just now. Two plainer Boys I never sett Eyes on; the one weak-eyed and +puny, the other prim and puritanicall--no more to be compared to our +sweet _Robin_! . . . After a few Words, they retired to theire Books; +and my Husband, taking my Hand, sayd in his kindliest Manner,--"And now +I leave my sweete _Moll_ to the pleasant Companie of her own goode and +innocent Thoughtes; and, if she needs more, here are both stringed and +keyed Instruments, and Books both of the older and modern Time, soe +that she will not find the Hours hang heavie." Methoughte how much +more I should like a Ride upon _Clover_ than all the Books that ever +were penned; for the Door no sooner closed upon Mr. _Milton_ than it +seemed as tho' he had taken alle the Sunshine with him; and I fell to +cleaning the Casement that I mighte look out the better into the +Churchyarde, and then altered Tables and Chairs, and then sate downe +with my Elbows resting on the Window-seat, and my Chin on the Palms of +my Hands, gazing on I knew not what, and feeling like a Butterflie +under a Wine-glass. + +I marvelled why it seemed soe long since I was married, and wondered +what they were doing at Home,--coulde fancy I hearde _Mother_ chiding, +and see _Charlie_ stealing into the Dairie and dipping his Finger in +the Cream, and _Kate_ feeding the Chickens, and _Dick_ taking a Stone +out of _Whitestar's_ Shoe. + +--Methought how dull it was to be passing the best Part of the Summer +out of the Reache of fresh Ayre and greene Fields, and wondered, woulde +alle my future Summers be soe spent? + +Thoughte how dull it was to live in Lodgings, where one could not even +go into the Kitchen to make a Pudding; and how dull to live in a Town, +without some young female Friend with whom one might have ventured into +the Streets, and where one could not soe much as feed Colts in a +Paddock; how dull to be without a Garden, unable soe much as to gather +a Handfulle of ripe Cherries; and how dull to looke into a Churchyarde, +where there was a Man digging a Grave! + +--When I wearied of staring at the Grave-digger, I gazed at an olde +Gentleman and a young Lady slowlie walking along, yet scarce as if I +noted them; and was thinking mostlie of _Forest Hill_, when I saw them +stop at our Doore, and presently they were shewn in, by the Name of +Doctor and Mistress _Davies_. I sent for my Husband, and entertayned +'em bothe as well as I could, till he appeared, and they were polite +and pleasant to me; the young Lady tall and slender, of a cleare brown +Skin, and with Eyes that were fine enough; onlie there was a supprest +Smile on her Lips alle the Time, as tho' she had seen me looking out of +the Window. She tried me on all Subjects, I think; for she started +them more adroitlie than I; and taking up a Book on the Window-seat, +which was the _Amadigi_ of _Bernardo Tasso_, printed alle in +_Italiques_, she sayd, if I loved Poetry, which she was sure I must, +she knew she shoulde love me. I did not tell her whether or noe. Then +we were both silent. Then Doctor _Davies_ talked vehementlie to Mr. +_Milton_ agaynst the King; and Mr. _Milton_ was not so contrarie to him +as I could have wished. Then Mistress _Davies_ tooke the Word from her +Father and beganne to talke to Mr. _Milton_ of _Tasso_, and _Dante_, +and _Boiardo_, and _Ariosto_; and then Doctor _Davies_ and I were +silent. Methoughte, they both talked well, tho' I knew so little of +their Subject-matter; onlie they complimented eache other too much. I +mean not they were insincere, for eache seemed to think highlie of the +other; onlie we neede not say alle we feele. + +To conclude, we are to sup with them to-morrow. + + + +_Wednesday_. + +_Journall_, I have Nobodie now but you, to whome to tell my little +Griefs; indeede, before I married, I know not that I had anie; and even +now, they are very small, onlie they are soe new, that sometimes my +Heart is like to burst. + +--I know not whether 'tis safe to put them alle on Paper, onlie it +relieves for the Time, and it kills Time, and perhaps, a little While +hence I may looke back and see how small they were, and how they mighte +have beene shunned, or better borne. 'Tis worth the Triall. + +--Yesterday Morn, for very Wearinesse, I looked alle over my Linen and +Mr. _Milton's_, to see could I finde anie Thing to mend; but there was +not a Stitch amiss. I woulde have played on the Spinnette, but was +afrayd he should hear my indifferent Musick. Then, as a last Resource, +I tooke a Book--_Paul Perrin's Historie of the Waldenses_;--and was, I +believe, dozing a little, when I was aware of a continuall Whispering +and Crying. I thought 'twas some Child in the Street; and, having some +Comfits in my Pocket, I stept softlie out to the House-door and lookt +forth, but no Child could I see. Coming back, the Door of my Husband's +Studdy being ajar, I was avised to look in; and saw him, with awfulle +Brow, raising his Hand in the very Act to strike the youngest +_Phillips_. I could never endure to see a Child struck, soe hastilie +cryed out "Oh, don't!"--whereon he rose, and, as if not seeing me, +gently closed the Door, and, before I reached my Chamber, I hearde soe +loud a Crying that I began to cry too. Soon, alle was quiet; and my +Husband, coming in, stept gently up to me, and putting his Arm about my +Neck, sayd, "My dearest Life, never agayn, I beseech you, interfere +between me and the Boys: 'tis as unseemlie as tho' I shoulde interfere +between you and your Maids, when you have any,--and will weaken my +Hands, dear _Moll_, more than you have anie Suspicion of." + +I replied, kissing that same offending Member as I spoke, "Poor _Jack_ +would have beene glad, just now, if I _had_ weakened them."--"But that +is not the Question," he returned, "for we shoulde alle be glad to +escape necessary Punishment; whereas, it is the Power, not the Penalty +of our bad Habits, that we shoulde seek to be delivered from."--"There +may," I sayd, "be necessary, but need not be corporal Punishment." +"That is as may be," returned he, "and hath alreadie been settled by an +Authoritie to which I submit, and partlie think you will dispute, and +that is, the Word of _God_. Pain of Body is in Realitie, or ought to +be, sooner over and more safelie borne than Pain of an ingenuous Mind; +and, as to the _Shame_,--why, as _Lorenzo de' Medici_ sayd to +_Soccini_, 'The Shame is in the Offence rather than in the Punishment.'" + +I replied, "Our _Robin_ had never beene beaten for his Studdies;" to +which he sayd with a Smile, that even I must admit _Robin_ to be noe +greate Scholar. And so in good Humour left me; but I was in no good +Humour, and hoped Heaven might never make me the Mother of a Son, for +if I should see Mr. _Milton_ strike him, I should learn to hate the +Father.-- + +Learning there was like to be Companie at Doctor _Davies'_, I was +avised to put on my brave greene Satin Gown; and my Husband sayd it +became me well, and that I onlie needed some Primroses and Cowslips in +my Lap, to look like _May_;--and somewhat he added about mine Eyes' +"clear shining after Rain," which avised me he had perceived I had +beene crying in the Morning, which I had hoped he had not. + +Arriving at the Doctor's House, we were shewn into an emptie Chamber; +at least, emptie of Companie, but full of every Thing else; for there +were Books, and Globes, and stringed and wind Instruments, and stuffed +Birds and Beasts, and Things I know not soe much as the Names of, +besides an Easel with a Painting by Mrs. _Mildred_ on it, which she +meant to be seene, or she woulde have put it away. Subject, "_Brutus's +Judgment:"_ which I thought a strange, unfeeling one for a Woman; and +did not wish to be _her_ Son. Soone she came in, drest with studdied +and puritanicall Plainnesse; in brown Taffeta, guarded with black +Velvet, which became her well enough, but was scarce suited for the +Season. She had much to say about limning, in which my Husband could +follow her better than I; and then they went to the Globes, and +_Copernicus_, and _Galileo Galilei_, whom she called a Martyr, but I do +not. For, is a Martyr one who is unwillinglie imprisoned, or who +formally recants? even tho' he affected afterwards to say 'twas _but_ a +Form, and cries, "_Eppure, si muove_?" The earlier Christians might +have sayd 'twas but a Form to burn a Handfull of Incense before +_Jove's_ Statua; _Pliny_ woulde have let them goe. + +Afterwards, when the Doctor came in and engaged my Husband in +Discourse, Mistress _Mildred_ devoted herselfe to me, and askt what +Progresse I had made with _Bernardo Tasso_. I tolde her, none at alle, +for I was equallie faultie at _Italiques_ and _Italian_, and onlie knew +his best Work thro' Mr. _Fairfax's_ Translation; whereat she fell +laughing, and sayd she begged my Forgivenesse, but I was confounding +the Father with the Sonne; then laught agayn, but pretended 'twas not +at me but at a Lady I minded her of, who never coulde remember to +distinguish betwixt _Lionardo da Vinci_ and _Lorenzo dei Medici_. That +last Name brought up the Recollection of my Morning's Debate with my +Husband, which made me feel sad; and then, Mrs. _Mildred_, seeminge +anxious to make me forget her Unmannerliness, commenced, "Can you +paint?"--"Can you sing?"--"Can you play the Lute?"--and, at the last, +"What _can_ you do?" I mighte have sayd I coulde comb out my Curls +smoother than she coulde hers, but did not. Other Guests came in, and +talked so much agaynst Prelacy and the Right divine of Kings that I +woulde fain we had remained at Astronomie and Poetry. For Supper there +was little Meat, and noe strong Drinks, onlie a thinnish foreign Wine, +with Cakes, Candies, Sweetmeats, Fruits, and Confections. Such, I +suppose, is Town Fashion. At the laste, came Musick; Mistress +_Mildred_ sang and played; then prest me to do the like, but I was soe +fearfulle, I coulde not; so my Husband sayd he woulde play for me, and +that woulde be alle one, and soe covered my Bashfullenesse handsomlie. + +Onlie this Morning, just before going to his Studdy, he stept back and +sayd, "Sweet _Moll_, I know you can both play and sing--why will you +not practise?" I replyed, I loved it not much. He rejoyned, "But you +know I love it, and is not that a Motive?" I sayd, I feared to let him +hear me, I played so ill. He replyed, "Why, that is the very Reason +you shoulde seek to play better, and I am sure you have Plenty of Time. +Perhaps, in your whole future Life, you will not have such a Season of +Leisure as you have now,--a golden Opportunity, which you will surelie +seize."--Then added, "Sir _Thomas More's_ Wife learnt to play the Lute, +solely that she mighte please her Husband." I answered, "Nay, what to +tell me of Sir _Thomas More's_ Wife, or of _Hugh Grotius's_ Wife, when +I was the Wife of _John Milton_?" He looked at me twice, and quicklie, +too, at this Saying; then laughing, cried, "You cleaving Mischief! I +hardlie know whether to take that Speech amisse or well--however, you +shall have the Benefit of the Doubt." + +And so away laughing; and I, for very Shame, sat down to the Spinnette +for two wearie Hours, till soe tired, I coulde cry; and when I +desisted, coulde hear _Jack_ wailing over his Task. 'Tis raining fast, +I cannot get out, nor should I dare to go alone, nor where to go to if +'twere fine. I fancy ill Smells from the Churchyard--'tis long to +Dinner-time, with noe Change, noe Exercise; and oh, I sigh for _Forest +Hill_. + + +--A dull Dinner with Mrs. _Phillips_, whom I like not much. +_Christopher Milton_ there, who stared hard at me, and put me out of +Countenance with his strange Questions. My Husband checked him. He is +a Lawyer, and has Wit enoughe. + +Mrs. _Phillips_ speaking of second Marriages, I unawares hurt her by +giving my Voice agaynst them. It seems she is thinking of contracting +a second Marriage. + +--At Supper, wishing to ingratiate myself with the Boys, talked to them +of Countrie Sports, etc.: to which the youngest listened greedilie; and +at length I was advised to ask them woulde they not like to see _Forest +Hill_? to which the elder replyed in his most methodicall Manner, "If +Mr. _Powell_ has a good Library." For this Piece of Hypocrisie, at +which I heartilie laught, he was commended by his Uncle. Hypocrisie it +was, for Master _Ned_ cryeth over his Taskes pretty nearlie as oft as +the youngest. + + + +_Friday_. + +To rewarde my zealous Practice to-day on the Spinnette, Mr. _Milton_ +produced a Collection of "_Ayres, and Dialogues, for one, two, and +three Voices_," by his Friend, Mr. _Harry Lawes_, which he sayd I +shoulde find very pleasant Studdy; and then he tolde me alle about +theire getting up the Masque of _Comus_ in _Ludlow_ Castle, and how +well the Lady's Song was sung by Mr. _Lawes'_ Pupil, the Lady _Alice_, +then a sweet, modest Girl, onlie thirteen Yeares of Age,--and he told +me of the Singing of a faire _Italian_ young Signora, named _Leonora +Barroni_, with her Mother and Sister, whome he had hearde at _Rome_, at +the Concerts of Cardinal _Barberini_; and how she was "as gentle and +modest as sweet _Moll_," yet not afrayed to open her Mouth, and +pronounce everie Syllable distinctlie, and with the proper Emphasis and +Passion when she sang. And after this, to my greate Contentment, he +tooke me to the _Gray's Inn Walks_, where, the Afternoon being fine, +was much Companie. + +After Supper, I proposed to the Boys that we shoulde tell Stories; and +Mr. _Milton_ tolde one charminglie, but then went away to write a +_Latin_ Letter. Soe _Ned's_ Turn came next; and I must, if I can, for +very Mirthe's Sake, write it down in his exact Words, they were soe +pragmaticall. + +"On a Daye, there was a certain Child wandered forthe, that would play. +He met a Bee, and sayd, 'Bee, wilt thou play with me?' The Bee sayd, +'No, I have my Duties to perform, tho' you, it woulde seeme, have none. +I must away to make Honey.' Then the Childe, abasht, went to the Ant. +He sayd, 'Will you play with me, Ant?' The Ant replied, 'Nay, I must +provide against the Winter.' In shorte, he found that everie Bird, +Beaste, and Insect he accosted, had a closer Eye to the Purpose of +their Creation than himselfe. Then he sayd, 'I will then back, and con +my Task.'--_Moral_. The Moral of the foregoing Fable, my deare _Aunt_, +is this--We must love Work better than Play." + +With alle my Interest for Children, how is it possible to take anie +Interest in soe formall a little Prigge? + + + +_Saturday_. + +I have just done somewhat for Master _Ned_ which he coulde not doe for +himselfe--_viz_. tenderly bound up his Hand, which he had badly cut. +Wiping away some few naturall Tears, he must needs say, "I am quite +ashamed, _Aunt_, you shoulde see me cry; but the worst of it is, that +alle this Payne has beene for noe good; whereas, when my Uncle beateth +me for misconstruing my _Latin_, tho' I cry at the Time, all the while +I know it is for my Advantage."--If this Boy goes on preaching soe, I +shall soon hate him. + +--Mr. _Milton_ having stepped out before Supper, came back looking soe +blythe, that I askt if he had hearde good News. He sayd, yes: that +some Friends had long beene persuading him, against his Will, to make +publick some of his _Latin_ Poems; and that, having at length consented +to theire Wishes, he had beene with _Mosley_ the Publisher in St. +_Paul's Churchyard_, who agreed to print them. I sayd, I was sorrie I +shoulde be unable to read them. He sayd he was sorry too; he must +translate them for me. I thanked him, but observed that Traductions +were never soe good as Originalls. He rejoyned, "Nor am I even a good +Translator." I askt, "Why not write in your owne Tongue?" He sayd, +"_Latin_ is understood all over the Worlde." I sayd, "But there are +manie in your owne Country do not understand it." He was silent soe +long upon that, that I supposed he did not mean to answer me; but then +cried, "You are right, sweet _Moll.--_Our best Writers have written +their best Works in _English_, and I will hereafter doe the same,--for +I feel that my best Work is still _to come_. Poetry hath hitherto been +with me rather the Recreation of a Mind conscious of its Health, than +the deliberate Task-work of a Soule that must hereafter give an Account +of its Talents. Yet my Mind, in the free Circuit of her Musing, has +ranged over a thousand Themes that lie, like the Marble in the Quarry, +readie for anie Shape that Fancy and Skill may give. Neither Laziness +nor Caprice makes me difficult in my Choice; for, the longer I am in +selecting my Tree, and laying my Axe to the Root, the sounder it will +be and the riper for Use. Nor is an Undertaking that shall be one of +high Duty, to be entered upon without Prayer and Discipline:--it woulde +be Presumption indeede, to commence an Enterprise which I meant shoulde +delighte and profit every instructed and elevated Mind without so much +Paynes-takinge as it should cost a poor Mountebank to balance a Pole on +his Chin." + + + +_Sunday Even_. + +In the Clouds agayn. At Dinner, to-daye, Mr. _Milton_ catechised the +Boys on the Morning's Sermon, the Heads of which, though amounting to a +Dozen_, Ned_ tolde off roundlie. Roguish little _Jack_ looked slylie +at me, says, "_Aunt_ coulde not tell off the Sermon." "Why not?" says +his Uncle. "Because she was sleeping," says _Jack_. Provoked with the +Child, I turned scarlett, and hastilie sayd, "I was not." Nobodie +spoke; but I repented the Falsitie the Moment it had escaped me; and +there was _Ned_, a folding of his Hands, drawing down his Mouth, and +closing his Eyes. . . . My Husband tooke me to taske for it when we +were alone, soe tenderlie that I wept. + + + +_Monday_. + +_Jack_ sayd this Morning, "I know Something--I know _Aunt_ keeps a +Journall." "And a good Thing if you kept one too, _Jack,"_ sayd his +Uncle, "it would shew you how little you doe." _Jack_ was silenced; +but _Ned_, pursing up his Mouth, says, "I can't think what _Aunt_ can +have to put in a Journall--should not you like, _Uncle_, to see?" "No, +_Ned,"_ says his Uncle, "I am upon Honour, and your dear Aunt's +Journall is as safe, for me, as the golden Bracelets that King _Alfred_ +hung upon the High-way. I am glad she has such a Resource, and, as we +know she cannot have much News to put in it, we may the more safely +rely that it is a Treasury of sweet, and high, and holy, and profitable +Thoughtes." + +Oh, how deeplie I blusht at this ill-deserved Prayse! How sorrie I was +that I had ever registered aught that he woulde grieve to read! I +secretly resolved that this Daye's Journalling should be the last, +untill I had attained a better Frame of Mind. + + + +_Saturday Even_. + +I have kept Silence, yea, even from good Words, but it has beene a Payn +and Griefe unto me. Good Mistress _Catherine Thompson_ called on me a +few Dayes back, and spoke so wisely and so wholesomelie concerning my +Lot, and the Way to make it happy, (she is the first that hath spoken +as it 'twere possible it mighte not be soe alreadie,) that I felt for a +Season quite heartened; but it has alle faded away. Because the Source +of Cheerfulnesse is not _in_ me, anie more than in a dull Landskip, +which the Sun lighteneth for awhile, and when he has set, its Beauty is +gone. + +Oh me! how merry I was at Home!--The Source of Cheerfulnesse seemed in +me _then_, and why is it not _now_? Partly because alle that I was +there taught to think right is here thought wrong; because much that I +there thought harmlesse is here thought sinfulle; because I cannot get +at anie of the Things that employed and interested me _there_, and +because the Things within my Reach _here_ do not interest me. Then, +'tis no small Thing to be continuallie deemed ignorant and misinformed, +and to have one's Errors continuallie covered, however handsomelie, +even before Children. To say nothing of the Weight upon the Spiritts +at firste, from Change of Ayre, and Diet, and Scene, and Loss of +habituall Exercise and Companie and householde Cares. These petty +Griefs try me sorelie; and when Cousin _Ralph_ came in unexpectedlie +this Morn, tho' I never much cared for him at Home, yet the Sighte of +_Rose's_ Brother, fresh from_ Sheepscote_ and _Oxford_ and _Forest +Hill_, soe upset me that I sank into Tears. No wonder that Mr. +_Milton_, then coming in, shoulde hastilie enquire if _Ralph_ had +brought ill Tidings from Home; and, finding alle was well there, +shoulde look strangelie. He askt _Ralph_, however, to stay to Dinner; +and we had much Talk of Home; but now, I regret having omitted to ask a +thousand Questions. + + + +_Sunday Even., Aug. 15, 1643_. + +Mr. _Milton_ in his Closet and I in my Chamber.--For the first Time he +seems this Evening to have founde out how dissimilar are our Minds. +Meaning to please him, I sayd, "I kept awake bravelie, tonighte, +through that long, long Sermon, for your Sake." "And why not for +_God's_ Sake?" cried he, "why not for your owne Sake?--Oh, sweet +_Wife_, I fear you have yet much to learn of the Depth of Happinesse +that is comprised in the Communion between a forgiven Soul and its +Creator. It hallows the most secular as well as the most spirituall +Employments; it gives Pleasure that has no after Bitternesse; it gives +Pleasure to _God_--and oh! thinke of the Depth of Meaning in those +Words! think what it is for us to be capable of giving _God_ Pleasure!" + +--Much more, in the same Vein! to which I could not, with equal Power, +respond; soe, he away to his Studdy, to pray perhaps for my Change of +Heart, and I to my Bed. + + + +_Saturday, Aug. 21, 1643_. + +Oh Heaven! can it be possible? am I agayn at _Forest Hill_? How +strange, how joyfulle an Event, tho' brought about with Teares!--Can it +be, that it is onlie a Month since I stoode at this Toilette as a +Bride? and lay awake on that Bed, thinking of _London_? How long a +Month! and oh! this present one will be alle too short. + +It seemeth that _Ralph Hewlett_, shocked at my Teares and the +Alteration in my Looks, broughte back a dismall Report of me to deare +_Father_ and _Mother_, pronouncing me either ill or unhappie. +Thereupon, _Richard_, with his usuall Impetuositie, prevayled on +_Father_ to let him and _Ralph_ fetch me Home for a While, at leaste +till after _Michaelmasse_. + +How surprised was I to see _Dick_ enter! My Arms were soe fast about +his Neck, and my Face prest soe close to his Shoulder, that I did not +for a While perceive the grave Looke he had put on. At the last, I was +avised to ask what broughte him soe unexpectedlie to _London_; and then +he hemmed and looked at _Ralph_, and _Ralph_ looked at _Dick_, and then +_Dick_ sayd bluntly, he hoped Mr. _Milton_ woulde spare me to go Home +till after _Michaelmasse_, and _Father_ had sent him on Purpose to say +soe. Mr. _Milton_ lookt surprised and hurte, and sayd, how could he be +expected to part soe soone with me, a Month's Bride? it must be some +other Time: he had intended to take me himselfe to _Forest Hill_ the +following Spring, but coulde not spare Time now, nor liked me to goe +without him, nor thought I should like it myself. But my Eyes said I +_shoulde_, and then he gazed earnestlie at me and lookt hurt; and there +was a dead Silence. Then _Dick_, hesitating a little, sayd he was +sorrie to tell us my _Father_ was ill; on which I clasped my Hands and +beganne to weepe; and Mr. _Milton_, changing Countenance, askt sundrie +Questions, which _Dick_ answered well enough; and then said he woulde +not be soe cruel as to keepe me from a Father I soe dearlie loved, if +he were sick, though he liked not my travelling in such unsettled Times +with so young a Convoy. _Ralph_ sayd they had brought _Diggory_ with +them, who was olde and steddy enough, and had ridden my _Mother's_ Mare +for my Use; and _Dick_ was for our getting forward a Stage on our +Journey the same Evening, but Mr. _Milton_ insisted on our abiding till +the following Morn, and woulde not be overruled. And gave me leave to +stay a Month, and gave me Money, and many kind Words, which I coulde +mark little, being soe overtaken with Concern about dear _Father_, +whose Illness I feared to be worse than _Dick_ sayd, seeing he seemed +soe close and dealt in dark Speeches and Parables. After Dinner, they +went forth, they sayd, to look after the Horses, but I think to see +_London_, and returned not till Supper. + +We got them Beds in a House hard by, and started at earlie Dawn. + +Mr. _Milton_ kissed me most tenderlie agayn and agayn at parting, as +though he feared to lose me; but it had seemed to me soe hard to brook +the Delay of even a few Hours when _Father_, in his Sicknesse, was +wanting me, that I took leave of my Husband with less Affection than I +mighte have shewn, and onlie began to find my Spiritts lighten when we +were fairly quit of _London_, with its vile Sewers and Drains, and to +breathe the sweete, pure Morning Ayre, as we rode swiftlie along. +_Dick_ called _London_ a vile Place, and spake to _Ralph_ concerning +what they had seen of it overnighte, whence it appeared to me, that he +had beene pleasure-seeking more than, in _Father's_ state, he ought to +have beene. But _Dick_ was always a reckless Lad;--and oh, what Joy, +on reaching this deare Place, to find _Father_ had onlie beene +suffering under one of his usual Stomach Attacks, which have no Danger +in them, and which _Dick_ had exaggerated, fearing Mr. _Milton_ woulde +not otherwise part with me;--I was a little shocked, and coulde not +help scolding him, though I was the gainer; but he boldlie defended +what he called his "Stratagem of War," saying it was quite allowable in +dealing with a _Puritan_. + +As for _Robin_, he was wild with Joy when I arrived; and hath never +ceased to hang about me. The other Children are riotous in their +Mirth. Little _Joscelyn_ hath returned from his Foster-mother's Farm, +and is noe longer a puny Child--'tis thought he will thrive. I have +him constantly in my Arms or riding on my Shoulder; and with Delight +have revisited alle my olde Haunts, patted _Clover_, etc. Deare +_Mother_ is most kind. The Maids as oft call me Mrs. _Molly_ as Mrs. +_Milton_, and then smile, and beg Pardon. _Rose_ and _Agnew_ have been +here, and have made me promise to visit _Sheepscote_ before I return to +_London_. The whole House seems full of Glee. + + + +_Monday_. + +It seemes quite strange to heare _Dick_ and _Harry_ singing loyal Songs +and drinking the _King's_ Health after soe recentlie hearing his M. soe +continuallie spoken agaynst. Also, to see a Lad of _Robin's_ Age, +coming in and out at his Will, doing aniething or nothing; instead of +being ever at his Taskes, and looking at Meal-times as if he were +repeating them to himselfe. I know which I like best. + +A most kind Letter from Mr. _Milton_, hoping _Father_ is better, and +praying for News of him. How can I write to him without betraying +_Dick_? _Robin_ and I rode, this Morning, to _Sheepscote_. Thoughte +Mr. _Agnew_ received me with unwonted Gravitie. He tolde me he had +received a Letter from my Husband, praying News of my Father, seeing I +had sent him none, and that he had writ to him that _Father_ was quite +well, never had been better. Then he sayd to me he feared Mr. _Milton_ +was labouring under some false Impression. I tolde him trulie, that +_Dick_, to get me Home, had exaggerated a trifling Illness of +_Father's_, but that I was guiltlesse of it. He sayd _Dick_ was +inexcusable, and that noe good End coulde justifie a Man of Honour in +overcharging the Truth; and that, since I was innocent, I shoulde write +to my Husband to clear myself. I said briefly, I woulde; and I mean to +do soe, onlie not to-daye. Oh, sweet countrie Life! I was made for +you and none other. This riding and walking at one's owne free Will, +in the fresh pure Ayre, coming in to earlie, heartie, wholesome Meals, +seasoned with harmlesse Jests,--seeing fresh Faces everie Daye come to +the House, knowing everie Face one meets out of Doores,--supping in the +Garden, and remaining in the Ayre long after the Moon has risen, +talking, laughing, or perhaps dancing,--if this be not Joyfulnesse, +what is? + +For certain, I woulde that Mr. _Milton_ were here; but he woulde call +our Sports mistimed, and throw a Damp upon our Mirth by not joining in +it. Soe I will enjoy my Holiday while it lasts, for it may be long ere +I get another--especiallie if his and _Father's_ Opinions get wider +asunder, as I think they are doing alreadie. My promised Spring +Holiday may come to nothing. + + + +_Monday_. + +My Husband hath writ to me strangelie, chiding me most unkindlie for +what was noe Fault of mine, to wit, _Dick's_ Falsitie; and wondering I +can derive anie Pleasure from a Holiday so obtayned, which he will not +curtayl, but will on noe Pretence extend. Nay! but methinks Mr. +_Milton_ presumeth somewhat too much on his marital Authoritie, writing +in this Strayn. I am no mere Child neither, nor a runaway Wife, nor in +such bad Companie, in mine own Father's House, where he firste saw me; +and, was it anie Fault of mine, indeed, that _Father_ was not ill? or +can I wish he had beene? No, truly! + +This Letter hath sorelie vexed me. Dear _Father_, seeing me soe dulle, +askt me if I had had bad News. I sayd I had, for that Mr. _Milton_ +wanted me back at the Month's End. He sayd, lightlie, Oh, that must +not be, I must at all Events stay over his Birthdaye, he could not +spare me sooner; he woulde settle all that. Let it be soe then--I am +content enoughe. + +To change the Current of my Thoughts, he hath renewed the Scheme for +our Visit to Lady _Falkland_, which, Weather permitting, is to take +Place tomorrow. 