_London,
Mr. Russell's, Taylor,
Bride's Churchyard_.
Oh Heaven! is this my new Home? my Heart sinkes alreadie. After the
swete fresh Ayre of _Sheepscote_, and the Cleanliness, and the Quiet
and the pleasant Smells, Sightes, and Soundes, alle whereof Mr.
_Milton_ enjoyed to the Full as keenlie as I, saying they minded him of
_Paradise,--_how woulde _Rose_ pitie me, could she view me in this
close Chamber, the Floor whereof of dark, uneven Boards, must have
beene layd, methinks, three hundred Years ago; the oaken Pannells,
utterlie destitute of Polish and with sundrie Chinks; the Bed with dull
brown Hangings, lined with as dull a greene, occupying Half the Space;
and Half the Remainder being filled with dustie Books, whereof there
are Store alsoe in every other Place. This Mirror, I should thinke,
belonged to faire _Rosamond_. And this Arm-chair to King _Lew_. Over
the Chimnie hangs a ruefull Portrait,--maybe of _Grotius_, but I
shoulde sooner deeme it of some Worthie before the Flood. Onlie one
Quarter of the Casement will open, and that upon a Prospect, oh
dolefulle! of the Churchyarde! Mr. _Milton_ had need be as blythe as
he was all the Time we were at _Sheepscote_, or I shall be buried in
that same Churchyarde within the Twelvemonth. 'Tis well he has stepped
out to see a Friend, that I may in his Absence get ridd of this Fit of
the Dismalls. I wish it may be the last. What would _Mother_ say to
his bringing me to such a Home as this? I will not think. Soe this is
_London_! How diverse from the "towred Citie" of my Husband's versing!
and of his Prose too; for as he spake, by the way, of the Disorders of
our Time, which extend even into eache domestick Circle, he sayd that
alle must, for a While, appear confused to our imperfect View, just as
a mightie Citie unto a Stranger who shoulde beholde around him huge,
unfinished Fabrics, the Plan whereof he could but imperfectlie make
out, amid the Builders' disorderlie Apparatus; but that, _from afar_,
we mighte perceive glorious Results from party Contentions,--Freedom
springing up from Oppression, Intelligence succeeding Ignorance, Order
following Disorder, just as that same Traveller looking at the Citie
from a distant Height, should beholde Towres, and Spires glistering
with Gold and Marble, Streets stretching in lessening Perspectives, and
Bridges flinging their white Arches over noble Rivers. But what of
this saw we all along the _Oxford_ Road? Firstlie, there was noe
commanding Height; second, there was the Citie obscured by a drizzling
Rain; the Ways were foul, the Faces of those we mett spake less of
Pleasure than Business, and Bells were tolling, but none ringing. Mr.
_Milton's_ Father, a grey-haired, kind old Man, was here to give us
welcome: and his firste Words were, "Why, _John_, thou hast stolen a
March on us. Soe quickly, too, and soe snug! but she is faire enoughe,
Man, to excuse thee, Royalist or noe."
And soe, taking me in his Arms, kist me franklie.--But I heare my
Husband's Voice, and another with it.
_Thursday_.
'Twas a Mr. _Lawrence_ whom my Husband brought Home last Nighte to sup;
and the Evening passed righte pleasantlie, with News, Jestes, and a
little Musicke. Todaye hath been kindlie devoted by Mr. _Milton_ to
shewing me Sights:--and oh! the strange, diverting Cries in the
Streets, even from earlie Dawn! "New Milk and Curds from the
Dairie!"--"Olde Shoes for some Brooms!"--"Anie Kitchen-stuffe, have
you, Maids?"--"Come buy my greene Herbes!"--and then in the Streets,
here a Man preaching, there another juggling: here a Boy with an Ape,
there a Show of _Nineveh_: next the News from the North; and as for the
China Shops and Drapers in the _Strand_, and the Cook's Shops in
_Westminster_, with the smoking Ribs of Beef and fresh Salads set out
on Tables in the Street, and Men in white Aprons crying out, "Calf's
Liver, Tripe, and hot Sheep's Feet"--'twas enoughe to make One
untimelie hungrie,--or take One's Appetite away, as the Case might be.
Mr. _Milton_ shewed me the noble Minster, with King _Harry_ Seventh's
Chapel adjoining; and pointed out the old House where _Ben Jonson_
died. Neare the _Broade Sanctuarie_, we fell in with a slighte,
dark-complexioned young Gentleman of two or three and twenty, whome my
Husband espying cryed, "What, _Marvell_!" the other comically
answering, "What Marvel?" and then, handsomlie saluting me and
complimenting Mr. _Milton_, much lighte and pleasant Discourse ensued;
and finding we were aboute to take Boat, he volunteered to goe with us
on the River. After manie Hours' Exercise, I have come Home fatigued,
yet well pleased. Mr. _Marvell_ sups with us.
_Friday_.
I wish I could note down a Tithe of the pleasant Things that were sayd
last Nighte. First, olde Mr. _Milton_ having slept out with his
Son,--I called in _Rachael_, the younger of Mr. _Russel's_
Serving-maids, (for we have none of our owne as yet, which tends to
much Discomfiture,) and, with her Aide, I dusted the Bookes and sett
them up in half the Space they had occupied; then cleared away three
large Basketfuls, of the absolutest Rubbish, torn Letters and the like,
and sent out for Flowers, (which it seemeth strange enoughe to me to
_buy_,) which gave the Chamber a gayer Aire, and soe my Husband sayd
when he came in, calling me the fayrest of them alle; and then, sitting
down with Gayety to the Organ, drew forthe from it heavenlie Sounds.
Afterwards Mr. _Marvell_ came in, and they discoursed about _Italy_,
and Mr. _Milton_ promised his Friend some Letters of Introduction to
_Jacopo Gaddi, Clementillo_, and others.--
After Supper, they wrote Sentences, Definitions, and the like, after a
Fashion of _Catherine de Medici_, some of which I have layd aside for
_Rose_.
--_To-day_ we have seene St. _Paul's_ faire Cathedral, and the School
where Mr. _Milton_ was a Scholar when a Boy; thence, to the Fields of
_Finsbury_; where are Trees and Windmills enow: a Place much frequented
for practising Archery and other manlie Exercises.
_Saturday_.
Tho' we rise betimes, olde Mr. _Milton_ is earlier stille; and I always
find him sitting at his Table beside the Window (by Reason of the
Chamber being soe dark,) sorting I know not how manie Bundles of Papers
tied with red Tape; eache so like the other that I marvel how he knows
them aparte. This Morning, I found the poore old Gentleman in sad
Distress at missing a Manuscript Song of Mr. _Henry Lawes'_, the onlie
Copy extant, which he persuaded himselfe that I must have sent down to
the Kitchen Fire Yesterday. I am convinced I dismist not a single
Paper that was not torne eache Way, as being utterlie uselesse; but as
the unluckie Song cannot be founde, he sighs and is certayn of my
Delinquence, as is _Hubert_, his owne Man; or, as he more frequentlie
calls him, his "odd Man;"--and an odd Man indeede is Mr. _Hubert_,
readie to address his Master or Master's Sonne on the merest Occasion,
without waiting to be spoken to; tho' he expecteth Others to treat them
with far more Deference than he himself payeth.
--Dead tired, this Daye, with so much Exercise; but woulde not say soe,
because my Husband was thinking to please me by shewing me soe much.
Spiritts flagging however. These _London_ Streets wearie my Feet. We
have been over the House in _Aldersgate Street_, the Garden whereof
disappointed me, having hearde soe much of it; but 'tis far better than
none, and the House is large enough for Mr. _Milton's_ Familie and my
_Father's_ to boote. Thought how pleasant 'twould be to have them alle
aboute me next _Christmasse_; but that holie Time is noe longer kept
with Joyfullnesse in _London_. Ventured, therefore, to expresse a
Hope, we mighte spend it at _Forest Hill_; but Mr. _Milton_ sayd 'twas
unlikelie he should be able to leave Home; and askt, would I go
alone?--Constrained, for Shame, to say no; but felt, in my Heart, I
woulde jump to see _Forest Hill_ on anie Terms, I soe love alle that
dwell there.
_Sunday Even_.
Private and publick Prayer, Sermons, and Psalm-singing from Morn until
Nighte. The onlie Break hath been a Visit to a quaint but pleasing
Lady, by Name _Catherine Thompson_, whome my Husband holds in great
Reverence. She said manie Things worthy to be remembered; onlie _as_ I
remember them, I need not to write them down. Sorrie to be caughte
napping by my Husband, in the Midst of the third long Sermon. This
comes of over-walking, and of being unable to sleep o' Nights; for
whether it be the _London_ Ayre, or the _London_ Methods of making the
Beds, or the strange Noises in the Streets, I know not, but I have
scarce beene able to close my Eyes before Daybreak since I came to Town.
_Monday_.
And now beginneth a new Life; for my Husband's Pupils, who were dismist
for a Time for my Sake, returne to theire Tasks this Daye, and olde Mr.
