After Breakfast, I well know the Boys' Lessons will last till Noone. I therefore goe to my Closett Duties after myForest HillFashion; thence to Market, buy what I neede, come Home, look to my Maids, give forthe needfulle Stores, then to my Needle, my Books, or perchance to my Lute, which I woulde faine play better. From twelve to one is the Boys' Hour of Pastime; and it may generallie be sayd, my Husband's and mine too. He draws aside the green Curtain,—for we sit mostly in a large Chamber shaped like the Letter T, and thus divided while at our separate Duties: my End is the pleasantest, has the Sun most upon it, and hath a Balcony overlooking a Garden. At one, we dine; always on simple, plain Dishes, but drest with Neatnesse and Care. Olde Mr.Miltonsits at my right Hand and says Grace; and, though growing a little deaf, enters into alle the livelie Discourse at Table. He loves me to help him to the tenderest, by Reason of his Losse of Teeth. My Husband careth not to sitt over the Wine; and hath noe sooner finished the Cheese and Pippins than he reverts to the Viol or Organ, and not onlie sings himself, but will make me sing too, though he sayth my Voice is better than my Ear. Never was there such a tunefulle Spiritt. He alwaies tears himself away at laste, as with a Kind of Violence, and returns to his Books at six o' the Clock. Meantime, his old Father dozes, and I sew at his Side.
From six to eight, we are seldom without Friends, chance Visitants, often scholarlike and witty, who tell us alle the News, and remain to partake a light Supper. The Boys enjoy this Season as much as I doe, though with Books before them, their Hands over their Ears, pretending to con the Morrow's Tasks. If the Guests chance to be musicalle, the Lute and Viol are broughte forthe, to alternate with Roundelay and Madrigal: the old Man beating Time with his feeble Fingers, and now and then joining with his quavering Voice. (By the way, he hath not forgotten, to this Hour, my imputed Crime of losing that Song byHarry Lawes: my Husband takes my Part, and sayth it will turn up some Day when leaste expected, likeJustinian's Pandects.)Hubertbrings him his Pipe and a Glass of Water, and then I crave his Blessing and goe to Bed; first, praying ferventlie for alle beneathe this deare Roof, and then for alle atSheepscoteandForest Hill.
On Sabbaths, besides the publick Ordinances of Devotion, which I cannot, with alle my striving, bring myself to love like the Services to which I have beene accustomed, we have much Reading, Singing, and Discoursing among ourselves. The Maids sing, the Boys sing,Hubertsings, olde Mr.Miltonsings; and trulie with soe much of it, I woulde sometimes as lief have them quiete. TheSheepscoteSundays suited me better. The Sabbath Exercise of the Boys is to read a Chapter in theGreekTestament, heare my Husband expounde the same; and write out a System of Divinitie as he dictates to them, walking to and fro. In listening thereto, I find my Pleasure and Profitt.
I have alsoe my owne little Catechising, after a humbler Sorte, in theKitchen, and some poore Folk to relieve and console, with my Husband'sConcurrence and Encouragement. Thus, the Sabbath is devoutlie andhappilie passed.
My Husband alsoe takes, once in a Fortnighte or soe, what he blythelie calls "a gaudy Day," equallie to his owne Content, the Boys', and mine. On these Occasions, it is my Province to provide colde Fowls or Pigeon Pie, whichHubertcarries, with what else we neede, to the Spot selected for our Camp Dinner. Sometimes we take Boat toRichmondorGreenwich. Two young Gallants, Mr.Alphreyand Mr.Miller, love to joyn our Partie, and toil at the Oar, or scramble up the Hills, as merrilie as the Boys. I must say they deal savagelie with the Pigeon Pie afterwards. They have as wild Spiritts as ourDickandHarry, but withal a most wonderfull Reverence for my Husband, whom they courte to read and recite, and provoke to pleasant Argument, never prolonged to Wearinesse, and seasoned with Frolic Jest and Witt. Olde Mr.Miltonjoyns not these Parties. I leave him alwaies toDolly'sCare, firste providing for him a Sweetbread or some smalle Relish, such as he loves. He is in Bed ere we return, which is oft by Moonlighte.
How soone must Smiles give Way to Tears! Here is a Letter from deareMother, taking noe Note of what I write to her, and for good Reason, she is soe distraught at her owne and deareFather'sill Condition. The Rebels (I must call them such,) have soe stript and opprest them, they cannot make theire House tenantable; nor have Aught to feede on, had they e'en a whole Roof over theire Heads. The Neighbourhoode is too hot to holde them; olde Friends cowardlie and suspicious, olde and new Foes in League together. LeaveOxonthey must; but where to goe?Father, despite his broken Health and Hatred of the Foreigner, must needes depart beyond Seas; at leaste within the six Months; but how, with an emptie Purse, make his Way in a strange Land, with a Wife and seven Children at his Heels? Soe endsMotherwith a "Lordhave Mercy upon us!" as though her House were as surelie doomed to destruction as if it helde the Plague.
Mine Eyes were yet swollen with Tears, when my Husband stept in. He askt, "What ails you, precious Wife?" I coulde but sigh, and give him the Letter. Having read the Same, he says, "But what, my dearest? Have we not ample Room here for them alle? I speak as to Generalls, you must care for Particulars, and stow them as you will. There are plenty of small Rooms for the Boys; but, if your Father, being infirm, needes a Ground-floor Chamber, you and I will mount aloft."
I coulde but look my Thankfullenesse and kiss his Hand. "Nay," he added, with increasing Gentlenesse, "think not I have seene your Cares for my owne Father without loving and blessing you. Let Mr.Powellcome and see us happie; it may tend to make him soe. Let him and his abide with us, at the leaste, till the Spring; his Lads will studdy and play with mine, your Mother will help you in your Housewiferie, the two olde Men will chirp together beside theChristmasseHearth; and, if I find thy Weeklie Bills the heavier 'twill be but to write another Book, and make a better Bargain for it than I did for the last. We will use Hospitalitie without grudging; and, as for your owne Increase of Cares, I suppose 'twill be but to order two Legs of Mutton insteade of one!"
And soe, with a Laugh, left me, most joyfulle, happy Wife! to draweSweete out of Sowre, Delighte out of Sorrowe; and to summon mine owneKindred aboute me, and wipe away theire Tears, bid them eat, drink, andbe merry, and shew myselfe to them, how proud, how cherished a Wife!
Surelie my Mother wille learne to loveJohn Miltonat last! If she doth not, this will be my secret Crosse, for 'tis hard to love dearlie two Persons who esteeme not one another. But she will, she must, not onlie respect him for his Uprightnesse and Magnanimitie, coupled with what himselfe calls "an honest Haughtinesse and Self-esteeme," butlikehim for his kind and equall Temper, (not"harsh and crabbed," as I have hearde her call it,) his easie Flow of Mirthe, his Manners, unaffectedlie cheerfulle; his Voice, musicall; his Person, beautifull; his Habitt, gracefull; his Hospitalitie, naturall to him; his Purse, Countenance, Time, Trouble, at his Friend's Service; his Devotion, humble; his Forgivenesse, heavenlie! May it pleaseGod, that my Mother shall likeJohn Milton! . . .
Bunhill Fields, Feb. 17, 1665.
. . . Something geniall and soothing beyond ordinarie in the Warmth and fitfulle Lighte of the Fire, made us delaye, I know not how long, to trim the Evening Lamp, and sitt muzing in Idlenesse about the Hearth;Maryrevolving her Thumbs and staring at the Embers;Annequite in the Shadowe, with her Arms behind her Head agaynst the Wall; Father in his tall Arm-chair, quite uprighte, as his Fashion is when very thoughtfulle; I on the Cushion at his Feet, with mine Head on's Knee and mine Eyes on his Shadowe on the Wall, which, as it happened, shewed in colossal Proportions, while ours were like Pigmies. Alle at once he exclaims, "We all seem very comfortable—I think we shoulde reward ourselves with some Egg-flip!"