'Tis long since I have seene her, soe I am willing to +goe; but she is dearer to _Rose_ than to me, though I respect her much. + + + +_Wednesday_. + +The whole of Yesterday occupyde with our Visit. I love Lady _Falkland_ +well, yet her religious Mellanchollie and Presages of Evil have left a +Weight upon my Spiritts. To-daye, we have a Family Dinner. The +_Agnews_ come not, but the _Merediths_ doe, we shall have more Mirthe +if less Wit. My Time now draweth soe short, I must crowd into it alle +the Pleasure I can; and in this, everie one conspires to help me, +saying, "Poor _Moll_ must soon return to _London_." Never was Creature +soe petted or spoylt. How was it there was none of this before I +married, when they might have me alwaies? ah, therein lies the Secret. +Now, we have mutuallie tasted our Losse. + +_Ralph Hewlett_, going agayn to Town, was avised to ask whether I had +anie Commission wherewith to charge him. I bade him tell Mr. _Milton_ +that since we should meet soe soone, I need not write, but would keep +alle my News for our Fire-side. _Robin_ added, "Say, we cannot spare +her yet," and _Father_ echoed the same. + +But I begin to feel now, that I must not prolong my Stay. At the +leaste, not beyond _Father's_ Birthday. My Month is hasting to a Close. + + + +_Sept. 21, 1643_. + +Battle at _Newbury--_Lord _Falkland_ slayn. Oh, fatal Loss! _Father_ +and _Mother_ going off to my Lady: but I think she will not see them. +Aunt and Uncle _Hewlett_, who brought the News, can talk of nothing +else. + + + +_Sept. 22, 1643_. + +Alle Sadnesse and Consternation. I am wearie of bad News, public and +private, and feel less and less Love for the Puritans, yet am forced to +seem more loyal than I really am, soe high runs party Feeling just now +at Home. + +My Month has passed! + + + +_Sept. 28, 1643_. + +A most displeased Letter from my Husband, minding me that my Leave of +Absence hath expired, and that he likes not the Messages he received +through _Ralph_, nor the unreasonable and hurtfulle Pastimes which he +finds have beene making my quiet Home distastefulle. Asking, are they +suitable, under Circumstances of nationall Consternation to _my owne_ +Party, or seemlie in soe young a Wife, apart from her Husband? To +conclude, insisting, with more Authoritie than Kindnesse, on my +immediate Return. + +With Tears in my Eyes, I have beene to my Father. I have tolde him I +must goe. He sayth, Oh no, not yet. I persisted, I must, my Husband +was soe very angry. He rejoined, What, angry with my sweet _Moll_? and +for spending a few Days with her old Father? Can it be? hath it come +to this alreadie? I sayd, my Month had expired. He sayd, Nonsense, he +had always askt me to stay over _Michaelmasse_, till his Birthday; he +knew _Dick_ had named it to Mr. _Milton_. I sayd, Mr. _Milton_ had +taken no Notice thereof, but had onlie granted me a Month. He grew +peevish, and said, "Pooh, pooh!" Thereat, after a Silence of a Minute +or two, I sayd yet agayn, I must goe. He took me by the two Wrists and +sayd, Doe you wish to go? I burst into Teares, but made noe Answer. +He sayd, That is Answer enough,--how doth this Puritan carry it with +you, my Child? and snatched his Letter. I sayd, Oh, don't read that, +and would have drawn it back; but _Father_, when heated, is impossible +to controwl; therefore, quite deaf to Entreaty, he would read the +Letter, which was unfit for him in his chafed Mood; then, holding it at +Arm's Length, and smiting it with his Fist,--Ha! and is it thus he +dares address a Daughter of mine? (with Words added, I dare not +write)--but be quiet, _Moll_, be at Peace, my Child, for he shall not +have you back for awhile, even though he come to fetch you himself. +The maddest Thing I ever did was to give you to this Roundhead. He and +_Roger Agnew_ talked me over with soe many fine Words.--What possessed +me, I know not. Your Mother always said evil woulde come of it. But +as long as thy Father has a Roof over his Head, Child, thou hast a Home. + +As soone as he woulde hear me, I begged him not to take on soe, for +that I was not an unhappy Wife; but my Tears, he sayd, belied me; and +indeed, with Fear and Agitation, they flowed fast enough. But I sayd, +I _must_ goe home, and wished I had gone sooner, and woulde he let +_Diggory_ take me! No, he sayd, not a Man Jack on his Land shoulde +saddle a Horse for me, nor would he lend me one, to carry me back to +Mr. _Milton_; at the leaste not for a While, till he had come to +Reason, and protested he was sorry for having writ to me soe harshly. + +"Soe be content, _Moll_, and make not two Enemies instead of one. Goe, +help thy Mother with her clear-starching. Be happy whilst thou art +here." + +But ah! more easily said than done. "Alle Joy is darkened; the Mirthe +of the Land is gone!" + + + +_Michaelmasse Day_. + +At Squire _Paice's_ grand Dinner we have been counting on soe many +Days; but it gave me not the Pleasure expected. + + + +_Oct. 13, 1643_. + +The Weather is soe foul that I am sure Mr. _Milton_ woulde not like me +to be on the Road, even would my Father let me goe. + +--While writing the above, heard very angrie Voices in the Courtyard, +my Father's especiallie, louder than common; and distinguished the +Words "Knave," and "Varlet," and "begone." Lookt from my Window and +beheld a Man, booted and cloaked, with two Horses, at the Gate, +parleying with my Father, who stood in an offensive Attitude, and +woulde not let him in. I could catch such Fragments as, "But, Sir?" +"What! in such Weather as this?" "Nay, it had not overcast when I +started." "'Tis foul enough now, then." "Let me but have speech of my +Mistress." "You crosse not my Threshold." "Nay, Sir, if but to give +her this Letter:"--and turning his Head, I was avised of its being +_Hubert_, old Mr. _Milton's_ Man; doubtless sent by my Husband to fetch +me. Seeing my Father raise his Hand in angrie Action (his Riding-whip +being in it), I hasted down as fast as I coulde, to prevent Mischiefe, +as well as to get my Letter; but, unhappilie, not soe fleetlie as to +see more than _Hubert's_ flying Skirts as he gallopped from the Gate, +with the led Horse by the Bridle; while my Father flinging downe the +torne Letter, walked passionatelie away. I clasped my Hands, and stood +mazed for a while,--was then avised to piece the Letter, but could not; +onlie making out such Words as "Sweet _Moll_," in my Husband's Writing. + + + +_Oct. 14, 1643_. + +_Rose_ came this Morning, through Rain and Mire, at some Risk as well +as much Inconvenience, to intreat of me, even with Teares, not to vex +Mr. _Milton_ by anie farther Delays, but to return to him as soon as +possible. Kind Soule, her Affection toucht me, and I assured her the +more readilie I intended to return Home as soone as I coulde, which was +not yet, my Father having taken the Matter into his own Hands, and +permitting me noe Escort; but that I questioned not, Mr. _Milton_ was +onlie awaiting the Weather to settle, to fetch me himself. That he +will doe so, is my firm Persuasion. Meanwhile, I make it my Duty to +joyn with some Attempt at Cheerfullenesse in the Amusements of others, +to make my Father's Confinement to the House less irksome; and have in +some Measure succeeded. + + + +_Oct. 23, 1643_. + +Noe Sighte nor Tidings of Mr. _Milton_.--I am uneasie, frighted at +myself, and wish I had never left him, yet hurte at the Neglect. +_Hubert_, being a crabbed Temper, made Mischief on his Return, I fancy. +_Father_ is vexed, methinks, at his owne Passion, and hath never, +directlie, spoken, in my Hearinge, of what passed; but rayleth +continuallie agaynst Rebels and Roundheads. As to _Mother_,--ah me! + + + +_Oct. 24, 1643_. + +Thro' dank and miry Lanes and Bye-roads with _Robin_, to _Sheepscote_. + +Waiting for _Rose_ in Mr. _Agnew's_ small Studdy, where she mostlie +sitteth with him, oft acting as his Amanuensis, was avised to take up a +printed Sheet of Paper that lay on the Table; but finding it to be of +_Latin_ Versing, was about to laye it downe agayn, when _Rose_ came in. +She changed Colour, and in a faltering Voice sayd, "Ah, _Cousin_, do +you know what that is? One of your Husband's Proofe Sheets. I woulde +that it coulde interest you in like manner as it hath me." Made her +noe Answer, laying it aside unconcernedlie, but secretlie felt, as I +have oft done before, how stupid it is not to know _Latin_, and +resolved to get _Robin_ to teach me. He is noe greate Scholar +himselfe, soe will not shame me.--I am wearie of hearing of War and +Politicks; soe will try Studdy for a while, and see if 'twill cure this +dull Payn at my Heart. + + + +_Oct. 28, 1643_. + +_Robin_ and I have shut ourselves up for three Hours dailie, in the +small Book-room, and have made fayre Progresse. He liketh his Office +of Tutor mightilie. + + + +_Oct. 31, 1643_. + +My Lessons are more crabbed, or I am more dull and inattentive, for I +cannot fix my Minde on my Book, and am secretlie wearie, _Robin_ +wearies too. But I will not give up as yet; the more soe as in this +quiete Studdy I am out of Sighte and Hearinge of sundrie young Officers +_Dick_ is continuallie bringing over from _Oxford_, who spend manie +Hours with him in Countrie Sports, and then come into the House, +hungry, thirstie, noisie, and idle. I know Mr. _Milton_ woulde not +like them. + +--Surelie he will come soone?--I sayd to _Father_ last Night, I wanted +to hear from Home. He sayd, "Home! Dost call yon Taylor's Shop your +Home?" soe ironicalle that I was shamed to say more. + +Woulde that I had never married!--then coulde I enjoy my Childhoode's +Home. Yet I knew not its Value before I quitted it, and had even a +stupid Pleasure in anticipating another. Ah me! had I loved Mr. +_Milton_ more, perhaps I might better have endured the Taylor's Shop. + + + +_Sheepscote, Nov. 20, 1643_. + +Annoyed by _Dick's_ Companions, I prayed _Father_ to let me stay awhile +with _Rose_; and gaining his Consent, came over here Yester-morn, +without thinking it needfulle to send Notice, which was perhaps +inconsiderate. But she received me with Kisses and Words of +Tendernesse, though less Smiling than usualle, and eagerlie accepted +mine offered Visitt. Then she ran off to find _Roger_, and I heard +them talking earnestlie in a low Voice before they came in. His Face +was grave, even stern, when he entred, but he held out his Hand, and +sayd, "Mistress _Milton_, you are welcome! how is it with you? and how +was Mr. _Milton_ when he wrote to you last?" I answered brieflie, he +was well: then came a Silence, and then _Rose_ took me to my Chamber, +which was sweet with Lavender, and its hangings of the whitest. It +reminded me too much of my first Week of Marriage, soe I resolved to +think not at all lest I shoulde be bad Companie, but cheer up and be +gay. Soe I askt _Rose_ a thousand Questions about her Dairie and Bees, +laught much at Dinner, and told Mr. _Agnew_ sundrie of the merrie +Sayings of _Dick_ and his _Oxford_ Friends. And, for my Reward, when +we were afterwards apart, I heard him tell _Rose_ (by Reason of the +Walls being thin) that however she might regard me for old Affection's +sake, he thought he had never knowne soe unpromising a character. This +made me dulle enoughe all the rest of the Evening, and repent having +come to _Sheepscote_: however, he liked me the better for being quiete: +and _Rose_, being equallie chekt, we sewed in Silence while he read to +us the first Division of _Spencer's Legend of Holinesse_, about _Una_ +and the Knight, and how they got sundered. This led to much serious, +yet not unpleasing, Discourse, which lasted till Supper. For the first +Time at _Sheepscote_, I coulde not eat, which Mr. _Agnew_ observing, +prest me to take Wine, and _Rose_ woulde start up to fetch some of her +Preserves; but I chekt her with a Motion, not being quite able to +speak; for their being soe kind made the Teares ready to starte, I knew +not why. + +Family Prayers, after Supper, rather too long; yet though I coulde not +keep up my Attention, they seemed to spread a Calm and a Peace alle +about, that extended even to me; and though, after I had undressed, I +sat a long while in a Maze, and bethought me how piteous a Creature I +was, yet, once layed down, I never sank into deeper, more composing +Sleep. + + + +_Nov. 21,1643_. + +This Morning, _Rose_ exclaimed, "Dear _Roger_! onlie think! _Moll_ has +begun to learn _Latin_ since she returned to _Forest Hill_, thinking to +surprise Mr. _Milton_ when they meet." "She will not onlie surprise +but _please_ him," returned dear _Roger_, taking my Hand very kindlie; +"I can onlie say, I hope they will meet long before she can read his +_Poemata_, unless she learnes much faster than most People." I +replyed, I learned very slowly, and wearied _Robin's_ Patience; on +which _Rose_, kissing me, cried, "You will never wearie mine; soe, if +you please, deare _Moll_, we will goe to our Lessons here everie +Morning; and it may be that I shall get you through the Grammar faster +than _Robin_ can. If we come to anie Difficultie we shall refer it to +_Roger_." + +Now, Mr. _Agnew's_ Looks exprest such Pleasure with both, that it were +difficult to tell which felt the most elated; soe calling me deare +_Moll_ (he hath hitherto Mistress _Miltoned_ me ever since I sett Foot +in his House), he sayed he would not interrupt our Studdies, though he +should be within Call, and soe left us. I had not felt soe happy since +_Father's_ Birthday; and, though _Rose_ kept me close to my Book for +two Hours, I found her a far less irksome Tutor than deare _Robin_. +Then she went away, singing, to make _Roger's_ favourite Dish, and +afterwards we took a brisk Walke, and came Home hungrie enoughe to +Dinner. + +There is a daily Beauty in _Rose's_ Life, that I not onlie admire, but +am readie to envy. Oh! if _Milton_ lived but in the poorest House in +the Countrie, methinks I coulde be very happy with him. + + + +_Bedtime_. + +Chancing to make the above Remark to _Rose_, she cried, "And why not be +happy with him in _Aldersgate Street_?" I briefly replied that he must +get the House first, before it were possible to tell whether I coulde +be happy there or not. _Rose_ started, and exclaimed, "Why, where do +you suppose him to be now?" "Where but at the Taylor's in _Bride's +Churchyard_?" I replied. She claspt her Hands with a Look I shall +never forget, and exclaimed in a Sort of vehement Passion, "Oh, +_Cousin, Cousin_, how you throw your own Happinesse away! How awfulle +a Pause must have taken place in your Intercourse with the Man whom you +promised to abide by till Death, since you know not that he has long +since taken Possession of his new Home; that he strove to have it ready +for you at _Michaelmasse_!" + +Doubtlesse I lookt noe less surprised than I felt;--a suddain Prick at +the Heart prevented Speech; but it shot acrosse my Heart that I had +made out the Words "_Aldersgate_" and "new Home," in the Fragments of +the Letter my Father had torn. _Rose_, misjudging my Silence, burst +forth anew with, "Oh, _Cousin_! _Cousin_! coulde anie Home, however +dull and noisesome, drive me from _Roger Agnew_? Onlie think of what +you are doing,--of what you are leaving undone!--of what you are +preparing against yourself! To put the Wickednesse of a selfish Course +out of the Account, onlie think of its Mellancholie, its +Miserie,--destitute of alle the sweet, bright, fresh Well-springs of +Happinesse;--unblest by _God_!" + +Here _Rose_ wept passionatelie, and claspt her Arms about me; but, when +I began to speak, and to tell her of much that had made me miserable, +she hearkened in motionlesse Silence, till I told her that _Father_ had +torn the Letter and beaten the Messenger. Then she cried, "Oh, I see +now what may and shall be done! _Roger_ shall be Peacemaker," and ran +off with Joyfulnesse; I not withholding her. But I can never be +joyfulle more--he cannot be Day's-man betwixt us now--'tis alle too +late! + + + +_Nov. 28, 1643_. + +Now that I am at _Forest Hill_ agayn, I will essay to continue my +Journalling.-- + +Mr. _Agnew_ was out; and though a keene wintry Wind was blowing, and +_Rose_ was suffering from Colde, yet she went out to listen for his +Horse's Feet at the Gate, with onlie her Apron cast over her Head. +Shortlie, he returned; and I heard him say in a troubled Voice, "Alle +are in Arms at _Forest Hill_." I felt soe greatlie shocked as to neede +to sit downe instead of running forthe to learn the News. I supposed +the parliamentarian Soldiers had advanced, unexpectedlie, upon +_Oxford_. His next Words were, "_Dick is_ coming for her at +Noone--poor Soul, I know not what she will doe--her Father will trust +her noe longer with you and me." Then I saw them both passe the +Window, slowlie pacing together, and hastened forth to joyn them; but +they had turned into the pleached Alley, their Backs towards me; and +both in such earnest and apparentlie private Communication, that I +dared not interrupt them till they turned aboute, which was not for +some While; for they stood for some Time at the Head of the Alley, +still with theire Backs to me, _Rose's_ Hair blowing in the cold Wind; +and once or twice she seemed to put her Kerchief to her Eyes. + +Now, while I stood mazed and uncertain, I hearde a distant Clatter of +Horse's Feet, on the hard Road a good Way off, and could descrie _Dick_ +coming towards _Sheepscote_. _Rose_ saw him too, and commenced running +towards me; Mr. _Agnew_ following with long Strides. _Rose_ drew me +back into the House, and sayd, kissing me, "Dearest _Moll_, I am soe +sorry; _Roger_ hath seen your Father this Morn, and he will on no +Account spare you to us anie longer; and _Dick_ is coming to fetch you +even now." I sayd, "Is _Father_ ill?" "Oh no," replied Mr. _Agnew_; +then coming up, "He is not ill, but he is perturbed at something which +has occurred; and, in Truth, soe am I.--But remember, Mistress +_Milton_, remember, dear _Cousin_, that when you married, your +_Father's_ Guardianship of you passed into the Hands of your +Husband--your Husband's House was thenceforthe your Home; and in +quitting it you committed a Fault you may yet repaire, though this +offensive Act has made the Difficultie much greater."--"Oh, what has +happened?" I impatientlie cried. Just then, _Dick_ comes in with his +usual blunt Salutations, and then cries, "Well, _Moll_, are you ready +to goe back?" "Why should I be?" I sayd, "when I am soe happy here? +unless _Father_ is ill, or Mr. _Agnew_ and _Rose_ are tired of me." +They both interrupted, there was nothing they soe much desired, at this +present, as that I shoulde prolong my Stay. And you know, _Dick, I_ +added, that _Forest Hill_ is not soe pleasant to me just now as it hath +commonlie beene, by Reason of your _Oxford_ Companions. He brieflie +sayd, I neede not mind that, they were coming no more to the House, +_Father_ had decreed it. And you know well enough, _Moll_, that what +_Father_ decrees, must be, and he hath decreed that you must come Home +now; soe no more Ado, I pray you, but fetch your Cloak and Hood, and +the Horses shall come round, for 'twill be late ere we reach Home. +"Nay, you must dine here at all Events," sayd _Rose_; "I know, _Dick_, +you love roast Pork." Soe _Dick_ relented. Soe _Rose_, turning to me, +prayed me to bid _Cicely_ hasten Dinner; the which I did, tho' thinking +it strange _Rose_ should not goe herself. But, as I returned, I hearde +her say, Not a Word of it, dear _Dick_, at the least, till after +Dinner, lest you spoil her Appetite. Soe _Dick_ sayd he shoulde goe +and look after the Horses. I sayd then, brisklie, I see somewhat is +the Matter--pray tell me what it is. But _Rose_ looked quite dull, and +walked to the Window. Then Mr. _Agnew_ sayd, "You seem as dissatisfied +to leave us, _Cousin_, as we are to lose you; and yet you are going +back to _Forest Hill_--to that Home in which you will doubtlesse be +happy to live all your Dayes."--"At _Forest Hill_?" I sayd, "Oh no! I +hope not." "And why?" sayd he quicklie. I hung my Head, and muttered, +"I hope, some Daye, to goe back to Mr. _Milton_." "And why not at +once?" sayd he. I sayd, "_Father_ would not let me." "Nay, that is +childish," he answered, "your Father could not hinder you if you wanted +not the Mind to goe--it was your first seeming soe loth to return, that +made him think you unhappie and refuse to part with you." I sayd, "And +what if I were unhappie?" He paused; and knew not at the Moment what +Answer to make, but shortlie replyed by another Question, "What Cause +had you to be soe?" I sayd, "That was more easily askt than answered, +even if there were anie Neede I shoulde answer it, or he had anie Right +to ask it." He cried in an Accent of Tendernesse that still wrings my +Heart to remember, "Oh, question not the Right! I only wish to make +you happy. Were you not happy with Mr. _Milton_ during the Week you +spent together here at _Sheepscote_?" Thereat I coulde not refrayn +from bursting into Tears. _Rose_ now sprang forward; but Mr. _Agnew_ +sayd, "Let her weep, let her weep, it will do her good." Then, alle at +once it occurred to me that my Husband was awaiting me at Home, and I +cried, "Oh, is Mr. _Milton_ at _Forest Hill_?" and felt my Heart full +of Gladness. Mr. _Agnew_ answered, "Not soe, not soe, poor _Moll_:" +and, looking up at him, I saw him wiping his Brow, though the Daye was +soe chill. "As well tell her now," sayd he to _Rose_; and then taking +my Hand, "Oh, Mrs. _Milton_, can you wonder that your Husband should be +angry? How can you wonder at anie Evil that may result from the +Provocation you have given him? What Marvell, that since you cast him +off, all the sweet Fountains of his Affections would be embittered, and +that he should retaliate by seeking a Separation, and even a +Divorce?"--There I stopt him with an Outcry of "Divorce?" "Even soe," +he most mournfully replyd, "and I seeke not to excuse him, since two +Wrongs make not a Right." "But," I cried, passionately weeping, "I +have given him noe Cause; my Heart has never for a Moment strayed to +another, nor does he, I am sure, expect it." "Ne'erthelesse," enjoyned +Mr. _Agnew_, "he is soe aggrieved and chafed, that he has followed up +what he considers your Breach of the Marriage Contract by writing and +publishing a Book on Divorce; the Tenor of which coming to your +Father's Ears, has violently incensed him. And now, dear _Cousin_, +having, by your Waywardness, kindled this Flame, what remains for you +but to--nay, hear me, hear me, _Moll_, for _Dick_ is coming in, and I +may not let him hear me urge you to the onlie Course that can regayn +your Peace--Mr. _Milton_ is still your Husband; eache of you have now +Something to forgive; do you be the firste; nay, seeke _his_ +Forgivenesse, and you shall be happier than you have been yet." + +--But I was weeping without controule; and _Dick_ coming in, and with +_Dick_ the Dinner, I askt to be excused, and soe soughte my Chamber, to +weep there without Restraynt or Witnesse. Poor _Rose_ came up, as +soone as she coulde leave the Table, and told me she had eaten as +little as I, and woulde not even presse me to eat. But she carest me +and comforted me, and urged in her owne tender Way alle that had beene +sayd by Mr. _Agnew_; even protesting that if she were in my Place, she +woulde not goe back to _Forest Hill_, but straight to _London_, to +entreat with Mr. _Milton_ for his Mercy. But I told her I could not do +that, even had I the Means for the Journey; for that my Heart was +turned against the Man who coulde, for the venial Offence of a young +Wife, in abiding too long with her old Father, not onlie cast her off +from his Love, but hold her up to the World's Blame and Scorn, by +making their domestic Quarrel the Matter for a printed Attack. _Rose_ +sayd, "I admit he is wrong, but indeed, indeed, _Moll_, you are wrong +too, and you were wrong _first_:" and she sayd this soe often, that at +length we came to crosser Words; when _Dick_, calling to me from below, +would have me make haste, which I was glad to doe, and left +_Sheepscote_ less regrettfullie than I had expected. _Rose_ kist me +with her gravest Face. Mr. _Agnew_ put me on my Horse, and sayd, as he +gave me the Rein, "Now think! now think! even yet!" and then, as I +silently rode off, "_God_ bless you." + +I held down my Head; but, at the Turn of the Road, lookt back, and saw +him and _Rose_ watching us from the Porch. _Dick_ cried, "I am righte +glad we are off at last, for _Father_ is downright crazie aboute this +Businesse, and mistrustfulle of _Agnew's_ Influence over you,"--and +would have gone on railing, but I bade him for Pitie's Sake be quiete. + +The Effects of my owne Follie, the Losse of Home, Husband, Name, the +Opinion of the _Agnews_, the Opinion of the Worlde, rose up agaynst me, +and almost drove me mad. And, just as I was thinking I had better +lived out my Dayes and dyed earlie in _Bride's Churchyarde_ than that +alle this should have come about, the suddain Recollection of what +_Rose_ had that Morning tolde me, which soe manie other Thoughts had +driven out of my Head, viz. that Mr. _Milton_ had, in his Desire to +please me, while I was onlie bent on pleasing myself, been secretly +striving to make readie the _Aldersgate Street_ House agaynst my +Return,--soe overcame me, that I wept as I rode along. Nay, at the +Corner of a branch Road, had a Mind to beg _Dick_ to let me goe to +_London_; but a glance at his dogged Countenance sufficed to foreshow +my Answer. + +Half dead with Fatigue and Griefe when I reached Home, the tender +Embraces of my Father and Mother completed the Overthrowe of my +Spiritts. I tooke to my Bed; and this is the first Daye I have left +it; nor will they let me send for _Rose_, nor even tell her I am ill. + + + +_Jan. 1, 1644_. + +The new Year opens drearilie, on Affairs both publick and private. The +Loaf parted at Breakfast this Morning, which, as the Saying goes, is a +Sign of Separation; but _Mother_ onlie sayd 'twas because it was badly +kneaded, and chid _Margery_. She hath beene telling me, but now, how I +mighte have 'scaped all my Troubles, and seene as much as I woulde of +her and _Father_, and yet have contented Mr. _Milton_ and beene counted +a good Wife. Noe Advice soe ill to bear as that which comes too late. + + + +_Jan. 7, 1644_. + +I am sick of this journalling, soe shall onlie put downe the Date of +_Robin's_ leaving Home. _Lord_ have Mercy on him, and keepe him in +Safetie. This is a shorte Prayer; therefore, easier to be often +repeated. When he kissed me, he whispered, "_Moll_, pray for me." + + + +_Jan. 27, 1644_. + +_Father_ does not seeme to miss _Robin_ much, tho' he dailie drinks his +Health after that of the King. Perhaps he did not miss me anie more +when I was in _London_, though it was true and naturall enough he +should like to see me agayn. We should have beene used to our +Separation by this Time; there would have beene nothing corroding in +it. . . . + +I pray for _Robin_ everie Night. Since he went, the House has lost its +Sunshine. When I was soe anxious to return to _Forest Hill_, I never +counted on his leaving it. + + + +_Feb. 1, 1644_. + +Oh Heaven, what would I give to see the Skirts of Mr. _Milton's_ +Garments agayn! My Heart is sick unto Death. I have been reading some +of my _Journall_, and tearing out much childish Nonsense at the +Beginning; but coulde not destroy the painfulle Records of the last +Year. How unhappy a Creature am I!--wearie, wearie of my Life, yet no +Ways inclined for Death. _Lord_, have Mercy upon me. + + +_March 27, 1644_. + +I spend much of my Time, now, in the Book-room, and, though I essay not +to pursue the _Latin_, I read much _English_, at the least, more than +ever I did in my Life before; but often I fancy I am reading when I am +onlie dreaming. _Oxford_ is far too gay a Place for me now ever to goe +neare it, but my Brothers are much there, and _Father_ in his Farm, and +_Mother_ in her Kitchen; and the Neighbours, when they call, look on me +strangelie, so that I have noe Love for them. How different is +_Rose's_ holy, secluded, yet cheerefulle Life at _Sheepscote_! She +hath a Nurserie now, soe cannot come to me, and _Father_ likes not I +should goe to her. + + + +_April 5, 1644_. + +They say their Majestyes' Parting at _Abingdon_ was very sorrowfulle +and tender. The _Lord_ send them better Times! The Queen is to my +Mind a most charming Lady, and well worthy of his Majesty's Affection; +yet it seems to me amisse, that thro' her Influence, last Summer, the +Opportunitie of Pacification was lost. But she was elated, and +naturallie enoughe, at her personall Successes from the Time of her +landing. To me, there seems nothing soe good as Peace. I know, +indeede, Mr. _Milton_ holds that there may be such Things as a holy War +and a cursed Peace. + + + +_April 10, 1644_. + +_Father_, having a Hoarseness, hath deputed me, of late, to read the +Morning and Evening Prayers. How beautifulle is our Liturgie! I +grudge at the Puritans for having abolished it; and though I felt not +its comprehensive Fullessse [Transcriber's note: Fullnesse?] before I +married, nor indeed till now, yet I wearied to Death in _London_ at the +puritanicall Ordinances and Conscience-meetings and extempore Prayers, +wherein it was soe oft the Speaker's Care to show Men how godly he was. +Nay, I think Mr. _Milton_ altogether wrong in the View he takes of +praying to _God_ in other Men's Words; for doth he not doe soe, everie +Time he followeth the Sense of another Man's extempore Prayer, wherein +he is more at his Mercy and Caprice than when he hath a printed Form +set down, wherein he sees what is coming? + + + +_June 8, 1644_. + +Walking in the Home-close this Morning, it occurred to me that Mr. +_Milton_ intended bringing me to _Forest Hill_ about this Time; and +that if I had abided patientlie with him through the Winter, we might +now have beene both here happily together; untroubled by that Sting +which now poisons everie Enjoyment of mine, and perhaps of his. +_Lord_, be merciful to _me a Sinner_. + + + +_June 23, 1644_. + +Just after writing the above, I was in the Garden, gathering a few +Coronation Flowers and Sops-in-Wine, and thinking they were of deeper +crimson at_ Sheepscote_, and wondering what _Rose_ was just then about, +and whether had I beene born in her Place, I shoulde have beene as +goode and happy as she,--when _Harry_ came up, looking somewhat grave. +I sayd, "What is the Matter?" He gave Answer, "_Rose_ hath lost her +Child." Oh!----that we should live but a two Hours' Journey apart, and +that she coulde lose a Child three Months olde _whom I had never seene_? + +I ran to _Father_, and never left off praying him to let me goe to her +till he consented. + +--What, and if I had begged as hard, at the firste, to goe back to Mr. +_Milton_? might he not have consented _then_? + +. . . Soe _Harry_ took me; and as we drew neare _Sheepscote_, I was +avised to think how grave, how barely friendlie had beene our last +Parting; and to ponder, would _Rose_ make me welcome now? The Infant, +_Harry_ tolde me, had beene dead some Dayes; and, as we came in Sight +of the little grey old Church, we saw a Knot of People coming out of +the Churchyard, and guessed the Baby had just beene buried. Soe it +proved--Mr. _Agnew's_ House-door stood ajar; and when we tapped softlie +and _Cicely_ admitted us we could see him standing by _Rose_, who was +sitting on the Ground and crying as if she would not be comforted. +When she hearde my Voice, she started up, flung her Arms about me, +crying more bitterlie than before, and I cried too; and Mr. _Agnew_ +went away with _Harry_. Then _Rose_ sayd to me, "You must not leave me +agayn." . . . + +. . . In the Cool of the Evening, when _Harry_ had left us, she took me +into the Churchyarde, and scattered the little Grave with Flowers; and +then continued sitting beside it on the Grasse, quiete, but not +comfortlesse. I am avised to think she prayed. Then Mr. _Agnew_ came +forthe and sate on a flat Tombstone hard by; and without one Word of +Introduction took out his _Psalter_, and commenced reading the Psalms +for that Evening's Service; to wit, the 41st, the 42d, the 43de; in a +low solemne Voice; and methoughte I never in my Life hearde aniething +to equall it in the Way of Consolation. _Rose's_ heavie Eyes +graduallie lookt up from the Ground into her Husband's Face, and thence +up to Heaven. After this, he read, or rather repeated, the Collect at +the end of the Buriall Service, putting this Expression,--"As our Hope +is, this our deare Infant doth." Then he went on to say in a soothing +Tone, "There hath noe misfortune happened to us, but such as is common +to the Lot of alle Men. We are alle Sinners, even to the youngest, +fayrest, and seeminglie purest among us; and Death entered the World by +Sin, and, constituted as we are, we would not, even if we could, +dispense with Death. For, where doth it convey us? From this +burthensome, miserable World, into the generall Assemblie of _Christ's_ +First-born, to be united with the Spiritts of the Just made perfect, to +partake of everie Enjoyment which in this World is unconnected with +Sin, together with others that are unknowne and unspeakable. And +there, we shall agayn have _Bodies_ as well as Soules; Eyes to see, but +not to shed Tears; Voices to speak and sing, not to utter Lamentations; +Hands, to doe _God's_ Work; Feet, and it may be, Wings, to carry us on +his Errands. Such will be the Blessedness of his glorified Saints; +even of those who, having been Servants of Satan till the eleventh +Hour, laboured penitentlie and diligentlie for their heavenlie Master +one Hour before Sunset; but as for those who, dying in mere Infancie, +never committed actuall Sin, they follow the Lamb whithersoever he +goeth! 