_Milton_ giveth place to his two Grandsons, his widowed Daughter's
Children, _Edward_ and _John Phillips_, whom my Husband led in to me
just now. Two plainer Boys I never sett Eyes on; the one weak-eyed and
puny, the other prim and puritanicall--no more to be compared to our
sweet _Robin_! . . . After a few Words, they retired to theire Books;
and my Husband, taking my Hand, sayd in his kindliest Manner,--"And now
I leave my sweete _Moll_ to the pleasant Companie of her own goode and
innocent Thoughtes; and, if she needs more, here are both stringed and
keyed Instruments, and Books both of the older and modern Time, soe
that she will not find the Hours hang heavie." Methoughte how much
more I should like a Ride upon _Clover_ than all the Books that ever
were penned; for the Door no sooner closed upon Mr. _Milton_ than it
seemed as tho' he had taken alle the Sunshine with him; and I fell to
cleaning the Casement that I mighte look out the better into the
Churchyarde, and then altered Tables and Chairs, and then sate downe
with my Elbows resting on the Window-seat, and my Chin on the Palms of
my Hands, gazing on I knew not what, and feeling like a Butterflie
under a Wine-glass.
I marvelled why it seemed soe long since I was married, and wondered
what they were doing at Home,--coulde fancy I hearde _Mother_ chiding,
and see _Charlie_ stealing into the Dairie and dipping his Finger in
the Cream, and _Kate_ feeding the Chickens, and _Dick_ taking a Stone
out of _Whitestar's_ Shoe.
--Methought how dull it was to be passing the best Part of the Summer
out of the Reache of fresh Ayre and greene Fields, and wondered, woulde
alle my future Summers be soe spent?
Thoughte how dull it was to live in Lodgings, where one could not even
go into the Kitchen to make a Pudding; and how dull to live in a Town,
without some young female Friend with whom one might have ventured into
the Streets, and where one could not soe much as feed Colts in a
Paddock; how dull to be without a Garden, unable soe much as to gather
a Handfulle of ripe Cherries; and how dull to looke into a Churchyarde,
where there was a Man digging a Grave!
--When I wearied of staring at the Grave-digger, I gazed at an olde
Gentleman and a young Lady slowlie walking along, yet scarce as if I
noted them; and was thinking mostlie of _Forest Hill_, when I saw them
stop at our Doore, and presently they were shewn in, by the Name of
Doctor and Mistress _Davies_. I sent for my Husband, and entertayned
'em bothe as well as I could, till he appeared, and they were polite
and pleasant to me; the young Lady tall and slender, of a cleare brown
Skin, and with Eyes that were fine enough; onlie there was a supprest
Smile on her Lips alle the Time, as tho' she had seen me looking out of
the Window. She tried me on all Subjects, I think; for she started
them more adroitlie than I; and taking up a Book on the Window-seat,
which was the _Amadigi_ of _Bernardo Tasso_, printed alle in
_Italiques_, she sayd, if I loved Poetry, which she was sure I must,
she knew she shoulde love me. I did not tell her whether or noe. Then
we were both silent. Then Doctor _Davies_ talked vehementlie to Mr.
_Milton_ agaynst the King; and Mr. _Milton_ was not so contrarie to him
as I could have wished. Then Mistress _Davies_ tooke the Word from her
Father and beganne to talke to Mr. _Milton_ of _Tasso_, and _Dante_,
and _Boiardo_, and _Ariosto_; and then Doctor _Davies_ and I were
silent. Methoughte, they both talked well, tho' I knew so little of
their Subject-matter; onlie they complimented eache other too much. I
mean not they were insincere, for eache seemed to think highlie of the
other; onlie we neede not say alle we feele.
To conclude, we are to sup with them to-morrow.
_Wednesday_.
_Journall_, I have Nobodie now but you, to whome to tell my little
Griefs; indeede, before I married, I know not that I had anie; and even
now, they are very small, onlie they are soe new, that sometimes my
Heart is like to burst.
--I know not whether 'tis safe to put them alle on Paper, onlie it
relieves for the Time, and it kills Time, and perhaps, a little While
hence I may looke back and see how small they were, and how they mighte
have beene shunned, or better borne. 'Tis worth the Triall.
--Yesterday Morn, for very Wearinesse, I looked alle over my Linen and
Mr. _Milton's_, to see could I finde anie Thing to mend; but there was
not a Stitch amiss. I woulde have played on the Spinnette, but was
afrayd he should hear my indifferent Musick. Then, as a last Resource,
I tooke a Book--_Paul Perrin's Historie of the Waldenses_;--and was, I
believe, dozing a little, when I was aware of a continuall Whispering
and Crying. I thought 'twas some Child in the Street; and, having some
Comfits in my Pocket, I stept softlie out to the House-door and lookt
forth, but no Child could I see. Coming back, the Door of my Husband's
Studdy being ajar, I was avised to look in; and saw him, with awfulle
Brow, raising his Hand in the very Act to strike the youngest
_Phillips_. I could never endure to see a Child struck, soe hastilie
cryed out "Oh, don't!"--whereon he rose, and, as if not seeing me,
gently closed the Door, and, before I reached my Chamber, I hearde soe
loud a Crying that I began to cry too. Soon, alle was quiet; and my
Husband, coming in, stept gently up to me, and putting his Arm about my
Neck, sayd, "My dearest Life, never agayn, I beseech you, interfere
between me and the Boys: 'tis as unseemlie as tho' I shoulde interfere
between you and your Maids, when you have any,--and will weaken my
Hands, dear _Moll_, more than you have anie Suspicion of."
I replied, kissing that same offending Member as I spoke, "Poor _Jack_
would have beene glad, just now, if I _had_ weakened them."--"But that
is not the Question," he returned, "for we shoulde alle be glad to
escape necessary Punishment; whereas, it is the Power, not the Penalty
of our bad Habits, that we shoulde seek to be delivered from."--"There
may," I sayd, "be necessary, but need not be corporal Punishment."
"That is as may be," returned he, "and hath alreadie been settled by an
Authoritie to which I submit, and partlie think you will dispute, and
that is, the Word of _God_. Pain of Body is in Realitie, or ought to
be, sooner over and more safelie borne than Pain of an ingenuous Mind;
and, as to the _Shame_,--why, as _Lorenzo de' Medici_ sayd to
_Soccini_, 'The Shame is in the Offence rather than in the Punishment.'"
I replied, "Our _Robin_ had never beene beaten for his Studdies;" to
which he sayd with a Smile, that even I must admit _Robin_ to be noe
greate Scholar. And so in good Humour left me; but I was in no good
Humour, and hoped Heaven might never make me the Mother of a Son, for
if I should see Mr. _Milton_ strike him, I should learn to hate the
Father.--
Learning there was like to be Companie at Doctor _Davies'_, I was
avised to put on my brave greene Satin Gown; and my Husband sayd it
became me well, and that I onlie needed some Primroses and Cowslips in
my Lap, to look like _May_;--and somewhat he added about mine Eyes'
"clear shining after Rain," which avised me he had perceived I had
beene crying in the Morning, which I had hoped he had not.
Arriving at the Doctor's House, we were shewn into an emptie Chamber;
at least, emptie of Companie, but full of every Thing else; for there
were Books, and Globes, and stringed and wind Instruments, and stuffed
Birds and Beasts, and Things I know not soe much as the Names of,
besides an Easel with a Painting by Mrs. _Mildred_ on it, which she
meant to be seene, or she woulde have put it away. Subject, "_Brutus's
Judgment:"_ which I thought a strange, unfeeling one for a Woman; and
did not wish to be _her_ Son. Soone she came in, drest with studdied
and puritanicall Plainnesse; in brown Taffeta, guarded with black
Velvet, which became her well enough, but was scarce suited for the
Season. She had much to say about limning, in which my Husband could
follow her better than I; and then they went to the Globes, and
_Copernicus_, and _Galileo Galilei_, whom she called a Martyr, but I do
not. For, is a Martyr one who is unwillinglie imprisoned, or who
formally recants? even tho' he affected afterwards to say 'twas _but_ a
Form, and cries, "_Eppure, si muove_?" The earlier Christians might
have sayd 'twas but a Form to burn a Handfull of Incense before
_Jove's_ Statua; _Pliny_ woulde have let them goe.
Afterwards, when the Doctor came in and engaged my Husband in
Discourse, Mistress _Mildred_ devoted herselfe to me, and askt what
Progresse I had made with _Bernardo Tasso_. I tolde her, none at alle,
for I was equallie faultie at _Italiques_ and _Italian_, and onlie knew
his best Work thro' Mr. _Fairfax's_ Translation; whereat she fell
laughing, and sayd she begged my Forgivenesse, but I was confounding
the Father with the Sonne; then laught agayn, but pretended 'twas not
at me but at a Lady I minded her of, who never coulde remember to
distinguish betwixt _Lionardo da Vinci_ and _Lorenzo dei Medici_. That
last Name brought up the Recollection of my Morning's Debate with my
Husband, which made me feel sad; and then, Mrs. _Mildred_, seeminge
anxious to make me forget her Unmannerliness, commenced, "Can you
paint?"--"Can you sing?"--"Can you play the Lute?"--and, at the last,
"What _can_ you do?" I mighte have sayd I coulde comb out my Curls
smoother than she coulde hers, but did not. Other Guests came in, and
talked so much agaynst Prelacy and the Right divine of Kings that I
woulde fain we had remained at Astronomie and Poetry. For Supper there
was little Meat, and noe strong Drinks, onlie a thinnish foreign Wine,
with Cakes, Candies, Sweetmeats, Fruits, and Confections. Such, I
suppose, is Town Fashion. At the laste, came Musick; Mistress
_Mildred_ sang and played; then prest me to do the like, but I was soe
fearfulle, I coulde not; so my Husband sayd he woulde play for me, and
that woulde be alle one, and soe covered my Bashfullenesse handsomlie.
