—Dead tired, this Daye, with so much Exercise; but woulde not say soe, because my Husband was thinking to please me by shewing me soe much. Spiritts flagging however. TheseLondonStreets wearie my Feet. We have been over the House inAldersgate Street, the Garden whereof disappointed me, having hearde soe much of it; but 'tis far better than none, and the House is large enough for Mr.Milton'sFamilie and myFather'sto boote. Thought how pleasant 'twould be to have them alle aboute me nextChristmasse; but that holie Time is noe longer kept with Joyfullnesse inLondon. Ventured, therefore, to expresse a Hope, we mighte spend it atForest Hill; but Mr.Miltonsayd 'twas unlikelie he should be able to leave Home; and askt, would I go alone?—Constrained, for Shame, to say no; but felt, in my Heart, I woulde jump to seeForest Hillon anie Terms, I soe love alle that dwell there.
Sunday Even.
Private and publick Prayer, Sermons, and Psalm-singing from Morn until Nighte. The onlie Break hath been a Visit to a quaint but pleasing Lady, by NameCatherine Thompson, whome my Husband holds in great Reverence. She said manie Things worthy to be remembered; onlieasI remember them, I need not to write them down. Sorrie to be caughte napping by my Husband, in the Midst of the third long Sermon. This comes of over-walking, and of being unable to sleep o' Nights; for whether it be theLondonAyre, or theLondonMethods of making the Beds, or the strange Noises in the Streets, I know not, but I have scarce beene able to close my Eyes before Daybreak since I came to Town.
Monday.
And now beginneth a new Life; for my Husband's Pupils, who were dismist for a Time for my Sake, returne to theire Tasks this Daye, and olde Mr.Miltongiveth place to his two Grandsons, his widowed Daughter's Children,EdwardandJohn Phillips, whom my Husband led in to me just now. Two plainer Boys I never sett Eyes on; the one weak-eyed and puny, the other prim and puritanicall—no more to be compared to our sweetRobin! . . . After a few Words, they retired to theire Books; and my Husband, taking my Hand, sayd in his kindliest Manner,—"And now I leave my sweeteMollto the pleasant Companie of her own goode and innocent Thoughtes; and, if she needs more, here are both stringed and keyed Instruments, and Books both of the older and modern Time, soe that she will not find the Hours hang heavie." Methoughte how much more I should like a Ride uponCloverthan all the Books that ever were penned; for the Door no sooner closed upon Mr.Miltonthan it seemed as tho' he had taken alle the Sunshine with him; and I fell to cleaning the Casement that I mighte look out the better into the Churchyarde, and then altered Tables and Chairs, and then sate downe with my Elbows resting on the Window-seat, and my Chin on the Palms of my Hands, gazing on I knew not what, and feeling like a Butterflie under a Wine-glass.
I marvelled why it seemed soe long since I was married, and wondered what they were doing at Home,—coulde fancy I heardeMotherchiding, and seeCharliestealing into the Dairie and dipping his Finger in the Cream, andKatefeeding the Chickens, andDicktaking a Stone out ofWhitestar'sShoe.
—Methought how dull it was to be passing the best Part of the Summer out of the Reache of fresh Ayre and greene Fields, and wondered, woulde alle my future Summers be soe spent?
Thoughte how dull it was to live in Lodgings, where one could not even go into the Kitchen to make a Pudding; and how dull to live in a Town, without some young female Friend with whom one might have ventured into the Streets, and where one could not soe much as feed Colts in a Paddock; how dull to be without a Garden, unable soe much as to gather a Handfulle of ripe Cherries; and how dull to looke into a Churchyarde, where there was a Man digging a Grave!
—When I wearied of staring at the Grave-digger, I gazed at an olde Gentleman and a young Lady slowlie walking along, yet scarce as if I noted them; and was thinking mostlie ofForest Hill, when I saw them stop at our Doore, and presently they were shewn in, by the Name of Doctor and MistressDavies. I sent for my Husband, and entertayned 'em bothe as well as I could, till he appeared, and they were polite and pleasant to me; the young Lady tall and slender, of a cleare brown Skin, and with Eyes that were fine enough; onlie there was a supprest Smile on her Lips alle the Time, as tho' she had seen me looking out of the Window. She tried me on all Subjects, I think; for she started them more adroitlie than I; and taking up a Book on the Window-seat, which was theAmadigiofBernardo Tasso, printed alle inItaliques, she sayd, if I loved Poetry, which she was sure I must, she knew she shoulde love me. I did not tell her whether or noe. Then we were both silent. Then DoctorDaviestalked vehementlie to Mr.Miltonagaynst the King; and Mr.Miltonwas not so contrarie to him as I could have wished. Then MistressDaviestooke the Word from her Father and beganne to talke to Mr.MiltonofTasso, andDante, andBoiardo, andAriosto; and then DoctorDaviesand I were silent. Methoughte, they both talked well, tho' I knew so little of their Subject-matter; onlie they complimented eache other too much. I mean not they were insincere, for eache seemed to think highlie of the other; onlie we neede not say alle we feele.
To conclude, we are to sup with them to-morrow.
Wednesday.
Journall, I have Nobodie now but you, to whome to tell my little Griefs; indeede, before I married, I know not that I had anie; and even now, they are very small, onlie they are soe new, that sometimes my Heart is like to burst.
—I know not whether 'tis safe to put them alle on Paper, onlie it relieves for the Time, and it kills Time, and perhaps, a little While hence I may looke back and see how small they were, and how they mighte have beene shunned, or better borne. 'Tis worth the Triall.
—Yesterday Morn, for very Wearinesse, I looked alle over my Linen and Mr.Milton's, to see could I finde anie Thing to mend; but there was not a Stitch amiss. I woulde have played on the Spinnette, but was afrayd he should hear my indifferent Musick. Then, as a last Resource, I tooke a Book—Paul Perrin's Historie of the Waldenses;—and was, I believe, dozing a little, when I was aware of a continuall Whispering and Crying. I thought 'twas some Child in the Street; and, having some Comfits in my Pocket, I stept softlie out to the House-door and lookt forth, but no Child could I see. Coming back, the Door of my Husband's Studdy being ajar, I was avised to look in; and saw him, with awfulle Brow, raising his Hand in the very Act to strike the youngestPhillips. I could never endure to see a Child struck, soe hastilie cryed out "Oh, don't!"—whereon he rose, and, as if not seeing me, gently closed the Door, and, before I reached my Chamber, I hearde soe loud a Crying that I began to cry too. Soon, alle was quiet; and my Husband, coming in, stept gently up to me, and putting his Arm about my Neck, sayd, "My dearest Life, never agayn, I beseech you, interfere between me and the Boys: 'tis as unseemlie as tho' I shoulde interfere between you and your Maids, when you have any,—and will weaken my Hands, dearMoll, more than you have anie Suspicion of."
I replied, kissing that same offending Member as I spoke, "PoorJackwould have beene glad, just now, if Ihadweakened them."—"But that is not the Question," he returned, "for we shoulde alle be glad to escape necessary Punishment; whereas, it is the Power, not the Penalty of our bad Habits, that we shoulde seek to be delivered from."—"There may," I sayd, "be necessary, but need not be corporal Punishment." "That is as may be," returned he, "and hath alreadie been settled by an Authoritie to which I submit, and partlie think you will dispute, and that is, the Word ofGod. Pain of Body is in Realitie, or ought to be, sooner over and more safelie borne than Pain of an ingenuous Mind; and, as to theShame,—why, asLorenzo de' Medicisayd toSoccini, 'The Shame is in the Offence rather than in the Punishment.'"
I replied, "OurRobinhad never beene beaten for his Studdies;" to which he sayd with a Smile, that even I must admitRobinto be noe greate Scholar. And so in good Humour left me; but I was in no good Humour, and hoped Heaven might never make me the Mother of a Son, for if I should see Mr.Miltonstrike him, I should learn to hate the Father.—
Learning there was like to be Companie at DoctorDavies', I was avised to put on my brave greene Satin Gown; and my Husband sayd it became me well, and that I onlie needed some Primroses and Cowslips in my Lap, to look likeMay;—and somewhat he added about mine Eyes' "clear shining after Rain," which avised me he had perceived I had beene crying in the Morning, which I had hoped he had not.
