I of California I Regional Facility IJ^^H^^H m HI iiiiliiii - ■ ■ - K ' ■ .^f ■ ■ * ■ s^ ■K' i,v■•■^^^ ^.f*;. t:% Jf^.h V p \a y Bam.antvne, Hanson 6^ Co. At the Hallantyne Press LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS From Draiuings by John Jellicoe and Herbert Railton. At Forest Hill. Drawn by John Jellicoe and Herbert Railtox Frontispiece Title- Page. page Designed by Herbert Railton iii Headpiece. Drawn by HERBERT Railton . • • At Sheepscote. Drawn by John Jellicoe and Herbert Railton To face 4 "He offered me some Wild Flowers." Drawn by JOHN JELLICOE 7 The Bowling-Green at Forest Hill. Drawn by JOHN JELLICOE and Herbert Railton To face 26 " Mr. Milton loitered with me on the Terrace." Z?raw« ^y John Jellicoe awcf Herbert Railton ,, 30 " I WENT DOWN WITH ROBIN AND KaTE TO THE FISH-PONDS." Drawn by John Jellicoe and Herbert Railton ,, 40 vii viii List of Illustrations PACK " Strange diverting Cries in the Streets." Drawn by John Jellicoe To face 62 "Tenderly bound up his Hand." Drawn by JOHN jELLlCOE 85 "At Squire Paige's Grand Dinner." Drawn by JoHl^ JELLICOE and HERBERT Railton To face 106 "Then Mr. Agnew came and sate on a FLAT Tombstone." Drawn by JOHN Jellicoe and HERBERT RAILTON ,, 138 "The Rare Event of a Dinner Guest." Drawn by John Jellicoe 166 "Thev paused in Surprise at seeing Milton Asleep." Z)raw/« ^^v John Jellicoe To face 182 "Threw it forthe with a Pair of Tongs." Drawn by JOHN JELLICOE 212 "Thus I remained, agonized in Tears." Drawn by ]ons ]is.hi.lCO^ To face 216 Milton's House, Barbican. Drawn by HERBERT Railton 218 "Some poore Folk to relieve and console." Drawn by ]onH ]rA.l.\coK 232 BuNHILL Fields {Frontispiece to " Deborah's Diary"). Drawn by HERBERT Railton .... To face 238 List of Illustrations ix FACE "Out Comes a Volley of Poetry." Drawn by John Jellicoe 246 "Yet Forty Days." Drawn by John Jellicoe 273 " I took the Volume to his Shop." Drawn by John Jellicoe and Herbert Railton To face 286 "Houses Padlocked and Shuttered." Drawn by John Jellicoe and Herbert Railton ,, 294 Milton's Cottage at Chalfont. Drawn by HERBERT Railton , 296 "Throwing his Arm about me." Drawn by John Jellicoe 299 " No Harm, I promise you, Master." Drawn by JOHN Jellicoe 314 " He pours forth the Full Tide of Melody on his Organ." Drawn by JOHN JELLICOE and HERBERT Railton To face 318 Introduction HE republication of " The Household of Sir Thomas More" and "Cherry and Violet " has aroused much interest in the personality of their author. Two years ago, from a brief correspondence in Notes and ^enes, it might have seemed as it she had been entirely forgotten ; but since her books have attained a new popularity some interesting accounts of her retired life have reached me through the kind- ness of friends. She is remembered at Reigate as a tall, thin lady with black hair, an aquiline nose, and a bright colour. She lived very xii Introduction qaietly,and was considered "old-fashioned" by the few who knew her intimately. She is described as at times bitter in her satire ; and in her later years, when she was obliged to spend much time on her couch from ill-health, " rather hard " in voice. Her literary activity, it is clear, must have been very great, and she was a wide reader in all directions ; but her powers, it would seem, remained for a long time unnoticed; and those who knew her reserved character and somewhat stiff manner expressed astonishment when they discovered that it was she who had written the charming book of which every one was talking, " The Maiden and Married Life of Mary Powell," which has always been the most popular of her works. In opinion she was a stout English Church- woman, of the type, perhaps, which has been dubbed " high and dry," constant in attendance at daily services, correct, re- strained, sincere. Ot her genuine homeli- ness there can be no more doubt than of her real [iiety. One who knew lier speaks Introduction xiii of her as " a very gentle, quiet lady," says that a book of quaint cookery re- cipes in her writing, which she gave to a friend, is still in existence, and tells that she once said " she liked darning stockings, as when so employed she could think out her books." She was very kind to young literary aspirants, and one to whom she was much attached writes : " Her loss to me as a dear friend, as well as a kind, judicious, and actively helpful literary adviser, was very great." These few memories are helpful in fixing an impression of one whom we should be glad that lovers of ^^i^rd'-paint- ing in literature should not forget. The two stories which are now combined in this volume possess all her characteristic merits. It was a happy inspiration that set Miss Manning's imagination to work upon the life of the great Puritan poet. There is a contrast which no student can fail to have observed between the charm of his character, in its purity, gentleness, and eager love of truth, and the circum- xiv Introduction stances of his relations to those most near to him in kindred. It is not difficult to see that, apart from the unhappy fate which seems often to pursue men of genius in their married life, there were reasons for his sorrows in the bitterness of party feeling which accompanied the strength of his convictions. Married life, we are told, must be always something of a com- promise, and of compromise Milton was utterly abhorrent. The contrasts of his character and his life are retiected in his work. Who could believe that the same hand wrote "II Penseroso" and "Eikono- klastes" ? With all the softness of face and sweetness of imagination there is a certain hardness, even harshness, that will not be denied utterance, and the middle period of his life is that in which this harshness finds its chief expression. His personality, indeed, lacks a perfect harmony, and it is this, though it be temerarious to assert it, which makes him fail to reach the perfec- tion of a religious poet. Magnificence in conception, profundity in thought, imagi- Introduction xv nation, reverence, truth, he has all these, and yet — if I may repeat with emphasis a statement which has been severely criti- cised — he has not that note of absolute sincerity and self-abandonment which makes Christina Rossetti supreme in spi- ritual verse. He felt, perhaps, the two sides of life too keenly : with all his clois- tered sympathies, he dwelt too much in the world, and when political and eccle- siastical warfare had soured his spirit, he never recovered the exquisite harmony of his earlier days. Landor has said very truly that in " Paradise Regained " he " seems to be subject to strange halluci- nations of the ear ; he who before had greatly excelled all poets of all ages in the science and display of harmony." I will complete the passage, for it may serve to correct my own less enthusiastic judg- ment. " And if in his last poem we exhibit his deficiencies, surely we never shall be accused of disrespect or irrever- ence to this immortal man. It may be doubted whether the Creator ever created b xvi I?ttroduction one altogether so great ; taking into our view at once (as much indeed as can at once be taken into it) his manly virtues, his superhuman genius, his zeal for truth, for true piety, true freedom, his eloquence in displaying it, his contempt of personal powder, his glory and exaltation in his country's." Alas ! his greatness is not untouched by his misfortunes ; for indeed it is difficult for an unbiassed moral judg- ment to believe that his relations with his wife and with his daughters were entirely the succession of miseries utterly unde- served. However this may be, it is the rare merit of Miss Manning's sensitive imagination that, in " The Maiden and Married Life of Marv Powell " and " Deborah's Diary," while she has caught our sympathies for her heroines, she has never made us lose our love for Milton. The historical facts on which these stories have been based are perhaps too familiar to need restatement ; yet they may be briefly summarised. In 1643 Introduction xvii John Milton was thirty-four. He was well known in high circles of literature and society : he had travelled, studied, and thought. There was no living Eng- lishman, it might be said, who had a higher ideal in life or a higher performance in literature. He had already reached, in "Lycidas," " the high-watermark of Eng- lish poesy and of his own production." But he was also already a keen politician, an eager supporter of the party which felt most strongly against the king and the Cavaliers. It was then, about Whitsuntide, as his nephew tells us, "that he took a journey, nobody about him certainly knowing the reason, or that it was any more than a journey of recreation. After a month's stay, home he returns a married man that went out a bachelor : his wife being Mary, the eldest daughter of Mr. Richard Powell, then a Justice of Peace, of Forest Hill, near Shotover, in Oxfordshire." The county he knew already, and, it is most likely, the family. His father was born xviii Introduction at Stanton St. John, the next village to Forest Hill : and Richard Powell, the father of his bride, was his debtor in the sum of £^^oo. That Milton, a marked man, should have gone at this time so near to the Royalist camp at Oxford, and that his marriage should have been, as it seems, so hastily arranged, are other points in a mysterious story. The young bride went to lodgings in Aldersgate Street with her husband. After a month her friends at home " made earnest suit, by letter, to have her company the remaining part of the summer." She went, and she did not return at Michaelmas, as Milton had de- sired. Letters were unanswered, and a messenger was " dismissed with some sort of contempt." Were the faults all on one side ? At any rate it is certain that be- fore his wife had left him Milton had begun to write a pamphlet on " The Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce," in which the freedom of a husband to part from his wife " for lack of a fit and match- able conversation " is vehemently asserted. Introduction xlx though no such freedom is allowed to the " weaker vessel." Professor Masson, Mr. Mark Pattison, Dr. S. R. Gardiner, Mr. Leslie Stephen, have sounded the depths that cover the strange history of Milton's marriage, and have said many sage things, but (through no fault of their own) perhaps not one that is convincing. Where these grave persons admit their difficulties it may be a relief to turn to the delicate art with which Miss Manning has told the story, simply and with a true imaginative sym- pathy for a young girl's inevitable diffi- culties in the first weeks of married life. Milton, in later days, said that " the bashful muteness of a virgin may ofttimes hide all the unliveliness and natural sloth which is really unfit for conversation." It is very likely that he did not recognise, as those of poetic temper are very loth to do, that a man of thirty-four is not still in his first youth, while a girl of seven- teen has not really reached womanhood ; and there was in his soul, with all its XX Introduction sweetness and purity, an underlying harsh- ness of temper. " God's universal law Gave to man despotic power Over his female in due awe, Nor from that right to part an hour." Those are lines as bitter as any that his pen wrote in prose. But happily the spirit which wrote the Divorce treatises, and which even suggested that the banished wife might find a successor in his home, was not unquenchable. Before two years were out, in the house of friends, the young girl, not yet nineteen, threw herself at her husband's feet and was taken back. They had four children, Anne, born 1646 ; Mary, 1648 ; John (who died an infant), 1651 ; Deborah, 1652 ; and the wife died in the year of the birth of her youngest child. In 1656 Milton married Catherine Woodcock, who died in February 1658. In February 1663 he married Eliza- beth Minshull, who lived till 1727. Introduction xxi All accounts point to much family dis- agreement, and Milton in the year of his death (1674), spoke to his brother of his " undutiful children." Yet here again the faults were not all on one side. The girls were taught to read aloud in five or six languages, without being allowed to learn the meaning of what they read. Only Deborah was taught Latin, and she became her father's amanuensis. Before he died they were all sent out to learn embroidery in gold and silver, that they might earn their living. Mary died unmarried, the others married poorly. It is a story even more pathetic than the first episode of misunderstanding, and it seems clear that it lasted to the end. Only Deborah appears in later days to have entertained a kindly memory of her father. Two years before her death, when she was sixty-three, she was shown a drawing without being told for whom it was meant. " O Lord ! " she said at once, " that is the picture of my father," and she stroked down the hair of her xxii Introduction forehead with "just so my father wore his hair." Miss Manning happily seized upon a year which we may hope may have been brighter than the rest of the poet's evil days, and something of her picture of the country retreat must certainly be true. It is not likelv that the observant Ellwood would have failed to record it, if there had been much family disagreement in the house he so often visited. He was long Milton's friend and pupil, and the formal quaintness of his " History written by Him- self" adds not a little to the pleasantness of the picture which imagination may draw of the brighter side of these last years. Ellwood himself suffered persecution for his opinions, and he could feel for the Puritan poet who had once been Latin secretary. The words on which Miss Manning founded the main story of her '* Debo- rah's Diary " are these : " Some little time before I went to Aylesbury prison," says Ellwood, " I was desired by my Introduction xxiii quondam master, Milton, to take a house for him in the neighbourhood, where I dwelt, that he might go out of the city, for the safety of himself and his family, the pestilence then growing hot in London. I took a pretty box for him in Giles Chalfont, a mile from me, of which I gave him notice ; and intended to have waited on him, and seen him well settled in it, but was prevented by that imprison- ment. But now being released and re- turned home, I soon made a visit to him, to welcome him into the country. After some common discourses had passed be- tween us, he called for a manuscript of his ; which being brought he delivered to me, bidding me take it home with me, and read it at my leisure ; and when I had so done, return it to him with my judgment thereupon. When I came home, and had set myself to read it, I found it was that excellent poem which he entitled ' Paradise Lost.' After I had, with the best attention, read it through, I made him another visit, and xxiv Introduction returned him his book, with due acknow- ledgment of the favour he had done me in communicating it to me. He asked me how I liked it and what I thought of it, which I modestly but freely told him, and after some further discourse about it, I pleasantly said to him, ' Thou hast said much here of " Paradise Lost," but what hast thou to sav of " Paradise Found " ' ? He made me no answer, but sat some time in a muse ; then brake off that discourse, and fell upon another subject. After the sickness was over, and the citv well cleansed and become safely habitable again, he returned thither. And when afterwards I went to wait on him there, which I seldom failed of doing whenever my oc- casions drew me to London, he showed me his second poem, called ' Paradise Regained,' and in a pleasant tone said to me, ' This is owing to you, for you put it into my head by the question you put to me at Chalfont, which before I had not thought of.' " The passage is a famous one, and we do Introduction xxv not need here any comment on it, save that which Miss Manning has herself suppHed. She has woven too into her imaginary diary, with a singular skill, the facts that are known as to the stepmother, the daughters, and the servant, with just those touches of fancy that may make the picture live. The two stories are now, I think, very happily reprinted together. " Mary Powell" first appeared in 1851, and went through many editions. " Deborah's Diary" was published in i860. We have now the advantage of the skill of Mr. Railton and Mr. Jellicoe, who know how to make the times and the men live again to-day. I have seen the drawings from which the illustrations for this book are to be printed, and I cannot but feel that both artists have experienced to the full the attraction of the subject. To Mr. Jellicoe has been given the difficult duty of draw- ing the Milton whose portrait we all know, and his young bride, of whose fair face we xxvi Introduction have no record. He has had to show us too the old bhnd man dictating to his daughter; and it could not have been done more happily. To Mr. Railton it has fallen to sketch, as it was in the seventeenth century, the one house still standing where Milton lived, and the harder task to