Onlie this Morning, just before going to his Studdy, he stept back and
sayd, "Sweet _Moll_, I know you can both play and sing--why will you
not practise?" I replyed, I loved it not much. He rejoyned, "But you
know I love it, and is not that a Motive?" I sayd, I feared to let him
hear me, I played so ill. He replyed, "Why, that is the very Reason
you shoulde seek to play better, and I am sure you have Plenty of Time.
Perhaps, in your whole future Life, you will not have such a Season of
Leisure as you have now,--a golden Opportunity, which you will surelie
seize."--Then added, "Sir _Thomas More's_ Wife learnt to play the Lute,
solely that she mighte please her Husband." I answered, "Nay, what to
tell me of Sir _Thomas More's_ Wife, or of _Hugh Grotius's_ Wife, when
I was the Wife of _John Milton_?" He looked at me twice, and quicklie,
too, at this Saying; then laughing, cried, "You cleaving Mischief! I
hardlie know whether to take that Speech amisse or well--however, you
shall have the Benefit of the Doubt."
And so away laughing; and I, for very Shame, sat down to the Spinnette
for two wearie Hours, till soe tired, I coulde cry; and when I
desisted, coulde hear _Jack_ wailing over his Task. 'Tis raining fast,
I cannot get out, nor should I dare to go alone, nor where to go to if
'twere fine. I fancy ill Smells from the Churchyard--'tis long to
Dinner-time, with noe Change, noe Exercise; and oh, I sigh for _Forest
Hill_.
--A dull Dinner with Mrs. _Phillips_, whom I like not much.
_Christopher Milton_ there, who stared hard at me, and put me out of
Countenance with his strange Questions. My Husband checked him. He is
a Lawyer, and has Wit enoughe.
Mrs. _Phillips_ speaking of second Marriages, I unawares hurt her by
giving my Voice agaynst them. It seems she is thinking of contracting
a second Marriage.
--At Supper, wishing to ingratiate myself with the Boys, talked to them
of Countrie Sports, etc.: to which the youngest listened greedilie; and
at length I was advised to ask them woulde they not like to see _Forest
Hill_? to which the elder replyed in his most methodicall Manner, "If
Mr. _Powell_ has a good Library." For this Piece of Hypocrisie, at
which I heartilie laught, he was commended by his Uncle. Hypocrisie it
was, for Master _Ned_ cryeth over his Taskes pretty nearlie as oft as
the youngest.
_Friday_.
To rewarde my zealous Practice to-day on the Spinnette, Mr. _Milton_
produced a Collection of "_Ayres, and Dialogues, for one, two, and
three Voices_," by his Friend, Mr. _Harry Lawes_, which he sayd I
shoulde find very pleasant Studdy; and then he tolde me alle about
theire getting up the Masque of _Comus_ in _Ludlow_ Castle, and how
well the Lady's Song was sung by Mr. _Lawes'_ Pupil, the Lady _Alice_,
then a sweet, modest Girl, onlie thirteen Yeares of Age,--and he told
me of the Singing of a faire _Italian_ young Signora, named _Leonora
Barroni_, with her Mother and Sister, whome he had hearde at _Rome_, at
the Concerts of Cardinal _Barberini_; and how she was "as gentle and
modest as sweet _Moll_," yet not afrayed to open her Mouth, and
pronounce everie Syllable distinctlie, and with the proper Emphasis and
Passion when she sang. And after this, to my greate Contentment, he
tooke me to the _Gray's Inn Walks_, where, the Afternoon being fine,
was much Companie.
After Supper, I proposed to the Boys that we shoulde tell Stories; and
Mr. _Milton_ tolde one charminglie, but then went away to write a
_Latin_ Letter. Soe _Ned's_ Turn came next; and I must, if I can, for
very Mirthe's Sake, write it down in his exact Words, they were soe
pragmaticall.
"On a Daye, there was a certain Child wandered forthe, that would play.
He met a Bee, and sayd, 'Bee, wilt thou play with me?' The Bee sayd,
'No, I have my Duties to perform, tho' you, it woulde seeme, have none.
I must away to make Honey.' Then the Childe, abasht, went to the Ant.
He sayd, 'Will you play with me, Ant?' The Ant replied, 'Nay, I must
provide against the Winter.' In shorte, he found that everie Bird,
Beaste, and Insect he accosted, had a closer Eye to the Purpose of
their Creation than himselfe. Then he sayd, 'I will then back, and con
my Task.'--_Moral_. The Moral of the foregoing Fable, my deare _Aunt_,
is this--We must love Work better than Play."
With alle my Interest for Children, how is it possible to take anie
Interest in soe formall a little Prigge?
_Saturday_.
I have just done somewhat for Master _Ned_ which he coulde not doe for
himselfe--_viz_. tenderly bound up his Hand, which he had badly cut.
Wiping away some few naturall Tears, he must needs say, "I am quite
ashamed, _Aunt_, you shoulde see me cry; but the worst of it is, that
alle this Payne has beene for noe good; whereas, when my Uncle beateth
me for misconstruing my _Latin_, tho' I cry at the Time, all the while
I know it is for my Advantage."--If this Boy goes on preaching soe, I
shall soon hate him.
--Mr. _Milton_ having stepped out before Supper, came back looking soe
blythe, that I askt if he had hearde good News. He sayd, yes: that
some Friends had long beene persuading him, against his Will, to make
publick some of his _Latin_ Poems; and that, having at length consented
to theire Wishes, he had beene with _Mosley_ the Publisher in St.
_Paul's Churchyard_, who agreed to print them. I sayd, I was sorrie I
shoulde be unable to read them. He sayd he was sorry too; he must
translate them for me. I thanked him, but observed that Traductions
were never soe good as Originalls. He rejoyned, "Nor am I even a good
Translator." I askt, "Why not write in your owne Tongue?" He sayd,
"_Latin_ is understood all over the Worlde." I sayd, "But there are
manie in your owne Country do not understand it." He was silent soe
long upon that, that I supposed he did not mean to answer me; but then
cried, "You are right, sweet _Moll.--_Our best Writers have written
their best Works in _English_, and I will hereafter doe the same,--for
I feel that my best Work is still _to come_. Poetry hath hitherto been
with me rather the Recreation of a Mind conscious of its Health, than
the deliberate Task-work of a Soule that must hereafter give an Account
of its Talents. Yet my Mind, in the free Circuit of her Musing, has
ranged over a thousand Themes that lie, like the Marble in the Quarry,
readie for anie Shape that Fancy and Skill may give. Neither Laziness
nor Caprice makes me difficult in my Choice; for, the longer I am in
selecting my Tree, and laying my Axe to the Root, the sounder it will
be and the riper for Use. Nor is an Undertaking that shall be one of
high Duty, to be entered upon without Prayer and Discipline:--it woulde
be Presumption indeede, to commence an Enterprise which I meant shoulde
delighte and profit every instructed and elevated Mind without so much
Paynes-takinge as it should cost a poor Mountebank to balance a Pole on
his Chin."
_Sunday Even_.
In the Clouds agayn. At Dinner, to-daye, Mr. _Milton_ catechised the
Boys on the Morning's Sermon, the Heads of which, though amounting to a
Dozen_, Ned_ tolde off roundlie. Roguish little _Jack_ looked slylie
at me, says, "_Aunt_ coulde not tell off the Sermon." "Why not?" says
his Uncle. "Because she was sleeping," says _Jack_. Provoked with the
Child, I turned scarlett, and hastilie sayd, "I was not." Nobodie
spoke; but I repented the Falsitie the Moment it had escaped me; and
there was _Ned_, a folding of his Hands, drawing down his Mouth, and
closing his Eyes. . . . My Husband tooke me to taske for it when we
were alone, soe tenderlie that I wept.
_Monday_.
_Jack_ sayd this Morning, "I know Something--I know _Aunt_ keeps a
Journall." "And a good Thing if you kept one too, _Jack,"_ sayd his
Uncle, "it would shew you how little you doe." _Jack_ was silenced;
but _Ned_, pursing up his Mouth, says, "I can't think what _Aunt_ can
have to put in a Journall--should not you like, _Uncle_, to see?" "No,
_Ned,"_ says his Uncle, "I am upon Honour, and your dear Aunt's
Journall is as safe, for me, as the golden Bracelets that King _Alfred_
hung upon the High-way. I am glad she has such a Resource, and, as we
know she cannot have much News to put in it, we may the more safely
rely that it is a Treasury of sweet, and high, and holy, and profitable
Thoughtes."
Oh, how deeplie I blusht at this ill-deserved Prayse! How sorrie I was
that I had ever registered aught that he woulde grieve to read! I
secretly resolved that this Daye's Journalling should be the last,
untill I had attained a better Frame of Mind.
_Saturday Even_.
I have kept Silence, yea, even from good Words, but it has beene a Payn
and Griefe unto me. Good Mistress _Catherine Thompson_ called on me a
few Dayes back, and spoke so wisely and so wholesomelie concerning my
Lot, and the Way to make it happy, (she is the first that hath spoken
as it 'twere possible it mighte not be soe alreadie,) that I felt for a
Season quite heartened; but it has alle faded away. Because the Source
of Cheerfulnesse is not _in_ me, anie more than in a dull Landskip,
which the Sun lighteneth for awhile, and when he has set, its Beauty is
gone.