Arriving at the Doctor's House, we were shewn into an emptie Chamber; at least, emptie of Companie, but full of every Thing else; for there were Books, and Globes, and stringed and wind Instruments, and stuffed Birds and Beasts, and Things I know not soe much as the Names of, besides an Easel with a Painting by Mrs.Mildredon it, which she meant to be seene, or she woulde have put it away. Subject, "Brutus's Judgment:"which I thought a strange, unfeeling one for a Woman; and did not wish to beherSon. Soone she came in, drest with studdied and puritanicall Plainnesse; in brown Taffeta, guarded with black Velvet, which became her well enough, but was scarce suited for the Season. She had much to say about limning, in which my Husband could follow her better than I; and then they went to the Globes, andCopernicus, andGalileo Galilei, whom she called a Martyr, but I do not. For, is a Martyr one who is unwillinglie imprisoned, or who formally recants? even tho' he affected afterwards to say 'twasbuta Form, and cries, "Eppure, si muove?" The earlier Christians might have sayd 'twas but a Form to burn a Handfull of Incense beforeJove'sStatua;Plinywoulde have let them goe.
Afterwards, when the Doctor came in and engaged my Husband in Discourse, MistressMildreddevoted herselfe to me, and askt what Progresse I had made withBernardo Tasso. I tolde her, none at alle, for I was equallie faultie atItaliquesandItalian, and onlie knew his best Work thro' Mr.Fairfax'sTranslation; whereat she fell laughing, and sayd she begged my Forgivenesse, but I was confounding the Father with the Sonne; then laught agayn, but pretended 'twas not at me but at a Lady I minded her of, who never coulde remember to distinguish betwixtLionardo da VinciandLorenzo dei Medici. That last Name brought up the Recollection of my Morning's Debate with my Husband, which made me feel sad; and then, Mrs.Mildred, seeminge anxious to make me forget her Unmannerliness, commenced, "Can you paint?"—"Can you sing?"—"Can you play the Lute?"—and, at the last, "Whatcanyou do?" I mighte have sayd I coulde comb out my Curls smoother than she coulde hers, but did not. Other Guests came in, and talked so much agaynst Prelacy and the Right divine of Kings that I woulde fain we had remained at Astronomie and Poetry. For Supper there was little Meat, and noe strong Drinks, onlie a thinnish foreign Wine, with Cakes, Candies, Sweetmeats, Fruits, and Confections. Such, I suppose, is Town Fashion. At the laste, came Musick; MistressMildredsang and played; then prest me to do the like, but I was soe fearfulle, I coulde not; so my Husband sayd he woulde play for me, and that woulde be alle one, and soe covered my Bashfullenesse handsomlie.
Onlie this Morning, just before going to his Studdy, he stept back and sayd, "SweetMoll, I know you can both play and sing—why will you not practise?" I replyed, I loved it not much. He rejoyned, "But you know I love it, and is not that a Motive?" I sayd, I feared to let him hear me, I played so ill. He replyed, "Why, that is the very Reason you shoulde seek to play better, and I am sure you have Plenty of Time. Perhaps, in your whole future Life, you will not have such a Season of Leisure as you have now,—a golden Opportunity, which you will surelie seize."—Then added, "SirThomas More'sWife learnt to play the Lute, solely that she mighte please her Husband." I answered, "Nay, what to tell me of SirThomas More'sWife, or ofHugh Grotius'sWife, when I was the Wife ofJohn Milton?" He looked at me twice, and quicklie, too, at this Saying; then laughing, cried, "You cleaving Mischief! I hardlie know whether to take that Speech amisse or well—however, you shall have the Benefit of the Doubt."
And so away laughing; and I, for very Shame, sat down to the Spinnette for two wearie Hours, till soe tired, I coulde cry; and when I desisted, coulde hearJackwailing over his Task. 'Tis raining fast, I cannot get out, nor should I dare to go alone, nor where to go to if 'twere fine. I fancy ill Smells from the Churchyard—'tis long to Dinner-time, with noe Change, noe Exercise; and oh, I sigh forForest Hill.
—A dull Dinner with Mrs.Phillips, whom I like not much.Christopher Miltonthere, who stared hard at me, and put me out of Countenance with his strange Questions. My Husband checked him. He is a Lawyer, and has Wit enoughe.
Mrs.Phillipsspeaking of second Marriages, I unawares hurt her by giving my Voice agaynst them. It seems she is thinking of contracting a second Marriage.
—At Supper, wishing to ingratiate myself with the Boys, talked to them of Countrie Sports, etc.: to which the youngest listened greedilie; and at length I was advised to ask them woulde they not like to seeForest Hill? to which the elder replyed in his most methodicall Manner, "If Mr.Powellhas a good Library." For this Piece of Hypocrisie, at which I heartilie laught, he was commended by his Uncle. Hypocrisie it was, for MasterNedcryeth over his Taskes pretty nearlie as oft as the youngest.
Friday.
To rewarde my zealous Practice to-day on the Spinnette, Mr.Miltonproduced a Collection of "Ayres, and Dialogues, for one, two, and three Voices," by his Friend, Mr.Harry Lawes, which he sayd I shoulde find very pleasant Studdy; and then he tolde me alle about theire getting up the Masque ofComusinLudlowCastle, and how well the Lady's Song was sung by Mr.Lawes'Pupil, the LadyAlice, then a sweet, modest Girl, onlie thirteen Yeares of Age,—and he told me of the Singing of a faireItalianyoung Signora, namedLeonora Barroni, with her Mother and Sister, whome he had hearde atRome, at the Concerts of CardinalBarberini; and how she was "as gentle and modest as sweetMoll," yet not afrayed to open her Mouth, and pronounce everie Syllable distinctlie, and with the proper Emphasis and Passion when she sang. And after this, to my greate Contentment, he tooke me to theGray's Inn Walks, where, the Afternoon being fine, was much Companie.
After Supper, I proposed to the Boys that we shoulde tell Stories; and Mr.Miltontolde one charminglie, but then went away to write aLatinLetter. SoeNed'sTurn came next; and I must, if I can, for very Mirthe's Sake, write it down in his exact Words, they were soe pragmaticall.
"On a Daye, there was a certain Child wandered forthe, that would play. He met a Bee, and sayd, 'Bee, wilt thou play with me?' The Bee sayd, 'No, I have my Duties to perform, tho' you, it woulde seeme, have none. I must away to make Honey.' Then the Childe, abasht, went to the Ant. He sayd, 'Will you play with me, Ant?' The Ant replied, 'Nay, I must provide against the Winter.' In shorte, he found that everie Bird, Beaste, and Insect he accosted, had a closer Eye to the Purpose of their Creation than himselfe. Then he sayd, 'I will then back, and con my Task.'—Moral. The Moral of the foregoing Fable, my deareAunt, is this—We must love Work better than Play."
With alle my Interest for Children, how is it possible to take anieInterest in soe formall a little Prigge?
Saturday.
I have just done somewhat for MasterNedwhich he coulde not doe for himselfe—viz. tenderly bound up his Hand, which he had badly cut. Wiping away some few naturall Tears, he must needs say, "I am quite ashamed,Aunt, you shoulde see me cry; but the worst of it is, that alle this Payne has beene for noe good; whereas, when my Uncle beateth me for misconstruing myLatin, tho' I cry at the Time, all the while I know it is for my Advantage."—If this Boy goes on preaching soe, I shall soon hate him.
