Mary Powell & Deborah's Diary

by Anne Manning

JOURNALL

Forest Hill, Oxon, May 1st, 1643.

. . . Seventeenth Birthdaye. A Gypsie Woman at the Gate woulde faine have tolde my Fortune; but Mother chased her away, saying she had doubtlesse harboured in some of the low Houses in Oxford, and mighte bring us the Plague. Coulde have cried for Vexation; she had promised to tell me the Colour of my Husband's Eyes; but Mother says she believes I shall never have one, I am soe sillie. Father gave me a gold Piece. Dear Mother is chafed, methinks, touching this Debt of five hundred Pounds, which Father says he knows not how to pay. Indeed, he sayd, overnighte, his whole personal Estate amounts to but five hundred Pounds, his Timber and Wood to four hundred more, or thereabouts; and the Tithes and Messuages of Whateley are no great Matter, being mortgaged for about as much moore, and he hath lent Sights of Money to them that won't pay, so 'tis hard to be thus prest. Poor Father! 'twas good of him to give me this gold Piece.

May 2nd, 1643.

Cousin Rose married to Master Roger Agnew. Present, Father, Mother, and Brother of Rose. Father, Mother, Dick, Bob, Harry, and I; Squire Paice and his Daughter Audrey; an olde Aunt of Master Roger's, and one of his Cousins, a stiffe-backed Man with large Eares, and such a long Nose! Cousin Rose looked bewtifulle—pitie so faire a Girl should marry so olde a Man—'tis thoughte he wants not manie Years of fifty.

May 7th, 1643.

New Misfortunes in the Poultrie Yarde. Poor Mother's Loyalty cannot stand the Demands for her best Chickens, Ducklings, etc., for the Use of his Majesty's Officers since the King hath beene in Oxford. She accuseth my Father of having beene wonne over by a few faire Speeches to be more of a Royalist than his natural Temper inclineth him to; which, of course, he will not admit.

May 8th, 1643.

Whole Day taken up in a Visit to Rose, now a Week married, and growne quite matronlie already. We reached Sheepscote about an Hour before Noone. A long, broade, strait Walke of green Turf, planted with Hollyoaks, Sunflowers, etc., and some earlier Flowers alreadie in Bloom, led up to the rusticall Porch of a truly farm-like House, with low gable Roofs, a long lattice Window on either Side the Doore, and three Casements above. Such, and no more, is Rose's House! But she is happy, for she came running forthe, soe soone as she hearde Clover's Feet, and helped me from my Saddle all smiling, tho' she had not expected to see us. We had Curds and Creame; and she wished it were the Time of Strawberries, for she sayd they had large Beds; and then my Father and the Boys went forthe to looke for Master Agnew. Then Rose took me up to her Chamber, singing as she went; and the long, low Room was sweet with Flowers. Sayd I, "Rose, to be Mistress of this pretty Cottage, 'twere hardlie amisse to marry a Man as olde as Master Roger." "Olde!" quoth she, "deare Moll, you must not deeme him olde; why, he is but fortytwo; and am not I twenty-three?" She lookt soe earneste and hurte, that I coulde not but falle a laughing.

May 9th, 1643.

Mother gone to Sandford. She hopes to get Uncle John to lend Father this Money. Father says she may try. Tis harde to discourage her with an ironicalle Smile, when she is doing alle she can, and more than manie Women woulde, to help Father in his Difficultie; but suche, she sayth somewhat bitterlie, is the lot of our Sex. She bade Father mind that she had brought him three thousand Pounds, and askt what had come of them. Answered; helped to fille the Mouths of nine healthy Children, and stop the Mouth of an easie Husband; soe, with a Kiss, made it up. I have the Keys, and am left Mistresse of alle, to my greate Contentment; but the Children clamour for Sweetmeats, and Father sayth, "Remember, Moll, Discretion is the better Part of Valour."

After Mother had left, went into the Paddock, to feed the Colts with Bread; and while they were putting their Noses into Robin's Pockets, Dick brought out the two Ponies, and set me on one of them, and we had a mad Scamper through the Meadows and down the Lanes; I leading. Just at the Turne of Holford's Close, came shorte upon a Gentleman walking under the Hedge, clad in a sober, genteel Suit, and of most beautifulle Countenance, with Hair like a Woman's, of a lovely pale brown, long and silky, falling over his Shoulders. I nearlie went over him, for Clover's hard Forehead knocked agaynst his Chest; but he stoode it like a Rock; and lookinge firste at me and then at Dick, he smiled and spoke to my Brother, who seemed to know him, and turned about and walked by us, sometimes stroaking Clover's shaggy Mane. I felte a little ashamed; for Dick had sett me on the Poney just as I was, my Gown somewhat too shorte for riding: however, I drewe up my Feet and let Clover nibble a little Grasse, and then got rounde to the neare Side, our new Companion stille between us. He offered me some wild Flowers, and askt me theire Names; and when I tolde them, he sayd I knew more than he did, though he accounted himselfe a prettie fayre Botaniste: and we went on thus, talking of the Herbs and Simples in the Hedges; and I sayd how prettie some of theire Names were, and that, methought, though Adam had named alle the Animals in Paradise, perhaps Eve had named alle the Flowers. He lookt earnestlie at me, on this, and muttered "prettie." Then Dick askt of him News from London, and he spoke, methought, reservedlie; ever and anon turning his bright, thoughtfulle Eyes on me. At length, we parted at the Turn of the Lane.

I askt Dick who he was, and he told me he was one Mr. John Milton, the Party to whom Father owed five hundred Pounds. He was the Sonne of a Buckinghamshire Gentleman, he added, well connected, and very scholarlike, but affected towards the Parliament. His Grandsire, a zealous Papiste, formerly lived in Oxon, and disinherited the Father of this Gentleman for abjuring the Romish Faith.

When I found how faire a Gentleman was Father's Creditor, I became the more interested in deare Mother's Successe.

May 13th, 1643.

Dick began to harpe on another Ride to Sheepscote this Morning, and persuaded Father to let him have the bay Mare, soe he and I started at aboute Ten o' the Clock. Arrived at Master Agnew's Doore, found it open, no one in Parlour or Studdy; soe Dick tooke the Horses rounde, and then we went straite thro' the House, into the Garden behind, which is on a rising Ground, with pleached Alleys and turfen Walks, and a Peep of the Church through the Trees. A Lad tolde us his Mistress was with the Bees, soe we walked towards the Hives; and, from an Arbour hard by, hearde a Murmur, though not of Bees, issuing. In this rusticall Bowre, found Roger Agnew reading to Rose and to Mr. Milton. Thereupon ensued manie cheerfulle Salutations, and Rose proposed returning to the House, but Master Agnew sayd it was pleasanter in the Bowre, where was Room for alle; soe then Rose offered to take me to her Chamber to lay aside my Hoode, and promised to send a Junkett into the Arbour; whereon Mr. Agnew smiled at Mr. Milton, and sayd somewhat of "neat-handed Phillis."

As we went alonge, I tolde Rose I had seene her Guest once before, and thought him a comely, pleasant Gentleman. She laught, and sayd, "Pleasant? why, he is one of the greatest Scholars of our Time, and knows more Languages than you or I ever hearde of." I made Answer, "That may be, and yet might not ensure his being pleasant, but rather the contrary, for I cannot reade Greeke and Latin, Rose, like you." Quoth Rose, "But you can reade English, and he hath writ some of the loveliest English Verses you ever hearde, and hath brought us a new Composure this Morning, which Roger, being his olde College Friend, was discussing with him, to my greate Pleasure, when you came. After we have eaten the Junkett, he shall beginne it again." "By no Means," said I, "for I love Talking more than Reading." However, it was not soe to be, for Rose woulde not be foyled; and as it woulde not have been good Manners to decline the Hearinge in Presence of the Poet, I was constrayned to suppresse a secret Yawne, and feign Attention, though, Truth to say, it soone wandered; and, during the last halfe Hour, I sat in a compleat Dreame, tho' not unpleasant one. Roger having made an End, 'twas diverting to heare him commending the Piece unto the Author, who as gravely accepted it; yet, with nothing fullesome about the one, or misproud about the other. Indeed, there was a sedate Sweetnesse in the Poet's Wordes as well as Lookes; and shortlie, waiving the Discussion of his owne Composures, he beganne to talke of those of other Men, as Shakspeare, Spenser, Cowley, Ben Jonson, and of Tasso, and Tasso's Friend the Marquis of Villa, whome, it appeared, Mr. Milton had Knowledge of in Italy. Then he askt me, woulde I not willingly have seene the Country of Romeo and Juliet, and prest to know whether I loved Poetry; but finding me loath to tell, sayd he doubted not I preferred Romances, and that he had read manie, and loved them dearly too. I sayd, I loved Shakspeare's Plays better than Sidney's Arcadia; on which he cried "Righte," and drew nearer to me, and woulde have talked at greater length; but, knowing from Rose how learned he was, I feared to shew him I was a sillie Foole; soe, like a sillie Foole, held my Tongue.

Dinner; Eggs, Bacon, roast Ribs of Lamb, Spinach, Potatoes, savoury Pie, a Brentford Pudding, and Cheesecakes. What a pretty Housewife Rose is! Roger's plain Hospitalitie and scholarlie Discourse appeared to much Advantage. He askt of News from Paris; and Mr. Milton spoke much of the Swedish Ambassadour, Dutch by Birth; a Man renowned for his Learning, Magnanimity, and Misfortunes, of whome he had seene much. He tolde Rose and me how this Mister Van der Groote had beene unjustlie caste into Prison by his Countrymen; and how his good Wife had shared his Captivitie, and had tried to get his Sentence reversed; failing which, she contrived his Escape in a big Chest, which she pretended to be full of heavie olde Bookes. Mr. Milton concluded with the Exclamation, "Indeede, there never was such a Woman;" on which, deare Roger, whome I beginne to love, quoth, "Oh yes, there are manie such,—we have two at Table now." Whereat, Mr. Milton smiled.

At Leave-taking pressed Mr. Agnew and Rose to come and see us soone; and Dick askt Mr. Milton to see the Bowling Greene.

Ride Home, delightfulle.

May 14th, 1643.

Thought, when I woke this Morning, I had been dreaminge of St. Paul let down the Wall in a Basket; but founde, on more closely examining the Matter, 'twas Grotius carried down the Ladder in a Chest; and methought I was his Wife, leaninge from the Window above, and crying to the Souldiers, "Have a Care, have a Care!" 'Tis certayn I shoulde have betraied him by an Over-anxietie.

Resolved to give Father a Sheepscote Dinner, but Margery affirmed the Haunch woulde no longer keepe, so was forced to have it drest, though meaninge to have kept it for Companie. Little Kate, who had been out alle the Morning, came in with her Lap full of Butter-burs, the which I was glad to see, as Mother esteemes them a sovereign Remedie 'gainst the Plague, which is like to be rife in Oxford this Summer, the Citie being so overcrowded on account of his Majestie. While laying them out on the Stille-room Floor, in bursts Robin to say Mr. Agnew and Mr. Milton were with Father at the Bowling Greene, and woulde dine here. Soe was glad Margery had put down the Haunch. Twas past One o' the Clock, however, before it coulde be sett on Table; and I had just run up to pin on my Carnation Knots, when I hearde them alle come in discoursing merrilie.

