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! . . .