"You and he have made me think soe," he replyed. "First for yourself,
dear _Moll_, putting aside for a Time the Consideration of your Youth,
Beauty, Franknesse, Mirthfullenesse, and a certayn girlish Drollerie
and Mischiefe that are all very well in fitting Time and Place,--what
remains in you for a Mind like _John Milton's_ to repose upon? what
Stabilitie? what Sympathie? what steadfast Principle? You take noe
Pains to apprehend and relish his favourite Pursuits; you care not for
his wounded Feelings, you consult not his Interests, anie more than
your owne Duty. Now, is such the Character to make _Milton_ happy?"
"No one can answer that but himself," I replyed, deeplie mortyfide.
"Well, he _has_ answered it," sayd Mr. _Agnew_, taking up the Letter he
and _Rose_ had beene reading when I interrupted them. . . . "You must
know, _Cousin_, that his and my close Friendship hath beene a good deal
interrupted by this Matter. 'Twas under my Roof you met. _Rose_ had
imparted to me much of her earlie Interest in you. I fancied you had
good Dispositions which, under masterlie Trayning, would ripen into
noble Principles; and therefore promoted your Marriage as far as my
Interest with your Father had Weight. I own I was surprised at his
easilie obtayned Consent . . . but, that _you_, once domesticated with
such a Man as _John Milton_, shoulde find your Home uninteresting, your
Affections free to stray back to your owne Family, was what I had never
contemplated."
Here I made a Show of taking the Letter, but he held it back.
"No, _Moll_, you disappointed us everie Way. And, for a Time, _Rose_
and I were ashamed, _for_ you rather than of you, that we left noe
Means neglected of trying to preserve your Place in your Husband's
Regard. But you did not bear us out; and then he beganne to take it
amisse that we upheld you. Soe then, after some warm and cool Words,
our Correspondence languished; and hath but now beene renewed."
"He hath written us a most kind Condolence," interrupted _Rose_, "on
the Death of our Baby."
"Yes, most kindlie, most nobly exprest," sayd Mr. _Agnew_; "but what a
Conclusion!"
And then, after this long Preamble, he offered me the Letter, the
Beginning of which, tho' doubtlesse well enough, I marked not, being
impatient to reach the latter Part; wherein I found myself spoken of
soe bitterlie, soe harshlie, as that I too plainly saw _Roger Agnew_
had not beene beside the Mark when he decided I could never make Mr.
_Milton_ happy. Payned and wounded Feeling made me lay aside the
Letter without proffering another Word, and retreat without soe much as
a Sigh or a Sob into mine own Chamber; but noe longer could the
Restraynt be maintained. I fell to weeping soe passionatelie that
_Rose_ prayed to come in, and condoled with me, and advised me, soe as
that at length my Weeping bated, and I promised to return below when I
shoulde have bathed mine Eyes and smoothed my Hair; but I have not gone
down yet.
_Bedtime_.
I think I shall send to _Father_ to have me Home at the Beginning of
next Week. _Rose_ needes me not, now; and it cannot be pleasant to Mr.
_Agnew_ to see my sorrowfulle Face about the House. His Reproofe and
my Husband's together have riven my Heart; I think I shall never laugh
agayn, nor smile but after a piteous Sorte; and soe People will cease
to love me, for there is Nothing in me of a graver Kind to draw their
Affection; and soe I shall lead a moping Life unto the End of my Dayes.
--Luckilie for me, _Rose_ hath much Sewing to doe; for she hath
undertaken with great Energie her Labours for the Poore, and
consequentlie spends less Time in her Husband's Studdy; and, as I help
her to the best of my Means, my Sewing hides my Lack of Talking, and
Mr. _Agnew_ reads to us such Books as he deems entertayning; yet, half
the Time, I hear not what he reads. Still, I did not deeme so much
Amusement could have beene found in Books; and there are some of his,
that, if not soe cumbrous, I woulde fain borrow.
_Friday_.
I have made up my Mind now, that I shall never see Mr. _Milton_ more;
and am resolved to submitt to it without another Tear.
_Rose_ sayd, this Morning, she was glad to see me more composed; and
soe am I; but never was more miserable.
_Saturday Night_.
Mr. _Agnew's_ religious Services at the End of the Week have alwaies
more than usuall Matter and Meaninge in them. They are neither soe
drowsy as those I have beene for manie Years accustomed to at Home, nor
soe wearisome as to remind me of the _Puritans_. Were there manie such
as he in our Church, soe faithfulle, fervent, and thoughtfulle,
methinks there would be fewer Schismaticks; but still there woulde be
some, because there are alwaies some that like to be the uppermost.
. . . To-nighte, Mr. _Agnew's_ Prayers went straight to my Heart; and I
privilie turned sundrie of his generall Petitions into particular ones,
for myself and _Robin_, and also for Mr. _Milton_. This gave such
unwonted Relief, that since I entered into my Closet, I have repeated
the same particularlie; one Request seeming to grow out of another,
till I remained I know not how long on my Knees, and will bend them yet
agayn, ere I go to Bed.