image the places which, with little or no visible survival of his days, we still associate with his memory : and so he has given us these delightful pictures of Forest Hill, and the Barbican, and Bunhill Fields, instinct with true feeling for the past. The chief scenes of these two stories are well worth a visit. Forest Hill stands about four miles from Oxford, a short way from the main road to London, and up a sharp ascent — a pleasant walk or ride, now as no doubt in Milton's day, for scholars of the university. The old manor-house, which Miss Manning no doubt had seen, was pulled down in 1854. In 1 85 1 it was thus described in "Im- pressions of England," by the Rev. A. Introduction xxvii Cleveland Coxe, rector of Christ Church, Baltimore : — " It presents the remains of a much larger house ; but, even in its reduced di- mensions, is quite sufficient for a comfort- able farmer. Still the rose, the sweet-briar, and the eglantine are redolent beneath its casements ; the cock at the barn-door may be seen from any of its w^indows ; and doubtless, the barn itself is the very one in which the shadowy flail of Robin Goodfellow threshed all night, to earn his bowl of cream. In the house itself, we were received by the farmer's daughter, who looked like the ' neat-handed Phillis ' herself, although her accomplishments were by no means those of a rustic maiden, for she had evidently entered fully into the spirit of the place, and imbued herself with that of the poetry in no mean degree. We were indebted to her for the most courteous reception, and were conducted by her into several apartments of the house, concerning all of which she was able to converse very intelligently. In the kitchen. xxviii Introduction with its vast hearth and overhanging chimney, we discovered tokens of the good living for which the old manor-house was no doubt famous in its day ; and in its floor was a large stone, said to have been removed from a room now destroyed, which was the poet's study. " The garden, in its massive wall, orna- mented gateway, and an old sun-dial, re- tains some trace of its manorial dignities in former times ; when the maiden Mary sat in her bower thinking of her inspired lover ; or when perchance the runaway wife sighed and wept over a letter brought by the post, commanding Mistress Milton to return to her duty in a dark corner of London. ... " Our fair conductress next called our attention to an outhouse, now degraded to the office of domestic brewing, . . . and in proof of the nobler office to which it had been originally designed, she pointed out the remains of old pargettings or orna- mented plaster-work, in its gables." All this is now swept away, save a Introduction xxix wall or two partly used in the construc- tion of the substantial farm-house built in a time of agricultural prosperity. In and about the farm-yard stand many walnut trees, some of great age ; and the farm buildings, too, are old. Hard by in a field is a spring, arched over with strong masonry. Here, as the romantic Ameri- can traveller thought, John Milton may have tasted of the pure water. Several thatched houses in the village should have been seen by Mary Powell as she walked to meet Master Milton along the ridge that stretches, with distant views of the Chilterns, towards the deserted village watering-place of Brill. But the clearest memories of King Charles's days come from the church, set high on the hill amid ancient yews. Little country girls, with fresh beaming faces, hang over the old grey wall as we climb the ascent. So, hat in hand, would our heroine watch for her poet's coming, and surely she was no brighter or more happy than are they. A quaint old holly, covered with berries now XXX Introduction at midsummer, stands by the gate. The high bell-cot, clothed in ivy, is the church's great distinction ; but it is all, in spite of the cruelties of Sir Gilbert Scott, a pretty piece of restful antiquity. It was consecrated, the records tell us, in 1273, and it bears the name of Saint Nicholas. In Laud's day it was furbished up, in the spirit which made the archbishop write : " It is true, the inward worship of the heart is the great service of God, and no service acceptable without it ; but the external worship of God in His church is the great witness to the world, that our heart stands right in that service of God." The great oak beam across the chancel arch, with its inscription " C. R., 1630," is a memorial of this restoration. But these are after all but slight survivals of the times of Mistress Mary Powell ; the more abiding memory attaches to the tran- quillity of the verdant slopes and the lanes, with their hedges full of sweet-briar, that stretch down towards Oxford. One could not find a sweeter setting for the youth of Introduction xxxi the damsel who was to be John Milton's bride. It is a different thought which brings us, with " Deborah's Diary," to the cottage at Chalfont, and the old age of the blind poet. There are few prettier English vil- lages than that in which Thomas EUwood found a lodging for his " quondam master." It lies hidden in the heart of numberless beech-woods, off the track of the great highroads. Now it can be easily ap- proached by the Metropolitan Railway, which has a station about three miles off ; and, indeed, the village itself is little more than twenty miles from the Marble Arch. None the less is it still buried in seclusion, and everything that is old here shows a loving care. A charming little pamphlet tells the story of the village very happily, and is proof, if any were wanted beyond the church itself, of the rector's labours and knowledge. For pilgrims who visit the place because it contains the only house still standing in which Milton lived, there are yet many other sights which c xxxii Introduction should not be passed by. The church, with its fine brasses and monuments, its two beautiful windows by Mr. Kempe, and its whole air of true " decency and order," has preserved a memory of the poet, though, indeed, it is like enough that he never crossed its door. The vil- lage green, the old red-roofed cottages, the pond, the fine trees, give many pretty pictures as you mount the gentle slope that leads to the house which gives Chal- font its fame in two continents. A very simple homely dwelling it is, part of a row of others still inhabited, and not a little altered. The cottage itself is, one is glad to see, not entirely given over to the craze for a museum, and with its white-washed parlour, stocked with old oak, and digni- fied with framed documents that tell the house's history, and books of Milton's writing and his times, it has yet some dwellers who serve to give it a homely air of use. In the low room to the left hand of the door you may fancy Milton sitting with his leg over the chair-arm. Introduction xxxiii dictating to his daughter, or you may- close your eyes and think you hear him upstairs tapping against the wall till De- borah comes in her night-cotes to take down his " volley of poetry." There is the garden, too, with its quaint old flowers, just such another as Anne Hath- away's at Shottery, with a hedge that Mistress Milton may have set her clothes on while her husband sat in his straight chair under shade of the little porch. It is pleasant that the abiding memory of the poet should belong to a village so sweet and unharmed as this. All round are the Quaker memorials of the Penns, the Penningtons, and stiff Thomas Ellwood. The parish registers have record of the deaths of the great Penn himself, of his second wife, and of Milton's Quaker pupil, and in the parish is the famous burying-place of Jor- dans, where they rest. The village has its wider interests, its records of Marl- borough's chaplain and secret messenger, of Captain Cook and his friend Sir Hugh xxxiv Introduction Palliser, a fiery British admiral. But the memory of Milton will outlive all these. Is it too much to say that Miss Manning, in her simple way, did not a little to preserve it ? W. H. HUTTON. The Great House, Burford, Visitation of the B. V.M., 1897. JOURNALL Forest Hili^ Oxon, May ij-/, 1643. EVENTEENTH Birth- daye. A Gypsie Woman at the Gate woulde falne have tolde my Fortune ; but Mother chased her away, saying she had doubtlesse harboured in some of the low Houses A 2 Maiden &f Married Life Houses in Oxford^ and mighte bring us the Plague. Coulde have cried for Vexa- tion ; 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 there- abouts ; and the Tithes and Messuages of Whateley are no great Matter, being mort- gaged 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 mc this gold Piece. Ma ly of Mary Powell May 2nd. OUSIN Rose married to Master Roger Agnew. Pre- sent, Father., Mother^ and Brother of Rose. Father^ Mother., Dick., Bob., Harry., and I ; Squire Pake and his Dsiughtev 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 bew- tifulle — pitie so faire a Girl should marry so olde a Man — 'tis thoughte he wants not manie Years of fifty. May yth. E W Misfortunes in the Poultrie Yarde. Poor Mo- ther s Loyalty cannot stand the Demands for her best Chickens, Ducklings, &c., for the Use of his Majesty's Officers since the King hath beene in Oxford. She accuseth my Father of having beene 4 Maide?i =8% y ^5a -^.->'»r<^ i Tj"~ m^'^''&Zi%^J^^ =i^ S'<#^?5^'- ,g-v^'•'• --J? .as ; ^^\ /heeDfcote-' of Mary Powell 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 Mo//, you must not " deeme him olde ; why, he is but forty- " two ; and am not I twenty-three ? " She lookt soe earneste and hurte, that I coulde not but falle a laughing. May %tfi. OTHER gone to Sajidford. She hopes to get Uncle Jo/in to lend Fat/ier this Money. Fat/ier says she may try. 'Tis harde to dis- courage her with an ironi- calle Smile, when she is doing alle she can, and more than manie Women woulde, to 6 Maiden &' Married Life 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 Con- tentment ; but the Children clamour for Sweetmeats, and Father sayth, " Remem- " ber, 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, Diek 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 oi 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 of Mary Powell 7 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 8 Maid 671 ^ Married Life smiled and spoke to my Brother, who seemed to know him, and turned about and walked by us, sometimes stroaking Clover s sha"-p-v Mane. I felte a little 'to gy 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 himseUe 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, me- thought, 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, reservedlic ; ever and anon turning his bright. 0} Mary Powell 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 Bucking- hamshire Gentleman, he added, well con- nected, and very scholarlike, but affected towards the Parliament. His Grandsire, a zealous Papiste, formerly lived in Oxon, and disinherited the Father of this Gen- tleman 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. the Clock. May \ph. ICK began to harpe on another Ride to Sheepscote this Morning, and persua- ded Father to let him have the bay Mare, soe he and I started at aboute Ten o' Arrived at Master Agnews Doore, lo M aide 72 ^ Married Life 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 Mur- mur, 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 Kose 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 pro- mised to send a Junkett into the Arbour ; whereon Mr. Agnew smiled at Mr. Milton, and sayd somewhat of " neat-handed " P/iillisr As we went alonge, I tolde Rose I had seene her Guest once before, and thought him of Mary Powell 1 1 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 con- " trary, 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 I 2 Maideji &^ Married Life Truth to say, it soone wandered ; and, during the laste 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 Com- posures, he beganne to talke of those of other Men, as Shakspeare, Spenser, Cowley, Ben yonson, and ofTasso, and Tasso's Friend the Marquis of Villa, whome, it appeared, Mr. Milton had Knowledge of in Italy. Then he askt me, woulde 1 not willingly have seene the Country o^ Romeo and "Juliet, and prest to know whether 1 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, 1 loved Shakspeare' s Plays better than Sidney s Arcadia ; on which he cried " Righte," and drew nearer to of Mary Powell 13 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 Kose is ! Roger s plain Hospitalitie and scholarlie Discourse ap- peared to much Advantage. He askt of News from Paris ; and Mr. Mi/ton spoke much of the Swedish Ambassadour, Dutch by Birth ; a Man renowned for his Learn- ing, Magnanimity, and Misfortunes, of whome he had scene 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 14 Maid 671 ^ Married Life " 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 \\th. ^HOUGHT, when I woke this Morning, 1 had been dreaminge of St. Paul let down the Wall in a Basket; but founde, on more close- ly 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 Shcepscote Dinner, of Mary Powell i 5 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 Ox- ford this Summer, the Citie being so overcrowded on account of his Majestic. While laying them out on the Stille-room Floor, in bursts Kobin to say Mr. Agnew and Mr. Milton were with Father at the Bowling Greene, and woulde dine here. So 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 Car- nation 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 1 6 Maiden ^ Ma7^ried Life to his Booke ; but he answered boldlie he was in Ovid^ and I lookt in Mr. Miltoii 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 F^M^r 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 myselfe 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 of Mary Powell 17 May i^th. |FTER writing the above last Night, in my Cham- ber, 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 t)' ^gJ green Marble Steps, descending, I cannot tell how farre, with Stone Figures and Vases on everie one. We went downe and downe these Steps, till we came to a faire Piece of Water, still in the Moon- lighte ; and then, methoughte, he woulde be taking Leave, and sayd much aboute Absence and Sorrowe, as tho' we had knowne cache other some Space ; and alle that he sayd was delightfulle to heare. Of a suddain we hearde Cries, as of Dis- tresse, 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 B 1 8 Maide?! &^ Married Life " 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 laugh- ing, 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 com- menced running towards them, through ever so manie greene Paths, in the Wood ; but of Mary Powell ^9 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. lOO 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 20 Maiden ^ Married Liife Speech with me aside concerning House- wifery. The Agueuos 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 al- waies 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 Bi//^ ever since he went a soldiering. Blurred and mis-spelt as they are, she will prize them. Trulie, we are none of us grate of Mary Powell 2 i 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, so 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 2 2 Maiden Sf Man^ied Life me round the Waiste, and remains quite qi silent awhile ; I gazing on him so strange- lie ! 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 Gentle- " man, 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 ot 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 agayn, 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, of Mary Powell 23 "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," said 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 24 Maid 672 &^ Married Life 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 so wise ! so thoughtfulle ! so unlike me ! Bedtime ; same Daye. • • • • • o HO 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, of Mary Powell 25 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 St. Paul's^ and the Toivre F But what and if that ever comes to pass ? Must I leave Home? dear Forest Hi// 'F and Fat/ier and Mot/ie7\ and the Boys ? more especiallie Kobin f Ah ! but Fat/ier will give me a long Time to think of it. He will, and must. Then Dinner-time came ; and, with Dinner-time, Uncle Hew/ett and Ra/p/i., Squire Paice and Mr. Mi/ton, We had a huge Sirloin, soe no Feare of short Com- mons. I was not ill pleased to see soe manie : 2 6 Maiden ^ Married L,ife 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 ! Mc ly -V "V/iSA' ^z -1; L**^' I of Mary Powell 27 May lyd. jT leaste, so sayeth the Calen- dar ; 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 Falsi tie 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 : " 2 8 Maid 672 &^ Married Life " 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 Haw- thorn 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 w^l^ fro?n 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 look- ing at me ; then commenced humming or singing I know not what Strayn, but 'twas oi '''' begli Ocelli'' and '''■ Chioma aurata ;'" and he kept smiling tlie while he sang. After of Mary Powell 29 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 Counte- nance 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, un- ' blamed ? or am I too adventurous ? You ' are silent ; well, then, let me believe " that 30 Maiden M' Married Life ' that we think alike, and that the Emo- ' tions 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 con- strayned 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 expect- ing nought amisse ; soe went on, most like Truth and Love that Lookes could speake or Wordes sounde : " Oh, I know it, I " feel it : — henceforthe there is a Life re- " served for us in which Angels may sym- " pathize. For this most excellent Gift " of Love shall enable us to read together " the whole Booke of Sanctity and Virtue, " and emulate cache 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 / ^■^.