Chapter I: Part 1

Mary Powell & Deborah's Diary

by

Anne Manning

A tale which holdeth children from play
& old men from the chimney corner
--Sir Philip Sidney

London: published by J. M. Dent & Co.

and in New York by E. P. Dutton & Co.

1908

INTRODUCTION

In the Valhalla of English literature Anne Manning is sure of a little and safe place. Her studies of great men, in which her imagination fills in the hiatus which history has left, are not only literature in themselves, but they are a service to literature: it is quite conceivable that the ordinary reader with no very keen _flair_ for poetry will realise John Milton and appraise him more highly, having read _Mary Powell_ and its sequel, _Deborah's Diary_, than having read _Paradise Lost_. In _The Household of Sir Thomas More_ she had for hero one of the most charming, whimsical, lovable, heroical men God ever created, by the creation of whose like He puts to shame all that men may accomplish in their literature. In John Milton, whose first wife Mary Powell was, Miss Manning has a hero who, though a supreme poet, was "gey ill to live with," and it is a triumph of her art that she makes us compunctious for the great poet even while we appreciate the difficulties that fell to the lot of his women-kind. John Milton, a Parliament man and a Puritan, married at the age of thirty-four, Mary Powell, a seventeen-year-old girl, the daughter of an Oxfordshire squire, who, with his family, was devoted to the King. It was at one of the bitterest moments of the conflict between King and Parliament, and it was a complication in the affair of the marriage that Mary Powell's father was in debt five hundred pounds to Milton. The marriage took place. Milton and his young wife set up housekeeping in lodgings in Aldersgate Street over against St. Bride's Churchyard, a very different place indeed from Forest Hill, Shotover, by Oxford, Mary Powell's dear country home. They were together barely a month when Mary Powell, on report of her father's illness, had leave to revisit him, being given permission to absent herself from her husband's side from mid-August till Michaelmas. She did not return at Michaelmas; nor for some two years was there a reconciliation between the bride and groom of a month. During those two years Milton published his pamphlet, _On the Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce_, begun while his few-weeks-old bride was still with him. In this pamphlet he states with violence his opinion that a husband should be permitted to put away his wife "for lack of a fit and matchable conversation," which would point to very slender agreement between the girl of seventeen and the poet of thirty-four. This was that Mary Powell, who afterwards bore him four children, who died in childbirth with the youngest, Deborah (of the _Diary)_, and who is consecrated in one of the loveliest and most poignant of English sonnets.

Methought I saw my late-espouséd Saint
Brought to me like Alkestis from the grave,
Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave,
Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint.
Mine, as whom washed from spot of child-bed taint
Purification in the Old Law did save;
And such, as yet once more, I trust to have
Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint,
Came vested all in white, pure as her mind:
Her face was veiled, yet to my fancied sight
Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined
So clear, as in no face with more delight.
But oh! as to embrace me she inclined,
I waked; she fled; and Day brought back my Night.

It is a far cry from the woman so enshrined to the child of seventeen years who was without "fit and matchable conversation" for her irritable, intolerant poet-husband.

A good many serious writers have conjectured and wondered over this little tragedy of Milton's young married life: but since all must needs be conjecture one is obliged to say that Miss Manning, with her gift of delicate imagination and exquisite writing, has conjectured more excellently than the historians. She does not "play the sedulous ape" to Milton or Mary Powell: but if one could imagine a gentle and tender Boswell to these two, then Miss Manning has well proved her aptitude for the place. Of Mary Powell she has made a charming creature. The diary of Mary Powell is full of sweet country smells and sights and sounds. Mary Powell herself is as sweet as her flowers, frank, honest, loving and tender. Her diary catches for us all the enchantment of an old garden; we hear Mary Powell's bees buzz in the mignonette and lavender; we see her pleached garden alleys; we loiter with her on the bowling-green, by the fish ponds, in the still-room, the dairy and the pantry. The smell of aromatic box on a hot summer of long ago is in our nostrils. We realise all the personages--the impulsive, hot-headed father; the domineering, indiscreet mother; the cousin, Rose Agnew, and her parson husband; little Kate and Robin of the Royalist household--as well as John Milton and his father, and the two nephews to whom the poet was tutor--and a hard tutor. Miss Manning's delightful humour comes out in the two pragmatical little boys. But Mary herself dominates the picture. She is so much a thing of the country, of gardens and fields, that perforce one is reminded of Sir Thomas Overbury's _Fair and Happy Milkmaid_:--

"She doth all things with so sweet a grace it seems ignorance will not suffer her to do ill, being her mind is to do well. . . . The garden and bee-hive are all her physic and chirugery, and she lives the longer for it. She dares go alone and unfold sheep in the night and fears no manner of ill because she means none: yet to say truth she is never alone, for she is still accompanied by old songs, honest thoughts and prayers, but short ones. . . . Thus lives she, and all her care is that she may die in the spring-time, to have store of flowers stuck upon her winding-sheet."

The last remnants of Forest Hill, Mary Powell's home, were pulled down in 1854. A visitor to it three years before its demolition tells us:--

"Still the rose, the sweet-brier and the eglantine are reddest beneath its casements; the cock at its barn-door may be seen from any of the windows. . . . In the kitchen, with its vast hearth and overhanging chimney, we discovered tokens of the good living for which the old manor-house was famous in its day. . . . The garden, in its massive wall, ornamental gateway and old sun-dial, retains some traces of its manorial dignities." The house indeed is gone, but the sweet country remains, the verdant slopes and the lanes with their hedges full of sweet-brier that stretch out towards Oxford. And there is the church in which Mary Powell prayed. I should have liked to quote another of Miss Manning's biographers, the Rev. Dr. Hutton, who tells us of old walls partly built into the farmhouse that now stands there, and of the old walnut trees in the farmyard, and in a field hard by the spring of which John Milton may have tasted, and the church on the hill, and the distant Chilterns.