At Dinner Mr. Milton askt Robin of his Studdies; and I was in Payne for the deare Boy, knowing him to be better affected to his out-doore Recreations than to his Booke; but he answered boldlie he was in Ovid, and I lookt in Mr. Milton's Face to guesse was that goode Scholarship or no; but he turned it towards my Father, and sayd he was trying an Experiment on two young Nephews of his owne, whether the reading those Authors that treate of physical Subjects mighte not advantage them more than the Poets; whereat my Father jested with him, he being himselfe one of the Fraternitie he seemed to despise. But he uphelde his Argumente so bravelie, that Father listened in earneste Silence. Meantime, the Cloth being drawne, and I in Feare of remaining over long, was avised to withdrawe myself earlie, Robin following, and begging me to goe downe to the Fish-ponds. Afterwards alle the others joyned us, and we sate on the Steps till the Sun went down, when, the Horses being broughte round, our Guests tooke Leave without returning to the House. Father walked thoughtfullie Home with me, leaning on my Shoulder, and spake little.

May 15th, 1643.

After writing the above last Night, in my Chamber, went to Bed and had a most heavenlie Dreame. Methoughte it was brighte, brighte Moonlighte, and I was walking with Mr. Milton on a Terrace,—not our Terrace, but in some outlandish Place; and it had Flights and Flights of green Marble Steps, descending, I cannot tell how farre, with Stone Figures and Vases on every one. We went downe and downe these Steps, till we came to a faire Piece of Water, still in the Moonlighte; and then, methoughte, he woulde be taking Leave, and sayd much aboute Absence and Sorrowe, as tho' we had knowne eache other some Space; and alle that he sayd was delightfulle to heare. Of a suddain we hearde Cries, as of Distresse, in a Wood that came quite down to the Water's Edge, and Mr. Milton sayd, "Hearken!" and then, "There is some one being slaine in the Woode, I must goe to rescue him;" and soe, drewe his Sword and ran off. Meanwhile, the Cries continued, but I did not seeme to mind them much; and, looking stedfastlie downe into the cleare Water, coulde see to an immeasurable Depth, and beheld, oh, rare! Girls sitting on glistening Rocks, far downe beneathe, combing and braiding their brighte Hair, and talking and laughing, onlie I coulde not heare aboute what. And theire Kirtles were like spun Glass, and theire Bracelets Coral and Pearl; and I thought it the fairest Sight that Eyes coulde see. But, alle at once, the Cries in the Wood affrighted them, for they started, looked upwards and alle aboute, and began swimming thro' the cleare Water so fast, that it became troubled and thick, and I coulde see them noe more. Then I was aware that the Voices in the Wood were of Dick and Harry, calling for me; and I soughte to answer, "Here!" but my Tongue was heavie. Then I commenced running towards them, through ever so manie greene Paths, in the Wood; but still, we coulde never meet; and I began to see grinning Faces, neither of Man nor Beaste, peeping at me through the Trees; and one and another of them called me by Name; and in greate Feare and Paine I awoke!

. . . Strange Things are Dreames. Dear Mother thinks much of them, and sayth they oft portend coming Events. My Father holdeth the Opinion that they are rather made up of what hath alreadie come to passe; but surelie naught like this Dreame of mine hath in anie Part befallen me hithertoe?

. . . What strange Fable or Masque were they reading that Day at Sheepscote? I mind not.

May 20th, 1643.

Too much busied of late to write, though much hath happened which I woulde fain remember. Dined at Shotover yesterday. Met Mother, who is coming Home in a Day or two; but helde short Speech with me aside concerning Housewifery. The Agnews there, of course: alsoe Mr. Milton, whom we have seene continuallie, lately; and I know not how it shoulde be, but he seemeth to like me. Father affects him much, but Mother loveth him not. She hath seene little of him: perhaps the less the better. Ralph Hewlett, as usuall, forward in his rough endeavours to please; but, though no Scholar, I have yet Sense enough to prefer Mr. Milton's Discourse to his. . . . I wish I were fonder of Studdy; but, since it cannot be, what need to vex? Some are born of one Mind, some of another. Rose was alwaies for her Booke; and, had Rose beene no Scholar, Mr. Agnew woulde, may be, never have given her a second Thoughte: but alle are not of the same Way of thinking.

. . . A few Lines received from Mother's "spoilt Boy," as Father hath called Brother Bill, ever since he went a soldiering. Blurred and mis-spelt as they are, she will prize them. Trulie, we are none of us grate hands at the Pen; 'tis well I make this my Copie-booke.

. . . Oh, strange Event! Can this be Happinesse? Why, then, am I soe feared, soe mazed, soe prone to weeping? I woulde that Mother were here. Lord have Mercie on me a sinfulle, sillie Girl, and guide my Steps arighte.

. . . It seemes like a Dreame, (I have done noughte but dreame of late, I think,) my going along the matted Passage, and hearing Voices in my Father's Chamber, just as my Hand was on the Latch; and my withdrawing my Hand, and going softlie away, though I never paused at disturbing him before; and, after I had beene a full Houre in the Stille Room, turning over ever soe manie Trays full of dried Herbs and Flower-leaves, hearing him come forthe and call, "Moll, deare Moll, where are you?" with I know not what of strange in the Tone of his Voice; and my running to him hastilie, and his drawing me into his Chamber, and closing the Doore. Then he takes me round the Waiste, and remains quite silent awhile; I gazing on him so strangelie! and at length, he says with a Kind of Sigh, "Thou art indeed but young yet! scarce seventeen,—and fresh, as Mr. Milton says, as the earlie May; too tender, forsooth, to leave us yet, sweet Child! But what wilt say, Moll, when I tell thee that a well-esteemed Gentleman, whom as yet indeed I know too little of, hath craved of me Access to the House as one that woulde win your Favour?"

Thereupon, such a suddain Faintness of the Spiritts overtooke me, (a Thing I am noe way subject to,) as that I fell down in a Swound at Father's Feet; and when I came to myselfe again, my Hands and Feet seemed full of Prickles, and there was a Humming, as of Rose's Bees, in mine Ears. Lettice and Margery were tending of me, and Father watching me full of Care; but soe soone as he saw me open mine Eyes, he bade the Maids stand aside, and sayd, stooping over me, "Enough, dear Moll; we will talk noe more of this at present." "Onlie just tell me," quoth I, in a Whisper, "who it is." "Guesse," sayd he. "I cannot," I softlie replied, and, with the Lie, came such a Rush of Blood to my Cheeks as betraied me. "I am sure you have though," sayd deare Father, gravelie, "and I neede not say it is Mr. Milton, of whome I know little more than you doe, and that is not enough. On the other Hand, Roger Agnew sayth that he is one of whome we can never know too much, and there is somewhat about him which inclines me to believe it." "What will Mother say?" interrupted I. Thereat Father's Countenance changed; and he hastilie answered, "Whatever she likes: I have an Answer for her, and a Question too;" and abruptlie left me, bidding me keepe myselfe quiet.

But can I? Oh, no! Father hath sett a Stone rolling, unwitting of its Course. It hath prostrated me in the first Instance, and will, I misdoubt, hurt my Mother. Father is bold enow in her Absence, but when she comes back will leave me to face her Anger alone; or else, make such a Stir to shew that he is not governed by a Woman, as wille make Things worse. Meanwhile, how woulde I have them? Am I most pleased or payned? dismayed or flattered? Indeed, I know not.

. . . I am soe sorry to have swooned. Needed I have done it, merelie to heare there was one who soughte my Favour? Aye, but one soe wise! so thoughtfulle! so unlike me!

Bedtime: same Daye.

. . . Who knoweth what a Daye will bring forth? After writing the above, I sate like one stupid, ruminating on I know not what, except on the Unlikelihood that one soe wise woulde trouble himselfe to seeke for aught and yet fail to win. After abiding a long Space in mine owne Chamber, alle below seeming still, I began to wonder shoulde we dine alone or not, and to have a hundred hot and cold Fitts of Hope and Feare. Thought I, if Mr. Milton comes, assuredlie I cannot goe down; but yet I must; but yet I will not; but yet the best will be to conduct myselfe as though nothing had happened; and, as he seems to have left the House long ago, maybe he hath returned to Sheepscote, or even to London. Oh that London! Shall I indeede ever see it? and the rare Shops, and the Play-houses, and Paul's, and the Towre? But what and if that ever comes to pass? Must I leave Home? dear Forest Hill? and Father and Mother, and the Boys? more especiallie Robin? Ah! but Father will give me a long Time to think of it. He will, and must.

Then Dinner-time came; and, with Dinner-time, Uncle Hewlett and Ralph, Squire Paice and Mr. Milton. We had a huge Sirloin, soe no Feare of short Commons. I was not ill pleased to see soe manie: it gave me an Excuse for holding my Peace, but I coulde have wished for another Woman. However, Father never thinks of that, and Mother will soone be Home. After Dinner the elder Men went to the Bowling-greene with Dick and Ralph; the Boys to the Fish-ponds; and, or ever I was aware, Mr. Milton was walking with me on the Terrace. My Dreame came soe forcibly to Mind, that my Heart seemed to leap into my Mouth; but he kept away from the Fish-ponds, and from Leave-taking, and from his morning Discourse with my Father,—at least for awhile; but some Way he got round to it, and sayd soe much, and soe well, that, after alle my Father's bidding me keepe quiete and take my Time, and mine owne Resolution to think much and long, he never rested till he had changed the whole Appearance of Things, and made me promise to be his, wholly and trulie.—And oh! I feare I have been too quickly wonne!

May 23d, 1643.

May 23d. At leaste, so sayeth the Calendar; but with me it hath beene trulie an April Daye, alle Smiles and Teares. And now my Spiritts are soe perturbed and dismaid, as that I know not whether to weepe or no, for methinks crying would relieve me. At first waking this Morning my Mind was elated at the Falsitie of my Mother's Notion, that no Man of Sense woulde think me worth the having; and soe I got up too proude, I think, and came down too vain, for I had spent an unusuall Time at the Glasse. My Spiritts, alsoe, were soe unequall, that the Boys took Notice of it, and it seemed as though I coulde breathe nowhere but out of Doors; so the Children and I had a rare Game of Play in the Home-close; but ever and anon I kept looking towards the Road and listening for Horses' Feet, till Robin sayd, "One would think the King was coming:" but at last came Mr. Milton, quite another Way, walking through the Fields with huge Strides. Kate saw him firste, and tolde me; and then sayd, "What makes you look soe pale?"

We sate a good Space under the Hawthorn Hedge on the Brow of the Hill, listening to the Mower's Scythe, and the Song of Birds, which seemed enough for him, without talking; and as he spake not, I helde my Peace, till, with the Sun in my Eyes, I was like to drop asleep; which, as his own Face was from me, and towards the Landskip, he noted not. I was just aiming, for Mirthe's Sake, to steale away, when he suddainlie turned about and fell to speaking of rurall Life, Happinesse, Heaven, and such like, in a Kind of Rapture; then, with his Elbow half raising him from the Grass, lay looking at me; then commenced humming or singing I know not what Strayn, but 'twas of 'begli Occhi' and 'Chioma aurata;' and he kept smiling the while he sang.