Oh me! how merry I was at Home!--The Source of Cheerfulnesse seemed in
me _then_, and why is it not _now_? Partly because alle that I was
there taught to think right is here thought wrong; because much that I
there thought harmlesse is here thought sinfulle; because I cannot get
at anie of the Things that employed and interested me _there_, and
because the Things within my Reach _here_ do not interest me. Then,
'tis no small Thing to be continuallie deemed ignorant and misinformed,
and to have one's Errors continuallie covered, however handsomelie,
even before Children. To say nothing of the Weight upon the Spiritts
at firste, from Change of Ayre, and Diet, and Scene, and Loss of
habituall Exercise and Companie and householde Cares. These petty
Griefs try me sorelie; and when Cousin _Ralph_ came in unexpectedlie
this Morn, tho' I never much cared for him at Home, yet the Sighte of
_Rose's_ Brother, fresh from_ Sheepscote_ and _Oxford_ and _Forest
Hill_, soe upset me that I sank into Tears. No wonder that Mr.
_Milton_, then coming in, shoulde hastilie enquire if _Ralph_ had
brought ill Tidings from Home; and, finding alle was well there,
shoulde look strangelie. He askt _Ralph_, however, to stay to Dinner;
and we had much Talk of Home; but now, I regret having omitted to ask a
thousand Questions.
_Sunday Even., Aug. 15, 1643_.
Mr. _Milton_ in his Closet and I in my Chamber.--For the first Time he
seems this Evening to have founde out how dissimilar are our Minds.
Meaning to please him, I sayd, "I kept awake bravelie, tonighte,
through that long, long Sermon, for your Sake." "And why not for
_God's_ Sake?" cried he, "why not for your owne Sake?--Oh, sweet
_Wife_, I fear you have yet much to learn of the Depth of Happinesse
that is comprised in the Communion between a forgiven Soul and its
Creator. It hallows the most secular as well as the most spirituall
Employments; it gives Pleasure that has no after Bitternesse; it gives
Pleasure to _God_--and oh! thinke of the Depth of Meaning in those
Words! think what it is for us to be capable of giving _God_ Pleasure!"
--Much more, in the same Vein! to which I could not, with equal Power,
respond; soe, he away to his Studdy, to pray perhaps for my Change of
Heart, and I to my Bed.
_Saturday, Aug. 21, 1643_.
Oh Heaven! can it be possible? am I agayn at _Forest Hill_? How
strange, how joyfulle an Event, tho' brought about with Teares!--Can it
be, that it is onlie a Month since I stoode at this Toilette as a
Bride? and lay awake on that Bed, thinking of _London_? How long a
Month! and oh! this present one will be alle too short.
It seemeth that _Ralph Hewlett_, shocked at my Teares and the
Alteration in my Looks, broughte back a dismall Report of me to deare
_Father_ and _Mother_, pronouncing me either ill or unhappie.
Thereupon, _Richard_, with his usuall Impetuositie, prevayled on
_Father_ to let him and _Ralph_ fetch me Home for a While, at leaste
till after _Michaelmasse_.
How surprised was I to see _Dick_ enter! My Arms were soe fast about
his Neck, and my Face prest soe close to his Shoulder, that I did not
for a While perceive the grave Looke he had put on. At the last, I was
avised to ask what broughte him soe unexpectedlie to _London_; and then
he hemmed and looked at _Ralph_, and _Ralph_ looked at _Dick_, and then
_Dick_ sayd bluntly, he hoped Mr. _Milton_ woulde spare me to go Home
till after _Michaelmasse_, and _Father_ had sent him on Purpose to say
soe. Mr. _Milton_ lookt surprised and hurte, and sayd, how could he be
expected to part soe soone with me, a Month's Bride? it must be some
other Time: he had intended to take me himselfe to _Forest Hill_ the
following Spring, but coulde not spare Time now, nor liked me to goe
without him, nor thought I should like it myself. But my Eyes said I
_shoulde_, and then he gazed earnestlie at me and lookt hurt; and there
was a dead Silence. Then _Dick_, hesitating a little, sayd he was
sorrie to tell us my _Father_ was ill; on which I clasped my Hands and
beganne to weepe; and Mr. _Milton_, changing Countenance, askt sundrie
Questions, which _Dick_ answered well enough; and then said he woulde
not be soe cruel as to keepe me from a Father I soe dearlie loved, if
he were sick, though he liked not my travelling in such unsettled Times
with so young a Convoy. _Ralph_ sayd they had brought _Diggory_ with
them, who was olde and steddy enough, and had ridden my _Mother's_ Mare
for my Use; and _Dick_ was for our getting forward a Stage on our
Journey the same Evening, but Mr. _Milton_ insisted on our abiding till
the following Morn, and woulde not be overruled. And gave me leave to
stay a Month, and gave me Money, and many kind Words, which I coulde
mark little, being soe overtaken with Concern about dear _Father_,
whose Illness I feared to be worse than _Dick_ sayd, seeing he seemed
soe close and dealt in dark Speeches and Parables. After Dinner, they
went forth, they sayd, to look after the Horses, but I think to see
_London_, and returned not till Supper.
We got them Beds in a House hard by, and started at earlie Dawn.
Mr. _Milton_ kissed me most tenderlie agayn and agayn at parting, as
though he feared to lose me; but it had seemed to me soe hard to brook
the Delay of even a few Hours when _Father_, in his Sicknesse, was
wanting me, that I took leave of my Husband with less Affection than I
mighte have shewn, and onlie began to find my Spiritts lighten when we
were fairly quit of _London_, with its vile Sewers and Drains, and to
breathe the sweete, pure Morning Ayre, as we rode swiftlie along.
_Dick_ called _London_ a vile Place, and spake to _Ralph_ concerning
what they had seen of it overnighte, whence it appeared to me, that he
had beene pleasure-seeking more than, in _Father's_ state, he ought to
have beene. But _Dick_ was always a reckless Lad;--and oh, what Joy,
on reaching this deare Place, to find _Father_ had onlie beene
suffering under one of his usual Stomach Attacks, which have no Danger
in them, and which _Dick_ had exaggerated, fearing Mr. _Milton_ woulde
not otherwise part with me;--I was a little shocked, and coulde not
help scolding him, though I was the gainer; but he boldlie defended
what he called his "Stratagem of War," saying it was quite allowable in
dealing with a _Puritan_.
As for _Robin_, he was wild with Joy when I arrived; and hath never
ceased to hang about me. The other Children are riotous in their
Mirth. Little _Joscelyn_ hath returned from his Foster-mother's Farm,
and is noe longer a puny Child--'tis thought he will thrive. I have
him constantly in my Arms or riding on my Shoulder; and with Delight
have revisited alle my olde Haunts, patted _Clover_, etc. Deare
_Mother_ is most kind. The Maids as oft call me Mrs. _Molly_ as Mrs.
_Milton_, and then smile, and beg Pardon. _Rose_ and _Agnew_ have been
here, and have made me promise to visit _Sheepscote_ before I return to
_London_. The whole House seems full of Glee.
_Monday_.
It seemes quite strange to heare _Dick_ and _Harry_ singing loyal Songs
and drinking the _King's_ Health after soe recentlie hearing his M. soe
continuallie spoken agaynst. Also, to see a Lad of _Robin's_ Age,
coming in and out at his Will, doing aniething or nothing; instead of
being ever at his Taskes, and looking at Meal-times as if he were
repeating them to himselfe. I know which I like best.
A most kind Letter from Mr. _Milton_, hoping _Father_ is better, and
praying for News of him. How can I write to him without betraying
_Dick_? _Robin_ and I rode, this Morning, to _Sheepscote_. Thoughte
Mr. _Agnew_ received me with unwonted Gravitie. He tolde me he had
received a Letter from my Husband, praying News of my Father, seeing I
had sent him none, and that he had writ to him that _Father_ was quite
well, never had been better. Then he sayd to me he feared Mr. _Milton_
was labouring under some false Impression. I tolde him trulie, that
_Dick_, to get me Home, had exaggerated a trifling Illness of
_Father's_, but that I was guiltlesse of it. He sayd _Dick_ was
inexcusable, and that noe good End coulde justifie a Man of Honour in
overcharging the Truth; and that, since I was innocent, I shoulde write
to my Husband to clear myself. I said briefly, I woulde; and I mean to
do soe, onlie not to-daye. Oh, sweet countrie Life! I was made for
you and none other. This riding and walking at one's owne free Will,
in the fresh pure Ayre, coming in to earlie, heartie, wholesome Meals,
seasoned with harmlesse Jests,--seeing fresh Faces everie Daye come to
the House, knowing everie Face one meets out of Doores,--supping in the
Garden, and remaining in the Ayre long after the Moon has risen,
talking, laughing, or perhaps dancing,--if this be not Joyfulnesse,
what is?
For certain, I woulde that Mr. _Milton_ were here; but he woulde call
our Sports mistimed, and throw a Damp upon our Mirth by not joining in
it. Soe I will enjoy my Holiday while it lasts, for it may be long ere
I get another--especiallie if his and _Father's_ Opinions get wider
asunder, as I think they are doing alreadie. My promised Spring
Holiday may come to nothing.
_Monday_.
My Husband hath writ to me strangelie, chiding me most unkindlie for
what was noe Fault of mine, to wit, _Dick's_ Falsitie; and wondering I
can derive anie Pleasure from a Holiday so obtayned, which he will not
curtayl, but will on noe Pretence extend. Nay! but methinks Mr.
_Milton_ presumeth somewhat too much on his marital Authoritie, writing
in this Strayn. I am no mere Child neither, nor a runaway Wife, nor in
such bad Companie, in mine own Father's House, where he firste saw me;
and, was it anie Fault of mine, indeed, that _Father_ was not ill? or
can I wish he had beene? No, truly!