—Mr.Miltonhaving stepped out before Supper, came back looking soe blythe, that I askt if he had hearde good News. He sayd, yes: that some Friends had long beene persuading him, against his Will, to make publick some of hisLatinPoems; and that, having at length consented to theire Wishes, he had beene withMosleythe Publisher in St.Paul's Churchyard, who agreed to print them. I sayd, I was sorrie I shoulde be unable to read them. He sayd he was sorry too; he must translate them for me. I thanked him, but observed that Traductions were never soe good as Originalls. He rejoyned, "Nor am I even a good Translator." I askt, "Why not write in your owne Tongue?" He sayd, "Latinis understood all over the Worlde." I sayd, "But there are manie in your owne Country do not understand it." He was silent soe long upon that, that I supposed he did not mean to answer me; but then cried, "You are right, sweet _Moll.—_Our best Writers have written their best Works inEnglish, and I will hereafter doe the same,—for I feel that my best Work is stillto come. Poetry hath hitherto been with me rather the Recreation of a Mind conscious of its Health, than the deliberate Task-work of a Soule that must hereafter give an Account of its Talents. Yet my Mind, in the free Circuit of her Musing, has ranged over a thousand Themes that lie, like the Marble in the Quarry, readie for anie Shape that Fancy and Skill may give. Neither Laziness nor Caprice makes me difficult in my Choice; for, the longer I am in selecting my Tree, and laying my Axe to the Root, the sounder it will be and the riper for Use. Nor is an Undertaking that shall be one of high Duty, to be entered upon without Prayer and Discipline:—it woulde be Presumption indeede, to commence an Enterprise which I meant shoulde delighte and profit every instructed and elevated Mind without so much Paynes-takinge as it should cost a poor Mountebank to balance a Pole on his Chin."
Sunday Even.
In the Clouds agayn. At Dinner, to-daye, Mr.Miltoncatechised the Boys on the Morning's Sermon, the Heads of which, though amounting to a Dozen_, Ned_ tolde off roundlie. Roguish littleJacklooked slylie at me, says, "Auntcoulde not tell off the Sermon." "Why not?" says his Uncle. "Because she was sleeping," saysJack. Provoked with the Child, I turned scarlett, and hastilie sayd, "I was not." Nobodie spoke; but I repented the Falsitie the Moment it had escaped me; and there wasNed, a folding of his Hands, drawing down his Mouth, and closing his Eyes. . . . My Husband tooke me to taske for it when we were alone, soe tenderlie that I wept.
Monday.
Jacksayd this Morning, "I know Something—I knowAuntkeeps a Journall." "And a good Thing if you kept one too,Jack,"sayd his Uncle, "it would shew you how little you doe."Jackwas silenced; butNed, pursing up his Mouth, says, "I can't think whatAuntcan have to put in a Journall—should not you like,Uncle, to see?" "No,Ned,"says his Uncle, "I am upon Honour, and your dear Aunt's Journall is as safe, for me, as the golden Bracelets that KingAlfredhung upon the High-way. I am glad she has such a Resource, and, as we know she cannot have much News to put in it, we may the more safely rely that it is a Treasury of sweet, and high, and holy, and profitable Thoughtes."
Oh, how deeplie I blusht at this ill-deserved Prayse! How sorrie I was that I had ever registered aught that he woulde grieve to read! I secretly resolved that this Daye's Journalling should be the last, untill I had attained a better Frame of Mind.
Saturday Even.
I have kept Silence, yea, even from good Words, but it has beene a Payn and Griefe unto me. Good MistressCatherine Thompsoncalled on me a few Dayes back, and spoke so wisely and so wholesomelie concerning my Lot, and the Way to make it happy, (she is the first that hath spoken as it 'twere possible it mighte not be soe alreadie,) that I felt for a Season quite heartened; but it has alle faded away. Because the Source of Cheerfulnesse is notinme, anie more than in a dull Landskip, which the Sun lighteneth for awhile, and when he has set, its Beauty is gone.
Oh me! how merry I was at Home!—The Source of Cheerfulnesse seemed in methen, and why is it notnow? Partly because alle that I was there taught to think right is here thought wrong; because much that I there thought harmlesse is here thought sinfulle; because I cannot get at anie of the Things that employed and interested methere, and because the Things within my Reachheredo not interest me. Then, 'tis no small Thing to be continuallie deemed ignorant and misinformed, and to have one's Errors continuallie covered, however handsomelie, even before Children. To say nothing of the Weight upon the Spiritts at firste, from Change of Ayre, and Diet, and Scene, and Loss of habituall Exercise and Companie and householde Cares. These petty Griefs try me sorelie; and when CousinRalphcame in unexpectedlie this Morn, tho' I never much cared for him at Home, yet the Sighte ofRose'sBrother, fresh from_ Sheepscote_ andOxfordandForest Hill, soe upset me that I sank into Tears. No wonder that Mr.Milton, then coming in, shoulde hastilie enquire ifRalphhad brought ill Tidings from Home; and, finding alle was well there, shoulde look strangelie. He asktRalph, however, to stay to Dinner; and we had much Talk of Home; but now, I regret having omitted to ask a thousand Questions.
Sunday Even., Aug. 15, 1643.
Mr.Miltonin his Closet and I in my Chamber.—For the first Time he seems this Evening to have founde out how dissimilar are our Minds. Meaning to please him, I sayd, "I kept awake bravelie, tonighte, through that long, long Sermon, for your Sake." "And why not forGod'sSake?" cried he, "why not for your owne Sake?—Oh, sweetWife, I fear you have yet much to learn of the Depth of Happinesse that is comprised in the Communion between a forgiven Soul and its Creator. It hallows the most secular as well as the most spirituall Employments; it gives Pleasure that has no after Bitternesse; it gives Pleasure toGod—and oh! thinke of the Depth of Meaning in those Words! think what it is for us to be capable of givingGodPleasure!"
—Much more, in the same Vein! to which I could not, with equal Power, respond; soe, he away to his Studdy, to pray perhaps for my Change of Heart, and I to my Bed.
Saturday, Aug. 21, 1643.
Oh Heaven! can it be possible? am I agayn atForest Hill? How strange, how joyfulle an Event, tho' brought about with Teares!—Can it be, that it is onlie a Month since I stoode at this Toilette as a Bride? and lay awake on that Bed, thinking ofLondon? How long a Month! and oh! this present one will be alle too short.
It seemeth thatRalph Hewlett, shocked at my Teares and the Alteration in my Looks, broughte back a dismall Report of me to deareFatherandMother, pronouncing me either ill or unhappie. Thereupon,Richard, with his usuall Impetuositie, prevayled onFatherto let him andRalphfetch me Home for a While, at leaste till afterMichaelmasse.
How surprised was I to seeDickenter! My Arms were soe fast about his Neck, and my Face prest soe close to his Shoulder, that I did not for a While perceive the grave Looke he had put on. At the last, I was avised to ask what broughte him soe unexpectedlie toLondon; and then he hemmed and looked atRalph, andRalphlooked atDick, and thenDicksayd bluntly, he hoped Mr.Miltonwoulde spare me to go Home till afterMichaelmasse, andFatherhad sent him on Purpose to say soe. Mr.Miltonlookt surprised and hurte, and sayd, how could he be expected to part soe soone with me, a Month's Bride? it must be some other Time: he had intended to take me himselfe toForest Hillthe following Spring, but coulde not spare Time now, nor liked me to goe without him, nor thought I should like it myself. But my Eyes said Ishoulde, and then he gazed earnestlie at me and lookt hurt; and there was a dead Silence. ThenDick, hesitating a little, sayd he was sorrie to tell us myFatherwas ill; on which I clasped my Hands and beganne to weepe; and Mr.Milton, changing Countenance, askt sundrie Questions, whichDickanswered well enough; and then said he woulde not be soe cruel as to keepe me from a Father I soe dearlie loved, if he were sick, though he liked not my travelling in such unsettled Times with so young a Convoy.Ralphsayd they had broughtDiggorywith them, who was olde and steddy enough, and had ridden myMother'sMare for my Use; andDickwas for our getting forward a Stage on our Journey the same Evening, but Mr.Miltoninsisted on our abiding till the following Morn, and woulde not be overruled. And gave me leave to stay a Month, and gave me Money, and many kind Words, which I coulde mark little, being soe overtaken with Concern about dearFather, whose Illness I feared to be worse thanDicksayd, seeing he seemed soe close and dealt in dark Speeches and Parables. After Dinner, they went forth, they sayd, to look after the Horses, but I think to seeLondon, and returned not till Supper.
We got them Beds in a House hard by, and started at earlie Dawn.
