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."