After a time we went In-doors; and then came my firste Pang: for Father founde out how I had pledged myselfe overnighte; and for a Moment looked soe grave, that my Heart misgave me for having beene soe hastie. However, it soone passed off; deare Father's Countenance cleared, and he even seemed merrie at Table; and soon after Dinner alle the Party dispersed save Mr. Milton, who loitered with me on the Terrace. After a short Silence he exclaimed, "How good is our God to us in alle his Gifts! For Instance, in this Gift of Love, whereby had he withdrawn from visible Nature a thousand of its glorious Features and gay Colourings, we shoulde stille possess, from within, the Means of throwing over her clouded Face an entirelie different Hue! while as it is, what was pleasing before now pleaseth more than ever! Is it not soe, sweet Moll? May I express thy Feelings as well as mine own, unblamed? or am I too adventurous? You are silent; well, then, let me believe that we think alike, and that the Emotions of the few laste Hours have given such an Impulse to alle that is high, and sweete, and deepe, and pure, and holy in our innermoste Hearts, as that we seeme now onlie firste to taste the Life of Life, and to perceive how much nearer Earth is to Heaven than we thought! Is it soe? Is it not soe?" and I was constrayned to say, "Yes," at I scarcelie knew what; grudginglie too, for I feared having once alreadie sayd "Yes" too soone. But he saw nought amisse, for he was expecting nought amisse; soe went on, most like Truth and Love that Lookes could speake or Words founde: "Oh, I know it, I feel it:—henceforthe there is a Life reserved for us in which Angels may sympathize. For this most excellent Gift of Love shall enable us to read together the whole Booke of Sanctity and Virtue, and emulate eache other in carrying it into Practice; and as the wise Magians kept theire Eyes steadfastlie fixed on the Star, and followed it righte on, through rough and smoothe, soe we, with this bright Beacon, which indeed is set on Fire of Heaven, shall pass on through the peacefull Studdies, surmounted Adversities, and victorious Agonies of Life, ever looking steadfastlie up!"

Alle this, and much more, as tedious to heare as to write, did I listen to, firste with flagging Attention, next with concealed Wearinesse;—and as Wearinesse, if indulged, never is long concealed, it soe chanced, by Ill-luck, that Mr. Milton, suddainlie turning his Eyes from Heaven upon poor me, caughte, I can scarcelie expresse how slighte, an Indication of Discomforte in my Face; and instantlie a Cloud crossed his owne, though as thin as that through which the Sun shines while it floats over him. Oh, 'twas not of a Moment! and yet in that Moment we seemed eache to have seene the other, though but at a Glance, under new Circumstances:—as though two Persons at a Masquerade had just removed their Masques and put them on agayn. This gave me my seconde Pang:—I felt I had given him Payn; and though he made as though he forgot it directly, and I tooke Payns to make him forget it, I coulde never be quite sure whether he had.

. . . My Spiritts were soe dashed by this, and by learning his Age to be soe much more than I had deemed it, (for he is thirty-five! who coulde have thoughte it?) that I had, thenceforthe, the Aire of being much more discreete and pensive than belongeth to my Nature; whereby he was, perhaps, well pleased. As I became more grave he became more gay; soe that we met eache other, as it were, half-way, and became righte pleasant. If his Countenance were comely before, it is quite heavenlie now; and yet I question whether my Love increaseth as rapidlie as my Feare. Surelie my Folly will prove as distastefull to him, as his overmuch Wisdom to me. The Dread of it hath alarmed me alreadie. What has become, even now, of alle my gay Visions of Marriage, and London, and the Play-houses, and the Touire? They have faded away thus earlie, and in their Place comes a Foreboding of I can scarce say what. I am as if a Child, receiving frome some olde Fairy the Gift of what seemed a fayre Doll's House, shoulde hastilie open the Doore thereof, and starte back at beholding nought within but a huge Cavern, deepe, high, and vaste; in parte glittering with glorious Chrystals, and the Rest hidden in obscure Darknesse.

May 24th, 1643.

Deare Rose came this Morning. I flew forthe to welcome her, and as I drew near, she lookt upon me with such a Kind of Awe as that I could not forbeare laughing. Mr. Milton having slept at Sheepscote, had made her privy to our Engagement; for indeede, he and Mr. Agnew are such Friends, he will keep nothing from him. Thus Rose heares it before my owne Mother, which shoulde not be. When we had entered my Chamber, she embraced me once and agayn, and seemed to think soe much of my uncommon Fortune, that I beganne to think more of it myselfe. To heare her talke of Mr. Milton one would have supposed her more in Love with him than I. Like a Bookworm as she is, she fell to praysing his Composures. "Oh, the leaste I care for in him is his Versing," quoth I; and from that Moment a Spiritt of Mischief tooke Possession of me, to do a thousand heedlesse, ridiculous Things throughoute the Day, to shew Rose how little I set by the Opinion of soe wise a Man. Once or twice Mr. Milton lookt earnestlie and questioninglie at me, but I heeded him not.

. . . Discourse at Table graver and less pleasant, methoughte, than heretofore. Mr. Busire having dropt in, was avised to ask Mr. Milton why, having had an university Education, he had not entered the Church. He replied, drylie enough, because he woulde not subscribe himselfe Slave to anie Formularies of Men's making. I saw Father bite his Lip; and Roger Agnew mildly observed, he thought him wrong; for that it was not for an Individual to make Rules for another Individual, but yet that the generall Voice of the Wise and Good, removed from the pettie Prejudices of private Feeling, mighte pronounce authoritativelie wherein an Individual was righte or wrong, and frame Laws to keepe him in the righte Path. Mr. Milton replyed, that manie Fallibles could no more make up an Infallible than manie Finites could make an Infinite. Mr. Agnew rejoyned, that ne'erthelesse, an Individual who opposed himselfe agaynst the generall Current of the Wise and Good, was, leaste of alle, likelie to be in the Right; and that the Limitations of human Intellect which made the Judgment of manie wise Men liable to Question, certainlie made the Judgment of anie wise Man, self-dependent, more questionable still. Mr. Milton shortlie replied that there were Particulars in the required Oaths which made him unable to take them without Perjurie. And soe, an End: but 'twas worth a World to see Rose looking soe anxiouslie from the one Speaker to the other, desirous that eache should be victorious; and I was sorry that it lasted not a little longer.

As Rose and I tooke our Way to the Summer-house, she put her Arm round me, saying, "How charming is divine Philosophie!" I coulde not helpe asking if she did not meane how charming was the Philosophie of one particular Divine? Soe then she discoursed with me of Things more seemlie for Women than Philosophie or Divinitie either. Onlie, when Mr. Agnew and Mr. Milton joyned us, she woulde aske them to repeat one Piece of Poetry after another, beginning with Carew's—

"He who loves a rosie Cheeke,
Or a coral Lip admires,—"

And crying at the End of eache, "Is not that lovely? Is not that divine?" I franklie sayd I liked none of them soe much as some Mr. Agnew had recited, concluding with—

"Mortals that would, follow me,
Love Virtue: she alone is free."

Whereon Mr. Milton surprised me with a suddain Kiss, to the immoderate Mirthe of Rose, who sayd I coulde not have looked more discomposed had he pretended he was the Author of those Verses. I afterwards found he was; but I think she laught more than there was neede.

We have ever been considered a sufficientlie religious Familie: that is, we goe regularly to Church on Sabbaths and Prayer-dayes, and keepe alle the Fasts and Festivalles. But Mr. Milton's Devotion hath attayned a Pitch I can neither imitate nor even comprehende. The spirituall World seemeth to him not onlie reall, but I may almoste say visible. For instance, he told Rose, it appears, that on Tuesday Nighte, (that is the same Evening I had promised to be his,) as he went homewards to his Farm-lodging, he fancied the Angels whisperinge in his Eares, and singing over his Head, and that instead of going to his Bed like a reasonable Being, he lay down on the Grass, and gazed on the sweete, pale Moon till she sett, and then on the bright Starres till he seemed to see them moving in a slowe, solemn Dance, to the Words, "How glorious is our God!" And alle about him, he said, he knew, tho' he coulde not see them, were spirituall Beings repairing the Ravages of the Day on the Flowers, amonge the Trees, and Grasse, and Hedges; and he believed 'twas onlie the Filme that originall Sin had spread over his Eyes, that prevented his seeing them. I am thankful for this same Filme,—I cannot abide Fairies, and Witches, and Ghosts—ugh! I shudder even to write of them; and were it onlie of the more harmlesse Sort, one woulde never have the Comforte of thinkinge to be alone. I feare Churchyardes and dark Corners of alle Kinds; more especiallie Spiritts; and there is onlie one I would even wish to see at my bravest, when deepe Love casteth out Feare; and that is of Sister Anne, whome I never associate with the Worme and Winding-sheete. Oh no! I think she, at leaste, dwells amonge the Starres, having sprung straite up into Lighte and Blisse the Moment she put off Mortalitie; and if she, why not others? Are Adam and Abraham alle these Yeares in the unconscious Tomb? Theire Bodies, but surelie not their Spiritts? else, why dothe Christ speak of Lazarus lying in Abraham's Bosom, while the Brothers of Dives are yet riotouslie living? Yet what becomes of the Daye of generall Judgment, if some be thus pre-judged? I must aske Mr. _Milton,—_yes, I thinke I can finde it in my Heart to aske him about this in some solemn, stille Hour, and perhaps he will sett at Rest manie Doubts and Misgivings that at sundrie Times trouble me; being soe wise a Man.

Bedtime.

. . . Glad to steale away from the noisie Companie in the Supper-roome, (comprising some of Father's Fellow-magistrates,) I went down with Robin and Kate to the Fish-ponds; it was scarce Sunset: and there, while we threw Crumbs to the Fish and watched them come to the Surface, were followed, or ever we were aware, by Mr. Milton, who sate down on the stone Seat, drew Robin between his Knees, stroked his Haire, and askt what we were talking about. Robin sayd I had beene telling them a fairie Story; and Mr. Milton observed that was an infinite Improvement on the jangling, puzzle-headed Prating of Country Justices, and wished I woulde tell it agayn. But I was afrayd. But Robin had no Feares; soe tolde the Tale roundlie; onlie he forgot the End. Soe he found his Way backe to the Middle, and seemed likelie to make it last alle Night; onlie Mr. Milton sayd he seemed to have got into the Labyrinth of Crete, and he must for Pitie's Sake give him the Clew. Soe he finished Robin's Story, and then tolde another, a most lovelie one, of Ladies, and Princes, and Enchanters, and a brazen Horse, and he sayd the End of that Tale had been cut off too, by Reason the Writer had died before he finished it. But Robin cryed, "Oh! finish this too," and hugged and kist him; soe he did; and methoughte the End was better than the Beginninge. Then he sayd, "Now, sweet Moll, you have onlie spoken this Hour past, by your Eyes; and we must heare your pleasant Voice." "An Hour?" cries Robin. "Where are alle the red Clouds gone, then?" quoth Mr. Milton, "and what Business hathe the Moon yonder?" "Then we must go Indoors," quoth I. But they cried "No," and Robin helde me fast, and Mr. Milton sayd I might know even by the distant Sounds of ill-governed Merriment that we were winding up the Week's Accounts of Joy and Care more consistentlie where we were than we coulde doe in the House. And indeede just then I hearde my Father's Voice swelling a noisie Chorus; and hoping Mr. Milton did not distinguish it, I askt him if he loved Musick. He answered, soe much that it was Miserie for him to hear anie that was not of the beste. I secretlie resolved he should never heare mine. He added, he was come of a musicalle Familie, and that his Father not onlie sang well, but played finely on the Viol and Organ. Then he spake of the sweet Musick in Italy, until I longed to be there; but I tolde him nothing in its Way ever pleased me more than to heare the Choristers of Magdalen College usher in May Day by chaunting a Hymn at the Top of the Church Towre. Discoursing of this and that, we thus sate a good While ere we returned to the House.

