Chapter II: Part 2

. . . Coming out of Church he woulde shun the common Field, where the Villagery led up theire Sports, saying, he deemed Quoit-playing and the like to be unsuitable Recreations on a Daye whereupon the _Lord_ had restricted us from speakinge our own Words, and thinking our own (that is, secular) Thoughts: and that he believed the Law of _God_ in this Particular woulde soone be the Law of the Land, for Parliament woulde shortlie put down _Sunday_ Sports. I askt, "What, the _King's_ Parliament at _Oxford_?" He answered, "No; _the Country's_ Parliament at _Westminster_." I sayd, I was sorrie, for manie poore hard-working Men had no other Holiday. He sayd, another Holiday woulde be given them; and that whether or no, we must not connive at Evil, which we doe in permitting an _holy Daye_ to sink into a Holiday. I sayd, but was it not the _Jewish_ Law, which had made such Restrictions? He sayd, yes, but that _Christ_ came not to destroy the moral Law, of which Sabbath-keeping was a Part, and that even its naturall Fitnesse for the bodily Welfare of Man and Beast was such as no wise Legislator would abolish or abuse it, even had he no Consideration for our spiritual and immortal Part: and that 'twas a well-known Fact that Beasts of Burthen, which had not one Daye of Rest in seven, did lesse Worke in the End. As for oure Soules, he sayd, they required theire spiritual Meales as much as our Bodies required theires; and even poore, rusticall Clownes who coulde not reade, mighte nourish their better Parts by an holie Pause, and by looking within them, and around them, and above them. I felt inclined to tell him that long Sermons alwaies seemed to make me love _God_ less insteade of more, but woulde not, fearing he mighte take it that I meant _he_ had been giving me one.

_Monday_.

_Mother_ hath returned! The Moment I hearde her Voice I fell to trembling. At the same Moment I hearde _Robin_ cry, "Oh, _Mother_, I have broken the greene Beaker!" which betraied Apprehension in another Quarter. However, she quite mildlie replied, "Ah, I knew the Handle was loose," and then kist me with soe great Affection that I felt quite easie. She had beene withhelde by a troublesome Colde from returning at the appointed Time, and cared not to write. 'Twas just Supper-time, and there were the Children to kiss and to give theire Bread and Milk, and _Bill's_ Letter to reade; soe that nothing particular was sayd till the younger Ones were gone to Bed, and _Father_ and _Mother_ were taking some Wine and Toast. Then says _Father_, "Well, Wife, have you got the five hundred Pounds?" "No," she answers, rather carelesslie. "I tolde you how 'twoulde be," says _Father_; "you mighte as well have stayed at Home." "Really, Mr. _Powell,"_ says _Mother_, "soe seldom as I stir from my owne Chimney-corner, you neede not to grudge me, I think, a few Dayes among our mutuall Relatives." "I shall goe to Gaol," says _Father_. "Nonsense," says _Mother_; "to Gaol indeed!" "Well, then, who is to keepe me from it?" says _Father_, laughing. "I will answer for it, Mr. _Milton_ will wait a little longer for his Money," says _Mother_, "he is an honourable Man, I suppose." "I wish he may thinke me one," says _Father_; "and as to a little longer, what is the goode of waiting for what is as unlikelie to come eventuallie as now?" "You must answer that for yourselfe," says _Mother_, looking wearie: "I have done what I can, and can doe no more." "Well, then, 'tis lucky Matters stand as they do," says _Father_. "Mr. _Milton_ has been much here in your Absence, my Dear, and has taken a Liking to our _Moll_; soe, believing him, as you say, to be an honourable Man, I have promised he shall have her." "Nonsense," cries _Mother_, turning red and then pale. "Never farther from Nonsense," says _Father_, "for 'tis to be, and by the Ende of the Month too." "You are bantering me, Mr. _Powell_," says _Mother_. "How can you suppose soe, my Deare?" says _Father_, "you doe me Injustice." "Why, _Moll_!" cries _Mother_, turning sharplie towards me, as I sate mute and fearfulle, "what is alle this, Child? You cannot, you dare not think of wedding this round-headed Puritan." "Not round-headed," sayd I, trembling; "his Haire is as long and curled as mine." "Don't bandy Words with me, Girl," says _Mother_ passionatelie, "see how unfit you are to have a House of your owne, who cannot be left in Charge of your _Father's_ for a Fortnighte, without falling into Mischiefe!" "I won't have _Moll_ chidden in that Way," says _Father_, "she has fallen into noe Mischiefe, and has beene a discreete and dutifull Child." "Then it has beene alle your doing," says _Mother_, "and you have forced the Child into this Match." "Noe Forcing whatever," says _Father_, "they like one another, and I am very glad of it, for it happens to be very convenient." "Convenient, indeed," repeats _Mother_, and falls a weeping. Thereon I must needs weepe too, but she says, "Begone to Bed; there is noe Neede that you shoulde sit by to heare your owne _Father_ confesse what a Fool he has beene."

