This I hold firm:
Virtue may be assayled, but never hurt,
Surprised by unjust Force, but not enthralled:
Yea, even that which Mischief meant most Harm,
Shall, in the happy Trial, prove most Glory.
But who hath such Virtue? have I? hath he? No, we have both gone
astray, and done amiss, and wrought sinfullie; but I worst, I first,
therefore more neede that I humble myself, and pray for both.
There is one, more unhappie, perhaps, than either. The _King_, most
misfortunate Gentleman! who knoweth not which Way to turn, nor whom to
trust. Last Time I saw him, methought never was there a Face soe full
of Woe.
_May 6, 1646_.
The _King_ hath escaped! He gave Orders overnight at alle the Gates, for
three Persons to passe; and, accompanied onlie by Mr. _Ashburnham_, and
Mr. _Hurd_, rode forthe at Nightfalle, towards _London_. Sure, he will
not throw himselfe into the Hands of Parliament?
_Mother_ is affrighted beyond Measure at the near Neighbourhood of
_Fairfax's_ Army, and entreats _Father_ to leave alle behind, and flee
with us into the City. It may yet be done; and we alle share her Feares.
_Saturday Even_.
Packing up in greate haste, after a confused Family Council, wherein some
fresh Accounts of the Rebels' Advances, broughte in by _Diggory_, made my
Father the sooner consent to a stolen Flight into _Oxford_, _Diggory_
being left behind in Charge. Time of Flight, to-morrow after Dark, the
_Puritans_ being busie at theire Sermons. The better the Day, the better
the Deede.--_Heaven_ make it soe!
_Tuesday_.
_Oxford_; in most most confined and unpleasant Lodgings; but noe Matter,
manie better and richer than ourselves fare worse, and our King hath not
where to lay his Head. 'Tis sayd he hath turned his Course towards
_Scotland_. There are Souldiers in this House, whose Noise distracts us.
Alsoe, a poor Widow Lady, whose Husband hath beene slayn in these Wars.
The Children have taken a feverish Complaynt, and require incessant
tending. Theire Beds are far from cleane, in too little Space, and ill
aired.
_May 20, 1646_.
The Widow Lady goes about visiting the Sick, and woulde faine have my
Companie. The Streets have displeased me, being soe fulle of Men;
however, in a close Hoode I have accompanied her sundrie Times. 'Tis a
good Soul, and full of pious Works and Alms-deedes.
_May 27, 1646_.
_Diggory_ hath found his Way to us, alle dismaied, and bringing Dismay
with him, for the Rebels have taken and ransacked our House, and turned
him forthe. "A Plague on these Wars!" as _Father_ says. What are we to
doe, or how live, despoyled of alle? _Father_ hath lost, one Way and
another, since the Civil War broke out, three thousand Pounds, and is now
nearlie beggared. _Mother_ weeps bitterlie, and _Father's_ Countenance
hath fallen more than ever I saw it before. "Nine Children!" he
exclaimed, just now; "and onlie one provided for!" His Eye fell upon me
for a Moment, with less Tendernesse than usuall, as though he wished me
in _Aldersgate Street_. I'm sure I wish I were there,--not because
_Father_ is in Misfortune; oh, no.
_June, 1646_.
The Parliament requireth our unfortunate King to issue Orders to this and
alle his other Garrisons, commanding theire Surrender; and _Father_,
finding this is likelie to take Place forthwith, is busied in having
himself comprised within the Articles of Surrender. 'Twill be hard
indeed, shoulde this be denied. His Estate lying in the King's Quarters,
howe coulde he doe less than adhere to his Majesty's Partie during this
unnaturall War? I am sure _Mother_ grudged the Royalists everie Goose
and Turkey they had from our Yard.
_June 27, 1646_.
Praised be _Heaven_, deare _Father_ hath just received Sir _Thomas
Fairfax's_ Protection, empowering him quietlie and without let to goe
forthe "with Servants, Horses, Arms, Goods, etc." to "_London_ or
elsewhere," whithersoever he will. And though the Protection extends but
over six Months, at the Expiry of which Time, _Father_ must take Measures
to embark for some Place of Refuge beyond Seas, yet who knows what may
turn up in those six Months! The King may enjoy his Owne agayn.
Meantime, we immediatelie leave _Oxford_.
_Forest Hill_.
At Home agayn; and what a Home! Everiething to seeke, everiething
misplaced, broken, abused, or gone altogether! The Gate off its Hinges;
the Stone Balls of the Pillars overthrowne, the great Bell stolen, the
clipt Junipers grubbed up, the Sun-diall broken! Not a Hen or Chicken,
Duck or Duckling, left! _Crab_ half-starved, and soe glad to see us,
that he dragged his Kennel after him. _Daisy_ and _Blanch_ making such
piteous Moans at the Paddock Gate, that I coulde not bear it, but helped
_Lettice_ to milk them. Within Doors, everie Room smelling of Beer and
Tobacco; Cupboards broken upon, etc. On my Chamber Floor, a greasy
steeple-crowned Hat! Threw it forthe from the Window with a Pair of
Tongs.