Milton's cottage at Chalfont St. Giles's is happily still in a good state of preservation, although Chalfont and its neighbourhood have suffered a sea-change even since Dr. Hutton wrote, a decade ago. All that quiet corner of the world, for so long green and secluded,--a "deare secret greennesse"--has now had the light of the world let in upon it. Motor-cars whizz through that Quaker country; money-making Londoners hurry away from it of mornings, trudge home of evenings, bag in hand; the jerry-builder is in the land, and the dust of much traffic lies upon the rose and eglantine wherewith Milton's eyes were delighted. The works of our hands often mock us by their durability. Years and ages and centuries after the busy brain and the feeling heart are dust, the houses built with hands stand up to taunt our mortality. Yet the works of the mind remain. Though Forest Hill be only a party-wall, and Chalfont a suburb of London, the Forest Hill of Mary Powell, the Chalfont of Milton, yet live for us in Anne Manning's delightful pages.

Miss Manning did not wish her _Life_ to be written, but we do get some glimpses of her real self from herself in a chance page here and there of her reminiscences.

Here is one such glimpse:--

"I must confess I have never been able to write comfortably when music was going on. I think I have always written to most purpose coming in fresh from a morning walk when the larks were singing and lambs bleating and distant cocks in farmyards crowing, and a distant dog barking to an echo which answered his voice, and when the hedges and banks were full of wild flowers with quaint and pretty names.

"Next to that, I have found the best time soon after early tea, when my companions were all in the garden, and likely to remain there till moonlight."

Not very much by way of a literary portrait, and yet one can fill it in for oneself, can place her in old-world Reigate, fast, alas! becoming over-built and over-populated like all the rest of the country over which falls the ever-lengthening London shadow. As one ponders upon Forest Hill for Mary Powell's sake--is not Shotover as dear a name as Shottery?--and Chalfont for Milton's sake, one thinks on Reigate surrounded by its hills for Anne Manning's sake, and keeps the place in one's heart.

_Mary Powell_, with its sequel, _Deborah's Diary_--Deborah was the young thing whom to bring into the world Mary Powell died--is one of the most fragrant books in English literature. One thinks of it side by side with John Evelyn's _Mrs. Godolphin_. Miss Manning had a beautiful style--a style given to her to reconstruct an idyll of old-world sweetness. Limpid as flowing water, with a thought of syllabubs and new-made hay in it, it is a perpetual delight. This mid-Victorian, dark-haired lady, with the aquiline nose and high colour, although she may not have looked it, possessed a charming style, in which tenderness, seriousness, gaiety, humour, poetry, appear in the happiest atmosphere of sweetness and light.

KATHARINE TYNAN.

_April_ 1908

Bibliography

The following is a complete list of her published works:--

The Household of Sir Thomas More, 1851; Queen Phillippa's Golden Booke, 1851; The Colloquies of Edward Osborne, Citizen and Clothworker of London, 1852; The Drawing-room Table Book, 1852; Cherry and Violet, a Tale of the Great Plague, 1853; The Provocations of Madame Palissy, 1853; Chronicles of Merry England, 1854; Claude the Colporteur, 1854; The Hill Side, 1854; Jack and the Tanner of Wymondham, 1854; Adventures of Haroun al Raschid, 1855; Maiden and Married Life of Mary Powell, afterwards Mistress Milton, 1855; Old Chelsea Bun-House, 1855; Some Account of Mrs. Clarinda Singlehart, 1855; A Sabbath at Home, 1855; Tasso and Leonora, 1856; The Week of Darkness, 1856; Lives of Good Servants, 1857; The Good Old Times, 1857; Helen and Olga, a Russian Tale, 1857; The Year Nine: a Tale of the Tyrol, 1858; The Ladies of Bever Hollow, 1858; Poplar House Academy, 1859; Deborah's Diary, 1859; The Story of Italy, 1859; Village Belles, 1859; Town and Forest, 1860; The Day of Small Things, 1860; Family Pictures, 1861; Chronicle of Ethelfled, 1861; A Noble Purpose Nobly Won, 1862; Meadowleigh, 1863; Bessy's Money, 1863; The Duchess of Tragetto, 1863; The Interrupted Wedding: a Hungarian Tale, 1864; Belforest: a Tale, 1865; Selvaggio: a Tale of Italian Country Life, 1865; The Masque at Ludlow, and other Romanesques, 1866; The Lincolnshire Tragedy (Passages in the life of Anne Askewe), 1866; Miss Biddy Frobisher: a Salt-water Story, 1866; The Cottage History of England, 1867; Jacques Bonneval, 1868; Diana's Crescent, 1868; The Spanish Barber, 1869; One Trip More, 1870; Margaret More's Tagebuch, 1870; Compton Friars, 1872; The Lady of Limited Income, 1872; Lord Harry Bellair, 1874; Monk's Norton, 1874; Heroes of the Desert (Moffat, Livingstone, etc.), 1875; An Idyll of the Alps, 1876.

LIFE.--C. M. Yonge, Women Novelists of Queen Victoria's Reign, 1897.

THE MAIDEN AND MARRIED LIFE

OF

MARY POWELL

AFTERWARDS MISTRESS MILTON

JOURNALL

_Forest Hill, Oxon, May 1st, 1643_.

. . . Seventeenth Birthdaye. A Gypsie Woman at the Gate woulde faine have tolde my Fortune; but _Mother_ chased her away, saying she had doubtlesse harboured in some of the low Houses in _Oxford_, and mighte bring us the Plague. Coulde have cried for Vexation; she had promised to tell me the Colour of my Husband's Eyes; but _Mother_ says she believes I shall never have one, I am soe sillie. _Father_ gave me a gold Piece. Dear _Mother_ is chafed, methinks, touching this Debt of five hundred Pounds, which _Father_ says he knows not how to pay. Indeed, he sayd, overnighte, his whole personal Estate amounts to but five hundred Pounds, his Timber and Wood to four hundred more, or thereabouts; and the Tithes and Messuages of _Whateley_ are no great Matter, being mortgaged for about as much moore, and he hath lent Sights of Money to them that won't pay, so 'tis hard to be thus prest. Poor _Father_! 'twas good of him to give me this gold Piece.