. . . Coming out of Church he woulde shun the common Field, where the Villagery led up theire Sports, saying, he deemed Quoit-playing and the like to be unsuitable Recreations on a Daye whereupon the Lord had restricted us from speakinge our own Words, and thinking our own (that is, secular) Thoughts: and that he believed the Law of God in this Particular woulde soone be the Law of the Land, for Parliament woulde shortlie put down Sunday Sports. I askt, "What, the King's Parliament at Oxford?" He answered, "No; the Country's Parliament at Westminster." I sayd, I was sorrie, for manie poore hard-working Men had no other Holiday. He sayd, another Holiday woulde be given them; and that whether or no, we must not connive at Evil, which we doe in permitting an holy Daye to sink into a Holiday. I sayd, but was it not the Jewish Law, which had made such Restrictions? He sayd, yes, but that Christ came not to destroy the moral Law, of which Sabbath-keeping was a Part, and that even its naturall Fitnesse for the bodily Welfare of Man and Beast was such as no wise Legislator would abolish or abuse it, even had he no Consideration for our spiritual and immortal Part: and that 'twas a well-known Fact that Beasts of Burthen, which had not one Daye of Rest in seven, did lesse Worke in the End. As for oure Soules, he sayd, they required theire spiritual Meales as much as our Bodies required theires; and even poore, rusticall Clownes who coulde not reade, mighte nourish their better Parts by an holie Pause, and by looking within them, and around them, and above them. I felt inclined to tell him that long Sermons alwaies seemed to make me love God less insteade of more, but woulde not, fearing he mighte take it that I meant he had been giving me one.

Monday.

Mother hath returned! The Moment I hearde her Voice I fell to trembling. At the same Moment I hearde Robin cry, "Oh, Mother, I have broken the greene Beaker!" which betraied Apprehension in another Quarter. However, she quite mildlie replied, "Ah, I knew the Handle was loose," and then kist me with soe great Affection that I felt quite easie. She had beene withhelde by a troublesome Colde from returning at the appointed Time, and cared not to write. 'Twas just Supper-time, and there were the Children to kiss and to give theire Bread and Milk, and Bill's Letter to reade; soe that nothing particular was sayd till the younger Ones were gone to Bed, and Father and Mother were taking some Wine and Toast. Then says Father, "Well, Wife, have you got the five hundred Pounds?" "No," she answers, rather carelesslie. "I tolde you how 'twoulde be," says Father; "you mighte as well have stayed at Home." "Really, Mr. Powell," says Mother, "soe seldom as I stir from my owne Chimney-corner, you neede not to grudge me, I think, a few Dayes among our mutuall Relatives." "I shall goe to Gaol," says Father. "Nonsense," says Mother; "to Gaol indeed!" "Well, then, who is to keepe me from it?" says Father, laughing. "I will answer for it, Mr. Milton will wait a little longer for his Money," says Mother, "he is an honourable Man, I suppose." "I wish he may thinke me one," says Father; "and as to a little longer, what is the goode of waiting for what is as unlikelie to come eventuallie as now?" "You must answer that for yourselfe," says Mother, looking wearie: "I have done what I can, and can doe no more." "Well, then, 'tis lucky Matters stand as they do," says Father. "Mr. Milton has been much here in your Absence, my Dear, and has taken a Liking to our Moll; soe, believing him, as you say, to be an honourable Man, I have promised he shall have her." "Nonsense," cries Mother, turning red and then pale. "Never farther from Nonsense," says Father, "for 'tis to be, and by the Ende of the Month too." "You are bantering me, Mr. Powell," says Mother. "How can you suppose soe, my Deare?" says Father, "you doe me Injustice." "Why, Moll!" cries Mother, turning sharplie towards me, as I sate mute and fearfulle, "what is alle this, Child? You cannot, you dare not think of wedding this round-headed Puritan." "Not round-headed," sayd I, trembling; "his Haire is as long and curled as mine." "Don't bandy Words with me, Girl," says Mother passionatelie, "see how unfit you are to have a House of your owne, who cannot be left in Charge of your Father's for a Fortnighte, without falling into Mischiefe!" "I won't have Moll chidden in that Way," says Father, "she has fallen into noe Mischiefe, and has beene a discreete and dutifull Child." "Then it has beene alle your doing," says Mother, "and you have forced the Child into this Match." "Noe Forcing whatever," says Father, "they like one another, and I am very glad of it, for it happens to be very convenient." "Convenient, indeed," repeats Mother, and falls a weeping. Thereon I must needs weepe too, but she says, "Begone to Bed; there is noe Neede that you shoulde sit by to heare your owne Father confesse what a Fool he has beene."

To my Bedroom I have come, but cannot yet seek my Bed; the more as I still heare theire Voices in Contention below.

Tuesday.

This Morninge's Breakfaste was moste uncomfortable, I feeling like a checkt Child, scarce minding to looke up or to eat. Mother, with Eyes red and swollen, scarce speaking save to the Children; Father directing his Discourse chieflie to Dick, concerning Farm Matters and the Rangership of Shotover, tho' 'twas easie to see his Mind was not with them. Soe soone as alle had dispersed to theire customed Taskes, and I was loitering at the Window, Father calls aloud to me from his Studdy. Thither I go, and find him and Mother, she sitting with her Back to both. "Moll," says Father, with great Determination, "you have accepted Mr. Milton to please yourself, you will marry him out of hand to please me." "Spare me, spare me, Mr. Powell," interrupts Mother, "if the Engagement may not be broken off, at the least precipitate it not with this indecent haste. Postpone it till——" "Till when?" says Father. "Till the Child is olde enough to know her owne Mind." "That is, to put off an honourable Man on false Pretences," says Father, "she is olde enough to know it alreadie. Speake, Moll, are you of your Mother's Mind to give up Mr. Milton altogether?" I trembled, but sayd, "No." "Then, as his Time is precious, and he knows not when he may leave his Home agayn, I save you the Trouble, Child, of naming a Day, for it shall be the Monday before Whitsuntide." Thereat Mother gave a Kind of Groan; but as for me, I had like to have fallen on the Ground, for I had had noe Thought of suche Haste. "See what you are doing, Mr. Powell," says Mother, compassionating me, and raising me up, though somewhat roughlie; "I prophecie Evil of this Match." "Prophets of Evil are sure to find Listeners," says Father, "but I am not one of them;" and soe left the Room. Thereon my Mother, who alwaies feares him when he has a Fit of Determination, loosed the Bounds of her Passion, and chid me so unkindlie, that, humbled and mortified, I was glad to seeke my Chamber.

. . . Entering the Dining-room, however, I uttered a Shriek on seeing Father fallen back in his Chair, as though in a Fit, like unto that which terrified us a Year ago; and Mother hearing me call out, ran in, loosed his Collar, and soone broughte him to himselfe, tho' not without much Alarm to alle. He made light of it himselfe, and sayd 'twas merelie a suddain Rush of Blood to the Head, and woulde not be dissuaded from going out; but Mother was playnly smote at the Heart, and having lookt after him with some anxietie, exclaimed, "I shall neither meddle nor make more in this Businesse: your Father's suddain Seizures shall never be layd at my Doore;" and soe left me, till we met at Dinner. After the Cloth was drawne, enters Mr. Milton, who goes up to Mother, and with Gracefulnesse kisses her Hand; but she withdrewe it pettishly, and tooke up her Sewing, on the which he lookt at her wonderingly, and then at me; then at her agayne, as though he woulde reade her whole Character in her Face; which having seemed to doe, and to write the same in some private Page of his Heart, he never troubled her or himself with further Comment, but tooke up Matters just where he had left them last. Ere we parted we had some private Conference touching our Marriage, for hastening which he had soe much to say that I coulde not long contend with him, especiallie as I founde he had plainlie made out that Mother loved him not.

Wednesday.

House full of Companie, leaving noe Time to write nor think. Mother sayth, tho' she cannot forbode an happie Marriage, she will provide for a merrie Wedding, and hathe growne more than commonlie tender to me, and given me some Trinkets, a Piece of fine Holland Cloth, and enoughe of green Sattin for a Gown, that will stand on End with its owne Richnesse. She hathe me constantlie with her in the Kitchen, Pastrie, and Store-room, telling me 'tis needfulle I shoulde improve in Housewiferie, seeing I shall soe soone have a Home of my owne.

But I think Mother knows not, and I am afeard to tell her, that Mr. Milton hath no House of his owne to carry me to, but onlie Lodgings, which have well suited his Bachelor State, but may not, 'tis likelie, beseeme a Lady to live in. He deems so himself, and sayeth we will look out for an hired House together, at our Leisure. Alle this he hath sayd to me in an Undertone, in Mother's Presence, she sewing at the Table and we sitting in the Window; and 'tis difficult to tell how much she hears, she for will aske no Questions, and make noe Comments, onlie compresses her Lips, which makes me think she knows.

The Children are in turbulent Spiritts; but Robin hath done nought
but mope and make Moan since he learnt he must soe soone lose me. A
Thought hath struck me,—Mr. Milton educates his Sister's Sons; two
Lads of about Robin's Age. What if he woulde consent to take my
Brother under his Charge? perhaps Father woulde be willing.

Saturday.

Last Visitt to _Sheepscote,—_at leaste, as Mary Powell; but kind Rose and Roger Agnew will give us the Use of it for a Week on our Marriage, and spend the Time with dear Father and Mother, who will neede their Kindnesse. Rose and I walked long aboute the Garden, her Arm round my Neck; and she was avised to say,

"Cloth of Frieze, be not too bold,
Tho' thou be matcht with Cloth of Gold,—"

And then craved my Pardon for soe unmannerly a Rhyme, which indeede, methoughte, needed an Excuse, but exprest a Feare that I knew not (what she called) my high Destiny, and prayed me not to trifle with Mr. Milton's Feelings nor in his Sighte, as I had done the Daye she dined at Forest Hill. I laught, and sayd, he must take me as he found me: he was going to marry Mary Powell, not the Wise Widow of Tekoah. Rose lookt wistfullie, but I bade her take Heart, for I doubted not we shoulde content eache the other; and for the Rest, her Advice shoulde not be forgotten. Thereat, she was pacyfied.

May 22d, 1643.