_Mother_ goes about the House weeping. _Father_ sits in his broken
Arm-chair, the Picture of Disconsolateness. I see the _Agnews_, true
Friends! riding hither; and with them a Third, who, methinks, is _Rose's_
Brother _Ralph_.
_London. St. Martin's le Grand_.
Trembling, weeping, hopefulle, dismaied, here I sit in mine Uncle's hired
House, alone in a Crowd, scared at mine owne Precipitation, readie to
wish myselfe back, unable to resolve, to reflect, to pray . . .
_Twelve at Night_.
Alle is silent; even in the latelie busie Streets. Why art thou cast
down, my Heart? why art thou disquieted within me? Hope thou stille in
the _Lord_, for he is the Joy and Light of thy Countenance. Thou hast
beene long of learning him to be such. Oh, forget not thy Lesson now!
Thy best Friend hath sanctioned, nay, counselled this Step, and overcome
alle Obstacles, and provided the Means of this Journey; and to-morrow at
Noone, if Events prove not cross, I shall have Speech of him whom my Soul
loveth. To-night, let me watch, fast, and pray.
_Friday; at Night_.
How awfulle it is to beholde a Man weepe! mine owne Tears, when I think
thereon, well forthe . . .
_Rose_ was a true Friend when she sayd, "Our prompt Affections are oft
our wise Counsellors." Soe, she suggested and advised alle; wrung forthe
my Father's Consent, and sett me on my Way, even putting Money in my
Purse. Well for me, had she beene at my Journey's End as well as its
Beginning.
'Stead of which, here was onlie mine Aunt; a slow, timid, uncertayn
Soule, who proved but a broken Reed to lean upon.
Soe, alle I woulde have done arighte went crosse, the Letter never
delivered, the Message delayed till he had left Home, soe that methought
I shoulde goe crazie.
While the Boy, stammering in his lame Excuses, bore my chafed Reproaches
the more humblie because he saw he had done me some grievous Hurt, though
he knew not what, a Voice in the adjacent Chamber in Alternation with
mine Uncle's, drove the Blood of a suddain from mine Heart, and then sent
it back with impetuous Rush, for I knew the Accents right well.
Enters mine Aunt, alle flurried, and hushing her Voice. "Oh, _Niece_, he
whom you wot of is here, but knoweth not you are at Hand, nor in
_London_. Shall I tell him?"
But I gasped, and held her back by her Skirts; then, with a suddain
secret Prayer, or Cry, or maybe, Wish, as 'twere, darted up unto Heaven
for Assistance, I took noe Thought what I shoulde speak when confronted
with him, but opening the Door between us, he then standing with his Back
towards it, rushed forth and to his Feet--there sank, in a Gush of Tears;
for not one Word coulde I proffer, nor soe much as look up.
A quick Hand was laid on my Head, on my Shoulder--as quicklie
removed . . . and I was aware of the Door being hurriedlie opened and
shut, and a Man hasting forthe; but 'twas onlie mine Uncle. Meantime, my
Husband, who had at first uttered a suddain Cry or Exclamation, had now
left me, sunk on the Ground as I was, and retired a Space, I know not
whither, but methinks he walked hastilie to and fro. Thus I remained,
agonized in Tears, unable to recal one Word of the humble Appeal I had
pondered on my Journey, or to have spoken it, though I had known everie
Syllable by Rote; yet not wishing myself, even in that Suspense, Shame,
and Anguish, elsewhere than where I was cast, at mine Husband's Feet.
Or ever I was aware, he had come up, and caught me to his Breast: then,
holding me back soe as to look me in the Face, sayd, in Accents I shall
never forget,
"Much I coulde say to reproach, but will not! Henceforth, let us onlie
recall this darke Passage of our deeplie sinfulle Lives, to quicken us to
_God's_ Mercy, in affording us this Re-union. Let it deepen our
Penitence, enhance our Gratitude."
Then, suddainlie covering up his Face with his Hands, he gave two or
three Sobs; and for some few Minutes coulde not refrayn himself; but,
when at length he uncovered his Eyes and looked down on me with Goodness
and Sweetnesse, 'twas like the Sun's cleare shining after Raine. . . .
Shall I now destroy the disgracefulle Records of this blotted Book? I
think not; for 'twill quicken me perhaps, as my Husband sayth, to "deeper
Penitence and stronger Gratitude," shoulde I henceforthe be in Danger of
settling on the Lees, and forgetting the deepe Waters which had nearlie
closed over mine Head. At present, I am soe joyfulle, soe light of Heart
under the Sense of Forgivenesse, that it seemeth as though Sorrow coulde
lay hold of me noe more; and yet we are still, as 'twere, disunited for
awhile; for my Husband is agayn shifting House, and preparing to move his
increased Establishment into _Barbican_, where he hath taken a goodly
Mansion; and, until it is ready, I am to abide here. I might pleasantlie
cavill at this; but, in Truth, will cavill at Nothing now.