To my Bedroom I have come, but cannot yet seek my Bed; the more as I still heare theire Voices in Contention below.

_Tuesday_.

This Morninge's Breakfaste was moste uncomfortable, I feeling like a checkt Child, scarce minding to looke up or to eat. _Mother_, with Eyes red and swollen, scarce speaking save to the Children; _Father_ directing his Discourse chieflie to _Dick_, concerning Farm Matters and the Rangership of _Shotover_, tho' 'twas easie to see his Mind was not with them. Soe soone as alle had dispersed to theire customed Taskes, and I was loitering at the Window, _Father_ calls aloud to me from his Studdy. Thither I go, and find him and _Mother_, she sitting with her Back to both. "_Moll_," says _Father_, with great Determination, "you have accepted Mr. _Milton_ to please yourself, you will marry him out of hand to please me." "Spare me, spare me, Mr. _Powell_," interrupts _Mother_, "if the Engagement may not be broken off, at the least precipitate it not with this indecent haste. Postpone it till----" "Till when?" says _Father_. "Till the Child is olde enough to know her owne Mind." "That is, to put off an honourable Man on false Pretences," says _Father_, "she is olde enough to know it alreadie. Speake, _Moll_, are you of your _Mother's_ Mind to give up Mr. _Milton_ altogether?" I trembled, but sayd, "No." "Then, as his Time is precious, and he knows not when he may leave his Home agayn, I save you the Trouble, Child, of naming a Day, for it shall be the _Monday_ before _Whitsuntide_." Thereat _Mother_ gave a Kind of Groan; but as for me, I had like to have fallen on the Ground, for I had had noe Thought of suche Haste. "See what you are doing, Mr. _Powell_," says _Mother_, compassionating me, and raising me up, though somewhat roughlie; "I prophecie Evil of this Match." "Prophets of Evil are sure to find Listeners," says _Father_, "but I am not one of them;" and soe left the Room. Thereon my _Mother_, who alwaies feares him when he has a Fit of Determination, loosed the Bounds of her Passion, and chid me so unkindlie, that, humbled and mortified, I was glad to seeke my Chamber.

. . . Entering the Dining-room, however, I uttered a Shriek on seeing _Father_ fallen back in his Chair, as though in a Fit, like unto that which terrified us a Year ago; and _Mother_ hearing me call out, ran in, loosed his Collar, and soone broughte him to himselfe, tho' not without much Alarm to alle. He made light of it himselfe, and sayd 'twas merelie a suddain Rush of Blood to the Head, and woulde not be dissuaded from going out; but _Mother_ was playnly smote at the Heart, and having lookt after him with some anxietie, exclaimed, "I shall neither meddle nor make more in this Businesse: your _Father's_ suddain Seizures shall never be layd at my Doore;" and soe left me, till we met at Dinner. After the Cloth was drawne, enters Mr. _Milton_, who goes up to _Mother_, and with Gracefulnesse kisses her Hand; but she withdrewe it pettishly, and tooke up her Sewing, on the which he lookt at her wonderingly, and then at me; then at her agayne, as though he woulde reade her whole Character in her Face; which having seemed to doe, and to write the same in some private Page of his Heart, he never troubled her or himself with further Comment, but tooke up Matters just where he had left them last. Ere we parted we had some private Conference touching our Marriage, for hastening which he had soe much to say that I coulde not long contend with him, especiallie as I founde he had plainlie made out that _Mother_ loved him not.

_Wednesday_.