Alle Bustle and Confusion,—slaying of Poultrie, making of Pastrie, etc. People coming and going, prest to dine and to sup, and refuse, and then stay, the colde Meats and Wines ever on the Table; and in the Evening, the Rebecks and Recorders sent for that we may dance in the Hall. My Spiritts have been most unequall; and this Evening I was overtaken with a suddain Faintnesse, such as I never but once before experienced. They would let me dance no more; and I was quite tired enoughe to be glad to sit aparte with Mr. Milton neare the Doore, with the Moon shining on us; untill at length he drew me out into the Garden. He spake of Happinesse and Home, and Hearts knit in Love, and of heavenlie Espousals, and of Man being the Head of the Woman, and of our Lord's Marriage with the Church, and of white Robes, and the Bridegroom coming in Clouds of Glory, and of the Voices of singing Men and singing Women, and eternall Spring, and eternall Blisse, and much that I cannot call to Mind, and other-much that I coulde not comprehende, but which was in mine ears as the Song of Birds, or Falling of Waters.

May 23d, 1643.

Rose hath come, and hath kindlie offered to help pack the Trunks, (which are to be sent off by the Waggon to London,) that I may have the more Time to devote to Mr. Milton. Nay, but he will soon have all my Time devoted to himself, and I would as lief spend what little remains in mine accustomed Haunts, after mine accustomed Fashion. I had purposed a Ride on Clover this Morning, with Robin; but the poor Boy must I trow be disappointed.

——And for what? Oh me! I have hearde such a long Sermon on Marriage-duty and Service, that I am faine to sit down and weepe. But no, I must not, for they are waiting for me in the Hall, and the Guests are come and the Musick is tuning, and my Lookes must not betray me.—And now farewell, Journall; for Rose, who first bade me keepe you (little deeming after what Fashion), will not pack you up, and I will not close you with a heavie Strayn. Robin is calling me beneath the Window,—Father is sitting in the Shade, under the old Pear-tree, seemingly in gay Discourse with Mr. Milton. To-morrow the Village-bells will ring for the Marriage of

MARY POWELL.

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?"

I had a Mind to say "Yes."—Insteade, I answered "No."

"Then there's an End," cried he sharplie. "Had you made but one fayre Triall, whether successfulle or noe, I coulde have been satisfied—no, not satisfied, but I woulde have esteemed you, coulde have taken your Part. As it is, the less I say just now, perhaps, the better. Forgive me for having spoken at alle."

——Afterwards, I hearde him say to Rose of me, "I verilie believe there is Nothing in her on which to make a permanent Impression. I verilie think she loves everie one of those long Curls of hers more than she loves Mr. Milton."

(Note:—I will cut them two Inches shorter tonight. And they will grow all the faster.)

. . . Oh, my sad Heart, Roger Agnew hath pierced you at last!

I was moved, more than he thought, by what he had sayd in the Morning; and, in writing down the Heads of his Speech, to kill Time, a kind of Resentment at myselfe came over me, unlike to what I had ever felt before; in spite of my Folly about my Curls. Seeking for some Trifle in a Bag that had not been shaken out since I brought it from London, out tumbled a Key with curious Wards—I knew it at once for one that belonged to a certayn Algum-wood Casket Mr. Milton had Recourse to dailie, because he kept small Change in it; and I knew not I had brought it away! 'Twas worked in Grotesque, the Casket, by Benvenuto, for Clement the Seventh, who for some Reason woulde not have it; and soe it came somehow to Clementillo, who gave it to Mr. Milton. Thought I, how uncomfortable the Loss of this Key must have made him! he must have needed it a hundred Times! even if he hath bought a new Casket, I will for it he habituallie goes agayn and agayn to the old one, and then he remembers that he lost the Key the same Day that he lost his Wife. I heartilie wish he had it back. Ah, but he feels not the one Loss as he feels the other. Nay, but it is as well that one of them, tho' the Lesser, should be repaired. 'Twill shew Signe of Grace, my thinking of him, and may open the Way, if God wills, to some Interchange of Kindnesse, however fleeting.

Soe I soughte out Mr. Agnew, tapping at his Studdy Doore. He sayd, "Come in," drylie enoughe; and there were he and Rose reading a Letter. I sayd, "I want you to write for me to Mr. Milton." He gave a sour Look, as much as to say he disliked the Office; which threw me back, as 'twere; he having soe lately proposed it himself. Rose's Eyes, however, dilated with sweete Pleasure, as she lookt from one to the other of us.

"Well,—I fear 'tis too late," sayd he at length reluctantlie, I mighte almost say grufflie,—"what am I to write?"

"To tell him I have this Key," I made Answer faltering.

"That Key!" cried he.

"Yes, the Key of his Algum-wood Casket, which I knew not I had, and which I think he must miss dailie."

He lookt at me with the utmost Impatience. "And is that alle?" he sayd.

"Yes, alle," I sayd trembling.

"And have you nothing more to tell him?" sayd he.

"No—" after a Pause, I replyed. Rose's Countenance fell.

"Then you must ask some one else to write for you, Mrs. Milton," burste forthe Roger Agnew, "unless you choose to write for yourself. I have neither Part nor Lot in it."

I burste forthe into Teares.

—"No, Rose, no," repeated Mr. Agnew, putting aside his Wife, who woulde have interceded for me,—"her Teares have noe Effect on me now—they proceed, not from a contrite Heart, they are the Tears of a Child that cannot brook to be chidden for the Waywardnesse in which it persists."

"You doe me Wrong everie Way," I sayd; "I came to you willing and desirous to doe what you yourselfe woulde, this Morning, have had me doe."

"But in how strange a Way!" cried he. "At a Time when anie Renewal of your Intercourse requires to be conducted with the utmost Delicacy, and even with more Shew of Concession on your Part than, an Hour ago, I should have deemed needfulle,—to propose an abrupt, trivial Communication about an old Key!"

"It needed not to have been abrupt," I sayd, "nor yet trivial; for I meant it to have beene exprest kindlie."

"You said not that before," answered he.

"Because you gave me not Time.—Because you chid me and frightened me."

He stood silent, some While, upon this; grave, yet softer, and mechanicallie playing with the Key, which he had taken from my Hand. Rose looking in his Face anxiouslie. At lengthe, to disturbe his Reverie, she playfulle tooke it from him, saying, in School-girl Phrase,

"This is the Key of the Kingdom!"

"Of the Kingdom of Heaven, it mighte be!" exclaimed Roger, "if we knew how to use it arighte! If we knew but how to fit it to the Wards of Milton's Heart!—there's the Difficultie. . . . a greater one, poor Moll, than you know; for hitherto, alle the Reluctance has been on your Part. But now . . ."

"What now?" I anxiouslie askt.

"We were talking of you but as you rejoyned us," sayd Mr. Agnew, "and I was telling Rose that hithertoe I had considered the onlie Obstacle to a Reunion arose from a false Impression of your own, that Mr. Milton coulde not make you happy. But now I have beene led to the Conclusion that you cannot make him soe, which increases the Difficultie."

After a Pause, I sayd, "What makes you think soe?"

"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. . . .

I will forthe to see some of the poor Folk.

Same Night.

Resolved to make the Circuit of the Cottages, but onlie reached the first, wherein I found poor Nell in such Grief of Body and Mind, that I was avised to wait with her a long Time. Askt why she had not sent to us for Relief; was answered she had thought of doing soe, but was feared of making too free. After a lengthened Visitt, which seemed to relieve her Mind, and certaynlie relieved mine, I bade her Farewell, and at the Wicket met my Father coming up with a playn-favoured but scholarlike looking reverend Man. He sayd, "Moll, I could not think what had become of you." I answered, I hoped I had not kept him waiting for Dinner—poor Nell had entertayned me longer than I wisht, with the Catalogue of her Troubles. The Stranger looking attentively at me, observed that may be the poor Woman had entertayned an Angel unawares; and added, "Doubt not, Madam, we woulde rather await our Dinner than that you should have curtayled your Message of Charity." Hithertoe, my Father had not named this Gentleman to me; but now he sayd, "Child, this is the Reverend Doctor Jeremy Taylor, Chaplain in Ordinarie to his Majesty, and whom you know I have heard more than once preach before the King since he abode in Oxford." Thereon I made a lowly Reverence, and we walked homewards together. At first, he discoursed chiefly with my Father on the Troubles of the Times, and then he drew me into the Dialogue, in the Course of which I let fall a Saying of Mr. Agnew's, which drew from the reverend Gentleman a respectfulle Look I felt I no Way deserved. Soe then I had to explain that the Saying was none of mine, and felt ashamed he shoulde suppose me wiser than I was, especiallie as he commended my Modesty. But we progressed well, and he soon had the Discourse all to himself, for Squire Paice came up, and detained Father, while the Doctor and I walked on. I could not help reflecting how odd it was, that I, whom Nature had endowed with such a very ordinarie Capacitie, and scarce anie Taste for Letters, shoulde continuallie be thrown into the Companie of the cleverest of Men,—first, Mr. Milton: then Mr. Agnew; and now, this Doctor Jeremy Taylor. But, like the other two, he is not merely clever, he is Christian and good. How much I learnt in this short Interview! for short it seemed, though it must have extended over a good half Hour. He sayd, "Perhaps, young Lady, the Time may come when you shall find safer Solace in the Exercise of the Charities than of the Affections. Safer: for, not to consider how a successfulle or unsuccessfulle Passion for a human Being of like Infirmities with ourselves, oft stains and darkens and shortens the Current of Life, even the chastened Love of a Mother for her Child, as of Octavia, who swooned at 'Tu, Marcellus, eris,'—or of Wives for their Husbands, as Artemisia and Laodamia, sometimes amounting to Idolatry—nay, the Love of Friend for Friend, with alle its sweet Influences and animating Transports, yet exceeding the Reasonableness of that of David for Jonathan, or of our blessed Lord for St. John and the Family of Lazarus, may procure far more Torment than Profit: even if the Attachment be reciprocal, and well grounded, and equallie matcht, which often it is not. Then interpose human Tempers, and Chills, and Heates, and Slyghtes fancied or intended, which make the vext Soul readie to wish it had never existed. How smalle a Thing is a human Heart! you might grasp it in your little Hand; and yet its Strifes and Agonies are enough to distend a Skin that should cover the whole World! But, in the Charities, what Peace! yea, they distill Sweetnesse even from the Unthankfulle, blessing him that gives more than him that receives; while, in the Main, they are laid out at better Interest than our warmest Affections, and bring in a far richer Harvest of Love and Gratitude. Yet, let our Affections have their fitting Exercise too, staying ourselves with the Reflection, that there is greater Happinesse, after alle Things sayd, in loving than in being loved, save by the God of Love who first loved us, and that they who dwell in Love dwell in Him."

Then he went on to speak of the manifold Acts and Divisions of Charity; as much, methought, in the Vein of a Poet as a Preacher; and he minded me much of that Scene in the tenth Book of the Fairie Queene, soe lately read to us by Mr. Agnew, wherein the Red Cross Knight and Una were shown Mercy at her Work.

Aug. 10, 1644.

A Pack-horse from Sheepscote just reported, laden with a goodlie Store of Books, besides sundrie smaller Tokens of Rose's thoughtfulle Kindnesse. I have now methodicallie divided my Time into stated Hours, of Prayer, Exercise, Studdy, Housewiferie, and Acts of Mercy, on however a humble Scale; and find mine owne Peace of Mind thereby increased notwithstanding the Darknesse of publick and Dullnesse of private Affairs.

