"When I consider how my Light is spent,
Ere half my Days, in this dark World and wide,
And that one Talent, which is Death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true Account, lest He, returning, chide;
'Doth God exact Day-labour, Light denied?'
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That Murmur, soon replies,--'God doth not need.
Either Man's Work, or his own Gifts. Who best
Bear his mild Yoke, they serve him best. His State
Is kingly; Thousands at his Bidding speed,
And post o'er Land and Ocean without Rest,
They also serve who only stand and wait.'"
. . . We were all quiet enough for a while after this . . . _Ned_ onlie
breathing hard, and squeezing Father's Hand. At length, Mother calls
from the House, "Who will come in to Strawberries and Cream?"
"Ah!" says Father, "that is not an ill Call. And when we have discussed
our neat Repast, thou, _Ned_, shalt touch the Theorbo, and let us hear
thy balmy Voice. Time was, when thou didst sing like a young Chorister."
. . . Just as we were returning to the House, _Mary_ ran forth, crying,
"Oh, _Deb_! you have not seen our Cow. She has just been milked, and is
being turned out, even now, to the Pasture. See, there she is; but all
the Others have gone out of Sight, over the Hill."
Mother observed, "Left to herself, she will go, her own Calf speedily
seeking."
"My Dear," says Father, "that's a Hexameter: do try to make another."
"Indeed, Mr. _Milton_, I know nothing of Hexameters or Hexagons either:
'tis enough for me to keep all straight and tight. Let's to Supper."
_Anne_ had crushed his Strawberries, and mixed them with Cream, and now
she put his Spoon into his Hand, saying, in jest, "Father, this is
Angels' Food, you know. I Have pressed the Meath from many a Berry, and
tempered dulcet Creams."
"Hush, you Rogue," says he; "_Ned_ will find us out."
"Is Uncle still at his great Work?" whispers Cousin to Mother.
"Indeed, I know not if you call it such," she replies, in the same
Undertone. "He hath given over all those grand Things with hard Names,
that used to make him so notable abroad, and so esteemed by his own Party
at Home; and now only amuses himself by making the _Bible_ a Peg to hang
his Idlenesse upon."
Sure what a Look _Ned_ gave her! Fearful lest Father should overhear
(for Blindness quickens the other Senses), he runs up to the Bookshelf,
and cries, "Why, Uncle, you have brought down Plenty of Entertainment
with you! Here are _Plato, Xenophon_, and _Sallust, Homer_ and
_Euripides, Dante_ and _Petrarch, Chaucer_ and _Spenser_, . . . and . . .
oh, oh! you read Plays sometimes, though you were so hard upon
_Shakspeare_. . . . Here's 'La Scena Tragica d' _Adamo_ ed _Eva_,'
dedicated to the Duchess of _Mantua_."
"Come away from that Corner, _Ned,"_ says Father; "there's a Rat behind
the Books; he will bite your Fingers--I hear him scratching now. You had
best attack your Strawberries."
"I think this Sort will preserve well," says Mother. "_Betty_, in
'lighting from the Coach, must needs sett her Foot on the only Pot of
Preserve I had left; which she had stuffed under the Seat, instead of
carrying it, as she was bidden, in her Hand."
"How fine it is, though," says Father, laughing, "to peacock it in a
Coach now and then! _Pavoneggiarsi in un Cocchio_! Only, except for the
Bravery of it, I doubt if little _Deb_ were not better off on her
Pillion. I remember, on my Road to _Paris_, the Bottom of the Caroche
fell out; and there sate I, with _Hubert_, who was my Attendant, with our
Feet dangling through. Even the grave _Grotius_ laughed at the Accident."
"Was _Grotius_ grave?" says _Ned_.
"Believe me, he was," says Father. "He had had Enough to make him so.
One feels taller in the Consciousness of having known such a Man. He was
great in practical! Things; he was also a profound Scholar, though he
made out the fourth Kingdom in _Daniel's_ Prophecy to be the Kingdoms of
the _Lagidae_ and the _Seleucidae_; which, you know, _Ned_, could not
possibly be."
Chatting thus of this and that, we idled over Supper, had some Musick,
and went to Bed. And soe much for the only Guest we are like to have for
some Months.