How sweetlie the Moon shines through my Casement to-night! I am
almoste avised to accede to _Rose's_ Request of staying here to the End
of the Month:--everie Thing here is soe peacefulle; and _Forest Hill_
is dull, now _Robin_ is away.
_Sunday Evening_.
How blessed a Sabbath!--Can it be, that I thought, onlie two Days back,
I shoulde never know Peace agayn? Joy I may not, but Peace I can and
doe. And yet nought hath amended the unfortunate Condition of mine
Affairs; but a different Colouring is caste upon them--the _Lord_ grant
that it may last! How hath it come soe, and how may it be preserved?
This Morn, when I awoke, 'twas with a Sense of Relief such as we have
when we miss some wearying bodilie Payn; a Feeling as though I had
beene forgiven, yet not by Mr. _Milton_, for I knew he had not forgiven
me. Then, it must be, I was forgiven by _God_; and why? I had done
nothing to get his Forgivenesse, only presumed on his Mercy to ask
manie Things I had noe Right to expect. And yet I felt I _was_
forgiven. Why then mighte not Mr. _Milton_ some Day forgive me?
Should the Debt of ten thousand Talents be cancelled, and not the Debt
of a hundred Pence? Then I thought on that same Word, Talents; and
considered, had I ten, or even one? Decided to consider it at leisure,
more closelie, and to make over to _God_ henceforthe, be they ten, or
be it one. Then, dressed with much Composure, and went down to
Breakfast.
Having marked that Mr. _Agnew_ and _Rose_ affected not Companie on this
Day, spent it chieflie by myself, except at Church and Meal-times;
partlie in my Chamber, partlie in the Garden Bowre by the Beehives.
Made manie Resolutions, which, in Church, I converted into Prayers and
Promises. Hence, my holy Peace.
_Monday_.
_Rose_ proposed, this Morning, we shoulde resume our Studdies. Felt
loath to comply, but did soe neverthelesse, and afterwards we walked
manie Miles, to visit some poor Folk. This Evening, Mr. _Agnew_ read
us the Prologue to the _Canterbury Tales_. How lifelike are the
Portraitures! I mind me that Mr. _Milton_ shewed me the _Talbot_ Inn,
that Day we crost the River with Mr. _Marvell_.
_Tuesday_.
How heartilie do I wish I had never read that same Letter!--or rather,
that it had never beene written. Thus it is, even with our Wishes. We
think ourselves reasonable in wishing some small Thing were otherwise,
which it were quite as impossible to alter as some great Thing.
Neverthelesse I cannot help fretting over the Remembrance of that Part
wherein he spake such bitter Things of my "most ungoverned Passion for
Revellings and Junketings." Sure, he would not call my Life too merrie
now, could he see me lying wakefulle on my Bed, could he see me
preventing the Morning Watch, could he see me at my Prayers, at my
Books, at my Needle. . . . He shall find he hath judged too hardlie of
poor _Moll_, even yet.
_Wednesday_.
Took a cold Dinner in a Basket with us to-day, and ate our rusticall
Repast on the Skirt of a Wood, where we could see the Squirrels at
theire Gambols. Mr. _Agnew_ lay on the Grasse, and _Rose_ took out her
Knitting, whereat he laught, and sayd she was like the _Dutch_ Women,
that must knit, whether mourning or feasting, and even on the Sabbath.
Having laught her out of her Work, he drew forth Mr. _George Herbert's_
Poems, and read us a Strayn which pleased _Rose_ and me soe much, that
I shall copy it herein, to have always by me.
How fresh, oh Lord: how sweet and clean
Are thy Returns! e'en as the Flowers in Spring,
To which, beside theire owne Demesne,
The late pent Frosts Tributes of Pleasure bring.
Grief melts away like Snow in May,
As if there were noe such cold Thing.
Who would have thought my shrivelled Heart
Woulde have recovered greenness? it was gone
Quite Underground, as Flowers depart
To see their Mother-root, when they have blown,
Where they together, alle the hard Weather,
Dead to the World, keep House alone.
These are thy Wonders, Lord of Power!
Killing and quickening, bringing down to Hell
And up to Heaven, in an Hour,
Making a Chiming of a passing Bell,
We say amiss "this or that is:"
Thy Word is alle, if we could spell.
Oh that I once past changing were!
Fast in thy Paradise, where no Flowers can wither;
Manie a Spring I shoot up faire,
Offering at Heaven, growing and groaning thither,
Nor doth my Flower want a Spring Shower,
My Sins and I joyning together.
But while I grow in a straight Line,
Still upwards bent, as if Heaven were my own,
Thy Anger comes, and I decline.--
What Frost to that! What Pole is not the Zone
Where alle Things burn, when thou dost turn,
And the least Frown of thine is shewn?
And now, in Age, I bud agayn,
After soe manie Deaths, I bud and write,
I once more smell the Dew and Rain,
And relish Versing! Oh my onlie Light!