And then offered us Pence for our Thoughts.Annewould not tell hers;Maryowned she had beene trying to account for the Deficiencie of a Groat in her housekeeping Purse; and I contest to such a Medley, that Father sayd I deservedAnne'sPenny in addition to mine own, for my Strength of Mind in submitting such a Farrago of Nonsense to the Ridicule of my Friends.
Soe then I bade for his Thoughts, and he sayd he had beene questioning the Cricket on the Hearth, upon the Extinction of the Fairies; and I askt, Did anie believe in 'em now? and he made Answer, Oh, yes, he had known a Serving-Wench in Oxon depone she had beene nipped and haled by 'em; and, of Crickets, he sayd he had manie Times seene an old Wife inBuckinghamshire, who was soe pestered by one, that she cried, "I can't heare myself talk! I'd as lief heare Nought as heare thee;" soe poured a Kettle of boiling Water into the Cranny wherein the harmlesse Creature lay, and scalded it to Death; and, the next Day, became as deaf as a Stone, and remained soe ever after, a Monument of God's Displeasure, at her destroying one of the most innocent of His Creatures.
After this, he woulde tell us of this and that worn-our [Transcriber's note: worn-out?] Superstition, as o' the Friar's Lantern, and of Lob-lie-by-the-Fire, untillMary, who affects not the Unreall, went off to make the Flip.Annepresentlie exclaimed, "Father! when you sayd—
'The Shepherds on the Lawn,Or e'er the Point of Dawn,Sat simply chatting in a rustic Row,Full little thought they thenThat the mightyPanWas kindly come to live with them, below,'
whom meant you byPan? Sure, you would not call our Lord by the Name of a heathen Deity?"
"Well, Child," returns Father, "you know He calls Himself a Shepherd, and was in truth whatPanwas onlie supposed to be, the God of Shepherds; albeitLavaterus, in his TreatiseDe Lemuribus, doth indeede tell us, that byPansome understoode noe other than the greatSathanas, whose Kingdom being overturned atChrist'sComing, his inferior Demons expelled, and his Oracles silenced, he is some sort was himself overthrown. And the Story goes, that, about the Time of our Lord's Passion, certain Persons sailing fromItalytoCyprus, and passing by certayn Islands, did heare a Voice calling aloud,Thamus, Thamus, which was the Name of the Ship's Pilot, who, making Answer to the unseene Appellant, was bidden, when he came toPalodas, to tell that the great GodPanwas dead; which he doubting to doe, yet for that when he came toPalodas, there suddainlie was such a Calm of Wind that the Ship stoode still in the Sea, he was constrayned to cry aloud thatPanwas dead; whereupon there were hearde such piteous Shrieks and Cries of invisible Beings, echoing from haunted Spring and Dale, as ne'er smote human Ears before nor since: Nymphs and Wood-Gods, or they that had passed for such, breaking up House and retreating to their own Place. I warrant you, there was Trouble among the Sylvan People that Day—Satyrs hirsute and cloven-footed Fauns.
". . . Many a Time and oft haveCharles Diodatiand I discust fond Legends, such as this, over our Winter Hearth; with our Chestnuts blackening and crackling on the Hob, and our o'er-ripe Pears sputtering in the Fire, while the Wind raved without among the creaking Elms. . . ."
Father still hammering on old Times, and his owne young Days, I beganne to frame unto myself an Image of what he might then have beene; piecing it out by Help of his Picture on the Wall; but coulde get no cleare Apprehension of my Mother, she dying soe untimelie. Askt him, Was she beautifulle? He sayth, Oh yes, and clouded over o' the suddain; then went over her Height, Size, and Colour, etc.; dwelt on the Generalls of personal Beauty, how it shadowed forthe the Mind, was desirable or dangerous, etc.
On dispersing for the Night, he noted, somewhat hurt,Anne'sabruptDeparture without kissing his Hand, and sayd, "Is she sulky or unwell?"
In our Chamber, found her alreadie half undrest, a reading of her Bible; sayd, "Father tooke your briefe Good-nighte amisse." She made Answer shortlie, "Well, what neede to marvell; he cannot put his Arm about me without being reminded how mis-shapen I am."
PoorNan! we had been speaking of faire Proportions, and had thoughtlessly cut her to the Quick; yet Fatherknoweth, though he cannotsee, that her Face is that of an Angel.
About One o' the Clock, was rouzed (thoughAnnecontinued sleeping soundly) by hearing Father give his three Signal-taps agaynst the Wall. Half drest, and with bare Feet thrust into Slippers, I hastily ran in to him; he cried, "Deb, for the Love of Heaven get Pen and Paper to sett Something down." I replied, "Sure, Father, you gave me quite a Turn; I thought you were ill," and sett to my Task, marvellous ill-conditioned, expecting some Crotchet had taken him concerning his Will.
'Stead of which, out comes a Volley of Poetry he had lain a brewing till his Brain was like to burst; and soe I, in my thin Night Cotes, must needs jot it all down, for Feare it should ooze away before Morning. Sure, I thought he never woulde get to the End, and really feared at firste he was crazing a little, but indeede all Poets doe when the Vein is on 'em. At length, with a Sigh of Relief, he says, "That will doe—Good-night, little Maid." I coulde not help saying, "'Twas a lucky Thing for you, Father, that Step-mother was from Home;" he laught, drew me to him, kissed me, and sayd, "Why, your Face is quite cold—are your Feet unslippered?"
"Unstockinged," I replyed.
"I am quite concerned I knew it not sooner," he rejoyned, in an Accent of such Kindnesse, that all my Vexation melted away, and I e'en protested I did not mind it a Bit.
"Since it is soe," quoth he, "I shall the less mind having Recourse to you agayn; onlie I must insist on your taking Care to wrap yourself up more warmly, since you need not feare my being ill."
I bit my Lip, and onlie saying Good-night, stole off to my warm Bed.
Returning from Morning Prayers withAnnethis Forenoon, I foundMarymending a Pen with the utmost Imperturbabilitie, and Father with a Heat-spot on his Cheek, which betraied some Inquietation. Being presentlie alone with him, "Maryis irretrievably heavy," sighs he, "she would let the finest Thought escape one while she is blowing her Nose or brushing up the Cinders. I am confident she has beene writing Nonsense even now—Do run through it for me,Deb, and lett me heare what it is."
I went on, enough to his Satisfaction, till coming to
"Bring to their Sweetness no Sobriety."
"Sobriety?" interrupted he, "Satiety, Satiety! the Blockhead!—and that Ishould live to call a Woman soe.—Sobriety, indeede! poorMary, herWits must have been wool-gathering. 'Bring to their Sweetness noSobriety!' What Meaning coulde she possibly affix to such Folly?"
"Sure, Father," sayd I, "here's Enough that she could affix no Meaning to, nor I neither, without your condescending to explayn it—Cycle, Epicycle, nocturnal Rhomb."
"Well, well," returned he, beginning to smile, "'twas unlikely she shoulde be with such Discourse delighted. Not capable, alas! poorMary'sEar, of what is high. And yet, thy Mother, Child, woulde have stretched up towards Truths, though beyond her Reach, yet to the inquiring Mind offering rich Repast. And now write Satiety for Sobriety, if you love me."
While erasing the obnoxious Word, I cried, "Dear Father, pray answer me one Question—What is a Rhomb?"
"A Rhomb, Child?" repeated he, laughing, "why, a Parallelogram or quadrangular Figure, consisting of parallel Lines, with two acute and two obtuse Angles, and formed by two equal and righte Cones, joyned together at their Base! There, are you anie wiser now? No, little Maid, 'tis best for such as you
Not with perplexing ThoughtsTo interrupt the Sweet of Life, from whichGod hath bid dwell far off all anxious Cares,And not molest us, unless we ourselvesSeek them, with wandering Thoughts and Notions vain.'"
April 19, 1665.