_Anne_ told me, at Bed-time, of the Journey down. The Coach, she sayd,
was most uncomfortable, Mother having so over-stuffed it. For her Share,
she had a Knife-box under her Feet, a Plate-basket at her Back, a
Bird-cage bobbing over her Head, and a Lapfull of Crockery-ware.
Providentially, _Betty_ turned squeamish, and could not ride inside, soe
she was put upon the Box, to the great Comfort of all within. Father, at
the Outset, was chafed and captious, but soon settled down, improved the
Circumstances of the Times, made Jokes on Mother, recalled old Journies
to _Buckinghamshire_, and, finally, set himself to silent Self-communion,
with a pensive Smile on his Face, which, as _Anne_ said, let her know
well enow what he was about. Arrived at _Chalfont_, her first Care was
to make him comfortable; while Mother, _Mary_, and _Betty_ were turning
the House upside down; and in this her Care, she so well succeeded, that,
to her Dismay, he bade her take Pen and Ink, and commenced dictating to
her as composedly as if they were in _Bunhill Fields_. This was somewhat
inopportune, for every Thing was to seek and to set in Order; and,
indeed, Mother soon came in, all of a Heat, and sayd, "I wonder, my Dear,
you can keep _Nan_ here, at such idling, when she has her Bed to make,
and her Box to unpack." Father let her go without a Word, and sate in
peacefull Cogitation all the Rest of the Evening--the only Person at
Leisure in the House. Howbeit, the next Time he heard Mother
chiding--which was after Supper--at _Anne_, for trying to catch a Bat,
which was a Creature she longed to look at narrowly, he sayd, "My Dear,
we should be very cautious how we cut off another Person's Pleasures.
'Tis an easy Thing to say to them, 'You are wrong or foolish,' and soe
check them in their Pursuit; but what have we to give them that will
compensate for it? How many harmless Refreshments and Refuges from sick
or tired Thought may thus be destroyed! We may deprive the Spider of his
Web, and the Robin of his Nest, but can never repair the Damage to them.
Let us live, and let live; leave me to hunt my Butterfly, and _Anne_ to
catch her Bat."
Our Life here is most pleasant. Father and I pass almost the whole of
our Time in the open Air--he dictating, and I writing; while Mother and
_Mary_ find 'emselves I know not whether more of Toyl or Pastime, within
Doors,--washing, brewing, baking, pickling, and preserving; to say Nought
of the Dairy, which supplies us with endless Variety of Country Messes,
such as Father's Soul loveth. 'Tis well we have this Resource, or our
Bill of Fare would be somewhat meagre; for the Butcher kills nothing but
Mutton, except at _Christ-mass_. Then, we make our own Bread, for we now
keep strict Quarantine, the Plague having now so much spread, that there
have e'en been one or two Cases in _Chalfont_. The only One to seek for
Employment has been poor _Anne_, whose great Resources at Home have ever
been Church-going and visiting poor Folk. She can do neither here, for
we keep close, even on the Sabbath; and she can neither read to Father,
take long, lonely Rambles, nor help Mother in her Housewifery. Howbeit,
a Resource hath at length turned up; for the lonely Cot (which is the
only Dwelling within Sight) has become the Refuge of a poor, pious Widow,
whose only Daughter, a Weaver of Gold and Silver Lace, has been thrown
out of Employ by the present Stagnation of all Business. _Anne_ picked
up an Acquaintance with 'em shortly after our coming; and, being by
Nature a Hoarder, in an innocent Way, so as always to have a few
Shillings by her for charitable Uses, when _Mary_ and I have none, she
hath improved her Commerce with _Joan Elliott_ to that Degree, as to get
her to teach her her pretty Business, at the Price of the Contents of her
little Purse. So these two sit harmoniously at their Loom, within
Earshot of Father and me, while he dictates to me his wondrous Poem. We
are nearing the End of it now, and have reached the Reconciliation of
_Adam_ and _Eve_, which, I think, affected him a good deal, and
abstracted his Mind all the Evening; for why, else, should he have so
forgotten himself as to call me sweet _Moll_? . . . _Mary_ lookt up,
thinking he meant her; but he never calls her _Moll_ or _Molly_; and, I
believe, was quite unaware he had done so to me: but it showed the Course
his Mind was taking.