Mr.Miltonkissed me most tenderlie agayn and agayn at parting, as though he feared to lose me; but it had seemed to me soe hard to brook the Delay of even a few Hours whenFather, in his Sicknesse, was wanting me, that I took leave of my Husband with less Affection than I mighte have shewn, and onlie began to find my Spiritts lighten when we were fairly quit ofLondon, with its vile Sewers and Drains, and to breathe the sweete, pure Morning Ayre, as we rode swiftlie along.DickcalledLondona vile Place, and spake toRalphconcerning what they had seen of it overnighte, whence it appeared to me, that he had beene pleasure-seeking more than, inFather'sstate, he ought to have beene. ButDickwas always a reckless Lad;—and oh, what Joy, on reaching this deare Place, to findFatherhad onlie beene suffering under one of his usual Stomach Attacks, which have no Danger in them, and whichDickhad exaggerated, fearing Mr.Miltonwoulde not otherwise part with me;—I was a little shocked, and coulde not help scolding him, though I was the gainer; but he boldlie defended what he called his "Stratagem of War," saying it was quite allowable in dealing with aPuritan.
As forRobin, he was wild with Joy when I arrived; and hath never ceased to hang about me. The other Children are riotous in their Mirth. LittleJoscelynhath returned from his Foster-mother's Farm, and is noe longer a puny Child—'tis thought he will thrive. I have him constantly in my Arms or riding on my Shoulder; and with Delight have revisited alle my olde Haunts, pattedClover, etc. DeareMotheris most kind. The Maids as oft call me Mrs.Mollyas Mrs.Milton, and then smile, and beg Pardon.RoseandAgnewhave been here, and have made me promise to visitSheepscotebefore I return toLondon. The whole House seems full of Glee.
Monday.
It seemes quite strange to heareDickandHarrysinging loyal Songs and drinking theKing'sHealth after soe recentlie hearing his M. soe continuallie spoken agaynst. Also, to see a Lad ofRobin'sAge, coming in and out at his Will, doing aniething or nothing; instead of being ever at his Taskes, and looking at Meal-times as if he were repeating them to himselfe. I know which I like best.
A most kind Letter from Mr.Milton, hopingFatheris better, and praying for News of him. How can I write to him without betrayingDick?Robinand I rode, this Morning, toSheepscote. Thoughte Mr.Agnewreceived me with unwonted Gravitie. He tolde me he had received a Letter from my Husband, praying News of my Father, seeing I had sent him none, and that he had writ to him thatFatherwas quite well, never had been better. Then he sayd to me he feared Mr.Miltonwas labouring under some false Impression. I tolde him trulie, thatDick, to get me Home, had exaggerated a trifling Illness ofFather's, but that I was guiltlesse of it. He saydDickwas inexcusable, and that noe good End coulde justifie a Man of Honour in overcharging the Truth; and that, since I was innocent, I shoulde write to my Husband to clear myself. I said briefly, I woulde; and I mean to do soe, onlie not to-daye. Oh, sweet countrie Life! I was made for you and none other. This riding and walking at one's owne free Will, in the fresh pure Ayre, coming in to earlie, heartie, wholesome Meals, seasoned with harmlesse Jests,—seeing fresh Faces everie Daye come to the House, knowing everie Face one meets out of Doores,—supping in the Garden, and remaining in the Ayre long after the Moon has risen, talking, laughing, or perhaps dancing,—if this be not Joyfulnesse, what is?
For certain, I woulde that Mr.Miltonwere here; but he woulde call our Sports mistimed, and throw a Damp upon our Mirth by not joining in it. Soe I will enjoy my Holiday while it lasts, for it may be long ere I get another—especiallie if his andFather'sOpinions get wider asunder, as I think they are doing alreadie. My promised Spring Holiday may come to nothing.
Monday.
My Husband hath writ to me strangelie, chiding me most unkindlie for what was noe Fault of mine, to wit,Dick'sFalsitie; and wondering I can derive anie Pleasure from a Holiday so obtayned, which he will not curtayl, but will on noe Pretence extend. Nay! but methinks Mr.Miltonpresumeth somewhat too much on his marital Authoritie, writing in this Strayn. I am no mere Child neither, nor a runaway Wife, nor in such bad Companie, in mine own Father's House, where he firste saw me; and, was it anie Fault of mine, indeed, thatFatherwas not ill? or can I wish he had beene? No, truly!
This Letter hath sorelie vexed me. DearFather, seeing me soe dulle, askt me if I had had bad News. I sayd I had, for that Mr.Miltonwanted me back at the Month's End. He sayd, lightlie, Oh, that must not be, I must at all Events stay over his Birthdaye, he could not spare me sooner; he woulde settle all that. Let it be soe then—I am content enoughe.
To change the Current of my Thoughts, he hath renewed the Scheme for our Visit to LadyFalkland, which, Weather permitting, is to take Place tomorrow. 'Tis long since I have seene her, soe I am willing to goe; but she is dearer toRosethan to me, though I respect her much.
Wednesday.
The whole of Yesterday occupyde with our Visit. I love LadyFalklandwell, yet her religious Mellanchollie and Presages of Evil have left a Weight upon my Spiritts. To-daye, we have a Family Dinner. TheAgnewscome not, but theMeredithsdoe, we shall have more Mirthe if less Wit. My Time now draweth soe short, I must crowd into it alle the Pleasure I can; and in this, everie one conspires to help me, saying, "PoorMollmust soon return toLondon." Never was Creature soe petted or spoylt. How was it there was none of this before I married, when they might have me alwaies? ah, therein lies the Secret. Now, we have mutuallie tasted our Losse.
Ralph Hewlett, going agayn to Town, was avised to ask whether I had anie Commission wherewith to charge him. I bade him tell Mr.Miltonthat since we should meet soe soone, I need not write, but would keep alle my News for our Fire-side.Robinadded, "Say, we cannot spare her yet," andFatherechoed the same.
But I begin to feel now, that I must not prolong my Stay. At the leaste, not beyondFather'sBirthday. My Month is hasting to a Close.
Sept. 21, 1643.
Battle at _Newbury—_LordFalklandslayn. Oh, fatal Loss!FatherandMothergoing off to my Lady: but I think she will not see them. Aunt and UncleHewlett, who brought the News, can talk of nothing else.
Sept. 22, 1643.
Alle Sadnesse and Consternation. I am wearie of bad News, public and private, and feel less and less Love for the Puritans, yet am forced to seem more loyal than I really am, soe high runs party Feeling just now at Home.
My Month has passed!
Sept. 28, 1643.
A most displeased Letter from my Husband, minding me that my Leave of Absence hath expired, and that he likes not the Messages he received throughRalph, nor the unreasonable and hurtfulle Pastimes which he finds have beene making my quiet Home distastefulle. Asking, are they suitable, under Circumstances of nationall Consternation tomy owneParty, or seemlie in soe young a Wife, apart from her Husband? To conclude, insisting, with more Authoritie than Kindnesse, on my immediate Return.
With Tears in my Eyes, I have beene to my Father. I have tolde him I must goe. He sayth, Oh no, not yet. I persisted, I must, my Husband was soe very angry. He rejoined, What, angry with my sweetMoll? and for spending a few Days with her old Father? Can it be? hath it come to this alreadie? I sayd, my Month had expired. He sayd, Nonsense, he had always askt me to stay overMichaelmasse, till his Birthday; he knewDickhad named it to Mr.Milton. I sayd, Mr.Miltonhad taken no Notice thereof, but had onlie granted me a Month. He grew peevish, and said, "Pooh, pooh!" Thereat, after a Silence of a Minute or two, I sayd yet agayn, I must goe. He took me by the two Wrists and sayd, Doe you wish to go? I burst into Teares, but made noe Answer. He sayd, That is Answer enough,—how doth this Puritan carry it with you, my Child? and snatched his Letter. I sayd, Oh, don't read that, and would have drawn it back; butFather, when heated, is impossible to controwl; therefore, quite deaf to Entreaty, he would read the Letter, which was unfit for him in his chafed Mood; then, holding it at Arm's Length, and smiting it with his Fist,—Ha! and is it thus he dares address a Daughter of mine? (with Words added, I dare not write)—but be quiet,Moll, be at Peace, my Child, for he shall not have you back for awhile, even though he come to fetch you himself. The maddest Thing I ever did was to give you to this Roundhead. He andRoger Agnewtalked me over with soe many fine Words.—What possessed me, I know not. Your Mother always said evil woulde come of it. But as long as thy Father has a Roof over his Head, Child, thou hast a Home.