I heartilie wish our Stepmother were back, albeit we are soe comfortable without her!Mary, taking the Maids at unawares last Night, found a strange Man in the Kitchen. Words ensued; he slunk off like a Culprit, which lookt not well, whileBetty Fisher, brazening it out, woulde have at firste that he was her Brother, then her Cousin, and ended by vowing to be revenged onMarywhen she lookt not for it. I would have hadMaryspeak to Father, but she will not; perhaps soe best.Pollyis in the Sulks to Daye, as well asBetty, saying, "As well live in a Nunnerie."
April 20, 1665.
When the Horse is stolen, shut the Stable Door.Marylocked the lower Doors, and brought up the Keys herselfe, yestereven at Duske. Anon dropped in DoctorPaget, Mr.Skinner, and UncleDick, soe that we had quite a merrie Party. Dr.Pagetsayd how that another Case of the Plague had occurred inLong Acre; howbeit, this onlie makes three, soe that we trust it will not spread, though 'twoulde be unadvised to goe needlesslie into the infected Quarter. UncleDickwould fayn take us Girls down toOxon, but Father sayd he could not spare us while Mother was atStoke; and that there was noe prevalent Distemper, this bracing Weather, in our Parish. Then felle a musing; and UncleDick, who loves a Jeste, outs with a large brown Apple from's Pocket, and holds it aneath Father's Nose. Sayth Father, rousing, "How far Phansy goes! thy Voice,Dick, carried me back to olde Dayes, and affected, I think, even my Nose; for I could protest I smelled aSheepscoteApple." And, feeling himselfe touched by its cold Skin, laught merrilie, and ate it with a Relish; saying, noe Sorte ever seemed unto him soe goode—he had received manie a Hamper of 'em about Christmasse. After a Time, alle but he and I went up, and out on the Leads, to see the Comet; and we two sitting quite still, and Father, doubtlesse, supposed to be alone, I saw a great round-shouldered mannish Shadowe glide acrosse the Passage, and hearde the Front-door Latch click. Darted forthe, but too late, and then into the Kitchen; with some Warmth chidBettyfor soe soone agayn disobeying Orders, and threatened to tell my Mamma. She cryed pertlie, "Law, MissDeb, I wish to Goodnesse your Mamma was here to heare you, for I'd sooner have one Mistress than three. A Shadowe, indeed! I'm sure you saw no Substance—very like, 'twas a Spirit; or, liker still, onlie the Cat. Here, Puss, Puss!" . . . and soe into the Passage, as though to look for what she was sure not to find. I had noe Patience with her; but, returning to Father, askt him if he had not heard the Latch click? He sayd, No; and, indeede, I think, had been dozing; soe then sate still, and bethoughte me what 'twere best to doe. Three Brains are too little agaynst one that is resolved to cheat. 'Tis noe Goode complayning to a Man; he will not see, even though unafflicted like Father, who cannot. Men's Minds run on greater Things, and soe they are fretted at domestic Appeals, and generallie give Judgment the wrong Way. Thus we founde it before, poor motherlesse Girls, to our Cost; and I reallie believe it was more in Kindnesse for us than himself, that Father listened to the Doctor's Overtures in behalfe of MissMinshull; for what Companion can soe illiterate a Woman be to him? But he believed her gentle, hearde that she was a good Housewife, and apprehended she would be kind to us. . . . Alas the Daye! What Tears we three shed in our Chamber that Night! and wished, too late, we had ne'er referred to him a Grievance, nor let him know we had a Burthen. Soone we founde KingLoghad been succeeded by KingStork; soone made common Cause, tryed our Strength and found it wanting, and soone submitted to our new Yoke, and tried to make the best of it.
Yes, that is the onlie Course; we alle feele it; onlie, as Ill-luck will have it, we do not always feel it simultaneouslie.Anne, mayhap, has one of her dogged humours;Maryand I see how much better 'twould be, did she overcome it, or shut herself up till in better Temper.Maryis crabbed and exacting;Anneand I cannot put her straight. Well for us when we succeed just soe far as to keep it from the Notice of Father. Thus we rub on; I wonder if we ever shall pull all together?
April 22, 1665.
Like unto a wise Master-builder, who ordereth the Disposition of eache Stone till the whole Building is fitly compacted together, so doth Father build up his noble Poem, which groweth under our Hands. Three Nights have I, without Complaynt, lost my Rest while writing at his Bedside; this hath made me yawnish in the Day-time, or, as Mother will have it, lazy. However, I bethink me ofDamo, Daughter ofPythagoras.
Mother came Home yesterday, andBetty, the Picture of Neatnesse, tooke goode Heede to be the first to welcome her, with officious Smiles, and Prayses of her Looks. For my Part, I thoughte it fullsome, but knew her Motives better than Mother, who took it alle in goode Part. Indeede, noe one would give this Girl credit for soe false a Heart; she is pretty, modest looking, and for a while before my Father's Marriage was as great a Favourite withMaryas now with my Mother; flattered her the same, and tempted her to idle gossiping Confidences. She was slow to believe herself cheated; and when 'twas as cleare as Day, could not convince Father of it.
OnMary'smentioning this Morning (unadvisedlie, I think,) the KitchenVisitor, Mother made short Answer—
"Tilly-vally! bad Mistresses make bad Maids; there will be noe such Doings now, I warrant. . . . I am sure, my Dear," appealing to Father, "you think well in the main ofBetty?"
"Yes," says he, smiling, "I think well of both myBetties."
"At any rate," persistsMary, "the Man coulde not be at once her Cousin and her Brother."
"Why no," replies Father, "therein she worsened her Story, by saying too much, asDorotheadid, when she pretended to have heard of the Knight ofLa Mancha'sFame, when she landed atOssuna; which even a Madman as he was, knew to be noe Sea-port. It requires more Skill than the General possess, to lie with a Circumstance."
Had a Valentine this Morning, though onlie from_ Ned Phillips_, whomMother is angry with, for filling my Head betimes with such Nonsense.Howbeit, I am close on sixteen.
Marywas out of Patience with Father yesterday, who, after keeping her a full Hour atThucydides, sayd,
"Well, now we will refresh ourselves with a Canto ofAriosto," which was as much a sealed Book to her as t'other. Howbeit, this Morning he sayd,
"Child, I have noted your Wearinesse in reading the dead Languages to me; would that I needed not to be beholden unto any, whether bound to me by Blood and Affection or not, for the Food that is as needfulle to me as my daily Bread. Nevertheless, that I be not further wearisome unto thee, I have engaged a young Quaker, namedEllwood, to relieve thee of this Portion of thy Task, soe that thou mayst have the more Leisure to enjoy the glad Sunshine and fair Sights I never more shall see."
Maryturned red, and dropt a quiet Tear; but alas, he knew it not.
"One part of my Children's Burthen, indeed," he continued, "I cannot, for obvious Reasons, relieve them of—they must still be my Secretaries, for in them alone can I confide. Soe now to your healthfulle Exercises and fitting Recreations, dear Maids, and Heaven's Blessing goe with you!"
We kissed his Hand and went, but our Walk was not merry.
Ellwoodis a young Man of seven-and-twenty, of good Parts, but pragmaticalle; Son of an Oxfordshire Justice of the Peace, but not on good Terms with him, by Reason of his religious Opinions, which the Father affects not.
April 23, 1665.
Spring is coming on apace. Father even sits between the wood Fire and the open Casement, enjoying the mild Air, but it is not considered healthfulle.
"My Dear," says Mother to him this Morning, after some Hours' Absence, "I have bought me a new Mantle of the most absolute Fancy. 'Tis sad-coloured, which I knew you would approve, but with a Garniture of Orange-tawny; three Plaits at the Waist behind, and a little stuck-up Collar."
"You are a comical Woman," says Father, "to spend soe much Money and Mind on a Thing your Husband will never see."
"Oh! but it cost no Money at alle," says she; "that is the best of it."
"What is the best of it?" rejoyned he. "I suppose you bartered for it, if you did not buy it—you Women are always for cheap Pennyworths. Come, what was the Ransom? One of my old Books, or my new Coat?"
"Your last new Coat may be called old too, I'm sure," says Mother; "I believe you married me in it."