This Morning, I was straying down a Blackthorn Lane, when a blue-eyed,
fresh-coloured young Lady, in a sad-coloured Skirt, and large-flapped
Beaver, without either Feather or Buckle, swept by me on a small white
Palfrey. She held a Bunch of Tiger Lilies in her Hand, the gayety of
which contrasted strangelie enow with her sober Apparell; and I wondered
why a peculiar Classe of Folks should deem they please God by wearing the
dullest of Colours, when He hath arrayed the Flowers of the Field in the
liveliest of Hues. Somehow, I conceited her to be Mistress _Gulielma
Springett_--and so, indeed, she proved; for, on reaching Home after a
lengthened Ramble, I saw the Tiger Lilies lying on the Table, and found
she had spent a full Hour with Father, who much relished her Talk. Sure,
she might have brought a blind Man Flowers that had some Fragrance,
however dull of hue.
To-day, as we were sitting under the Hedge, we heard a rough Voice
shouting, "Hoy! hoy! what are you about there?" To which another Man's
Voice, just over against us, deprecatingly replied, "No Harm, I promise
you, Master. . . . We have clean Bills of Health; and my Wife and I,
Foot-sore and hungry, do but Purpose to set up our little Cabin against
the Bank, till the Sabbath is overpast."
"But you must set it up Somewhere else," cries the other, who was the
_Chalfont_ Constable; "for we _Chalfont_ Folks are very particular, and
can't have Strangers come harbouring here in our Highways and
Hedges,--dying, and making themselves disagreeable."
"But we don't mean to die or be disagreeable," says the other. "We are
on our Way to my Wife's Parish; and, sure, you cannot stop us on the
King's Highway."
"Oh! but we can, though," says the Constable. "And, besides, this is not
the King's Highway, but only a Bye-way, which is next to private
Property; and the Gentleman at present in Occupation of that private
Property will be highly and justly offended if you go to give him the
Plague."
"That's me," says Father. "Do tell him, _Deb_, not to be so hard on the
poor People, but to let them abide where they are till the Sabbath is
over. I dare say they have clean Bills of Health, as they state, and the
Spot is so lonely, they need not be denied Fire and Water, which is next
to Excommunication."
So I parleyed with _John Constable_, and he parleyed with the Travellers,
who really had Passports, and seemed Honest as well as Sound. So they
were permitted, without Let or Hindrance, to erect their little Booth;
and in a little while they had collected Sticks enough to light a Fire,
the Smoke of which annoyed us not, because we were to Windward.
"What have we for Dinner To-day?" says Father.
"A cold Shoulder of Mutton," says Mother, who had thrown 'em a couple of
Cabbages.
"Well," says Father, "'twas to a cold Shoulder of Mutton that _Samuel_
set down _Saul_; and what was good enough for a Prophet may well content
a Poet. I propose, that what we leave of ours To-day, should be given to
these poor People for their Sabbath's Dinner; and I, for one, shall eat
no Meat To-day."
In fact, none did but _Mary_ and Mother, who find fasting not good for
their Stomachs; soe _Anne_, who is the most fearlesse of us all, handed
the Joint over to them, with some broken Bread and Dripping, which was
most thankfully received. In Truth, I believe them harmless People, for
they are now a singing Psalms.
_Ellwood_ has turned up agayn, to the great Pleasure of Father, who
delights in his Company, and likes his Reading better than ours, though
he _will_ call Pater Payter. Consequence is, I have infinitely more
Leisure, and can ramble hither and thither, (always shunning Wayfarers),
and bring Home my Lap full of Flowers and Weeds, with rusticall Names,
such as _Ragged Robin, Sneezewort, Cream-and-Codlins, Jack-in-the-Hedge_,
or _Sauce-alone_. Many of these I knew not before; but I describe them
to Father, and he tells me what they are. He hath finished his Poem, and
given it _Ellwood_ to read, in the most careless Fashion imaginable,
saying, "You can take this Home, and run through it at your Leisure. I
should like to hear your Judgment on it some Time or other." Nor do I
believe he has ever since given himself an uneasy Thought of what that
Judgment may be, nor what the World at large may think of it. His
Pleasure is not in Praise but Production; the last makes him now and then
a little feverish; the other, or its want, never. Just at last, 'twas
hard Work to us both; he was like a Wheel running downhill, that must get
to the End before it stopped. Mother scolded him, and made him promise
he would leave off for a Week or so; at least, she says he did, and he
says he did not, and asks her whether, if the Grass had promised not to
grow she would believe it.