_May 2nd, 1643_.

Cousin _Rose_ married to Master _Roger Agnew_. Present, _Father, Mother_, and _Brother_ of _Rose_. _Father, Mother, Dick, Bob, Harry_, and I; Squire _Paice_ and his Daughter _Audrey_; an olde Aunt of Master _Roger's_, and one of his Cousins, a stiffe-backed Man with large Eares, and such a long Nose! Cousin _Rose_ looked bewtifulle--pitie so faire a Girl should marry so olde a Man--'tis thoughte he wants not manie Years of fifty.

_May 7th, 1643_.

New Misfortunes in the Poultrie Yarde. Poor _Mother's_ Loyalty cannot stand the Demands for her best Chickens, Ducklings, etc., for the Use of his Majesty's Officers since the King hath beene in _Oxford_. She accuseth my _Father_ of having beene wonne over by a few faire Speeches to be more of a Royalist than his natural Temper inclineth him to; which, of course, he will not admit.

_May 8th, 1643_.

Whole Day taken up in a Visit to _Rose_, now a Week married, and growne quite matronlie already. We reached _Sheepscote_ about an Hour before Noone. A long, broade, strait Walke of green Turf, planted with Hollyoaks, Sunflowers, etc., and some earlier Flowers alreadie in Bloom, led up to the rusticall Porch of a truly farm-like House, with low gable Roofs, a long lattice Window on either Side the Doore, and three Casements above. Such, and no more, is _Rose's_ House! But she is happy, for she came running forthe, soe soone as she hearde _Clover's_ Feet, and helped me from my Saddle all smiling, tho' she had not expected to see us. We had Curds and Creame; and she wished it were the Time of Strawberries, for she sayd they had large Beds; and then my _Father_ and the Boys went forthe to looke for Master _Agnew_. Then _Rose_ took me up to her Chamber, singing as she went; and the long, low Room was sweet with Flowers. Sayd I, "_Rose_, to be Mistress of this pretty Cottage, 'twere hardlie amisse to marry a Man as olde as Master _Roger_." "Olde!" quoth she, "deare _Moll_, you must not deeme him olde; why, he is but fortytwo; and am not I twenty-three?" She lookt soe earneste and hurte, that I coulde not but falle a laughing.

_May 9th, 1643_.

_Mother_ gone to _Sandford_. She hopes to get Uncle _John_ to lend _Father_ this Money. _Father_ says she may _try_. Tis harde to discourage her with an ironicalle Smile, when she is doing alle she can, and more than manie Women woulde, to help _Father_ in his Difficultie; but suche, she sayth somewhat bitterlie, is the lot of our Sex. She bade _Father_ mind that she had brought him three thousand Pounds, and askt what had come of them. Answered; helped to fille the Mouths of nine healthy Children, and stop the Mouth of an easie Husband; soe, with a Kiss, made it up. I have the Keys, and am left Mistresse of alle, to my greate Contentment; but the Children clamour for Sweetmeats, and _Father_ sayth, "Remember, _Moll_, Discretion is the better Part of Valour."

After _Mother_ had left, went into the Paddock, to feed the Colts with Bread; and while they were putting their Noses into _Robin's_ Pockets, _Dick_ brought out the two Ponies, and set me on one of them, and we had a mad Scamper through the Meadows and down the Lanes; I leading. Just at the Turne of _Holford's Close_, came shorte upon a Gentleman walking under the Hedge, clad in a sober, genteel Suit, and of most beautifulle Countenance, with Hair like a Woman's, of a lovely pale brown, long and silky, falling over his Shoulders. I nearlie went over him, for _Clover's_ hard Forehead knocked agaynst his Chest; but he stoode it like a Rock; and lookinge firste at me and then at _Dick_, he smiled and spoke to my Brother, who seemed to know him, and turned about and walked by us, sometimes stroaking _Clover's_ shaggy Mane. I felte a little ashamed; for _Dick_ had sett me on the Poney just as I was, my Gown somewhat too shorte for riding: however, I drewe up my Feet and let _Clover_ nibble a little Grasse, and then got rounde to the neare Side, our new Companion stille between us. He offered me some wild Flowers, and askt me theire Names; and when I tolde them, he sayd I knew more than he did, though he accounted himselfe a prettie fayre Botaniste: and we went on thus, talking of the Herbs and Simples in the Hedges; and I sayd how prettie some of theire Names were, and that, methought, though Adam had named alle the Animals in Paradise, perhaps Eve had named alle the Flowers. He lookt earnestlie at me, on this, and muttered "prettie." Then _Dick_ askt of him News from _London_, and he spoke, methought, reservedlie; ever and anon turning his bright, thoughtfulle Eyes on me. At length, we parted at the Turn of the Lane.

I askt _Dick_ who he was, and he told me he was one Mr. _John Milton_, the Party to whom _Father_ owed five hundred Pounds. He was the Sonne of a _Buckinghamshire_ Gentleman, he added, well connected, and very scholarlike, but affected towards the Parliament. His Grandsire, a zealous Papiste, formerly lived in _Oxon_, and disinherited the Father of this Gentleman for abjuring the _Romish_ Faith.

When I found how faire a Gentleman was _Father's_ Creditor, I became the more interested in deare _Mother's_ Successe.

_May 13th, 1643_.

_Dick_ began to harpe on another Ride to _Sheepscote_ this Morning, and persuaded _Father_ to let him have the bay Mare, soe he and I started at aboute Ten o' the Clock. Arrived at Master _Agnew's_ Doore, found it open, no one in Parlour or Studdy; soe _Dick_ tooke the Horses rounde, and then we went straite thro' the House, into the Garden behind, which is on a rising Ground, with pleached Alleys and turfen Walks, and a Peep of the Church through the Trees. A Lad tolde us his Mistress was with the Bees, soe we walked towards the Hives; and, from an Arbour hard by, hearde a Murmur, though not of Bees, issuing. In this rusticall Bowre, found _Roger Agnew_ reading to _Rose_ and to Mr. _Milton_. Thereupon ensued manie cheerfulle Salutations, and _Rose_ proposed returning to the House, but Master _Agnew_ sayd it was pleasanter in the Bowre, where was Room for alle; soe then _Rose_ offered to take me to her Chamber to lay aside my Hoode, and promised to send a Junkett into the Arbour; whereon Mr. _Agnew_ smiled at Mr. _Milton_, and sayd somewhat of "neat-handed _Phillis_."