As soone as he woulde hear me, I begged him not to take on soe, for that I was not an unhappy Wife; but my Tears, he sayd, belied me; and indeed, with Fear and Agitation, they flowed fast enough. But I sayd, Imustgoe home, and wished I had gone sooner, and woulde he letDiggorytake me! No, he sayd, not a Man Jack on his Land shoulde saddle a Horse for me, nor would he lend me one, to carry me back to Mr.Milton; at the leaste not for a While, till he had come to Reason, and protested he was sorry for having writ to me soe harshly.
"Soe be content,Moll, and make not two Enemies instead of one. Goe, help thy Mother with her clear-starching. Be happy whilst thou art here."
But ah! more easily said than done. "Alle Joy is darkened; the Mirthe of the Land is gone!"
Michaelmasse Day.
At SquirePaice'sgrand Dinner we have been counting on soe manyDays; but it gave me not the Pleasure expected.
Oct. 13, 1643.
The Weather is soe foul that I am sure Mr.Miltonwoulde not like me to be on the Road, even would my Father let me goe.
—While writing the above, heard very angrie Voices in the Courtyard, my Father's especiallie, louder than common; and distinguished the Words "Knave," and "Varlet," and "begone." Lookt from my Window and beheld a Man, booted and cloaked, with two Horses, at the Gate, parleying with my Father, who stood in an offensive Attitude, and woulde not let him in. I could catch such Fragments as, "But, Sir?" "What! in such Weather as this?" "Nay, it had not overcast when I started." "'Tis foul enough now, then." "Let me but have speech of my Mistress." "You crosse not my Threshold." "Nay, Sir, if but to give her this Letter:"—and turning his Head, I was avised of its beingHubert, old Mr.Milton'sMan; doubtless sent by my Husband to fetch me. Seeing my Father raise his Hand in angrie Action (his Riding-whip being in it), I hasted down as fast as I coulde, to prevent Mischiefe, as well as to get my Letter; but, unhappilie, not soe fleetlie as to see more thanHubert'sflying Skirts as he gallopped from the Gate, with the led Horse by the Bridle; while my Father flinging downe the torne Letter, walked passionatelie away. I clasped my Hands, and stood mazed for a while,—was then avised to piece the Letter, but could not; onlie making out such Words as "SweetMoll," in my Husband's Writing.
Oct. 14, 1643.
Rosecame this Morning, through Rain and Mire, at some Risk as well as much Inconvenience, to intreat of me, even with Teares, not to vex Mr.Miltonby anie farther Delays, but to return to him as soon as possible. Kind Soule, her Affection toucht me, and I assured her the more readilie I intended to return Home as soone as I coulde, which was not yet, my Father having taken the Matter into his own Hands, and permitting me noe Escort; but that I questioned not, Mr.Miltonwas onlie awaiting the Weather to settle, to fetch me himself. That he will doe so, is my firm Persuasion. Meanwhile, I make it my Duty to joyn with some Attempt at Cheerfullenesse in the Amusements of others, to make my Father's Confinement to the House less irksome; and have in some Measure succeeded.
Oct. 23, 1643.
Noe Sighte nor Tidings of Mr.Milton.—I am uneasie, frighted at myself, and wish I had never left him, yet hurte at the Neglect.Hubert, being a crabbed Temper, made Mischief on his Return, I fancy.Fatheris vexed, methinks, at his owne Passion, and hath never, directlie, spoken, in my Hearinge, of what passed; but rayleth continuallie agaynst Rebels and Roundheads. As toMother,—ah me!
Oct. 24, 1643.
Thro' dank and miry Lanes and Bye-roads withRobin, toSheepscote.
Waiting forRosein Mr.Agnew'ssmall Studdy, where she mostlie sitteth with him, oft acting as his Amanuensis, was avised to take up a printed Sheet of Paper that lay on the Table; but finding it to be ofLatinVersing, was about to laye it downe agayn, whenRosecame in. She changed Colour, and in a faltering Voice sayd, "Ah,Cousin, do you know what that is? One of your Husband's Proofe Sheets. I woulde that it coulde interest you in like manner as it hath me." Made her noe Answer, laying it aside unconcernedlie, but secretlie felt, as I have oft done before, how stupid it is not to knowLatin, and resolved to getRobinto teach me. He is noe greate Scholar himselfe, soe will not shame me.—I am wearie of hearing of War and Politicks; soe will try Studdy for a while, and see if 'twill cure this dull Payn at my Heart.
Oct. 28, 1643.
Robinand I have shut ourselves up for three Hours dailie, in the small Book-room, and have made fayre Progresse. He liketh his Office of Tutor mightilie.
Oct. 31, 1643.
My Lessons are more crabbed, or I am more dull and inattentive, for I cannot fix my Minde on my Book, and am secretlie wearie,Robinwearies too. But I will not give up as yet; the more soe as in this quiete Studdy I am out of Sighte and Hearinge of sundrie young OfficersDickis continuallie bringing over fromOxford, who spend manie Hours with him in Countrie Sports, and then come into the House, hungry, thirstie, noisie, and idle. I know Mr.Miltonwoulde not like them.
—Surelie he will come soone?—I sayd toFatherlast Night, I wanted to hear from Home. He sayd, "Home! Dost call yon Taylor's Shop your Home?" soe ironicalle that I was shamed to say more.
Woulde that I had never married!—then coulde I enjoy my Childhoode's Home. Yet I knew not its Value before I quitted it, and had even a stupid Pleasure in anticipating another. Ah me! had I loved Mr.Miltonmore, perhaps I might better have endured the Taylor's Shop.
Sheepscote, Nov. 20, 1643.
Annoyed byDick'sCompanions, I prayedFatherto let me stay awhile withRose; and gaining his Consent, came over here Yester-morn, without thinking it needfulle to send Notice, which was perhaps inconsiderate. But she received me with Kisses and Words of Tendernesse, though less Smiling than usualle, and eagerlie accepted mine offered Visitt. Then she ran off to findRoger, and I heard them talking earnestlie in a low Voice before they came in. His Face was grave, even stern, when he entred, but he held out his Hand, and sayd, "MistressMilton, you are welcome! how is it with you? and how was Mr.Miltonwhen he wrote to you last?" I answered brieflie, he was well: then came a Silence, and thenRosetook me to my Chamber, which was sweet with Lavender, and its hangings of the whitest. It reminded me too much of my first Week of Marriage, soe I resolved to think not at all lest I shoulde be bad Companie, but cheer up and be gay. Soe I asktRosea thousand Questions about her Dairie and Bees, laught much at Dinner, and told Mr.Agnewsundrie of the merrie Sayings ofDickand hisOxfordFriends. And, for my Reward, when we were afterwards apart, I heard him tellRose(by Reason of the Walls being thin) that however she might regard me for old Affection's sake, he thought he had never knowne soe unpromising a character. This made me dulle enoughe all the rest of the Evening, and repent having come toSheepscote: however, he liked me the better for being quiete: andRose, being equallie chekt, we sewed in Silence while he read to us the first Division ofSpencer's Legend of Holinesse, aboutUnaand the Knight, and how they got sundered. This led to much serious, yet not unpleasing, Discourse, which lasted till Supper. For the first Time atSheepscote, I coulde not eat, which Mr.Agnewobserving, prest me to take Wine, andRosewoulde start up to fetch some of her Preserves; but I chekt her with a Motion, not being quite able to speak; for their being soe kind made the Teares ready to starte, I knew not why.
Family Prayers, after Supper, rather too long; yet though I coulde not keep up my Attention, they seemed to spread a Calm and a Peace alle about, that extended even to me; and though, after I had undressed, I sat a long while in a Maze, and bethought me how piteous a Creature I was, yet, once layed down, I never sank into deeper, more composing Sleep.
Nov. 21,1643.
This Morning,Roseexclaimed, "DearRoger! onlie think!Mollhas begun to learnLatinsince she returned toForest Hill, thinking to surprise Mr.Miltonwhen they meet." "She will not onlie surprise butpleasehim," returned dearRoger, taking my Hand very kindlie; "I can onlie say, I hope they will meet long before she can read hisPoemata, unless she learnes much faster than most People." I replyed, I learned very slowly, and weariedRobin'sPatience; on whichRose, kissing me, cried, "You will never wearie mine; soe, if you please, deareMoll, we will goe to our Lessons here everie Morning; and it may be that I shall get you through the Grammar faster thanRobincan. If we come to anie Difficultie we shall refer it toRoger."