Poor _Ellwood's_ Love-bonds prove rather more irksome to him than those
of his Gaol; he hath renewed his Intercourse with our Friends at the
_Grange_, only to find a dangerous Rival stept into his Place, in the
Person of one _William Penn_--in fact, I suspect Mistress _Guli_ is
engaged to him already. _Ellwood_ hath been closetted with my Father
this Morning, pouring out his Woes--methinks he must have been to seek
for a Confidant! When he came forth, the poor young Man's Eyes were red.
I cannot but pity him, tho' he is such a Formalist.
I wish _Anne_ were a little more demonstrative; Father would then be as
assured of her Affection as of mine, and treat her with equal Tenderness.
But, no, she cannot be; she will sitt and look piteously on his blind
Face, but, alas! he cannot see that; and when he pours forth the full
Tide of Melody on his Organ, and hymns mellifluous Praise, the Tears rush
to her eyes, and she is oft obliged to quit the Chamber; but, alas! he
knows not that. So he goes on, deeming her, I fear me, stupid as well as
silent, indifferent as well as infirm.
I am not avised of her ever having let him feel her Sympathy, save when
he was inditing to me his third Book, while she sate at her Sewing.
'Twas at these lines:--
"Thus with the Year,
Seasons return; but not to me returns
Day, or the sweet Approach of Even or Morn,
Or Sight of vernal Bloom or Summer's Rose,
Or Flocks or Herds, or human Face divine,
But Clouds instead, and over-during Dark
Surrounds me; from the cheerful Ways of Men
Cut off: and for the Book of Knowledge fair,
Presented with an universal Blank."
His Brow was a little contracted, but his Face was quite composed; while
she, on t'other Hand, with her Work dropped from her Lap, and her Eyes
streaming, sate gazing on him, the Image of Woe. At length, timidly
stole to his Side, and, after hesitating awhile, kissed both his Eyelids.
He caught her to him, quite taken by Surprise, and, for a Moment, both
wept bitterly. This was soon put a Stop to, by Mother's coming in, with
her Head full of stale Fish; howbeit Father treated _Anne_ with uncommon
Tenderness all that Evening, calling her his sweet _Nan_; while she,
shrinking back again into her Shell, was shyer than ever. But his
Spiritts were soothed rather than dashed by this little Outbreak; and at
Bedtime, he said, even cheerfully, "Now, good-night, Girls: . . . may it,
indeed, be as good to you as to me. You know, Night brings back my
Day--_I am not blind in my Dreams_."
I wish I knew the Distinction between Temperament and Genius: how far
Father's even Frame is attributable to one or t'other. If to the former,
why, we might hope to attain it as well as he;--yet, no; this is equallie
the Gift of God's Grace. Our Humours we may controwl, but our
Temperament is born with us; and if one should say, "Why are you a Vessel
of glorious things, while I am a Vessel of Things weak and vile?"--nay,
but oh! Man or Woman, who art thou that questionest the Will of God? His
Election is shewn no less in the Gift of Genius or of an equable
Temperament than of spirituall Life; and the Thing formed may not say to
him that formed it, "Why hast thou made me thus?"
Father, indeed, can flame out in political Controversy, and lay about him
as with a Flail, right and left, making the Chaff, and sometimes the
Wheat too, fly about his Ears. 'Twas while threshing the Wheat by the
Wine-press at _Ophrah_, that _Gideon_ was called by the Angel; and
methinks Father hath in like Manner been summoned from the Floor of his
Threshing, to discourse of Heaven and Earth, and bring forth from his
Mind's Storehouse Things new and old. I wonder if the World will ever
give heed to his Teaching. Suppose a Spark of Fire should drop some
Night on the Manuscript, while _Ettwood_ is dozing over it;--why, there's
an end on't. I suppose Father could never do it over again. I wonder
how many fine Things have been lost in suchlike Ways; or whether God ever
permitts a truly fine Thing to be utterly lost. We may drop a Diamond
into the Sea; but there it is, at the Bottom of the Great Deep.