'Oh, think of this, dear _Rose_, and Sorrow not as those +without Hope; for be assured, your Child hath more reall Reason to be +grieved for you, than you for _him_.'" + +With this, and like Discourse, that distilled like the Dew, or the +small Rain on the tender Grasse, did _Roger Agnew_ comfort his Wife, +untill the Moon had risen. Likewise he spake to us of those who lay +buried arounde, how one had died of a broken Heart, another of suddain +Joy, another had let Patience have her perfect Work through Years of +lingering Disease. + +hen we walked slowlie and composedlie Home, and ate our Supper +peacefullie, _Rose_ not refusing to eat, though she took but little. + +Since that Evening, she hath, at Mr. _Agnew's_ Wish, gone much among +the Poor, reading to one, working for another, carrying Food and +Medicine to another; and in this I have borne her Companie. I like it +well. Methinks how pleasant and seemlie are the Duties of a country +Minister's Wife! a God-fearing Woman, that is, who considereth the Poor +and Needy, insteade of aiming to be frounced and purfled like her +richest Neighbours. Mr. _Agnew_ was reading to us, last Night, of +_Bernard Gilpin_--he of whom the _Lord Burleigh_ sayd, "Who can blame +that Man for not accepting a Bishopric?" How charmed were we with the +Description of the Simplicitie and Hospitalitie of his Method of living +at _Houghton_!--There is another Place of nearlie the same Name, in +_Buckinghamshire_--not _Houghton_, but _Horton_, . . . where one Mr. +_John Milton_ spent five of the best Years of his Life,--and where +methinks his Wife could have been happier with him than in _Bride's +Churchyarde_.--But it profits not to wish and to will.--What was to be, +had Need to be, soe there's an End. + + + +_Aug. 1, 1644_. + +Mr. _Agnew_ sayd to me this Morning, somewhat gravelie, "I observe, +_Cousin_, you seem to consider yourselfe the Victim of Circumstances." +"And am I not?" I replied. "No," he answered, "Circumstance is a false +God, unrecognised by the Christian, who contemns him, though a stubborn +yet a profitable Servant."--"That may be alle very grand for a Man to +doe," I sayd. "Very grand, but very feasible, for a Woman as well as a +Man," rejoined Mr. _Agnew_, "and we shall be driven to the Wall alle +our Lives, unless we have this victorious Struggle with Circumstances. +I seldom allude, _Cousin_, to yours, which are almoste too delicate for +me to meddle with; and yet I hardlie feele justified in letting soe +many opportunities escape. Do I offend? or may I go on?--Onlie think, +then, how voluntarilie you have placed yourself in your present +uncomfortable Situation. The Tree cannot resist the graduall Growth of +the Moss upon it; but you might, anie Day, anie Hour, have freed +yourself from the equallie graduall Formation of the Net that has +enclosed you at last. You entered too hastilie into your firste--nay, +let that pass,--you gave too shorte a Triall of your new Home before +you became disgusted with it. Admit it to have beene dull, even +unhealthfulle, were you justified in forsaking it at a Month's End? +But your Husband gave you Leave of Absence, though obtayned on false +Pretences.--When you found them to be false, should you not have +cleared yourself to him of Knowledge of the Deceit? Then your Leave, +soe obtayned, expired--shoulde you not have returned then?--Your Health +and Spiritts were recruited; your Husband wrote to reclaim you--shoulde +you not have returned then? He provided an Escort, whom your Father +beat and drove away.--If you had insisted on going to your Husband, +might you not have gone _then_? Oh, _Cousin_, you dare not look up to +Heaven and say you have been the Victim of Circumstances." + +I made no Answer; onlie felt much moven, and very angrie. I sayd, "If +I wished to goe back, Mr. _Milton_ woulde not receive me now." + +"Will you try?" sayd _Roger_. "Will you but let me try? Will you let +me write to him?" + +I had a Mind to say "Yes."--Insteade, I answered "No." + +"Then there's an End," cried he sharplie. "Had you made but one fayre +Triall, whether successfulle or noe, I coulde have been satisfied--no, +not satisfied, but I woulde have esteemed you, coulde have taken your +Part. As it is, the less I say just now, perhaps, the better. Forgive +me for having spoken at alle." + +----Afterwards, I hearde him say to _Rose_ of me, "I verilie believe +there is Nothing in her on which to make a permanent Impression. I +verilie think she loves everie one of those long Curls of hers more +than she loves Mr. _Milton_." + +(Note:--I will cut them two Inches shorter tonight. And they will grow +all the faster.) + +. . . Oh, my sad Heart, _Roger Agnew_ hath pierced you at last! + +I was moved, more than he thought, by what he had sayd in the Morning; +and, in writing down the Heads of his Speech, to kill Time, a kind of +Resentment at myselfe came over me, unlike to what I had ever felt +before; in spite of my Folly about my Curls. Seeking for some Trifle +in a Bag that had not been shaken out since I brought it from _London_, +out tumbled a Key with curious Wards--I knew it at once for one that +belonged to a certayn Algum-wood Casket Mr. _Milton_ had Recourse to +dailie, because he kept small Change in it; and I knew not I had +brought it away! 'Twas worked in Grotesque, the Casket, by +_Benvenuto_, for _Clement_ the Seventh, who for some Reason woulde not +have it; and soe it came somehow to _Clementillo_, who gave it to Mr. +_Milton_. Thought I, how uncomfortable the Loss of this Key must have +made him! he must have needed it a hundred Times! even if he hath +bought a new Casket, I will for it he habituallie goes agayn and agayn +to the old one, and then he remembers that he lost the Key the same Day +that he lost his Wife. I heartilie wish he had it back. Ah, but he +feels not the one Loss as he feels the other. Nay, but it is as well +that one of them, tho' the Lesser, should be repaired. 'Twill shew +Signe of Grace, my thinking of him, and may open the Way, if _God_ +wills, to some Interchange of Kindnesse, however fleeting. + +Soe I soughte out Mr. _Agnew_, tapping at his Studdy Doore. He sayd, +"Come in," drylie enoughe; and there were he and _Rose_ reading a +Letter. I sayd, "I want you to write for me to Mr. _Milton_." He gave +a sour Look, as much as to say he disliked the Office; which threw me +back, as 'twere; he having soe lately proposed it himself. _Rose's_ +Eyes, however, dilated with sweete Pleasure, as she lookt from one to +the other of us. + +"Well,--I fear 'tis too late," sayd he at length reluctantlie, I mighte +almost say grufflie,--"what am I to write?" + +"To tell him I have this Key," I made Answer faltering. + +"That Key!" cried he. + +"Yes, the Key of his Algum-wood Casket, which I knew not I had, and +which I think he must miss dailie." + +He lookt at me with the utmost Impatience. "And is that alle?" he sayd. + +"Yes, alle," I sayd trembling. + +"And have you nothing more to tell him?" sayd he. + +"No--" after a Pause, I replyed. _Rose's_ Countenance fell. + +"Then you must ask some one else to write for you, Mrs. _Milton,"_ +burste forthe _Roger Agnew_, "unless you choose to write for yourself. +I have neither Part nor Lot in it." + +I burste forthe into Teares. + +--"No, _Rose_, no," repeated Mr. _Agnew_, putting aside his Wife, who +woulde have interceded for me,--"her Teares have noe Effect on me +now--they proceed, not from a contrite Heart, they are the Tears of a +Child that cannot brook to be chidden for the Waywardnesse in which it +persists." + +"You doe me Wrong everie Way," I sayd; "I came to you willing and +desirous to doe what you yourselfe woulde, this Morning, have had me +doe." + +"But in how strange a Way!" cried he. "At a Time when anie Renewal of +your Intercourse requires to be conducted with the utmost Delicacy, and +even with more Shew of Concession on your Part than, an Hour ago, I +should have deemed needfulle,--to propose an abrupt, trivial +Communication about an old Key!" + +"It needed not to have been abrupt," I sayd, "nor yet trivial; for I +meant it to have beene exprest kindlie." + +"You said not that before," answered he. + +"Because you gave me not Time.--Because you chid me and frightened me." + +He stood silent, some While, upon this; grave, yet softer, and +mechanicallie playing with the Key, which he had taken from my Hand. +_Rose_ looking in his Face anxiouslie. At lengthe, to disturbe his +Reverie, she playfulle tooke it from him, saying, in School-girl Phrase, + +"This is the Key of the Kingdom!" + +"Of the Kingdom of Heaven, it mighte be!" exclaimed _Roger_, "if we +knew how to use it arighte! If we knew but how to fit it to the Wards +of _Milton's_ Heart!--there's the Difficultie. . . . a greater one, +poor _Moll_, than you know; for hitherto, alle the Reluctance has been +on your Part. But now . . ." + +"What now?" I anxiouslie askt. + +"We were talking of you but as you rejoyned us," sayd Mr. _Agnew_, "and +I was telling _Rose_ that hithertoe I had considered the onlie Obstacle +to a Reunion arose from a false Impression of your own, that Mr. +_Milton_ coulde not make you happy. But now I have beene led to the +Conclusion that you cannot make _him_ soe, which increases the +Difficultie." + +After a Pause, I sayd, "What makes you think soe?" + +"You and he have made me think soe," he replyed. "First for yourself, +dear _Moll_, putting aside for a Time the Consideration of your Youth, +Beauty, Franknesse, Mirthfullenesse, and a certayn girlish Drollerie +and Mischiefe that are all very well in fitting Time and Place,--what +remains in you for a Mind like _John Milton's_ to repose upon? what +Stabilitie? what Sympathie? what steadfast Principle? You take noe +Pains to apprehend and relish his favourite Pursuits; you care not for +his wounded Feelings, you consult not his Interests, anie more than +your owne Duty. Now, is such the Character to make _Milton_ happy?" + +"No one can answer that but himself," I replyed, deeplie mortyfide. + +"Well, he _has_ answered it," sayd Mr. _Agnew_, taking up the Letter he +and _Rose_ had beene reading when I interrupted them. . . . "You must +know, _Cousin_, that his and my close Friendship hath beene a good deal +interrupted by this Matter. 'Twas under my Roof you met. _Rose_ had +imparted to me much of her earlie Interest in you. I fancied you had +good Dispositions which, under masterlie Trayning, would ripen into +noble Principles; and therefore promoted your Marriage as far as my +Interest with your Father had Weight. I own I was surprised at his +easilie obtayned Consent . . . but, that _you_, once domesticated with +such a Man as _John Milton_, shoulde find your Home uninteresting, your +Affections free to stray back to your owne Family, was what I had never +contemplated." + +Here I made a Show of taking the Letter, but he held it back. + +"No, _Moll_, you disappointed us everie Way. And, for a Time, _Rose_ +and I were ashamed, _for_ you rather than of you, that we left noe +Means neglected of trying to preserve your Place in your Husband's +Regard. But you did not bear us out; and then he beganne to take it +amisse that we upheld you. Soe then, after some warm and cool Words, +our Correspondence languished; and hath but now beene renewed." + +"He hath written us a most kind Condolence," interrupted _Rose_, "on +the Death of our Baby." + +"Yes, most kindlie, most nobly exprest," sayd Mr. _Agnew_; "but what a +Conclusion!" + +And then, after this long Preamble, he offered me the Letter, the +Beginning of which, tho' doubtlesse well enough, I marked not, being +impatient to reach the latter Part; wherein I found myself spoken of +soe bitterlie, soe harshlie, as that I too plainly saw _Roger Agnew_ +had not beene beside the Mark when he decided I could never make Mr. +_Milton_ happy. Payned and wounded Feeling made me lay aside the +Letter without proffering another Word, and retreat without soe much as +a Sigh or a Sob into mine own Chamber; but noe longer could the +Restraynt be maintained. I fell to weeping soe passionatelie that +_Rose_ prayed to come in, and condoled with me, and advised me, soe as +that at length my Weeping bated, and I promised to return below when I +shoulde have bathed mine Eyes and smoothed my Hair; but I have not gone +down yet. + + + +_Bedtime_. + +I think I shall send to _Father_ to have me Home at the Beginning of +next Week. _Rose_ needes me not, now; and it cannot be pleasant to Mr. +_Agnew_ to see my sorrowfulle Face about the House. His Reproofe and +my Husband's together have riven my Heart; I think I shall never laugh +agayn, nor smile but after a piteous Sorte; and soe People will cease +to love me, for there is Nothing in me of a graver Kind to draw their +Affection; and soe I shall lead a moping Life unto the End of my Dayes. + +--Luckilie for me, _Rose_ hath much Sewing to doe; for she hath +undertaken with great Energie her Labours for the Poore, and +consequentlie spends less Time in her Husband's Studdy; and, as I help +her to the best of my Means, my Sewing hides my Lack of Talking, and +Mr. _Agnew_ reads to us such Books as he deems entertayning; yet, half +the Time, I hear not what he reads. Still, I did not deeme so much +Amusement could have beene found in Books; and there are some of his, +that, if not soe cumbrous, I woulde fain borrow. + + + +_Friday_. + +I have made up my Mind now, that I shall never see Mr. _Milton_ more; +and am resolved to submitt to it without another Tear. + +_Rose_ sayd, this Morning, she was glad to see me more composed; and +soe am I; but never was more miserable. + + + +_Saturday Night_. + +Mr. _Agnew's_ religious Services at the End of the Week have alwaies +more than usuall Matter and Meaninge in them. They are neither soe +drowsy as those I have beene for manie Years accustomed to at Home, nor +soe wearisome as to remind me of the _Puritans_. Were there manie such +as he in our Church, soe faithfulle, fervent, and thoughtfulle, +methinks there would be fewer Schismaticks; but still there woulde be +some, because there are alwaies some that like to be the uppermost. + +. . . To-nighte, Mr. _Agnew's_ Prayers went straight to my Heart; and I +privilie turned sundrie of his generall Petitions into particular ones, +for myself and _Robin_, and also for Mr. _Milton_. This gave such +unwonted Relief, that since I entered into my Closet, I have repeated +the same particularlie; one Request seeming to grow out of another, +till I remained I know not how long on my Knees, and will bend them yet +agayn, ere I go to Bed. + +How sweetlie the Moon shines through my Casement to-night! I am +almoste avised to accede to _Rose's_ Request of staying here to the End +of the Month:--everie Thing here is soe peacefulle; and _Forest Hill_ +is dull, now _Robin_ is away. + + + +_Sunday Evening_. + +How blessed a Sabbath!--Can it be, that I thought, onlie two Days back, +I shoulde never know Peace agayn? Joy I may not, but Peace I can and +doe. And yet nought hath amended the unfortunate Condition of mine +Affairs; but a different Colouring is caste upon them--the _Lord_ grant +that it may last! How hath it come soe, and how may it be preserved? +This Morn, when I awoke, 'twas with a Sense of Relief such as we have +when we miss some wearying bodilie Payn; a Feeling as though I had +beene forgiven, yet not by Mr. _Milton_, for I knew he had not forgiven +me. Then, it must be, I was forgiven by _God_; and why? I had done +nothing to get his Forgivenesse, only presumed on his Mercy to ask +manie Things I had noe Right to expect. And yet I felt I _was_ +forgiven. Why then mighte not Mr. _Milton_ some Day forgive me? +Should the Debt of ten thousand Talents be cancelled, and not the Debt +of a hundred Pence? Then I thought on that same Word, Talents; and +considered, had I ten, or even one? Decided to consider it at leisure, +more closelie, and to make over to _God_ henceforthe, be they ten, or +be it one. Then, dressed with much Composure, and went down to +Breakfast. + +Having marked that Mr. _Agnew_ and _Rose_ affected not Companie on this +Day, spent it chieflie by myself, except at Church and Meal-times; +partlie in my Chamber, partlie in the Garden Bowre by the Beehives. +Made manie Resolutions, which, in Church, I converted into Prayers and +Promises. Hence, my holy Peace. + + + +_Monday_. + +_Rose_ proposed, this Morning, we shoulde resume our Studdies. Felt +loath to comply, but did soe neverthelesse, and afterwards we walked +manie Miles, to visit some poor Folk. This Evening, Mr. _Agnew_ read +us the Prologue to the _Canterbury Tales_. How lifelike are the +Portraitures! I mind me that Mr. _Milton_ shewed me the _Talbot_ Inn, +that Day we crost the River with Mr. _Marvell_. + + + +_Tuesday_. + +How heartilie do I wish I had never read that same Letter!--or rather, +that it had never beene written. Thus it is, even with our Wishes. We +think ourselves reasonable in wishing some small Thing were otherwise, +which it were quite as impossible to alter as some great Thing. +Neverthelesse I cannot help fretting over the Remembrance of that Part +wherein he spake such bitter Things of my "most ungoverned Passion for +Revellings and Junketings." Sure, he would not call my Life too merrie +now, could he see me lying wakefulle on my Bed, could he see me +preventing the Morning Watch, could he see me at my Prayers, at my +Books, at my Needle. . . . He shall find he hath judged too hardlie of +poor _Moll_, even yet. + + + +_Wednesday_. + +Took a cold Dinner in a Basket with us to-day, and ate our rusticall +Repast on the Skirt of a Wood, where we could see the Squirrels at +theire Gambols. Mr. _Agnew_ lay on the Grasse, and _Rose_ took out her +Knitting, whereat he laught, and sayd she was like the _Dutch_ Women, +that must knit, whether mourning or feasting, and even on the Sabbath. +Having laught her out of her Work, he drew forth Mr. _George Herbert's_ +Poems, and read us a Strayn which pleased _Rose_ and me soe much, that +I shall copy it herein, to have always by me. + + + How fresh, oh Lord: how sweet and clean + Are thy Returns! e'en as the Flowers in Spring, + To which, beside theire owne Demesne, + The late pent Frosts Tributes of Pleasure bring. + Grief melts away like Snow in May, + As if there were noe such cold Thing. + + Who would have thought my shrivelled Heart + Woulde have recovered greenness? it was gone + Quite Underground, as Flowers depart + To see their Mother-root, when they have blown, + Where they together, alle the hard Weather, + Dead to the World, keep House alone. + + These are thy Wonders, Lord of Power! + Killing and quickening, bringing down to Hell + And up to Heaven, in an Hour, + Making a Chiming of a passing Bell, + We say amiss "this or that is:" + Thy Word is alle, if we could spell. + + Oh that I once past changing were! + Fast in thy Paradise, where no Flowers can wither; + Manie a Spring I shoot up faire, + Offering at Heaven, growing and groaning thither, + Nor doth my Flower want a Spring Shower, + My Sins and I joyning together. + + But while I grow in a straight Line, + Still upwards bent, as if Heaven were my own, + Thy Anger comes, and I decline.-- + What Frost to that! What Pole is not the Zone + Where alle Things burn, when thou dost turn, + And the least Frown of thine is shewn? + + And now, in Age, I bud agayn, + After soe manie Deaths, I bud and write, + I once more smell the Dew and Rain, + And relish Versing! Oh my onlie Light! + It cannot be that I am he + On whom thy Tempests fell alle Night? + + These are thy Wonders, Lord of Love, + To make us see we are but Flowers that glide, + Which, when we once can feel and prove, + Thou hast a Garden for us where to bide. + Who would be more, swelling their Store, + Forfeit their Paradise by theire Pride. + + + +_Thursday_. + +_Father_ sent over _Diggory_ with a Letter for me from deare _Robin_: +alsoe, to ask when I was minded to return Home, as _Mother_ wants to +goe to _Sandford_. Fixed the Week after next; but _Rose_ says I must +be here agayn at the Apple-gathering. Answered _Robin's_ Letter. He +looketh not for Choyce of fine Words; nor noteth an Error here and +there in the Spelling. + + + +_Tuesday_. + +Life flows away here in such unmarked Tranquilitie, that one hath +Nothing whereof to write, or to remember what distinguished one Day +from another. I am sad, yet not dulle; methinks I have grown some +Yeares older since I came here. I can fancy elder Women feeling much +as I doe now. I have Nothing to desire. Nothing to hope, that is +likelie to come to pass--Nothing to regret, except I begin soe far +back, that my whole Life hath neede, as 'twere, to begin over +agayn. . . . + +Mr. _Agnew_ translates to us Portions of _Thuanus_ his Historie, and +the Letters of _Theodore Bexa_, concerning the _French_ Reformed +Church; oft prolix, yet interesting, especially with Mr. _Agnew's_ +Comments, and Allusions to our own Time. On the other Hand, _Rose_ +reads _Davila_, the sworne Apologiste of _Catherine de' Medicis_, whose +charming _Italian_ even I can comprehende; but alle is false and +plausible. How sad, that the wrong Partie shoulde be victorious! Soe +it may befall in this Land; though, indeede, I have hearde soe much +bitter Rayling on bothe Sides, that I know not which is right. The +Line of Demarcation is not soe distinctly drawn, methinks, as 'twas in +_France_. Yet it cannot be right to take up Arms agaynst constituted +Authorities?--Yet, and if those same Authorities abuse their Trust? +Nay, Women cannot understand these Matters, and I thank Heaven they +need not. Onlie, they cannot help siding with those they love; and +sometimes those they love are on opposite Sides. + +Mr. _Agnew_ sayth, the secular Arm shoulde never be employed in +spirituall Matters, and that the _Hugenots_ committed a grave Mistake +in choosing Princes and Admirals for their Leaders, insteade of simple +Preachers with Bibles in their hands; and he askt, "did _Luther_ or +_Peter_ the Hermit most manifestlie labour with the Blessing of _God_?" + +. . . I have noted the Heads of Mr. _Agnew's_ Readings, after a Fashion +of _Rose's_, in order to have a shorte, comprehensive Account of the +Whole; and this hath abridged my journalling. It is the more +profitable to me of the two, changes the sad Current of Thought, and, +though an unaccustomed Task, I like it well. + + + +_Saturday_. + +On _Monday_, I return to _Forest Hill_. I am well pleased to have yet +another _Sheepscote_ Sabbath. To-day we had the rare Event of a +Dinner-guest; soe full of what the Rebels are doing, and alle the +Horrors of Strife, that he seemed to us quiete Folks, like the Denizen +of another World. + + + +_Forest Hill, August 3, 1644_. + +Home agayn, and _Mother_ hath gone on her long intended Visitt to Uncle +_John_, taking with her the two youngest. _Father_ much preoccupide, +by reason of the Supplies needed for his Majesty's Service; soe that, +sweet _Robin_ being away, I find myselfe lonely. _Harry_ rides with me +in the Evening, but the Mornings I have alle to myself; and when I have +fulfilled _Mother's_ Behests in the Kitchen and Still-room, I have +nought but to read in our somewhat scant Collection of Books, the moste +Part whereof are religious. And (not on that Account, but by reason I +have read the most of them before), methinks I will write to borrow +some of _Rose_; for Change of Reading hath now become a Want. I am +minded also, to seek out and minister unto some poore Folk after her +Fashion. Now that I am Queen of the Larder, there is manie a wholesome +Scrap at my Disposal, and there are likewise sundrie Physiques in my +Mother's Closet, which she addeth to Year by Year, and never wants, we +are soe seldom ill. + + + +_Aug. 5, 1644_. + +Dear _Father_ sayd this Evening, as we came in from a Walk on the +Terrace, "My sweet _Moll_, you were ever the Light of the House; but +now, though you are more staid than of former Time, I find you a better +Companion than ever. This last Visitt to _Sheepscote_ hath evened your +Spiritts." + +Poor _Father_! he knew not how I lay awake and wept last Night, for one +I shall never see agayn, nor how the Terrace Walk minded me of him. My +Spiritts may seem even, and I exert myself to please; but, within, all +is dark Shade, or at best, grey Twilight; and my Spiritts are, in Fact, +worse here than they were at _Sheepscote_, because, here, I am +continuallie thinking of one whose Name is never uttered; whereas, +there, it was mentioned naturallie and tenderlie, though sadly. . . . + +I will forthe to see some of the poor Folk. + + + +_Same Night_. + +Resolved to make the Circuit of the Cottages, but onlie reached the +first, wherein I found poor _Nell_ in such Grief of Body and Mind, that +I was avised to wait with her a long Time. Askt why she had not sent +to us for Relief; was answered she had thought of doing soe, but was +feared of making too free. After a lengthened Visitt, which seemed to +relieve her Mind, and certaynlie relieved mine, I bade her Farewell, +and at the Wicket met my Father coming up with a playn-favoured but +scholarlike looking reverend Man. He sayd, "_Moll_, I could not think +what had become of you." I answered, I hoped I had not kept him +waiting for Dinner--poor _Nell_ had entertayned me longer than I wisht, +with the Catalogue of her Troubles. The Stranger looking attentively +at me, observed that may be the poor Woman had entertayned an Angel +unawares; and added, "Doubt not, Madam, we woulde rather await our +Dinner than that you should have curtayled your Message of Charity." +Hithertoe, my Father had not named this Gentleman to me; but now he +sayd, "Child, this is the Reverend Doctor _Jeremy Taylor_, Chaplain in +Ordinarie to his Majesty, and whom you know I have heard more than once +preach before the King since he abode in _Oxford_." Thereon I made a +lowly Reverence, and we walked homewards together. At first, he +discoursed chiefly with my Father on the Troubles of the Times, and +then he drew me into the Dialogue, in the Course of which I let fall a +Saying of Mr. _Agnew's_, which drew from the reverend Gentleman a +respectfulle Look I felt I no Way deserved. Soe then I had to explain +that the Saying was none of mine, and felt ashamed he shoulde suppose +me wiser than I was, especiallie as he commended my Modesty. But we +progressed well, and he soon had the Discourse all to himself, for +Squire _Paice_ came up, and detained _Father_, while the Doctor and I +walked on. I could not help reflecting how odd it was, that I, whom +Nature had endowed with such a very ordinarie Capacitie, and scarce +anie Taste for Letters, shoulde continuallie be thrown into the +Companie of the cleverest of Men,--first, Mr. _Milton_: then Mr. +_Agnew_; and now, this Doctor _Jeremy Taylor_. But, like the other +two, he is not merely clever, he is Christian and good. How much I +learnt in this short Interview! for short it seemed, though it must +have extended over a good half Hour. He sayd, "Perhaps, young Lady, +the Time may come when you shall find safer Solace in the Exercise of +the Charities than of the Affections. Safer: for, not to consider how +a successfulle or unsuccessfulle Passion for a human Being of like +Infirmities with ourselves, oft stains and darkens and shortens the +Current of Life, even the chastened Love of a Mother for her Child, as +of _Octavia_, who swooned at '_Tu, Marcellus, eris_,'--or of Wives for +their Husbands, as _Artemisia_ and _Laodamia_, sometimes amounting to +Idolatry--nay, the Love of Friend for Friend, with alle its sweet +Influences and animating Transports, yet exceeding the Reasonableness +of that of _David_ for _Jonathan_, or of our blessed _Lord_ for _St. +John_ and the Family of _Lazarus_, may procure far more Torment than +Profit: even if the Attachment be reciprocal, and well grounded, and +equallie matcht, which often it is not. Then interpose human Tempers, +and Chills, and Heates, and Slyghtes fancied or intended, which make +the vext Soul readie to wish it had never existed. How smalle a Thing +is a human Heart! you might grasp it in your little Hand; and yet its +Strifes and Agonies are enough to distend a Skin that should cover the +whole World! But, in the Charities, what Peace! yea, they distill +Sweetnesse even from the Unthankfulle, blessing him that gives more +than him that receives; while, in the Main, they are laid out at better +Interest than our warmest Affections, and bring in a far richer Harvest +of Love and Gratitude. Yet, let our Affections have their fitting +Exercise too, staying ourselves with the Reflection, that there is +greater Happinesse, after alle Things sayd, in loving than in being +loved, save by the _God_ of Love who first loved us, and that they who +dwell in Love dwell in _Him_." + +Then he went on to speak of the manifold Acts and Divisions of Charity; +as much, methought, in the Vein of a Poet as a Preacher; and he minded +me much of that Scene in the tenth Book of the _Fairie Queene_, soe +lately read to us by Mr. _Agnew_, wherein the _Red Cross Knight_ and +_Una_ were shown _Mercy_ at her Work. + + + +_Aug. 10, 1644_. + +A Pack-horse from _Sheepscote_ just reported, laden with a goodlie +Store of Books, besides sundrie smaller Tokens of _Rose's_ thoughtfulle +Kindnesse. I have now methodicallie divided my Time into stated Hours, +of Prayer, Exercise, Studdy, Housewiferie, and Acts of Mercy, on +however a humble Scale; and find mine owne Peace of Mind thereby +increased notwithstanding the Darknesse of publick and Dullnesse of +private Affairs. + +Made out the Meaning of "Cynosure" and "Cimmerian Darknesse." . . . + + + +_Aug. 15, 1644_. + +Full sad am I to learn that Mr. _Milton_ hath published another Book in +Advocacy of Divorce. Alas, why will he chafe against the Chain, and +widen the cruel Division between us? My Father is outrageous on the +Matter, and speaks soe passionatelie of him, that it is worse than not +speaking of him at alle, which