"Nay," says Father, "and what if I did? 'Twas new then, at any rate; and the CidRuy Diazwas married in a black Satin Doublet, which his Father had worn in three or four Battles."
"A poor Compliment to the Bride," says Mother.
"Well, but, dearBetty, what has gone for this copper-colouredMantle?—Sylvester's'Du Bartas?'" . . .
"Nothing of the sort,—nothing you value or will ever miss. An old GoldPocket-piece, that hath lain perdue, e'er soe long, in our Dressing-tableDrawer."
He smote the Table with his Hand. "Woman!" cried he, changing Colour, "'twas a Medal of Honour given to my Father by a Polish Prince! It should have been an Heir-loom. There, say noe more about it now. 'Tis in your Jew's Furnace ere this. 'The Fining-pot for Silver and the Furnace for Gold, but . . . the Lord trieth the Spirits.' Ay me! mine is tried sometimes."
UncleKitmost opportunelie entering at this Moment, instantaneouslie changed his Key-note.
"Ha,Kit!" he cries, gladly, "here you find me, as usual, maundering among my Women. Welcome, welcome! How is it with you, and what's the News?"
"Why, the News is, that the Plague's coming on amain," says my Uncle; "they say it's been smouldering among us all the Winter, and now it's bursting out."
"Lord save us!" says Mother, turning pale.
"You may say that," says Uncle, "but you must alsoe try to save yourselves. For my Part, I see not what shoulde keep you in Town. Come down to us atIpswich; my Brother and you shall have the haunted Chamber; and we can make plenty of Shakedowns for the Girls in the Atticks. Your Maids can look after Matters here. By the way, you have a Merlin's Head sett up in your Neighbourhood; I saw your black-eyed Maid come forthe of it as I passed."
Mother bit her lip; but Father broke forthe with, "What can we expect but that a judiciall Punishment shoulde befall a Land where the Corruption of the Court, more potent and subtile in its Infection than anie Pestilence, hath tainted every open Resorte and bye Corner of the Capital and Country? Our Sins cry aloud; our Pulpits, Counters, and Closetts alike witness against us. 'Tis, as with the People soe with the Priest, as with the Buyer soe with the Seller, as with the Maid soe with the Mistress. Plays, Interludes, Gaming-houses, Sabbath Debauches, Dancing-rooms, Merry-Andrews, Jack Puddings, Quacks, false Prophesyings—"
"Ah! we can excuse a little Bitternesse in the losing Party now," says Uncle; "but do you seriously mean to say you think us more deserving of judiciall Punishment under the glorious Restoration than during the unnatural Rebellion? Sure you have had Time to cool upon that."
"Certainly I mean to say so," answers Father. "During the unnatural Rebellion, as you please to call it, the Commonwealth, whose Duration was very short—"
"Very short, indeed," observes Uncle, coughing. "Only fromWorcesterFight, Fifty-one, toNoll'sDissolution of the Long Parliament,Fifty-three; yet quite long enough to see what it was."
"I deny that, as well as your Dates," says Father. "We enjoyed a Commonwealth under the Protector, who, had he not assumed that high Office which gave him his Name, would have lacked Opportunity of showing that he was capable of filling the most exalted Station with Vigour and Ability. He secured a wise Peace, obtained the respectfull Concurrence of foreign Powers, filled our domestick Courts with upright Judges, and respected the Rights of Conscience."
"Why, suppose I admitted all this, which I am far from doing," says Uncle, "what was he but a King, except by just Title? What had become, meantime, of your Commonwealth?"
"Softly,Kit," returns Father. "The Commonwealth was progressing, meantime, like a little Rivulet that rises among the Hills, amid Weeds and Moss, and gradually works itself a widening Channel, filtering over Beds of Gravel, and obstructed here and there by Fragments of Rock, that sorely chafe and trouble it, at the very Time that, to the distant Observer, it looks most picturesque and beautiful."
"Well, I suppose I was never distant enough to see it in this picturesquePoint of View," says Uncle. "Legitimate Monarchy was, to my Mind, theRock over which the brawling River leaped awhile, and which, in the End,successfully opposed it; and as to yourOliver, he was a cunningFellow, that diverted its Course to turn his own Mill."
"They that can see any Virtue or Comeliness in aCharles Stuart," says Father, "can hardly be expected to acknowledge the rugged Merits of a plain Republican."
"Plain was the very last Thing he was," says Uncle, "either in speaking or dealing. He was as cunning as a Fox, and as rough as a Bear."
"We can overlook the Roughness of a good Man," says Father; "and if a Temper subject to hasty Ebullitions is better than one which, by Blows and hard Usage, has been silenced into Sullenness, a Republic is better than an absolute Sovereignty."
"Aye; and if a Temper under the Control of Reason and Principle," rejoinsUncle, "is better than one unaccustomed to restrain its hastyEbullitions, a limited Monarchy is better than a Republic."
"But ours is not limited enough," persists Father.
"Wait awhile," returns Uncle, "till, as you say, we have filtered over the Gravel a little longer, and then see how clear we shall run."
"I don't see much present Chance of it," says Father. "Such a King, and such a Court!"
"The King and Court will soon shift Quarters, I understand," says Uncle; "for Fear of this coming Sickness. 'Twould be a rare Thing, indeed, for the King to take the Plague!"
"Why not the King, as well as any of his Commons?" says Father. "Tush! I am tired of the Account People make of him. 'IsPhilipdead?' 'No; but he is sick.' Pray, what is it to us, whetherPhilipis sick or not?"
"Which of thePhillipses, my Dear?" asks Mother. "Did you sayJackPhillipswas sick?"
"No, dearBetty; only a King ofMacedon, who lived a long Time ago."
"DoctorBricecommends you much for your grounding thePhillipsesso excellently in the Classicks," says Uncle.
"He should think whether his Praise is much worth having," says Father, rather haughtily. "The young Men were indebted to me for a competent Knowledge of the learned Tongues—no more."
"Nay, somewhat more," rejoined Uncle; "and the Praise of a worthy Man is surely always worth having."
"If he be our Superior in the Thing wherein he praises us," returned Father. "His Praise is then a Medal of Reward; but it should never be a current Coin, bandied from one to another. And the Inferior may never praise the Superior."
Uncle was silent a Moment, and then softly uttered, "My Soul, praise theLord."
"There you have me," says Father, instantly softening. "Laud we the Name of the Lord, but let's not laud one another."
"Ah! I can't wait to argue the Point," says Uncle. "I must back to theTemple."
"Stay a Moment,Kit. Have you seen 'the Mysterie of Jesuitism?'"
"No; haveyouseen the Proof thatLondon, notRome, is the City on seven Hills?Ludgate Hill, Fishstreet Hill, Dowgate Hill, Garlick Hill, Saffron Hill, Holborn Hill, andTower Hill. Clear as Day!"
"Where'sSnow Hill? Come, don't go yet. We will fight over some of our old Feuds. There will be a roast Pig on Table at one o'clock, and, I fancy, a Tansy-pudding."
"Ican't fancy Tansy-pudding," says Uncle, shuddering; "I cannot abide Tansies, even in Lent. Besides, I'm expecting a Reference."
"Oh! very well; then drop in again in the Evening, if you will; and very likely you will meetCyriack Skinner. And you shall have cold Pig for Supper, not forgetting the Current-sauce,WiltshireCheese, Carraways, and some of your own Wine."
"Well, that sounds good. I don't mind if I do," says Uncle; "but don't expect me after nine."
"I'm in Bed by nine," says Father.
"Oh, oh!" says Uncle; and with a comical Look at us, he went off.