As we went alonge, I tolde _Rose_ I had seene her Guest once before, and thought him a comely, pleasant Gentleman. She laught, and sayd, "Pleasant? why, he is one of the greatest Scholars of our Time, and knows more Languages than you or I ever hearde of." I made Answer, "That may be, and yet might not ensure his being pleasant, but rather the contrary, for I cannot reade _Greeke_ and _Latin_, _Rose_, like you." Quoth _Rose_, "But you can reade _English_, and he hath writ some of the loveliest _English_ Verses you ever hearde, and hath brought us a new Composure this Morning, which _Roger_, being his olde College Friend, was discussing with him, to my greate Pleasure, when you came. After we have eaten the Junkett, he shall beginne it again." "By no Means," said I, "for I love Talking more than Reading." However, it was not soe to be, for _Rose_ woulde not be foyled; and as it woulde not have been good Manners to decline the Hearinge in Presence of the Poet, I was constrayned to suppresse a secret Yawne, and feign Attention, though, Truth to say, it soone wandered; and, during the last halfe Hour, I sat in a compleat Dreame, tho' not unpleasant one. _Roger_ having made an End, 'twas diverting to heare him commending the Piece unto the Author, who as gravely accepted it; yet, with nothing fullesome about the one, or misproud about the other. Indeed, there was a sedate Sweetnesse in the Poet's Wordes as well as Lookes; and shortlie, waiving the Discussion of his owne Composures, he beganne to talke of those of other Men, as _Shakspeare, Spenser, Cowley, Ben Jonson_, and of _Tasso_, and _Tasso's_ Friend the Marquis of _Villa_, whome, it appeared, Mr. _Milton_ had Knowledge of in _Italy_. Then he askt me, woulde I not willingly have seene the Country of _Romeo_ and _Juliet_, and prest to know whether I loved Poetry; but finding me loath to tell, sayd he doubted not I preferred Romances, and that he had read manie, and loved them dearly too. I sayd, I loved _Shakspeare's_ Plays better than _Sidney's_ Arcadia; on which he cried "Righte," and drew nearer to me, and woulde have talked at greater length; but, knowing from _Rose_ how learned he was, I feared to shew him I was a sillie Foole; soe, like a sillie Foole, held my Tongue.

Dinner; Eggs, Bacon, roast Ribs of Lamb, Spinach, Potatoes, savoury Pie, a _Brentford_ Pudding, and Cheesecakes. What a pretty Housewife _Rose_ is! _Roger's_ plain Hospitalitie and scholarlie Discourse appeared to much Advantage. He askt of News from Paris; and Mr. _Milton_ spoke much of the _Swedish_ Ambassadour, _Dutch_ by Birth; a Man renowned for his Learning, Magnanimity, and Misfortunes, of whome he had seene much. He tolde _Rose_ and me how this Mister _Van der Groote_ had beene unjustlie caste into Prison by his Countrymen; and how his good Wife had shared his Captivitie, and had tried to get his Sentence reversed; failing which, she contrived his Escape in a big Chest, which she pretended to be full of heavie olde Bookes. Mr. _Milton_ concluded with the Exclamation, "Indeede, there never was such a Woman;" on which, deare _Roger_, whome I beginne to love, quoth, "Oh yes, there are manie such,--we have two at Table now." Whereat, Mr. _Milton_ smiled.

At Leave-taking pressed Mr. _Agnew_ and _Rose_ to come and see us soone; and _Dick_ askt Mr. _Milton_ to see the Bowling Greene.

Ride Home, delightfulle.

_May 14th, 1643_.

Thought, when I woke this Morning, I had been dreaminge of St. _Paul_ let down the Wall in a Basket; but founde, on more closely examining the Matter, 'twas _Grotius_ carried down the Ladder in a Chest; and methought I was his Wife, leaninge from the Window above, and crying to the Souldiers, "Have a Care, have a Care!" 'Tis certayn I shoulde have betraied him by an Over-anxietie.

Resolved to give _Father_ a _Sheepscote_ Dinner, but _Margery_ affirmed the Haunch woulde no longer keepe, so was forced to have it drest, though meaninge to have kept it for Companie. Little _Kate_, who had been out alle the Morning, came in with her Lap full of Butter-burs, the which I was glad to see, as _Mother_ esteemes them a sovereign Remedie 'gainst the Plague, which is like to be rife in _Oxford_ this Summer, the Citie being so overcrowded on account of his Majestie. While laying them out on the Stille-room Floor, in bursts _Robin_ to say Mr. _Agnew_ and Mr. _Milton_ were with _Father_ at the Bowling Greene, and woulde dine here. Soe was glad _Margery_ had put down the Haunch. Twas past One o' the Clock, however, before it coulde be sett on Table; and I had just run up to pin on my Carnation Knots, when I hearde them alle come in discoursing merrilie.

At Dinner Mr. _Milton_ askt _Robin_ of his Studdies; and I was in Payne for the deare Boy, knowing him to be better affected to his out-doore Recreations than to his Booke; but he answered boldlie he was in _Ovid_, and I lookt in Mr. _Milton's_ Face to guesse was that goode Scholarship or no; but he turned it towards my _Father_, and sayd he was trying an Experiment on two young Nephews of his owne, whether the reading those Authors that treate of physical Subjects mighte not advantage them more than the Poets; whereat my _Father_ jested with him, he being himselfe one of the Fraternitie he seemed to despise. But he uphelde his Argumente so bravelie, that _Father_ listened in earneste Silence. Meantime, the Cloth being drawne, and I in Feare of remaining over long, was avised to withdrawe myself earlie, _Robin_ following, and begging me to goe downe to the Fish-ponds. Afterwards alle the others joyned us, and we sate on the Steps till the Sun went down, when, the Horses being broughte round, our Guests tooke Leave without returning to the House. _Father_ walked thoughtfullie Home with me, leaning on my Shoulder, and spake little.