Made out the Meaning of "Cynosure" and "Cimmerian Darknesse." . . .

Aug. 15, 1644.

Full sad am I to learn that Mr. Milton hath published another Book in Advocacy of Divorce. Alas, why will he chafe against the Chain, and widen the cruel Division between us? My Father is outrageous on the Matter, and speaks soe passionatelie of him, that it is worse than not speaking of him at alle, which latelie I was avised to complain of.

Aug. 30, 1644.

Dick beginneth to fancie himself in Love with _Audrey Paice—_an Attachment that will doe him noe good: his Tastes alreadie want raising, and she will onlie lower them, I feare,—a comely, romping, noisie Girl, that, were she but a Farmer's Daughter, woulde be the Life and Soul of alle the Whitsun-ales, Harvest-homes, and Hay-makings in the Country: in short, as fond of idling and merrymaking as I once was myself: onlie I never was soe riotous.

I beginne to see Faults in Dick and Harry I never saw before. Is my Taste bettering, or my Temper worsenning? At alle Events, we have noe cross Words, for I expect them not to alter, knowing how hard it is to doe soe by myself.

I look forward with Pleasure to my Sheepscote Visitt. Dear Mother returneth to-morrow. Good Dr. Taylor hath twice taken the Trouble to walk over from Oxford to see me, but he hath now left, and we may never meet agayn. His Visitts have beene very precious to me: I think he hath some Glimmering of my sad Case: indeed, who knows it not? At parting he sayd, smiling, he hoped he should yet hear of my making Offerings to Viriplaca on Mount Palatine; then added, gravelie, "You know where reall Offerings may be made and alwaies accepted—Offerings of spare Half-hours and Five-minutes, when we shut the Closet Door and commune with our own Hearts and are still." Alsoe he sayd, "There are Sacrifices to make which sometimes wring our very Hearts to offer; but our gracious God accepts them neverthelesse, if our Feet be really in the right Path, even though, like Chryseis, we look back, weeping."

He sayd . . . But how manie Things as beautifulle and true did I hear my Husband say, which passed by me like the idle Wind that I regarded not!

Sept. 8, 1644.

Harry hath just broughte in the News of his Majesty's Success in the West. Lord Essex's Army hath beene completely surrounded by the royal Troops; himself forct to escape in a Boat to Plymouth, and all the Arms, Artillerie, Baggage, etc., of Skippon's Men have fallen into the Hands of the King. Father is soe pleased that he hath mounted the Flag, and given double Allowance of Ale to his Men.

I wearie to hear from Robin.

Sheepscote, Oct. 10, 1644.

How sweete a Picture of rurall Life did Sheepscote present, when I arrived here this Afternoon! The Water being now much out, the Face of the Countrie presented a new Aspect: there were Men threshing the Walnut Trees, Children and Women putting the Nuts into Osier Baskets, a Bailiff on a white Horse overlooking them, and now and then galloping to another Party, and splashing through the Water. Then we found Mr. Agnew equallie busie with his Apples, mounted half Way up one of the Trees, and throwing Cherry Pippins down into Rose's Apron, and now and then making as though he would pelt her: onlie she dared him, and woulde not be frightened. Her Donkey, chewing Apples in the Corner, with the Cider running out of his Mouth, presented a ludicrous Image of Enjoyment, and 'twas evidently enhanct by Giles' brushing his rough Coat with a Birch Besom, instead of minding his owne Businesse of sweeping the Walk. The Sun, shining with mellow Light on the mown Grass and fresh dipt Hornbeam Hedges, made even the commonest Objects distinct and cheerfulle; and the Air was soe cleare, we coulde hear the Village Childreh afar off at theire Play.

Rose had abundance of delicious new Honey in the Comb, and Bread hot from the Oven, for our earlie Supper. Dick was tempted to stay too late; however, he is oft as late, now, returning from Audrey Paice, though my Mother likes it not.

Oct. 15, 1644.

Rose is quite in good Spiritts now, and we goe on most harmoniouslie and happilie. Alle our Tastes are now in common; and I never more enjoyed this Union of Seclusion and Society. Besides, Mr. Agnew is more than commonlie kind, and never speaks sternlie or sharplie to me now. Indeed, this Morning, looking thoughtfullie at me, he sayd, "I know not_, Cousin_, what Change has come over you, but you are now alle that a wise Man coulde love and approve." I sayd, It must be owing then to Dr. Jeremy Taylor, who had done me more goode, it woulde seeme, in three Lessons, than he or Mr. Milton coulde imparte in thirty or three hundred. He sayd he was inclined to attribute it to a higher Source than that; and yet, there was doubtlesse a great Knack in teaching, and there was a good deal in liking the Teacher. He had alwaies hearde the Doctor spoken of as a good, pious, and clever Man, though rather too high a Prelatist. I sayd, "There were good Men of alle Sorts: there was Mr. Milton, who woulde pull the Church down; there was Mr. Agnew, who woulde onlie have it mended; and there was Dr. Jeremy Taylor, who was content with it as it stoode." Then Rose askt me of the puritanicall Preachers. Then I showed her how they preached, and made her laugh. But Mr. Agnew woulde not laugh. But I made him laugh at last. Then he was angrie with himself and with me; only not very angry; and sayd, I had a Right to a Name which he knew had beene given me, of "cleaving Mischief." I knew not he knew of it, and was checked, though I laught it off.

Oct. 16, 1644.

Walking together, this Morning, Rose was avised to say, "Did Mr. Milton ever tell you the Adventures of the Italian Lady?" "Rely on it he never did," sayd Mr. Agnew.—"Milton is as modest a Man as ever breathed—alle Men of first class Genius are soe." "What was the Adventure?" I askt, curiouslie. "Why, I neede not tell you, Moll, that John Milton, as a Youth, was extremelie handsome, even beautifull. His Colour came and went soe like a Girl's, that we of Christ's College used to call him 'the Lady,' and thereby annoy him noe little. One summer Afternoone he and I and young King (Lycidas, you know) had started on a country Walk, (the Countrie is not pretty, round Cambridge) when we met in with an Acquaintance whom Mr. Milton affected not, soe he sayd he would walk on to the first rising Ground and wait us there. On this rising Ground stood a Tree, beneath which our impatient young Gentleman presentlie cast himself, and, having walked fast, and the Weather being warm, soon falls asleep as sound as a Top. Meantime, King and I quit our Friend and saunter forward pretty easilie. Anon comes up with us a Caroche, with something I know not what of outlandish in its Build; and within it, two Ladies, one of them having the fayrest Face I ever set Eyes on, present Companie duly excepted. The Caroche having passed us, King and I mutuallie express our Admiration, and thereupon, preferring Turf to Dust, got on the other Side the Hedge, which was not soe thick but that we could make out the Caroche, and see the Ladies descend from it, to walk up the Hill. Having reached the Tree, they paused in Surprise at seeing Milton asleep beneath it; and in prettie dumb Shew, which we watcht sharplie, exprest their Admiration of his Appearance and Posture, which woulde have suited an Arcadian well enough. The younger Lady, hastilie taking out a Pencil and Paper, wrote something which she laughinglie shewed her Companion, and then put into the Sleeper's Hand. Thereupon, they got into their Caroche, and drove off. King and I, dying with Curiositie to know what she had writ, soon roused our Friend and possest ourselves of the Secret. The Verses ran thus. . . .

Occhi, Stelle mortali,
Ministre de miei Mali,
Se, chiusi, m' uccidete,
Aperti, che farete?

"Milton coloured, crumpled them up, and yet put them in his Pocket; then askt us what the Lady was like. And herein lay the Pleasantry of the Affair; for I truly told him she had a Pear-shaped Face, lustrous black Eyes, and a Skin that shewed 'il bruno il bel non toglie;' whereas, King, in his Mischief, drew a fancy Portrait, much liker you, Moll, than the Incognita, which hit Milton's Taste soe much better, that he was believed for his Payns; and then he declared that I had beene describing the Duenna! . . . Some Time after, when Milton beganne to talk of visiting Italy, we bantered him, and sayd he was going to look for the Incognita. He stoode it well, and sayd, 'Laugh on! do you think I mind you? Not a Bit.' I think he did."

Just at this Turn, Mr. Agnew stumbled at something in the long Grass. It proved to be an old, rustic Horse-pistol. His Countenance changed at once from gay to grave. "I thought we had noe such Things hereabouts yet," cried he, viewing it askance.—"I suppose I mighte as well think I had found a Corner of the Land where there was noe originall Sin." And soe, flung it over the Hedge.

——First class Geniuses are alwaies modest, are they?—Then I should say that young Italian Lady's Genius was not of the first Class.

Oct. 19, 1644.

Speaking, to-day, of Mr. Waller, whom I had once seen at Uncle John's, Mr. Agnew sayd he had obtayned the Reputation of being one of our smoothest Versers, and thereupon brought forth one or two of his small Pieces in Manuscript, which he read to Rose and me. They were addrest to the Lady Dorothy Sydney; and certainlie for specious Flatterie I doe not suppose they can be matcht; but there is noe Impress of reall Feeling in them. How diverse from my Husband's Versing! He never writ anie mere Love-verses, indeede, soe far as I know; but how much truer a Sence he hath of what is reallie beautifulle and becoming in a Woman than Mr. Waller! The Lady Alice Egerton mighte have beene more justlie proud of the fine Things written for her in Comus, than the Lady Dorothea of anie of the fine Things written of her by this courtier-like Poet. For, to say that Trees bend down in homage to a Woman when she walks under them, and that the healing Waters of Tonbridge were placed there by Nature to compensate for the fatal Pride of Sacharissa, is soe fullesome and untrue as noe Woman, not devoured by Conceite, coulde endure; whereas, the Check that Villanie is sensible of in the Presence of Virtue, is most nobly, not extravagantlie, exprest by Comus. And though my Husband be almost too lavish, even in his short Pieces, of classic Allusion and Personation, yet, like antique Statues and Busts well placed in some statelie Pleasaunce, they are alwaies appropriate and gracefulle, which is more than can be sayd of Mr. Waller's overstrayned Figures and Metaphors.

Oct. 20, 1644.

News from Home: alle well. Audrey Paice on a Visitt there. I hope Mother hath not put her into my Chamber, but I know that she hath sett so manie Trays full of Spearmint, Peppermint, Camomiles, and Poppie-heads in the blue Chamber to dry, that she will not care to move them, nor have the Window opened lest they shoulde be blown aboute. I wish I had turned the Key on my ebony Cabinett.

Oct. 24, 1644.

Richard and Audrey rode over here, and spent a noisie Afternoone. Rose had the Goose dressed which I know she meant to have reserved for to-morrow. Clover was in a Heat, which one would have thoughte he needed not to have beene, with carrying a Lady; but Audrey is heavie. She treats Dick like a boy; and, indeede he is not much more; but he is quite taken up with her. I find she lies in the blue Chamber, which she says smells rarelie of Herbs. They returned not till late, after sundrie Hints from Mr. Agnew.

Oct. 27, 1644.

Alas, alas, Robin's Silence is too sorrowfullie explained! He hath beene sent Home soe ill that he is like to die. This Report I have from Diggory, just come over to fetch me, with whom I start, soe soone as his Horse is bated. Lord, have Mercie on Robin.