latelie I was avised to complain of. + + + +_Aug. 30, 1644_. + +_Dick_ beginneth to fancie himself in Love with _Audrey Paice--_an +Attachment that will doe him noe good: his Tastes alreadie want +raising, and she will onlie lower them, I feare,--a comely, romping, +noisie Girl, that, were she but a Farmer's Daughter, woulde be the Life +and Soul of alle the Whitsun-ales, Harvest-homes, and Hay-makings in +the Country: in short, as fond of idling and merrymaking as I once was +myself: onlie I never was soe riotous. + +I beginne to see Faults in _Dick_ and _Harry_ I never saw before. Is +my Taste bettering, or my Temper worsenning? At alle Events, we have +noe cross Words, for I expect them not to alter, knowing how hard it is +to doe soe by myself. + +I look forward with Pleasure to my _Sheepscote_ Visitt. Dear _Mother_ +returneth to-morrow. Good Dr. _Taylor_ hath twice taken the Trouble to +walk over from _Oxford_ to see me, but he hath now left, and we may +never meet agayn. His Visitts have beene very precious to me: I think +he hath some Glimmering of my sad Case: indeed, who knows it not? At +parting he sayd, smiling, he hoped he should yet hear of my making +Offerings to _Viriplaca_ on _Mount Palatine_; then added, gravelie, +"You know where reall Offerings may be made and alwaies +accepted--Offerings of spare Half-hours and Five-minutes, when we shut +the Closet Door and commune with our own Hearts and are still." Alsoe +he sayd, "There are Sacrifices to make which sometimes wring our very +Hearts to offer; but our gracious _God_ accepts them neverthelesse, if +our Feet be really in the right Path, even though, like _Chryseis_, we +look back, weeping." + +He sayd . . . But how manie Things as beautifulle and true did I hear +my Husband say, which passed by me like the idle Wind that I regarded +not! + + + +_Sept. 8, 1644_. + +_Harry_ hath just broughte in the News of his Majesty's Success in the +West. Lord _Essex's_ Army hath beene completely surrounded by the +royal Troops; himself forct to escape in a Boat to _Plymouth_, and all +the Arms, Artillerie, Baggage, etc., of _Skippon's_ Men have fallen +into the Hands of the King. _Father_ is soe pleased that he hath +mounted the Flag, and given double Allowance of Ale to his Men. + +I wearie to hear from _Robin_. + + + +_Sheepscote, Oct. 10, 1644_. + +How sweete a Picture of rurall Life did _Sheepscote_ present, when I +arrived here this Afternoon! The Water being now much out, the Face of +the Countrie presented a new Aspect: there were Men threshing the +Walnut Trees, Children and Women putting the Nuts into Osier Baskets, a +Bailiff on a white Horse overlooking them, and now and then galloping +to another Party, and splashing through the Water. Then we found Mr. +_Agnew_ equallie busie with his Apples, mounted half Way up one of the +Trees, and throwing Cherry Pippins down into _Rose's_ Apron, and now +and then making as though he would pelt her: onlie she dared him, and +woulde not be frightened. Her Donkey, chewing Apples in the Corner, +with the Cider running out of his Mouth, presented a ludicrous Image of +Enjoyment, and 'twas evidently enhanct by _Giles'_ brushing his rough +Coat with a Birch Besom, instead of minding his owne Businesse of +sweeping the Walk. The Sun, shining with mellow Light on the mown +Grass and fresh dipt Hornbeam Hedges, made even the commonest Objects +distinct and cheerfulle; and the Air was soe cleare, we coulde hear the +Village Childreh afar off at theire Play. + +_Rose_ had abundance of delicious new Honey in the Comb, and Bread hot +from the Oven, for our earlie Supper. _Dick_ was tempted to stay too +late; however, he is oft as late, now, returning from _Audrey Paice_, +though my Mother likes it not. + + + +_Oct. 15, 1644_. + +_Rose_ is quite in good Spiritts now, and we goe on most harmoniouslie +and happilie. Alle our Tastes are now in common; and I never more +enjoyed this Union of Seclusion and Society. Besides, Mr. _Agnew_ is +more than commonlie kind, and never speaks sternlie or sharplie to me +now. Indeed, this Morning, looking thoughtfullie at me, he sayd, "I +know not_, Cousin_, what Change has come over you, but you are now alle +that a wise Man coulde love and approve." I sayd, It must be owing +then to Dr. _Jeremy Taylor_, who had done me more goode, it woulde +seeme, in three Lessons, than he or Mr. _Milton_ coulde imparte in +thirty or three hundred. He sayd he was inclined to attribute it to a +higher Source than that; and yet, there was doubtlesse a great Knack in +teaching, and there was a good deal in liking the Teacher. He had +alwaies hearde the Doctor spoken of as a good, pious, and clever Man, +though rather too high a Prelatist. I sayd, "There were good Men of +alle Sorts: there was Mr. _Milton_, who woulde pull the Church down; +there was Mr. _Agnew_, who woulde onlie have it mended; and there was +Dr. _Jeremy Taylor_, who was content with it as it stoode." Then +_Rose_ askt me of the puritanicall Preachers. Then I showed her how +they preached, and made her laugh. But Mr. _Agnew_ woulde not laugh. +But I made him laugh at last. Then he was angrie with himself and with +me; only not very angry; and sayd, I had a Right to a Name which he +knew had beene given me, of "cleaving Mischief." I knew not he knew of +it, and was checked, though I laught it off. + + + +_Oct. 16, 1644_. + +Walking together, this Morning, _Rose_ was avised to say, "Did Mr. +_Milton_ ever tell you the Adventures of the _Italian_ Lady?" "Rely on +it he never did," sayd Mr. _Agnew.--"Milton_ is as modest a Man as ever +breathed--alle Men of first class Genius are soe." "What was the +Adventure?" I askt, curiouslie. "Why, I neede not tell you, _Moll_, +that _John Milton_, as a Youth, was extremelie handsome, even +beautifull. His Colour came and went soe like a Girl's, that we of +_Christ's_ College used to call him 'the Lady,' and thereby annoy him +noe little. One summer Afternoone he and I and young _King_ +(_Lycidas_, you know) had started on a country Walk, (the Countrie is +not pretty, round _Cambridge_) when we met in with an Acquaintance whom +Mr. _Milton_ affected not, soe he sayd he would walk on to the first +rising Ground and wait us there. On this rising Ground stood a Tree, +beneath which our impatient young Gentleman presentlie cast himself, +and, having walked fast, and the Weather being warm, soon falls asleep +as sound as a Top. Meantime, _King_ and I quit our Friend and saunter +forward pretty easilie. Anon comes up with us a Caroche, with +something I know not what of outlandish in its Build; and within it, +two Ladies, one of them having the fayrest Face I ever set Eyes on, +present Companie duly excepted. The Caroche having passed us, _King_ +and I mutuallie express our Admiration, and thereupon, preferring Turf +to Dust, got on the other Side the Hedge, which was not soe thick but +that we could make out the Caroche, and see the Ladies descend from it, +to walk up the Hill. Having reached the Tree, they paused in Surprise +at seeing _Milton_ asleep beneath it; and in prettie dumb Shew, which +we watcht sharplie, exprest their Admiration of his Appearance and +Posture, which woulde have suited an _Arcadian_ well enough. The +younger Lady, hastilie taking out a Pencil and Paper, wrote something +which she laughinglie shewed her Companion, and then put into the +Sleeper's Hand. Thereupon, they got into their Caroche, and drove off. +_King_ and I, dying with Curiositie to know what she had writ, soon +roused our Friend and possest ourselves of the Secret. The Verses ran +thus. . . . + + Occhi, Stelle mortali, + Ministre de miei Mali, + Se, chiusi, m' uccidete, + Aperti, che farete? + +"_Milton_ coloured, crumpled them up, and yet put them in his Pocket; +then askt us what the Lady was like. And herein lay the Pleasantry of +the Affair; for I truly told him she had a Pear-shaped Face, lustrous +black Eyes, and a Skin that shewed '_il bruno il bel non toglie_;' +whereas, _King_, in his Mischief, drew a fancy Portrait, much liker +you, _Moll_, than the Incognita, which hit _Milton's_ Taste soe much +better, that he was believed for his Payns; and then he declared that I +had beene describing the Duenna! . . . Some Time after, when _Milton_ +beganne to talk of visiting _Italy_, we bantered him, and sayd he was +going to look for the Incognita. He stoode it well, and sayd, 'Laugh +on! do you think I mind you? Not a Bit.' I think he did." + +Just at this Turn, Mr. _Agnew_ stumbled at something in the long Grass. +It proved to be an old, rustic Horse-pistol. His Countenance changed +at once from gay to grave. "I thought we had noe such Things +hereabouts yet," cried he, viewing it askance.--"I suppose I mighte as +well think I had found a Corner of the Land where there was noe +originall Sin." And soe, flung it over the Hedge. + +----First class Geniuses are alwaies modest, are they?--Then I should +say that young _Italian_ Lady's Genius was not of the first Class. + + + +_Oct. 19, 1644_. + +Speaking, to-day, of Mr. _Waller_, whom I had once seen at Uncle +_John's_, Mr. _Agnew_ sayd he had obtayned the Reputation of being one +of our smoothest Versers, and thereupon brought forth one or two of his +small Pieces in Manuscript, which he read to _Rose_ and me. They were +addrest to the Lady _Dorothy Sydney_; and certainlie for specious +Flatterie I doe not suppose they can be matcht; but there is noe +Impress of reall Feeling in them. How diverse from my Husband's +Versing! He never writ anie mere Love-verses, indeede, soe far as I +know; but how much truer a Sence he hath of what is reallie beautifulle +and becoming in a Woman than Mr. _Waller_! The Lady _Alice Egerton_ +mighte have beene more justlie proud of the fine Things written _for_ +her in _Comus_, than the Lady _Dorothea_ of anie of the fine Things +written _of_ her by this courtier-like Poet. For, to say that Trees +bend down in homage to a Woman when she walks under them, and that the +healing Waters of _Tonbridge_ were placed there by Nature to compensate +for the fatal Pride of _Sacharissa_, is soe fullesome and untrue as noe +Woman, not devoured by Conceite, coulde endure; whereas, the Check that +Villanie is sensible of in the Presence of Virtue, is most nobly, not +extravagantlie, exprest by _Comus_. And though my Husband be almost +too lavish, even in his short Pieces, of classic Allusion and +Personation, yet, like antique Statues and Busts well placed in some +statelie Pleasaunce, they are alwaies appropriate and gracefulle, which +is more than can be sayd of Mr. _Waller's_ overstrayned Figures and +Metaphors. + + + +_Oct. 20, 1644_. + +News from Home: alle well. _Audrey Paice_ on a Visitt there. I hope +_Mother_ hath not put her into my Chamber, but I know that she hath +sett so manie Trays full of Spearmint, Peppermint, Camomiles, and +Poppie-heads in the blue Chamber to dry, that she will not care to move +them, nor have the Window opened lest they shoulde be blown aboute. I +wish I had turned the Key on my ebony Cabinett. + + + +_Oct. 24, 1644_. + +_Richard_ and _Audrey_ rode over here, and spent a noisie Afternoone. +_Rose_ had the Goose dressed which I know she meant to have reserved +for to-morrow. _Clover_ was in a Heat, which one would have thoughte +he needed not to have beene, with carrying a Lady; but _Audrey_ is +heavie. She treats _Dick_ like a boy; and, indeede he is not much +more; but he is quite taken up with her. I find she lies in the blue +Chamber, which she says smells rarelie of Herbs. They returned not +till late, after sundrie Hints from Mr. _Agnew_. + + + +_Oct. 27, 1644_. + +Alas, alas, _Robin's_ Silence is too sorrowfullie explained! He hath +beene sent Home soe ill that he is like to die. This Report I have +from _Diggory_, just come over to fetch me, with whom I start, soe +soone as his Horse is bated. _Lord_, have Mercie on _Robin_. + +The Children are alle sent away to keep the House quiete. + + + +_At Robin's Bedside, + Saturday Night_. + +Oh, woefulle Sight! I had not known that pale Face, had I met it +unawares. So thin and wan,--and he hath shot up into a tall Stripling +during the last few Months. These two Nights of Watching have tried me +sorelie, but I would not be witholden from sitting up with him yet +agayn--what and if this Night should be his last? how coulde I forgive +myself for sleeping on now and taking my Rest? The first Night, he +knew me not; yet it was bitter-sweet to hear him chiding at sweet +_Moll_ for not coming. Yesternight he knew me for a While, kissed me, +and _fell_ into an heavie Sleepe, with his Hand locked in mine. We +hoped the Crisis was come; but 'twas not soe. He raved much of a Man +alle in red, riding hard after him. I minded me of those Words, "The +Enemy sayd, I will overtake, I will pursue,"--and, noe one being by, +save the unconscious Sufferer, I kneeled down beside him, and most +earnestlie prayed for his Deliverance from all spirituall Adversaries. +When I lookt up, his Eyes, larger and darker than ever, were fixt on me +with a strange, wistfulle Stare, but he spake not. From that Moment he +was quiete. + +The Doctor thought him rambling this Morning, though I knew he was not, +when he spake of an Angel in a long white Garment watching over him and +kneeling by him in the Night. + + + +_Sunday Evening_. + +Poor _Nell_ sitteth up with _Mother_ to-night--right thankfulle is she +to find that she can be of anie Use: she says it seems soe strange that +she should be able to make any Return for my Kindnesse. I must sleep +to-night, that I may watch to-morrow. The Servants are nigh spent, and +are besides foolishlie afrayd of Infection. I hope _Rose_ prays for +me. Soe drowsie and dulle am I, as scarce to be able to pray for +myself. + + + +_Monday_. + +_Rose_ and Mr. _Agnew_ come to abide with us for some Days. How +thankfulle am I! Tears have relieved me. + +_Robin_ worse to-day. _Father_ quite subdued. Mr. _Agnew_ will sit up +to-night, and insists on my sleeping. + +_Crab_ howled under my Window yesternight as he did before my Wedding. +I hope there is nothing in it. _Harry_ got up and beat him, and at +last put him in the Stable. + + + +_Tuesday_. + +After two Nights' Rest, I feel quite strengthened and restored this +Morning. Deare _Rose_ read me to sleep in her low, gentle Voice, and +then lay down by my Side, twice stepping into _Robin's_ Chamber during +the Night, and bringing me News that all was well. Relieved in Mind, I +slept heavilie nor woke till late. Then, returned to the sick Chamber, +and found _Rose_ bathing dear _Robin's_ Temples with Vinegar, and +changing his Pillow--his thin Hand rested on Mr. _Agnew_, on whom he +lookt with a composed, collected Gaze. Slowlie turned his Eyes on me, +and faintlie smiled, but spake not. + +Poor dear _Mother_ is ailing now. I sate with her and _Father_ some +Time; but it was a true Relief when _Rose_ took my Place and let me +return to the sick Room. _Rose_ hath alreadie made several little +Changes for the better; improved the Ventilation of _Robin's_ Chamber, +and prevented his hearing soe manie Noises. Alsoe, showed me how to +make a pleasant cooling Drink, which he likes better than the warm +Liquids, and which she assures me he may take with perfect Safetie. + + + +_Same Evening_. + +_Robin_ vext, even to Tears, because the Doctor forbids the use of his +cooling Drink, though it hath certainlie abated the Fever. At his Wish +I stept down to intercede with the Doctor, then closetted with my +Father, to discourse, as I supposed, of _Robin's_ Symptoms. Insteade +of which, found them earnestlie engaged on the never-ending Topick of +Cavaliers and Roundheads. I was chafed and cut to the Heart, yet what +can poor _Father_ do; he is useless in the Sick-room, he is wearie of +Suspense, and 'tis well if publick Affairs can divert him for an odd +Half-hour. + +The Doctor would not hear of _Robin_ taking the cooling Beverage, and +warned me that his Death woulde be upon my Head if I permitted him to +be chilled: soe what could I doe? Poor _Robin_ very impatient in +consequence; and raving towards Midnight. _Rose_ insisted in taking +the last Half of my Watch. + +I know not that I was ever more sorelie exercised than during the first +Half of this Night. _Robin_, in his crazie Fit, would leave his Bed, +and was soe strong as nearlie to master _Nell_ and me, and I feared I +must have called _Richard_. The next Minute he fell back as weak as a +Child: we covered him up warm, and he was overtaken either with Stupor +or Sleep. Earnestlie did I pray it might be the latter, and conduce to +his healing. Afterwards, there being writing Implements at Hand, I +wrote a Letter to Mr. _Milton_, which, though the Fancy of sending it +soon died away, yet eased my Mind. When not in Prayer, I often find +myself silently talking to him. + + + +_Wednesday_. + +Waking late after my scant Night's Rest, I found my Breakfaste neatlie +layd out in the little Ante-chamber, to prevent the Fatigue of going +down Stairs. A Handfulle of Autumn Flowers beside my Plate, left me in +noe Doubt it was _Rose's_ doing; and Mr. _Agnew_ writing at the Window, +tolde me he had persuaded my Father to goe to _Shotover_ with _Dick_. +Then laying aside his Pen, stept into the Sick-chamber for the latest +News, which was good: and, sitting next me, talked of the Progress of +_Robin's_ Illness in a grave yet hopefulle Manner; leading, as he +chieflie does, to high and unearthlie Sources of Consolation. He +advised me to take a Turn in the fresh Ayr, though but as far as the +two Junipers, before I entered _Robin's_ Chamber, which, somewhat +reluctantlie, I did; but the bright Daylight and warm Sun had no good +Effect on my Spiritts: on the Contrarie, nothing in blythe Nature +seeming in unison with my Sadnesse, Tears flowed without relieving me. + +----What a solemne, pompous Prigge is this Doctor! He cries "humph!" +and "aye!" and bites his Nails and screws his Lips together, but I +don't believe he understands soe much of Physick, after alle, as Mr. +_Agnew_. + +_Father_ came Home fulle of the Rebels' Doings, but as for me, I +shoulde hear them thundering at our Gate with Apathie, except insofar +as I feared their distressing _Robin_. + +_Audrey_ rode over with her Father, this Morn, to make Enquiries. She +might have come sooner had she meant to be anie reall Use to a Family +she has thought of entering. Had _Rose_ come to our Help as late in +the Day, we had been poorlie off. + + + +_Thursday_. + +May _Heaven_ in its Mercy save us from the evil Consequence of this new +Mischance!--_Richard_, jealous at being allowed so little Share in +nursing _Robin_, whom he sayd he loved as well as anie did, would sit +up with him last Night, along with _Mother_. Twice I heard him +snoring, and stept in to prevail on him to change Places, but coulde +not get him to stir. A third Time he fell asleep, and, it seems, +_Mother_ slept too; and _Robin_, in his Fever, got out of Bed and drank +near a Quart of colde Water, waking _Dick_ by setting down the Pitcher. +Of course the Bustle soon reached my listening Ears. _Dick_, to do him +Justice, was frightened enough, and stole away to his Bed without a +Word of Defence; but poor _Mother_, who had been equallie off her +Watch, made more Noise about it than was good for _Robin_; who, +neverthelesse, we having warmlie covered up, burst into a profuse Heat, +and fell into a sound Sleep, which hath now holden him manie Hours. +Mr. _Agnew_ augureth favourablie of his waking, but we await it in +prayerfulle Anxietie. + +----The Crisis is past! and the Doctor sayeth he alle along expected it +last Night, which I cannot believe, but _Father_ and _Mother_ doe. At +alle Events, praised be _Heaven_, there is now hope that deare _Robin_ +may recover. _Rose_ and I have mingled Tears, Smiles, and +Thankgivings; Mr. _Agnew_ hath expressed Gratitude after a more +collected Manner, and endeavoured to check the somewhat ill-governed +Expression of Joy throughout the House; warning the Servants, but +especiallie _Dick_ and _Harry_, that _Robin_ may yet have a Relapse. + +With what Transport have I sat beside dear _Robin's_ Bed, returning his +fixed, earnest, thankfulle Gaze, and answering the feeble Pressure of +his Hand!--Going into the Studdy just now, I found _Father_ crying like +a Child--the first Time I have known him give Way to Tears during +_Robin's_ Ilnesse. Mr. _Agnew_ presentlie came in, and composed him +better than I coulde. + + + +_Saturday_. + +_Robin_ better, though still very weak. Had his Bed made, and took a +few Spoonfuls of Broth. + + + +_Sunday_. + +A very different Sabbath from the last. Though _Robin's_ Constitution +hath received a Shock it may never recover, his comparative Amendment +fills us with Thankfulnesse; and our chastened Suspense hath a sweet +Solemnitie and Trustfullenesse in it, which pass Understanding. + +Mr. _Agnew_ conducted our Devotions. This Morning, I found him praying +with _Robin_--I question if it were for the first Time. _Robin_ +looking on him with eyes of such sedate Affection! + + + +_Thursday_. + +_Robin_ still progressing. Dear _Rose_ and Mr. _Agnew_ leave us +to-morrow, but they will soon come agayn. Oh faithful Friends! + + * * * * * * + +_April, 1646_. + +Can Aniething equall the desperate Ingratitude of the human Heart? +Testifie of it, Journall, agaynst me. Here did I, throughout the +incessant Cares and Anxieties of _Robin's_ Sicknesse, find, or make +Time, for almoste dailie Record of my Trouble; since which, whole +Months have passed without soe much as a scrawled Ejaculation of +Thankfullenesse that the Sick hath beene made whole. + +Yet, not that that Thankfullenesse hath beene unfelt, nor, though +unwritten, unexprest. Nay, O _Lord_, deeplie, deeplie have I thanked +thee for thy tender Mercies. And he healed soe slowlie, that Suspense, +as 'twere, wore itself out, and gave Place to a dull, mournful +Persuasion that an Hydropsia would waste him away, though more slowlie, +yet noe less surelie than the Fever. + +Soe Weeks lengthened into Months, I mighte well say Years, they seemed +soe long! and stille he seemed to neede more Care and Tendernesse; +till, just as he and I had learnt to say, "Thy Will, O _Lord_, be +done," he began to gain Flesh, his craving Appetite moderated, yet his +Food nourished him, and by _God's_ Blessing he recovered! + +During that heavie Season of Probation, our Hearts were unlocked, and +we spake oft to one another of Things in Heaven and Things in Earth. +Afterwards, our mutuall Reserves returned, and _Robin_, methinks, +became shyer than before, but there can never cease to be a dearer Bond +between us. Now we are apart, I aim to keep him mindfulle of the high +and holie Resolutions he formed in his Sicknesse; and though he never +answers these Portions of my Letters, I am avised to think he finds +them not displeasing. + +Now that _Oxford_ is like to be besieged, my Life is more confined than +ever; yet I cannot, and will not leave _Father_ and _Mother_, even for +the _Agnews_, while they are soe much harassed. This Morning, my +Father hath received a Letter from Sir _Thomas Glemham_, requiring a +larger Quantitie of winnowed Wheat, than, with alle his Loyaltie, he +likes to send. + + + +_April 23, 1646_. + +_Ralph Hewlett_ hath just looked in to say, his Father and Mother have +in Safetie reached _London_, where he will shortlie joyn them, and to +ask, is there anie Service he can doe me? Ay, truly; one that I dare +not name--he can bring me Word of Mr. _Milton_, of his Health, of his +Looks, of his Speech, and whether . . . + +_Ralph_ shall be noe Messenger of mine. + + + +_April 24, 1646_. + +Talking of Money Matters this Morning, _Mother_ sayd Something that +brought Tears into mine Eyes. She observed, that though my Husband had +never beene a Favourite of hers, there was one Thing wherein she must +say he had behaved generously: he had never, to this Day, askt _Father_ +for the 500 pounds which had brought him, in the first Instance, to +_Forest Hill_, (he having promised old Mr. _Milton_ to try to get the +Debt paid,) and the which, on his asking for my Hand, _Father_ tolde +him shoulde be made over sooner or later, in lieu of Dower. + +Did _Rose_ know the Bitter-sweet she was imparting to me, when she gave +me, by Stealth as 'twere, the latelie publisht Volume of my Husband's +_English_ Versing? It hath beene my Companion ever since; for I had +perused the _Comus_ but by Snatches, under the Disadvantage of crabbed +Manuscript. This Morning, to use his owne deare Words:-- + + I sat me down to watch, upon a Bank, + With Ivy canopied, and interwove + With flaunting Honeysuckle, and beganne, + Wrapt in a pleasing Fit of Melancholic, + To meditate. + + +The Text of my Meditation was this, drawne from the same loved Source:-- + + This I hold firm: + Virtue may be assayled, but never hurt, + Surprised by unjust Force, but not enthralled: + Yea, even that which Mischief meant most Harm, + Shall, in the happy Trial, prove most Glory. + + +But who hath such Virtue? have I? hath he? No, we have both gone +astray, and done amiss, and wrought sinfullie; but I worst, I first, +therefore more neede that I humble myself, and pray for both. + +There is one, more unhappie, perhaps, than either. The _King_, most +misfortunate Gentleman! who knoweth not which Way to turn, nor whom to +trust. Last Time I saw him, methought never was there a Face soe full +of Woe. + + + +_May 6, 1646_. + +The _King_ hath escaped! He gave Orders overnight at alle the Gates, for +three Persons to passe; and, accompanied onlie by Mr. _Ashburnham_, and +Mr. _Hurd_, rode forthe at Nightfalle, towards _London_. Sure, he will +not throw himselfe into the Hands of Parliament? + +_Mother_ is affrighted beyond Measure at the near Neighbourhood of +_Fairfax's_ Army, and entreats _Father_ to leave alle behind, and flee +with us into the City. It may yet be done; and we alle share her Feares. + + + +_Saturday Even_. + +Packing up in greate haste, after a confused Family Council, wherein some +fresh Accounts of the Rebels' Advances, broughte in by _Diggory_, made my +Father the sooner consent to a stolen Flight into _Oxford_, _Diggory_ +being left behind in Charge. Time of Flight, to-morrow after Dark, the +_Puritans_ being busie at theire Sermons. The better the Day, the better +the Deede.--_Heaven_ make it soe! + + + +_Tuesday_. + +_Oxford_; in most most confined and unpleasant Lodgings; but noe Matter, +manie better and richer than ourselves fare worse, and our King hath not +where to lay his Head. 'Tis sayd he hath turned his Course towards +_Scotland_. There are Souldiers in this House, whose Noise distracts us. +Alsoe, a poor Widow Lady, whose Husband hath beene slayn in these Wars. +The Children have taken a feverish Complaynt, and require incessant +tending. Theire Beds are far from cleane, in too little Space, and ill +aired. + + + +_May 20, 1646_. + +The Widow Lady goes about visiting the Sick, and woulde faine have my +Companie. The Streets have displeased me, being soe fulle of Men; +however, in a close Hoode I have accompanied her sundrie Times. 'Tis a +good Soul, and full of pious Works and Alms-deedes. + + + +_May 27, 1646_. + +_Diggory_ hath found his Way to us, alle dismaied, and bringing Dismay +with him, for the Rebels have taken and ransacked our House, and turned +him forthe. "A Plague on these Wars!" as _Father_ says. What are we to +doe, or how live, despoyled of alle? _Father_ hath lost, one Way and +another, since the Civil War broke out, three thousand Pounds, and is now +nearlie beggared. _Mother_ weeps bitterlie, and _Father's_ Countenance +hath fallen more than ever I saw it before. "Nine Children!" he +exclaimed, just now; "and onlie one provided for!" His Eye fell upon me +for a Moment, with less Tendernesse than usuall, as though he wished me +in _Aldersgate Street_. I'm sure I wish I were there,--not because +_Father_ is in Misfortune; oh, no. + + + +_June, 1646_. + +The Parliament requireth our unfortunate King to issue Orders to this and +alle his other Garrisons, commanding theire Surrender; and _Father_, +finding this is likelie to take Place forthwith, is busied in having +himself comprised within the Articles of Surrender. 