_May 15th, 1643_.

After writing the above last Night, in my Chamber, went to Bed and had a most heavenlie Dreame. Methoughte it was brighte, brighte Moonlighte, and I was walking with Mr. _Milton_ on a Terrace,--not _our_ Terrace, but in some outlandish Place; and it had Flights and Flights of green Marble Steps, descending, I cannot tell how farre, with Stone Figures and Vases on every one. We went downe and downe these Steps, till we came to a faire Piece of Water, still in the Moonlighte; and then, methoughte, he woulde be taking Leave, and sayd much aboute Absence and Sorrowe, as tho' we had knowne eache other some Space; and alle that he sayd was delightfulle to heare. Of a suddain we hearde Cries, as of Distresse, in a Wood that came quite down to the Water's Edge, and Mr. _Milton_ sayd, "Hearken!" and then, "There is some one being slaine in the Woode, I must goe to rescue him;" and soe, drewe his Sword and ran off. Meanwhile, the Cries continued, but I did not seeme to mind them much; and, looking stedfastlie downe into the cleare Water, coulde see to an immeasurable Depth, and beheld, oh, rare! Girls sitting on glistening Rocks, far downe beneathe, combing and braiding their brighte Hair, and talking and laughing, onlie I coulde not heare aboute what. And theire Kirtles were like spun Glass, and theire Bracelets Coral and Pearl; and I thought it the fairest Sight that Eyes coulde see. But, alle at once, the Cries in the Wood affrighted them, for they started, looked upwards and alle aboute, and began swimming thro' the cleare Water so fast, that it became troubled and thick, and I coulde see them noe more. Then I was aware that the Voices in the Wood were of _Dick_ and _Harry_, calling for _me_; and I soughte to answer, "Here!" but my Tongue was heavie. Then I commenced running towards them, through ever so manie greene Paths, in the Wood; but still, we coulde never meet; and I began to see grinning Faces, neither of Man nor Beaste, peeping at me through the Trees; and one and another of them called me by Name; and in greate Feare and Paine I awoke!

. . . Strange Things are Dreames. Dear _Mother_ thinks much of them, and sayth they oft portend coming Events. My _Father_ holdeth the Opinion that they are rather made up of what hath alreadie come to passe; but surelie naught like this Dreame of mine hath in anie Part befallen me hithertoe?

. . . What strange Fable or Masque were they reading that Day at _Sheepscote_? I mind not.

_May 20th, 1643_.

Too much busied of late to write, though much hath happened which I woulde fain remember. Dined at _Shotover_ yesterday. Met _Mother_, who is coming Home in a Day or two; but helde short Speech with me aside concerning Housewifery. The _Agnews_ there, of course: alsoe Mr. _Milton_, whom we have seene continuallie, lately; and I know not how it shoulde be, but he seemeth to like me. _Father_ affects him much, but _Mother_ loveth him not. She hath seene little of him: perhaps the less the better. _Ralph Hewlett_, as usuall, forward in his rough endeavours to please; but, though no Scholar, I have yet Sense enough to prefer Mr. _Milton's_ Discourse to his. . . . I wish I were fonder of Studdy; but, since it cannot be, what need to vex? Some are born of one Mind, some of another. _Rose_ was alwaies for her Booke; and, had _Rose_ beene no Scholar, Mr. _Agnew_ woulde, may be, never have given her a second Thoughte: but alle are not of the same Way of thinking.

. . . A few Lines received from _Mother's_ "spoilt Boy," as _Father_ hath called Brother _Bill_, ever since he went a soldiering. Blurred and mis-spelt as they are, she will prize them. Trulie, we are none of us grate hands at the Pen; 'tis well I make this my Copie-booke.

. . . Oh, strange Event! Can this be Happinesse? Why, then, am I soe feared, soe mazed, soe prone to weeping? I woulde that _Mother_ were here. Lord have Mercie on me a sinfulle, sillie Girl, and guide my Steps arighte.

. . . It seemes like a Dreame, (I have done noughte but dreame of late, I think,) my going along the matted Passage, and hearing Voices in my _Father's_ Chamber, just as my Hand was on the Latch; and my withdrawing my Hand, and going softlie away, though I never paused at disturbing him before; and, after I had beene a full Houre in the Stille Room, turning over ever soe manie Trays full of dried Herbs and Flower-leaves, hearing him come forthe and call, "_Moll_, deare _Moll_, where are you?" with I know not what of strange in the Tone of his Voice; and my running to him hastilie, and his drawing me into his Chamber, and closing the Doore. Then he takes me round the Waiste, and remains quite silent awhile; I gazing on him so strangelie! and at length, he says with a Kind of Sigh, "Thou art indeed but young yet! scarce seventeen,--and fresh, as Mr. _Milton_ says, as the earlie May; too tender, forsooth, to leave us yet, sweet Child! But what wilt say, _Moll_, when I tell thee that a well-esteemed Gentleman, whom as yet indeed I know too little of, hath craved of me Access to the House as one that woulde win your Favour?"