^ '■ V, ;i iJ^ 4 '^ -'^ ** vvi ■■» Hi t'^v^^i'^^^iS i: .'<.* n^7lilfo!i lo!lered^^ \. of Mary Powell 3 i " 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 Ad- " versities, 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 in- dulged, never is long concealed, it soe chanced, by Ill-luck, that Mr. Milton^ sud- dainlie 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 cache 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 : — 32 Maiden ^ Married Life 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 be- came more grave he became more gay ; soe that we met cache other, as it were, Half-way, and became righte pleasant. If his Countenance were comely before, it is quite heavenlie now ; and yet I ques- tion whether my Love increaseth as rapidlie as my Feare. Surelie my Folly will prove as distastefull to him, as his over-much Wisdom to me. The Dread of it hath alarmed me alreadie. What has become, even now, of alle my gay Visions of Mar- riage, and hondon^ and the Play-houses, and of Mary Powell 33 and the Towre ? 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 from 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 2\th. ;EAR Kose came this Morn- ing. 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. Miltoti 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 Kose heares it before c 34 Maiden ^ Married Life 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 heed- lesse, ridiculous Things throughoute the Day, to shew Kose 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 hereto- fore. Mr. Busirc having dropt in, was avised to ask Mr. Milton why, having had an university Education, he had not entered of Mary Powell 35 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 au- thoritativelie wherein an Individual was righte or wrong, and frame Laws to keepe him in the righte Path. Mr. Milton re- plyed, that manie Fallibles could no more make up an Infallible than manie Finites could make an Infinite. Mr. Agnew re- joyned, that ne'erthelesse, an Individual who opposed himselfe agaynst the gene- rall Current of the Wise and Good, was, leaste of alle, likelie to be in the Right ; and that the Limitations of human Intel- lect which made the Judgment of manie wise Men liable to Qiiestion, certainlie made the Judgment of anie wise Man, self- 36 Maiden & Married Life 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 Kose looking soe anxiouslie from the one Speaker to the other, desirous that cache should be victorious ; and I was sorry that it lasted not a little longer. As Kose and I tooke our Way to the Summer-house, she put her Arm round me, saying, " How charming is divine " Philosophic!" I coulde not helpe ask- ing if she did not meane how charming was the Philosophic of one particular Divine ? Soe then she discoursed with me of Things more seemlie for Women than Philosophic or Divinitie either. Onlie, when Mr. Agnew and Mr. Milton joyned us, she woulde aske them to re- peat one Piece of Poetry after another, beginning with Carew's — " Ife IV ho loves a rosic Cheeke, Or a coral Lip admires, — " And of Mary Powell 37 And crying at the End of cache, " 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 Kose^ who sayd I coulde not have looked more discomposed had he pre- tended 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 suffi- cientlie religious Familie : that is, we goe regularly to Church on Sabbaths and Prayer-dayes, and keepe alle the Fasts and Festivalles. But Mr. Miltoti s Devo- tion hath attayned a Pitch I can neither imitate nor even comprehende. The spi- rituall World seemeth to him not onlie reall, but I may almoste say visible. For instance, he tolde Kose^ it appears, that on Tuesday 3 8 Maiden ^ Married Life Tuesday Nighte, (that is the same Even- ing 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 l"" 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 harmlcsse Sort, one woulde never have tlic Comforte of thinki nge to of Mary Powell 39 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. 40 Maiden (Sf Married Life Bedtime. iLAD to steale away from the noisie Companie in the Supper-roome, (comprising some of Father s Fellow- magistrates,) I went down with Kobin 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. Mil ton observed that was an infinite Improvement on the jangling, puzzle- headed Prating of Country Justices, and wished I woulde tell it agayn. But 1 was afrayd. But Robin had no Feares ; soe tolde the Tale roundhe ; onlie he forgot the I^nd. Soe he found his Way backe to the Middle, and seemed likelie to _ , \ ■• l^tau Clown -/.iUL ^^bui aid Kate L b.e /Hih-Poud;" _j -■» - — I of Mary Powell 41 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 oflF 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 w^as 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 L 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 42 Maide?i &^ Married Life that we were winding up the Week's Accounts of Joy and Care more con- sistentlie 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 ^ untill 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 of Mary Powell 43 shun the common Field, where the Vil- lagery led up theire Sports, saying, he deemed Qvioit-playing and the like to be unsuitable Recreations on a Daye where- upon 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 Kings Parliament at Oxford V He answered, " No ; the Country s Parliament " at Westminster r I sayd, I was sorrie, for manie poore hard-working Men had no other Holiday. He sayd, another Holi- day 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 44 Maid 671 &f Married L,ife 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 im- mortal 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. of Mary Powell 45 Monday. OTHER 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 Qiiarter. How- ever, 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 with- helde by a troublesome Colde from return- ing 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 BilFs Letter to reade ; soe that nothing par- ticular 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 46 Maide?2 Sf Married Life " you how 'twould 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. " Non- " sense," 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 : " 1 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 of Mary Powell 47 ' 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 Fort- ' nighte, without falling into Mischiefe ! " ' I won't have Moll chidden in that ' Way," says Father, " she has fallen into " noe 48 Maiden ^ Married L,ife " noe Mischiefe, and has beene a dis- " creete 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 can- not yet seek my Bed ; the more as I still heare theire Voices in Contention below. Tuesday. :^!^2^^^HIS 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 of Mary Powell 49 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 cus- tomed 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. Post- " pone 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, D 50 Maiden &f Married Life 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^ compassionat- ing me, and raising me up, though some- what 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, how- ever, I uttered a Shriek on seeing Father fallen back in his Chair, as thouu:h in a Fit, like unto that which terrified us a Year of Mary Powell 5 i Year ago ; and Mother hearing me call out, ran in, loosed his Collar, and soone broughte him to himselfe, tho' not with- out 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 Busi- " nesse : 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 Grace- fulnesse kisses her Hand ; but she with- drewe 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 5 2 Maiden ^ Married Life further Comment, but tooke up Matters just where he had left them last. Ere we parted we had some private Confer- ence touching our Marriage, for hastening which he had soe much to say that I coulde not long contend with him, espe- ciallie as I founde he had plainlie made out that Mother loved him not. Wednesday. OUSE full of Companie, leaving noe Time to write nor think. Mother sayth, tho' she cannot forbode an happy Marriage, she will provide for a merrie Wed- ding, and liathe growne more than com- monlie tender to me, and given me some Trinkets, a Piece of fine Holland Cloth, and enouLrhe of <^reen Sattin for a Gown, that will stand on End with its owne Richnesse. She hathe me constantlie with her in the Kitchen, Pantrie, and Store- room, tcHiiig me 'tis nccdfidle 1 shoulde improve of Mary Powell 53 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 Under- tone, in Mother s Presence, she sewing at the Table and we sitting in the Window; and 'tis difficult to tell how much she hears, for she will aske no Qiiestions, 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 Sis- ter's Sons ; two Lads of about Robin s Age. What if he woulde consent to take my Brother under his Charge ? perhaps Father would be willinp;. c. , ° c^aturday. 54 Maiden Sf Married Li/e Saturday. 'AST Visitt to Sheepscott\ — at leaste, as Mary Powell ; but kind Rose and Roger Agnew will give us the Use of it for a Week on our Mar- riage, 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, Thd thou be inatcht luith Cloth of Gold, — " And then craved my Pardon for soe un- mannerly a Rhyme, which indeede, me- thoughte, 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 Tckoah. Rose lookt wistful) ie, but of Mary Powell 55 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 22nd. [LLE Bustle and Confusion, — slaying of Poultrie, mak- ing 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 Re- corders sent for that we may dance in the Hall. My Spiritts have been most unequall ; and this Evening I was over- taken 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 56 Maid 671 ^ Married Life Hearts knit in Love, and of heavenlie Espousals, and of Man being the Head of the Woman, and of our Lord's Mar- riage 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 compre- hende, but which was in mine Ears as the Song of Birds, or Falling of Waters. May 2i^rd. OSE 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 of Mary Powell 57 accustomed Fashion. I had purposed a Ride on Clover this Morning, with Robin ; but the poor Boy must I trow be dis- appointed. 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 be- tray me. — And now farewell, Journall ; for Rose^ who first bade me keepe you (little deeming after what Fashion), will now pack you up, and I will not close you with a heavie Strayn. Robin is call- ing 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, 58 Maiden &^ Married Life London^ Mr. RiisselPs^ 'Taylor^ St. Bride s Churchyard. H Heaven ! Is this my new Home ? my Heart sinkes alreadie. After the swete fresh Ayre of Sheepscote, and the CleanHness, and the Qiiiet and the pleasant Smells, Sightes, and Soundes, alle where- of 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 Cham- ber, 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 heintr filled with dustie Books, whereof there are Store alsoe in every other Place. This Mirror, I of Mary Powell 59 I should thinke, belonged to faire Rosa- mond. And this Arm-chair to King Lear. Over the Chimnie hangs a ruefull Por- trait, — maybe of Grotius., but I shoulde sooner deeme it of some Worthie before the Flood. Onlie one Qiiarter of the Casement will open, and that upon a Prospect, oh dolefulle ! of the Church- yarde. Mr. Milton had need be as blythe as he was all the Time we were at Sheeps- cote., 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 cache domestick Circle, he sayd that alle must, for a While, ap- pear confused to our imperfect View, just as 6o Maiden &^ Married Life as a mightie Citie unto a Stranger who shoulde beholde around him huge, un- finished Fabrics, the Plan whereof he could but imperfectlie make out, amid the Builders' disorderlie Apparatus ; but that, yro/TZ afar^ we mighte perceive glo- rious Results from party Contentions, — Freedom springing up from Opression, 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 com- manding 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 of Mary Powell 6i and his firste Words were, " Why, yohn^ " 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. WAS 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 t " — " Come buy my greene " Herbes ! " — and then in the Streets, here 62 M aide 71 & Married Life here a Man preaching, there another jugghng : 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 'J on son died. Neare the Broade Sanctuarie, we fell in with a slighte, dark-complexioned young Gentle- man of two or three and twenty, whome my Husband espying cryed, " What, " MarvellV the other comically answer- ing, " What Marvel ? " and then, hand- somlie saluting me and complimenting Mr. Milton^ much lighte and pleasant Discourse ensued ; and finding we were aboute J.,^my ■^*^1$:^y C"^^nJ of Mary Powell 63 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. WISH I could note down a Tithe of the pleasant Things that were sayd last Nighte. First, olde Mr. Milton having stept out with his Son, — I called in Rachael, the younger of Mr. RusseFs Serving-maids, (for we have none of our owne as yet, which tends to much Dis- comfiture,) 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 ab- solutest 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. 64 Maide?! &^ Married Life 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. Marveil came in, and they discoursed about Italy, and Mr. Milton promised his Friend some Letters of Introduction to yacopo Gaddi, Clemcntillo, 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 Kose. — To-day we have scene St. Paul's faire Cathedral, and the School where Mr. Milton was a Scholar when a Boy ; thence, to the Fields oiFinsbury ; where are Trees and Windmills enow : a Place much fre- quented for practising Archery and other manlie Exercises. Saturday. of Mary Powell 65 Saturday. HO' we rise betimes, olde Mr. Milton is earlier stille ; and I always find him sit- ting 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 Yes- terday. 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. 