UncleKitdid not come last Night; I did not much expect he woulde; nor Mr.Skinner. Insteade, we had Dr.Paget, and one or two others, who talked dolefully alle the Evening of Signs of the Times, till they gave me the Horrors. One had seen a Ghost, or at least, seen a Crowd looking at a Ghost, or for a Ghost, inBishopgateChurchyard, that comes out and points hither and thither at future Graves. Another had seene an Apparition, or Meteor, somewhat of human or angelic Shape in the Air. Father laught at the first, but did not so discreditin totothe other; observing thatTheodore Bezabelieved at one Time in astrologick Signs; and thought that the Appearance of the notable Star inCassiopeieabetokened the universal End. And as for Angels, he sayd they were, questionless, ministering Spiritts, not onlie sent forth to minister unto the Heirs of Salvation, but sometimes Instruments of God's Wrath, to execute Judgments upon ungodly Men, and convince them of the ill Deeds which they have ungodly committed; as during the Pestilence inDavid'sTime, when the King saw the Destroying Angel standing between Heaven and Earth, having a drawn Sword in his Hand, stretched over Jerusalem. Such Delegates we might, without Fanaticism, suppose to be the generall, though unseen. Instruments of public Chastisements; and, for our particular Comfort, we had equall Reason to repose on the Assurance, that even amid the Pestilence that walked in Darkness, and the Destruction that wasted by Noon-day, the Angels had charge over each particular Believer, to keep them in all their Ways. Adding, that, though he forbore, withCalvin, to pronounce that each Man had his own Guardian Spiritt,—a Subject whereon Scripture was silent,—we had the Lord's own Word for it, that little Children were the particular Care of holy Angels.
And this, and othermuch to same Purport, had soe soothing and sedative an Effect, that we might have gone to Bed in peacefull Trust, onlie that Dr.Pagetmust needs bring up, after Supper, the correlative Theme of the greatFlorentinePlague, and the poisoned Wells, which sett Father off upon the Acts of Mercy of Cardinal _Borromeo,—_not him called St.Charlestbut the Cardinal-Archbishop,—and soe, to the Pestilence atGeneva, when even the Bars and Locks of Doors were poisoned by a Gang of Wretches, who thought to pillage the Dwellings of the Dead; till we all went to Bed, moped to Death.
Howbeit, I had been warmly asleep some Hours, (more by Token I had read the ninety-first Psalm before getting into Bed), whenAnne, clinging to me, woke me up with a shrill Cry. I whispered fearfullie, "What is't?—a Thief under the Bed?"
"No, no," she replies. "Listen!"
Soe I did for a While; and was just going to say, "You were dreaming," when a hollow Voice in the Street, beneath our Window, distinctlie proclaimed,
"Yet forty Days, andLondonshall be destroyed! I will overturn, overturn, overturn it! Oh! Woe, Woe, Woe!"
I sprang out of Bed, fell over my Shoes, got up again, and ran to the Window. There was Nothing to be seen but long, black Shadows in the Streets. The Moon was behind the House. After looking forthe awhile, with Teeth chattering, I was about to drop the Curtain, when, afar off, whether in or over some distant Quarter of the Town, I heard the same Voice, clearlie enow to recognise the Rhythm, though not the Words. I crept to Bed, chilled and awe-stricken; yet, after cowering awhile, and saying our Prayers, we both fell asleep.
The first Sounde this Morning was of Weeping and Wayling. Mother had beene scared by the Night-warning, and wearied Father to have us alle into the Countrie. He thought the Danger not yet imminent, the Expense considerable, and the Outcry that of some crazy Fanatick; ne'erthelesse, consented to employEllwoodto look us out some country Lodgings; having noe Mind to live upon my Uncle atIpswich.
Mary, strange to say, had heard noe Noise; nor had the Maids; but Servants always sleep heavily.
Some of the Pig having beene sett aside for my Uncle, and Mother fancying it for her Breakfast, was much putt out, on going into the Larder, to find it gone.Betty, of course, sayd it was the Cat. Mother made Answer, she never knew a Cat partiall to cold Pig; and the Door having been latched, was suspicious of a Puss in Boots.
Bettycries—"Plague take the Cat!"
Mother rejoyns—"If the Plague does take him, I shall certainly have him hanged."
"Then we shall be overrun with Rats," saysBetty.
"I shall buy Ratsbane for them," says Mother; and soe into the Parlour, where Father, having hearde the whole Dialogue, had been greatlie amused.
At Twilight, she went to look at the Pantry Fastenings herselfe, but, suddenlie hearing a dolorous Voyce either within or immediately without, cry, "Oh! Woe, Woe!" she naturallie drew back. However, being a Woman of much Spiritt, she instantlie recovered herselfe, and went forward; but no one was in the Pantry. The Occurrence, therefore, made the more Impression; and she came up somewhat scared, and asked if we had heard it.
"My Dear," says Father, "you awoke me in the midst of a very interestingColloquy betweenSir Thomas MoreandErasmus. However, I think a Dogbarked, or rather howled, just now. Are you sure the words were not'Bow, wow, wow?'"
Another Night-larum; but onlie from Father, who wanted me to write for him,—a Task he has much intromitted of late. Mother was hugelie annoyed at it, and sayd,—"My Dear, I am persuaded that if you would not persist in going to Bed soe earlie, you woulde not awake at these untimelie Hours."
"That is very well for you to say," returned he, "who can sew and spin the whole Evening through; but I, whose long entire Day is Night, grow soe tired of it by nine o'clock, that I am fit for Nothing but Bed."
"Well," says she, "I often find that brushing my Hair wakes me up when I am drowsy. I will brush yours To-morrow Evening, and see if we cannot keep you up a little later, and provide sounder Rest for you when you do turn in."
Soe, this Evening, she casts her Apron over his Shoulders, and commences combing his Hair, chatting of this and that, to keep him in good Humour.
"What beautiful Hair this is of yours, my Dear!" says she; "soe fine, long, and soft! scarcelie a Silver Thread in it. I warrant there's manie a young Gallant at Court would be proud of such."
"Girls, put your Scissars out of your Mother's Way," says Father; "she's a perfectDalilah, and will whip off Half my Curls before I can count Three, unless you look after her. And I," he adds, with a Sigh, "am, in one Sort, aSamson."
"I'm sureDalilahnever treatedSamson'sold Coat with such Respect,"says Mother, finishing her Task, resuming her Apron, and kissing him."Soe now, keep your Eyes open—I mean, keep awake, till I bring you aGossip's Bowl."
When she was gone, Father continued sitting bolt upright,his Eyes, as she sayd (his beautifull Eyes!), open and wakefull, and his Countenance composed, yet grave, as if his Thoughts were at least as far off asTangrolipixtheTurk. All at once, he says,
"Deb, are my Sleeves white at the Elbow?"
"No, Father."
"Or am I shiny about the Shoulders?"
"No, Father."
"Why, then," cries he, gaily, this Coat can't be very old, however long I may have worn it. I'll rub on in it still; and your Mother and you will have the more Money for copper-coloured Clokes. But don't, at any Time, let your Father get shabby, Children. I would never be threadbare nor unclean. Let my Habitt be neat and spotless, my Bands well washed and uncrumpled, as becometh a Gentleman. As for my Sword in the Corner, your Mother may send that after my Medal as soon as she will. TheCidparted with hisTizonain his Life-time; soe a peaceable Man, whose Eyes, like the ProphetAbijah's, are set, may well doe the same."
May 12, 1665.
Yesterday being theLord's Day, Mother was hugely scared during Morning Service, by seeing an old Lady put her Kerchief to her Nose, look hither and thither, and, finally, walk out of Church. One whispered another, "A Plague-Smell, perchance." "No Doubt on't;" and soe, one after another left, as, at length, did Mother, who declared she beganne to feel herself ill. On the Cloth being drawn after Dinner, she made a serious Attack on my Father, upon the Subject of Country Lodgings, which he stoutly resisted at first, saying,
"If, Wife and Daughters, either the Danger were so immediate, or the Escape from it so facile as to justify these womanish Clamours, Reason would that I should listen to you. But, since that the Lord is about our Bed, and about our Path, in the Capital no less than in the Country, and knoweth them that are his, and hideth them under the Shadowe of his Wings—and since that, if the Fiat be indeed issued agaynst us, no Stronghold, though guarded with triple Walls of Circumvallation, likeEcbatana, nor pastoral Valley, that might inspireTheocrituswith a new Idyl, can hide us, either by its Strength or its Obscurity, from the Arrow of the Destroying Angel; ye, therefore, seeing these Things cannot be spoken agaynst, ought to be quiet, and do Nothing rashly. Wherefore, I pray you, Wife and Daughters, get you to your Knees, before Him who alone can deliver you from these Terrors; and having cast your Burthen upon Him, eat your Bread in Peacefulness and Cheerfulness of Heart."