This Letter hath sorelie vexed me. Dear _Father_, seeing me soe dulle,
askt me if I had had bad News. I sayd I had, for that Mr. _Milton_
wanted me back at the Month's End. He sayd, lightlie, Oh, that must
not be, I must at all Events stay over his Birthdaye, he could not
spare me sooner; he woulde settle all that. Let it be soe then--I am
content enoughe.
To change the Current of my Thoughts, he hath renewed the Scheme for
our Visit to Lady _Falkland_, which, Weather permitting, is to take
Place tomorrow. 'Tis long since I have seene her, soe I am willing to
goe; but she is dearer to _Rose_ than to me, though I respect her much.
_Wednesday_.
The whole of Yesterday occupyde with our Visit. I love Lady _Falkland_
well, yet her religious Mellanchollie and Presages of Evil have left a
Weight upon my Spiritts. To-daye, we have a Family Dinner. The
_Agnews_ come not, but the _Merediths_ doe, we shall have more Mirthe
if less Wit. My Time now draweth soe short, I must crowd into it alle
the Pleasure I can; and in this, everie one conspires to help me,
saying, "Poor _Moll_ must soon return to _London_." Never was Creature
soe petted or spoylt. How was it there was none of this before I
married, when they might have me alwaies? ah, therein lies the Secret.
Now, we have mutuallie tasted our Losse.
_Ralph Hewlett_, going agayn to Town, was avised to ask whether I had
anie Commission wherewith to charge him. I bade him tell Mr. _Milton_
that since we should meet soe soone, I need not write, but would keep
alle my News for our Fire-side. _Robin_ added, "Say, we cannot spare
her yet," and _Father_ echoed the same.
But I begin to feel now, that I must not prolong my Stay. At the
leaste, not beyond _Father's_ Birthday. My Month is hasting to a Close.
_Sept. 21, 1643_.
Battle at _Newbury--_Lord _Falkland_ slayn. Oh, fatal Loss! _Father_
and _Mother_ going off to my Lady: but I think she will not see them.
Aunt and Uncle _Hewlett_, who brought the News, can talk of nothing
else.
_Sept. 22, 1643_.
Alle Sadnesse and Consternation. I am wearie of bad News, public and
private, and feel less and less Love for the Puritans, yet am forced to
seem more loyal than I really am, soe high runs party Feeling just now
at Home.
My Month has passed!
_Sept. 28, 1643_.
A most displeased Letter from my Husband, minding me that my Leave of
Absence hath expired, and that he likes not the Messages he received
through _Ralph_, nor the unreasonable and hurtfulle Pastimes which he
finds have beene making my quiet Home distastefulle. Asking, are they
suitable, under Circumstances of nationall Consternation to _my owne_
Party, or seemlie in soe young a Wife, apart from her Husband? To
conclude, insisting, with more Authoritie than Kindnesse, on my
immediate Return.
With Tears in my Eyes, I have beene to my Father. I have tolde him I
must goe. He sayth, Oh no, not yet. I persisted, I must, my Husband
was soe very angry. He rejoined, What, angry with my sweet _Moll_? and
for spending a few Days with her old Father? Can it be? hath it come
to this alreadie? I sayd, my Month had expired. He sayd, Nonsense, he
had always askt me to stay over _Michaelmasse_, till his Birthday; he
knew _Dick_ had named it to Mr. _Milton_. I sayd, Mr. _Milton_ had
taken no Notice thereof, but had onlie granted me a Month. He grew
peevish, and said, "Pooh, pooh!" Thereat, after a Silence of a Minute
or two, I sayd yet agayn, I must goe. He took me by the two Wrists and
sayd, Doe you wish to go? I burst into Teares, but made noe Answer.
He sayd, That is Answer enough,--how doth this Puritan carry it with
you, my Child? and snatched his Letter. I sayd, Oh, don't read that,
and would have drawn it back; but _Father_, when heated, is impossible
to controwl; therefore, quite deaf to Entreaty, he would read the
Letter, which was unfit for him in his chafed Mood; then, holding it at
Arm's Length, and smiting it with his Fist,--Ha! and is it thus he
dares address a Daughter of mine? (with Words added, I dare not
write)--but be quiet, _Moll_, be at Peace, my Child, for he shall not
have you back for awhile, even though he come to fetch you himself.
The maddest Thing I ever did was to give you to this Roundhead. He and
_Roger Agnew_ talked me over with soe many fine Words.--What possessed
me, I know not. Your Mother always said evil woulde come of it. But
as long as thy Father has a Roof over his Head, Child, thou hast a Home.
As soone as he woulde hear me, I begged him not to take on soe, for
that I was not an unhappy Wife; but my Tears, he sayd, belied me; and
indeed, with Fear and Agitation, they flowed fast enough. But I sayd,
I _must_ goe home, and wished I had gone sooner, and woulde he let
_Diggory_ take me! No, he sayd, not a Man Jack on his Land shoulde
saddle a Horse for me, nor would he lend me one, to carry me back to
Mr. _Milton_; at the leaste not for a While, till he had come to
Reason, and protested he was sorry for having writ to me soe harshly.
"Soe be content, _Moll_, and make not two Enemies instead of one. Goe,
help thy Mother with her clear-starching. Be happy whilst thou art
here."
But ah! more easily said than done. "Alle Joy is darkened; the Mirthe
of the Land is gone!"
_Michaelmasse Day_.
At Squire _Paice's_ grand Dinner we have been counting on soe many
Days; but it gave me not the Pleasure expected.
_Oct. 13, 1643_.
The Weather is soe foul that I am sure Mr. _Milton_ woulde not like me
to be on the Road, even would my Father let me goe.
--While writing the above, heard very angrie Voices in the Courtyard,
my Father's especiallie, louder than common; and distinguished the
Words "Knave," and "Varlet," and "begone." Lookt from my Window and
beheld a Man, booted and cloaked, with two Horses, at the Gate,
parleying with my Father, who stood in an offensive Attitude, and
woulde not let him in. I could catch such Fragments as, "But, Sir?"
"What! in such Weather as this?" "Nay, it had not overcast when I
started." "'Tis foul enough now, then." "Let me but have speech of my
Mistress." "You crosse not my Threshold." "Nay, Sir, if but to give
her this Letter:"--and turning his Head, I was avised of its being
_Hubert_, old Mr. _Milton's_ Man; doubtless sent by my Husband to fetch
me. Seeing my Father raise his Hand in angrie Action (his Riding-whip
being in it), I hasted down as fast as I coulde, to prevent Mischiefe,
as well as to get my Letter; but, unhappilie, not soe fleetlie as to
see more than _Hubert's_ flying Skirts as he gallopped from the Gate,
with the led Horse by the Bridle; while my Father flinging downe the
torne Letter, walked passionatelie away. I clasped my Hands, and stood
mazed for a while,--was then avised to piece the Letter, but could not;
onlie making out such Words as "Sweet _Moll_," in my Husband's Writing.
_Oct. 14, 1643_.
_Rose_ came this Morning, through Rain and Mire, at some Risk as well
as much Inconvenience, to intreat of me, even with Teares, not to vex
Mr. _Milton_ by anie farther Delays, but to return to him as soon as
possible. Kind Soule, her Affection toucht me, and I assured her the
more readilie I intended to return Home as soone as I coulde, which was
not yet, my Father having taken the Matter into his own Hands, and
permitting me noe Escort; but that I questioned not, Mr. _Milton_ was
onlie awaiting the Weather to settle, to fetch me himself. That he
will doe so, is my firm Persuasion. Meanwhile, I make it my Duty to
joyn with some Attempt at Cheerfullenesse in the Amusements of others,
to make my Father's Confinement to the House less irksome; and have in
some Measure succeeded.
_Oct. 23, 1643_.
Noe Sighte nor Tidings of Mr. _Milton_.--I am uneasie, frighted at
myself, and wish I had never left him, yet hurte at the Neglect.
_Hubert_, being a crabbed Temper, made Mischief on his Return, I fancy.
_Father_ is vexed, methinks, at his owne Passion, and hath never,
directlie, spoken, in my Hearinge, of what passed; but rayleth
continuallie agaynst Rebels and Roundheads. As to _Mother_,--ah me!
_Oct. 24, 1643_.
Thro' dank and miry Lanes and Bye-roads with _Robin_, to _Sheepscote_.
Waiting for _Rose_ in Mr. _Agnew's_ small Studdy, where she mostlie
sitteth with him, oft acting as his Amanuensis, was avised to take up a
printed Sheet of Paper that lay on the Table; but finding it to be of
_Latin_ Versing, was about to laye it downe agayn, when _Rose_ came in.
She changed Colour, and in a faltering Voice sayd, "Ah, _Cousin_, do
you know what that is? One of your Husband's Proofe Sheets. I woulde
that it coulde interest you in like manner as it hath me." Made her
noe Answer, laying it aside unconcernedlie, but secretlie felt, as I
have oft done before, how stupid it is not to know _Latin_, and
resolved to get _Robin_ to teach me. He is noe greate Scholar
himselfe, soe will not shame me.--I am wearie of hearing of War and
Politicks; soe will try Studdy for a while, and see if 'twill cure this
dull Payn at my Heart.
_Oct. 28, 1643_.
_Robin_ and I have shut ourselves up for three Hours dailie, in the
small Book-room, and have made fayre Progresse. He liketh his Office
of Tutor mightilie.
_Oct. 31, 1643_.