House full of Companie, leaving noe Time to write nor think. _Mother_ sayth, tho' she cannot forbode an happie Marriage, she will provide for a merrie Wedding, and hathe growne more than commonlie tender to me, and given me some Trinkets, a Piece of fine _Holland_ Cloth, and enoughe of green Sattin for a Gown, that will stand on End with its owne Richnesse. She hathe me constantlie with her in the Kitchen, Pastrie, and Store-room, telling me 'tis needfulle I shoulde improve in Housewiferie, seeing I shall soe soone have a Home of my owne.

But I think _Mother_ knows not, and I am afeard to tell her, that Mr. _Milton_ hath no House of his owne to carry me to, but onlie Lodgings, which have well suited his Bachelor State, but may not, 'tis likelie, beseeme a Lady to live in. He deems so himself, and sayeth we will look out for an hired House together, at our Leisure. Alle this he hath sayd to me in an Undertone, in _Mother's_ Presence, she sewing at the Table and we sitting in the Window; and 'tis difficult to tell how much she hears, she for will aske no Questions, and make noe Comments, onlie compresses her Lips, which makes me think she knows.

The Children are in turbulent Spiritts; but _Robin_ hath done nought but mope and make Moan since he learnt he must soe soone lose me. A Thought hath struck me,--Mr. _Milton_ educates his Sister's Sons; two Lads of about _Robin's_ Age. What if he woulde consent to take my Brother under his Charge? perhaps _Father_ woulde be willing.

_Saturday_.

Last Visitt to _Sheepscote,--_at leaste, as _Mary Powell_; but kind _Rose_ and _Roger Agnew_ will give us the Use of it for a Week on our Marriage, and spend the Time with dear _Father_ and _Mother_, who will neede their Kindnesse. _Rose_ and I walked long aboute the Garden, her Arm round my Neck; and she was avised to say,

"Cloth of Frieze, be not too bold,
Tho' thou be matcht with Cloth of Gold,--"

And then craved my Pardon for soe unmannerly a Rhyme, which indeede, methoughte, needed an Excuse, but exprest a Feare that I knew not (what she called) my high Destiny, and prayed me not to trifle with Mr. _Milton's_ Feelings nor in his Sighte, as I had done the Daye she dined at _Forest Hill_. I laught, and sayd, he must take me as he found me: he was going to marry _Mary Powell_, not the _Wise Widow of Tekoah_. _Rose_ lookt wistfullie, but I bade her take Heart, for I doubted not we shoulde content eache the other; and for the Rest, her Advice shoulde not be forgotten. Thereat, she was pacyfied.

_May 22d, 1643_.

Alle Bustle and Confusion,--slaying of Poultrie, making of Pastrie, etc. People coming and going, prest to dine and to sup, and refuse, and then stay, the colde Meats and Wines ever on the Table; and in the Evening, the Rebecks and Recorders sent for that we may dance in the Hall. My Spiritts have been most unequall; and this Evening I was overtaken with a suddain Faintnesse, such as I never but once before experienced. They would let me dance no more; and I was quite tired enoughe to be glad to sit aparte with Mr. _Milton_ neare the Doore, with the Moon shining on us; untill at length he drew me out into the Garden. He spake of Happinesse and Home, and Hearts knit in Love, and of heavenlie Espousals, and of Man being the Head of the Woman, and of our _Lord's_ Marriage with the Church, and of white Robes, and the Bridegroom coming in Clouds of Glory, and of the Voices of singing Men and singing Women, and eternall Spring, and eternall Blisse, and much that I cannot call to Mind, and other-much that I coulde not comprehende, but which was in mine ears as the Song of Birds, or Falling of Waters.

_May 23d, 1643_.

_Rose_ hath come, and hath kindlie offered to help pack the Trunks, (which are to be sent off by the Waggon to _London_,) that I may have the more Time to devote to Mr. _Milton_. Nay, but he will soon have all my Time devoted to himself, and I would as lief spend what little remains in mine accustomed Haunts, after mine accustomed Fashion. I had purposed a Ride on _Clover_ this Morning, with _Robin_; but the poor Boy must I trow be disappointed.

----And for what? Oh me! I have hearde such a long Sermon on Marriage-duty and Service, that I am faine to sit down and weepe. But no, I must not, for they are waiting for me in the Hall, and the Guests are come and the Musick is tuning, and my Lookes must not betray me.--And now farewell, _Journall_; for _Rose_, who first bade me keepe you (little deeming after what Fashion), will not pack you up, and I will not close you with a heavie Strayn. _Robin_ is calling me beneath the Window,--_Father_ is sitting in the Shade, under the old Pear-tree, seemingly in gay Discourse with Mr. _Milton_. To-morrow the Village-bells will ring for the Marriage of

MARY POWELL.