However, we really are preparing for Country Quarters, for youngEllwoodhath this Morning brought us Note of a rustick Abode near his Friends, thePenningtons, atChalfont, inBucks, the Charges of which suit my Father's limited Means; and we hope to enter on it by the End of the Week.Ellwood'sHead seems full ofGuli Springett, the Daughter of MasterPennington'sWife by her first Husband. If Half he says of her be true, I shall like to see the young Lady. We part with one Maid, and take the other.Bettywas very forward to be left in Charge; and protest herself willing to abide any Risk for the Sake of the Family; more by Token she thoughte there was no Risk at alle, having boughte a sovereign Charm of MotherShipton. Howbeit, on inducing her, much agaynst her Will, to open it, Nought was founde within but a wretched little Print of a Ship, with the Words, scrawled beneath it, "By Virtue of the above Sign." Father called her a silly Baggage, and sayd, he was glad, at any Rate, there was no Profanity in it; but, in Spite ofBetty, andPolly, and Mother too, he is resolved to leave the House under the sole Charge of NurseJellycott. Indeed, there Will probably be more rather than less Work to do atChalfont; but Mother means to get a little Boy, such as will be glad to come for Threepence a-Week, to fetch the Milk, post the Letters, get Flour from the Mill and Barm from the Brewhouse, carry Pies to the Oven, clean Boots and Shoes, bring in Wood, sweep up the Garden, roll the Grass, turn the Spit, draw the Water, lift Boxes and heavy Weights, chase away Beggars and infectious Persons, and any little odd Matter of the Kind.
Mother has drowned the Cats, and poisoned the Rats. The latter have revenged 'emselves by dying behind the Wainscot, which makes the lower Part of the House soe unbearable, 'speciallie to Father, that we are impatient to be off. Mother, intending to turnChalfontinto a besieged Garrison, is laying in Stock of Sope, Candles, Cheese, Butter, Salt, Sugar, Raisins, Pease, and Bacon; besides Resin, Sulphur, and Benjamin, agaynst the Infection; and Pill Ruff, andVeniceTreacle, in Case it comes.
As to Father, his Thoughts naturallie run more on Food for the Mind; soe he hath layd in goodlie Store of Pens, Paper, and Ink, and sett me to pack his Books. At first, he sayd he should onlie require a few, and good ones. These were all of the biggest; and three or four Folios broke out the Bottom of the Box. So then Mother sayd the onlie Way was to cord 'em up in Sacking; which greatlie relaxed the Bounds of his Self-denial, and ended in his having a Load packed that would break a Horse's Back. Alsoe, hath had his Organ taken to Pieces; but as it must goe in two severall Loads, and we cannot get a bigger Wagon,—everie Cart and Carriage, large or little, being on such hard Duty in these Times,—I'm to be left behind till the Wagon returns, and till I've finished cataloguing the Books; after whichNed Phillipshath promised to take me down on a Pillion.
NurseJellycott, being sent for fromWapping, looked in this Forenoon, for Father's Commands. Such Years have passed since we lost Sight of her, that I remembered not her Face in the least, but had an instant Recollection of her chearfulle, gentle Voyce. Spite of her Steeple Hat, and short scarlet Cloke, which gave her an antiquated Ayr, her cleare hazel Eyes and smooth-parted Silver Locks gave her an engaging Appearance. The World having gone ill with her, she thankfullie takes Charge of the Premises; and though her Eyes filled with Tears, 'twas with looking at Father. He, for his Part, spake most kindlie, and gave her his Hand, which she kissed.
They are all off. Never was House in such a Pickle! The Carpets rolled up, but the Boards beneath 'em unswept, and black with Dirt; as Nurse gladlie undertook everie Office of that Kind, and sayd 'twould help to amuse her when we were away. But she has tidied up the little Chamber over the House-door she means to occupy, and sett on the Mantell a Beau-pot of fresh Flowers she brought with her. The whole House smells of aromatick Herbs, we have burnt soe many of late for Fumigation; and, though we fear to open the Window, yet, being on the shady Side, we doe not feel the Heat much.
Yesterday, while in the Thick of packing, and Nobody being with Father but me, a Messenger arrived, with a few Lines, writ privily by a Friend of poorEllwood, saying he was inAylesburyGaol, not for Debt, but for his Opinions, and praying Father to send him twenty or thirty Shillings for immediate Necessaries. Mother having gone to my Lord Mayor for Passports, and Father having long given up to her his Purse, . . . (for us Girls, we rarelie have a Crown,) he was in a Strait, and at length said,
"This poor young Fellow must not be denied. . . . A Friend in Need is a Friend indeed. . . . Tie on thy Hood, Child, and step out with the Volume thou hadst in thy Hand but now, to the Stall at the Corner. SeeIsaachimself; shew himTasso'sAutograph on the Fly-leaf, and ask him for thirty or forty Shillings on it till I come back; but bid him on no Pretence to part with it."
I did so, not much liking the Job—there are often such queer People there; for oldIsaacdeals not onlie in old Books, but old Silver Spoons. Howbeit, I took the Volume to his Shop, and as I went in,Bettycame out! What had beenherBusinesse, I know not; but she lookt at me and my Book as though she should like to knowmine; but, with her usual demure Curtsey, made Way for me, and walked off. I got the Money with much Waiting, but not much other Dimcultie, and took it to Father, who sent twenty Shillings toEllwood, and gave me five for my Payns. PoorEllwood! he hath good Leisure to muse now onGuli Springett.
Mother was soe worried by the Odour of the Rats, that they alle started off a Day sooner than was first intended, leaving me merelie a little extra Packing. Consequence was, that this Morning, before Dawn, being earlie at my Task, there taps me at the Window an old Harridan that Mother can't abide, who is always a crying, "Anie Kitchen-stuff have you, Maids?"
Quoth I, "We've Nothing for you."
"Sure, my deary," answers she, in a cajoling voyce, "there's the Dripping and Candles you promised me this Morning, along with the Pot-liquor."
"Dear Heart, Mrs.Deb!" says Nurse, laughing, "there is, indeed, a Lot of Kitchen-stuff hid up near the Sink, which I dare say your Maid told her she was to have; and as it will only make the House smell worse, I don't see why she should not have it, and pay for it too."
Soe I laught, and gave it her forthe, and she put into my Hand twoShillings; but then says, "Why, where's the Cheese?"
"We've no Cheese for you," sayd I.
"Well," says she, "it's a dear Bargayn; but . . ." peering towards me, "is t'other Mayd gone, then?"
"Oh, yes! both of 'em," says I; "and I'm the Mistress," soe burst out a laughing, and shut the Window, while she stumped off, with Something between a Grunt and a Grone. Of course, I gave the Money to Nurse.
We had much Talk overnight of my poor dear Mother. Nurse came to herwhenAnnewas born, and remained in the Family till after the Death ofFather's second Wife.Shewas a fayr and delicate Gentlewoman, byNurse's Account, soft in Speech, fond of Father, and kind to us and theServants; but all Nurse's Suffrages were in Favour of mine own lovedMother.
