And, kicking back his Chair, he got up, and began to walk hastily about the Chamber, as fearlessly as he always does when he is thinking of something else, I springing up to move one or two Chairs out of his Way. Hearing some high Voices in the Offices, he presently observed, "A contentious Woman is like a continuall Dropping. Shakspeare spoke well when he said that a sweet, low Voice is an excellent Thing in Woman. I wish you good Women would recollect that one Avenue of my Senses being stopt, makes me keener to any Impression on the others. Where Strife is, there is Confusion and every evil Work. Why should not we dwell in Peace, in this quiet little Nest, instead of rendering our Home liker to a Cage of unclean Birds?"
Bunhill Fields, London, Oct. 1666.
People have phansied Appearances of Armies in the Air, flaming Swords, Fields of Battle, and other Images; and, truly, the Evening before we left Chalfont, methought I beheld the Glories of the ancient City Ctesiphon in the Sunset Clouds, with gilded Battlements, conspicuous far—Turrets, and Terraces, and glittering Spires. The light-armed Parthians pouring through the Gates, in Coats of Mail, and military Pride. In the far Perspective of the open Plain, two ancient Rivers, the one winding, t'other straight, losing themselves in the glowing Distance, among the Tents of the ten lost Tribes. Such are One's Dreams at Sunset. And, when I cast down my dazed Eyes on the shaded Landskip, all looked in Comparison, so black and bleak, that methought how dull and dreary this lower World must have appeared to Moses when he descended from Horeb, and to our Saviour, when he came down from the Mount of Transfiguration, and to St. Paul, when he dropt from the seventh Heaven.
What a Click, Click, the Bricklayers make with their Trowels, thus bringing me down from my Altitudes! Sure, we hardly knew how well off we were at Chalfont, till we came back to this unlucky Capital, looking as desolate as Jerusalem, when the City was ruinated and the People captivated. Weeds in the Streets—smouldering Piles—blackened, tottering Walls—and inexhaustible Heaps of vile Rubbish. Even with closed Windows, everything gets covered with a Coating of fine Dust. Cousin Jack Yesterday picked up a half-burnt Acceptance for twenty thousand Pounds. There is a fine Time coming for Builders and Architects—Anne's Lover among the Rest. The Way she picked him up was notable. Returning to Town, she falls to her old Practices of daily Prayer, and visiting the Poor. At Church she sits over against a good-looking young Man, recovered from the Plague, whose near Approach to Death's Door had made him more godly in his Walk than the general of his Age and Condition. He notes her beautiful Face—marks not her deformed Shape; and, because that, by Reason of the late Distresses, the Calamities of the Poor have been met by unusuall Charities of the upper Classes, he, on his Errands of Mercy among the Rest, presently falls in with her at a poor sick Man's House, and marvels when the limping Stranger turns about and discovers the beautiful Votaress. After one or two chance Meetings, respectfully accosts her—Anne draws back—he finds a mutuall Friend—the Acquaintance progresses; and at length, by Way of first Introduction to my Father, he steps in to ask him (preamble supposed) to give him his eldest Daughter. Then what a Storm ensues! Father's Objections do not transpire, no one being by but Mother, who is unlikely to soften Matters. But, so soon as John Herring shuts the Door behind him, and walks off quickly, Anne is called down, and I follow, neither bidden nor hindered. Thereupon, Father, with a red Heat-spot on his Cheek, asks Anne what she knows of this young Man. Her answer, "Nothing but good." "How came she to know him at all?" . . . Silent; then makes Answer, "Has seen him at Mrs. French's and elsewhere." "Where else?" "Why, at Church, and other Places." Mother here puts in, "What other Places?" . . . "Sure what can it signify," Anne asks, turning short round upon her; "and especially to you, who would be glad to get quit of me on any Terms?"
"Anne, Anne!" interrupts Father, "does this Concern of ours for you look like it? You know you are saying what is uncivil and untrue."
"Well," resumes Anne, her breath coming quick, "but what's the
Objection to John Herring?"
"John? is he John with you already?" cries Mother. "Then you must know more of him than you say."
"Sure, Mother," cries Anne, bursting into Tears, "you are enough to overcome the Patience of Job. I know nothing of the young Man, but that he is pious, and steady, and well read, and a good Son of reputable Parents, as well to do in the World as ourselves; and that he likes me, whom few like, and offers me a quiet, happy Home."
"How fast some People can talk when they like," observes Mother; at which Allusion to Anne's Impediment, I dart at her a Look of Wrath; but Nan only continues weeping.
"Come hither, Child," interposes Father, holding his Hand towards her; "and you, good Betty, leave us awhile to talk over this without Interruption." At which, Mother, taking him literally, sweeps up her Work, and quits the Room. "The Address of this young Man," says Father, "has taken me wholly by Surprise, and your Encouragement of it has incontestably had somewhat of clandestine in it; notwithstanding which, I have, and can have, nothing in View, dear Nan, but your Well-being. As to his Calling, I take no Exceptions at it, even though, like Caementarius, he should say, I am a Bricklayer, and have got my Living by my Labour—"