The Children are alle sent away to keep the House quiete.

At Robin's Bedside, Saturday Night.

Oh, woefulle Sight! I had not known that pale Face, had I met it unawares. So thin and wan,—and he hath shot up into a tall Stripling during the last few Months. These two Nights of Watching have tried me sorelie, but I would not be witholden from sitting up with him yet agayn—what and if this Night should be his last? how coulde I forgive myself for sleeping on now and taking my Rest? The first Night, he knew me not; yet it was bitter-sweet to hear him chiding at sweet Moll for not coming. Yesternight he knew me for a While, kissed me, and fell into an heavie Sleepe, with his Hand locked in mine. We hoped the Crisis was come; but 'twas not soe. He raved much of a Man alle in red, riding hard after him. I minded me of those Words, "The Enemy sayd, I will overtake, I will pursue,"—and, noe one being by, save the unconscious Sufferer, I kneeled down beside him, and most earnestlie prayed for his Deliverance from all spirituall Adversaries. When I lookt up, his Eyes, larger and darker than ever, were fixt on me with a strange, wistfulle Stare, but he spake not. From that Moment he was quiete.

The Doctor thought him rambling this Morning, though I knew he was not, when he spake of an Angel in a long white Garment watching over him and kneeling by him in the Night.

Sunday Evening.

Poor Nell sitteth up with Mother to-night—right thankfulle is she to find that she can be of anie Use: she says it seems soe strange that she should be able to make any Return for my Kindnesse. I must sleep to-night, that I may watch to-morrow. The Servants are nigh spent, and are besides foolishlie afrayd of Infection. I hope Rose prays for me. Soe drowsie and dulle am I, as scarce to be able to pray for myself.

Monday.

Rose and Mr. Agnew come to abide with us for some Days. How thankfulle am I! Tears have relieved me.

Robin worse to-day. Father quite subdued. Mr. Agnew will sit up to-night, and insists on my sleeping.

Crab howled under my Window yesternight as he did before my Wedding. I hope there is nothing in it. Harry got up and beat him, and at last put him in the Stable.

Tuesday.

After two Nights' Rest, I feel quite strengthened and restored this Morning. Deare Rose read me to sleep in her low, gentle Voice, and then lay down by my Side, twice stepping into Robin's Chamber during the Night, and bringing me News that all was well. Relieved in Mind, I slept heavilie nor woke till late. Then, returned to the sick Chamber, and found Rose bathing dear Robin's Temples with Vinegar, and changing his Pillow—his thin Hand rested on Mr. Agnew, on whom he lookt with a composed, collected Gaze. Slowlie turned his Eyes on me, and faintlie smiled, but spake not.

Poor dear Mother is ailing now. I sate with her and Father some Time; but it was a true Relief when Rose took my Place and let me return to the sick Room. Rose hath alreadie made several little Changes for the better; improved the Ventilation of Robin's Chamber, and prevented his hearing soe manie Noises. Alsoe, showed me how to make a pleasant cooling Drink, which he likes better than the warm Liquids, and which she assures me he may take with perfect Safetie.

Same Evening.

Robin vext, even to Tears, because the Doctor forbids the use of his cooling Drink, though it hath certainlie abated the Fever. At his Wish I stept down to intercede with the Doctor, then closetted with my Father, to discourse, as I supposed, of Robin's Symptoms. Insteade of which, found them earnestlie engaged on the never-ending Topick of Cavaliers and Roundheads. I was chafed and cut to the Heart, yet what can poor Father do; he is useless in the Sick-room, he is wearie of Suspense, and 'tis well if publick Affairs can divert him for an odd Half-hour.

The Doctor would not hear of Robin taking the cooling Beverage, and warned me that his Death woulde be upon my Head if I permitted him to be chilled: soe what could I doe? Poor Robin very impatient in consequence; and raving towards Midnight. Rose insisted in taking the last Half of my Watch.

I know not that I was ever more sorelie exercised than during the first Half of this Night. Robin, in his crazie Fit, would leave his Bed, and was soe strong as nearlie to master Nell and me, and I feared I must have called Richard. The next Minute he fell back as weak as a Child: we covered him up warm, and he was overtaken either with Stupor or Sleep. Earnestlie did I pray it might be the latter, and conduce to his healing. Afterwards, there being writing Implements at Hand, I wrote a Letter to Mr. Milton, which, though the Fancy of sending it soon died away, yet eased my Mind. When not in Prayer, I often find myself silently talking to him.

Wednesday.

Waking late after my scant Night's Rest, I found my Breakfaste neatlie layd out in the little Ante-chamber, to prevent the Fatigue of going down Stairs. A Handfulle of Autumn Flowers beside my Plate, left me in noe Doubt it was Rose's doing; and Mr. Agnew writing at the Window, tolde me he had persuaded my Father to goe to Shotover with Dick. Then laying aside his Pen, stept into the Sick-chamber for the latest News, which was good: and, sitting next me, talked of the Progress of Robin's Illness in a grave yet hopefulle Manner; leading, as he chieflie does, to high and unearthlie Sources of Consolation. He advised me to take a Turn in the fresh Ayr, though but as far as the two Junipers, before I entered Robin's Chamber, which, somewhat reluctantlie, I did; but the bright Daylight and warm Sun had no good Effect on my Spiritts: on the Contrarie, nothing in blythe Nature seeming in unison with my Sadnesse, Tears flowed without relieving me.

——What a solemne, pompous Prigge is this Doctor! He cries "humph!" and "aye!" and bites his Nails and screws his Lips together, but I don't believe he understands soe much of Physick, after alle, as Mr. Agnew.

Father came Home fulle of the Rebels' Doings, but as for me, I shoulde hear them thundering at our Gate with Apathie, except insofar as I feared their distressing Robin.

Audrey rode over with her Father, this Morn, to make Enquiries. She might have come sooner had she meant to be anie reall Use to a Family she has thought of entering. Had Rose come to our Help as late in the Day, we had been poorlie off.

Thursday.

May Heaven in its Mercy save us from the evil Consequence of this new Mischance!—Richard, jealous at being allowed so little Share in nursing Robin, whom he sayd he loved as well as anie did, would sit up with him last Night, along with Mother. Twice I heard him snoring, and stept in to prevail on him to change Places, but coulde not get him to stir. A third Time he fell asleep, and, it seems, Mother slept too; and Robin, in his Fever, got out of Bed and drank near a Quart of colde Water, waking Dick by setting down the Pitcher. Of course the Bustle soon reached my listening Ears. Dick, to do him Justice, was frightened enough, and stole away to his Bed without a Word of Defence; but poor Mother, who had been equallie off her Watch, made more Noise about it than was good for Robin; who, neverthelesse, we having warmlie covered up, burst into a profuse Heat, and fell into a sound Sleep, which hath now holden him manie Hours. Mr. Agnew augureth favourablie of his waking, but we await it in prayerfulle Anxietie.

——The Crisis is past! and the Doctor sayeth he alle along expected it last Night, which I cannot believe, but Father and Mother doe. At alle Events, praised be Heaven, there is now hope that deare Robin may recover. Rose and I have mingled Tears, Smiles, and Thankgivings; Mr. Agnew hath expressed Gratitude after a more collected Manner, and endeavoured to check the somewhat ill-governed Expression of Joy throughout the House; warning the Servants, but especiallie Dick and Harry, that Robin may yet have a Relapse.

With what Transport have I sat beside dear Robin's Bed, returning his fixed, earnest, thankfulle Gaze, and answering the feeble Pressure of his Hand!—Going into the Studdy just now, I found Father crying like a Child—the first Time I have known him give Way to Tears during Robin's Ilnesse. Mr. Agnew presentlie came in, and composed him better than I coulde.

Saturday.

Robin better, though still very weak. Had his Bed made, and took a few Spoonfuls of Broth.

Sunday.

A very different Sabbath from the last. Though Robin's Constitution hath received a Shock it may never recover, his comparative Amendment fills us with Thankfulnesse; and our chastened Suspense hath a sweet Solemnitie and Trustfullenesse in it, which pass Understanding.

Mr. Agnew conducted our Devotions. This Morning, I found him praying with Robin—I question if it were for the first Time. Robin looking on him with eyes of such sedate Affection!

Thursday.

Robin still progressing. Dear Rose and Mr. Agnew leave us to-morrow, but they will soon come agayn. Oh faithful Friends!

* * * * * *

April, 1646.

Can Aniething equall the desperate Ingratitude of the human Heart?
Testifie of it, Journall, agaynst me. Here did I, throughout the
incessant Cares and Anxieties of Robin's Sicknesse, find, or make
Time, for almoste dailie Record of my Trouble; since which, whole
Months have passed without soe much as a scrawled Ejaculation of
Thankfullenesse that the Sick hath beene made whole.

Yet, not that that Thankfullenesse hath beene unfelt, nor, though unwritten, unexprest. Nay, O Lord, deeplie, deeplie have I thanked thee for thy tender Mercies. And he healed soe slowlie, that Suspense, as 'twere, wore itself out, and gave Place to a dull, mournful Persuasion that an Hydropsia would waste him away, though more slowlie, yet noe less surelie than the Fever.

Soe Weeks lengthened into Months, I mighte well say Years, they seemed soe long! and stille he seemed to neede more Care and Tendernesse; till, just as he and I had learnt to say, "Thy Will, O Lord, be done," he began to gain Flesh, his craving Appetite moderated, yet his Food nourished him, and by God's Blessing he recovered!

During that heavie Season of Probation, our Hearts were unlocked, and we spake oft to one another of Things in Heaven and Things in Earth. Afterwards, our mutuall Reserves returned, and Robin, methinks, became shyer than before, but there can never cease to be a dearer Bond between us. Now we are apart, I aim to keep him mindfulle of the high and holie Resolutions he formed in his Sicknesse; and though he never answers these Portions of my Letters, I am avised to think he finds them not displeasing.

Now that Oxford is like to be besieged, my Life is more confined than ever; yet I cannot, and will not leave Father and Mother, even for the Agnews, while they are soe much harassed. This Morning, my Father hath received a Letter from Sir Thomas Glemham, requiring a larger Quantitie of winnowed Wheat, than, with alle his Loyaltie, he likes to send.

April 23, 1646.

Ralph Hewlett hath just looked in to say, his Father and Mother have in Safetie reached London, where he will shortlie joyn them, and to ask, is there anie Service he can doe me? Ay, truly; one that I dare not name—he can bring me Word of Mr. Milton, of his Health, of his Looks, of his Speech, and whether . . .

Ralph shall be noe Messenger of mine.

April 24, 1646.

Talking of Money Matters this Morning, Mother sayd Something that brought Tears into mine Eyes. She observed, that though my Husband had never beene a Favourite of hers, there was one Thing wherein she must say he had behaved generously: he had never, to this Day, askt Father for the 500 pounds which had brought him, in the first Instance, to Forest Hill, (he having promised old Mr. Milton to try to get the Debt paid,) and the which, on his asking for my Hand, Father tolde him shoulde be made over sooner or later, in lieu of Dower.