Thereupon, such a suddain Faintness of the Spiritts overtooke me, (a Thing I am noe way subject to,) as that I fell down in a Swound at _Father's_ Feet; and when I came to myselfe again, my Hands and Feet seemed full of Prickles, and there was a Humming, as of _Rose's_ Bees, in mine Ears. _Lettice_ and _Margery_ were tending of me, and _Father_ watching me full of Care; but soe soone as he saw me open mine Eyes, he bade the Maids stand aside, and sayd, stooping over me, "Enough, dear _Moll_; we will talk noe more of this at present." "Onlie just tell me," quoth I, in a Whisper, "who it is." "Guesse," sayd he. "I cannot," I softlie replied, and, with the Lie, came such a Rush of Blood to my Cheeks as betraied me. "I am sure you have though," sayd deare _Father_, gravelie, "and I neede not say it is Mr. _Milton_, of whome I know little more than you doe, and that is not enough. On the other Hand, _Roger Agnew_ sayth that he is one of whome we can never know too much, and there is somewhat about him which inclines me to believe it." "What will _Mother_ say?" interrupted I. Thereat _Father's_ Countenance changed; and he hastilie answered, "Whatever she likes: I have an Answer for her, and a Question too;" and abruptlie left me, bidding me keepe myselfe quiet.

But can I? Oh, no! _Father_ hath sett a Stone rolling, unwitting of its Course. It hath prostrated me in the first Instance, and will, I misdoubt, hurt my _Mother_. _Father_ is bold enow in her Absence, but when she comes back will leave me to face her Anger alone; or else, make such a Stir to shew that he is not governed by a Woman, as wille make Things worse. Meanwhile, how woulde I have them? Am I most pleased or payned? dismayed or flattered? Indeed, I know not.

. . . I am soe sorry to have swooned. Needed I have done it, merelie to heare there was one who soughte my Favour? Aye, but one soe wise! so thoughtfulle! so unlike me!

Bedtime: same Daye.

. . . Who knoweth what a Daye will bring forth? After writing the above, I sate like one stupid, ruminating on I know not what, except on the Unlikelihood that one soe wise woulde trouble himselfe to _seeke_ for aught and yet fail to _win_. After abiding a long Space in mine owne Chamber, alle below seeming still, I began to wonder shoulde we dine alone or not, and to have a hundred hot and cold Fitts of Hope and Feare. Thought I, if Mr. _Milton_ comes, assuredlie I cannot goe down; but yet I must; but yet I will not; but yet the best will be to conduct myselfe as though nothing had happened; and, as he seems to have left the House long ago, maybe he hath returned to _Sheepscote_, or even to _London_. Oh that _London_! Shall I indeede ever see it? and the rare Shops, and the Play-houses, and _Paul's_, and the _Towre_? But what and if that ever comes to pass? Must I leave Home? dear _Forest Hill_? and _Father_ and _Mother_, and the Boys? more especiallie _Robin_? Ah! but _Father_ will give me a long Time to think of it. He will, and must.

Then Dinner-time came; and, with Dinner-time, Uncle _Hewlett_ and _Ralph_, Squire _Paice_ and Mr. _Milton_. We had a huge Sirloin, soe no Feare of short Commons. I was not ill pleased to see soe manie: it gave me an Excuse for holding my Peace, but I coulde have wished for another Woman. However, _Father_ never thinks of that, and _Mother_ will soone be Home. After Dinner the elder Men went to the Bowling-greene with _Dick_ and _Ralph_; the Boys to the Fish-ponds; and, or ever I was aware, Mr. _Milton_ was walking with me on the Terrace. My Dreame came soe forcibly to Mind, that my Heart seemed to leap into my Mouth; but he kept away from the Fish-ponds, and from Leave-taking, and from his morning Discourse with my _Father_,--at least for awhile; but some Way he got round to it, and sayd soe much, and soe well, that, after alle my _Father's_ bidding me keepe quiete and take my Time, and mine owne Resolution to think much and long, he never rested till he had changed the whole Appearance of Things, and made me promise to be his, wholly and trulie.--And oh! I feare I have been too quickly wonne!

_May 23d, 1643_.

_May 23d_. At leaste, so sayeth the Calendar; but with me it hath beene trulie an _April_ Daye, alle Smiles and Teares. And now my Spiritts are soe perturbed and dismaid, as that I know not whether to weepe or no, for methinks crying would relieve me. At first waking this Morning my Mind was elated at the Falsitie of my _Mother's_ Notion, that no Man of Sense woulde think me worth the having; and soe I got up too proude, I think, and came down too vain, for I had spent an unusuall Time at the Glasse. My Spiritts, alsoe, were soe unequall, that the Boys took Notice of it, and it seemed as though I coulde breathe nowhere but out of Doors; so the Children and I had a rare Game of Play in the Home-close; but ever and anon I kept looking towards the Road and listening for Horses' Feet, till _Robin_ sayd, "One would think the King was coming:" but at last came Mr. _Milton_, quite another Way, walking through the Fields with huge Strides. _Kate_ saw him firste, and tolde me; and then sayd, "What makes you look soe pale?"

We sate a good Space under the Hawthorn Hedge on the Brow of the Hill, listening to the Mower's Scythe, and the Song of Birds, which seemed enough for him, without talking; and as he spake not, I helde my Peace, till, with the Sun in my Eyes, I was like to drop asleep; which, as his own Face was _from_ me, and towards the Landskip, he noted not. I was just aiming, for Mirthe's Sake, to steale away, when he suddainlie turned about and fell to speaking of rurall Life, Happinesse, Heaven, and such like, in a Kind of Rapture; then, with his Elbow half raising him from the Grass, lay looking at me; then commenced humming or singing I know not what Strayn, but 'twas of '_begli Occhi_' and '_Chioma aurata_;' and he kept smiling the while he sang.