_London,
Mr. Russell's, Taylor,
Bride's Churchyard_.

Oh Heaven! is this my new Home? my Heart sinkes alreadie. After the swete fresh Ayre of _Sheepscote_, and the Cleanliness, and the Quiet and the pleasant Smells, Sightes, and Soundes, alle whereof Mr. _Milton_ enjoyed to the Full as keenlie as I, saying they minded him of _Paradise,--_how woulde _Rose_ pitie me, could she view me in this close Chamber, the Floor whereof of dark, uneven Boards, must have beene layd, methinks, three hundred Years ago; the oaken Pannells, utterlie destitute of Polish and with sundrie Chinks; the Bed with dull brown Hangings, lined with as dull a greene, occupying Half the Space; and Half the Remainder being filled with dustie Books, whereof there are Store alsoe in every other Place. This Mirror, I should thinke, belonged to faire _Rosamond_. And this Arm-chair to King _Lew_. Over the Chimnie hangs a ruefull Portrait,--maybe of _Grotius_, but I shoulde sooner deeme it of some Worthie before the Flood. Onlie one Quarter of the Casement will open, and that upon a Prospect, oh dolefulle! of the Churchyarde! Mr. _Milton_ had need be as blythe as he was all the Time we were at _Sheepscote_, or I shall be buried in that same Churchyarde within the Twelvemonth. 'Tis well he has stepped out to see a Friend, that I may in his Absence get ridd of this Fit of the Dismalls. I wish it may be the last. What would _Mother_ say to his bringing me to such a Home as this? I will not think. Soe this is _London_! How diverse from the "towred Citie" of my Husband's versing! and of his Prose too; for as he spake, by the way, of the Disorders of our Time, which extend even into eache domestick Circle, he sayd that alle must, for a While, appear confused to our imperfect View, just as a mightie Citie unto a Stranger who shoulde beholde around him huge, unfinished Fabrics, the Plan whereof he could but imperfectlie make out, amid the Builders' disorderlie Apparatus; but that, _from afar_, we mighte perceive glorious Results from party Contentions,--Freedom springing up from Oppression, Intelligence succeeding Ignorance, Order following Disorder, just as that same Traveller looking at the Citie from a distant Height, should beholde Towres, and Spires glistering with Gold and Marble, Streets stretching in lessening Perspectives, and Bridges flinging their white Arches over noble Rivers. But what of this saw we all along the _Oxford_ Road? Firstlie, there was noe commanding Height; second, there was the Citie obscured by a drizzling Rain; the Ways were foul, the Faces of those we mett spake less of Pleasure than Business, and Bells were tolling, but none ringing. Mr. _Milton's_ Father, a grey-haired, kind old Man, was here to give us welcome: and his firste Words were, "Why, _John_, thou hast stolen a March on us. Soe quickly, too, and soe snug! but she is faire enoughe, Man, to excuse thee, Royalist or noe."

And soe, taking me in his Arms, kist me franklie.--But I heare my Husband's Voice, and another with it.

_Thursday_.

'Twas a Mr. _Lawrence_ whom my Husband brought Home last Nighte to sup; and the Evening passed righte pleasantlie, with News, Jestes, and a little Musicke. Todaye hath been kindlie devoted by Mr. _Milton_ to shewing me Sights:--and oh! the strange, diverting Cries in the Streets, even from earlie Dawn! "New Milk and Curds from the Dairie!"--"Olde Shoes for some Brooms!"--"Anie Kitchen-stuffe, have you, Maids?"--"Come buy my greene Herbes!"--and then in the Streets, here a Man preaching, there another juggling: here a Boy with an Ape, there a Show of _Nineveh_: next the News from the North; and as for the China Shops and Drapers in the _Strand_, and the Cook's Shops in _Westminster_, with the smoking Ribs of Beef and fresh Salads set out on Tables in the Street, and Men in white Aprons crying out, "Calf's Liver, Tripe, and hot Sheep's Feet"--'twas enoughe to make One untimelie hungrie,--or take One's Appetite away, as the Case might be. Mr. _Milton_ shewed me the noble Minster, with King _Harry_ Seventh's Chapel adjoining; and pointed out the old House where _Ben Jonson_ died. Neare the _Broade Sanctuarie_, we fell in with a slighte, dark-complexioned young Gentleman of two or three and twenty, whome my Husband espying cryed, "What, _Marvell_!" the other comically answering, "What Marvel?" and then, handsomlie saluting me and complimenting Mr. _Milton_, much lighte and pleasant Discourse ensued; and finding we were aboute to take Boat, he volunteered to goe with us on the River. After manie Hours' Exercise, I have come Home fatigued, yet well pleased. Mr. _Marvell_ sups with us.

