_Bunhill Fields,
Feb. 17, 1665_.
. . . Something geniall and soothing beyond ordinarie in the Warmth and
fitfulle Lighte of the Fire, made us delaye, I know not how long, to trim
the Evening Lamp, and sitt muzing in Idlenesse about the Hearth; _Mary_
revolving her Thumbs and staring at the Embers; _Anne_ quite in the
Shadowe, with her Arms behind her Head agaynst the Wall; Father in his
tall Arm-chair, quite uprighte, as his Fashion is when very thoughtfulle;
I on the Cushion at his Feet, with mine Head on's Knee and mine Eyes on
his Shadowe on the Wall, which, as it happened, shewed in colossal
Proportions, while ours were like Pigmies. Alle at once he exclaims, "We
all seem very comfortable--I think we shoulde reward ourselves with some
Egg-flip!"
And then offered us Pence for our Thoughts. _Anne_ would not tell hers;
_Mary_ owned she had beene trying to account for the Deficiencie of a
Groat in her housekeeping Purse; and I contest to such a Medley, that
Father sayd I deserved _Anne's_ Penny in addition to mine own, for my
Strength of Mind in submitting such a Farrago of Nonsense to the Ridicule
of my Friends.
Soe then I bade for his Thoughts, and he sayd he had beene questioning
the Cricket on the Hearth, upon the Extinction of the Fairies; and I
askt, Did anie believe in 'em now? and he made Answer, Oh, yes, he had
known a Serving-Wench in Oxon depone she had beene nipped and haled by
'em; and, of Crickets, he sayd he had manie Times seene an old Wife in
_Buckinghamshire_, who was soe pestered by one, that she cried, "I can't
heare myself talk! I'd as lief heare Nought as heare thee;" soe poured a
Kettle of boiling Water into the Cranny wherein the harmlesse Creature
lay, and scalded it to Death; and, the next Day, became as deaf as a
Stone, and remained soe ever after, a Monument of God's Displeasure, at
her destroying one of the most innocent of His Creatures.
After this, he woulde tell us of this and that worn-our [Transcriber's
note: worn-out?] Superstition, as o' the Friar's Lantern, and of
Lob-lie-by-the-Fire, untill _Mary_, who affects not the Unreall, went off
to make the Flip. _Anne_ presentlie exclaimed, "Father! when you sayd--
'The Shepherds on the Lawn,
Or e'er the Point of Dawn,
Sat simply chatting in a rustic Row,
Full little thought they then
That the mighty _Pan_
Was kindly come to live with them, below,'
whom meant you by _Pan_? Sure, you would not call our Lord by the Name
of a heathen Deity?"
"Well, Child," returns Father, "you know He calls Himself a Shepherd, and
was in truth what _Pan_ was onlie supposed to be, the God of Shepherds;
albeit _Lavaterus_, in his Treatise _De Lemuribus_, doth indeede tell us,
that by _Pan_ some understoode noe other than the great _Sathanas_, whose
Kingdom being overturned at _Christ's_ Coming, his inferior Demons
expelled, and his Oracles silenced, he is some sort was himself
overthrown. And the Story goes, that, about the Time of our Lord's
Passion, certain Persons sailing from _Italy_ to _Cyprus_, and passing by
certayn Islands, did heare a Voice calling aloud, _Thamus, Thamus_, which
was the Name of the Ship's Pilot, who, making Answer to the unseene
Appellant, was bidden, when he came to _Palodas_, to tell that the great
God _Pan_ was dead; which he doubting to doe, yet for that when he came
to _Palodas_, there suddainlie was such a Calm of Wind that the Ship
stoode still in the Sea, he was constrayned to cry aloud that _Pan_ was
dead; whereupon there were hearde such piteous Shrieks and Cries of
invisible Beings, echoing from haunted Spring and Dale, as ne'er smote
human Ears before nor since: Nymphs and Wood-Gods, or they that had
passed for such, breaking up House and retreating to their own Place. I
warrant you, there was Trouble among the Sylvan People that Day--Satyrs
hirsute and cloven-footed Fauns.
". . . Many a Time and oft have _Charles Diodati_ and I discust fond
Legends, such as this, over our Winter Hearth; with our Chestnuts
blackening and crackling on the Hob, and our o'er-ripe Pears sputtering
in the Fire, while the Wind raved without among the creaking Elms. . . ."
Father still hammering on old Times, and his owne young Days, I beganne
to frame unto myself an Image of what he might then have beene; piecing
it out by Help of his Picture on the Wall; but coulde get no cleare
Apprehension of my Mother, she dying soe untimelie. Askt him, Was she
beautifulle? He sayth, Oh yes, and clouded over o' the suddain; then
went over her Height, Size, and Colour, etc.; dwelt on the Generalls of
personal Beauty, how it shadowed forthe the Mind, was desirable or
dangerous, etc.
On dispersing for the Night, he noted, somewhat hurt, _Anne's_ abrupt
Departure without kissing his Hand, and sayd, "Is she sulky or unwell?"
In our Chamber, found her alreadie half undrest, a reading of her Bible;
sayd, "Father tooke your briefe Good-nighte amisse." She made Answer
shortlie, "Well, what neede to marvell; he cannot put his Arm about me
without being reminded how mis-shapen I am."
Poor _Nan_! we had been speaking of faire Proportions, and had
thoughtlessly cut her to the Quick; yet Father _knoweth_, though he
cannot _see_, that her Face is that of an Angel.
About One o' the Clock, was rouzed (though _Anne_ continued sleeping
soundly) by hearing Father give his three Signal-taps agaynst the Wall.
Half drest, and with bare Feet thrust into Slippers, I hastily ran in to
him; he cried, "_Deb_, for the Love of Heaven get Pen and Paper to sett
Something down." I replied, "Sure, Father, you gave me quite a Turn; I
thought you were ill," and sett to my Task, marvellous ill-conditioned,
expecting some Crotchet had taken him concerning his Will.
'Stead of which, out comes a Volley of Poetry he had lain a brewing till
his Brain was like to burst; and soe I, in my thin Night Cotes, must
needs jot it all down, for Feare it should ooze away before Morning.
Sure, I thought he never woulde get to the End, and really feared at
firste he was crazing a little, but indeede all Poets doe when the Vein
is on 'em. At length, with a Sigh of Relief, he says, "That will
doe--Good-night, little Maid." I coulde not help saying, "'Twas a lucky
Thing for you, Father, that Step-mother was from Home;" he laught, drew
me to him, kissed me, and sayd, "Why, your Face is quite cold--are your
Feet unslippered?"
"Unstockinged," I replyed.
"I am quite concerned I knew it not sooner," he rejoyned, in an Accent of
such Kindnesse, that all my Vexation melted away, and I e'en protested I
did not mind it a Bit.
"Since it is soe," quoth he, "I shall the less mind having Recourse to
you agayn; onlie I must insist on your taking Care to wrap yourself up
more warmly, since you need not feare my being ill."