After a time we went In-doors; and then came my firste Pang: for _Father_ founde out how I had pledged myselfe overnighte; and for a Moment looked soe grave, that my Heart misgave me for having beene soe hastie. However, it soone passed off; deare _Father's_ Countenance cleared, and he even seemed merrie at Table; and soon after Dinner alle the Party dispersed save Mr. _Milton_, who loitered with me on the Terrace. After a short Silence he exclaimed, "How good is our God to us in alle his Gifts! For Instance, in this Gift of _Love_, whereby had he withdrawn from visible Nature a thousand of its glorious Features and gay Colourings, we shoulde stille possess, _from within_, the Means of throwing over her clouded Face an entirelie different Hue! while as it is, what was pleasing before now pleaseth more than ever! Is it not soe, sweet _Moll_? May I express thy Feelings as well as mine own, unblamed? or am I too adventurous? You are silent; well, then, let me believe that we think alike, and that the Emotions of the few laste Hours have given such an Impulse to alle that is high, and sweete, and deepe, and pure, and holy in our innermoste Hearts, as that we seeme now onlie firste to taste the _Life of Life_, and to perceive how much nearer Earth is to Heaven than we thought! Is it soe? Is it not soe?" and I was constrayned to say, "Yes," at I scarcelie knew what; grudginglie too, for I feared having once alreadie sayd "Yes" too soone. But he saw nought amisse, for he was expecting nought amisse; soe went on, most like Truth and Love that Lookes could speake or Words founde: "Oh, I know it, I feel it:--henceforthe there is a Life reserved for us in which Angels may sympathize. For this most excellent Gift of Love shall enable us to read together the whole Booke of Sanctity and Virtue, and emulate eache other in carrying it into Practice; and as the wise _Magians_ kept theire Eyes steadfastlie fixed on the Star, and followed it righte on, through rough and smoothe, soe we, with this bright Beacon, which indeed is set on Fire of Heaven, shall pass on through the peacefull Studdies, surmounted Adversities, and victorious Agonies of Life, ever looking steadfastlie up!"

Alle this, and much more, as tedious to heare as to write, did I listen to, firste with flagging Attention, next with concealed Wearinesse;--and as Wearinesse, if indulged, never _is_ long concealed, it soe chanced, by Ill-luck, that Mr. _Milton_, suddainlie turning his Eyes from Heaven upon poor me, caughte, I can scarcelie expresse how slighte, an Indication of Discomforte in my Face; and instantlie a Cloud crossed his owne, though as thin as that through which the Sun shines while it floats over him. Oh, 'twas not of a Moment! and yet _in that Moment_ we seemed eache to have seene the other, though but at a Glance, under new Circumstances:--as though two Persons at a Masquerade had just removed their Masques and put them on agayn. This gave me my seconde Pang:--I felt I had given him Payn; and though he made as though he forgot it directly, and I tooke Payns to make him forget it, I coulde never be quite sure whether he had.

. . . My Spiritts were soe dashed by this, and by learning his Age to be soe much more than I had deemed it, (for he is thirty-five! who coulde have thoughte it?) that I had, thenceforthe, the Aire of being much more discreete and pensive than belongeth to my Nature; whereby he was, perhaps, well pleased. As I became more grave he became more gay; soe that we met eache other, as it were, half-way, and became righte pleasant. If his Countenance were comely before, it is quite heavenlie now; and yet I question whether my Love increaseth as rapidlie as my Feare. Surelie my Folly will prove as distastefull to him, as his overmuch Wisdom to me. The Dread of it hath alarmed me alreadie. What has become, even now, of alle my gay Visions of Marriage, and _London_, and the Play-houses, and the _Touire_? They have faded away thus earlie, and in their Place comes a Foreboding of I can scarce say what. I am as if a Child, receiving frome some olde Fairy the Gift of what seemed a fayre Doll's House, shoulde hastilie open the Doore thereof, and starte back at beholding nought within but a huge Cavern, deepe, high, and vaste; in parte glittering with glorious Chrystals, and the Rest hidden in obscure Darknesse.

_May 24th, 1643_.

Deare _Rose_ came this Morning. I flew forthe to welcome her, and as I drew near, she lookt upon me with such a Kind of Awe as that I could not forbeare laughing. Mr. _Milton_ having slept at _Sheepscote_, had made her privy to our Engagement; for indeede, he and Mr. _Agnew_ are such Friends, he will keep nothing from him. Thus _Rose_ heares it before my owne Mother, which shoulde not be. When we had entered my Chamber, she embraced me once and agayn, and seemed to think soe much of my uncommon Fortune, that I beganne to think more of it myselfe. To heare her talke of Mr. _Milton_ one would have supposed her more in Love with him than I. Like a Bookworm as she is, she fell to praysing his Composures. "Oh, the leaste I care for in him is his Versing," quoth I; and from that Moment a Spiritt of Mischief tooke Possession of me, to do a thousand heedlesse, ridiculous Things throughoute the Day, to shew _Rose_ how little I set by the Opinion of soe wise a Man. Once or twice Mr. _Milton_ lookt earnestlie and questioninglie at me, but I heeded him not.

. . . Discourse at Table graver and less pleasant, methoughte, than heretofore. Mr. _Busire_ having dropt in, was avised to ask Mr. _Milton_ why, having had an university Education, he had not entered the Church. He replied, drylie enough, because he woulde not subscribe himselfe _Slave_ to anie Formularies of Men's making. I saw _Father_ bite his Lip; and _Roger Agnew_ mildly observed, he thought him wrong; for that it was not for an Individual to make Rules for another Individual, but yet that the generall Voice of the Wise and Good, removed from the pettie Prejudices of private Feeling, mighte pronounce authoritativelie wherein an Individual was righte or wrong, and frame Laws to keepe him in the righte Path. Mr. _Milton_ replyed, that manie Fallibles could no more make up an Infallible than manie Finites could make an Infinite. Mr. _Agnew_ rejoyned, that ne'erthelesse, an Individual who opposed himselfe agaynst the generall Current of the Wise and Good, was, leaste of alle, likelie to be in the Right; and that the Limitations of human Intellect which made the Judgment of manie wise Men liable to Question, certainlie made the Judgment of _anie_ wise Man, self-dependent, more questionable still. Mr. _Milton_ shortlie replied that there were Particulars in the required Oaths which made him unable to take them without Perjurie. And soe, an End: but 'twas worth a World to see _Rose_ looking soe anxiouslie from the one Speaker to the other, desirous that eache should be victorious; and I was sorry that it lasted not a little longer.