66 Maid 671 &' Married Life 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 hondou Streets wearie my Feet. We have been over the House in Alder sgate 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. Mil- ton s Familie and my Father s to boote. Thought how pleasant 'twould be to have them alle aboute me next Christ- masse ; but that holie Time is noe longer kept with Joyfulnesse in London. Ven- tured, 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 of Mary Powell 67 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. RIVATE and publick Prayer, Sermons, and Psalm-singing from Morn until Nighte. The onlie Break hath been a Visit to a quaint but pleasing Qiiaker Lady, (the first of that Persuasion I have ever had Speech of,) by Name Catherine Thompson^ whom 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 caup-hte 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 Ay re, or the London Methods of making the Beds, or the strange Noises in 68 Maide?i &^ Married Life in the Streets, I know not, but I have scarce beene able to close my Eyes before Daybreak since I came to Town. Monday. iND 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, ILdward and yohn Philips^ 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 Rohin / . . . After a few Words, they retired to theire Books ; and my Plus- band, taking my Hand, sayd in his kind- liest Manner, — " And now I leave my " sweete Moii to the pleasant Com- " panic of her own goode and innocent " Thoughtes ; and, if she needs more, " here of Mary Powell 69 " here are both stringed and keyed In- " struments, and Books both of the older " and modern Time, soe that she will not " find the Hours hang heavie." Me- thoughte 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 yo Maid 671 &^ Married Life — 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, would 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 Gentle- man and a young Lady slowlie walking along, yet scarce as if I noted them ; and was thinking mostlie oi Forest Hill^ when I saw them stop at our Doore, and pre- sently they were shewn in, by the Name of Doctor and Mistress Davies. I sent for my of Mary Powell 7 1 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. Mi/ton of Tasso, and Dante, and Boiardo, and Ariosto ; and then Doctor Davies and I were silent. Methoughte, they 72 Maiden &^ Mat^ried Life they both talked well, tho' 1 knew so little of their Subject-matter ; onlie they com- plimented 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. fiURNALL, I have No- bodie 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 tliem 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 of Mary Powell 73 — 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 indiffe- rent Musick. Then, as a last Resource, I tooke a Book — Faul Perrifis 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 74 Maide7i ing and played; then prest me to do the like, but I was soe fearfulle, I coulde not ; so my Hus- band sayd he woulde play for me, and that woulde be alle one, and soe covered my Bashfullencsse handsomlie. Onlie this Morning, just before going to his Studdy, he stept back and sayd, " Sweet of Mary Powell 79 " Sweet Moll^ I know you can both play " and sing — why will you not practise ? " I replyed, I loved it not much. He re- joyned, " 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. Per- " haps, in your whole future Life, you " will not have such a Season of Leisure " as you have now, — a golden Opportu- " nity, 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 an- swered, " Nay, what to tell me of Sir " Thomas More s Wife, or oi Hugh Grotius' s " Wife, when I was the Wife of John " Milton ? " He looked at me twice, and quicklie, too, at this Saying ; then laugh- ing, 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 8o Maiden &' Married Life 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 yack 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. Cliristoplicr Milton there, who stared hard at me, and put me out of Countenance with his strange Qiies- tions. My Husband checked him. He is a Lawyer, and has Wit enoughe. Mrs. P/iillips speaking of second Mar- riages, I unawares hurt her by giving my Voice agaynst them. It seems she is thinking of contracting a second Mar- riage. — At Supper, wishing to ingratiate myself with the Hoys, talked to them of of Mary Powell 8i of Countrie Sports, etc. : to which the youngest listened greedihe : 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 com- mended by his Uncle. Hypocrisie it was, for Master Ned cryeth over his Taskes pretty nearlie as oft as the youngest. Friday. jO rewarde my zealous Prac- tice to-day on the Spin- nette, 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 told me alle about theire p-ettine up the Masque of Comus in Ludlow Castle, and how well the Lady's Song was sung by Mr. F 82 Ma id 672 & Married Life 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 afrayd 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 Grays Inn Walks^ where, the Afternoon being fine, was much Com- panie. 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 prag- maticall. " On a Daye, there was a certain Child " wandered of Mary Powell 83 " 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 t ' The " Ant replied, 'Nay, I must provide against " the Winter.' In shorte, he found that " everie Bird, Beaste, and Insect he ac- " costed, 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. 84 Maiden ^ Married Life Saturday. HAVE just done somewhat for Master Ned which he coulde not doe for him- selfe — 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 hatin^ 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 Mos/ey the Publisher in St. Paul's Churchyard., who of Mary Powell 8s 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 trans- late them for me. I thanked him, but observed that Traductions were never soe good as Originalls. He rejoyned, " Nor am 86 Maid 671 &' Mart^ied Life " am I even a good Translater." 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 under- " stand 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 Lng- " //j-//, 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 delibe- " rate Task-work of a Soule that must " hereafter ^w^ 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 " Qiiarry, readie for anie Shape that Fancie " and Skill may give. Neither Laziness " nor Caprice makes me difficult in my " Choice ; for, tlie longer I am in select- " ing my Tree, and laying my Axe to the " Root, of Mary Powell 87 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 Dis- cipline : — 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. N the Clouds agayn. At Dinner, to-daye, Mr. Mil- ton 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 t " says his Uncle. " Because she " was sleeping," says 'Jack. Provoked with the Child, I turned scarlett, and hastilie 88 Maiden &' Married Life hastilie sayd, " I was not." Nobodie spoke ; but I repented the Falsitie the Mo- ment 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. ACK sayd this Morning, " I know Something — I " know Aunt keeps a Jour- " nail." " 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, Unc/e, 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 of Mary Powell 89 " 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 profit- " able 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, un- till I had attained a better Frame of Mind. Saturday JEven. HAVE kept Silence, yea, even from good Words, but it has beene a Payn and Griefe unto me. Good Mistress Catherine Thotnp- son 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 if 'twere possible it mighte not be soe alreadie,) that I felt for a Season quite heartened ; but it has alle faded 90 Maiden (Sf Married Life faded away. Because the Source of Cheerfulnesse is not /); me, anie more than in a dull Landskip, which the Sun lighteneth for a while, 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 f 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 in- terest me. Then, 'tis no small Thing to be continuallie deemed ignorant and mis- informed, and to have one's Errors contin- uallie 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 hahituall Exercise and Companie and householde Cares. These petty Griefs try me sorelie ; and when Cousin Ralph came of Mary Powell 91 came in unexpectedlie this Morn, tho' I never much cared for him at Home, yet the Sighte of Rose's Brother, fresh from Sheep s cote and Oxford and Forest Hili, 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, 1 regret having omitted to ask a thousand Qiiestions. Sunday Even, Aug. 15. (R. 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, to- " nighte, through that long, long Sermon, " for your Sake." — " And why not for " God's Sake .? " cried he, " why not for (.(. y our 92 Maid 671 (Sf Married Life " 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, re- spond ; soe, he away to his Studdy, to pray perhaps for my Change of Heart, and I to my Bed. Aug. 2 I , Saturday. H Heaven ! can it be pos- sible.? 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 1 stoode at this Toilette as a of Mary Powell 93 a Bride ? and lay awake on that Bed, thinking oi Lotidonf 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, pronounc- ing me either ill or unhappie. There- upon, Richard^ with his usual Impetuositie, prevayled on Father to let him and Ralph fetch me Home for a While, at leaste till after Michaehnasse. 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 Ralphs and Ralph looked at Dick^ and then Dick sayd bluntly, he hoped Mr. Milton woulde spare me to go Home till after Michaehnasse^ and Father had sent him on Purpose to say soe. 94 Maiden Sf Mar^ried Life 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 in- tended 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 / 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 Qiiestions, which Dick an- swered 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 travel- ling 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 Oi Mary Powell 95 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 r)ick 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 hondon^ 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 Hus- band with less Affection than I mighte have shewn, and onlie began to find my Spiritts lighten when we were fairly quit of 96 Maiden ^ Married Life of Ijondon with its vile Sewers and Drains, and to breathe the sweete, pure Morning Ayre, as we rode swifthe along. Dick called London a vile Place, and spake to Ralph concerning what they had seene 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. Mi/ton 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 Rohin^ 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 yosce/yn hath of Mary Powell 97 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^ &c. Deare Mother is most kind. The Maids as oft call me Mrs. Molly as Mrs. Milto?i, and then smile, and beg Pardon. Rose and Agnew have been here, and have made me promise to visit Slieepscote before I return to London. The whole House seems full of Glee. Monday. kT seemes quite strange to heare Dick and Harry singing loyal Songs and drinking the Kings 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 G 98 Maiden &^ Married Life 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 yiovnmg^to Sheep s cote. 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 filse 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 F)ick was inexcusable, and that noe good End coulde justiiie 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 1 mean to do soe, onlie of Mary Powell 99 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 Joyful- nesse, 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. oo Maide?t &f Married L,ife Monday. iY 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 me- thinks 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 of Mary Powell i o i 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 per- mitting, is to take Place to-morrow. 'Tis long since I have seene her, soe I am willing to goe ; but she is dearer to TLose than to me, though I respect her much. Wednesday. ^^^^^^HE whole of Yesterday occupyde with our Visitt. I love Lady Falkland well, yet her religious Mellan- chollie 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 I02 Maide?i & Married Life 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. of Mary Powell 103 Sept. 21. lATTLE 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. LLE Sadnesse and Conster- nation. 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. 104 Maiden &^ Mari^ied Life Sept. 28. MOST displeased Letter from my Husband, mind- ing me that my Leave of Absence hath expired, and that he likes not the Mes- sages he received through Ralph., nor the unreasonable and hurtfulle Pastimes which he finds have beene mak- ing 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, in- sisting, with more Authoritie than Kind- nesse, on my immediate Return. With Tears in my Eyes, I have beene to my Father. I have tolde him T must goe. He sayeth. 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 of Mary Powell 105 I sayd, my Month had expired. He sayd, Nonsense, he had always askt me to stay over Michaelmasse^ till his Birth- day ; 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 t I burst into Teares, but made noe An- swer. 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 ; there- fore, 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 io6 Maide?i & Married Life 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 v^^as to give you to this Roundhead. He and Roger Agnew talked me over in 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, Mo/l^ and make " not li '' Wli^^rri^^ ^:) i4ii'M«M5F J' im ^^ rr""^- % ^'^ ;,^f-V itfi^ r-^^^vr- of yi2ixy Powell 107 " not two Enemies instead of one. Goe, " help thy Mother with her clear-starch- " ing. Be happy whilst thou art here." But ah ! more easily said than done. '' Alle Joy is darkened ; the Mirthe of " the Land is gone ! " Michaelmas se Day. T Squire Paices grand Din- ner we have been counting on soe many Days ; but it gave me not the Pleasure expected. Oct. 13. ,HE Weather is soe foul that I am sure Mr. Mi/ton 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 Court - yard, my Father's especiallie, louder than common ; and distinguished the io8 Maiden ^ Married Life 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 1 " " 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 Mis- chiefe, as well as to get my Letter ; but, unhappilie, not soe fleetlie as to see more than Hubert's flying Skirts as he galhjpped from the Gate, with the led Horse by the Bridle ; while my Father flinging of Mary Powell 109 flinging downe the tome 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. OS^ 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 further 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 iio Maiden &^ Married Life he will doe so, is my firm Persuasion. Meanwhile, I make it my Duty to joyn with some Attempt at Cheerfulnesse in the Amusements of others, to make my Father's Confinement to the House less irksome ; and have in some Measure succeeded. Oct. 23. !OE Sighte nor Tidings of Mr. Milton. — I am un- easie, 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, me- thinks, 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. of Mary Powell III Oct. 24. jHRO' dank and miry Lanes and Bye-roads with Robin, to Sheep s cote. Waiting for Rose in Mr. Agfiew'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, Cousm., 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 112 Maiden &? Married Life Politicks; soe will try Studdy for a while, and see if 'twill cure this dull Payn at my Heart. Oct. 28. OBIN and I have shut our- selves up for three Hours dailie, in the small Book- room, and have made fayre Progresse. He liketh his Office of Tutor mightilie. Oct. 31. Y Lessons are more crabhed, or I am more dull and in- attentive, for I cannot fix my Minde on my Book, and am secretlie wearie. Rohin 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 of Mary Powell 113 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 Plea- sure in anticipating another. Ah me ! had I loved Mr. Milton more, perhaps I might better have endured the Taylor's Shop. Sheep scote, Nov. 20. NNOYED by Dick's com- panions, I prayed Father to let me stay awhile with Rose; and gaining his Con- sent, came over here Yes- ter-morn, without thinking it needfulle to send Notice, which was perhaps H 114 Maiden &f Married Life perhaps inconsiderate. But she received me with Kisses and Words of Tender- nesse, 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 Mi/ton, 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 Kose a thousand Qiiestions about her Dairie and Bees, laugh t much at Dinner, and told Mr. Aguew sundrie of the merrie Sayings of Dick and his Oxford Friends. And, for my Reward, when of Mary Powell 115 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 know^ne 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 1 16 Maide?i ^ Married l^ife up my Attention, they seemed to spread a Calm and a Peace alle about, that ex- tended 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. HIS Morning, Rose ex- claimed, " Dear Roger I " onlie think ! Mo// has " begun to learn Latin " since she returned to " Forest Hi//, thinking to " surprise Mr. Mi/ton when they meet." " She will not onlie surprise but p/ease " 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 re- plyed, I learned very slowly, and wearied Ro/)in s Patience ; on which Rose, kissing me, of Mary Powell 117 me, cried, "You will never wearie mine; " soe, if you please, deare Moll^ we will " goe to our Lessons here everie Morn- " ing ; 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 sayd he would not in- terrupt our Studdies, though he should be within Call, and soe left us. I had not felt soe happy since Father s Birth- day ; 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. 1 1 8 Maideii &' Ma?^ried Life envy. Oh ! if Milton lived but in the poorest House in the Countrie, methinks I coulde be very happy with him. Bedtime. HANGING to make the above Remark to Kose^ she cried, " And why not be " happy with him in Al- " dersgate Street V I briefly replied that he must get the House first, before it were possible to tell whether I coulde be happy there or not. Kose stared, and exclaimed, " Why, where do you suppose him to be " now ? " " Where but at the Taylor's "in St. 