'Twill be hard +indeed, shoulde this be denied. His Estate lying in the King's Quarters, +howe coulde he doe less than adhere to his Majesty's Partie during this +unnaturall War? I am sure _Mother_ grudged the Royalists everie Goose +and Turkey they had from our Yard. + + + +_June 27, 1646_. + +Praised be _Heaven_, deare _Father_ hath just received Sir _Thomas +Fairfax's_ Protection, empowering him quietlie and without let to goe +forthe "with Servants, Horses, Arms, Goods, etc." to "_London_ or +elsewhere," whithersoever he will. And though the Protection extends but +over six Months, at the Expiry of which Time, _Father_ must take Measures +to embark for some Place of Refuge beyond Seas, yet who knows what may +turn up in those six Months! The King may enjoy his Owne agayn. +Meantime, we immediatelie leave _Oxford_. + + + +_Forest Hill_. + +At Home agayn; and what a Home! Everiething to seeke, everiething +misplaced, broken, abused, or gone altogether! The Gate off its Hinges; +the Stone Balls of the Pillars overthrowne, the great Bell stolen, the +clipt Junipers grubbed up, the Sun-diall broken! Not a Hen or Chicken, +Duck or Duckling, left! _Crab_ half-starved, and soe glad to see us, +that he dragged his Kennel after him. _Daisy_ and _Blanch_ making such +piteous Moans at the Paddock Gate, that I coulde not bear it, but helped +_Lettice_ to milk them. Within Doors, everie Room smelling of Beer and +Tobacco; Cupboards broken upon, etc. On my Chamber Floor, a greasy +steeple-crowned Hat! Threw it forthe from the Window with a Pair of +Tongs. + +_Mother_ goes about the House weeping. _Father_ sits in his broken +Arm-chair, the Picture of Disconsolateness. I see the _Agnews_, true +Friends! riding hither; and with them a Third, who, methinks, is _Rose's_ +Brother _Ralph_. + + + +_London. St. Martin's le Grand_. + +Trembling, weeping, hopefulle, dismaied, here I sit in mine Uncle's hired +House, alone in a Crowd, scared at mine owne Precipitation, readie to +wish myselfe back, unable to resolve, to reflect, to pray . . . + + + +_Twelve at Night_. + +Alle is silent; even in the latelie busie Streets. Why art thou cast +down, my Heart? why art thou disquieted within me? Hope thou stille in +the _Lord_, for he is the Joy and Light of thy Countenance. Thou hast +beene long of learning him to be such. Oh, forget not thy Lesson now! +Thy best Friend hath sanctioned, nay, counselled this Step, and overcome +alle Obstacles, and provided the Means of this Journey; and to-morrow at +Noone, if Events prove not cross, I shall have Speech of him whom my Soul +loveth. To-night, let me watch, fast, and pray. + + + +_Friday; at Night_. + +How awfulle it is to beholde a Man weepe! mine owne Tears, when I think +thereon, well forthe . . . + +_Rose_ was a true Friend when she sayd, "Our prompt Affections are oft +our wise Counsellors." Soe, she suggested and advised alle; wrung forthe +my Father's Consent, and sett me on my Way, even putting Money in my +Purse. Well for me, had she beene at my Journey's End as well as its +Beginning. + +'Stead of which, here was onlie mine Aunt; a slow, timid, uncertayn +Soule, who proved but a broken Reed to lean upon. + +Soe, alle I woulde have done arighte went crosse, the Letter never +delivered, the Message delayed till he had left Home, soe that methought +I shoulde goe crazie. + +While the Boy, stammering in his lame Excuses, bore my chafed Reproaches +the more humblie because he saw he had done me some grievous Hurt, though +he knew not what, a Voice in the adjacent Chamber in Alternation with +mine Uncle's, drove the Blood of a suddain from mine Heart, and then sent +it back with impetuous Rush, for I knew the Accents right well. + +Enters mine Aunt, alle flurried, and hushing her Voice. "Oh, _Niece_, he +whom you wot of is here, but knoweth not you are at Hand, nor in +_London_. Shall I tell him?" + +But I gasped, and held her back by her Skirts; then, with a suddain +secret Prayer, or Cry, or maybe, Wish, as 'twere, darted up unto Heaven +for Assistance, I took noe Thought what I shoulde speak when confronted +with him, but opening the Door between us, he then standing with his Back +towards it, rushed forth and to his Feet--there sank, in a Gush of Tears; +for not one Word coulde I proffer, nor soe much as look up. + +A quick Hand was laid on my Head, on my Shoulder--as quicklie +removed . . . and I was aware of the Door being hurriedlie opened and +shut, and a Man hasting forthe; but 'twas onlie mine Uncle. Meantime, my +Husband, who had at first uttered a suddain Cry or Exclamation, had now +left me, sunk on the Ground as I was, and retired a Space, I know not +whither, but methinks he walked hastilie to and fro. Thus I remained, +agonized in Tears, unable to recal one Word of the humble Appeal I had +pondered on my Journey, or to have spoken it, though I had known everie +Syllable by Rote; yet not wishing myself, even in that Suspense, Shame, +and Anguish, elsewhere than where I was cast, at mine Husband's Feet. + +Or ever I was aware, he had come up, and caught me to his Breast: then, +holding me back soe as to look me in the Face, sayd, in Accents I shall +never forget, + +"Much I coulde say to reproach, but will not! Henceforth, let us onlie +recall this darke Passage of our deeplie sinfulle Lives, to quicken us to +_God's_ Mercy, in affording us this Re-union. Let it deepen our +Penitence, enhance our Gratitude." + +Then, suddainlie covering up his Face with his Hands, he gave two or +three Sobs; and for some few Minutes coulde not refrayn himself; but, +when at length he uncovered his Eyes and looked down on me with Goodness +and Sweetnesse, 'twas like the Sun's cleare shining after Raine. . . . + + +Shall I now destroy the disgracefulle Records of this blotted Book? I +think not; for 'twill quicken me perhaps, as my Husband sayth, to "deeper +Penitence and stronger Gratitude," shoulde I henceforthe be in Danger of +settling on the Lees, and forgetting the deepe Waters which had nearlie +closed over mine Head. At present, I am soe joyfulle, soe light of Heart +under the Sense of Forgivenesse, that it seemeth as though Sorrow coulde +lay hold of me noe more; and yet we are still, as 'twere, disunited for +awhile; for my Husband is agayn shifting House, and preparing to move his +increased Establishment into _Barbican_, where he hath taken a goodly +Mansion; and, until it is ready, I am to abide here. I might pleasantlie +cavill at this; but, in Truth, will cavill at Nothing now. + +I am, by this, full persuaded that _Ralph's_ Tale concerning Miss +_Davies_ was a false Lie; though, at the Time, supposing it to have some +Colour, it inflamed my Jealousie noe little. The cross Spight of that +Youth led, under his Sister's Management, to an Issue his Malice never +forecast; and now, though I might come at the Truth for Inquiry, I will +not soe much as even soil my Mind with thinking of it agayn; for there is +that Truth in mine Husband's Eyes, which woulde silence the Slanders of a +hundred Liars. Chafed, irritated, he has beene, soe as to excite the +sarcastic Constructions of those who wish him evill; but his Soul, and +his Heart, and his Mind require a Flighte beyond _Ralph's_ Witt to +comprehende; and I know and feel that they are _mine_. + +He hath just led in the two _Phillips's_ to me, and left us together. +_Jack_ lookt at me askance, and held aloof; but deare little _Ned_ threw +his Arms about me and wept, and I did weep too; seeing the which, _Jack_ +advanced, gave me his Hand, and finally his Lips, then lookt at much as +to say, "Now, Alle's right." They are grown, and are more comely than +heretofore, which, in some Measure, is owing to theire Hair being noe +longer cut strait and short after the Puritanicall Fashion I soe hate, +but curled like their Uncle's. + +I have writ, not the Particulars, but the Issue of my Journey, unto +_Rose_, whose loving Heart, I know, yearns for Tidings. Alsoe, more +brieflie unto my Mother, who loveth not Mr. _Milton_. + + + +_Barbican, September, 1646_. + +In the Night-season, we take noe Rest; we search out our Hearts, and +commune with our Spiritts, and checque our Souls' Accounts, before we +dare court our Sleep; but in the Day of Happinesse we cut shorte our +Reckonings; and here am I, a joyfulle Wife, too proud and busie amid my +dailie Cares to have Leisure for more than a brief Note in my _Diarium_, +as _Ned_ woulde call it. 'Tis a large House, with more Rooms than we can +fill, even with the _Phillips's_ and their Scholar-mates, olde Mr. +_Milton_, and my Husband's Books to boot. I feel Pleasure in being +housewifelie; and reape the Benefit of alle that I learnt of this Sorte +at _Sheepscote_. Mine Husband's Eyes follow me with Delight; and once +with a perplexed yet pleased Smile, he sayd to me, "Sweet Wife, thou art +strangelie altered; it seems as though I have indeede lost 'sweet _Moll_' +after alle!" + +Yes, I am indeed changed; more than he knows or coulde believe. And he +is changed too. With Payn I perceive a more stern, severe Tone +occasionallie used by him; doubtlesse the Cloke assumed by his Griefe to +hide the Ruin I had made within. Yet a more geniall Influence is fast +melting this away. Agayn, I note with Payn that he complayns much of his +Eyes. At first, I observed he rubbed them oft, and dared not mention it, +believing that his Tears on Account of me, sinfulle Soule! had made them +smart. Soe, perhaps, they did in the first Instance, for it appears they +have beene ailing ever since the Year I left him; and Overstuddy, which +my Presence mighte have prevented, hath conduced to the same ill Effect. +Whenever he now looks at a lighted Candle, he sees a Sort of Iris alle +about it; and, this Morning, he disturbed me by mentioning that a total +Darknesse obscured everie Thing on the left Side of his Eye, and that he +even feared, sometimes, he might eventuallie lose the Sight of both. "In +which Case," he cheerfully sayd, "you, deare Wife, must become my +Lecturer as well as Amanuensis, and content yourself to read to me a +World of crabbed Books, in Tongues that are not nor neede ever be yours, +seeing that a Woman has ever enough of her own!" + +Then, more pensivelie, he added, "I discipline and tranquillize my Mind +on this Subject, ever remembering, when the Apprehension afflicts me, +that, as Man lives not by Bread alone, but by everie Word that proceeds +out of the Mouth of _God_, so Man likewise lives not by _Sight_ alone, +but by Faith in the Giver of Sight. As long, therefore, as it shall +please Him to prolong, however imperfectlie, this precious Gift, soe long +will I lay up Store agaynst the Days of Darknesse, which may be many; and +whensoever it shall please Him to withdrawe it from me altogether, I will +cheerfully bid mine Eyes keep Holiday, and place my Hand trustfullie in +His, to be led whithersoever He will, through the Remainder of Life." + +A Honeymoon cannot for ever last; nor Sense of Danger, when it long hath +past;--but one little Difference from out manie greater Differences +between my late happie Fortnighte in _St. Martin's-le-Grand_, and my +present dailie Course in _Barbican_, hath marked the Distinction between +Lover and Husband. There it was "sweet _Moll_," "my Heart's Life of +Life," "my dearest cleaving Mischief;" here 'tis onlie "Wife," "Mistress +_Milton_," or at most "deare or sweet Wife." This, I know, is +masterfulle and seemly. + +Onlie, this Morning, chancing to quote one of his owne Lines, + + These Things may startle well, but not astounde,-- + +he sayd, in a Kind of Wonder, "Why, _Moll_, whence had you +that?--Methought you hated Versing, as you used to call it. When learnt +you to love it?" I hung my Head in my old foolish Way, and answered, +"Since I learnt to love the Verser." "Why, this is the best of Alle!" he +hastilie cried, "Can my sweet Wife be indeede Heart of my Heart and +Spirit of my Spirit? I lost, or drove away a Child, and have found a +Woman." Thereafter, he less often wifed me, and I found I was agayn +sweet _Moll_. + +This Afternoon, _Christopher Milton_ lookt in on us. After saluting me +with the usuall Mixture of Malice and Civilitie in his Looks, he fell +into easie Conversation; and presentlie says to his Brother quietlie +enough, "I saw a curious Pennyworth at a Book-stall as I came along this +Morning." "What was that?" says my Husband, brightening up. "It had a +long Name," says _Christopher_,--"I think it was called _Tetrachordon_." +My Husband cast at me a suddain, quick Look, but I did not soe much as +change Colour; and quietlie continued my Sewing. + +"I wonder," says he, after a Pause, "that you did not invest a small +Portion of your Capitall in the Work, as you 'ay 'twas soe greate a +Bargain. However, Mr. _Kit_, let me give you one small Hint with alle +the goode Humour imaginable; don't take Advantage of our neare and deare +Relation to make too frequent Opportunities of saying to me Anything that +woulde certainlie procure for another Man a Thrashing!" + +Then, after a short Silence betweene Alle, he suddainlie burst out +laughing, and cried, "I know 'tis on the Stalk, I've seene it, _Kit_, +myself! Oh, had you seene, as I did, the Blockheads poring over the +Title, and hammering at it while you might have walked to _Mile End_ and +back!" + +"That's Fame, I suppose," says _Christopher_ drylie; and then goes off to +talk of some new Exercise of the Press-licenser's Authoritie, which he +seemed to approve, but it kindled my Husband in a Minute. + +"What Folly! what Nonsense!" cried he, smiting the Table; "these _Jacks_ +in Office sometimes devise such senselesse Things that I really am +ashamed of being of theire Party. Licence, indeed! their Licence! I +suppose they will shortlie license the Lengthe of _Moll's_ Curls, and +regulate the Colour of her Hoode, and forbid the Larks to sing within +Sounde of _Bow Bell_, and the Bees to hum o' _Sundays_. Methoughte I had +broken _Mabbot's_ Teeth two Years agone; but I must bring forthe a new +Edition of my _Areopagitica_; and I'll put your Name down, _Kit_, for a +hundred Copies!" + + + +_October, 1646_. + +Though a rusticall Life hath ever had my Suffrages, Nothing can be more +pleasant than our regular Course. We rise at five or sooner: while my +Husband combs his Hair, he commonly hums or sings some Psalm or Hymn, +versing it, maybe, as he goes on. Being drest, _Ned_ reads him a Chapter +in the _Hebrew_ Bible. With _Ned_ stille at his Knee, and me by his +Side, he expounds and improves the Same; then, after a shorte, heartie +Prayer, releases us both. Before I have finished my Dressing, I hear him +below at his Organ, with the two Lads, who sing as well as Choristers, +hymning Anthems and _Gregorian_ Chants, now soaring up to the Clouds, as +'twere, and then dying off as though some wide echoing Space lay betweene +us. I usuallie find Time to tie on my Hoode and slip away to the +Herb-market for a Bunch of fresh Radishes or Cresses, a Sprig of Parsley, +or at the leaste a Posy, to lay on his Plate. A good wheaten Loaf, fresh +Butter and Eggs, and a large Jug of Milk, compose our simple Breakfast; +for he likes not, as my Father, to see Boys hacking a huge Piece of Beef, +nor cares for heavie feeding, himself. Onlie, olde Mr. _Milton_ +sometimes takes a Rasher of toasted Bacon, but commonly, a Basin of +Furmity, which I prepare more to his Minde than the Servants can. + +After Breakfast, I well know the Boys' Lessons will last till Noone. I +therefore goe to my Closett Duties after my _Forest Hill_ Fashion; thence +to Market, buy what I neede, come Home, look to my Maids, give forthe +needfulle Stores, then to my Needle, my Books, or perchance to my Lute, +which I woulde faine play better. From twelve to one is the Boys' Hour +of Pastime; and it may generallie be sayd, my Husband's and mine too. He +draws aside the green Curtain,--for we sit mostly in a large Chamber +shaped like the Letter T, and thus divided while at our separate Duties: +my End is the pleasantest, has the Sun most upon it, and hath a Balcony +overlooking a Garden. At one, we dine; always on simple, plain Dishes, +but drest with Neatnesse and Care. Olde Mr. _Milton_ sits at my right +Hand and says Grace; and, though growing a little deaf, enters into alle +the livelie Discourse at Table. He loves me to help him to the +tenderest, by Reason of his Losse of Teeth. My Husband careth not to +sitt over the Wine; and hath noe sooner finished the Cheese and Pippins +than he reverts to the Viol or Organ, and not onlie sings himself, but +will make me sing too, though he sayth my Voice is better than my Ear. +Never was there such a tunefulle Spiritt. He alwaies tears himself away +at laste, as with a Kind of Violence, and returns to his Books at six o' +the Clock. Meantime, his old Father dozes, and I sew at his Side. + +From six to eight, we are seldom without Friends, chance Visitants, often +scholarlike and witty, who tell us alle the News, and remain to partake a +light Supper. The Boys enjoy this Season as much as I doe, though with +Books before them, their Hands over their Ears, pretending to con the +Morrow's Tasks. If the Guests chance to be musicalle, the Lute and Viol +are broughte forthe, to alternate with Roundelay and Madrigal: the old +Man beating Time with his feeble Fingers, and now and then joining with +his quavering Voice. (By the way, he hath not forgotten, to this Hour, +my imputed Crime of losing that Song by _Harry Lawes_: my Husband takes +my Part, and sayth it will turn up some Day when leaste expected, like +_Justinian's Pandects_.) _Hubert_ brings him his Pipe and a Glass of +Water, and then I crave his Blessing and goe to Bed; first, praying +ferventlie for alle beneathe this deare Roof, and then for alle at +_Sheepscote_ and _Forest Hill_. + +On Sabbaths, besides the publick Ordinances of Devotion, which I cannot, +with alle my striving, bring myself to love like the Services to which I +have beene accustomed, we have much Reading, Singing, and Discoursing +among ourselves. The Maids sing, the Boys sing, _Hubert_ sings, olde Mr. +_Milton_ sings; and trulie with soe much of it, I woulde sometimes as +lief have them quiete. The _Sheepscote_ Sundays suited me better. The +Sabbath Exercise of the Boys is to read a Chapter in the _Greek_ +Testament, heare my Husband expounde the same; and write out a System of +Divinitie as he dictates to them, walking to and fro. In listening +thereto, I find my Pleasure and Profitt. + +I have alsoe my owne little Catechising, after a humbler Sorte, in the +Kitchen, and some poore Folk to relieve and console, with my Husband's +Concurrence and Encouragement. Thus, the Sabbath is devoutlie and +happilie passed. + +My Husband alsoe takes, once in a Fortnighte or soe, what he blythelie +calls "a gaudy Day," equallie to his owne Content, the Boys', and mine. +On these Occasions, it is my Province to provide colde Fowls or Pigeon +Pie, which _Hubert_ carries, with what else we neede, to the Spot +selected for our Camp Dinner. Sometimes we take Boat to _Richmond_ or +_Greenwich_. Two young Gallants, Mr. _Alphrey_ and Mr. _Miller_, love to +joyn our Partie, and toil at the Oar, or scramble up the Hills, as +merrilie as the Boys. I must say they deal savagelie with the Pigeon Pie +afterwards. They have as wild Spiritts as our _Dick_ and _Harry_, but +withal a most wonderfull Reverence for my Husband, whom they courte to +read and recite, and provoke to pleasant Argument, never prolonged to +Wearinesse, and seasoned with Frolic Jest and Witt. Olde Mr. _Milton_ +joyns not these Parties. I leave him alwaies to _Dolly's_ Care, firste +providing for him a Sweetbread or some smalle Relish, such as he loves. +He is in Bed ere we return, which is oft by Moonlighte. + +How soone must Smiles give Way to Tears! Here is a Letter from deare +_Mother_, taking noe Note of what I write to her, and for good Reason, +she is soe distraught at her owne and deare _Father's_ ill Condition. +The Rebels (I must call them such,) have soe stript and opprest them, +they cannot make theire House tenantable; nor have Aught to feede on, had +they e'en a whole Roof over theire Heads. The Neighbourhoode is too hot +to holde them; olde Friends cowardlie and suspicious, olde and new Foes +in League together. Leave _Oxon_ they must; but where to goe? _Father_, +despite his broken Health and Hatred of the Foreigner, must needes depart +beyond Seas; at leaste within the six Months; but how, with an emptie +Purse, make his Way in a strange Land, with a Wife and seven Children at +his Heels? Soe ends _Mother_ with a "_Lord_ have Mercy upon us!" as +though her House were as surelie doomed to destruction as if it helde the +Plague. + +Mine Eyes were yet swollen with Tears, when my Husband stept in. He +askt, "What ails you, precious Wife?" I coulde but sigh, and give him +the Letter. Having read the Same, he says, "But what, my dearest? Have +we not ample Room here for them alle? I speak as to Generalls, you must +care for Particulars, and stow them as you will. There are plenty of +small Rooms for the Boys; but, if your Father, being infirm, needes a +Ground-floor Chamber, you and I will mount aloft." + +I coulde but look my Thankfullenesse and kiss his Hand. "Nay," he added, +with increasing Gentlenesse, "think not I have seene your Cares for my +owne Father without loving and blessing you. Let Mr. _Powell_ come and +see us happie; it may tend to make him soe. Let him and his abide with +us, at the leaste, till the Spring; his Lads will studdy and play with +mine, your Mother will help you in your Housewiferie, the two olde Men +will chirp together beside the _Christmasse_ Hearth; and, if I find thy +Weeklie Bills the heavier 'twill be but to write another Book, and make a +better Bargain for it than I did for the last. We will use Hospitalitie +without grudging; and, as for your owne Increase of Cares, I suppose +'twill be but to order two Legs of Mutton insteade of one!" + +And soe, with a Laugh, left me, most joyfulle, happy Wife! to drawe +Sweete out of Sowre, Delighte out of Sorrowe; and to summon mine owne +Kindred aboute me, and wipe away theire Tears, bid them eat, drink, and +be merry, and shew myselfe to them, how proud, how cherished a Wife! + +Surelie my Mother wille learne to love _John Milton_ at last! If she +doth not, this will be my secret Crosse, for 'tis hard to love dearlie +two Persons who esteeme not one another. But she will, she must, not +onlie respect him for his Uprightnesse and Magnanimitie, coupled with +what himselfe calls "an honest Haughtinesse and Self-esteeme," but _like_ +him for his kind and equall Temper, (_not_ "harsh and crabbed," as I have +hearde her call it,) his easie Flow of Mirthe, his Manners, unaffectedlie +cheerfulle; his Voice, musicall; his Person, beautifull; his Habitt, +gracefull; his Hospitalitie, naturall to him; his Purse, Countenance, +Time, Trouble, at his Friend's Service; his Devotion, humble; his +Forgivenesse, heavenlie! May it please _God_, that my Mother shall like +_John Milton_! . . . + + + + +DEBORAH'S DIARY + + +A FRAGMENT + +_Bunhill Fields, + Feb. 17, 1665_. + +. . . Something geniall and soothing beyond ordinarie in the Warmth and +fitfulle Lighte of the Fire, made us delaye, I know not how long, to trim +the Evening Lamp, and sitt muzing in Idlenesse about the Hearth; _Mary_ +revolving her Thumbs and staring at the Embers; _Anne_ quite in the +Shadowe, with her Arms behind her Head agaynst the Wall; Father in his +tall Arm-chair, quite uprighte, as his Fashion is when very thoughtfulle; +I on the Cushion at his Feet, with mine Head on's Knee and mine Eyes on +his Shadowe on the Wall, which, as it happened, shewed in colossal +Proportions, while ours were like Pigmies. Alle at once he exclaims, "We +all seem very comfortable--I think we shoulde reward ourselves with some +Egg-flip!" + +And then offered us Pence for our Thoughts. _Anne_ would not tell hers; +_Mary_ owned she had beene trying to account for the Deficiencie of a +Groat in her housekeeping Purse; and I contest to such a Medley, that +Father sayd I deserved _Anne's_ Penny in addition to mine own, for my +Strength of Mind in submitting such a Farrago of Nonsense to the Ridicule +of my Friends. + +Soe then I bade for his Thoughts, and he sayd he had beene questioning +the Cricket on the Hearth, upon the Extinction of the Fairies; and I +askt, Did anie believe in 'em now? and he made Answer, Oh, yes, he had +known a Serving-Wench in Oxon depone she had beene nipped and haled by +'em; and, of Crickets, he sayd he had manie Times seene an old Wife in +_Buckinghamshire_, who was soe pestered by one, that she cried, "I can't +heare myself talk! I'd as lief heare Nought as heare thee;" soe poured a +Kettle of boiling Water into the Cranny wherein the harmlesse Creature +lay, and scalded it to Death; and, the next Day, became as deaf as a +Stone, and remained soe ever after, a Monument of God's Displeasure, at +her destroying one of the most innocent of His Creatures. + +After this, he woulde tell us of this and that worn-our [Transcriber's +note: worn-out?] Superstition, as o' the Friar's Lantern, and of +Lob-lie-by-the-Fire, untill _Mary_, who affects not the Unreall, went off +to make the Flip. _Anne_ presentlie exclaimed, "Father! when you sayd-- + + 'The Shepherds on the Lawn, + Or e'er the Point of Dawn, + Sat simply chatting in a rustic Row, + Full little thought they then + That the mighty _Pan_ + Was kindly come to live with them, below,' + +whom meant you by _Pan_? Sure, you would not call our Lord by the Name +of a heathen Deity?" + +"Well, Child," returns Father, "you know He calls Himself a Shepherd, and +was in truth what _Pan_ was onlie supposed to be, the God of Shepherds; +albeit _Lavaterus_, in his Treatise _De Lemuribus_, doth indeede tell us, +that by _Pan_ some understoode noe other than the great _Sathanas_, whose +Kingdom being overturned at _Christ's_ Coming, his inferior Demons +expelled, and his Oracles silenced, he is some sort was himself +overthrown. And the Story goes, that, about the Time of our Lord's +Passion, certain Persons sailing from _Italy_ to _Cyprus_, and passing by +certayn Islands, did heare a Voice calling aloud, _Thamus, Thamus_, which +was the Name of the Ship's Pilot, who, making Answer to the unseene +Appellant, was bidden, when he came to _Palodas_, to tell that the great +God _Pan_ was dead; which he doubting to doe, yet for that when he came +to _Palodas_, there suddainlie was such a Calm of Wind that the Ship +stoode still in the Sea, he was constrayned to cry aloud that _Pan_ was +dead; whereupon there were hearde such piteous Shrieks and Cries of +invisible Beings, echoing from haunted Spring and Dale, as ne'er smote +human Ears before nor since: Nymphs and Wood-Gods, or they that had +passed for such, breaking up House and retreating to their own Place. I +warrant you, there was Trouble among the Sylvan People that Day--Satyrs +hirsute and cloven-footed Fauns. + +". . . Many a Time and oft have _Charles Diodati_ and I discust fond +Legends, such as this, over our Winter Hearth; with our Chestnuts +blackening and crackling on the Hob, and our o'er-ripe Pears sputtering +in the Fire, while the Wind raved without among the creaking Elms. . . ." + +Father still hammering on old Times, and his owne young Days, I beganne +to frame unto myself an Image of what he might then have beene; piecing +it out by Help of his Picture on the Wall; but coulde get no cleare +Apprehension of my Mother, she dying soe untimelie. Askt him, Was she +beautifulle? He sayth, Oh yes, and clouded over o' the suddain; then +went over her Height, Size, and Colour, etc.; dwelt on the Generalls of +personal Beauty, how it shadowed forthe the Mind, was desirable or +dangerous, etc. + +On dispersing for the Night, he noted, somewhat hurt, _Anne's_ abrupt +Departure without kissing his Hand, and sayd, "Is she sulky or unwell?" + +In our Chamber, found her alreadie half undrest, a reading of her Bible; +sayd, "Father tooke your briefe Good-nighte amisse." She made Answer +shortlie, "Well, what neede to marvell; he cannot put his Arm about me +without being reminded how mis-shapen I am." + +Poor _Nan_! we had been speaking of faire Proportions, and had +thoughtlessly cut her to the Quick; yet Father _knoweth_, though he +cannot _see_, that her Face is that of an Angel. + +About One o' the Clock, was rouzed (though _Anne_ continued sleeping +soundly) by hearing Father give his three Signal-taps agaynst the Wall. +Half drest, and with bare Feet thrust into Slippers, I hastily ran in to +him; he cried, "_Deb_, for the Love of Heaven get Pen and Paper to sett +Something down." I replied, "Sure, Father, you gave me quite a Turn; I +thought you were ill," and sett to my Task, marvellous ill-conditioned, +expecting some Crotchet had taken him concerning his Will. + +'Stead of which, out comes a Volley of Poetry he had lain a brewing till +his Brain was like to burst; and soe I, in my thin Night Cotes, must +needs jot it all down, for Feare it should ooze away before Morning. +Sure, I thought he never woulde get to the End, and really feared at +firste he was crazing a little, but indeede all Poets doe when the Vein +is on 'em. At length, with a Sigh of Relief, he says, "That will +doe--Good-night, little Maid." I coulde not help saying, "'Twas a lucky +Thing for you, Father, that Step-mother was from Home;" he laught, drew +me to him, kissed me, and sayd, "Why, your Face is quite cold--are your +Feet unslippered?" + +"Unstockinged," I replyed. + +"I am quite concerned I knew it not sooner," he rejoyned, in an Accent of +such Kindnesse, that all my Vexation melted away, and I e'en protested I +did not mind it a Bit. + +"Since it is soe," quoth he, "I shall the less mind having Recourse to +you agayn; onlie I must insist on your taking Care to wrap yourself up +more warmly, since you need not feare my being ill." + +I bit my Lip, and onlie saying Good-night, stole off to my warm Bed. + +Returning from Morning Prayers with _Anne_ this Forenoon, I found _Mary_ +mending a Pen with the utmost Imperturbabilitie, and Father with a +Heat-spot on his Cheek, which betraied some Inquietation. Being +presentlie alone with him, "_Mary_ is irretrievably heavy," sighs he, +"she would let the finest Thought escape one while she is blowing her +Nose or brushing up the Cinders. I am confident she has beene writing +Nonsense even now--Do run through it for me, _Deb_, and lett me heare +what it is." + +I went on, enough to his Satisfaction, till coming to + + "Bring to their Sweetness no Sobriety." + + +"Sobriety?" interrupted he, "Satiety, Satiety! the Blockhead!--and that I +should live to call a Woman soe.--Sobriety, indeede! poor _Mary_, her +Wits must have been wool-gathering. 'Bring to their Sweetness no +Sobriety!' What Meaning coulde she possibly affix to such Folly?" + +"Sure, Father," sayd I, "here's Enough that she could affix no Meaning +to, nor I neither, without your condescending to explayn it--Cycle, +Epicycle, nocturnal Rhomb." + +"Well, well," returned he, beginning to smile, "'twas unlikely she +shoulde be with such Discourse delighted. Not capable, alas! poor +_Mary's_ Ear, of what is high. And yet, thy Mother, Child, woulde have +stretched up towards Truths, though beyond her Reach, yet to the +inquiring Mind offering rich Repast. And now write Satiety for Sobriety, +if you love me." + +While erasing the obnoxious Word, I cried, "Dear Father, pray answer me +one Question--What is a Rhomb?" + +"A Rhomb, Child?" repeated he, laughing, "why, a Parallelogram or +quadrangular Figure, consisting of parallel Lines, with two acute and two +obtuse Angles, and formed by two equal and righte Cones, joyned together +at their Base! There, are you anie wiser now? No, little Maid, 'tis +best for such as you + + Not with perplexing Thoughts + To interrupt the Sweet of Life, from which + God hath bid dwell far off all anxious Cares, + And not molest us, unless we ourselves + Seek them, with wandering Thoughts and Notions vain.'" + + + +_April 19, 1665_. + +I heartilie wish our Stepmother were back, albeit we are soe comfortable +without her! _Mary_, taking the Maids at unawares last Night, found a +strange Man in the Kitchen. Words ensued; he slunk off like a Culprit, +which lookt not well, while _Betty Fisher_, brazening it out, woulde have +at firste that he was her Brother, then her Cousin, and ended by vowing +to be revenged on _Mary_ when she lookt not for it. I would have had +_Mary_ speak to Father, but she will not; perhaps soe best. _Polly_ is +in the Sulks to Daye, as well as _Betty_, saying, "As well live in a +Nunnerie." + + + +_April 20, 1665_. + +When the Horse is stolen, shut the Stable Door. _Mary_ locked the lower +Doors, and brought up the Keys herselfe, yestereven at Duske. Anon +dropped in Doctor _Paget_, Mr. _Skinner_, and Uncle _Dick_, soe that we +had quite a merrie Party. Dr. _Paget_ sayd how that another Case of the +Plague had occurred in _Long Acre_; howbeit, this onlie makes three, soe +that we trust it will not spread, though 'twoulde be unadvised to goe +needlesslie into the infected Quarter. Uncle _Dick_ would fayn take us +Girls down to _Oxon_, but Father sayd he could not spare us while Mother +was at _Stoke_; and that there was noe prevalent Distemper, this bracing +Weather, in our Parish. Then felle a musing; and Uncle _Dick_, who loves +a Jeste, outs with a large brown Apple from's Pocket, and holds it aneath +Father's Nose. Sayth Father, rousing, "How far Phansy goes! thy Voice, +_Dick_, carried me back to olde Dayes, and affected, I think, even my +Nose; for I could protest I smelled a _Sheepscote_ Apple." And, feeling +himselfe touched by its cold Skin, laught merrilie, and ate it with a +Relish; saying, noe Sorte ever seemed unto him soe goode--he had received +manie a Hamper of 'em about Christmasse. After a Time, alle but he and I +went up, and out on the Leads, to see the Comet; and we two sitting quite +still, and Father, doubtlesse, supposed to be alone, I saw a great +round-shouldered mannish Shadowe glide acrosse the Passage, and hearde +the Front-door Latch click. Darted forthe, but too late, and then into +the Kitchen; with some Warmth chid _Betty_ for soe soone agayn disobeying +Orders, and threatened to tell my Mamma. She cryed pertlie, "Law, Miss +_Deb_, I wish to Goodnesse your Mamma was here to heare you, for I'd +sooner have one Mistress than three. A Shadowe, indeed! I'm sure you +saw no Substance--very like, 'twas a Spirit; or, liker still, onlie the +Cat. Here, Puss, Puss!" . . . and soe into the Passage, as though to +look for what she was sure not to find. I had noe Patience with her; +but, returning to Father, askt him if he had not heard the Latch click? +He sayd, No; and, indeede, I think, had been dozing; soe then sate still, +and bethoughte me what 'twere best to doe. Three Brains are too little +agaynst one that is resolved to cheat. 