As _Rose_ and I tooke our Way to the Summer-house, she put her Arm round me, saying, "How charming is divine Philosophie!" I coulde not helpe asking if she did not meane how charming was the Philosophie of one particular Divine? Soe then she discoursed with me of Things more seemlie for Women than Philosophie or Divinitie either. Onlie, when Mr. _Agnew_ and Mr. _Milton_ joyned us, she woulde aske them to repeat one Piece of Poetry after another, beginning with _Carew's_--

"He who loves a rosie Cheeke,
Or a coral Lip admires,--"

And crying at the End of eache, "Is not that lovely? Is not that divine?" I franklie sayd I liked none of them soe much as some Mr. _Agnew_ had recited, concluding with--

"Mortals that would, follow me,
Love Virtue: she alone is free."

Whereon Mr. _Milton_ surprised me with a suddain Kiss, to the immoderate Mirthe of _Rose_, who sayd I coulde not have looked more discomposed had he pretended he was the Author of those Verses. I afterwards found he _was_; but I think she laught more than there was neede.

We have ever been considered a sufficientlie religious Familie: that is, we goe regularly to Church on Sabbaths and Prayer-dayes, and keepe alle the Fasts and Festivalles. But Mr. _Milton's_ Devotion hath attayned a Pitch I can neither imitate nor even comprehende. The spirituall World seemeth to him not onlie reall, but I may almoste say visible. For instance, he told _Rose_, it appears, that on _Tuesday_ Nighte, (that is the same Evening I had promised to be his,) as he went homewards to his Farm-lodging, he fancied the Angels whisperinge in his Eares, and singing over his Head, and that instead of going to his Bed like a reasonable Being, he lay down on the Grass, and gazed on the sweete, pale Moon till she sett, and then on the bright Starres till he seemed to see them moving in a slowe, solemn Dance, to the Words, "_How glorious is our God!_" And alle about him, he said, he _knew_, tho' he coulde not see them, were spirituall Beings repairing the Ravages of the Day on the Flowers, amonge the Trees, and Grasse, and Hedges; and he believed 'twas onlie the Filme that originall Sin had spread over his Eyes, that prevented his seeing them. I am thankful for this same Filme,--I cannot abide Fairies, and Witches, and Ghosts--ugh! I shudder even to write of them; and were it onlie of the more harmlesse Sort, one woulde never have the Comforte of thinkinge to be alone. I feare Churchyardes and dark Corners of alle Kinds; more especiallie Spiritts; and there is onlie one I would even wish to see at my bravest, when deepe Love casteth out Feare; and that is of Sister _Anne_, whome I never associate with the Worme and Winding-sheete. Oh no! I think _she_, at leaste, dwells amonge the Starres, having sprung straite up into Lighte and Blisse the Moment she put off Mortalitie; and if she, why not others? Are _Adam_ and _Abraham_ alle these Yeares in the unconscious Tomb? Theire Bodies, but surelie not their Spiritts? else, why dothe _Christ_ speak of _Lazarus_ lying in _Abraham's_ Bosom, while the Brothers of _Dives_ are yet riotouslie living? Yet what becomes of the Daye of generall Judgment, if some be thus pre-judged? I must aske Mr. _Milton,--_yes, I thinke I can finde it in my Heart to aske him about this in some solemn, stille Hour, and perhaps he will sett at Rest manie Doubts and Misgivings that at sundrie Times trouble me; being soe wise a Man.

_Bedtime_.

. . . Glad to steale away from the noisie Companie in the Supper-roome, (comprising some of _Father's_ Fellow-magistrates,) I went down with _Robin_ and _Kate_ to the Fish-ponds; it was scarce Sunset: and there, while we threw Crumbs to the Fish and watched them come to the Surface, were followed, or ever we were aware, by Mr. _Milton_, who sate down on the stone Seat, drew _Robin_ between his Knees, stroked his Haire, and askt what we were talking about. _Robin_ sayd I had beene telling them a fairie Story; and Mr. _Milton_ observed that was an infinite Improvement on the jangling, puzzle-headed Prating of Country Justices, and wished I woulde tell it agayn. But I was afrayd. But _Robin_ had no Feares; soe tolde the Tale roundlie; onlie he forgot the End. Soe he found his Way backe to the Middle, and seemed likelie to make it last alle Night; onlie Mr. _Milton_ sayd he seemed to have got into the Labyrinth of _Crete_, and he must for Pitie's Sake give him the Clew. Soe he finished _Robin's_ Story, and then tolde another, a most lovelie one, of Ladies, and Princes, and Enchanters, and a brazen Horse, and he sayd the End of _that_ Tale had been cut off too, by Reason the Writer had died before he finished it. But _Robin_ cryed, "Oh! finish this too," and hugged and kist him; soe he did; and methoughte the End was better than the Beginninge. Then he sayd, "Now, sweet _Moll_, you have onlie spoken this Hour past, by your Eyes; and we must heare your pleasant Voice." "An Hour?" cries _Robin_. "Where are alle the red Clouds gone, then?" quoth Mr. _Milton_, "and what Business hathe the Moon yonder?" "Then we must go Indoors," quoth I. But they cried "No," and _Robin_ helde me fast, and Mr. Milton sayd I might know even by the distant Sounds of ill-governed Merriment that we were winding up the Week's Accounts of Joy and Care more consistentlie where we were than we coulde doe in the House. And indeede just then I hearde my _Father's_ Voice swelling a noisie Chorus; and hoping Mr. _Milton_ did not distinguish it, I askt him if he loved Musick. He answered, soe much that it was Miserie for him to hear anie that was not of the beste. I secretlie resolved he should never heare mine. He added, he was come of a musicalle Familie, and that his Father not onlie sang well, but played finely on the Viol and Organ. Then he spake of the sweet Musick in _Italy_, until I longed to be there; but I tolde him nothing in its Way ever pleased me more than to heare the Choristers of _Magdalen_ College usher in _May_ Day by chaunting a Hymn at the Top of the Church Towre. Discoursing of this and that, we thus sate a good While ere we returned to the House.