I askt Nurse how there came to have beene a Separation betweene Father and Mother, soone after their Marriage. She made Answer, she never could understand the Rights of it, having beene before her Time; but they were both so good, and tenderly affectioned, she never could believe there had beene anie reall Wrong on either Side. She always thought my Grandmother must have promoted the Misunderstanding. Men were seldom fond of their Mothers-in-law. He was very kind to the whole Family the Winter beforeAnnewas born, when, but for him, they would not have had a Roof over their Heads. Old Mr.Powelldied in this House, the very Day beforeChristmas, which cast a Gloom over alle, insomuch that my Mother would never after keepChristmas Eve; and, as none of the Puritans did, they were alle of a Mind. My other Grandfather dropt off a few Months after; he was very fond of Mother. At this time Grandmother was going to Law for her Widow's Thirds, which was little worth the striving for, except to One soe extreme poor. Yet, spite of Gratitude and Interest, she must quarrel with Father, and remove herself from his House; which even her own Daughter thought very wrong. Howbeit, Mother would have her first Child baptized after her; and sent her alle the little Helps she could from her owne Purse, from Time to Time, with Father's Privity and Concurrence. He woulde have his next Girl calledMary, after Mother; though the Nameshewent by with him was "SweetMoll;"—'tis now always "PoorMoll," or "Your Mother." Her health fayled about that Time, and they summered atForest Hill—a Place she was always hankering after; but when she came back she told Nurse she never wished to see it agayn, 'twas soe altered. Father's Sight was, meantime, getting worse and worse. She read to him, and wrote for him often. He had becomeCromwell'sSecretary, and had received the public Thanks of the Commonwealth. . . . Great as his Reputation was at Home, 'twas greater Abroad; and Foreigners came to see him, as they still occasionally doe, from all Parts. My Mother not onlie loved him, but was proud of him. All her Pleasures were in Home. From my Birth to that of the little Boy who died, her Health and Spiritts were good; after that they failed; but she always tried to be chearfull with Father. She read herBiblemuch, and was good to the Poor. Nurse says 'twas almost miraculous how much Good she did at how little Cost, except of Forethought and Trouble; and all soe secretlie. She began to have an Impression she was for an early Grave, but did not seem to lament it. One Night, Nurse being beside her, awoke her from what she supposed an uneasie Dream, as she was crying in her Sleep; but as soone as she oped her Eyes, she looked surprised, and said it was a Vision of Peace. She thought the Redeemer of alle Men had been talking with her. Face to Face, as a Man talketh with his Friend, and that she had fallen at his Feet in grateful Joy, and was saying, "Oh! I can't express . . . I can't express—"
About a Week after, she dyed, without any particular Warning, except a short Prick or two at the Heart. My Father was by. 'Twas much talked of at the Time, she being soe young.
Discoursing of this and that, 'twas Midnight ere we went to Bed.
Chalfont.
ARRIVED at last; after what a Journey!Nedhad sent me Word Overnight to expect, this Forenoon, a smart young Cavalier, on a fine prancing Steed, with rich Accoutrements. Howbeit, Cousin is neither smart nor handsome; and, at the Time specifyde, there was brought up to the Door an old white Horse, blind of one Eye, with an aquiline Nose, and, I should think, eight Feet high. The Bridle was diverse from the Pillion, which was finely embroidered, but tarnish, with the Stuffing oozing out in severall Places. Howbeit, 'twas the onlie Equipage to be hired in the Ward, for Love or Money . . . soNedsayd. . . . And he had a huge Pair of gauntlett Gloves, a Whip, that was the smartest Thing about him, and a kind of Vizard over his Nose and Mouth, which, he sayd, was to prevent his being too alluring; but I know 'twas to ward off Infection. I had meant to be brave; and Nurse and I had brushed up the green camblet Skirt, but the rent Mother had made in it would show; however, Nurse thought that, when I was up she could conceal it with a Corking-pin. Thus appointed,Nedled the Way, saying, the onlie Occasion on which a Gentleman needed not to excuse himself to a Lady for going first, was when they were to ride a Pillion. Noe more jesting when once a-Horseback; for, after pacing through a few deserted Streets, we found ourselves amidst such a Medly of Carts, Coaches, and Wagons, full of People and Goods, all pouring out of Town, thatNedhad enough to do to keep cleare of 'em, and of the Horsemen and empty Vehicles coming back for fresh Loads. Dear Heart! what jostling, cursing, and swearing! And how awfull the Cause! Houses padlocked and shuttered wherever we passed, and some with red Crosses on the Doors. At the first Turnpike 'twas worst of all—a complete Stoppage; Men squabbling, Women crying, and much good Daylight wasted. Howbeit,Neddesired me to keep my Mouth shut, my Eyes open, and to trust to his good Care; and, by Dint of some shrewd Pilotage, weathered the Strait; after which, our old Horse, whose Paces, to do him Justice, proved very easie, took longer Steps than anie other on the Road, by which Means we soon got quit of the Throng; onlie, we continuallie gained on fresh Parties,—some dreadfully overloaded, some knocked up alreadie, some baiting at the Roadside, and many of the poorer Sort erecting 'emselves rude Tents and Cabins under the Hedges. Soon I began to rejoyce in the green Fields, and sayd how sweet was the Air; andNedsayd, "Ah!—a Brick-kiln," and signed at one with his Whip. But I knew the Wind came t'other Way; and e'en Bricks are better than dead Rats.
Half-way toAmershamfoundHob Carter'sWagon, with Father's Organ in't, sticking in the Hedge, without Man or Horse; and, by-and-by, came uponHobhimself, with a Party, carousing.Nedgave it him well, and sent him back at double-quick Time. 'Twas too bad. He had left Town overnight, and promised to be atChalfontby Noon. I should have beene fain to keep him in Advance of us; howbeit, we were forct to leave him in the Rear; and, about two Miles beyondAmersham, we turned off the high Road into a country Lane, which soon brought us to a small retired Hamlet, shaded with Trees, and surrounded with pleasant Meadows and Orchards, which was no other thanChalfont. There was Mother near the Gate, putting some fine Things to bleach on a Sweetbriar-hedge.Nedstopt to chat with her, and learn where he might put his Horse, while I went to seek Father; and soon found him, sitting up in a strait Chair, outside the Garden-door. Sayd, kissing him, "Dear Father, how is't with you? Are you comfortable here?"
"Anything but that," replies he, very shortlie. "I am not in any Way at my Ease in this Place. I can get no definite Notion of what 'tis like, and what Notion I have is unfavourable. To finish all, they have stuck me up here, like a Bottle in the Smoke."
"But here is a Cushion for you," quoth I, running in and back agayn; "and I will set your Seat in the Sun, and out of the Wind, and put your Staff within Reach."
"Thanks, dearDeb. And now, look about, Child, and tell me, withPrecision, what the Place is like."
Soe I told him 'twas an irregular two-storied Tenement, parcel Wood, parcel Brick, with a deep Roof of old Tiles that had lost their Colour, and were curiouslie variegated with green and yellow Moss; and that the Eaves were dentilled, with Birds' Nests built in 'em, and a big Honeysuckle growing to the upper Floor; and there was a great and a little Gable, and a heavy Chimney-stack; a Casement of four Compartments next the Door, and another of two over it; four Lattice-windows at t'other End. In Front, a steep Meadow, enamelled with King-cups and Blue-bells; alongside the Gable-end, a Village Road, with deep Cart-ruts, and Hawthorn Hedges. Onlie one small Dwelling at hand, little better than a crazy Haystack; Sheep in the Field, Bees in the Honeysuckle; and a little rippling Rivulet flowing on continually.
"Why, now you have sett me quite at Ease!" cries he, turning his bright Eyes thankfully towards the Sky. "I begin to like the Place, and to bless the warm Sun and pure Air. Ha! so there is a rippling Rivulet, that floweth on continually! . . . Lord, forgive me for my peevish Petulance . . . for forgetting that I could still hear the Lark sing her Morning Hymn, scent the Meadow-sweet and new-mown Hay, detect the Bee at his Industry, and the Woodpecker at his Mischief, discern the Breath of Cows, and hear the Lambs bleat, and the Rivulet ripple continually! Come! let us go and seekNed."
And, throwing his Arm about me, draws me to him, saying, "This is my bestWalking-stick," and steps forward briskly and fearlessly.
Truly, I thinkNedloves him as though he were his own Father; and, indeed, he hath scarce known any other. Kissing his Hand reverently, he says,—"HonouredNunks, how fares it with you? Do you likeChalfont?"