'Tis noe Goode complayning to a +Man; he will not see, even though unafflicted like Father, who cannot. +Men's Minds run on greater Things, and soe they are fretted at domestic +Appeals, and generallie give Judgment the wrong Way. Thus we founde it +before, poor motherlesse Girls, to our Cost; and I reallie believe it was +more in Kindnesse for us than himself, that Father listened to the +Doctor's Overtures in behalfe of Miss _Minshull_; for what Companion can +soe illiterate a Woman be to him? But he believed her gentle, hearde +that she was a good Housewife, and apprehended she would be kind to +us. . . . Alas the Daye! What Tears we three shed in our Chamber that +Night! and wished, too late, we had ne'er referred to him a Grievance, +nor let him know we had a Burthen. Soone we founde King _Log_ had been +succeeded by King _Stork_; soone made common Cause, tryed our Strength +and found it wanting, and soone submitted to our new Yoke, and tried to +make the best of it. + +Yes, that is the onlie Course; we alle feele it; onlie, as Ill-luck will +have it, we do not always feel it simultaneouslie. _Anne_, mayhap, has +one of her dogged humours; _Mary_ and I see how much better 'twould be, +did she overcome it, or shut herself up till in better Temper. _Mary_ is +crabbed and exacting; _Anne_ and I cannot put her straight. Well for us +when we succeed just soe far as to keep it from the Notice of Father. +Thus we rub on; I wonder if we ever shall pull all together? + + + +_April 22, 1665_. + +Like unto a wise Master-builder, who ordereth the Disposition of eache +Stone till the whole Building is fitly compacted together, so doth Father +build up his noble Poem, which groweth under our Hands. Three Nights +have I, without Complaynt, lost my Rest while writing at his Bedside; +this hath made me yawnish in the Day-time, or, as Mother will have it, +lazy. However, I bethink me of _Damo_, Daughter of _Pythagoras_. + +Mother came Home yesterday, and _Betty_, the Picture of Neatnesse, tooke +goode Heede to be the first to welcome her, with officious Smiles, and +Prayses of her Looks. For my Part, I thoughte it fullsome, but knew her +Motives better than Mother, who took it alle in goode Part. Indeede, noe +one would give this Girl credit for soe false a Heart; she is pretty, +modest looking, and for a while before my Father's Marriage was as great +a Favourite with _Mary_ as now with my Mother; flattered her the same, +and tempted her to idle gossiping Confidences. She was slow to believe +herself cheated; and when 'twas as cleare as Day, could not convince +Father of it. + +On _Mary's_ mentioning this Morning (unadvisedlie, I think,) the Kitchen +Visitor, Mother made short Answer-- + +"Tilly-vally! bad Mistresses make bad Maids; there will be noe such +Doings now, I warrant. . . . I am sure, my Dear," appealing to Father, +"you think well in the main of _Betty_?" + +"Yes," says he, smiling, "I think well of both my _Betties_." + +"At any rate," persists _Mary_, "the Man coulde not be at once her Cousin +and her Brother." + +"Why no," replies Father, "therein she worsened her Story, by saying too +much, as _Dorothea_ did, when she pretended to have heard of the Knight +of _La Mancha's_ Fame, when she landed at _Ossuna_; which even a Madman +as he was, knew to be noe Sea-port. It requires more Skill than the +General possess, to lie with a Circumstance." + +Had a Valentine this Morning, though onlie from_ Ned Phillips_, whom +Mother is angry with, for filling my Head betimes with such Nonsense. +Howbeit, I am close on sixteen. + +_Mary_ was out of Patience with Father yesterday, who, after keeping her +a full Hour at _Thucydides_, sayd, + +"Well, now we will refresh ourselves with a Canto of _Ariosto_," which +was as much a sealed Book to her as t'other. Howbeit, this Morning he +sayd, + +"Child, I have noted your Wearinesse in reading the dead Languages to me; +would that I needed not to be beholden unto any, whether bound to me by +Blood and Affection or not, for the Food that is as needfulle to me as my +daily Bread. Nevertheless, that I be not further wearisome unto thee, I +have engaged a young Quaker, named _Ellwood_, to relieve thee of this +Portion of thy Task, soe that thou mayst have the more Leisure to enjoy +the glad Sunshine and fair Sights I never more shall see." + +_Mary_ turned red, and dropt a quiet Tear; but alas, he knew it not. + +"One part of my Children's Burthen, indeed," he continued, "I cannot, for +obvious Reasons, relieve them of--they must still be my Secretaries, for +in them alone can I confide. Soe now to your healthfulle Exercises and +fitting Recreations, dear Maids, and Heaven's Blessing goe with you!" + +We kissed his Hand and went, but our Walk was not merry. + +_Ellwood_ is a young Man of seven-and-twenty, of good Parts, but +pragmaticalle; Son of an Oxfordshire Justice of the Peace, but not on +good Terms with him, by Reason of his religious Opinions, which the +Father affects not. + + + +_April 23, 1665_. + +Spring is coming on apace. Father even sits between the wood Fire and +the open Casement, enjoying the mild Air, but it is not considered +healthfulle. + +"My Dear," says Mother to him this Morning, after some Hours' Absence, "I +have bought me a new Mantle of the most absolute Fancy. 'Tis +sad-coloured, which I knew you would approve, but with a Garniture of +Orange-tawny; three Plaits at the Waist behind, and a little stuck-up +Collar." + +"You are a comical Woman," says Father, "to spend soe much Money and Mind +on a Thing your Husband will never see." + +"Oh! but it cost no Money at alle," says she; "that is the best of it." + +"What is the best of it?" rejoyned he. "I suppose you bartered for it, +if you did not buy it--you Women are always for cheap Pennyworths. Come, +what was the Ransom? One of my old Books, or my new Coat?" + +"Your last new Coat may be called old too, I'm sure," says Mother; "I +believe you married me in it." + +"Nay," says Father, "and what if I did? 'Twas new then, at any rate; and +the Cid _Ruy Diaz_ was married in a black Satin Doublet, which his Father +had worn in three or four Battles." + +"A poor Compliment to the Bride," says Mother. + +"Well, but, dear _Betty_, what has gone for this copper-coloured +Mantle?--_Sylvester's_ 'Du Bartas?'" . . . + +"Nothing of the sort,--nothing you value or will ever miss. An old Gold +Pocket-piece, that hath lain perdue, e'er soe long, in our Dressing-table +Drawer." + +He smote the Table with his Hand. "Woman!" cried he, changing Colour, +"'twas a Medal of Honour given to my Father by a Polish Prince! It +should have been an Heir-loom. There, say noe more about it now. 'Tis +in your Jew's Furnace ere this. 'The Fining-pot for Silver and the +Furnace for Gold, but . . . the Lord trieth the Spirits.' Ay me! mine is +tried sometimes." + +Uncle _Kit_ most opportunelie entering at this Moment, instantaneouslie +changed his Key-note. + +"Ha, _Kit_!" he cries, gladly, "here you find me, as usual, maundering +among my Women. Welcome, welcome! How is it with you, and what's the +News?" + +"Why, the News is, that the Plague's coming on amain," says my Uncle; +"they say it's been smouldering among us all the Winter, and now it's +bursting out." + +"Lord save us!" says Mother, turning pale. + +"You may say that," says Uncle, "but you must alsoe try to save +yourselves. For my Part, I see not what shoulde keep you in Town. Come +down to us at _Ipswich_; my Brother and you shall have the haunted +Chamber; and we can make plenty of Shakedowns for the Girls in the +Atticks. Your Maids can look after Matters here. By the way, you have a +Merlin's Head sett up in your Neighbourhood; I saw your black-eyed Maid +come forthe of it as I passed." + +Mother bit her lip; but Father broke forthe with, "What can we expect but +that a judiciall Punishment shoulde befall a Land where the Corruption of +the Court, more potent and subtile in its Infection than anie Pestilence, +hath tainted every open Resorte and bye Corner of the Capital and +Country? Our Sins cry aloud; our Pulpits, Counters, and Closetts alike +witness against us. 'Tis, as with the People soe with the Priest, as +with the Buyer soe with the Seller, as with the Maid soe with the +Mistress. Plays, Interludes, Gaming-houses, Sabbath Debauches, +Dancing-rooms, Merry-Andrews, Jack Puddings, Quacks, false Prophesyings--" + +"Ah! we can excuse a little Bitternesse in the losing Party now," says +Uncle; "but do you seriously mean to say you think us more deserving of +judiciall Punishment under the glorious Restoration than during the +unnatural Rebellion? Sure you have had Time to cool upon that." + +"Certainly I mean to say so," answers Father. "During the unnatural +Rebellion, as you please to call it, the Commonwealth, whose Duration was +very short--" + +"Very short, indeed," observes Uncle, coughing. "Only from _Worcester_ +Fight, Fifty-one, to _Noll's_ Dissolution of the Long Parliament, +Fifty-three; yet quite long enough to see what it was." + +"I deny that, as well as your Dates," says Father. "We enjoyed a +Commonwealth under the Protector, who, had he not assumed that high +Office which gave him his Name, would have lacked Opportunity of showing +that he was capable of filling the most exalted Station with Vigour and +Ability. He secured a wise Peace, obtained the respectfull Concurrence +of foreign Powers, filled our domestick Courts with upright Judges, and +respected the Rights of Conscience." + +"Why, suppose I admitted all this, which I am far from doing," says +Uncle, "what was he but a King, except by just Title? What had become, +meantime, of your Commonwealth?" + +"Softly, _Kit_," returns Father. "The Commonwealth was progressing, +meantime, like a little Rivulet that rises among the Hills, amid Weeds +and Moss, and gradually works itself a widening Channel, filtering over +Beds of Gravel, and obstructed here and there by Fragments of Rock, that +sorely chafe and trouble it, at the very Time that, to the distant +Observer, it looks most picturesque and beautiful." + +"Well, I suppose I was never distant enough to see it in this picturesque +Point of View," says Uncle. "Legitimate Monarchy was, to my Mind, the +Rock over which the brawling River leaped awhile, and which, in the End, +successfully opposed it; and as to your _Oliver_, he was a cunning +Fellow, that diverted its Course to turn his own Mill." + +"They that can see any Virtue or Comeliness in a _Charles Stuart_," says +Father, "can hardly be expected to acknowledge the rugged Merits of a +plain Republican." + +"Plain was the very last Thing he was," says Uncle, "either in speaking +or dealing. He was as cunning as a Fox, and as rough as a Bear." + +"We can overlook the Roughness of a good Man," says Father; "and if a +Temper subject to hasty Ebullitions is better than one which, by Blows +and hard Usage, has been silenced into Sullenness, a Republic is better +than an absolute Sovereignty." + +"Aye; and if a Temper under the Control of Reason and Principle," rejoins +Uncle, "is better than one unaccustomed to restrain its hasty +Ebullitions, a limited Monarchy is better than a Republic." + +"But ours is not limited enough," persists Father. + +"Wait awhile," returns Uncle, "till, as you say, we have filtered over +the Gravel a little longer, and then see how clear we shall run." + +"I don't see much present Chance of it," says Father. "Such a King, and +such a Court!" + +"The King and Court will soon shift Quarters, I understand," says Uncle; +"for Fear of this coming Sickness. 'Twould be a rare Thing, indeed, for +the King to take the Plague!" + +"Why not the King, as well as any of his Commons?" says Father. "Tush! +I am tired of the Account People make of him. 'Is _Philip_ dead?' 'No; +but he is sick.' Pray, what is it to us, whether _Philip_ is sick or +not?" + +"Which of the _Phillipses_, my Dear?" asks Mother. "Did you say _Jack +Phillips_ was sick?" + +"No, dear _Betty_; only a King of _Macedon_, who lived a long Time ago." + +"Doctor _Brice_ commends you much for your grounding the _Phillipses_ so +excellently in the Classicks," says Uncle. + +"He should think whether his Praise is much worth having," says Father, +rather haughtily. "The young Men were indebted to me for a competent +Knowledge of the learned Tongues--no more." + +"Nay, somewhat more," rejoined Uncle; "and the Praise of a worthy Man is +surely always worth having." + +"If he be our Superior in the Thing wherein he praises us," returned +Father. "His Praise is then a Medal of Reward; but it should never be a +current Coin, bandied from one to another. And the Inferior may never +praise the Superior." + +Uncle was silent a Moment, and then softly uttered, "My Soul, praise the +Lord." + +"There you have me," says Father, instantly softening. "Laud we the Name +of the Lord, but let's not laud one another." + +"Ah! I can't wait to argue the Point," says Uncle. "I must back to the +_Temple_." + +"Stay a Moment, _Kit_. Have you seen 'the Mysterie of Jesuitism?'" + +"No; have _you_ seen the Proof that _London_, not _Rome_, is the City on +seven Hills? _Ludgate Hill, Fishstreet Hill, Dowgate Hill, Garlick Hill, +Saffron Hill, Holborn Hill_, and _Tower Hill_. Clear as Day!" + +"Where's _Snow Hill_? Come, don't go yet. We will fight over some of +our old Feuds. There will be a roast Pig on Table at one o'clock, and, I +fancy, a Tansy-pudding." + +"_I_ can't fancy Tansy-pudding," says Uncle, shuddering; "I cannot abide +Tansies, even in Lent. Besides, I'm expecting a Reference." + +"Oh! very well; then drop in again in the Evening, if you will; and very +likely you will meet _Cyriack Skinner_. And you shall have cold Pig for +Supper, not forgetting the Current-sauce, _Wiltshire_ Cheese, Carraways, +and some of your own Wine." + +"Well, that sounds good. I don't mind if I do," says Uncle; "but don't +expect me after nine." + +"I'm in Bed by nine," says Father. + +"Oh, oh!" says Uncle; and with a comical Look at us, he went off. + + +Uncle _Kit_ did not come last Night; I did not much expect he woulde; nor +Mr. _Skinner_. Insteade, we had Dr. _Paget_, and one or two others, who +talked dolefully alle the Evening of Signs of the Times, till they gave +me the Horrors. One had seen a Ghost, or at least, seen a Crowd looking +at a Ghost, or for a Ghost, in _Bishopgate_ Churchyard, that comes out +and points hither and thither at future Graves. Another had seene an +Apparition, or Meteor, somewhat of human or angelic Shape in the Air. +Father laught at the first, but did not so discredit _in toto_ the other; +observing that _Theodore Beza_ believed at one Time in astrologick Signs; +and thought that the Appearance of the notable Star in _Cassiopeiea_ +betokened the universal End. And as for Angels, he sayd they were, +questionless, ministering Spiritts, not onlie sent forth to minister unto +the Heirs of Salvation, but sometimes Instruments of God's Wrath, to +execute Judgments upon ungodly Men, and convince them of the ill Deeds +which they have ungodly committed; as during the Pestilence in _David's_ +Time, when the King saw the Destroying Angel standing between Heaven and +Earth, having a drawn Sword in his Hand, stretched over Jerusalem. Such +Delegates we might, without Fanaticism, suppose to be the generall, +though unseen. Instruments of public Chastisements; and, for our +particular Comfort, we had equall Reason to repose on the Assurance, that +even amid the Pestilence that walked in Darkness, and the Destruction +that wasted by Noon-day, the Angels had charge over each particular +Believer, to keep them in all their Ways. Adding, that, though he +forbore, with _Calvin_, to pronounce that each Man had his own Guardian +Spiritt,--a Subject whereon Scripture was silent,--we had the Lord's own +Word for it, that little Children were the particular Care of holy Angels. + +And this, and othermuch to same Purport, had soe soothing and sedative an +Effect, that we might have gone to Bed in peacefull Trust, onlie that Dr. +_Paget_ must needs bring up, after Supper, the correlative Theme of the +great _Florentine_ Plague, and the poisoned Wells, which sett Father off +upon the Acts of Mercy of Cardinal _Borromeo,--_not him called St. +_Charlest_ but the Cardinal-Archbishop,--and soe, to the Pestilence at +_Geneva_, when even the Bars and Locks of Doors were poisoned by a Gang +of Wretches, who thought to pillage the Dwellings of the Dead; till we +all went to Bed, moped to Death. + +Howbeit, I had been warmly asleep some Hours, (more by Token I had read +the ninety-first Psalm before getting into Bed), when _Anne_, clinging to +me, woke me up with a shrill Cry. I whispered fearfullie, "What is't?--a +Thief under the Bed?" + +"No, no," she replies. "Listen!" + +Soe I did for a While; and was just going to say, "You were dreaming," +when a hollow Voice in the Street, beneath our Window, distinctlie +proclaimed, + +"Yet forty Days, and _London_ shall be destroyed! I will overturn, +overturn, overturn it! Oh! Woe, Woe, Woe!" + +I sprang out of Bed, fell over my Shoes, got up again, and ran to the +Window. There was Nothing to be seen but long, black Shadows in the +Streets. The Moon was behind the House. After looking forthe awhile, +with Teeth chattering, I was about to drop the Curtain, when, afar off, +whether in or over some distant Quarter of the Town, I heard the same +Voice, clearlie enow to recognise the Rhythm, though not the Words. I +crept to Bed, chilled and awe-stricken; yet, after cowering awhile, and +saying our Prayers, we both fell asleep. + + +The first Sounde this Morning was of Weeping and Wayling. Mother had +beene scared by the Night-warning, and wearied Father to have us alle +into the Countrie. He thought the Danger not yet imminent, the Expense +considerable, and the Outcry that of some crazy Fanatick; ne'erthelesse, +consented to employ _Ellwood_ to look us out some country Lodgings; +having noe Mind to live upon my Uncle at _Ipswich_. + +_Mary_, strange to say, had heard noe Noise; nor had the Maids; but +Servants always sleep heavily. + +Some of the Pig having beene sett aside for my Uncle, and Mother fancying +it for her Breakfast, was much putt out, on going into the Larder, to +find it gone. _Betty_, of course, sayd it was the Cat. Mother made +Answer, she never knew a Cat partiall to cold Pig; and the Door having +been latched, was suspicious of a Puss in Boots. + +_Betty_ cries--"Plague take the Cat!" + +Mother rejoyns--"If the Plague does take him, I shall certainly have him +hanged." + +"Then we shall be overrun with Rats," says _Betty_. + +"I shall buy Ratsbane for them," says Mother; and soe into the Parlour, +where Father, having hearde the whole Dialogue, had been greatlie amused. + +At Twilight, she went to look at the Pantry Fastenings herselfe, but, +suddenlie hearing a dolorous Voyce either within or immediately without, +cry, "Oh! Woe, Woe!" she naturallie drew back. However, being a Woman +of much Spiritt, she instantlie recovered herselfe, and went forward; but +no one was in the Pantry. The Occurrence, therefore, made the more +Impression; and she came up somewhat scared, and asked if we had heard it. + +"My Dear," says Father, "you awoke me in the midst of a very interesting +Colloquy between _Sir Thomas More_ and _Erasmus_. However, I think a Dog +barked, or rather howled, just now. Are you sure the words were not +'Bow, wow, wow?'" + + +Another Night-larum; but onlie from Father, who wanted me to write for +him,--a Task he has much intromitted of late. Mother was hugelie annoyed +at it, and sayd,--"My Dear, I am persuaded that if you would not persist +in going to Bed soe earlie, you woulde not awake at these untimelie +Hours." + +"That is very well for you to say," returned he, "who can sew and spin +the whole Evening through; but I, whose long entire Day is Night, grow +soe tired of it by nine o'clock, that I am fit for Nothing but Bed." + +"Well," says she, "I often find that brushing my Hair wakes me up when I +am drowsy. I will brush yours To-morrow Evening, and see if we cannot +keep you up a little later, and provide sounder Rest for you when you do +turn in." + +Soe, this Evening, she casts her Apron over his Shoulders, and commences +combing his Hair, chatting of this and that, to keep him in good Humour. + +"What beautiful Hair this is of yours, my Dear!" says she; "soe fine, +long, and soft! scarcelie a Silver Thread in it. I warrant there's manie +a young Gallant at Court would be proud of such." + +"Girls, put your Scissars out of your Mother's Way," says Father; "she's +a perfect _Dalilah_, and will whip off Half my Curls before I can count +Three, unless you look after her. And I," he adds, with a Sigh, "am, in +one Sort, a _Samson_." + +"I'm sure _Dalilah_ never treated _Samson's_ old Coat with such Respect," +says Mother, finishing her Task, resuming her Apron, and kissing him. +"Soe now, keep your Eyes open--I mean, keep awake, till I bring you a +Gossip's Bowl." + +When she was gone, Father continued sitting bolt upright, _his Eyes_, as +she sayd (his beautifull Eyes!), open and wakefull, and his Countenance +composed, yet grave, as if his Thoughts were at least as far off as +_Tangrolipix_ the _Turk_. All at once, he says, + +"_Deb_, are my Sleeves white at the Elbow?" + +"No, Father." + +"Or am I shiny about the Shoulders?" + +"No, Father." + +"Why, then," cries he, gaily, this Coat can't be very old, however long I +may have worn it. I'll rub on in it still; and your Mother and you will +have the more Money for copper-coloured Clokes. But don't, at any Time, +let your Father get shabby, Children. I would never be threadbare nor +unclean. Let my Habitt be neat and spotless, my Bands well washed and +uncrumpled, as becometh a Gentleman. As for my Sword in the Corner, your +Mother may send that after my Medal as soon as she will. The _Cid_ +parted with his _Tizona_ in his Life-time; soe a peaceable Man, whose +Eyes, like the Prophet _Abijah's_, are set, may well doe the same." + + + +_May 12, 1665_. + +Yesterday being the _Lord's Day_, Mother was hugely scared during Morning +Service, by seeing an old Lady put her Kerchief to her Nose, look hither +and thither, and, finally, walk out of Church. One whispered another, "A +Plague-Smell, perchance." "No Doubt on't;" and soe, one after another +left, as, at length, did Mother, who declared she beganne to feel herself +ill. On the Cloth being drawn after Dinner, she made a serious Attack on +my Father, upon the Subject of Country Lodgings, which he stoutly +resisted at first, saying, + +"If, Wife and Daughters, either the Danger were so immediate, or the +Escape from it so facile as to justify these womanish Clamours, Reason +would that I should listen to you. But, since that the Lord is about our +Bed, and about our Path, in the Capital no less than in the Country, and +knoweth them that are his, and hideth them under the Shadowe of his +Wings--and since that, if the Fiat be indeed issued agaynst us, no +Stronghold, though guarded with triple Walls of Circumvallation, like +_Ecbatana_, nor pastoral Valley, that might inspire _Theocritus_ with a +new Idyl, can hide us, either by its Strength or its Obscurity, from the +Arrow of the Destroying Angel; ye, therefore, seeing these Things cannot +be spoken agaynst, ought to be quiet, and do Nothing rashly. Wherefore, +I pray you, Wife and Daughters, get you to your Knees, before Him who +alone can deliver you from these Terrors; and having cast your Burthen +upon Him, eat your Bread in Peacefulness and Cheerfulness of Heart." + +However, we really are preparing for Country Quarters, for young +_Ellwood_ hath this Morning brought us Note of a rustick Abode near his +Friends, the _Penningtons_, at _Chalfont_, in _Bucks_, the Charges of +which suit my Father's limited Means; and we hope to enter on it by the +End of the Week. _Ellwood's_ Head seems full of _Guli Springett_, the +Daughter of Master _Pennington's_ Wife by her first Husband. If Half he +says of her be true, I shall like to see the young Lady. We part with +one Maid, and take the other. _Betty_ was very forward to be left in +Charge; and protest herself willing to abide any Risk for the Sake of the +Family; more by Token she thoughte there was no Risk at alle, having +boughte a sovereign Charm of Mother _Shipton_. Howbeit, on inducing her, +much agaynst her Will, to open it, Nought was founde within but a +wretched little Print of a Ship, with the Words, scrawled beneath it, "By +Virtue of the above Sign." Father called her a silly Baggage, and sayd, +he was glad, at any Rate, there was no Profanity in it; but, in Spite of +_Betty_, and _Polly_, and Mother too, he is resolved to leave the House +under the sole Charge of Nurse _Jellycott_. Indeed, there Will probably +be more rather than less Work to do at _Chalfont_; but Mother means to +get a little Boy, such as will be glad to come for Threepence a-Week, to +fetch the Milk, post the Letters, get Flour from the Mill and Barm from +the Brewhouse, carry Pies to the Oven, clean Boots and Shoes, bring in +Wood, sweep up the Garden, roll the Grass, turn the Spit, draw the Water, +lift Boxes and heavy Weights, chase away Beggars and infectious Persons, +and any little odd Matter of the Kind. + + +Mother has drowned the Cats, and poisoned the Rats. The latter have +revenged 'emselves by dying behind the Wainscot, which makes the lower +Part of the House soe unbearable, 'speciallie to Father, that we are +impatient to be off. Mother, intending to turn _Chalfont_ into a +besieged Garrison, is laying in Stock of Sope, Candles, Cheese, Butter, +Salt, Sugar, Raisins, Pease, and Bacon; besides Resin, Sulphur, and +Benjamin, agaynst the Infection; and Pill Ruff, and _Venice_ Treacle, in +Case it comes. + +As to Father, his Thoughts naturallie run more on Food for the Mind; soe +he hath layd in goodlie Store of Pens, Paper, and Ink, and sett me to +pack his Books. At first, he sayd he should onlie require a few, and +good ones. These were all of the biggest; and three or four Folios broke +out the Bottom of the Box. So then Mother sayd the onlie Way was to cord +'em up in Sacking; which greatlie relaxed the Bounds of his Self-denial, +and ended in his having a Load packed that would break a Horse's Back. +Alsoe, hath had his Organ taken to Pieces; but as it must goe in two +severall Loads, and we cannot get a bigger Wagon,--everie Cart and +Carriage, large or little, being on such hard Duty in these Times,--I'm +to be left behind till the Wagon returns, and till I've finished +cataloguing the Books; after which _Ned Phillips_ hath promised to take +me down on a Pillion. + +Nurse _Jellycott_, being sent for from _Wapping_, looked in this +Forenoon, for Father's Commands. Such Years have passed since we lost +Sight of her, that I remembered not her Face in the least, but had an +instant Recollection of her chearfulle, gentle Voyce. Spite of her +Steeple Hat, and short scarlet Cloke, which gave her an antiquated Ayr, +her cleare hazel Eyes and smooth-parted Silver Locks gave her an engaging +Appearance. The World having gone ill with her, she thankfullie takes +Charge of the Premises; and though her Eyes filled with Tears, 'twas with +looking at Father. He, for his Part, spake most kindlie, and gave her +his Hand, which she kissed. + + +They are all off. Never was House in such a Pickle! The Carpets rolled +up, but the Boards beneath 'em unswept, and black with Dirt; as Nurse +gladlie undertook everie Office of that Kind, and sayd 'twould help to +amuse her when we were away. But she has tidied up the little Chamber +over the House-door she means to occupy, and sett on the Mantell a +Beau-pot of fresh Flowers she brought with her. The whole House smells +of aromatick Herbs, we have burnt soe many of late for Fumigation; and, +though we fear to open the Window, yet, being on the shady Side, we doe +not feel the Heat much. + +Yesterday, while in the Thick of packing, and Nobody being with Father +but me, a Messenger arrived, with a few Lines, writ privily by a Friend +of poor _Ellwood_, saying he was in _Aylesbury_ Gaol, not for Debt, but +for his Opinions, and praying Father to send him twenty or thirty +Shillings for immediate Necessaries. Mother having gone to my Lord Mayor +for Passports, and Father having long given up to her his Purse, . . . +(for us Girls, we rarelie have a Crown,) he was in a Strait, and at +length said, + +"This poor young Fellow must not be denied. . . . A Friend in Need is a +Friend indeed. . . . Tie on thy Hood, Child, and step out with the +Volume thou hadst in thy Hand but now, to the Stall at the Corner. See +_Isaac_ himself; shew him _Tasso's_ Autograph on the Fly-leaf, and ask +him for thirty or forty Shillings on it till I come back; but bid him on +no Pretence to part with it." + +I did so, not much liking the Job--there are often such queer People +there; for old _Isaac_ deals not onlie in old Books, but old Silver +Spoons. Howbeit, I took the Volume to his Shop, and as I went in, +_Betty_ came out! What had been _her_ Businesse, I know not; but she +lookt at me and my Book as though she should like to know _mine_; but, +with her usual demure Curtsey, made Way for me, and walked off. I got +the Money with much Waiting, but not much other Dimcultie, and took it to +Father, who sent twenty Shillings to _Ellwood_, and gave me five for my +Payns. Poor _Ellwood_! he hath good Leisure to muse now on _Guli +Springett_. + + +Mother was soe worried by the Odour of the Rats, that they alle started +off a Day sooner than was first intended, leaving me merelie a little +extra Packing. Consequence was, that this Morning, before Dawn, being +earlie at my Task, there taps me at the Window an old Harridan that +Mother can't abide, who is always a crying, "Anie Kitchen-stuff have you, +Maids?" + +Quoth I, "We've Nothing for you." + +"Sure, my deary," answers she, in a cajoling voyce, "there's the Dripping +and Candles you promised me this Morning, along with the Pot-liquor." + +"Dear Heart, Mrs. _Deb_!" says Nurse, laughing, "there is, indeed, a Lot +of Kitchen-stuff hid up near the Sink, which I dare say your Maid told +her she was to have; and as it will only make the House smell worse, I +don't see why she should not have it, and pay for it too." + +Soe I laught, and gave it her forthe, and she put into my Hand two +Shillings; but then says, "Why, where's the Cheese?" + +"We've no Cheese for you," sayd I. + +"Well," says she, "it's a dear Bargayn; but . . ." peering towards me, +"is t'other Mayd gone, then?" + +"Oh, yes! both of 'em," says I; "and I'm the Mistress," soe burst out a +laughing, and shut the Window, while she stumped off, with Something +between a Grunt and a Grone. Of course, I gave the Money to Nurse. + +We had much Talk overnight of my poor dear Mother. Nurse came to her +when _Anne_ was born, and remained in the Family till after the Death of +Father's second Wife. _She_ was a fayr and delicate Gentlewoman, by +Nurse's Account, soft in Speech, fond of Father, and kind to us and the +Servants; but all Nurse's Suffrages were in Favour of mine own loved +Mother. + +I askt Nurse how there came to have beene a Separation betweene Father +and Mother, soone after their Marriage. She made Answer, she never could +understand the Rights of it, having beene before her Time; but they were +both so good, and tenderly affectioned, she never could believe there had +beene anie reall Wrong on either Side. She always thought my Grandmother +must have promoted the Misunderstanding. Men were seldom fond of their +Mothers-in-law. He was very kind to the whole Family the Winter before +_Anne_ was born, when, but for him, they would not have had a Roof over +their Heads. Old Mr. _Powell_ died in this House, the very Day before +_Christmas_, which cast a Gloom over alle, insomuch that my Mother would +never after keep _Christmas Eve_; and, as none of the Puritans did, they +were alle of a Mind. My other Grandfather dropt off a few Months after; +he was very fond of Mother. At this time Grandmother was going to Law +for her Widow's Thirds, which was little worth the striving for, except +to One soe extreme poor. Yet, spite of Gratitude and Interest, she must +quarrel with Father, and remove herself from his House; which even her +own Daughter thought very wrong. Howbeit, Mother would have her first +Child baptized after her; and sent her alle the little Helps she could +from her owne Purse, from Time to Time, with Father's Privity and +Concurrence. He woulde have his next Girl called _Mary_, after Mother; +though the Name _she_ went by with him was "Sweet _Moll_;"--'tis now +always "Poor _Moll_," or "Your Mother." Her health fayled about that +Time, and they summered at _Forest Hill_--a Place she was always +hankering after; but when she came back she told Nurse she never wished +to see it agayn, 'twas soe altered. Father's Sight was, meantime, +getting worse and worse. She read to him, and wrote for him often. He +had become _Cromwell's_ Secretary, and had received the public Thanks of +the Commonwealth. . . . Great as his Reputation was at Home, 'twas +greater Abroad; and Foreigners came to see him, as they still +occasionally doe, from all Parts. My Mother not onlie loved him, but was +proud of him. All her Pleasures were in Home. From my Birth to that of +the little Boy who died, her Health and Spiritts were good; after that +they failed; but she always tried to be chearfull with Father. She read +her _Bible_ much, and was good to the Poor. Nurse says 'twas almost +miraculous how much Good she did at how little Cost, except of +Forethought and Trouble; and all soe secretlie. She began to have an +Impression she was for an early Grave, but did not seem to lament it. +One Night, Nurse being beside her, awoke her from what she supposed an +uneasie Dream, as she was crying in her Sleep; but as soone as she oped +her Eyes, she looked surprised, and said it was a Vision of Peace. She +thought the Redeemer of alle Men had been talking with her. Face to +Face, as a Man talketh with his Friend, and that she had fallen at his +Feet in grateful Joy, and was saying, "Oh! I can't express . . . I can't +express--" + +About a Week after, she dyed, without any particular Warning, except a +short Prick or two at the Heart. My Father was by. 