Did Rose know the Bitter-sweet she was imparting to me, when she gave me, by Stealth as 'twere, the latelie publisht Volume of my Husband's English Versing? It hath beene my Companion ever since; for I had perused the Comus but by Snatches, under the Disadvantage of crabbed Manuscript. This Morning, to use his owne deare Words:—

I sat me down to watch, upon a Bank,
With Ivy canopied, and interwove
With flaunting Honeysuckle, and beganne,
Wrapt in a pleasing Fit of Melancholic,
To meditate.

The Text of my Meditation was this, drawne from the same loved Source:—

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,

These Things may startle well, but not astounde,—

he sayd, in a Kind of Wonder, "Why, Moll, whence had you that?—Methought you hated Versing, as you used to call it. When learnt you to love it?" I hung my Head in my old foolish Way, and answered, "Since I learnt to love the Verser." "Why, this is the best of Alle!" he hastilie cried, "Can my sweet Wife be indeede Heart of my Heart and Spirit of my Spirit? I lost, or drove away a Child, and have found a Woman." Thereafter, he less often wifed me, and I found I was agayn sweet Moll.

This Afternoon, Christopher Milton lookt in on us. After saluting me with the usuall Mixture of Malice and Civilitie in his Looks, he fell into easie Conversation; and presentlie says to his Brother quietlie enough, "I saw a curious Pennyworth at a Book-stall as I came along this Morning." "What was that?" says my Husband, brightening up. "It had a long Name," says Christopher,—"I think it was called Tetrachordon." My Husband cast at me a suddain, quick Look, but I did not soe much as change Colour; and quietlie continued my Sewing.

"I wonder," says he, after a Pause, "that you did not invest a small Portion of your Capitall in the Work, as you 'ay 'twas soe greate a Bargain. However, Mr. Kit, let me give you one small Hint with alle the goode Humour imaginable; don't take Advantage of our neare and deare Relation to make too frequent Opportunities of saying to me Anything that woulde certainlie procure for another Man a Thrashing!"

Then, after a short Silence betweene Alle, he suddainlie burst out laughing, and cried, "I know 'tis on the Stalk, I've seene it, Kit, myself! Oh, had you seene, as I did, the Blockheads poring over the Title, and hammering at it while you might have walked to Mile End and back!"

"That's Fame, I suppose," says Christopher drylie; and then goes off to talk of some new Exercise of the Press-licenser's Authoritie, which he seemed to approve, but it kindled my Husband in a Minute.

"What Folly! what Nonsense!" cried he, smiting the Table; "these Jacks in Office sometimes devise such senselesse Things that I really am ashamed of being of theire Party. Licence, indeed! their Licence! I suppose they will shortlie license the Lengthe of Moll's Curls, and regulate the Colour of her Hoode, and forbid the Larks to sing within Sounde of Bow Bell, and the Bees to hum o' Sundays. Methoughte I had broken Mabbot's Teeth two Years agone; but I must bring forthe a new Edition of my Areopagitica; and I'll put your Name down, Kit, for a hundred Copies!"

October, 1646.

Though a rusticall Life hath ever had my Suffrages, Nothing can be more pleasant than our regular Course. We rise at five or sooner: while my Husband combs his Hair, he commonly hums or sings some Psalm or Hymn, versing it, maybe, as he goes on. Being drest, Ned reads him a Chapter in the Hebrew Bible. With Ned stille at his Knee, and me by his Side, he expounds and improves the Same; then, after a shorte, heartie Prayer, releases us both. Before I have finished my Dressing, I hear him below at his Organ, with the two Lads, who sing as well as Choristers, hymning Anthems and Gregorian Chants, now soaring up to the Clouds, as 'twere, and then dying off as though some wide echoing Space lay betweene us. I usuallie find Time to tie on my Hoode and slip away to the Herb-market for a Bunch of fresh Radishes or Cresses, a Sprig of Parsley, or at the leaste a Posy, to lay on his Plate. A good wheaten Loaf, fresh Butter and Eggs, and a large Jug of Milk, compose our simple Breakfast; for he likes not, as my Father, to see Boys hacking a huge Piece of Beef, nor cares for heavie feeding, himself. Onlie, olde Mr. Milton sometimes takes a Rasher of toasted Bacon, but commonly, a Basin of Furmity, which I prepare more to his Minde than the Servants can.

After Breakfast, I well know the Boys' Lessons will last till Noone. I therefore goe to my Closett Duties after my Forest Hill Fashion; thence to Market, buy what I neede, come Home, look to my Maids, give forthe needfulle Stores, then to my Needle, my Books, or perchance to my Lute, which I woulde faine play better. From twelve to one is the Boys' Hour of Pastime; and it may generallie be sayd, my Husband's and mine too. He draws aside the green Curtain,—for we sit mostly in a large Chamber shaped like the Letter T, and thus divided while at our separate Duties: my End is the pleasantest, has the Sun most upon it, and hath a Balcony overlooking a Garden. At one, we dine; always on simple, plain Dishes, but drest with Neatnesse and Care. Olde Mr. Milton sits at my right Hand and says Grace; and, though growing a little deaf, enters into alle the livelie Discourse at Table. He loves me to help him to the tenderest, by Reason of his Losse of Teeth. My Husband careth not to sitt over the Wine; and hath noe sooner finished the Cheese and Pippins than he reverts to the Viol or Organ, and not onlie sings himself, but will make me sing too, though he sayth my Voice is better than my Ear. Never was there such a tunefulle Spiritt. He alwaies tears himself away at laste, as with a Kind of Violence, and returns to his Books at six o' the Clock. Meantime, his old Father dozes, and I sew at his Side.

From six to eight, we are seldom without Friends, chance Visitants, often scholarlike and witty, who tell us alle the News, and remain to partake a light Supper. The Boys enjoy this Season as much as I doe, though with Books before them, their Hands over their Ears, pretending to con the Morrow's Tasks. If the Guests chance to be musicalle, the Lute and Viol are broughte forthe, to alternate with Roundelay and Madrigal: the old Man beating Time with his feeble Fingers, and now and then joining with his quavering Voice. (By the way, he hath not forgotten, to this Hour, my imputed Crime of losing that Song by Harry Lawes: my Husband takes my Part, and sayth it will turn up some Day when leaste expected, like Justinian's Pandects.) Hubert brings him his Pipe and a Glass of Water, and then I crave his Blessing and goe to Bed; first, praying ferventlie for alle beneathe this deare Roof, and then for alle at Sheepscote and Forest Hill.

On Sabbaths, besides the publick Ordinances of Devotion, which I cannot, with alle my striving, bring myself to love like the Services to which I have beene accustomed, we have much Reading, Singing, and Discoursing among ourselves. The Maids sing, the Boys sing, Hubert sings, olde Mr. Milton sings; and trulie with soe much of it, I woulde sometimes as lief have them quiete. The Sheepscote Sundays suited me better. The Sabbath Exercise of the Boys is to read a Chapter in the Greek Testament, heare my Husband expounde the same; and write out a System of Divinitie as he dictates to them, walking to and fro. In listening thereto, I find my Pleasure and Profitt.

I have alsoe my owne little Catechising, after a humbler Sorte, in the
Kitchen, and some poore Folk to relieve and console, with my Husband's
Concurrence and Encouragement. Thus, the Sabbath is devoutlie and
happilie passed.

My Husband alsoe takes, once in a Fortnighte or soe, what he blythelie calls "a gaudy Day," equallie to his owne Content, the Boys', and mine. On these Occasions, it is my Province to provide colde Fowls or Pigeon Pie, which Hubert carries, with what else we neede, to the Spot selected for our Camp Dinner. Sometimes we take Boat to Richmond or Greenwich. Two young Gallants, Mr. Alphrey and Mr. Miller, love to joyn our Partie, and toil at the Oar, or scramble up the Hills, as merrilie as the Boys. I must say they deal savagelie with the Pigeon Pie afterwards. They have as wild Spiritts as our Dick and Harry, but withal a most wonderfull Reverence for my Husband, whom they courte to read and recite, and provoke to pleasant Argument, never prolonged to Wearinesse, and seasoned with Frolic Jest and Witt. Olde Mr. Milton joyns not these Parties. I leave him alwaies to Dolly's Care, firste providing for him a Sweetbread or some smalle Relish, such as he loves. He is in Bed ere we return, which is oft by Moonlighte.

How soone must Smiles give Way to Tears! Here is a Letter from deare Mother, taking noe Note of what I write to her, and for good Reason, she is soe distraught at her owne and deare Father's ill Condition. The Rebels (I must call them such,) have soe stript and opprest them, they cannot make theire House tenantable; nor have Aught to feede on, had they e'en a whole Roof over theire Heads. The Neighbourhoode is too hot to holde them; olde Friends cowardlie and suspicious, olde and new Foes in League together. Leave Oxon they must; but where to goe? Father, despite his broken Health and Hatred of the Foreigner, must needes depart beyond Seas; at leaste within the six Months; but how, with an emptie Purse, make his Way in a strange Land, with a Wife and seven Children at his Heels? Soe ends Mother with a "Lord have Mercy upon us!" as though her House were as surelie doomed to destruction as if it helde the Plague.

Mine Eyes were yet swollen with Tears, when my Husband stept in. He askt, "What ails you, precious Wife?" I coulde but sigh, and give him the Letter. Having read the Same, he says, "But what, my dearest? Have we not ample Room here for them alle? I speak as to Generalls, you must care for Particulars, and stow them as you will. There are plenty of small Rooms for the Boys; but, if your Father, being infirm, needes a Ground-floor Chamber, you and I will mount aloft."

I coulde but look my Thankfullenesse and kiss his Hand. "Nay," he added, with increasing Gentlenesse, "think not I have seene your Cares for my owne Father without loving and blessing you. Let Mr. Powell come and see us happie; it may tend to make him soe. Let him and his abide with us, at the leaste, till the Spring; his Lads will studdy and play with mine, your Mother will help you in your Housewiferie, the two olde Men will chirp together beside the Christmasse Hearth; and, if I find thy Weeklie Bills the heavier 'twill be but to write another Book, and make a better Bargain for it than I did for the last. We will use Hospitalitie without grudging; and, as for your owne Increase of Cares, I suppose 'twill be but to order two Legs of Mutton insteade of one!"

And soe, with a Laugh, left me, most joyfulle, happy Wife! to drawe
Sweete out of Sowre, Delighte out of Sorrowe; and to summon mine owne
Kindred aboute me, and wipe away theire Tears, bid them eat, drink, and
be merry, and shew myselfe to them, how proud, how cherished a Wife!

Surelie my Mother wille learne to love John Milton at last! If she doth not, this will be my secret Crosse, for 'tis hard to love dearlie two Persons who esteeme not one another. But she will, she must, not onlie respect him for his Uprightnesse and Magnanimitie, coupled with what himselfe calls "an honest Haughtinesse and Self-esteeme," but like him for his kind and equall Temper, (not "harsh and crabbed," as I have hearde her call it,) his easie Flow of Mirthe, his Manners, unaffectedlie cheerfulle; his Voice, musicall; his Person, beautifull; his Habitt, gracefull; his Hospitalitie, naturall to him; his Purse, Countenance, Time, Trouble, at his Friend's Service; his Devotion, humble; his Forgivenesse, heavenlie! May it please God, that my Mother shall like John Milton! . . .