Yea, and too oft we know not indeed what we sow.—Here be seeds; what, I wis not. Drop them into the earth—they shall come up somewhat.—Then, when they come up briars and thistles, we stand and gape on them.—Dear heart, who had thought they should be so? I looked for primroses and violets.—Did you so, friend? But had you not been wiser to ask at the Husbandman, who wot that you did not?—Good lack! but I thought me wise enough.—Ay so: that do we all and alway. Good Lord, who art the Only Wise, shake our conceits of our own wisdom!
Lack-a-daisy, but how easy is it to fall of a rut in thy journeying! Here was I but to write my thoughts touching these maids’ writings, and after reading the same, I am fallen of their rut, and am going on to keep the Chronicle as though I were one of them. Of a truth, there is somewhat captivating therein: and Edith saith she shall continue, for her own diversion, to keep a privy Chronicle. So be it. Methinks, as matter of understanding and natural turn thereto, she is fittest of the three. Nell saith she found it no easy matter, and should never think so to do: while Milisent, as I guess, shall for a while to come be something too much busied living her chronicle, to write it. For me, I did once essay to do the same; but it went not, as I mind, beyond a week or so. Either there were so much to do there was no time to write it; or so little that there was nought to write. I well-nigh would now that I had kept it up. For sure such changes in public matters as have fallen in my life shall the world not see many times o’er again. When I was born, in Mdxxv (1525), was King Harry the Eight young and well-liked of all men, and no living soul so much as dreamed of all the troubles thereafter to ensue. Then came the tumult that fell of the matter of the King’s divorce. (All ’long of a man’s obstinateness, for was not my sometime Lord Cardinal (Wolsey) wont to say that rather than miss the one half of his will, he would endanger the one half of his kingdom? Right the man is that. A woman should know how to bend herself to circumstances.) Then came the troubles o’er Queen Anne, that had her head cut off (and by my troth, I misdoubted alway if she did deserve the same); and then of the divorce of the Lady Anne of Cleve (that no Gospeller did ever think to deserve the same); and then of Queen Katherine, whose head was cut off belike—eh me, what troublous times were then! Verily, looking back, they seem worser than at the time they did. For when things be, there be mixed with all the troubles little matters that be easy and even delightsome: but to look back, one doth forget all them, and think only of the great affairs. And all the time, along with this, kept pace that great ado of religion which fell out in the purifying of the Church men call the Reformation. (Though, of a truth, the Papists have of late took up a cry that afore the Reformation the Church of England was not, and did only then spring into being. As good say I was not Joyce Morrell this morrow until I washed my face.) Then, when King Harry died—and it was none too soon for this poor realm—came the goodly days of our young Josiah King Edward, which were the true reforming of the Church; that which went afore were rather playing at reform. Men’s passions were too much mixed up with it. But after the blue sky returned the tempest. Ay me, those five years of Queen Mary, what they be to look back on! Howbeit, matters were worser in the shires and down south than up hither. Old Bishop Tunstall was best of all the Papist Bishops, for though he flustered much (and as some thought, to save himself from suspicion of them in power), yet he did little more. I well-nigh gat mine head into a noose, for it ne’er was my way to carry my flag furled, and Father Slatter, that was then priest at Minster Lovel, as I know, had my name set of his list of persons suspect. Once come the catchpoll to mine house,—I wis not on what business, for, poor man! he tarried not to tell me when I come at him with the red-hot poker. I never wist a man yet, would stand a red-hot poker with a woman behind it that meant it for him. Master Catchpoll were wise enough to see that the penny is well spent that saveth a groat, and he gave me leave to see little more of him than his flying skirts and the nails of his boots—and his hat, that he left behind of his hurry, the which I sent down to my mistress his wife with mine hearty commendations, and hope he had catched no cold. I reckon he preferred the risk of that to the surety of catching a red-hot poker. But that giving me warning of what might follow—as a taste of a dish whereof more should be anon laid on my trencher—up-stairs went I, and made up my little bundle, and the next night that ever was, away came I of an horse behind old Dickon, that had been sewer ever since Father and Mother were wed, then five-and-thirty years gone, and Father Slatter might whistle for me, as I reckon he did when he heard it. It were an hard journey and a cold, for it were winter, but the snow was our true friend in covering all tracks, and at long last came I safe hither, in the middle of the night, and astonied Aubrey and Lettice more than a little by casting of snowballs at their chamber window. At the last come the casement undone, and Aubrey’s voice saith—
“Is there any in trouble?”
“Here is a poor maid, by name Joyce Morrell,” said I, “that will be in trouble ere long if thou leave her out in this snowstorm.”
Good lack, but was there no ado when my voice were known! The hall fire embers were stirren up, and fresh logs cast thereon, and in ten minutes was I sat afore it of a great chair, with all the blankets in Cumberland around and over me, and a steaming hot posset-bowl of mine hand.
It was a mile or so too far, I reckon, for Father Slatter to trudge after me, and if he had come, I’d have serven him of the poker, or twain if need be. I guess he should have loved rather to flounder back through the snow.
So, by the good hand of my God upon me, came I safe through the reign of Queen Mary; and when Queen Elizabeth came in (whom God long preserve, unto the comfort of His Church and the welfare of England!) had I not much ado to win back my lands and goods. Truth to tell, I gat not all back, but what I lost was a cheap bargain where life lay in the other scale. And enough is as good as a feast, any day.
So here lie I now at anchor, becalmed on the high seas. (If that emblem hang not together, Ned must amend it when he cometh unto it.) The day is neither bright nor dark, but it is a day known to the Lord, and I have faith to believe that at eventide it shall be light. I can trust and wait.
(In Edith’s handwriting.)
Minster Lovel Manor House, August the xxviii, Mdxci (1591).