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 wliom you promised to " abide by till Deatli, since you know " not of Mary Powell 119 " not that he has long since taken posses- " sion of his new Home ; that he strove " to have it ready for you at Michael- masse I 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 I coulde anie Home, however " dull and noisesome, drive me from " Roger Agnew f Onlie think of what " you are doing, — of what you are leav- " ing undone ! — of what you are pre- " paring against yourself ! To put the " Wickednesse of a selfish Course out of " the Account, onlie think of its Mellan- " cholie, its Miserie, — destitute of alle " the sweet, bright, fresh Wellsprings of " Happinesse ; — unblest by God ! " Here Rose wept passionatelie, and claspt her Arms about me ; but, when I began to I20 Maide?! &^ Married Life 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. ;OW that I am at Forest Hill agayn, I will essay to con- tinue my Journalling. — Mr. Agnew was out ; and though a keene wintry Wind was blowing, and Hose 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. Shortlic, he returned ; and I heard him say in a troubled Voice, "Alle " arc in Arms at Forest lliliy I felt soe greatlie of Mary Powell 1 2 1 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 uncer- tain, I hearde a distant Clatter of Horse's Feet, on the hard Road a good way off, and 12 2 Maide?! &^ Married Life and could descrie Dick coming towards Sheepscote. Rose saw him too, and com- menced running towards me ; Mr. Agnew following with long Strides. Rose drew me back into the House, and sayd, kiss- ing 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^ re- ' member, dear Cousin, that when you ' married, your Father s Guardianship of ' you passed into the Hands of your ' Husband — your Husband's House was ' thencelorthe your Home ; and in quit- ' ting it you committed a Fault you may ' yet repaire, though this offensive Act ' has made the Difhcultie much greater." — " Oh, what has happened ? " I impa- ticntlie cried. Just then, Dick comes in with of Mary Powell 123 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 inter- rupted, 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 plea- sant to me just now as it hath commonlie beene, by Reason of your Oxford Com- panions. 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 Kose; "I know, " Dick^ you love roast Pork." Soe F>ick relented. Soe Kose^ turning to me, prayed me 124 Maide?i &^ Married Life me to bid Cicely hasten Dinner ; the which I did, tho' thinking it strange Kose should not goe herself. But, as I re- turned, I hearde her say, Not a Word of it, dear Dick^ at the least, till after Din- ner, 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 Kose 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 V I sayd, " oh no ! 1 hope not." " And why t " 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 of Mary Powell 125 " 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 S/ieeps- " cote ? " 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 oc- curred to me that my Husband was await- ing me at Home, and I cried, " Oh, is "Mr. 126 Maiden Sf Alarried Life "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 wip- ing 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 mourntully replyed, " and I seeke not to ' excuse him, since two Wrongs make ' not a Right." " But," I cried, passion- ately weeping, " 1 have given him noe ' Cause ; my Heart has never for a Mo- ' ment strayed to another, nor does he, I 'am sure, expect it." " Ne'erthelesse," cnjoyned of Mary Powell 127 enjoyned Mr. Agnew, "He is soe aggrieved " and chafed, that he has followed up " what he considers your Breach of the " Marriage Contract by wTiting and pub- "■ lishing 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 Wayward- " ness, 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 iirste ; nay, " seeke his Forgivenesse, and you shall " be happier than you have been yet." — But I was weeping without con- troule ; and Dick coming in, and with Dick the Dinner, 1 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 12 8 Maideji ^ Married Life 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 Hi//, but straight to hondon, to entreat with Mr. Mi/ton 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 do- mestic Qiiarrel the Matter for a printed Attack. Kose sayd, "■ I admit he is " wrong, but indeed, indeed. Mo//, you " are wrong too, and you were wrong '''' Jirst : " and she sayd this soe often, that at length we came to crosser Words ; when Dic/i, calling to me from below, would have me make haste, which I was glad to doc, and left S/iccpscote less regret t- fullie of Mary Powell 129 fullie than I had expected. Kose 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 Kose watching us from the Porch. r>ick cried, " I am righte glad " we are off at last, for Father is down- " right QY2i7AQ aboute this Businesse, and " mistrustfuUe of Agnew s influence over " you," — and would have gone on rail- ing, 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 al- most drove me mad. And, just as I was thinking I had better lived out my Dayes and dyed earlie in St. Bride's Churchyarde than that alle this should have come about, the sudden Recollection of what Kose I 130 M aide 71 &^ Married Life Rose had that Morning tolde me, which soe manie other Thoughts had driven out of my Head, viz. that Mr. Mf/to/2 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 Em- braces of my Father and Mother com- pleted 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. of Mary Powell 131 yan. I, 1644. HE new Year opens drear- ilie, on Affairs both pub- lick and private. The Loaf parted at Breakfast this Morning, which, as the Saying goes, is a Sign of Separation ; but Mother onhe 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. AM sick of this journall- ing, 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 ; therefore, easier to be often shorte P rayer 32 Maiden &^ Married Life often repeated. When he kissed me, he whispered, " Moll^ P^^y f^)^ me." 'Jan. 27. \ATHER 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 Sepa- ration 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 leav- ing it. Feb. of Mary Powell 133 Feb. I. ,H 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 Jour- fiall^ and tearing out much childish Non- sense 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 Wavs inclined for Death. Lo7'd. have Mercy upon me. March 27. 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 134 Maiden ^ Married Lije ever to goe neare it, but my Brothers are much there, and Father in his Farm, and Mother in her Kitchen ; and the Neigh- bours, when they call, look on me strangelie, so that I have noe Love for them. How different is Rose's holy, secluded, yet cheerfulle Life at Sheepscote ! She hath a Nurserie now, soe cannot come to me, and Father likes not I should goe to her. April 5. HEY say their Majestyes' Parting at Abingdon was very sorrowfulle and ten- der. The Lord send them better Times ! The Qiieen 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 Sum- mer, 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 of Mary Powell 135 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. \ATHER, having a Hoarse- ness, hath deputed me, of late, to read the Morn- ing and Evening Prayers. How beautifulle is our Liturgie ! I grudge at the Puritans for having abolished it ; and though I felt not its comprehensive Full- nesse before I married, nor indeed till now, yet I wearied to Death in London at the puritanicall Ordinances and Con- science-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 136 Maiden &^ Married L,ife he is more at his Mercy and Caprice than when he hath a printed Form set down, wherein he sees what is coming ? yune 8. lALKING in the Home- close this Morning, it oc- curred 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 Enjoy- ment of mine, and perhaps of his. Lord^ be merciful to me a Sinner. yune 23. |UST after writing the above, I was in the Garden, ga- thering a few Coronation Flowers and Sops-in-Wine, and tliinking they were of deeper Crimson at Sheeps- cote^ and wondering what Rose was just then of Mary Powell 137 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 ic'/w;;? I had ?iever 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 friendly 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 Church- yard, 138 Maiden &^ Mar 7^ied Life yard, 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 Hose^ 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 Kose 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 Introduc- tion took out his Psalter^ and commenced reading the Psalms for tliat Evening's Service ; to wit, the 41st, the 42d, the 43de; ■"^^p^ ^^*^^^ i^y!^ #^^F ' ^ ^. itw-^ ■ ■ i^ ^ * '^ "^vti i r ,^ \ i !^^ ■7^ ,-i Midjevt on a /tcvtT'mbjJ'jr.s of Mary Powell 139 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 gradu- allie 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 Ser- vice, putting this Expression, — " As our " Hope is, this our deare Infant doth." Then he w^ent on to say in a soothing Tone, " There hath noe Misfortune hap- ' pened 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 140 Maiden &^ Married Life is unconnected with Sin, together with others that are unknowne and unspeak- able. 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 actual Sin, they follow the Lamb whithersoever he goeth ! ' Oh, think of this, dear Kosc^ 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 dis- tilled like the Dew, or the small Rain on the tender Grasse, did Roger Agnew com- fort of Mary Powell 14.1 fort 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 linger- ing Disease. Then 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. Agnews Wish, gone much among the Poor, reading to one, working for an- other, 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 142 Maiden &' Married Life " not accepting a Bishopric ? " How charmed were we with the Description of the Simplicitie and Hospitalitie of his Method of living at Houghton I — There is another Place of nearlie the same Name, in Biickinghajnshire — not Hough- ton^ but Horton^ . . . where one Mr. John Mi/ton spent five of the best Years of his Life, — and where methinks his Wife could have been happier with him than in St. Brick'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. I. ;R. AGNEW sayd to me this Morning, somewhat grave- lie, " I observe. Cousin^ " you seem to consider " yourselfe the Victim of " Circumstances." " And "am I not?" I replied. " No," he an- swered, " Circumstance is a false God, " unrecognised by the Christian, who " contemns of Mary Powell 143 ' 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 w^ell as a Man," re- joined Mr. Agneu\ " and v^^e shall be ' driven to the Walle all our Lives, unless ' we have this victorious Struggle with ' Circumstances. I seldom allude. Cousin^ ' to vours, which are almoste too deli- ' cate 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 uncom- ' fortable 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 144 Maide?t &' Married Life " 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 t " — Your Health and Spiritts were re- " cruited ; 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 of Mary Powell 145 " 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 sharp- lie. " 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. For- " give me for having spoken at alle." Afterwards, I hearde him sav 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. Miltonr (Note : — I will cut them two Inches shorter to-night. And they will grow all the faster.) . . . Oh, my sad Heart, Roger Agnew hath pierced you at last ! I K 146 Maiden &^ Married Life 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 Resent- ment at mvselfe came over me, unlike to what I had ever felt before ; in spite of mv Follv about mv 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 uncom- fortable the Loss of this Key must have made him I he must have needed it a hundred Times ! even if he hath bought a new Casket, 1 will for it he habituallie goes agayn and agayn to the old one, and then of Mary Powell 147 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. " MiltonT 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 Roses- 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 148 Maiden &^ Married Life " 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 Impa- tience. " And is that alle ? " he sayd. " Yes, alle," I sayd trembling. " And have you nothing more to tell him 1 " 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 of Mary Powell 149 " be chidden for the Waywardnesse in " which it persists." " You doe me Wrong everie Way," I sayd ; " I came to you wilHng and desi- " rous 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 con- " ducted 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. — Be- " cause you chid me and frightened me." He stood silent, some While, upon this ; grave, yet softer, and mechanicallie play- ing with the Key, which he had taken from my Hand. Kose looking in his Face anxiouslie. 150 Maiden &^ Married Life 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 hithertoe, 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 Kose that hithertoe I had " considered the onlie Obstacle to a Re- " union 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 t " "You of Mary Powell 151 " 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 cer- " tayn girlish Drollerie and Mischiefe " that are all very well in fitting Time " and Place, — what remains in you for " a Mind like 'JoJm Milton s to repose " upon ? what Stabilitie ? what Sym- " pathie ? 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 Char- " acter 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 ^ose 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. 152 Maid 671 ^ Married I^ife " Matter. 'Twas under my Roof you *' met. Kose had imparted to me much *' of her earhe Interest in you. I fancied *' you had good Dispositions which, under *' masterlie Travning, would ripen into " noble Principles ; and therefore pro- *' moted 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 ^ohn 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, Kose 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 of Mary Powell 153 " Soe then, after some warm and cool " Words, our Correspondence languished ; " and hath but now beene renewed." " He has written us a most kind Condo- " lence," interrupted Kose^ " on the Death " of our Baby." " Yes, most kindlie, most nobly ex- *' prest," 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 my- self 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 154 Maiden ^ Married Life prayed to come in, and condoled with me, and advised me, soe as that at length my weeping bated, and I promised to re- turn below when I shoulde have bathed mine Eves and smoothed my Hair : but I have not gone down yet. Bedtime. THINK I shall send to Father to have me home at the Beginning of next Week. Rose needes me not, now ; and it can- not be pleasant to Mr. Agnew to see my sorrowfulle Face about the House. His Reproofe and my Hus- band'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 of Mary Powell 155 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 Sew- ing 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. 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 156 Maide?i &^ Married Life Saturday Night. R. AGNEWS religious Ser- ^r vices at the EndoftheWeek A 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, fer- vent, and thoughtfulle, methinks there would be fewer Schismaticks ; but still there woulde be some, because there are alwaies some that like to be the upper- most. . . . To-nighte, Mr. Agneius 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 un- wonted Relief, that since I entered into my Closet, I have repeated the same par- ticularlie ; one Request seeming to grow out of another, till I remained I know not of Mary Powell 157 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. .OW 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 un- fortunate 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. 