Poor Ellwood's Love-bonds prove rather more irksome to him than those of his Gaol; he hath renewed his Intercourse with our Friends at the Grange, only to find a dangerous Rival stept into his Place, in the Person of one William Penn—in fact, I suspect Mistress Guli is engaged to him already. Ellwood hath been closetted with my Father this Morning, pouring out his Woes—methinks he must have been to seek for a Confidant! When he came forth, the poor young Man's Eyes were red. I cannot but pity him, tho' he is such a Formalist.

I wish Anne were a little more demonstrative; Father would then be as assured of her Affection as of mine, and treat her with equal Tenderness. But, no, she cannot be; she will sitt and look piteously on his blind Face, but, alas! he cannot see that; and when he pours forth the full Tide of Melody on his Organ, and hymns mellifluous Praise, the Tears rush to her eyes, and she is oft obliged to quit the Chamber; but, alas! he knows not that. So he goes on, deeming her, I fear me, stupid as well as silent, indifferent as well as infirm.

I am not avised of her ever having let him feel her Sympathy, save when he was inditing to me his third Book, while she sate at her Sewing. 'Twas at these lines:—

"Thus with the Year,
Seasons return; but not to me returns
Day, or the sweet Approach of Even or Morn,
Or Sight of vernal Bloom or Summer's Rose,
Or Flocks or Herds, or human Face divine,
But Clouds instead, and over-during Dark
Surrounds me; from the cheerful Ways of Men
Cut off: and for the Book of Knowledge fair,
Presented with an universal Blank."

His Brow was a little contracted, but his Face was quite composed; while she, on t'other Hand, with her Work dropped from her Lap, and her Eyes streaming, sate gazing on him, the Image of Woe. At length, timidly stole to his Side, and, after hesitating awhile, kissed both his Eyelids. He caught her to him, quite taken by Surprise, and, for a Moment, both wept bitterly. This was soon put a Stop to, by Mother's coming in, with her Head full of stale Fish; howbeit Father treated Anne with uncommon Tenderness all that Evening, calling her his sweet Nan; while she, shrinking back again into her Shell, was shyer than ever. But his Spiritts were soothed rather than dashed by this little Outbreak; and at Bedtime, he said, even cheerfully, "Now, good-night, Girls: . . . may it, indeed, be as good to you as to me. You know, Night brings back my Day—I am not blind in my Dreams."

I wish I knew the Distinction between Temperament and Genius: how far Father's even Frame is attributable to one or t'other. If to the former, why, we might hope to attain it as well as he;—yet, no; this is equallie the Gift of God's Grace. Our Humours we may controwl, but our Temperament is born with us; and if one should say, "Why are you a Vessel of glorious things, while I am a Vessel of Things weak and vile?"—nay, but oh! Man or Woman, who art thou that questionest the Will of God? His Election is shewn no less in the Gift of Genius or of an equable Temperament than of spirituall Life; and the Thing formed may not say to him that formed it, "Why hast thou made me thus?"

Father, indeed, can flame out in political Controversy, and lay about him as with a Flail, right and left, making the Chaff, and sometimes the Wheat too, fly about his Ears. 'Twas while threshing the Wheat by the Wine-press at Ophrah, that Gideon was called by the Angel; and methinks Father hath in like Manner been summoned from the Floor of his Threshing, to discourse of Heaven and Earth, and bring forth from his Mind's Storehouse Things new and old. I wonder if the World will ever give heed to his Teaching. Suppose a Spark of Fire should drop some Night on the Manuscript, while Ettwood is dozing over it;—why, there's an end on't. I suppose Father could never do it over again. I wonder how many fine Things have been lost in suchlike Ways; or whether God ever permitts a truly fine Thing to be utterly lost. We may drop a Diamond into the Sea; but there it is, at the Bottom of the Great Deep. Justinian's Pandects turned up again. The Art of making Glass was lost once. The Passage round the Cape was made and forgotten.——If I pore over this, I shall puzzle my Head. Howbeit, were I to round the Cape, I should hardly look for stranger and more glorious Scenes than Father hath in his Poem made familiar to me. He hath done more for me than Columbus for Queen Isabel—hath revealed to me a far better New World. Now, I scarce ever look on the setting Sun, surrounded by Hues more gorgeous than those of the High-priest's Breast-plate, without picturing the Angel of the Sun seated on that bright Beam which bore him, Slope downward, beneath the Azores. And, in the less brilliant Hour, I, by Faith or Fancy, discern Ithuriel and Zephon in the Shade; and by their Side a third, of regal Port, but faded Splendour wan. A little later still, can sometimes hear the Voice of God, or, as I suppose, we might say, the Word of God, walking in the Garden. Pneuma! His Breath! His Spirit! How hushed and still! Then, the Night cometh, when no Man can work—when the young Lions, in tropical Climes, waking from their Day-sleep, seek their Meat from God. Albeit they may prowl about the Dwellings of his people, they cannot enter, for He that watcheth them neither slumbers nor sleeps. Moreover, heavenly Vigils relieve one another at their Posts, and go their Midnight Rounds; sometimes, singing (Father says), with heavenly Touch of instrumental Sounds, in full harmonic Number joined . . . yes, and Shepherds, once, at least, have heard them.

And then . . . and then Mother cries, "How often, Deb, shall I bid you lock the Gate at nine o'clock, and bring me in the Key?"

Sept. 2nd, 1665.

Good so! Master Ellwood hath brought back the MS. at last, and delivered his Approbation thereon with the Air of a competent Authority, which Father took in the utmost good part, and chatted with him on the Subject for some Time. Howbeit, he is not much flattered, I fancy, by the Quaker's pragmatick Sanction, qualifyde, too, as it was, to show his own Discernment; and when I consider that the major part of Criticks may be as little fitted to take the Measure of their Subject as Ellwood is of Father, I cannot but see that the gleaning of Father's Grapes is better than the Vintage of the Critick's Abiezer.