I am, by this, full persuaded that _Ralph's_ Tale concerning Miss
_Davies_ was a false Lie; though, at the Time, supposing it to have some
Colour, it inflamed my Jealousie noe little. The cross Spight of that
Youth led, under his Sister's Management, to an Issue his Malice never
forecast; and now, though I might come at the Truth for Inquiry, I will
not soe much as even soil my Mind with thinking of it agayn; for there is
that Truth in mine Husband's Eyes, which woulde silence the Slanders of a
hundred Liars. Chafed, irritated, he has beene, soe as to excite the
sarcastic Constructions of those who wish him evill; but his Soul, and
his Heart, and his Mind require a Flighte beyond _Ralph's_ Witt to
comprehende; and I know and feel that they are _mine_.
He hath just led in the two _Phillips's_ to me, and left us together.
_Jack_ lookt at me askance, and held aloof; but deare little _Ned_ threw
his Arms about me and wept, and I did weep too; seeing the which, _Jack_
advanced, gave me his Hand, and finally his Lips, then lookt at much as
to say, "Now, Alle's right." They are grown, and are more comely than
heretofore, which, in some Measure, is owing to theire Hair being noe
longer cut strait and short after the Puritanicall Fashion I soe hate,
but curled like their Uncle's.
I have writ, not the Particulars, but the Issue of my Journey, unto
_Rose_, whose loving Heart, I know, yearns for Tidings. Alsoe, more
brieflie unto my Mother, who loveth not Mr. _Milton_.
_Barbican, September, 1646_.
In the Night-season, we take noe Rest; we search out our Hearts, and
commune with our Spiritts, and checque our Souls' Accounts, before we
dare court our Sleep; but in the Day of Happinesse we cut shorte our
Reckonings; and here am I, a joyfulle Wife, too proud and busie amid my
dailie Cares to have Leisure for more than a brief Note in my _Diarium_,
as _Ned_ woulde call it. 'Tis a large House, with more Rooms than we can
fill, even with the _Phillips's_ and their Scholar-mates, olde Mr.
_Milton_, and my Husband's Books to boot. I feel Pleasure in being
housewifelie; and reape the Benefit of alle that I learnt of this Sorte
at _Sheepscote_. Mine Husband's Eyes follow me with Delight; and once
with a perplexed yet pleased Smile, he sayd to me, "Sweet Wife, thou art
strangelie altered; it seems as though I have indeede lost 'sweet _Moll_'
after alle!"
Yes, I am indeed changed; more than he knows or coulde believe. And he
is changed too. With Payn I perceive a more stern, severe Tone
occasionallie used by him; doubtlesse the Cloke assumed by his Griefe to
hide the Ruin I had made within. Yet a more geniall Influence is fast
melting this away. Agayn, I note with Payn that he complayns much of his
Eyes. At first, I observed he rubbed them oft, and dared not mention it,
believing that his Tears on Account of me, sinfulle Soule! had made them
smart. Soe, perhaps, they did in the first Instance, for it appears they
have beene ailing ever since the Year I left him; and Overstuddy, which
my Presence mighte have prevented, hath conduced to the same ill Effect.
Whenever he now looks at a lighted Candle, he sees a Sort of Iris alle
about it; and, this Morning, he disturbed me by mentioning that a total
Darknesse obscured everie Thing on the left Side of his Eye, and that he
even feared, sometimes, he might eventuallie lose the Sight of both. "In
which Case," he cheerfully sayd, "you, deare Wife, must become my
Lecturer as well as Amanuensis, and content yourself to read to me a
World of crabbed Books, in Tongues that are not nor neede ever be yours,
seeing that a Woman has ever enough of her own!"
Then, more pensivelie, he added, "I discipline and tranquillize my Mind
on this Subject, ever remembering, when the Apprehension afflicts me,
that, as Man lives not by Bread alone, but by everie Word that proceeds
out of the Mouth of _God_, so Man likewise lives not by _Sight_ alone,
but by Faith in the Giver of Sight. As long, therefore, as it shall
please Him to prolong, however imperfectlie, this precious Gift, soe long
will I lay up Store agaynst the Days of Darknesse, which may be many; and
whensoever it shall please Him to withdrawe it from me altogether, I will
cheerfully bid mine Eyes keep Holiday, and place my Hand trustfullie in
His, to be led whithersoever He will, through the Remainder of Life."
A Honeymoon cannot for ever last; nor Sense of Danger, when it long hath
past;--but one little Difference from out manie greater Differences
between my late happie Fortnighte in _St. Martin's-le-Grand_, and my
present dailie Course in _Barbican_, hath marked the Distinction between
Lover and Husband. There it was "sweet _Moll_," "my Heart's Life of
Life," "my dearest cleaving Mischief;" here 'tis onlie "Wife," "Mistress
_Milton_," or at most "deare or sweet Wife." This, I know, is
masterfulle and seemly.
Onlie, this Morning, chancing to quote one of his owne Lines,