158 Maiden &f Married Life forgiven, yet not by Mr. Milton^ for I knew he had not forgiven me. Then, it must be, I w^as 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 ivas forgiven. Why then mighte not Mr. Milto?i some Day forgive me t 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 hence- forthe, be they ten, or be it one. Then, dressed with much Composure, and went down to Breakfast. Having marked that Mr. Agncw and Kose affected not Companie on this Day, spent it chieliie by myself, except at Church and Meal-times ; partlie in my Chamber, partlie in the Garden Bowre by the Bee-hives. Made manie Resolutions, which, in Church, I con- verted of Mary Powell 159 verted into Prayers and Promises. Hence, my holy Peace. Monday. OSE proposed, this Morn- ing, we shoulde resume our Studdies. Felt loath to comply, but did soe never- thelesse, and afterwards we walked manie Miles, to visit some poor Folk. This Evening, Mr. Agfiew 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. OW 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 our- selves reasonable in wishing some small Thing i6o Maiden &^ Married L,ife 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. \OOK 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 Gam- bols. Mr. Agnew lay on the Grasse, and Kose took out her knitting, whereat he laught, and sayd she was like the Dutch Women, of Mary Powell i6i Women, that must knit, whether mourn- ing 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 ^ose 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 Unde7grou7id, 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 lip to Heaven, in an Hour, Making a Chiming of a pas si fig Bell. We say amiss ^' this or that is;" Thy Word is alle, if we could spell. Oh L 1 6 2 Maiden &^ Married Life Oh that I once past cJianging were ! Fast in thy Pai-adise, 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 zuere my own, Thy Anger comes, and I decline. — What Frost to that ? What Pole is not the Zone Where alle Things burn, ivhen 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 Raiti, And relish Versing I Oh my onlie Light I 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 Floiuers that glide, Which, when we once can feel and prove, Thou hast a Garden for us zvhei'e to bide. Who would be more, swelling their Store^ Forfeit their Paradise by their Pride. Thursday. of Mary Powell 163 Thursday. ^ATHER 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, IFE flows away here in such unmarked Tranquilitie, that one hath Nothing where- of to write, or to remem- ber what distinguished one Day from another. I am sad, yet not duUe ; methinks I have grown some Yeares older since I came here. I can fancy elder Women feeling much I 64 Maid 671 &' Married Life much as I doe now. I have Nothing to desire, Nothing to hope, that is Hkehe 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. Agfiew translates to us Portions of Thiianus his Historie, and the Letters of Theodore Beza^ concerning the French Reformed Church ; oft prolix, yet inte- resting, especially with Mr. Agnew s Com- ments, and Allusions to our own Time. On the other Hand, Kose reads Daviia^ 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 t Yet, of Mary Powell 165 Yet, and if those same Authorities abuse their Trust ? Nay, Women cannot understand these Matters, and I thank Heaven they need not. Onlie, they can- not 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 Hiigenots committed a grave Mistake in choosing Princes and Admirals for their Leaders, insteade of simple Preachers with Bible 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, com- prehensive 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, 1 66 Maiden &^ Married Life Saturday. vN Monday I return to Forest Hill. I am well pleased to have yet another Sheeps- cote 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 of Mary Powell 167 Forest Hi 11^ August 3. kOME agayn, and Mother hath gone on her long intended Visitt to Uncle Joh?j, 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 1 68 Maiden &^ Married Life the Larder, there is manie a wholesome Scrap at my Disposal, and there are like- wise sundrie Physiques in my Mother's Closet, which she addeth to Year by Year, and never wants, we are soe sel- dom ill. Aug. 5. EAR Father sayd this Even- ing, as we came in from a Walk on the Terrace " My sweet Moll, you 5 " were ever the Light of " the House ; but now, " though you are more staid than of " former Time, I find you a better Com- " panion 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 my- self to please ; but, within, all is dark Shade, or at best, grey Twilight ; and my of Mary Powell 169 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 tenderhe, though sadly. . . . I will forthe to see some of the poor Folk. Same Night. .ESOLVED 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 re- lieve 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 170 Maide?2 &^ Marriea Life reverend Man. He sayd, " Moil^ I could " not think what had become of you." I answered, I hoped I had not kept him waiting for Dinner — poor Nell had enter- tayned 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 be- " fore 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 of Mary Powell 171 Agnenjos 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 com- mended my Modesty. But we progressed well, and he soon had the Discourse all to himself, for Squire Pake 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 Let- ters, 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 172 Maiden & Married Life Solace in the Exercise of the Charities than of the Affections. Safer : for, not to consider how a successfulle or unsuc- cessfulle 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 ' 7V/, Marcelius, eris^ — or of Wives for their Husbands, as Artemisia and Laodamia^ sometimes amounting to Idolatry — nay, the Love of Friend for Friend, while alle is sweet Influences and animating Transports, yet exceeding the Reasonableness of that of David for yonat/ian^ or of our blessed Lord for St. John and the Family of Lazarus^ may procure far more Tor- ment than Profit : even if the Attach- ment is 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. of Mary Powell 173 " 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 UnthankfuUe, 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 Happi- " nesse, 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 mani- fold 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 174 Maide?t & Married Life Fairie ^eefie, soe lately read to us by- Mr. Agneu\ wherein the Red Cross Knight and Una were shown Mercy at her work. Aug. lo. PACK-HORSE ^vomSheeps- cote]\i?,t reported, laden with a goodlie Store of Books, besides sundrie smaller Tokens of Rose's thought- fulle 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 pub- lick and Dullnesse of private Affairs. Made out the Meaning of "Cynosure" and " C'imnicTian Darknesse." . . . Aug. ick was tempted to stay too late ; however, he is oft as late, now, returning from Audrey Pake, though my Mother likes it not. Oct. i8o Maiden &^ Married Life Oct. 15. OSl£j is quite in good Spiritts now, and we go on most harmoniouslie and happi- lie. 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. yeremy 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 in- clined to attribute it to a higher Source than tliat ; and yet, there was doubtlesse a great Knack in teaching, and there was of Mary Powell 1 8 1 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. Agfiew, who woulde only have it " mended ; and there was Dr. yeremy " 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 been given me, of " cleaving Mischief." I knew not he knew of it, and was checked, though I laught it off. Oct. 1 8 2 Maiden ^ Married Life Oct. 1 6. ALKING together, this Morning, Hose was avised to say, "Did Mr. MiltoJt " ever tell you the Adven- " tures of the Italian Lady?" " Rely on it he never did," said Mr. Agnew. — " Milton is as modest a ' Man as ever breathed — alle Men of first ' class Genius are soe." " What w^as the ' Adventure ?" I askt, curiouslie. " Why, ' I neede not tell you, Moll^ that yohn ' Milton^ as a Youth, v^^as 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 Kifig (hycidas^ 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 V/ J^ ' ^'^Afv of Mary Powell 183 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 out- landish in its Build ; and within it, two Ladies, one of them having the fayrest Face I ever set Eyes on, present Com- panie 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 Sur- prise at seeing Milton asleep beneath it ; and in prettie dumb Shew, which we watcht sharplie, exprest their Admira- " tion 184. Maide72 &f Married Life ' tion of his Appearance and Posture, ' which woulde have suited an Arcadian ' well enough. The younger Lady, has- ' tilie 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 inortali, Ministre de miei Mali, Se, cJiiusi, 111' nccidete, Aperti, che f arete ? " 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 ' // hriuio il bel non '' tog/ie ;' whereas, King^ in his Mischief, " drew a fancy Portrait, much liker you, " Moll, of Mary Powell 185 " 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, view- ing 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 always modest, are they ? — Then I should say that young Italian Lady's Genius was not of the first Class. Oct, 1 86 Maiden & Married L,ife Oct. 19. PEAKING, to-day, of Mr. Waller., whom I had once seen at Uncle 'John s., Mr. Agnew sayd he had ob- tayned 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 Kose 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 Rgerton mighte have beene more justlie proud of the fine Things written for her in Co??ms, than the Lady Dorothea of of Mary Powell 187 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 compen- sate for the fatal Pride of Sacharissa, is soe fullesome and untrue as noe Woman, not devoured by Conceite, coulde en- dure ; whereas, the Check that Villanie is sensible of in the Presence of Virtue, is most nobly, not extravagantlie, exprest by Co?fius. And though my Husband be almost too lavish, even in his short Pieces, of classic Allusion and Persona- tion, yet, like antique Statues and Busts well placed in some statelie Pleasaunce, they are alwaies appropriate and grace- fulle, which is more than can be sayd of Mr. Waller s overstrayned Figures and Metaphors. Oct. 8 8 Maiden ^ Married Life Oct. 20. SEWS from Home : alle well. Audrey Pake 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. morrow. Oct. 24. ICHARD 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- C lover was in a Heat, which one (j/ Mary Powell 189 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. LAS, alas, Kobin 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 90 Maiden ^ Married Life At Robin s Bedside^ Saturday Night. ,H, 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 Ni2:ht 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 Mol/ 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 mc of those words, " the Enemy " sayd. of Mary Powell 191 " 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, wistfuUe 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. vOOR Nell sitteth up with Mo th er 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 Kind- nesse. I must sleep to-night, that I may watch 192 Maiden Sf Married Life watch to-morrow. The Servants are nigh spent, and are besides foolishlie afrayd of Infection. I hope Kose prays for me. Soe drowsie and dulle am I, as scarce to be able to pray for myself. Monday, OSE and Mr. Agiiew come to abide with us for some Days. How thankfulle am I ! Tears have re- lieved me. Robin worse to - day. Father quite subdued. Mr. Agnew will sit up to-night, and insists on my sleep- ing. Crab howled under my Window Yester- night 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. of Mary Powell 193 Tuesday. FTER two Nights' Rest, I feel quite strengthened and restored this Morning. Deare Kose read me to sleep in her low, gentle Voice, and then lay down by my Side, twice stepping into Robms 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. Ag?jew, 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 N 194 Maiden &' Married Life the Ventilation of Robin s Chamber, and prevented his hearing soe manie Noises. Alsoe, showed me how to make a plea- sant cooling Drink, which he likes better than the warm Liquids, and which she as- sures me he may take with perfect Safetie. Same Evening. OBIN vext, even to Tears, because the Doctor forbids the use of his cooling Drink, though it hath cer- tainlie abated the Fever. At his Wish I stept down to intercede with the Doctor, then closetted with my Father, to discourse, as I suppose, of Kobin s Symptoms. In- steade 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 of Mary Powell 195 The Doctor would not hear of Kobin 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 to- wards Midnight. Kose insisted in taking the last Half of my Watch. I know not that I was ever more sore- lie 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 Neli 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 Imple- ments at Hand, I wrote a Letter to Mr. Milton, which, though the Fancy of send- ing it soon died away, yet eased my Mind. When not in Prayer, I often find myself silently talking to him. Wednesday. 196 Maiden &^ Married Life Wednesday. AKING late after my scant Night's Rest, I found my Breakfaste neatlie layd out in the little Antechamber, 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, told 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 Illnesse 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, some- what reluctantlie, I did ; but the bright Daylight and warm Sun had no good Effect of Mary Powell 197 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 be- lieve he understands soe much ofPhysick, 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 them 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. 198 Maiden &^ Married Life Thursday. [AY Heaven in its Mercy save us from the evil Con- sequence of this new^ Mis- chance ! — 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, never- thelesse, of Mary Powell 199 thelesse, 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 Doc- tor 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 Kobin may recover. Rose and I have mingled Tears, Smiles, and Thanksgiv- ings ; Mr. Agnew hath expressed Grati- tude 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 200 Maiden &^ Married Life crying like a Child — the first Time I have known him give Way to Tears during Robin s Illnesse. Mr. Agnew pre- sentlie came in, and composed him better than I coulde. Saturday. OBIN better, though still very weak. Had his Bed made, and took a few Spoonfuls of Broth. Sunday. VERY different Sabbath from the last. Though Robin s Constitution hath received a Shock it may never recover, his compa- rative Amendment fills us with Thankfulnesse ; and our chastened Suspense hath a sweet Solemnitie and Trustfullenesse in it, which pass Under- standing. Mr. Agnew conducted our Devotions. This of Mary Powell 201 This Morning, I found him praying with Kobin — I question if it were for the first Time. Kobin looking on him with Eyes of such sedate Affection ! Thursday. OBINstiW progressing. Dear Rose and Mr. Ag7iew leave us tomorrow, but they will soon come agayn. Oh faithful Friends ! Aprils 1646. [AN Aniething equall the desperate Ingratitude of the human Heart } Testifie of it, Journall, agaynst me. Here did I, throughout the incessant Cares and Anxie- ties 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 202 Maiden &^ Married Life scrawled Ejaculation of Thankfullenesse that the Sick hath beene made whole. Yet, not that that Thankfullenesse hath beene unfelt, nor, though unwritten, un- exprest. Nay, O hord^ 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 Per- suasion that an Hydropsia would waste him away, though more slowdie, 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 Proba- tion, our Hearts were unlocked, and we spake oft to one another of Things in Heaven and Things in Earth. After- wards, of Mary Powell 203 wards, our mutuall Reserves returned, and Robin, methinks, became shver than be- fore, 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 hoHe 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 Agftews^ while they are soe much harassed. This Morning, my Father hath received a Letter from Sir Thomas Giemham, requiring a larger Quantitie of winnowed Wheat, than, with alle his Loyaltie, he likes to send. April. 2 04 Maiden &* Married Life April 23. \ALFH HEWLETT hath just looked in to say, his Father and Mother have in Safetie reached London^ where he will shortliejoyn them, and to ask, is there anie Service he can doe me ? Ay, trulv ; 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. (ALKING of Money Mat- ters this Morning, Mo- ther 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 of Mary Powell 205 to this Day, askt Father for the 500/. which had brought him, in the first In- stance, 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 E?2glish Vers- ing.? It hath beene my Companion ever since ; for I had perused the Co?nus but by Snatches, under the Disadvantage of crabbed Manuscript. This Morning, to use his owne deare Words : — / sat me down to watch, upon a Bank, With Ivy canopied, and interwove With flaunting HoneysucJile, 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 2o6 Maiden &^ Married Life This I hold fir-iii ; Virtue may be assayled, but never hurt, Surprised by unjust Force, but not enthralled ; Yea, even that %vhich Mischief meant most Harjn, 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 sinfulHe ; but I worst, I first, therefore more neede that I humble myself, and pray for both. There is one, more unhappie, per- haps, than either. The King^ most* mis- fortunate 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. ^^S^^HE King hath escaped ! He gave Orders overnight at alle the Gates, for three Persons to passe ; and, ac- companied onlie by Mr. Ashhurnham^ and Mr. Hurd, rode forthe at Nightfalle, towards London. Sure, of Mary Powell 207 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. , ACKING 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. 