My Lessons are more crabbed, or I am more dull and inattentive, for I
cannot fix my Minde on my Book, and am secretlie wearie, _Robin_
wearies too. But I will not give up as yet; the more soe as in this
quiete Studdy I am out of Sighte and Hearinge of sundrie young Officers
_Dick_ is continuallie bringing over from _Oxford_, who spend manie
Hours with him in Countrie Sports, and then come into the House,
hungry, thirstie, noisie, and idle. I know Mr. _Milton_ woulde not
like them.
--Surelie he will come soone?--I sayd to _Father_ last Night, I wanted
to hear from Home. He sayd, "Home! Dost call yon Taylor's Shop your
Home?" soe ironicalle that I was shamed to say more.
Woulde that I had never married!--then coulde I enjoy my Childhoode's
Home. Yet I knew not its Value before I quitted it, and had even a
stupid Pleasure in anticipating another. Ah me! had I loved Mr.
_Milton_ more, perhaps I might better have endured the Taylor's Shop.
_Sheepscote, Nov. 20, 1643_.
Annoyed by _Dick's_ Companions, I prayed _Father_ to let me stay awhile
with _Rose_; and gaining his Consent, came over here Yester-morn,
without thinking it needfulle to send Notice, which was perhaps
inconsiderate. But she received me with Kisses and Words of
Tendernesse, though less Smiling than usualle, and eagerlie accepted
mine offered Visitt. Then she ran off to find _Roger_, and I heard
them talking earnestlie in a low Voice before they came in. His Face
was grave, even stern, when he entred, but he held out his Hand, and
sayd, "Mistress _Milton_, you are welcome! how is it with you? and how
was Mr. _Milton_ when he wrote to you last?" I answered brieflie, he
was well: then came a Silence, and then _Rose_ took me to my Chamber,
which was sweet with Lavender, and its hangings of the whitest. It
reminded me too much of my first Week of Marriage, soe I resolved to
think not at all lest I shoulde be bad Companie, but cheer up and be
gay. Soe I askt _Rose_ a thousand Questions about her Dairie and Bees,
laught much at Dinner, and told Mr. _Agnew_ sundrie of the merrie
Sayings of _Dick_ and his _Oxford_ Friends. And, for my Reward, when
we were afterwards apart, I heard him tell _Rose_ (by Reason of the
Walls being thin) that however she might regard me for old Affection's
sake, he thought he had never knowne soe unpromising a character. This
made me dulle enoughe all the rest of the Evening, and repent having
come to _Sheepscote_: however, he liked me the better for being quiete:
and _Rose_, being equallie chekt, we sewed in Silence while he read to
us the first Division of _Spencer's Legend of Holinesse_, about _Una_
and the Knight, and how they got sundered. This led to much serious,
yet not unpleasing, Discourse, which lasted till Supper. For the first
Time at _Sheepscote_, I coulde not eat, which Mr. _Agnew_ observing,
prest me to take Wine, and _Rose_ woulde start up to fetch some of her
Preserves; but I chekt her with a Motion, not being quite able to
speak; for their being soe kind made the Teares ready to starte, I knew
not why.
Family Prayers, after Supper, rather too long; yet though I coulde not
keep up my Attention, they seemed to spread a Calm and a Peace alle
about, that extended even to me; and though, after I had undressed, I
sat a long while in a Maze, and bethought me how piteous a Creature I
was, yet, once layed down, I never sank into deeper, more composing
Sleep.
_Nov. 21,1643_.
This Morning, _Rose_ exclaimed, "Dear _Roger_! onlie think! _Moll_ has
begun to learn _Latin_ since she returned to _Forest Hill_, thinking to
surprise Mr. _Milton_ when they meet." "She will not onlie surprise
but _please_ him," returned dear _Roger_, taking my Hand very kindlie;
"I can onlie say, I hope they will meet long before she can read his
_Poemata_, unless she learnes much faster than most People." I
replyed, I learned very slowly, and wearied _Robin's_ Patience; on
which _Rose_, kissing me, cried, "You will never wearie mine; soe, if
you please, deare _Moll_, we will goe to our Lessons here everie
Morning; and it may be that I shall get you through the Grammar faster
than _Robin_ can. If we come to anie Difficultie we shall refer it to
_Roger_."
Now, Mr. _Agnew's_ Looks exprest such Pleasure with both, that it were
difficult to tell which felt the most elated; soe calling me deare
_Moll_ (he hath hitherto Mistress _Miltoned_ me ever since I sett Foot
in his House), he sayed he would not interrupt our Studdies, though he
should be within Call, and soe left us. I had not felt soe happy since
_Father's_ Birthday; and, though _Rose_ kept me close to my Book for
two Hours, I found her a far less irksome Tutor than deare _Robin_.
Then she went away, singing, to make _Roger's_ favourite Dish, and
afterwards we took a brisk Walke, and came Home hungrie enoughe to
Dinner.
There is a daily Beauty in _Rose's_ Life, that I not onlie admire, but
am readie to envy. Oh! if _Milton_ lived but in the poorest House in
the Countrie, methinks I coulde be very happy with him.
_Bedtime_.
Chancing to make the above Remark to _Rose_, she cried, "And why not be
happy with him in _Aldersgate Street_?" I briefly replied that he must
get the House first, before it were possible to tell whether I coulde
be happy there or not. _Rose_ started, and exclaimed, "Why, where do
you suppose him to be now?" "Where but at the Taylor's in _Bride's
Churchyard_?" I replied. She claspt her Hands with a Look I shall
never forget, and exclaimed in a Sort of vehement Passion, "Oh,
_Cousin, Cousin_, how you throw your own Happinesse away! How awfulle
a Pause must have taken place in your Intercourse with the Man whom you
promised to abide by till Death, since you know not that he has long
since taken Possession of his new Home; that he strove to have it ready
for you at _Michaelmasse_!"
Doubtlesse I lookt noe less surprised than I felt;--a suddain Prick at
the Heart prevented Speech; but it shot acrosse my Heart that I had
made out the Words "_Aldersgate_" and "new Home," in the Fragments of
the Letter my Father had torn. _Rose_, misjudging my Silence, burst
forth anew with, "Oh, _Cousin_! _Cousin_! coulde anie Home, however
dull and noisesome, drive me from _Roger Agnew_? Onlie think of what
you are doing,--of what you are leaving undone!--of what you are
preparing against yourself! To put the Wickednesse of a selfish Course
out of the Account, onlie think of its Mellancholie, its
Miserie,--destitute of alle the sweet, bright, fresh Well-springs of
Happinesse;--unblest by _God_!"
Here _Rose_ wept passionatelie, and claspt her Arms about me; but, when
I began to speak, and to tell her of much that had made me miserable,
she hearkened in motionlesse Silence, till I told her that _Father_ had
torn the Letter and beaten the Messenger. Then she cried, "Oh, I see
now what may and shall be done! _Roger_ shall be Peacemaker," and ran
off with Joyfulnesse; I not withholding her. But I can never be
joyfulle more--he cannot be Day's-man betwixt us now--'tis alle too
late!
_Nov. 28, 1643_.
Now that I am at _Forest Hill_ agayn, I will essay to continue my
Journalling.--
Mr. _Agnew_ was out; and though a keene wintry Wind was blowing, and
_Rose_ was suffering from Colde, yet she went out to listen for his
Horse's Feet at the Gate, with onlie her Apron cast over her Head.
Shortlie, he returned; and I heard him say in a troubled Voice, "Alle
are in Arms at _Forest Hill_." I felt soe greatlie shocked as to neede
to sit downe instead of running forthe to learn the News. I supposed
the parliamentarian Soldiers had advanced, unexpectedlie, upon
_Oxford_. His next Words were, "_Dick is_ coming for her at
Noone--poor Soul, I know not what she will doe--her Father will trust
her noe longer with you and me." Then I saw them both passe the
Window, slowlie pacing together, and hastened forth to joyn them; but
they had turned into the pleached Alley, their Backs towards me; and
both in such earnest and apparentlie private Communication, that I
dared not interrupt them till they turned aboute, which was not for
some While; for they stood for some Time at the Head of the Alley,
still with theire Backs to me, _Rose's_ Hair blowing in the cold Wind;
and once or twice she seemed to put her Kerchief to her Eyes.
Now, while I stood mazed and uncertain, I hearde a distant Clatter of
Horse's Feet, on the hard Road a good Way off, and could descrie _Dick_
coming towards _Sheepscote_. _Rose_ saw him too, and commenced running
towards me; Mr. _Agnew_ following with long Strides. _Rose_ drew me
back into the House, and sayd, kissing me, "Dearest _Moll_, I am soe
sorry; _Roger_ hath seen your Father this Morn, and he will on no
Account spare you to us anie longer; and _Dick_ is coming to fetch you
even now." I sayd, "Is _Father_ ill?" "Oh no," replied Mr. _Agnew_;
then coming up, "He is not ill, but he is perturbed at something which
has occurred; and, in Truth, soe am I.--But remember, Mistress
_Milton_, remember, dear _Cousin_, that when you married, your
_Father's_ Guardianship of you passed into the Hands of your
Husband--your Husband's House was thenceforthe your Home; and in
quitting it you committed a Fault you may yet repaire, though this
offensive Act has made the Difficultie much greater."--"Oh, what has
happened?" I impatientlie cried. Just then, _Dick_ comes in with his
usual blunt Salutations, and then cries, "Well, _Moll_, are you ready
to goe back?" "Why should I be?" I sayd, "when I am soe happy here?
unless _Father_ is ill, or Mr. _Agnew_ and _Rose_ are tired of me."
