To wind up all, Ellwood, primming up his Mouth, says, "Thou hast found much to tell us, Friend Milton, on Paradise Lost;—now, what hast thou to tell of Paradise Regained?"
Father said nothing at the Time, but hath since been brooding a good deal, and keeping me much to the Reading of the New Testament; and I think my Night-work will soon begin again.
Ellwood's Talk was much of Guli Springett, whom I have seen sundry times, and think high-flown, in spight of her levelling Principles and demure Carriage. The Youth is bewitched with her, I think; what has a Woman to do with Logique? My Belief is, he might as well hope to marry the Moon as to win Mistress Springett's Hand; however, his Self-opinion is considerable. He chode Father this Morning for Organ-playing, saying he doubted its lawfullness. Oh, the Prigg!
I grieve to think Mary can sometimes be a little spightfull as well as unduteous. She is ill at her Pen, and having To-day made some Blunder, for which Father chid her, not overmuch, she rudely made Answer, "I never had a Writing-master." Betty, being by, treasured up, as I could see, this ill-natured Speech: and 'twas unfair too; for, if we never had a Writing-master, yet my Aunt Agar taught us; and 'twas our own Fault if we improved no more. Indeed, we have had a scrambling Sort of Education; but, in many respects, our Advantages have exceeded those of many young Women; and among them I reckon, first and foremost, continuall Intercourse with a superior Mind.
If a Piece of mere Leather, by frequent Contact with Silver, acquires a certain Portion of the pure and bright Metal; sure, the Children of a gifted Parent must, by the Collision of their Minds, insensibly, as 'twere, imbibe somewhat of his finer Parts. Ned Phillips, indeed, sayth we are like People living so close under a big Mountain, as not to know how high it is; but I think we . . . at least, I do. And, whatever be our scant Learnings, Father, despite his limited Means, hath never grutched us the Supply of a reall Want; and is, at this Time, paying Joan Elliott at a good Rate for perfecting Anne in her pretty Work. I am sorry Mary should thus have sneaped him; and I am sorry I ever either hurt him—by uncivil Speech, or wronged him by unkind Thought. Poor Nan, with all her Infirmities, is, perhaps, his best Child. Not that I am a bad one, neither.
My Night-tasks have recommenced of late; because, as he says—
"I suoi Pensieri in lui Dormir non ponno:"
which, being interpreted, means, "His Thoughts would let him and his Daughter take no rest."
12th.
I know not that any one but Father hath ever concerned themselves to imagine the Anxieties of the blessed Virgin during her Son's forty Days' mysterious Absence. No wonder that