It cannot be that I am he
On whom thy Tempests fell alle Night?
These are thy Wonders, Lord of Love,
To make us see we are but Flowers that glide,
Which, when we once can feel and prove,
Thou hast a Garden for us where to bide.
Who would be more, swelling their Store,
Forfeit their Paradise by theire Pride.
_Thursday_.
_Father_ sent over _Diggory_ with a Letter for me from deare _Robin_:
alsoe, to ask when I was minded to return Home, as _Mother_ wants to
goe to _Sandford_. Fixed the Week after next; but _Rose_ says I must
be here agayn at the Apple-gathering. Answered _Robin's_ Letter. He
looketh not for Choyce of fine Words; nor noteth an Error here and
there in the Spelling.
_Tuesday_.
Life flows away here in such unmarked Tranquilitie, that one hath
Nothing whereof to write, or to remember what distinguished one Day
from another. I am sad, yet not dulle; methinks I have grown some
Yeares older since I came here. I can fancy elder Women feeling much
as I doe now. I have Nothing to desire. Nothing to hope, that is
likelie to come to pass--Nothing to regret, except I begin soe far
back, that my whole Life hath neede, as 'twere, to begin over
agayn. . . .
Mr. _Agnew_ translates to us Portions of _Thuanus_ his Historie, and
the Letters of _Theodore Bexa_, concerning the _French_ Reformed
Church; oft prolix, yet interesting, especially with Mr. _Agnew's_
Comments, and Allusions to our own Time. On the other Hand, _Rose_
reads _Davila_, the sworne Apologiste of _Catherine de' Medicis_, whose
charming _Italian_ even I can comprehende; but alle is false and
plausible. How sad, that the wrong Partie shoulde be victorious! Soe
it may befall in this Land; though, indeede, I have hearde soe much
bitter Rayling on bothe Sides, that I know not which is right. The
Line of Demarcation is not soe distinctly drawn, methinks, as 'twas in
_France_. Yet it cannot be right to take up Arms agaynst constituted
Authorities?--Yet, and if those same Authorities abuse their Trust?
Nay, Women cannot understand these Matters, and I thank Heaven they
need not. Onlie, they cannot help siding with those they love; and
sometimes those they love are on opposite Sides.
Mr. _Agnew_ sayth, the secular Arm shoulde never be employed in
spirituall Matters, and that the _Hugenots_ committed a grave Mistake
in choosing Princes and Admirals for their Leaders, insteade of simple
Preachers with Bibles in their hands; and he askt, "did _Luther_ or
_Peter_ the Hermit most manifestlie labour with the Blessing of _God_?"
. . . I have noted the Heads of Mr. _Agnew's_ Readings, after a Fashion
of _Rose's_, in order to have a shorte, comprehensive Account of the
Whole; and this hath abridged my journalling. It is the more
profitable to me of the two, changes the sad Current of Thought, and,
though an unaccustomed Task, I like it well.
_Saturday_.
On _Monday_, I return to _Forest Hill_. I am well pleased to have yet
another _Sheepscote_ Sabbath. To-day we had the rare Event of a
Dinner-guest; soe full of what the Rebels are doing, and alle the
Horrors of Strife, that he seemed to us quiete Folks, like the Denizen
of another World.
_Forest Hill, August 3, 1644_.
Home agayn, and _Mother_ hath gone on her long intended Visitt to Uncle
_John_, taking with her the two youngest. _Father_ much preoccupide,
by reason of the Supplies needed for his Majesty's Service; soe that,
sweet _Robin_ being away, I find myselfe lonely. _Harry_ rides with me
in the Evening, but the Mornings I have alle to myself; and when I have
fulfilled _Mother's_ Behests in the Kitchen and Still-room, I have
nought but to read in our somewhat scant Collection of Books, the moste
Part whereof are religious. And (not on that Account, but by reason I
have read the most of them before), methinks I will write to borrow
some of _Rose_; for Change of Reading hath now become a Want. I am
minded also, to seek out and minister unto some poore Folk after her
Fashion. Now that I am Queen of the Larder, there is manie a wholesome
Scrap at my Disposal, and there are likewise sundrie Physiques in my
Mother's Closet, which she addeth to Year by Year, and never wants, we
are soe seldom ill.
_Aug. 5, 1644_.
Dear _Father_ sayd this Evening, as we came in from a Walk on the
Terrace, "My sweet _Moll_, you were ever the Light of the House; but
now, though you are more staid than of former Time, I find you a better
Companion than ever. This last Visitt to _Sheepscote_ hath evened your
Spiritts."
Poor _Father_! he knew not how I lay awake and wept last Night, for one
I shall never see agayn, nor how the Terrace Walk minded me of him. My
Spiritts may seem even, and I exert myself to please; but, within, all
is dark Shade, or at best, grey Twilight; and my Spiritts are, in Fact,
worse here than they were at _Sheepscote_, because, here, I am
continuallie thinking of one whose Name is never uttered; whereas,
there, it was mentioned naturallie and tenderlie, though sadly. . . .