They both interrupted, there was nothing they soe much desired, at this
present, as that I shoulde prolong my Stay. And you know, _Dick, I_
added, that _Forest Hill_ is not soe pleasant to me just now as it hath
commonlie beene, by Reason of your _Oxford_ Companions. He brieflie
sayd, I neede not mind that, they were coming no more to the House,
_Father_ had decreed it. And you know well enough, _Moll_, that what
_Father_ decrees, must be, and he hath decreed that you must come Home
now; soe no more Ado, I pray you, but fetch your Cloak and Hood, and
the Horses shall come round, for 'twill be late ere we reach Home.
"Nay, you must dine here at all Events," sayd _Rose_; "I know, _Dick_,
you love roast Pork." Soe _Dick_ relented. Soe _Rose_, turning to me,
prayed me to bid _Cicely_ hasten Dinner; the which I did, tho' thinking
it strange _Rose_ should not goe herself. But, as I returned, I hearde
her say, Not a Word of it, dear _Dick_, at the least, till after
Dinner, lest you spoil her Appetite. Soe _Dick_ sayd he shoulde goe
and look after the Horses. I sayd then, brisklie, I see somewhat is
the Matter--pray tell me what it is. But _Rose_ looked quite dull, and
walked to the Window. Then Mr. _Agnew_ sayd, "You seem as dissatisfied
to leave us, _Cousin_, as we are to lose you; and yet you are going
back to _Forest Hill_--to that Home in which you will doubtlesse be
happy to live all your Dayes."--"At _Forest Hill_?" I sayd, "Oh no! I
hope not." "And why?" sayd he quicklie. I hung my Head, and muttered,
"I hope, some Daye, to goe back to Mr. _Milton_." "And why not at
once?" sayd he. I sayd, "_Father_ would not let me." "Nay, that is
childish," he answered, "your Father could not hinder you if you wanted
not the Mind to goe--it was your first seeming soe loth to return, that
made him think you unhappie and refuse to part with you." I sayd, "And
what if I were unhappie?" He paused; and knew not at the Moment what
Answer to make, but shortlie replyed by another Question, "What Cause
had you to be soe?" I sayd, "That was more easily askt than answered,
even if there were anie Neede I shoulde answer it, or he had anie Right
to ask it." He cried in an Accent of Tendernesse that still wrings my
Heart to remember, "Oh, question not the Right! I only wish to make
you happy. Were you not happy with Mr. _Milton_ during the Week you
spent together here at _Sheepscote_?" Thereat I coulde not refrayn
from bursting into Tears. _Rose_ now sprang forward; but Mr. _Agnew_
sayd, "Let her weep, let her weep, it will do her good." Then, alle at
once it occurred to me that my Husband was awaiting me at Home, and I
cried, "Oh, is Mr. _Milton_ at _Forest Hill_?" and felt my Heart full
of Gladness. Mr. _Agnew_ answered, "Not soe, not soe, poor _Moll_:"
and, looking up at him, I saw him wiping his Brow, though the Daye was
soe chill. "As well tell her now," sayd he to _Rose_; and then taking
my Hand, "Oh, Mrs. _Milton_, can you wonder that your Husband should be
angry? How can you wonder at anie Evil that may result from the
Provocation you have given him? What Marvell, that since you cast him
off, all the sweet Fountains of his Affections would be embittered, and
that he should retaliate by seeking a Separation, and even a
Divorce?"--There I stopt him with an Outcry of "Divorce?" "Even soe,"
he most mournfully replyd, "and I seeke not to excuse him, since two
Wrongs make not a Right." "But," I cried, passionately weeping, "I
have given him noe Cause; my Heart has never for a Moment strayed to
another, nor does he, I am sure, expect it." "Ne'erthelesse," enjoyned
Mr. _Agnew_, "he is soe aggrieved and chafed, that he has followed up
what he considers your Breach of the Marriage Contract by writing and
publishing a Book on Divorce; the Tenor of which coming to your
Father's Ears, has violently incensed him. And now, dear _Cousin_,
having, by your Waywardness, kindled this Flame, what remains for you
but to--nay, hear me, hear me, _Moll_, for _Dick_ is coming in, and I
may not let him hear me urge you to the onlie Course that can regayn
your Peace--Mr. _Milton_ is still your Husband; eache of you have now
Something to forgive; do you be the firste; nay, seeke _his_
Forgivenesse, and you shall be happier than you have been yet."
--But I was weeping without controule; and _Dick_ coming in, and with
_Dick_ the Dinner, I askt to be excused, and soe soughte my Chamber, to
weep there without Restraynt or Witnesse. Poor _Rose_ came up, as
soone as she coulde leave the Table, and told me she had eaten as
little as I, and woulde not even presse me to eat. But she carest me
and comforted me, and urged in her owne tender Way alle that had beene
sayd by Mr. _Agnew_; even protesting that if she were in my Place, she
woulde not goe back to _Forest Hill_, but straight to _London_, to
entreat with Mr. _Milton_ for his Mercy. But I told her I could not do
that, even had I the Means for the Journey; for that my Heart was
turned against the Man who coulde, for the venial Offence of a young
Wife, in abiding too long with her old Father, not onlie cast her off
from his Love, but hold her up to the World's Blame and Scorn, by
making their domestic Quarrel the Matter for a printed Attack. _Rose_
sayd, "I admit he is wrong, but indeed, indeed, _Moll_, you are wrong
too, and you were wrong _first_:" and she sayd this soe often, that at
length we came to crosser Words; when _Dick_, calling to me from below,
would have me make haste, which I was glad to doe, and left
_Sheepscote_ less regrettfullie than I had expected. _Rose_ kist me
with her gravest Face. Mr. _Agnew_ put me on my Horse, and sayd, as he
gave me the Rein, "Now think! now think! even yet!" and then, as I
silently rode off, "_God_ bless you."
I held down my Head; but, at the Turn of the Road, lookt back, and saw
him and _Rose_ watching us from the Porch. _Dick_ cried, "I am righte
glad we are off at last, for _Father_ is downright crazie aboute this
Businesse, and mistrustfulle of _Agnew's_ Influence over you,"--and
would have gone on railing, but I bade him for Pitie's Sake be quiete.
The Effects of my owne Follie, the Losse of Home, Husband, Name, the
Opinion of the _Agnews_, the Opinion of the Worlde, rose up agaynst me,
and almost drove me mad. And, just as I was thinking I had better
lived out my Dayes and dyed earlie in _Bride's Churchyarde_ than that
alle this should have come about, the suddain Recollection of what
_Rose_ had that Morning tolde me, which soe manie other Thoughts had
driven out of my Head, viz. that Mr. _Milton_ had, in his Desire to
please me, while I was onlie bent on pleasing myself, been secretly
striving to make readie the _Aldersgate Street_ House agaynst my
Return,--soe overcame me, that I wept as I rode along. Nay, at the
Corner of a branch Road, had a Mind to beg _Dick_ to let me goe to
_London_; but a glance at his dogged Countenance sufficed to foreshow
my Answer.
Half dead with Fatigue and Griefe when I reached Home, the tender
Embraces of my Father and Mother completed the Overthrowe of my
Spiritts. I tooke to my Bed; and this is the first Daye I have left
it; nor will they let me send for _Rose_, nor even tell her I am ill.
_Jan. 1, 1644_.
The new Year opens drearilie, on Affairs both publick and private. The
Loaf parted at Breakfast this Morning, which, as the Saying goes, is a
Sign of Separation; but _Mother_ onlie sayd 'twas because it was badly
kneaded, and chid _Margery_. She hath beene telling me, but now, how I
mighte have 'scaped all my Troubles, and seene as much as I woulde of
her and _Father_, and yet have contented Mr. _Milton_ and beene counted
a good Wife. Noe Advice soe ill to bear as that which comes too late.
_Jan. 7, 1644_.
I am sick of this journalling, soe shall onlie put downe the Date of
_Robin's_ leaving Home. _Lord_ have Mercy on him, and keepe him in
Safetie. This is a shorte Prayer; therefore, easier to be often
repeated. When he kissed me, he whispered, "_Moll_, pray for me."
_Jan. 27, 1644_.
_Father_ does not seeme to miss _Robin_ much, tho' he dailie drinks his
Health after that of the King. Perhaps he did not miss me anie more
when I was in _London_, though it was true and naturall enough he
should like to see me agayn. We should have beene used to our
Separation by this Time; there would have beene nothing corroding in
it. . . .
I pray for _Robin_ everie Night. Since he went, the House has lost its
Sunshine. When I was soe anxious to return to _Forest Hill_, I never
counted on his leaving it.
_Feb. 1, 1644_.
Oh Heaven, what would I give to see the Skirts of Mr. _Milton's_
Garments agayn! My Heart is sick unto Death. I have been reading some
of my _Journall_, and tearing out much childish Nonsense at the
Beginning; but coulde not destroy the painfulle Records of the last
Year. How unhappy a Creature am I!--wearie, wearie of my Life, yet no
Ways inclined for Death. _Lord_, have Mercy upon me.
_March 27, 1644_.