'Twas much talked of +at the Time, she being soe young. + +Discoursing of this and that, 'twas Midnight ere we went to Bed. + + + +_Chalfont_. + +ARRIVED at last; after what a Journey! _Ned_ had sent me Word Overnight +to expect, this Forenoon, a smart young Cavalier, on a fine prancing +Steed, with rich Accoutrements. Howbeit, Cousin is neither smart nor +handsome; and, at the Time specifyde, there was brought up to the Door an +old white Horse, blind of one Eye, with an aquiline Nose, and, I should +think, eight Feet high. The Bridle was diverse from the Pillion, which +was finely embroidered, but tarnish, with the Stuffing oozing out in +severall Places. Howbeit, 'twas the onlie Equipage to be hired in the +Ward, for Love or Money . . . so _Ned_ sayd. . . . And he had a huge +Pair of gauntlett Gloves, a Whip, that was the smartest Thing about him, +and a kind of Vizard over his Nose and Mouth, which, he sayd, was to +prevent his being too alluring; but I know 'twas to ward off Infection. +I had meant to be brave; and Nurse and I had brushed up the green camblet +Skirt, but the rent Mother had made in it would show; however, Nurse +thought that, when I was up she could conceal it with a Corking-pin. +Thus appointed, _Ned_ led the Way, saying, the onlie Occasion on which a +Gentleman needed not to excuse himself to a Lady for going first, was +when they were to ride a Pillion. Noe more jesting when once +a-Horseback; for, after pacing through a few deserted Streets, we found +ourselves amidst such a Medly of Carts, Coaches, and Wagons, full of +People and Goods, all pouring out of Town, that _Ned_ had enough to do to +keep cleare of 'em, and of the Horsemen and empty Vehicles coming back +for fresh Loads. Dear Heart! what jostling, cursing, and swearing! And +how awfull the Cause! Houses padlocked and shuttered wherever we passed, +and some with red Crosses on the Doors. At the first Turnpike 'twas +worst of all--a complete Stoppage; Men squabbling, Women crying, and much +good Daylight wasted. Howbeit, _Ned_ desired me to keep my Mouth shut, +my Eyes open, and to trust to his good Care; and, by Dint of some shrewd +Pilotage, weathered the Strait; after which, our old Horse, whose Paces, +to do him Justice, proved very easie, took longer Steps than anie other +on the Road, by which Means we soon got quit of the Throng; onlie, we +continuallie gained on fresh Parties,--some dreadfully overloaded, some +knocked up alreadie, some baiting at the Roadside, and many of the poorer +Sort erecting 'emselves rude Tents and Cabins under the Hedges. Soon I +began to rejoyce in the green Fields, and sayd how sweet was the Air; and +_Ned_ sayd, "Ah!--a Brick-kiln," and signed at one with his Whip. But I +knew the Wind came t'other Way; and e'en Bricks are better than dead Rats. + +Half-way to _Amersham_ found _Hob Carter's_ Wagon, with Father's Organ +in't, sticking in the Hedge, without Man or Horse; and, by-and-by, came +upon _Hob_ himself, with a Party, carousing. _Ned_ gave it him well, and +sent him back at double-quick Time. 'Twas too bad. He had left Town +overnight, and promised to be at _Chalfont_ by Noon. I should have beene +fain to keep him in Advance of us; howbeit, we were forct to leave him in +the Rear; and, about two Miles beyond _Amersham_, we turned off the high +Road into a country Lane, which soon brought us to a small retired +Hamlet, shaded with Trees, and surrounded with pleasant Meadows and +Orchards, which was no other than _Chalfont_. There was Mother near the +Gate, putting some fine Things to bleach on a Sweetbriar-hedge. _Ned_ +stopt to chat with her, and learn where he might put his Horse, while I +went to seek Father; and soon found him, sitting up in a strait Chair, +outside the Garden-door. Sayd, kissing him, "Dear Father, how is't with +you? Are you comfortable here?" + +"Anything but that," replies he, very shortlie. "I am not in any Way at +my Ease in this Place. I can get no definite Notion of what 'tis like, +and what Notion I have is unfavourable. To finish all, they have stuck +me up here, like a Bottle in the Smoke." + +"But here is a Cushion for you," quoth I, running in and back agayn; "and +I will set your Seat in the Sun, and out of the Wind, and put your Staff +within Reach." + +"Thanks, dear _Deb_. And now, look about, Child, and tell me, with +Precision, what the Place is like." + +Soe I told him 'twas an irregular two-storied Tenement, parcel Wood, +parcel Brick, with a deep Roof of old Tiles that had lost their Colour, +and were curiouslie variegated with green and yellow Moss; and that the +Eaves were dentilled, with Birds' Nests built in 'em, and a big +Honeysuckle growing to the upper Floor; and there was a great and a +little Gable, and a heavy Chimney-stack; a Casement of four Compartments +next the Door, and another of two over it; four Lattice-windows at +t'other End. In Front, a steep Meadow, enamelled with King-cups and +Blue-bells; alongside the Gable-end, a Village Road, with deep Cart-ruts, +and Hawthorn Hedges. Onlie one small Dwelling at hand, little better +than a crazy Haystack; Sheep in the Field, Bees in the Honeysuckle; and a +little rippling Rivulet flowing on continually. + +"Why, now you have sett me quite at Ease!" cries he, turning his bright +Eyes thankfully towards the Sky. "I begin to like the Place, and to +bless the warm Sun and pure Air. Ha! so there is a rippling Rivulet, +that floweth on continually! . . . Lord, forgive me for my peevish +Petulance . . . for forgetting that I could still hear the Lark sing her +Morning Hymn, scent the Meadow-sweet and new-mown Hay, detect the Bee at +his Industry, and the Woodpecker at his Mischief, discern the Breath of +Cows, and hear the Lambs bleat, and the Rivulet ripple continually! +Come! let us go and seek _Ned_." + +And, throwing his Arm about me, draws me to him, saying, "This is my best +Walking-stick," and steps forward briskly and fearlessly. + +Truly, I think _Ned_ loves him as though he were his own Father; and, +indeed, he hath scarce known any other. Kissing his Hand reverently, he +says,--"Honoured _Nunks_, how fares it with you? Do you like _Chalfont_?" + +"Indeed I do, _Ned_," responds Father heartily. "'Tis a little _Zoar_, +whither I and my fugitive Family have escaped from the wicked City; and, +I thank God, my Wife has no Mind to look back." + +"We may as well go in now," says Mother. + +"No, no," says Father; "I feel there is an Hour of Summer's Sunset still +left. We will abide where we are, and keep as long as we can out of the +Smell of your Soapsuds. . . . Let's sit upon the Ground." + +"And tell strange Stories of the Deaths of Kings," says _Ned_, laughing, + +"That was the Saying, _Ned_, of one who writ much well, and much amiss." + +"Let's forgive what he writ amiss, for the Sake of what he writ well," +says _Ned_. + +"That will I never," says Father. "If paltry Wits cannot be holy and +witty at the same Time, that does not hold good with nobler +Spiritts. . . . If it did, they had best never be witty at all. Thy +Brother _Jack_ hath yet to learn that Strength is not Coarseness." + +_Ned_ softly hummed-- + + "Sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's Child!" + + +"Ah! you may quote me against myself," says Father; "you may quote _Beza_ +against _Beza_, and _Erasmus_ against _Erasmus_; but that will not shake +the eternal Laws of Purity and Truth. But, mind you, _Ned_, never did +anie reach a more lofty or tragic Height than this Child of Fancy; never +did any represent Nature more purely to the Life; and e'en where the +Polishments of Art are most wanting in him, he pleaseth with a certain +wild and native Elegance." + +"And what have you now in Hand, Uncle?" _Ned_ asks. + +"_Firmianus Chlorus_," says Father. "But I don't find Much in him." + +"I mean, what of your own?" + +"Oh!" laughing; "Things in Heaven, _Ned_, and Things on Earth, and Things +under the Earth. The old Story, whereof you have alreadie seen many +Parcels; but, you know, my Vein ne'er flows so happily as from the +autumnal to the vernal Equinox. Howbeit, there is Something in the +Quality of this Air would arouse the old Man of _Chios_ himself." + +"Sure," cries _Ned_, "you have less Need than any blind Man to complayn, +since you have but closed your Eyes on Earth to look on Heaven!" + +Father paused; then, stedfastly, in Words I've since sett down, sayd:-- + + "When I consider how my Light is spent, + Ere half my Days, in this dark World and wide, + And that one Talent, which is Death to hide, + Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent + To serve therewith my Maker, and present + My true Account, lest He, returning, chide; + 'Doth God exact Day-labour, Light denied?' + I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent + That Murmur, soon replies,--'God doth not need. + Either Man's Work, or his own Gifts. Who best + Bear his mild Yoke, they serve him best. His State + Is kingly; Thousands at his Bidding speed, + And post o'er Land and Ocean without Rest, + They also serve who only stand and wait.'" + + +. . . We were all quiet enough for a while after this . . . _Ned_ onlie +breathing hard, and squeezing Father's Hand. At length, Mother calls +from the House, "Who will come in to Strawberries and Cream?" + +"Ah!" says Father, "that is not an ill Call. And when we have discussed +our neat Repast, thou, _Ned_, shalt touch the Theorbo, and let us hear +thy balmy Voice. Time was, when thou didst sing like a young Chorister." + +. . . Just as we were returning to the House, _Mary_ ran forth, crying, +"Oh, _Deb_! you have not seen our Cow. She has just been milked, and is +being turned out, even now, to the Pasture. See, there she is; but all +the Others have gone out of Sight, over the Hill." + +Mother observed, "Left to herself, she will go, her own Calf speedily +seeking." + +"My Dear," says Father, "that's a Hexameter: do try to make another." + +"Indeed, Mr. _Milton_, I know nothing of Hexameters or Hexagons either: +'tis enough for me to keep all straight and tight. Let's to Supper." + +_Anne_ had crushed his Strawberries, and mixed them with Cream, and now +she put his Spoon into his Hand, saying, in jest, "Father, this is +Angels' Food, you know. I Have pressed the Meath from many a Berry, and +tempered dulcet Creams." + +"Hush, you Rogue," says he; "_Ned_ will find us out." + +"Is Uncle still at his great Work?" whispers Cousin to Mother. + +"Indeed, I know not if you call it such," she replies, in the same +Undertone. "He hath given over all those grand Things with hard Names, +that used to make him so notable abroad, and so esteemed by his own Party +at Home; and now only amuses himself by making the _Bible_ a Peg to hang +his Idlenesse upon." + +Sure what a Look _Ned_ gave her! Fearful lest Father should overhear +(for Blindness quickens the other Senses), he runs up to the Bookshelf, +and cries, "Why, Uncle, you have brought down Plenty of Entertainment +with you! Here are _Plato, Xenophon_, and _Sallust, Homer_ and +_Euripides, Dante_ and _Petrarch, Chaucer_ and _Spenser_, . . . and . . . +oh, oh! you read Plays sometimes, though you were so hard upon +_Shakspeare_. . . . Here's 'La Scena Tragica d' _Adamo_ ed _Eva_,' +dedicated to the Duchess of _Mantua_." + +"Come away from that Corner, _Ned,"_ says Father; "there's a Rat behind +the Books; he will bite your Fingers--I hear him scratching now. You had +best attack your Strawberries." + +"I think this Sort will preserve well," says Mother. "_Betty_, in +'lighting from the Coach, must needs sett her Foot on the only Pot of +Preserve I had left; which she had stuffed under the Seat, instead of +carrying it, as she was bidden, in her Hand." + +"How fine it is, though," says Father, laughing, "to peacock it in a +Coach now and then! _Pavoneggiarsi in un Cocchio_! Only, except for the +Bravery of it, I doubt if little _Deb_ were not better off on her +Pillion. I remember, on my Road to _Paris_, the Bottom of the Caroche +fell out; and there sate I, with _Hubert_, who was my Attendant, with our +Feet dangling through. Even the grave _Grotius_ laughed at the Accident." + +"Was _Grotius_ grave?" says _Ned_. + +"Believe me, he was," says Father. "He had had Enough to make him so. +One feels taller in the Consciousness of having known such a Man. He was +great in practical! Things; he was also a profound Scholar, though he +made out the fourth Kingdom in _Daniel's_ Prophecy to be the Kingdoms of +the _Lagidae_ and the _Seleucidae_; which, you know, _Ned_, could not +possibly be." + +Chatting thus of this and that, we idled over Supper, had some Musick, +and went to Bed. And soe much for the only Guest we are like to have for +some Months. + +_Anne_ told me, at Bed-time, of the Journey down. The Coach, she sayd, +was most uncomfortable, Mother having so over-stuffed it. For her Share, +she had a Knife-box under her Feet, a Plate-basket at her Back, a +Bird-cage bobbing over her Head, and a Lapfull of Crockery-ware. +Providentially, _Betty_ turned squeamish, and could not ride inside, soe +she was put upon the Box, to the great Comfort of all within. Father, at +the Outset, was chafed and captious, but soon settled down, improved the +Circumstances of the Times, made Jokes on Mother, recalled old Journies +to _Buckinghamshire_, and, finally, set himself to silent Self-communion, +with a pensive Smile on his Face, which, as _Anne_ said, let her know +well enow what he was about. Arrived at _Chalfont_, her first Care was +to make him comfortable; while Mother, _Mary_, and _Betty_ were turning +the House upside down; and in this her Care, she so well succeeded, that, +to her Dismay, he bade her take Pen and Ink, and commenced dictating to +her as composedly as if they were in _Bunhill Fields_. This was somewhat +inopportune, for every Thing was to seek and to set in Order; and, +indeed, Mother soon came in, all of a Heat, and sayd, "I wonder, my Dear, +you can keep _Nan_ here, at such idling, when she has her Bed to make, +and her Box to unpack." Father let her go without a Word, and sate in +peacefull Cogitation all the Rest of the Evening--the only Person at +Leisure in the House. Howbeit, the next Time he heard Mother +chiding--which was after Supper--at _Anne_, for trying to catch a Bat, +which was a Creature she longed to look at narrowly, he sayd, "My Dear, +we should be very cautious how we cut off another Person's Pleasures. +'Tis an easy Thing to say to them, 'You are wrong or foolish,' and soe +check them in their Pursuit; but what have we to give them that will +compensate for it? How many harmless Refreshments and Refuges from sick +or tired Thought may thus be destroyed! We may deprive the Spider of his +Web, and the Robin of his Nest, but can never repair the Damage to them. +Let us live, and let live; leave me to hunt my Butterfly, and _Anne_ to +catch her Bat." + + +Our Life here is most pleasant. Father and I pass almost the whole of +our Time in the open Air--he dictating, and I writing; while Mother and +_Mary_ find 'emselves I know not whether more of Toyl or Pastime, within +Doors,--washing, brewing, baking, pickling, and preserving; to say Nought +of the Dairy, which supplies us with endless Variety of Country Messes, +such as Father's Soul loveth. 'Tis well we have this Resource, or our +Bill of Fare would be somewhat meagre; for the Butcher kills nothing but +Mutton, except at _Christ-mass_. Then, we make our own Bread, for we now +keep strict Quarantine, the Plague having now so much spread, that there +have e'en been one or two Cases in _Chalfont_. The only One to seek for +Employment has been poor _Anne_, whose great Resources at Home have ever +been Church-going and visiting poor Folk. She can do neither here, for +we keep close, even on the Sabbath; and she can neither read to Father, +take long, lonely Rambles, nor help Mother in her Housewifery. Howbeit, +a Resource hath at length turned up; for the lonely Cot (which is the +only Dwelling within Sight) has become the Refuge of a poor, pious Widow, +whose only Daughter, a Weaver of Gold and Silver Lace, has been thrown +out of Employ by the present Stagnation of all Business. _Anne_ picked +up an Acquaintance with 'em shortly after our coming; and, being by +Nature a Hoarder, in an innocent Way, so as always to have a few +Shillings by her for charitable Uses, when _Mary_ and I have none, she +hath improved her Commerce with _Joan Elliott_ to that Degree, as to get +her to teach her her pretty Business, at the Price of the Contents of her +little Purse. So these two sit harmoniously at their Loom, within +Earshot of Father and me, while he dictates to me his wondrous Poem. We +are nearing the End of it now, and have reached the Reconciliation of +_Adam_ and _Eve_, which, I think, affected him a good deal, and +abstracted his Mind all the Evening; for why, else, should he have so +forgotten himself as to call me sweet _Moll_? . . . _Mary_ lookt up, +thinking he meant her; but he never calls her _Moll_ or _Molly_; and, I +believe, was quite unaware he had done so to me: but it showed the Course +his Mind was taking. + +This Morning, I was straying down a Blackthorn Lane, when a blue-eyed, +fresh-coloured young Lady, in a sad-coloured Skirt, and large-flapped +Beaver, without either Feather or Buckle, swept by me on a small white +Palfrey. She held a Bunch of Tiger Lilies in her Hand, the gayety of +which contrasted strangelie enow with her sober Apparell; and I wondered +why a peculiar Classe of Folks should deem they please God by wearing the +dullest of Colours, when He hath arrayed the Flowers of the Field in the +liveliest of Hues. Somehow, I conceited her to be Mistress _Gulielma +Springett_--and so, indeed, she proved; for, on reaching Home after a +lengthened Ramble, I saw the Tiger Lilies lying on the Table, and found +she had spent a full Hour with Father, who much relished her Talk. Sure, +she might have brought a blind Man Flowers that had some Fragrance, +however dull of hue. + +To-day, as we were sitting under the Hedge, we heard a rough Voice +shouting, "Hoy! hoy! what are you about there?" To which another Man's +Voice, just over against us, deprecatingly replied, "No Harm, I promise +you, Master. . . . We have clean Bills of Health; and my Wife and I, +Foot-sore and hungry, do but Purpose to set up our little Cabin against +the Bank, till the Sabbath is overpast." + +"But you must set it up Somewhere else," cries the other, who was the +_Chalfont_ Constable; "for we _Chalfont_ Folks are very particular, and +can't have Strangers come harbouring here in our Highways and +Hedges,--dying, and making themselves disagreeable." + +"But we don't mean to die or be disagreeable," says the other. "We are +on our Way to my Wife's Parish; and, sure, you cannot stop us on the +King's Highway." + +"Oh! but we can, though," says the Constable. "And, besides, this is not +the King's Highway, but only a Bye-way, which is next to private +Property; and the Gentleman at present in Occupation of that private +Property will be highly and justly offended if you go to give him the +Plague." + +"That's me," says Father. "Do tell him, _Deb_, not to be so hard on the +poor People, but to let them abide where they are till the Sabbath is +over. I dare say they have clean Bills of Health, as they state, and the +Spot is so lonely, they need not be denied Fire and Water, which is next +to Excommunication." + +So I parleyed with _John Constable_, and he parleyed with the Travellers, +who really had Passports, and seemed Honest as well as Sound. So they +were permitted, without Let or Hindrance, to erect their little Booth; +and in a little while they had collected Sticks enough to light a Fire, +the Smoke of which annoyed us not, because we were to Windward. + +"What have we for Dinner To-day?" says Father. + +"A cold Shoulder of Mutton," says Mother, who had thrown 'em a couple of +Cabbages. + +"Well," says Father, "'twas to a cold Shoulder of Mutton that _Samuel_ +set down _Saul_; and what was good enough for a Prophet may well content +a Poet. I propose, that what we leave of ours To-day, should be given to +these poor People for their Sabbath's Dinner; and I, for one, shall eat +no Meat To-day." + +In fact, none did but _Mary_ and Mother, who find fasting not good for +their Stomachs; soe _Anne_, who is the most fearlesse of us all, handed +the Joint over to them, with some broken Bread and Dripping, which was +most thankfully received. In Truth, I believe them harmless People, for +they are now a singing Psalms. + + +_Ellwood_ has turned up agayn, to the great Pleasure of Father, who +delights in his Company, and likes his Reading better than ours, though +he _will_ call Pater Payter. Consequence is, I have infinitely more +Leisure, and can ramble hither and thither, (always shunning Wayfarers), +and bring Home my Lap full of Flowers and Weeds, with rusticall Names, +such as _Ragged Robin, Sneezewort, Cream-and-Codlins, Jack-in-the-Hedge_, +or _Sauce-alone_. Many of these I knew not before; but I describe them +to Father, and he tells me what they are. He hath finished his Poem, and +given it _Ellwood_ to read, in the most careless Fashion imaginable, +saying, "You can take this Home, and run through it at your Leisure. I +should like to hear your Judgment on it some Time or other." Nor do I +believe he has ever since given himself an uneasy Thought of what that +Judgment may be, nor what the World at large may think of it. His +Pleasure is not in Praise but Production; the last makes him now and then +a little feverish; the other, or its want, never. Just at last, 'twas +hard Work to us both; he was like a Wheel running downhill, that must get +to the End before it stopped. Mother scolded him, and made him promise +he would leave off for a Week or so; at least, she says he did, and he +says he did not, and asks her whether, if the Grass had promised not to +grow she would believe it. + +Poor _Ellwood's_ Love-bonds prove rather more irksome to him than those +of his Gaol; he hath renewed his Intercourse with our Friends at the +_Grange_, only to find a dangerous Rival stept into his Place, in the +Person of one _William Penn_--in fact, I suspect Mistress _Guli_ is +engaged to him already. _Ellwood_ hath been closetted with my Father +this Morning, pouring out his Woes--methinks he must have been to seek +for a Confidant! When he came forth, the poor young Man's Eyes were red. +I cannot but pity him, tho' he is such a Formalist. + +I wish _Anne_ were a little more demonstrative; Father would then be as +assured of her Affection as of mine, and treat her with equal Tenderness. +But, no, she cannot be; she will sitt and look piteously on his blind +Face, but, alas! he cannot see that; and when he pours forth the full +Tide of Melody on his Organ, and hymns mellifluous Praise, the Tears rush +to her eyes, and she is oft obliged to quit the Chamber; but, alas! he +knows not that. So he goes on, deeming her, I fear me, stupid as well as +silent, indifferent as well as infirm. + +I am not avised of her ever having let him feel her Sympathy, save when +he was inditing to me his third Book, while she sate at her Sewing. +'Twas at these lines:-- + + "Thus with the Year, + Seasons return; but not to me returns + Day, or the sweet Approach of Even or Morn, + Or Sight of vernal Bloom or Summer's Rose, + Or Flocks or Herds, or human Face divine, + But Clouds instead, and over-during Dark + Surrounds me; from the cheerful Ways of Men + Cut off: and for the Book of Knowledge fair, + Presented with an universal Blank." + + +His Brow was a little contracted, but his Face was quite composed; while +she, on t'other Hand, with her Work dropped from her Lap, and her Eyes +streaming, sate gazing on him, the Image of Woe. At length, timidly +stole to his Side, and, after hesitating awhile, kissed both his Eyelids. +He caught her to him, quite taken by Surprise, and, for a Moment, both +wept bitterly. This was soon put a Stop to, by Mother's coming in, with +her Head full of stale Fish; howbeit Father treated _Anne_ with uncommon +Tenderness all that Evening, calling her his sweet _Nan_; while she, +shrinking back again into her Shell, was shyer than ever. But his +Spiritts were soothed rather than dashed by this little Outbreak; and at +Bedtime, he said, even cheerfully, "Now, good-night, Girls: . . . may it, +indeed, be as good to you as to me. You know, Night brings back my +Day--_I am not blind in my Dreams_." + + +I wish I knew the Distinction between Temperament and Genius: how far +Father's even Frame is attributable to one or t'other. If to the former, +why, we might hope to attain it as well as he;--yet, no; this is equallie +the Gift of God's Grace. Our Humours we may controwl, but our +Temperament is born with us; and if one should say, "Why are you a Vessel +of glorious things, while I am a Vessel of Things weak and vile?"--nay, +but oh! Man or Woman, who art thou that questionest the Will of God? His +Election is shewn no less in the Gift of Genius or of an equable +Temperament than of spirituall Life; and the Thing formed may not say to +him that formed it, "Why hast thou made me thus?" + +Father, indeed, can flame out in political Controversy, and lay about him +as with a Flail, right and left, making the Chaff, and sometimes the +Wheat too, fly about his Ears. 'Twas while threshing the Wheat by the +Wine-press at _Ophrah_, that _Gideon_ was called by the Angel; and +methinks Father hath in like Manner been summoned from the Floor of his +Threshing, to discourse of Heaven and Earth, and bring forth from his +Mind's Storehouse Things new and old. I wonder if the World will ever +give heed to his Teaching. Suppose a Spark of Fire should drop some +Night on the Manuscript, while _Ettwood_ is dozing over it;--why, there's +an end on't. I suppose Father could never do it over again. I wonder +how many fine Things have been lost in suchlike Ways; or whether God ever +permitts a truly fine Thing to be utterly lost. We may drop a Diamond +into the Sea; but there it is, at the Bottom of the Great Deep. +_Justinian's Pandects_ turned up again. The Art of making Glass was lost +once. The Passage round the _Cape_ was made and forgotten.