2o8 Maiden &^ Married Life Tuesday. ^XFORD ; in 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 dis- tracts 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. HE Widow Lady goes about visiting the Sick, and would faine have my Companie. The Streets have displeased me, being soe fulle of Men ; how- ever, in a close Hoode I have accom- panied of Mary Powell 209 panied her sundrie Times. 'Tis a good Soul, and full of pious Works and Alms- deedes. May 27. IGGORT 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 Coun- tenance 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 o 2 1 o Maiden ^ Married Life Alders gate Street. I'm sure I wish I were there, — not because Father is in Mis- fortune ; oh, no. yune. HE Parliament requireth our unfortunate King to issue Orders to this and alle his other Garrisons, commanding theire Sur- render ; and Father., find- ing this is HkeHe to take Place forthwith, is busied in having himself comprised within the Articles of Surrender. 'Twill be hard indeede, shoulde this be denied. His Estate lying in the King's Qiiarters, how 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. yune of Mary Powell 211 yime 27. .RAISED be Heaven^ deare Father hath just received Sir Thomas Fairfax s Pro- tection, 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 em- bark 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 im- mediatelie leave Oxford. Forest Hill. jT Home agayn ; and what a Home ! Everiething to seeke, everiething mis- placed, broken, abused, or gone altogether ! The Gate off its Hinges ; the Stone Balls of the Pillars overthrowne, the 2 12 Maiden &^ Married Life the great Bell stolen, the dipt 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 of Mary Powell 213 milk them. Within Doors, everie Room smelling of Beer and Tobacco ; Cup- boards broken open, etc. On my Cham- ber 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. RE MB LING, weeping, hopefulle, dismaied, here I sit in mine Uncle's hired House, alone in a Crowd, scared at mine owne Pre- cipitation, readie to wish myselfe back, unable to resolve, to reflect, to pray. . . . Twelve 2 14- Maiden ^ Married Life Ticeive at Night. |LLE is silent ; even in the latelie busie Streets. Why- art thou cast down, my Heart ? why art thou dis- quieted within me ? Hope thou stille in the Lord^ for he is the Joy and Light of thy Counte- nance. Thou hast beene long of learn- ing 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 of Mary Powell 215 Friday ; at Night. OW awfulle it is to beholde a Man weepe ! mine owne Tears, when I think there- on, well forthe. . . . Rose was a true Friend when she sayd "our prompt " Affections are oft our wise Counsel- lors." 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, 2 1 6 Maiden &^ Married Life Excuses, bore my chafed Reproaches the more humbhe because he saw he had done me some grievous Hurt, though he knew not what, a Voice in the adja- cent 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 Assist- ance, 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 Ihuf I remciincd ^ of Mary Powell 217 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 Ex- clamation, 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 re- mained, 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 my- self, 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, hold- ing 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 re- " call 2 1 8 Maiden Sf Married Life " call 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 hence- forthe 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 - ^^M "F^fNvbiCcxn- of Mary Powell 219 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 Estab- lishment 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 Raip/is Tale concerning Miss Davies was a false Lie ; though, at the Time, suppos- ing 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, 2 20 Maiden ^ Married Life Soul, and his Heart, and his Mind require a Flighte beyond Ralp/is Witt to com- prehende ; and I know and feel that they are mine. He hath just led in the two Philips' 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 as 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 brieliie unto my Mother, who loveth not Mr. Mi /ton. Barbican, of Mary Powell 221 Barbican^ September. ,N the Night -season, we take noe Rest ; we search out our Hearts, and com- mune with our Spiritts, and checque our Souls' Accounts, before we dare court our Sleep ; but in the Day of Happinesse we cut shorte our Reckon- ings ; 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 Diarhim^ as Ned woulde call it. 'Tis a large House, with more Rooms than we can fill, even with the Philips 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 Sheep scote. 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 222 Maiden & Married Life "I have indeede lost 'sweet MolT after " Alle ! " Yes, I am indeed changed ; more than he knows or coulde beheve. And he is changed too. With Payn I perceive a more stern, severe Tone occasionalHe used by him ; doubtlesse the Cloke assumed by his Griefe to hide the Ruin I had made within. Yet a more geniall Influ- ence 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, be- lieving 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 Over- studdy, which my Presence mighte have prevented, hath conduced to the same ill Eff'ect. 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 of Mary Powell 223 of his Eye, and that he even feared, some- times, 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 with- drawe it from me altogether, I will cheerfully bid mine Eyes keep Holiday, "and 2 24- Maiden &^ Married Life " 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-Gr and ^ and my present dailie Course in Barbican^ hath marked the Distinction between Lover and Husband. There it was "sweet " Molir " 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, " Whv, " Moli^ whence had you that ? — Me- " thought you hated Versing, as you used " to call it. When learnt you to love " it .? " of Mary Powell 225 " 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." There- after, he less often wifed me, and I found I was agayn sweet Moll, This Afternoon, Christopher Milto?i 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 Penny-worth at " a Book-stall as I came along this Morn- " ing." " What was that .? " says my Husband, brightening up. " It had a. " long Name," says Christopher^ — " I think " it was called Tetrachordony My Hus- band 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 p 2 26 Maiden ^ Married JLife ' that you did not invest a small Portion ' of your Capitall in the Work, as you ' say 'twas soe greate a Bargain. How- ' ever, 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 would certainlie pro- ' cure for another Man a Thrashing ! " Then, after a short Silence betweene Alle, he suddainlie burst out laughing, and cried, " I know 'tis on the Stalls ; " I've scene it, X//, myself ! Oh, had " you scene, as I did, the Blockheads por- " ing over the Title, and hammering at it " while you might have walked to Mile " End and back ! " " That's Fame, I suppose," says Christo- pher 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 " OfHce of Mary Powell 227 ' Office sometimes devise such senselesse ' Things that I really am ashamed of ' being of theire Party. Licence, in- deed ! their Licence ! I suppose they will shortlie license the Lengthe of MoiTs 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' Suiidays. Me- thoughte I had broken Mabbofs Teeth two Years agone ; but I must bring forthe a new Edition of my Areopa- gitica; and I'll put your Name down, Kit^ for a hundred Copies ! " October. HOUGH a rusticall Life hath ever had my Suf- frages, Nothing can be more pleasant than our regular Course. We rise at five or sooner : while my Husband combs his Hair, he com- monly hums or sings some Psalm or Hymn, versing it, maybe, as he goes on. Being 22 8 Maiden &^ Married Life Being drest, Ned reads him a Chapter in the Hebrew Bible. With Ned stille at his Knee, and me by his Side, he ex- pounds and improves the Same ; then, after a shorte, heartie Prayer, releases us both. Before I have finished my Dress- ing, I hear him below at his Organ, with the two lads, who sing as well as Choris- ters, hymning Anthems and Gregoriafi 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 Break- fast ; 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 of Mary Powell 229 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 Dis- course at Table. He loves me to help him 230 Maiden ^ Married Life 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 w^as 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, pre- tending to con the Morrow's Tasks. If the Guests chance to be musicalle, the Lute and Viol are broughte forthe, to ahernate with Roundelay and Madrigal : the old Man beating Time with his feeble Fingers, of Mary Powell 231 Fingers, and now and then joining with his quavering Voice. (By the way, he hath not forgotten to this Hour, my im- puted 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 Justin/an 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 Sheep scot e and Forest Hill. On Sabbaths, besides the publick Ordi- nances of Devotion, which I cannot, with alle my striving, bring myself to love like the Services to which I have beene accus- tomed, 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 Hus- band 232 Maiden &' Married Life band 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. of Mary Powell 233 Encouragement. Thus, the Sabbath is devouthe 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 Gree?iwich. 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 Argu- ment, never prolonged to Wearinesse, and seasoned with frolic Jest and Witt. Olde Mr. Milton joyns not these Parties. I leave him alwaies to Doily s Care, firste providing 2 34 Maiden J/ ^ \V I''- ! " vte- — ^a-< i ,=_f i\\V '^',- :c:;if^r^%) '!^ri srVmrmm ' 1;; .^W^TWn.'^-:f^S||'^, > 7i ,1'.-. - ■ na*-'^ ' ^' . ,'i ' i^ Deborah^ s Diary 295 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 swear- ing ! 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 Jus- tice, 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 Par- ties, — some dreadfully overloaded, some knocked up alreadie, some baiting at the Roadside, and many of the poorer Sort erecting 2()6 Deborah's Diary erecting 'emselves rude Tents and Cabins under the Hedges. Soon I began to re- joyce 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 Ajnershani found Hob Car- ter 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 ip^^ Deborah'' s Diary 297 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, out- side 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 Pre- " cision, what the Place is like." Soe 2()S Deborah'' s Diary 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 Honey- suckle 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 Deborah's Diary 2()() " 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 for- ks'- ^ i?py.-: " getting 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 300 Deborah^ s Diary " 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 Nedr 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 F " " 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. Deborah' s Diary 301 " 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 Shakspeare, Fancy's Child l^"^ " Ah ! you may quote me against my- " self," says Father ; " you may quote " Beza against Beza, and Erasmus against " Erasmus ; but that will not shake the " eternal 302 Deborah's Diary " 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 repre- " sent 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 Ele- " gance." " 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 Qiiality of this Air " would arouse the old Man of Chios him- " self" " Sure," cries Ned, " you have less Need " than Deborah^ s Diary 303 " 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, ivliich is Death to hide, " Lodged with me useless, thoiigh my Soitl 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 ser've him best. His State " Is kifigly ; Thousands at his Bidding speed, " And post der Land and Ocean without Rest, " They also serve who only stand and wait! " . . . We v^^ere all quiet enough for a while after this . . . Nee/ onlie breath- ing hard, and squeezing Father's Hand. At length, Mother calls from the House, "Who 304 Deborah^ s Diary " 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 Deborah's Diary 305 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 Under- tone. " 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 Bibk 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 Sal lust, " Homer u 3o6 Deborah's Diary *' Homer and Euripides, Da/ite and Petrarch, *' Chaucer and Spenser, ... and ... oh, *' oh ! you read Plays sometimes, though *' you were so hard upon Shakspeare. . . . *' Here's ' La Scena Tragica ^ Adamo ed *' £-1;^,' dedicated to the Duchess o£ Man- *' tua.'' " 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 Deh were not better off ■" on her Pillion. I remember, on my " Road Deborah's Diary 307 " Road to Paris, the Bottom of the Ca- " roche 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 practicall Things ; he was also " a profound Scholar, though he made " out the fourth Kingdom in Daniel's " Prophecy to be the Kingdoms of the '■'' Lagida and the Seleucidce ; 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. Afine told me, at Bed-time, of the Journey down. The Coach, she said, was most uncomfortable. Mother having so over-stuffed it. For her Share, she had a Knife-box under her Feet, a Plate- basket 3o8 Deborah's Diary basket at her Back, a Bird-cage bobbing over her Head, and a Lapfull of Crock- ery-ware. Providentially, Betty turned squeamish, and could not ride inside, so 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 Afine 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 Burihill Fields. This was some- what inopportune, for every Thing was to seek and to set in Order ; and, indeed. Mother soon came in, all of a Heat, and sayd, Deborah's Diary 309 sayd, " I wonder, my Dear, you can keep " Nan here, at such idHng, when she has " her Bed to make, and her Box to un- " pack." 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 try- ing 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 Plea- ' sures. '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 harm- ' less 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 But- ' terfly, and A?ine to catch her Bat." Our 3IO Deborah's Diary UR Life here is most plea- sant. Father and I pass almost the whole of our Time in the open Air — he dictating, and I writ- ing ; 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 Christmass. 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 Clialfont. 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, Deborah V Diary 311 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. How- beit, 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 Acquaint- ance 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 yoan 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, with- in Earshot of Father and me, while he dictates to me his wondrous Poem. We are nearing the End of it now, and have reached 312 Deborah^ s Diary reached the Reconciliation of Adarn and Bwe^ 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 un- aware 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 wear- ing 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 Deborah's Diary 313 Springett — and so, indeed, she proved ; for, on reaching Home after a length- ened 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 Flow- ers that had some Fragrance, however dull of hue. To-day, as we were sitting under the Hedge, we heard a rough Voice shout- ing, " Hoy ! hoy ! what are you about *' there t " 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 314 Deborah'' s Diary " 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 ; (( an( Deborah^ s Diary 315 " and the Gentleman at present in Occu- " pation 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 Excommuni- " cation." So I parleyed with yohn Constable^ and he parleyed with the Travellers, who really had Passports, and seemed Honest as well as Sound. So they were per- mitted, 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 Wind- ward. " What have we for Dinner To-day ? " says Father. "A 3i6 Deborah's Diary "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 sing- ing Psalms. Ellwood Deborah's Diary 317 LLIVOOD has turned up agayn, to the great Plea- sure of Father, who de- lights 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 shun- ning Wayfarers), and bring Home my Lap full of Flowers and Weeds, with rusticall Names, such as Ragged Robin, Sneezewort, Cream-and-Codlins, yack-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 Fa- shion 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 3i8 Deborah's Diary 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 Willicun Pefin — in fact, I suspect Mistress Guli is engaged to him already. Eilwood 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 ■■r ..f , ,, , " ' he pour/^dK tKeytill hcle vf tlelody on hif Oitiexn" Deborah's Diary 319 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 demon- strative ; Father would then be as assured of her Affection as of mine, and treat her with equal Tenderness. But, no, she can- not 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 320 Deborah^ s Diary " Or Sight of vernal Bloom or Summer s Rose, " Or Flocks or Herds, or human Face divine, " But Clouds instead, and ever-during Dark " Surrounds me ; from the cheeiful 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 Deborah^ s Diary 321 " night, Girls : . . . may it, indeed, be " as good to you as to me. You know, " Night brings back my Day — / atn not " blind in my Dreams ^ WISH I knew the Distinc- tion between Tempera- ment 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 X 32 2 Deborah's Diary to him that formed it, " Why hast thou " made me thus ? " Father, indeed, can flame out in poli- tical 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 won- der if the World will ever give heed to his Teaching. Suppose a Spark of Fire should drop some Night on the Manu- script, while Ejllwood 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 Deborah's Diary 323 bottom of the Great Deep, yustinian'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 pic- turing 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 ! 