Now, Mr.Agnew'sLooks exprest such Pleasure with both, that it were difficult to tell which felt the most elated; soe calling me deareMoll(he hath hitherto MistressMiltonedme ever since I sett Foot in his House), he sayed he would not interrupt our Studdies, though he should be within Call, and soe left us. I had not felt soe happy sinceFather'sBirthday; and, thoughRosekept me close to my Book for two Hours, I found her a far less irksome Tutor than deareRobin. Then she went away, singing, to makeRoger'sfavourite Dish, and afterwards we took a brisk Walke, and came Home hungrie enoughe to Dinner.
There is a daily Beauty inRose'sLife, that I not onlie admire, but am readie to envy. Oh! ifMiltonlived but in the poorest House in the Countrie, methinks I coulde be very happy with him.
Bedtime.
Chancing to make the above Remark toRose, she cried, "And why not be happy with him inAldersgate Street?" I briefly replied that he must get the House first, before it were possible to tell whether I coulde be happy there or not.Rosestarted, and exclaimed, "Why, where do you suppose him to be now?" "Where but at the Taylor's inBride's Churchyard?" I replied. She claspt her Hands with a Look I shall never forget, and exclaimed in a Sort of vehement Passion, "Oh,Cousin, Cousin, how you throw your own Happinesse away! How awfulle a Pause must have taken place in your Intercourse with the Man whom you promised to abide by till Death, since you know not that he has long since taken Possession of his new Home; that he strove to have it ready for you atMichaelmasse!"
Doubtlesse I lookt noe less surprised than I felt;—a suddain Prick at the Heart prevented Speech; but it shot acrosse my Heart that I had made out the Words "Aldersgate" and "new Home," in the Fragments of the Letter my Father had torn.Rose, misjudging my Silence, burst forth anew with, "Oh,Cousin!Cousin! coulde anie Home, however dull and noisesome, drive me fromRoger Agnew? Onlie think of what you are doing,—of what you are leaving undone!—of what you are preparing against yourself! To put the Wickednesse of a selfish Course out of the Account, onlie think of its Mellancholie, its Miserie,—destitute of alle the sweet, bright, fresh Well-springs of Happinesse;—unblest byGod!"
HereRosewept passionatelie, and claspt her Arms about me; but, when I began to speak, and to tell her of much that had made me miserable, she hearkened in motionlesse Silence, till I told her thatFatherhad torn the Letter and beaten the Messenger. Then she cried, "Oh, I see now what may and shall be done!Rogershall be Peacemaker," and ran off with Joyfulnesse; I not withholding her. But I can never be joyfulle more—he cannot be Day's-man betwixt us now—'tis alle too late!
Nov. 28, 1643.
Now that I am atForest Hillagayn, I will essay to continue myJournalling.—
Mr.Agnewwas out; and though a keene wintry Wind was blowing, andRosewas suffering from Colde, yet she went out to listen for his Horse's Feet at the Gate, with onlie her Apron cast over her Head. Shortlie, he returned; and I heard him say in a troubled Voice, "Alle are in Arms atForest Hill." I felt soe greatlie shocked as to neede to sit downe instead of running forthe to learn the News. I supposed the parliamentarian Soldiers had advanced, unexpectedlie, uponOxford. His next Words were, "Dick iscoming for her at Noone—poor Soul, I know not what she will doe—her Father will trust her noe longer with you and me." Then I saw them both passe the Window, slowlie pacing together, and hastened forth to joyn them; but they had turned into the pleached Alley, their Backs towards me; and both in such earnest and apparentlie private Communication, that I dared not interrupt them till they turned aboute, which was not for some While; for they stood for some Time at the Head of the Alley, still with theire Backs to me,Rose'sHair blowing in the cold Wind; and once or twice she seemed to put her Kerchief to her Eyes.
Now, while I stood mazed and uncertain, I hearde a distant Clatter of Horse's Feet, on the hard Road a good Way off, and could descrieDickcoming towardsSheepscote.Rosesaw him too, and commenced running towards me; Mr.Agnewfollowing with long Strides.Rosedrew me back into the House, and sayd, kissing me, "DearestMoll, I am soe sorry;Rogerhath seen your Father this Morn, and he will on no Account spare you to us anie longer; andDickis coming to fetch you even now." I sayd, "IsFatherill?" "Oh no," replied Mr.Agnew; then coming up, "He is not ill, but he is perturbed at something which has occurred; and, in Truth, soe am I.—But remember, MistressMilton, remember, dearCousin, that when you married, yourFather'sGuardianship of you passed into the Hands of your Husband—your Husband's House was thenceforthe your Home; and in quitting it you committed a Fault you may yet repaire, though this offensive Act has made the Difficultie much greater."—"Oh, what has happened?" I impatientlie cried. Just then,Dickcomes in with his usual blunt Salutations, and then cries, "Well,Moll, are you ready to goe back?" "Why should I be?" I sayd, "when I am soe happy here? unlessFatheris ill, or Mr.AgnewandRoseare tired of me." They both interrupted, there was nothing they soe much desired, at this present, as that I shoulde prolong my Stay. And you know,Dick, Iadded, thatForest Hillis not soe pleasant to me just now as it hath commonlie beene, by Reason of yourOxfordCompanions. He brieflie sayd, I neede not mind that, they were coming no more to the House,Fatherhad decreed it. And you know well enough,Moll, that whatFatherdecrees, must be, and he hath decreed that you must come Home now; soe no more Ado, I pray you, but fetch your Cloak and Hood, and the Horses shall come round, for 'twill be late ere we reach Home. "Nay, you must dine here at all Events," saydRose; "I know,Dick, you love roast Pork." SoeDickrelented. SoeRose, turning to me, prayed me to bidCicelyhasten Dinner; the which I did, tho' thinking it strangeRoseshould not goe herself. But, as I returned, I hearde her say, Not a Word of it, dearDick, at the least, till after Dinner, lest you spoil her Appetite. SoeDicksayd he shoulde goe and look after the Horses. I sayd then, brisklie, I see somewhat is the Matter—pray tell me what it is. ButRoselooked quite dull, and walked to the Window. Then Mr.Agnewsayd, "You seem as dissatisfied to leave us,Cousin, as we are to lose you; and yet you are going back toForest Hill—to that Home in which you will doubtlesse be happy to live all your Dayes."—"AtForest Hill?" I sayd, "Oh no! I hope not." "And why?" sayd he quicklie. I hung my Head, and muttered, "I hope, some Daye, to goe back to Mr.Milton." "And why not at once?" sayd he. I sayd, "Fatherwould not let me." "Nay, that is childish," he answered, "your Father could not hinder you if you wanted not the Mind to goe—it was your first seeming soe loth to return, that made him think you unhappie and refuse to part with you." I sayd, "And what if I were unhappie?" He paused; and knew not at the Moment what Answer to make, but shortlie replyed by another Question, "What Cause had you to be soe?" I sayd, "That was more easily askt than answered, even if there were anie Neede I shoulde answer it, or he had anie Right to ask it." He cried in an Accent of Tendernesse that still wrings my Heart to remember, "Oh, question not the Right! I only wish to make you happy. Were you not happy with Mr.Miltonduring the Week you spent together here atSheepscote?" Thereat I coulde not refrayn from bursting into Tears.Rosenow sprang forward; but Mr.Agnewsayd, "Let her weep, let her weep, it will do her good." Then, alle at once it occurred to me that my Husband was awaiting me at Home, and I cried, "Oh, is Mr.MiltonatForest Hill?" and felt my Heart full of Gladness. Mr.Agnewanswered, "Not soe, not soe, poorMoll:" and, looking up at him, I saw him wiping his Brow, though the Daye was soe chill. "As well tell her now," sayd he toRose; and then taking my Hand, "Oh, Mrs.Milton, can you wonder that your Husband should be angry? How can you wonder at anie Evil that may result from the Provocation you have given him? What Marvell, that since you cast him off, all the sweet Fountains of his Affections would be embittered, and that he should retaliate by seeking a Separation, and even a Divorce?"—There I stopt him with an Outcry of "Divorce?" "Even soe," he most mournfully replyd, "and I seeke not to excuse him, since two Wrongs make not a Right." "But," I cried, passionately weeping, "I have given him noe Cause; my Heart has never for a Moment strayed to another, nor does he, I am sure, expect it." "Ne'erthelesse," enjoyned Mr.Agnew, "he is soe aggrieved and chafed, that he has followed up what he considers your Breach of the Marriage Contract by writing and publishing a Book on Divorce; the Tenor of which coming to your Father's Ears, has violently incensed him. And now, dearCousin, having, by your Waywardness, kindled this Flame, what remains for you but to—nay, hear me, hear me,Moll, forDickis coming in, and I may not let him hear me urge you to the onlie Course that can regayn your Peace—Mr.Miltonis still your Husband; eache of you have now Something to forgive; do you be the firste; nay, seekehisForgivenesse, and you shall be happier than you have been yet."