----If I pore +over this, I shall puzzle my Head. Howbeit, were I to round the _Cape_, +I should hardly look for stranger and more glorious Scenes than Father +hath in his Poem made familiar to me. He hath done more for me than +_Columbus_ for Queen _Isabel_--hath revealed to me a far better _New +World_. Now, I scarce ever look on the setting Sun, surrounded by Hues +more gorgeous than those of the High-priest's Breast-plate, without +picturing the Angel of the Sun seated on that bright Beam which bore him, +Slope downward, beneath the _Azores_. And, in the less brilliant Hour, +I, by Faith or Fancy, discern _Ithuriel_ and _Zephon_ in the Shade; and +by their Side a third, of regal Port, but faded Splendour wan. A little +later still, can sometimes hear the Voice of God, or, as I suppose, we +might say, the Word of God, walking in the Garden. _Pneuma_! His +Breath! His Spirit! How hushed and still! Then, the Night cometh, when +no Man can work--when the young Lions, in tropical Climes, waking from +their Day-sleep, seek their Meat from God. Albeit they may prowl about +the Dwellings of his people, they cannot enter, for He that watcheth them +neither slumbers nor sleeps. Moreover, heavenly Vigils relieve one +another at their Posts, and go their Midnight Rounds; sometimes, singing +(Father says), with heavenly Touch of instrumental Sounds, in full +harmonic Number joined . . . yes, and Shepherds, once, at least, have +heard them. + +And then . . . and then Mother cries, "How often, _Deb_, shall I bid you +lock the Gate at nine o'clock, and bring me in the Key?" + + + +_Sept. 2nd, 1665_. + +Good so! Master _Ellwood_ hath brought back the MS. at last, and +delivered his Approbation thereon with the Air of a competent Authority, +which Father took in the utmost good part, and chatted with him on the +Subject for some Time. Howbeit, he is not much flattered, I fancy, by +the Quaker's pragmatick Sanction, qualifyde, too, as it was, to show his +own Discernment; and when I consider that the major part of Criticks may +be as little fitted to take the Measure of their Subject as _Ellwood_ is +of Father, I cannot but see that the gleaning of Father's Grapes is +better than the Vintage of the Critick's _Abiezer_. + +To wind up all, _Ellwood_, primming up his Mouth, says, "Thou hast found +much to tell us, Friend _Milton_, on _Paradise Lost_;--now, what hast +thou to tell of _Paradise Regained_?" + +Father said nothing at the Time, but hath since been brooding a good +deal, and keeping me much to the Reading of the _New Testament_; and I +think my Night-work will soon begin again. + +_Ellwood's_ Talk was much of _Guli Springett_, whom I have seen sundry +times, and think high-flown, in spight of her levelling Principles and +demure Carriage. The Youth is bewitched with her, I think; what has a +Woman to do with Logique? My Belief is, he might as well hope to marry +the Moon as to win Mistress _Springett's_ Hand; however, his Self-opinion +is considerable. He chode Father this Morning for Organ-playing, saying +he doubted its lawfullness. Oh, the Prigg! + +I grieve to think _Mary_ can sometimes be a little spightfull as well as +unduteous. She is ill at her Pen, and having To-day made some Blunder, +for which Father chid her, not overmuch, she rudely made Answer, "I never +had a Writing-master." _Betty_, being by, treasured up, as I could see, +this ill-natured Speech: and 'twas unfair too; for, if we never had a +Writing-master, yet my Aunt _Agar_ taught us; and 'twas our own Fault if +we improved no more. Indeed, we have had a scrambling Sort of Education; +but, in many respects, our Advantages have exceeded those of many young +Women; and among them I reckon, first and foremost, continuall +Intercourse with a superior Mind. + +If a Piece of mere Leather, by frequent Contact with Silver, acquires a +certain Portion of the pure and bright Metal; sure, the Children of a +gifted Parent must, by the Collision of their Minds, insensibly, as +'twere, imbibe somewhat of his finer Parts. _Ned Phillips_, indeed, +sayth we are like People living so close under a big Mountain, as not to +know how high it is; but I think we . . . at least, I do. And, whatever +be our scant Learnings, Father, despite his limited Means, hath never +grutched us the Supply of a reall Want; and is, at this Time, paying +_Joan Elliott_ at a good Rate for perfecting _Anne_ in her pretty Work. +I am sorry _Mary_ should thus have sneaped him; and I am sorry I ever +either hurt him--by uncivil Speech, or wronged him by unkind Thought. +Poor _Nan_, with all her Infirmities, is, perhaps, his best Child. Not +that I am a bad one, neither. + +My Night-tasks have recommenced of late; because, as he says-- + + "I suoi Pensieri in lui Dormir non ponno:" + +which, being interpreted, means, "His Thoughts would let him and his +Daughter take no rest." + + + +_12th_. + +I know not that any one but Father hath ever concerned themselves to +imagine the Anxieties of the blessed Virgin during her Son's forty Days' +mysterious Absence. No wonder that + + "Within her Breast, tho' calm, her Breast, tho' pure, + Motherly Fears got Head." + +Father hath touched her with a very tender and reverent Hand, dwelling +less on her than he did on _Eve_, whom he with perfect Beauty adorned, +onlie to make her Sin appear more Sad. Well, we know not ourselves; but +methinks I should not have transgrest as she did, neither, for an Apple. + + + +_15th_. + +And now I have transgrest about a Pin! O me! what weak, wicked Wretches +we are! "Behold, how great a Matter a little Fire kindleth!" And the +Tongue is a Fire, an unruly Member. Sure, when I was writing, at +Father's Dictation, such heavy Charges against _Eve_, I privily thought I +was better than she; and, sifting the Doings of _Mary_ and _Anne_ through +a somewhat censorious Judgment, maybe I thought I was better than they. +Alas! we know not our own selves. And so, dropping a Stitch in my +Knitting, I must needs cry out--"Here, any of you . . . oh, Mother! do +bring me a Pin." My Sisters, as Ill-luck would have it, not being by, +cries she, "Forsooth, Manners have come to a fine Pass in these Days! +Bring her a Pin, quotha!" Instead of making answer, "Well, 'twas +disrespectful; I ask your Pardon;" I must mutter, "I see what I'm valued +at--less than a Pin." + +"_Deb_, don't be unduteous," says Father to me. "Woulde it not have been +better to fetch what you wanted, than strangely ask your Mother to bring +it?" + +"And thereby spoil my Work," answered I; "but 'tis no Matter." + +"Tis a great Matter to be uncivil," says Father. + +"Oh! dear Husband, do not concern yourself," interrupts Mother; "the +Girl's incivility is no new Matter, I protest." + +On this, a Battle of Words on both sides, ending in Tears, Bitterness, +and my being sent by Father to my Chamber till Dinner. "And, _Deb_," he +adds, gravely, but not harshly, "take no Book with you, unless it be your +_Bible_." + +Soe, hither, with swelling Heart, I have come. I never drew on myself +such Condemnation before--at least, since childish Days; and could be +enraged with Mother, were I not enraged with myself. I'm in no Hurry for +Dinner-time; I cannot sober down. My Temples beat, and my Throat has a +great Lump in it. Why was _Nan_ out of the Way? Yet, would she have +made Things better? I was in no Fault at first, that's certain; Mother +took Offence where none was meant; but I meant Offence afterwards. Lord, +have mercy upon me! I can ask Thy Forgiveness, though not hers. And I +could find it in me to ask Father's too, and say, "I have sinned against +Heaven, and in thy . . . thy _Hearing_.'" And now I come to write that +Word, I have a Mind to cry; and the Lump goes down, and I feel earnest to +look into my _Bible_, and more humbled towards Mother. And . . . what is +it Father says?-- + + "What better can I do, than to the Place + Repairing, where he judged me, there confess + Humbly my Fault, and Pardon beg, with Tears + Of Sorrow unfeign'd, and Humiliation meek?" + + +. . . He met me at the very first Word. "I knew you would," he said; "I +knew the kindest Thing was to send you to commune with your own Heart in +your Chamber, and be still. 'Tis there we find the Holy Spirit and Holy +Saviour in waiting for us; and in the House where they abide, as long as +they abide in it, there is no Room for _Satan_ to enter. But let this +Morning's Work, _Deb_, be a Warning to you, not thus to transgress again. +As long as we are in peaceful Communion among ourselves, there is a fine, +invisible Cobweb, too clear for mortal Sight, spun from Mind to Mind, +which the least Breath of Discord rudely breaks. You owe to your Mother +a Daughter's Reverence; and if you behave like a Child, you must look to +be punisht like a Child." + +"I am not a mere Baby, neither," I said. + +"No," he replied. "I see you can make Distinction between _Teknia_ and +_Paidia_; but a Baby is the more inoffensive and less responsible Agent +of the two. If you are content to be a Baby in Grace, you must not +contend for a Baby's Immunities. I have heard a Baby cry pretty loudly +about a Pin." + +This shut my Mouth close enough. + +"You are now," he added gently, "nearly as old as your Mother was when I +married her." + +I said, "I fear I am not much like her." + +He said nothing, only smiled. I made bold to pursue:--"What was she +like?" + +Again he was silent, at least for a Minute; and then, in quite a changed +Tone, with somewhat hurried in it, cried,-- + + "Like the fresh Sweetbriar and early May! + Like the fresh, cool, pure Air of opening Day . . . + Like the gay Lark, sprung from the glittering Dew . . . + An Angel! yet . . . a very Woman too!" + + +And, kicking back his Chair, he got up, and began to walk hastily about +the Chamber, as fearlessly as he always does when he is thinking of +something else, I springing up to move one or two Chairs out of his Way. +Hearing some high Voices in the Offices, he presently observed, "A +contentious Woman is like a continuall Dropping. _Shakspeare_ spoke well +when he said that a sweet, low Voice is an excellent Thing in Woman. I +wish you good Women would recollect that one Avenue of my Senses being +stopt, makes me keener to any Impression on the others. Where Strife is, +there is Confusion and every evil Work. Why should not we dwell in +Peace, in this quiet little Nest, instead of rendering our Home liker to +a Cage of unclean Birds?" + + + +_Bunhill Fields, London, Oct. 1666_. + +People have phansied Appearances of Armies in the Air, flaming Swords, +Fields of Battle, and other Images; and, truly, the Evening before we +left _Chalfont_, methought I beheld the Glories of the ancient City +_Ctesiphon_ in the Sunset Clouds, with gilded Battlements, conspicuous +far--Turrets, and Terraces, and glittering Spires. The light-armed +_Parthians_ pouring through the Gates, in Coats of Mail, and military +Pride. In the far Perspective of the open Plain, two ancient Rivers, the +one winding, t'other straight, losing themselves in the glowing Distance, +among the Tents of the ten lost Tribes. Such are One's Dreams at Sunset. +And, when I cast down my dazed Eyes on the shaded Landskip, all looked in +Comparison, so black and bleak, that methought how dull and dreary this +lower World must have appeared to _Moses_ when he descended from _Horeb_, +and to our Saviour, when he came down from the _Mount of +Transfiguration_, and to St. _Paul_, when he dropt from the seventh +Heaven. + +What a Click, Click, the Bricklayers make with their Trowels, thus +bringing me down from my Altitudes! Sure, we hardly knew how well off we +were at _Chalfont_, till we came back to this unlucky Capital, looking as +desolate as _Jerusalem_, when the City was ruinated and the People +captivated. Weeds in the Streets--smouldering Piles--blackened, +tottering Walls--and inexhaustible Heaps of vile Rubbish. Even with +closed Windows, everything gets covered with a Coating of fine Dust. +Cousin _Jack_ Yesterday picked up a half-burnt Acceptance for twenty +thousand Pounds. There is a fine Time coming for Builders and +Architects--_Anne's_ Lover among the Rest. The Way she picked him up was +notable. Returning to Town, she falls to her old Practices of daily +Prayer, and visiting the Poor. At Church she sits over against a +good-looking young Man, recovered from the Plague, whose near Approach to +Death's Door had made him more godly in his Walk than the general of his +Age and Condition. He notes her beautiful Face--marks not her deformed +Shape; and, because that, by Reason of the late Distresses, the +Calamities of the Poor have been met by unusuall Charities of the upper +Classes, he, on his Errands of Mercy among the Rest, presently falls in +with her at a poor sick Man's House, and marvels when the limping +Stranger turns about and discovers the beautiful Votaress. After one or +two chance Meetings, respectfully accosts her--_Anne_ draws back--he +finds a mutuall Friend--the Acquaintance progresses; and at length, by +Way of first Introduction to my Father, he steps in to ask him (preamble +supposed) to give him his eldest Daughter. Then what a Storm ensues! +Father's Objections do not transpire, no one being by but Mother, who is +unlikely to soften Matters. But, so soon as _John Herring_ shuts the +Door behind him, and walks off quickly, _Anne_ is called down, and I +follow, neither bidden nor hindered. Thereupon, Father, with a red +Heat-spot on his Cheek, asks _Anne_ what she knows of this young Man. +Her answer, "Nothing but good." "How came she to know him at all?" . . . +Silent; then makes Answer, "Has seen him at Mrs. _French's_ and +elsewhere." "Where else?" "Why, at Church, and other Places." Mother +here puts in, "What other Places?" . . . "Sure what can it signify," +_Anne_ asks, turning short round upon her; "and especially to you, who +would be glad to get quit of me on any Terms?" + +"_Anne, Anne_!" interrupts Father, "does this Concern of ours for you +look like it? You know you are saying what is uncivil and untrue." + +"Well," resumes _Anne_, her breath coming quick, "but what's the +Objection to _John Herring_?" + +"_John_? is he _John_ with you already?" cries Mother. "Then you must +know more of him than you say." + +"Sure, Mother," cries _Anne_, bursting into Tears, "you are enough to +overcome the Patience of _Job_. I know nothing of the young Man, but +that he is pious, and steady, and well read, and a good Son of reputable +Parents, as well to do in the World as ourselves; and that he likes me, +whom few like, and offers me a quiet, happy Home." + +"How fast some People can talk when they like," observes Mother; at which +Allusion to _Anne's_ Impediment, I dart at her a Look of Wrath; but _Nan_ +only continues weeping. + +"Come hither, Child," interposes Father, holding his Hand towards her; +"and you, good _Betty_, leave us awhile to talk over this without +Interruption." At which, Mother, taking him literally, sweeps up her +Work, and quits the Room. "The Address of this young Man," says Father, +"has taken me wholly by Surprise, and your Encouragement of it has +incontestably had somewhat of clandestine in it; notwithstanding which, I +have, and can have, nothing in View, dear _Nan_, but your Well-being. As +to his Calling, I take no Exceptions at it, even though, like +_Caementarius_, he should say, I am a Bricklayer, and have got my Living +by my Labour--" + +"A Master-builder, not a Bricklayer," interposes _Anne_. + +Father stopt for a Moment; then resumed. "You talk of his offering you a +quiet Home: why should you be dissatisfied with your own, where, in the +Main, we are all very happy together? In these evil Times, 'tis +something considerable to have, as it were, a little Chamber on the Wall, +where your Candle is lighted by the Lord, your Table spread by him, your +Bed made by him in your Health and Sickness, and where he stands behind +the Door, ready to come in and sup with you. All this you will leave for +One you know not. How bitterly may you hereafter look back on your +present Lot! You know, I have the Apostle's Word for it, that, if I give +you in Marriage, I may do well; but, if I give you not, I shall do +better. The unmarried Woman careth for the Things of the Lord, that she +may be holy in Body and Spirit, and attend upon him without Distraction. +Thus was it with the five wise Maidens, who kept their Lamps ready +trimmed until the Coming of their Lord. I wish we only knew of five that +were foolish. Time would fail me to tell you of all the godly Women, +both of the elder and later Time, who have led single Lives without +Superstition, and without Hypocrisy. Howbeit, you may marry if you will; +but you will be wiser if you abide as you are, after my Judgment. Let me +not to the Marriage of true Minds oppose Impediment; but, in your own +Case--" + +"Father," interrupts _Anne_, "you know I am ill at speaking; but permit +me to say, you are now talking wide of the Mark. Without going back to +the Beginning of the World, or all through the _Romish Calendar_, I will +content me with the more recent Instance of yourself, who have thrice +preferred Marriage, with all its concomitant Evils, to the single State +you laud so highly. Is it any Reason we should not dwell in a House, +because St. _Jerome_ lived in a Cave? The godly Women of whom you speak +might neither have had so promising a Home offered to them, nor so ill a +Home to quit." + +"What call you an ill Home?" says Father, his Brow darkening. + +"I call that an ill Home," returns _Anne_, stoutly, "where there is +neither Union nor Sympathy--at least, for my Share,--where there are no +Duties of which I can well acquit myself, and where those I have made for +myself, and find suitable to my Capacity and Strength, are contemned, +let, and hindered,--where my Mother-Church, my Mother's Church, is +reviled--my Mother's Family despised,--where the few Friends I have made +are never asked, while every Attention I pay them is grudged,--where, for +keeping all my hard Usage from my Father's Hearing, all the Reward I get +is his thinking I have no hard Usage to bear--" + +"Hold, ungrateful Girl!" says Father; "I've heard enough, and too much. +Tis Time wasted to reason with a Woman. I do believe there never yet was +one who would not start aside like a broken Bow, or pierce the Side like +a snapt Reed, at the very Moment most Dependance was placed in her. Let +her Husband humour her to the Top of her Bent,--she takes French Leave of +him, departs to her own Kindred, and makes Affection for her Childhood's +Home the Pretext for defying the Laws of God and Man. Let her Father +cherish her, pity her, bear with her, and shelter her from even the +Knowledge of the Evils of the World without,--her Ingratitude will keep +Pace with her Ignorance, and she will forsake him for the Sweetheart of a +Week. You think Marriage the supreme Bliss: a good many don't find it +so. Lively Passions soon burn out; and then come disappointed +Expectancies, vain Repinings, fretful Complainings, wrathful Rejoinings. +You fly from Collision with jarring Minds: what Security have you for +more Forbearance among your new Connexions? Alas! you will carry your +Temper with you--you will carry your bodily Infirmities with you;--your +little Stock of Experience, Reason, and Patience will be exhausted before +the Year is out, and at the End, perhaps, you will--die--" + +"As well die," cries _Anne_, bursting into Tears, "as live to hear such a +Rebuke as this." And so, passionately wringing her Hands, runs out of +the Room. + +"Follow after her, _Deb_," cries Father; "she is beside herself. Unhappy +me! tried every Way! An _Oedipus_ with no _Antigone_!" + +And, rising from his Seat, he began to pace up and down, while I ran up +to _Nan_. But scarce had I reached the Stair-head, when we both heard a +heavy Fall in the Chamber below. We cried, "Sure, that is Father!" and +ran down quicker than we had run up. He was just rising as we entered, +his Foot having caught in a long Coil of Gold Lace, which _Anne_, in her +disorderly Exit, had unwittingly dragged after her. I saw at a Glance he +was annoyed rather than hurt; but _Nan_, without a Moment's Pause, darts +into his Arms, in a Passion of Pity and Repentance, crying, "Oh, Father, +Father, forgive me! oh, Father!" + +"Tis all of a Piece, _Nan_," he replies; "alternate hot and cold; every +Thing for Passion, nothing for Reason. Now all for me; a Minute ago, I +might go to the Wall for _John Herring_." + +"No, never, Father!" cries _Anne_; "never, dear Father--" + +"Dark are the Ways of God," continues he, unheeding her; "not only +annulling his first best Gift of Light to me, and leaving me a Prey to +daily Contempt, Abuse, and Wrong, but mangling my tenderest, most +apprehensive Feelings--" + +_Anne_ again breaks in with, "Oh! Father, Father!" + +"Dark, dark, for ever dark!" he went on; "but just are the Ways of God to +Man. Who shall say, 'What doest Thou?'" + +"Father, I promise you," says _Anne_, "that I will never more think of +_John Herring_." + +"Foolish Girl!" he replies sadly; "as ready now to promise too Much, as +resolute just now to hear Nothing. How can you promise never to think of +him? I never asked it of you." + +"At least I can promise not to speak of him," says _Anne_. + +"Therein you will do wisely," rejoins Father. "My Consent having been +asked is an Admission that I have a Right to give or withhold it; and, as +I have already told _John Herring_, I shall certainly not grant it before +you are of Age. Perhaps by that Time you may be your own Mistress, +without even such an ill Home as I, while I live, can afford you." + +"No more of that," says _Anne_, interrupting him; and a Kiss sealed the +Compact. + +All this Time, Mother and _Mary_ were, providentially, out of the Way. +Mother had gone off in a Huff, and _Mary_ was busied in making some +marbled Veal. + +The rest of the Day was dull enough: violent Emotions are commonly +succeeded by flat Stagnations. _Anne_, however, seemed kept up by some +Energy from within, and looked a little flushed. At Bed-time she got the +start of me, as usuall; and, on entering our Chamber, I found her quite +undrest, sitting at the Table, not reading of her _Bible_, but with her +Head resting on it. I should have taken her to be asleep, but for the +quick Pulsation of some Nerve or Muscle at the back of the Neck, +somewhere under the right Ear. She looks up, commences rubbing her Eyes, +and says, "My Eyes are full of Sand, I think. I will give you my new +Crown-piece, _Deb_, if you will read me to sleep without another Word." +So I say, "A Bargain," though without meaning to take the Crown; and she +jumps into Bed in a Minute, and I begin at the Sermon on the Mount, and +keep on and on, in more and more of a Monotone; but every Time I lookt +up, I saw her Eyes wide open, agaze at the top of the Bed; and so I go on +and on, like a Bee humming over a Flower, till she shuts her Eyes; but, +at last, when I think her off, having just got to _Matthew_, eleven, +twenty-eight, she fetches a deep sigh, and says, "I wish I could hear Him +saying so to me . . . 'Come, _Anne_, unto me, and I will give you Rest.' +But, in fact, He does so as emphatically in addressing all the weary and +heavy-laden, as if I heard Him articulating, 'Come, _Anne_, come!'" + + + + +POST SCRIPTUM + + +_Spitalfields, 1680_. + +A generous Mind finds even its just Resentments languish and die away +when their Object becomes the unresisting prey of Death. Such is my +Experience with regard to _Betty Fisher_, whose ill Life hath now +terminated, and from whom, confronted at the Bar of their great Judge, +Father will, one Day, hear the Truth. As to my Stepmother, Time and +Distance have had their soothing Effect on me even regarding her. She +is down in _Cheshire_, among her own People; is a hale, hearty Woman +yet, and will very likely outlive me. If she looked in on me this +Moment, and saw me in this homely but decent Suit, sitting by my clear +Coal-fire, in this little oak-panelled Room, with a clean, though +coarse Cloth neatly laid on the Supper Table, with Covers for two, +could she sneer at the Spouse of the _Spitalfields_ Weaver? Belike she +might, for Spight never wanted Food; but I would have her into the +Nursery, shew her the two sleeping Faces, and ask her. Did I need her +Pity then? + +_Betty's_ Death, calling up Memories of old Times, hath made me +somewhat cynical, I think. I cannot but call to Mind her many ill +Turns. 'Twas shortly after the Rupture of _Anne's_ Match with _John +Herring_. Poor _Nan_ had over-reckoned on her own Strength of Mind, +when she promised Father to speak of him no more; and, after the first +Fervour of Self-denial, became so captious, that Father said he heard +_John Herring_ in every Tone. This set them at Variance, to commence +with; and then, _Mary_ detecting _Betty_ in certain Malpractices, +Mother could no longer keep her, for Decency's Sake; and _Betty_, in +revenge, came up to Father before she left, and told him a tissue of +Lies concerning us,--how that _Mary_ had wished him dead, and I had +made away with his Books and Kitchen-stuff. I, being at _Hackney_ at +the Time, on a Visitt to _Rosamond Woodcock_, was not by to refute the +infamous Charge, which had Time to rankle in Father's Mind before I +returned; and _Mary_ having lost his Opinion by previous Squabbles with +Mother and the Maids, I came back only to find the House turned upside +down. 'Twas under these misfortunate Circumstances that poor Father +commenced his_ Sampson Agonistes_; and, though his Object was, +primarily, to divert his Mind, it too often ran upon Things around him, +and made his Poem the Shadow and Mirrour of himself. When he got to +_Dalilah_, I could not forbear saying, "How hard you are upon Women, +Father!" + +"Hard?" repeated he; "I think I am anything but that. Do you call me +hard on _Eve_, and the Lady in _Comus_?" + +"No, indeed," I returned. "The Lady, like _Una_, makes Sunshine in a +shady Place; and, in fact, how should it be otherwise? For Truth and +Purity, like Diamonds, shine in the Dark." + +He smiled, and, passing his Hand across his Brow to re-collect himself, +went on in a freer, less biting Spirit, to the Encounter with _Harapha_ +of _Gath_, in which he evidently revelled, even to making me laugh, +when the big, cowardly Giant excused himself from coming within the +blind Man's Reach, by saying of him, that he had need of much washing +to be willingly touched. He went on flowingly to + + "But take good Heed my Hand survey not thee; + My Heels are fetter'd, but my Fist is free," + +and then broke into a merry Laugh himself; adding, a Line or two after, + + "His Giantship is gone, somewhat crest-fallen; + +". . . there, Girl, that will do for To-day." + +Meantime, his greater Poem had come out, for which he had got an +immediate Payment of five Pounds, with a conditional Expectance of +fifteen Pounds more on the three following Editions, should the Public +ever call for 'em. And truly, when one considers how much Meat and +Drink One may buy for Twenty Pounds, and how capricious is the Taste of +the critikal World, 'tis no mean Venture of a Bookseller on a +Manuscript of which he knows the actual value as little as a Salvage of +the Gold-dust he parts with for a Handful of old Nails. At all events, +the Sale of the Work gave Father no Reason to suppose he had made an +ill Bargain; but, indeed, he gave himself very little Concern about it; +and was quite satisfied when, now and then, Mr. _Marvell_ and Mr. +_Skinner_, or some other old Crony, having waded through it, looked in +on him to talk it over. Money, indeed, a little more of it, would have +been often acceptable. Mother now began to pinch us pretty short, and +lament the unsaleable Quality of Father's Productions; also to call us +a Set of lazy Drones, and wonder what would come of us some future Day; +insomuch that Father, turning the Matter sedately in his Mind, did +seriously conclude 'twould be well for us to go forth for a While, to +learn some Method of Self-support. And this was accelerated by an +unhappy Collision 'twixt my Mother and me, which, in a hasty Moment, +sent me, with swelling Heart, to take Counsel of Mrs. _Lefroy_, my +sometime Playfellow _Rosamond Woodcock_, then on the Point of embarking +for _Ireland_; who volunteered to take me with her, and be at my +Charges; so I took leave of Father with a bursting Heart, not troubling +him with an Inkling of my Ill-usage, which has been a Comfort to me +ever since, though he went to the Grave believing I had only sought my +own Well-doing. + +We never met again. Had I foreseen it, I could not have left him. The +next Stroke was to get away _Mary_ and _Anne_, and take back _Betty +Fisher_. Then the nuncupative Will was hatched up; for I never will +believe it authentick--no, never; and Sir _Leoline Jenkins_, that +upright and able Judge, set it aside, albeit _Betty Fisher_ would swear +through thick and thin. + +Sure, Things must have come to a pretty Pass, when Father was brought +to take his Meals in the Kitchen! a Thing he had never been accustomed +to in his Life, save at _Chalfont_, by Reason of the Parlour being so +small. And the Words, both as to Sense and Choice, which _Betty_ put +into his Mouth, betrayed the Counterfeit, by favouring over-much of the +Scullion. "God have Mercy, _Betty_! I see thou wilt perform according +to thy Promise, in providing me such Dishes as I think fit whilst I +live; and when I die, thou knowest I have left thee all!" Phansy +Father talking like that! Were I not so provoked, I could laugh. And +he to sell his Children's Birthright for a Mess of Pottage, who, +instead of loving savoury Meat, like blind _Isaac_, was, in fact, the +most temperate of Men! who cared not what he ate, so 'twas sweet and +clean; who might have said with godly Mr. _Ball_ of _Whitmore_, that he +had two Dishes of Meat to his Sabbath-dinner,--a Dish of hot Milk, and +a Dish of cold Milk; and that was enough and enough. Whose Drink was +from the Well;--often have I drawn it for him at _Chalfont!--_and who +called Bread-and-butter a lordly Dish;--often have I cut him thick +Slices, and brought him Cresses from the Spring! Well placed he his +own Principle and Practice in the Chorus's Mouth, where they say, + + "Oh, Madness! to think Use of strongest Wines + And strongest Drinks our chief Support of Health!" + + +So that Story carries its Confutation with it: _Ned Phillips_ says so, +too. As to what passed, that _July_ Forenoon, between him and Uncle +_Kit_, before the latter left Town in the _Ipswich_ Coach, and with +_Betty Fisher_ fidgetting in and out of the Chamber all the Time . . . +he may, or may not have called us his unkind Children; for we can never +tell what Reasons had been given him to make him think us so. That +must stand over. How many human Misapprehensions must do the same! +Enough that one Eye sees all, that one Spirit knows all . . . even all +our Misdoings; or else, how could we bear to tell Him even the least of +them? But it requires great Faith in the greatly wronged, to obtain +that Calm of Mind, all Passion spent, which some have arrived at. When +we can stand firm on that Pinnacle, _Satan_ falls prone. He sets us on +that dizzy Height, as he did our Master; saying, in his taunting +Fashion,-- + + "There stand, if thou canst stand; to stand upright + Will ask thee Skill;" + +but the Moment he sees we can, down he goes himself!--falls whence he +stood to see his Victor fall! This is what Man has done, and Man may +do,--and Woman too; the Strength, for asking, being promised and given. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Mary Powell & Deborah's Diary, by Anne Manning + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARY POWELL & DEBORAH'S DIARY *** + +***** This file should be named 21431.txt or 21431.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/1/4/3/21431/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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