324 Deborah' s Diary Fneuma ! 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 .? " Good Deborah's Diary 325 Sept. 2nd. ;OOD 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 Qiiaker's pragmatick Sanc- tion, 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 Cri tick's Abiezer. To wind up all, Ellwood^ primming up his Mouth, says, " Thou hast found much " to tell us, Friend Milton^ on Paradise " host ; — now, what hast thou to tell of " Paradise Regained f " Father 326 Deborah's Diary 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 Sprin- gett^ whom I have seen sundry times, and think high-flown, in spight of her level- ling 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 Springe tf 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, DeboraUs Diary 327 see, this ill-natured Speech : and 'twas unfair too ; for, if we never had a Writ- ing-master, yet my Aunt Agar taught us ; and 'twas our own Fault if we improved no more. Indeed, we have had a scram- bling Sort of Education ; but, in many respects, our Advantages have exceeded those of many young Women; and among them I reckon, first and foremost, con- tinuall 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 28 Deborah'' s Diary 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 — " / suoi Peyisieri ifi lui Dortnir non ponno ; " which, being interpreted, means, " His *' Thoughts would ] " ter take no rest." *' Thoughts would let him and his Daugh- I 2th. KNOW not that any one but Father hath ever con- cerned themselves to ima- gine the Anxieties of the blessed Virgin during her Son's forty Days' myste- rious Absence. No wonder that " Within her Breast, thd calm, her Breast, tho pure, " Motherly Fears got Head." Father Deborah's Diary 329 Father hath touched her with a very tender and reverent Hand, dwelling less on her than he did on E'Ud', 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. 1 5M. ND now I have transgrest about a Pin ! O me ! what weak, wicked Wretches we are ! " Behold, how great " a Matter " kindleth ! a little Fire And the Tongue is a Fire, an unruly Member. Sure, when I was writing, at Father's Dictation, such heavy Charges against £w, I privily thought I was better than she ; and, sifting the Doings of Mary and Aime 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, 330 Deborah's Diary 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," an- swered 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 Deborah's Diary 331 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 Nafi 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 I " 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 Bib/e, and more humbled towards Mother. And . . . what is it Father says .? — 332 Deborah^ s Diary " What better can I do, than to the Place " Repairing, where he judged me, there confess " Humbly my Fault, and Pardon beg, with Tears '* 0/ Sorrow unfeignd, 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 Sdtan to enter. But let this Morning's Work, De/?, 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 Cob- web, 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 Reve- rence ; and if you behave like a Child, you must look to be punisht like a Child." ''1 Deborah^ s Diary 333 "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 inoffen- " sive 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 Wo? nan too!" And, 334 Deborah'' s Diary 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 ob- served, " 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 recol- " lect that one Avenue of my Senses being " stopt, makes me keener to any Impres- " sion 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 render- " ing our Home liker to a Cage of un- " clean Birds ? " Bunhiil Deborah's Diary 335 Bunhiii Fields J London^ Oct. 1666. EOPLE have phansied Ap- pearances of Armies in the Air, flaming Swords, Fields of Battle, and other Images ; and, truly, the Evening before we left Chalfont^ me- thought I beheld the Glories of the an- cient City Ctesiphon in the Sunset Clouds, with gilded Battlements, conspicuous far — Turrets, and Terraces, and glittering Spires. The light-armed Parthians pour- ing through the Gates, in Coats of Mail, and military Pride. In the far Perspec- tive 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 Compari- son, so black and bleak, that methought how 33^ Deborah's Diary 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 Transjiguration^ and to St. Paul^ when he dropt from the seventh Heaven. What a Click, Click, the Bricklayers make with their Trowels, thus bring- ing me down from my Altitudes ! Sure, we hardly knew how well off we were at Chaljont^ till we came back to this unlucky Capital, looking as desolate as yerusalem, when the City was ruinated and the People captivated. Weeds in the Streets — smouldering Piles — black- ened, 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 Ac- ceptance 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, Deborah^ s Diary 337 Town, she falls to her old Practices of daily Prayers 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 Dis- tresses, 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 — Anjie 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 (pre- amble supposed) to give him his eldest Daughter. Then what a Storm ensues ! Father's Y 33 8 Deborah's Diary Father's Objections do not transpire, no one being by but Mother, who is un- likely to soften Matters. But, so soon as yohn 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 say- " ing what is uncivil and untrue." " Well," resumes Anne, her breath coming Deborah's Diary 339 coming quick, " but what's the Objec- " tion to 'John Herring f " " John ? is he yohn 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 340 Deborah's Diary " Address of this young Man," says Father, " has taken me wholly by Surprise, and " your Encouragement of it has incontest- " ably had somewhat of clandestine in it ; " notwithstanding which, I have, and can " have, nothing in View, dear Nafi^ but " your Well-being. As to his Calling, I " take no Exceptions at it, even though, " like Ccementarhis^ 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 re- sumed. " You talk of his offering you a ' quiet Home : why should you be dis- ' satisfied with your own, where, in the ' Main, we are all very happy together .? ' In these evil Times, 'tis something con- ' siderable 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 Deborah'' s Diary 341 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 with- out 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 Im- pediment ; but, in your own Case — " " Father, 342 Deborah's Diary " 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 mxe ' with the more recent Instance of your- ' self, 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 Deborah's Diary 343 " are contemned, let, and hindered, — "where my Mother- Church, my Mo- " ther'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 Re- " ward 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 De- " pendance 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 344 Debo7^ah^s Diary 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 Expec- tancies, vain Repinings, fretful Com- plainings, wrathful Rejoinings. You fly from Collision with jarring Minds : what Security have you for more For- bearance among your new Connexions t Alas ! you will carry your Temper with you — you will carry your bodily Infir- mities 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 Annt\ 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, Deh^' cries Father ; *' she is beside herself. Unhappy me ! " tried Deborah'' s Diary 345 " tried every Way ! An (Edipus 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^ with- out a Moment's Pause, darts into his Arms, in a Passion of Pity and Repent- ance, crying, " Oh, Father, Father, for- " give 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 yohn Herring'' " No, never, Father ! " cries Anne ; " never, dear Father — " " Dark 346 Deborah's Diary " Dark are the Ways of God," con- tinues 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 apprehen- " sive 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 " Her ring.'' " 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 Deborah's Diary 347 " asked is an Admission that I have a " Right to give or withhold it ; and, as " I have already told yohn Herring, I shall " certainly not grant it before you are of " Age. Perhaps by that Time you may " be your ow^n Mistress, without even " such an ill Home as I, while I live, " can afford you." " No more of that," says Anne, inter- rupting 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 suc- ceeded by flat Stagnations. Anne, how- ever, 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 n 48 Deborah's Diary 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 Deborah^ s Diary 349 " in addressing all the weary and heavy- " laden, as if I heard Him articulating, " ' Come, Anne^ come ! ' " POST SCRIPTUM. Spitaljields^ 1680. 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 350 Deborah's Diary 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 Spitaljields Weaver ? Be- like 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 Deborah's Diary 351 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 hav- ing 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 com- menced 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 Da/i/a/i, I could not forbear say- ing, " How hard you are upon Women, ^' Father ! " " Hard ? " repeated he ; "I think I "am '^52 Deborah's Diary v> " 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 mak- ing me laugh, when the big, cowardly Giant excused himself from coming with- in 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 siu"vey not thee ; " My Heels are fetter d, but viy Fist is free" and then broke into a merry Laugh him- self; adding, a Line or two after, " His Giatitship is gone, somewhat crest-fallen ; "... there. Deborah's Diary 353 " . . . 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 condi- tional 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 z 354 Deborah's Diary been often acceptable. Mother now be- gan to pinch us pretty short, and lament the unsaleable Quality of Father's Pro- ductions ; 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 Irclaiid ; who volun- teered to take me with her, and be at my Charges ; so 1 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 Deborah' s Diary 355 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 up- right 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 Counter- feit, by savouring overmuch of the Scul- lion. " 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 35^ Deborah'' s Diary 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. Bali 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 strojigest Wines "And strongest Ih'i)iks our chief Support of Health ! " So that Story carries its Confutation with it : Ne<^ Fli'iUips says so, too. As to what Deborah's Diary 357 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 Chil- dren ; 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 Mas- ter ; 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 358 Deborah'' s Diary 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. FINIS Printed by Bai.i.antVne, Hanson if Co. Edinburgh &r' London BY THE SAME AUTHOR In crown 8vo, with an Introduction by the Rev. \V. H. Hutton, B,D. , and Twenty-five Illustrations by John Jellicoe and Herbert Railtox, price 6s. cloth elegant, gilt top. The Household of Sir Thos. More SOME PRESS NOTICES Spectator. — "A delightful book. . . . Twenty-five illustrations by John Jellicoe and Herbert Railton show off the book to the best advantage." Orapblc. — "A picture, not merely of great charm, but of infinite value in helping the many to understand a famous Englishman and the times in which he lived." Literary World. — " A charming reprint. . . . Every feature of the pictorial work is in keeping with the spirit of the whole." Scotsman.— "This clever work of the historical imagination has gone through several editions, and is one of the most successful artistic creations of its kind." Glasgow Herald.— "An extremely beautiful reprint of the late Miss Manning's quaint and charming work." Sketch. — " In the front rank of the gift-books of the season is this beautiful and very cleverh' illustrated reprint of a work which has lasting claims to popularity." Magaziue of Art. — "The grace and beauty of the late Miss Manning's charming work, ' The Household of Sir Thomas More,' has been greatly enhanced by the new edition now put forth by Mr. John C. Nimmo. . . . This remarkable work is not to be read without keen delight." Academy.— " It is illustrated cleverly and prettily, and tastefully bound, so as to make an attractive gift-book." Lirerpool Post. — - ' ' We welcome the tasteful reprint with its artistic illustrations by John Jellicoe and Herbert Railton, and its helpful introduction by the Rev. W. H. Hutton." London : JOHN C. NIMMO, 14 King William St., Strand, B V THE SAME A UTHOR In crown 8vo, with an Introduction by the Rev. W. H. HuTTON, B.D. , and Twenty-six Illustrations by John Jellicoe and Herbert Railton, price 6s. cloth elegant, gilt top. Cherry ^ Violet A Tale of the Great Plague SOmE PRESS NOTICES Atheii:(>uni. — ' ' The late Miss Manning's delicate and fanciful little cameos of historical romance possess a flavour of their own. . . . The numerous illustrations by Mr. Jellicoe and Mr. Railton are particularly pretty." Sketeli. — "A beautiful book! is the verdict, and one to read and read again. A similar verdict is to be passed on the drawings with which Messrs. Herbert Railton and John Jellicoe have enriched this edition, for which the Rev. W. H. Hutton has written a sympathetic prefatory note. " Daily Cliruiiicle. — " We cannot doubt that ' Cherry and Violet ' in its present attractive form will gain many new readers and still delight the old." British UcvieM'.— " ' Cherry and Violet' is a tale of the early years of the Stuart Restoration, of the Plague, and of the Fire of London. It is told with all the grace and skill which characterises ' Mary Powell.' . . . The book is well worthy of the attention of every one to whom Miss Manning's name and writings are unknown." Literary World. — " Nearly thirty illustrations by Mr. John Jellicoe and Mr. Herbert Railton enrich the volume, and materially help to make it a dainty and acceptable book for presentation purposes." HcotHiiian. — "Charmingly illustrated. . . . The book is all the more valuable, too, for a genial and recommendatory introduction from the pen of the Rev. W. Hutton." Maga/lne of Art. — "With such a work of fiction before her as Defoe's 'Journal of the Plague,' Miss Manning showed not only e.x'tra- ordinary courage, but even a touch of genius, in approaching a similar theme, and dealing with it charmingly and successfully. It is her own grace and charm which have rendered this book worth preserving, fit to place with others of our foremost women writers." ■*ublic Opinion. — " It is an example of a pure and beautiful style of literature." HaturUay ttcvlcw. — "A very well written talc of the Great Plague." London: JOHN C. NIMMO, 14 King William St., Strand. "■wp^mm University of California SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 305 De Neve Drive - Parking Lot 17 • Box 951388 LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA 90095-1388 Return this material to the library from which it was borrowed. ^ \^^^ \ ^ AUG uc SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY f ACIU JIJ. AA 000 599 661 6 University of Calii Southern Regioi Library Facilit