"Indeed I do,Ned," responds Father heartily. "'Tis a littleZoar, whither I and my fugitive Family have escaped from the wicked City; and, I thank God, my Wife has no Mind to look back."
"We may as well go in now," says Mother.
"No, no," says Father; "I feel there is an Hour of Summer's Sunset still left. We will abide where we are, and keep as long as we can out of the Smell of your Soapsuds. . . . Let's sit upon the Ground."
"And tell strange Stories of the Deaths of Kings," saysNed, laughing,
"That was the Saying,Ned, of one who writ much well, and much amiss."
"Let's forgive what he writ amiss, for the Sake of what he writ well," saysNed.
"That will I never," says Father. "If paltry Wits cannot be holy andwitty at the same Time, that does not hold good with noblerSpiritts. . . . If it did, they had best never be witty at all. ThyBrotherJackhath yet to learn that Strength is not Coarseness."
Nedsoftly hummed—
"Sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's Child!"
"Ah! you may quote me against myself," says Father; "you may quoteBezaagainstBeza, andErasmusagainstErasmus; but that will not shake the eternal Laws of Purity and Truth. But, mind you,Ned, never did anie reach a more lofty or tragic Height than this Child of Fancy; never did any represent Nature more purely to the Life; and e'en where the Polishments of Art are most wanting in him, he pleaseth with a certain wild and native Elegance."
"And what have you now in Hand, Uncle?"Nedasks.
"Firmianus Chlorus," says Father. "But I don't find Much in him."
"I mean, what of your own?"
"Oh!" laughing; "Things in Heaven,Ned, and Things on Earth, and Things under the Earth. The old Story, whereof you have alreadie seen many Parcels; but, you know, my Vein ne'er flows so happily as from the autumnal to the vernal Equinox. Howbeit, there is Something in the Quality of this Air would arouse the old Man ofChioshimself."
"Sure," criesNed, "you have less Need than any blind Man to complayn, since you have but closed your Eyes on Earth to look on Heaven!"
Father paused; then, stedfastly, in Words I've since sett down, sayd:—
"When I consider how my Light is spent,Ere half my Days, in this dark World and wide,And that one Talent, which is Death to hide,Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bentTo serve therewith my Maker, and presentMy true Account, lest He, returning, chide;'Doth God exact Day-labour, Light denied?'I fondly ask. But Patience, to preventThat Murmur, soon replies,—'God doth not need.Either Man's Work, or his own Gifts. Who bestBear his mild Yoke, they serve him best. His StateIs kingly; Thousands at his Bidding speed,And post o'er Land and Ocean without Rest,They also serve who only stand and wait.'"
. . . We were all quiet enough for a while after this . . .Nedonlie breathing hard, and squeezing Father's Hand. At length, Mother calls from the House, "Who will come in to Strawberries and Cream?"
"Ah!" says Father, "that is not an ill Call. And when we have discussed our neat Repast, thou,Ned, shalt touch the Theorbo, and let us hear thy balmy Voice. Time was, when thou didst sing like a young Chorister."
. . . Just as we were returning to the House,Maryran forth, crying, "Oh,Deb! you have not seen our Cow. She has just been milked, and is being turned out, even now, to the Pasture. See, there she is; but all the Others have gone out of Sight, over the Hill."
Mother observed, "Left to herself, she will go, her own Calf speedily seeking."
"My Dear," says Father, "that's a Hexameter: do try to make another."
"Indeed, Mr.Milton, I know nothing of Hexameters or Hexagons either: 'tis enough for me to keep all straight and tight. Let's to Supper."
Annehad crushed his Strawberries, and mixed them with Cream, and now she put his Spoon into his Hand, saying, in jest, "Father, this is Angels' Food, you know. I Have pressed the Meath from many a Berry, and tempered dulcet Creams."
"Hush, you Rogue," says he; "Nedwill find us out."
"Is Uncle still at his great Work?" whispers Cousin to Mother.
"Indeed, I know not if you call it such," she replies, in the same Undertone. "He hath given over all those grand Things with hard Names, that used to make him so notable abroad, and so esteemed by his own Party at Home; and now only amuses himself by making theBiblea Peg to hang his Idlenesse upon."
Sure what a LookNedgave her! Fearful lest Father should overhear (for Blindness quickens the other Senses), he runs up to the Bookshelf, and cries, "Why, Uncle, you have brought down Plenty of Entertainment with you! Here arePlato, Xenophon, andSallust, HomerandEuripides, DanteandPetrarch, ChaucerandSpenser, . . . and . . . oh, oh! you read Plays sometimes, though you were so hard uponShakspeare. . . . Here's 'La Scena Tragica d'AdamoedEva,' dedicated to the Duchess ofMantua."
"Come away from that Corner,Ned,"says Father; "there's a Rat behind the Books; he will bite your Fingers—I hear him scratching now. You had best attack your Strawberries."
"I think this Sort will preserve well," says Mother. "Betty, in 'lighting from the Coach, must needs sett her Foot on the only Pot of Preserve I had left; which she had stuffed under the Seat, instead of carrying it, as she was bidden, in her Hand."
"How fine it is, though," says Father, laughing, "to peacock it in aCoach now and then!Pavoneggiarsi in un Cocchio! Only, except for theBravery of it, I doubt if littleDebwere not better off on herPillion. I remember, on my Road toParis, the Bottom of the Carochefell out; and there sate I, withHubert, who was my Attendant, with ourFeet dangling through. Even the graveGrotiuslaughed at the Accident."
"WasGrotiusgrave?" saysNed.
"Believe me, he was," says Father. "He had had Enough to make him so. One feels taller in the Consciousness of having known such a Man. He was great in practical! Things; he was also a profound Scholar, though he made out the fourth Kingdom inDaniel'sProphecy to be the Kingdoms of theLagidaeand theSeleucidae; which, you know,Ned, could not possibly be."
Chatting thus of this and that, we idled over Supper, had some Musick, and went to Bed. And soe much for the only Guest we are like to have for some Months.
Annetold me, at Bed-time, of the Journey down. The Coach, she sayd, was most uncomfortable, Mother having so over-stuffed it. For her Share, she had a Knife-box under her Feet, a Plate-basket at her Back, a Bird-cage bobbing over her Head, and a Lapfull of Crockery-ware. Providentially,Bettyturned squeamish, and could not ride inside, soe she was put upon the Box, to the great Comfort of all within. Father, at the Outset, was chafed and captious, but soon settled down, improved the Circumstances of the Times, made Jokes on Mother, recalled old Journies toBuckinghamshire, and, finally, set himself to silent Self-communion, with a pensive Smile on his Face, which, asAnnesaid, let her know well enow what he was about. Arrived atChalfont, her first Care was to make him comfortable; while Mother,Mary, andBettywere turning the House upside down; and in this her Care, she so well succeeded, that, to her Dismay, he bade her take Pen and Ink, and commenced dictating to her as composedly as if they were inBunhill Fields. This was somewhat inopportune, for every Thing was to seek and to set in Order; and, indeed, Mother soon came in, all of a Heat, and sayd, "I wonder, my Dear, you can keepNanhere, at such idling, when she has her Bed to make, and her Box to unpack." Father let her go without a Word, and sate in peacefull Cogitation all the Rest of the Evening—the only Person at Leisure in the House. Howbeit, the next Time he heard Mother chiding—which was after Supper—atAnne, for trying to catch a Bat, which was a Creature she longed to look at narrowly, he sayd, "My Dear, we should be very cautious how we cut off another Person's Pleasures. 'Tis an easy Thing to say to them, 'You are wrong or foolish,' and soe check them in their Pursuit; but what have we to give them that will compensate for it? How many harmless Refreshments and Refuges from sick or tired Thought may thus be destroyed! We may deprive the Spider of his Web, and the Robin of his Nest, but can never repair the Damage to them. Let us live, and let live; leave me to hunt my Butterfly, andAnneto catch her Bat."