—But I was weeping without controule; andDickcoming in, and withDickthe Dinner, I askt to be excused, and soe soughte my Chamber, to weep there without Restraynt or Witnesse. PoorRosecame up, as soone as she coulde leave the Table, and told me she had eaten as little as I, and woulde not even presse me to eat. But she carest me and comforted me, and urged in her owne tender Way alle that had beene sayd by Mr.Agnew; even protesting that if she were in my Place, she woulde not goe back toForest Hill, but straight toLondon, to entreat with Mr.Miltonfor his Mercy. But I told her I could not do that, even had I the Means for the Journey; for that my Heart was turned against the Man who coulde, for the venial Offence of a young Wife, in abiding too long with her old Father, not onlie cast her off from his Love, but hold her up to the World's Blame and Scorn, by making their domestic Quarrel the Matter for a printed Attack.Rosesayd, "I admit he is wrong, but indeed, indeed,Moll, you are wrong too, and you were wrongfirst:" and she sayd this soe often, that at length we came to crosser Words; whenDick, calling to me from below, would have me make haste, which I was glad to doe, and leftSheepscoteless regrettfullie than I had expected.Rosekist me with her gravest Face. Mr.Agnewput me on my Horse, and sayd, as he gave me the Rein, "Now think! now think! even yet!" and then, as I silently rode off, "Godbless you."
I held down my Head; but, at the Turn of the Road, lookt back, and saw him andRosewatching us from the Porch.Dickcried, "I am righte glad we are off at last, forFatheris downright crazie aboute this Businesse, and mistrustfulle ofAgnew'sInfluence over you,"—and would have gone on railing, but I bade him for Pitie's Sake be quiete.
The Effects of my owne Follie, the Losse of Home, Husband, Name, the Opinion of theAgnews, the Opinion of the Worlde, rose up agaynst me, and almost drove me mad. And, just as I was thinking I had better lived out my Dayes and dyed earlie inBride's Churchyardethan that alle this should have come about, the suddain Recollection of whatRosehad that Morning tolde me, which soe manie other Thoughts had driven out of my Head, viz. that Mr.Miltonhad, in his Desire to please me, while I was onlie bent on pleasing myself, been secretly striving to make readie theAldersgate StreetHouse agaynst my Return,—soe overcame me, that I wept as I rode along. Nay, at the Corner of a branch Road, had a Mind to begDickto let me goe toLondon; but a glance at his dogged Countenance sufficed to foreshow my Answer.
Half dead with Fatigue and Griefe when I reached Home, the tenderEmbraces of my Father and Mother completed the Overthrowe of mySpiritts. I tooke to my Bed; and this is the first Daye I have leftit; nor will they let me send forRose, nor even tell her I am ill.
Jan. 1, 1644.
The new Year opens drearilie, on Affairs both publick and private. The Loaf parted at Breakfast this Morning, which, as the Saying goes, is a Sign of Separation; butMotheronlie sayd 'twas because it was badly kneaded, and chidMargery. She hath beene telling me, but now, how I mighte have 'scaped all my Troubles, and seene as much as I woulde of her andFather, and yet have contented Mr.Miltonand beene counted a good Wife. Noe Advice soe ill to bear as that which comes too late.
Jan. 7, 1644.
I am sick of this journalling, soe shall onlie put downe the Date ofRobin'sleaving Home.Lordhave Mercy on him, and keepe him in Safetie. This is a shorte Prayer; therefore, easier to be often repeated. When he kissed me, he whispered, "Moll, pray for me."
Jan. 27, 1644.
Fatherdoes not seeme to missRobinmuch, tho' he dailie drinks his Health after that of the King. Perhaps he did not miss me anie more when I was inLondon, though it was true and naturall enough he should like to see me agayn. We should have beene used to our Separation by this Time; there would have beene nothing corroding in it. . . .
I pray forRobineverie Night. Since he went, the House has lost its Sunshine. When I was soe anxious to return toForest Hill, I never counted on his leaving it.
Feb. 1, 1644.
Oh Heaven, what would I give to see the Skirts of Mr.Milton'sGarments agayn! My Heart is sick unto Death. I have been reading someof myJournall, and tearing out much childish Nonsense at theBeginning; but coulde not destroy the painfulle Records of the lastYear. How unhappy a Creature am I!—wearie, wearie of my Life, yet noWays inclined for Death.Lord, have Mercy upon me.
March 27, 1644.
I spend much of my Time, now, in the Book-room, and, though I essay not to pursue theLatin, I read muchEnglish, at the least, more than ever I did in my Life before; but often I fancy I am reading when I am onlie dreaming.Oxfordis far too gay a Place for me now ever to goe neare it, but my Brothers are much there, andFatherin his Farm, andMotherin her Kitchen; and the Neighbours, when they call, look on me strangelie, so that I have noe Love for them. How different isRose'sholy, secluded, yet cheerefulle Life atSheepscote! She hath a Nurserie now, soe cannot come to me, andFatherlikes not I should goe to her.
April 5, 1644.
They say their Majestyes' Parting atAbingdonwas very sorrowfulle and tender. TheLordsend them better Times! The Queen is to my Mind a most charming Lady, and well worthy of his Majesty's Affection; yet it seems to me amisse, that thro' her Influence, last Summer, the Opportunitie of Pacification was lost. But she was elated, and naturallie enoughe, at her personall Successes from the Time of her landing. To me, there seems nothing soe good as Peace. I know, indeede, Mr.Miltonholds that there may be such Things as a holy War and a cursed Peace.
April 10, 1644.
Father, having a Hoarseness, hath deputed me, of late, to read the Morning and Evening Prayers. How beautifulle is our Liturgie! I grudge at the Puritans for having abolished it; and though I felt not its comprehensive Fullessse [Transcriber's note: Fullnesse?] before I married, nor indeed till now, yet I wearied to Death inLondonat the puritanicall Ordinances and Conscience-meetings and extempore Prayers, wherein it was soe oft the Speaker's Care to show Men how godly he was. Nay, I think Mr.Miltonaltogether wrong in the View he takes of praying toGodin other Men's Words; for doth he not doe soe, everie Time he followeth the Sense of another Man's extempore Prayer, wherein he is more at his Mercy and Caprice than when he hath a printed Form set down, wherein he sees what is coming?
June 8, 1644.
Walking in the Home-close this Morning, it occurred to me that Mr.Miltonintended bringing me toForest Hillabout this Time; and that if I had abided patientlie with him through the Winter, we might now have beene both here happily together; untroubled by that Sting which now poisons everie Enjoyment of mine, and perhaps of his.Lord, be merciful tome a Sinner.
June 23, 1644.
Just after writing the above, I was in the Garden, gathering a few Coronation Flowers and Sops-in-Wine, and thinking they were of deeper crimson at_ Sheepscote_, and wondering whatRosewas just then about, and whether had I beene born in her Place, I shoulde have beene as goode and happy as she,—whenHarrycame up, looking somewhat grave. I sayd, "What is the Matter?" He gave Answer, "Rosehath lost her Child." Oh!——that we should live but a two Hours' Journey apart, and that she coulde lose a Child three Months oldewhom I had never seene?
I ran toFather, and never left off praying him to let me goe to her till he consented.