I spend much of my Time, now, in the Book-room, and, though I essay not
to pursue the _Latin_, I read much _English_, at the least, more than
ever I did in my Life before; but often I fancy I am reading when I am
onlie dreaming. _Oxford_ is far too gay a Place for me now ever to goe
neare it, but my Brothers are much there, and _Father_ in his Farm, and
_Mother_ in her Kitchen; and the Neighbours, when they call, look on me
strangelie, so that I have noe Love for them. How different is
_Rose's_ holy, secluded, yet cheerefulle Life at _Sheepscote_! She
hath a Nurserie now, soe cannot come to me, and _Father_ likes not I
should goe to her.
_April 5, 1644_.
They say their Majestyes' Parting at _Abingdon_ was very sorrowfulle
and tender. The _Lord_ send them better Times! The Queen is to my
Mind a most charming Lady, and well worthy of his Majesty's Affection;
yet it seems to me amisse, that thro' her Influence, last Summer, the
Opportunitie of Pacification was lost. But she was elated, and
naturallie enoughe, at her personall Successes from the Time of her
landing. To me, there seems nothing soe good as Peace. I know,
indeede, Mr. _Milton_ holds that there may be such Things as a holy War
and a cursed Peace.
_April 10, 1644_.
_Father_, having a Hoarseness, hath deputed me, of late, to read the
Morning and Evening Prayers. How beautifulle is our Liturgie! I
grudge at the Puritans for having abolished it; and though I felt not
its comprehensive Fullessse [Transcriber's note: Fullnesse?] before I
married, nor indeed till now, yet I wearied to Death in _London_ at the
puritanicall Ordinances and Conscience-meetings and extempore Prayers,
wherein it was soe oft the Speaker's Care to show Men how godly he was.
Nay, I think Mr. _Milton_ altogether wrong in the View he takes of
praying to _God_ in other Men's Words; for doth he not doe soe, everie
Time he followeth the Sense of another Man's extempore Prayer, wherein
he is more at his Mercy and Caprice than when he hath a printed Form
set down, wherein he sees what is coming?
_June 8, 1644_.
Walking in the Home-close this Morning, it occurred to me that Mr.
_Milton_ intended bringing me to _Forest Hill_ about this Time; and
that if I had abided patientlie with him through the Winter, we might
now have beene both here happily together; untroubled by that Sting
which now poisons everie Enjoyment of mine, and perhaps of his.
_Lord_, be merciful to _me a Sinner_.
_June 23, 1644_.
Just after writing the above, I was in the Garden, gathering a few
Coronation Flowers and Sops-in-Wine, and thinking they were of deeper
crimson at_ Sheepscote_, and wondering what _Rose_ was just then about,
and whether had I beene born in her Place, I shoulde have beene as
goode and happy as she,--when _Harry_ came up, looking somewhat grave.
I sayd, "What is the Matter?" He gave Answer, "_Rose_ hath lost her
Child." Oh!----that we should live but a two Hours' Journey apart, and
that she coulde lose a Child three Months olde _whom I had never seene_?
I ran to _Father_, and never left off praying him to let me goe to her
till he consented.
--What, and if I had begged as hard, at the firste, to goe back to Mr.
_Milton_? might he not have consented _then_?
. . . Soe _Harry_ took me; and as we drew neare _Sheepscote_, I was
avised to think how grave, how barely friendlie had beene our last
Parting; and to ponder, would _Rose_ make me welcome now? The Infant,
_Harry_ tolde me, had beene dead some Dayes; and, as we came in Sight
of the little grey old Church, we saw a Knot of People coming out of
the Churchyard, and guessed the Baby had just beene buried. Soe it
proved--Mr. _Agnew's_ House-door stood ajar; and when we tapped softlie
and _Cicely_ admitted us we could see him standing by _Rose_, who was
sitting on the Ground and crying as if she would not be comforted.
When she hearde my Voice, she started up, flung her Arms about me,
crying more bitterlie than before, and I cried too; and Mr. _Agnew_
went away with _Harry_. Then _Rose_ sayd to me, "You must not leave me
agayn." . . .
. . . In the Cool of the Evening, when _Harry_ had left us, she took me
into the Churchyarde, and scattered the little Grave with Flowers; and
then continued sitting beside it on the Grasse, quiete, but not
comfortlesse. I am avised to think she prayed. Then Mr. _Agnew_ came
forthe and sate on a flat Tombstone hard by; and without one Word of
Introduction took out his _Psalter_, and commenced reading the Psalms
for that Evening's Service; to wit, the 41st, the 42d, the 43de; in a
low solemne Voice; and methoughte I never in my Life hearde aniething
to equall it in the Way of Consolation. _Rose's_ heavie Eyes
graduallie lookt up from the Ground into her Husband's Face, and thence
up to Heaven. After this, he read, or rather repeated, the Collect at
the end of the Buriall Service, putting this Expression,--"As our Hope
is, this our deare Infant doth." Then he went on to say in a soothing
Tone, "There hath noe misfortune happened to us, but such as is common
to the Lot of alle Men. We are alle Sinners, even to the youngest,
fayrest, and seeminglie purest among us; and Death entered the World by
Sin, and, constituted as we are, we would not, even if we could,
dispense with Death. For, where doth it convey us? From this
burthensome, miserable World, into the generall Assemblie of _Christ's_
First-born, to be united with the Spiritts of the Just made perfect, to
partake of everie Enjoyment which in this World is unconnected with
Sin, together with others that are unknowne and unspeakable. And
there, we shall agayn have _Bodies_ as well as Soules; Eyes to see, but
not to shed Tears; Voices to speak and sing, not to utter Lamentations;
Hands, to doe _God's_ Work; Feet, and it may be, Wings, to carry us on
his Errands. Such will be the Blessedness of his glorified Saints;
even of those who, having been Servants of Satan till the eleventh
Hour, laboured penitentlie and diligentlie for their heavenlie Master
one Hour before Sunset; but as for those who, dying in mere Infancie,
never committed actuall Sin, they follow the Lamb whithersoever he
goeth! 'Oh, think of this, dear _Rose_, and Sorrow not as those
without Hope; for be assured, your Child hath more reall Reason to be
grieved for you, than you for _him_.'"
With this, and like Discourse, that distilled like the Dew, or the
small Rain on the tender Grasse, did _Roger Agnew_ comfort his Wife,
untill the Moon had risen. Likewise he spake to us of those who lay
buried arounde, how one had died of a broken Heart, another of suddain
Joy, another had let Patience have her perfect Work through Years of
lingering Disease.
hen we walked slowlie and composedlie Home, and ate our Supper
peacefullie, _Rose_ not refusing to eat, though she took but little.
Since that Evening, she hath, at Mr. _Agnew's_ Wish, gone much among
the Poor, reading to one, working for another, carrying Food and
Medicine to another; and in this I have borne her Companie. I like it
well. Methinks how pleasant and seemlie are the Duties of a country
Minister's Wife! a God-fearing Woman, that is, who considereth the Poor
and Needy, insteade of aiming to be frounced and purfled like her
richest Neighbours. Mr. _Agnew_ was reading to us, last Night, of
_Bernard Gilpin_--he of whom the _Lord Burleigh_ sayd, "Who can blame
that Man for not accepting a Bishopric?" How charmed were we with the
Description of the Simplicitie and Hospitalitie of his Method of living
at _Houghton_!--There is another Place of nearlie the same Name, in
_Buckinghamshire_--not _Houghton_, but _Horton_, . . . where one Mr.
_John Milton_ spent five of the best Years of his Life,--and where
methinks his Wife could have been happier with him than in _Bride's
Churchyarde_.--But it profits not to wish and to will.--What was to be,
had Need to be, soe there's an End.
_Aug. 1, 1644_.
Mr. _Agnew_ sayd to me this Morning, somewhat gravelie, "I observe,
_Cousin_, you seem to consider yourselfe the Victim of Circumstances."
"And am I not?" I replied. "No," he answered, "Circumstance is a false
God, unrecognised by the Christian, who contemns him, though a stubborn
yet a profitable Servant."--"That may be alle very grand for a Man to
doe," I sayd. "Very grand, but very feasible, for a Woman as well as a
Man," rejoined Mr. _Agnew_, "and we shall be driven to the Wall alle
our Lives, unless we have this victorious Struggle with Circumstances.
I seldom allude, _Cousin_, to yours, which are almoste too delicate for
me to meddle with; and yet I hardlie feele justified in letting soe
many opportunities escape. Do I offend? or may I go on?--Onlie think,
then, how voluntarilie you have placed yourself in your present
uncomfortable Situation. The Tree cannot resist the graduall Growth of
the Moss upon it; but you might, anie Day, anie Hour, have freed
yourself from the equallie graduall Formation of the Net that has
enclosed you at last. You entered too hastilie into your firste--nay,
let that pass,--you gave too shorte a Triall of your new Home before
you became disgusted with it. Admit it to have beene dull, even
unhealthfulle, were you justified in forsaking it at a Month's End?
But your Husband gave you Leave of Absence, though obtayned on false
Pretences.--When you found them to be false, should you not have
cleared yourself to him of Knowledge of the Deceit? Then your Leave,
soe obtayned, expired--shoulde you not have returned then?--Your Health
and Spiritts were recruited; your Husband wrote to reclaim you--shoulde
you not have returned then? He provided an Escort, whom your Father
beat and drove away.--If you had insisted on going to your Husband,
might you not have gone _then_? Oh, _Cousin_, you dare not look up to
Heaven and say you have been the Victim of Circumstances."
I made no Answer; onlie felt much moven, and very angrie. I sayd, "If
I wished to goe back, Mr. _Milton_ woulde not receive me now."
"Will you try?" sayd _Roger_. "Will you but let me try? Will you let
me write to him?"