_Justinian's Pandects_ turned up again. The Art of making Glass was lost
once. The Passage round the _Cape_ was made and forgotten.----If I pore
over this, I shall puzzle my Head. Howbeit, were I to round the _Cape_,
I should hardly look for stranger and more glorious Scenes than Father
hath in his Poem made familiar to me. He hath done more for me than
_Columbus_ for Queen _Isabel_--hath revealed to me a far better _New
World_. Now, I scarce ever look on the setting Sun, surrounded by Hues
more gorgeous than those of the High-priest's Breast-plate, without
picturing the Angel of the Sun seated on that bright Beam which bore him,
Slope downward, beneath the _Azores_. And, in the less brilliant Hour,
I, by Faith or Fancy, discern _Ithuriel_ and _Zephon_ in the Shade; and
by their Side a third, of regal Port, but faded Splendour wan. A little
later still, can sometimes hear the Voice of God, or, as I suppose, we
might say, the Word of God, walking in the Garden. _Pneuma_! His
Breath! His Spirit! How hushed and still! Then, the Night cometh, when
no Man can work--when the young Lions, in tropical Climes, waking from
their Day-sleep, seek their Meat from God. Albeit they may prowl about
the Dwellings of his people, they cannot enter, for He that watcheth them
neither slumbers nor sleeps. Moreover, heavenly Vigils relieve one
another at their Posts, and go their Midnight Rounds; sometimes, singing
(Father says), with heavenly Touch of instrumental Sounds, in full
harmonic Number joined . . . yes, and Shepherds, once, at least, have
heard them.
And then . . . and then Mother cries, "How often, _Deb_, shall I bid you
lock the Gate at nine o'clock, and bring me in the Key?"
_Sept. 2nd, 1665_.
Good so! Master _Ellwood_ hath brought back the MS. at last, and
delivered his Approbation thereon with the Air of a competent Authority,
which Father took in the utmost good part, and chatted with him on the
Subject for some Time. Howbeit, he is not much flattered, I fancy, by
the Quaker's pragmatick Sanction, qualifyde, too, as it was, to show his
own Discernment; and when I consider that the major part of Criticks may
be as little fitted to take the Measure of their Subject as _Ellwood_ is
of Father, I cannot but see that the gleaning of Father's Grapes is
better than the Vintage of the Critick's _Abiezer_.
To wind up all, _Ellwood_, primming up his Mouth, says, "Thou hast found
much to tell us, Friend _Milton_, on _Paradise Lost_;--now, what hast
thou to tell of _Paradise Regained_?"
Father said nothing at the Time, but hath since been brooding a good
deal, and keeping me much to the Reading of the _New Testament_; and I
think my Night-work will soon begin again.
_Ellwood's_ Talk was much of _Guli Springett_, whom I have seen sundry
times, and think high-flown, in spight of her levelling Principles and
demure Carriage. The Youth is bewitched with her, I think; what has a
Woman to do with Logique? My Belief is, he might as well hope to marry
the Moon as to win Mistress _Springett's_ Hand; however, his Self-opinion
is considerable. He chode Father this Morning for Organ-playing, saying
he doubted its lawfullness. Oh, the Prigg!
I grieve to think _Mary_ can sometimes be a little spightfull as well as
unduteous. She is ill at her Pen, and having To-day made some Blunder,
for which Father chid her, not overmuch, she rudely made Answer, "I never
had a Writing-master." _Betty_, being by, treasured up, as I could see,
this ill-natured Speech: and 'twas unfair too; for, if we never had a
Writing-master, yet my Aunt _Agar_ taught us; and 'twas our own Fault if
we improved no more. Indeed, we have had a scrambling Sort of Education;
but, in many respects, our Advantages have exceeded those of many young
Women; and among them I reckon, first and foremost, continuall
Intercourse with a superior Mind.
If a Piece of mere Leather, by frequent Contact with Silver, acquires a
certain Portion of the pure and bright Metal; sure, the Children of a
gifted Parent must, by the Collision of their Minds, insensibly, as
'twere, imbibe somewhat of his finer Parts. _Ned Phillips_, indeed,
sayth we are like People living so close under a big Mountain, as not to
know how high it is; but I think we . . . at least, I do. And, whatever
be our scant Learnings, Father, despite his limited Means, hath never
grutched us the Supply of a reall Want; and is, at this Time, paying
_Joan Elliott_ at a good Rate for perfecting _Anne_ in her pretty Work.
I am sorry _Mary_ should thus have sneaped him; and I am sorry I ever
either hurt him--by uncivil Speech, or wronged him by unkind Thought.
Poor _Nan_, with all her Infirmities, is, perhaps, his best Child. Not
that I am a bad one, neither.