—What, and if I had begged as hard, at the firste, to goe back to Mr.Milton? might he not have consentedthen?
. . . SoeHarrytook me; and as we drew neareSheepscote, I was avised to think how grave, how barely friendlie had beene our last Parting; and to ponder, wouldRosemake me welcome now? The Infant,Harrytolde me, had beene dead some Dayes; and, as we came in Sight of the little grey old Church, we saw a Knot of People coming out of the Churchyard, and guessed the Baby had just beene buried. Soe it proved—Mr.Agnew'sHouse-door stood ajar; and when we tapped softlie andCicelyadmitted us we could see him standing byRose, who was sitting on the Ground and crying as if she would not be comforted. When she hearde my Voice, she started up, flung her Arms about me, crying more bitterlie than before, and I cried too; and Mr.Agnewwent away withHarry. ThenRosesayd to me, "You must not leave me agayn." . . .
. . . In the Cool of the Evening, whenHarryhad left us, she took me into the Churchyarde, and scattered the little Grave with Flowers; and then continued sitting beside it on the Grasse, quiete, but not comfortlesse. I am avised to think she prayed. Then Mr.Agnewcame forthe and sate on a flat Tombstone hard by; and without one Word of Introduction took out hisPsalter, and commenced reading the Psalms for that Evening's Service; to wit, the 41st, the 42d, the 43de; in a low solemne Voice; and methoughte I never in my Life hearde aniething to equall it in the Way of Consolation.Rose'sheavie Eyes graduallie lookt up from the Ground into her Husband's Face, and thence up to Heaven. After this, he read, or rather repeated, the Collect at the end of the Buriall Service, putting this Expression,—"As our Hope is, this our deare Infant doth." Then he went on to say in a soothing Tone, "There hath noe misfortune happened to us, but such as is common to the Lot of alle Men. We are alle Sinners, even to the youngest, fayrest, and seeminglie purest among us; and Death entered the World by Sin, and, constituted as we are, we would not, even if we could, dispense with Death. For, where doth it convey us? From this burthensome, miserable World, into the generall Assemblie ofChrist'sFirst-born, to be united with the Spiritts of the Just made perfect, to partake of everie Enjoyment which in this World is unconnected with Sin, together with others that are unknowne and unspeakable. And there, we shall agayn haveBodiesas well as Soules; Eyes to see, but not to shed Tears; Voices to speak and sing, not to utter Lamentations; Hands, to doeGod'sWork; Feet, and it may be, Wings, to carry us on his Errands. Such will be the Blessedness of his glorified Saints; even of those who, having been Servants of Satan till the eleventh Hour, laboured penitentlie and diligentlie for their heavenlie Master one Hour before Sunset; but as for those who, dying in mere Infancie, never committed actuall Sin, they follow the Lamb whithersoever he goeth! 'Oh, think of this, dearRose, and Sorrow not as those without Hope; for be assured, your Child hath more reall Reason to be grieved for you, than you forhim.'"
With this, and like Discourse, that distilled like the Dew, or the small Rain on the tender Grasse, didRoger Agnewcomfort his Wife, untill the Moon had risen. Likewise he spake to us of those who lay buried arounde, how one had died of a broken Heart, another of suddain Joy, another had let Patience have her perfect Work through Years of lingering Disease.
hen we walked slowlie and composedlie Home, and ate our Supper peacefullie,Rosenot refusing to eat, though she took but little.
Since that Evening, she hath, at Mr.Agnew'sWish, gone much among the Poor, reading to one, working for another, carrying Food and Medicine to another; and in this I have borne her Companie. I like it well. Methinks how pleasant and seemlie are the Duties of a country Minister's Wife! a God-fearing Woman, that is, who considereth the Poor and Needy, insteade of aiming to be frounced and purfled like her richest Neighbours. Mr.Agnewwas reading to us, last Night, ofBernard Gilpin—he of whom theLord Burleighsayd, "Who can blame that Man for not accepting a Bishopric?" How charmed were we with the Description of the Simplicitie and Hospitalitie of his Method of living atHoughton!—There is another Place of nearlie the same Name, inBuckinghamshire—notHoughton, butHorton, . . . where one Mr.John Miltonspent five of the best Years of his Life,—and where methinks his Wife could have been happier with him than inBride's Churchyarde.—But it profits not to wish and to will.—What was to be, had Need to be, soe there's an End.
Aug. 1, 1644.
Mr.Agnewsayd to me this Morning, somewhat gravelie, "I observe,Cousin, you seem to consider yourselfe the Victim of Circumstances." "And am I not?" I replied. "No," he answered, "Circumstance is a false God, unrecognised by the Christian, who contemns him, though a stubborn yet a profitable Servant."—"That may be alle very grand for a Man to doe," I sayd. "Very grand, but very feasible, for a Woman as well as a Man," rejoined Mr.Agnew, "and we shall be driven to the Wall alle our Lives, unless we have this victorious Struggle with Circumstances. I seldom allude,Cousin, to yours, which are almoste too delicate for me to meddle with; and yet I hardlie feele justified in letting soe many opportunities escape. Do I offend? or may I go on?—Onlie think, then, how voluntarilie you have placed yourself in your present uncomfortable Situation. The Tree cannot resist the graduall Growth of the Moss upon it; but you might, anie Day, anie Hour, have freed yourself from the equallie graduall Formation of the Net that has enclosed you at last. You entered too hastilie into your firste—nay, let that pass,—you gave too shorte a Triall of your new Home before you became disgusted with it. Admit it to have beene dull, even unhealthfulle, were you justified in forsaking it at a Month's End? But your Husband gave you Leave of Absence, though obtayned on false Pretences.—When you found them to be false, should you not have cleared yourself to him of Knowledge of the Deceit? Then your Leave, soe obtayned, expired—shoulde you not have returned then?—Your Health and Spiritts were recruited; your Husband wrote to reclaim you—shoulde you not have returned then? He provided an Escort, whom your Father beat and drove away.—If you had insisted on going to your Husband, might you not have gonethen? Oh,Cousin, you dare not look up to Heaven and say you have been the Victim of Circumstances."
I made no Answer; onlie felt much moven, and very angrie. I sayd, "IfI wished to goe back, Mr.Miltonwoulde not receive me now."
"Will you try?" saydRoger. "Will you but let me try? Will you let me write to him?"
I had a Mind to say "Yes."—Insteade, I answered "No."
"Then there's an End," cried he sharplie. "Had you made but one fayre Triall, whether successfulle or noe, I coulde have been satisfied—no, not satisfied, but I woulde have esteemed you, coulde have taken your Part. As it is, the less I say just now, perhaps, the better. Forgive me for having spoken at alle."
——Afterwards, I hearde him say toRoseof me, "I verilie believe there is Nothing in her on which to make a permanent Impression. I verilie think she loves everie one of those long Curls of hers more than she loves Mr.Milton."
(Note:—I will cut them two Inches shorter tonight. And they will grow all the faster.)
. . . Oh, my sad Heart,Roger Agnewhath pierced you at last!
I was moved, more than he thought, by what he had sayd in the Morning; and, in writing down the Heads of his Speech, to kill Time, a kind of Resentment at myselfe came over me, unlike to what I had ever felt before; in spite of my Folly about my Curls. Seeking for some Trifle in a Bag that had not been shaken out since I brought it fromLondon, out tumbled a Key with curious Wards—I knew it at once for one that belonged to a certayn Algum-wood Casket Mr.Miltonhad Recourse to dailie, because he kept small Change in it; and I knew not I had brought it away! 'Twas worked in Grotesque, the Casket, byBenvenuto, forClementthe Seventh, who for some Reason woulde not have it; and soe it came somehow toClementillo, who gave it to Mr.Milton. Thought I, how uncomfortable the Loss of this Key must have made him! he must have needed it a hundred Times! even if he hath bought a new Casket, I will for it he habituallie goes agayn and agayn to the old one, and then he remembers that he lost the Key the same Day that he lost his Wife. I heartilie wish he had it back. Ah, but he feels not the one Loss as he feels the other. Nay, but it is as well that one of them, tho' the Lesser, should be repaired. 'Twill shew Signe of Grace, my thinking of him, and may open the Way, ifGodwills, to some Interchange of Kindnesse, however fleeting.