_Friday_.

I wish I could note down a Tithe of the pleasant Things that were sayd last Nighte. First, olde Mr. _Milton_ having slept out with his Son,--I called in _Rachael_, the younger of Mr. _Russel's_ Serving-maids, (for we have none of our owne as yet, which tends to much Discomfiture,) and, with her Aide, I dusted the Bookes and sett them up in half the Space they had occupied; then cleared away three large Basketfuls, of the absolutest Rubbish, torn Letters and the like, and sent out for Flowers, (which it seemeth strange enoughe to me to _buy_,) which gave the Chamber a gayer Aire, and soe my Husband sayd when he came in, calling me the fayrest of them alle; and then, sitting down with Gayety to the Organ, drew forthe from it heavenlie Sounds. Afterwards Mr. _Marvell_ came in, and they discoursed about _Italy_, and Mr. _Milton_ promised his Friend some Letters of Introduction to _Jacopo Gaddi, Clementillo_, and others.--

After Supper, they wrote Sentences, Definitions, and the like, after a Fashion of _Catherine de Medici_, some of which I have layd aside for _Rose_.

--_To-day_ we have seene St. _Paul's_ faire Cathedral, and the School where Mr. _Milton_ was a Scholar when a Boy; thence, to the Fields of _Finsbury_; where are Trees and Windmills enow: a Place much frequented for practising Archery and other manlie Exercises.

_Saturday_.

Tho' we rise betimes, olde Mr. _Milton_ is earlier stille; and I always find him sitting at his Table beside the Window (by Reason of the Chamber being soe dark,) sorting I know not how manie Bundles of Papers tied with red Tape; eache so like the other that I marvel how he knows them aparte. This Morning, I found the poore old Gentleman in sad Distress at missing a Manuscript Song of Mr. _Henry Lawes'_, the onlie Copy extant, which he persuaded himselfe that I must have sent down to the Kitchen Fire Yesterday. I am convinced I dismist not a single Paper that was not torne eache Way, as being utterlie uselesse; but as the unluckie Song cannot be founde, he sighs and is certayn of my Delinquence, as is _Hubert_, his owne Man; or, as he more frequentlie calls him, his "odd Man;"--and an odd Man indeede is Mr. _Hubert_, readie to address his Master or Master's Sonne on the merest Occasion, without waiting to be spoken to; tho' he expecteth Others to treat them with far more Deference than he himself payeth.

--Dead tired, this Daye, with so much Exercise; but woulde not say soe, because my Husband was thinking to please me by shewing me soe much. Spiritts flagging however. These _London_ Streets wearie my Feet. We have been over the House in _Aldersgate Street_, the Garden whereof disappointed me, having hearde soe much of it; but 'tis far better than none, and the House is large enough for Mr. _Milton's_ Familie and my _Father's_ to boote. Thought how pleasant 'twould be to have them alle aboute me next _Christmasse_; but that holie Time is noe longer kept with Joyfullnesse in _London_. Ventured, therefore, to expresse a Hope, we mighte spend it at _Forest Hill_; but Mr. _Milton_ sayd 'twas unlikelie he should be able to leave Home; and askt, would I go alone?--Constrained, for Shame, to say no; but felt, in my Heart, I woulde jump to see _Forest Hill_ on anie Terms, I soe love alle that dwell there.

_Sunday Even_.

Private and publick Prayer, Sermons, and Psalm-singing from Morn until Nighte. The onlie Break hath been a Visit to a quaint but pleasing Lady, by Name _Catherine Thompson_, whome my Husband holds in great Reverence. She said manie Things worthy to be remembered; onlie _as_ I remember them, I need not to write them down. Sorrie to be caughte napping by my Husband, in the Midst of the third long Sermon. This comes of over-walking, and of being unable to sleep o' Nights; for whether it be the _London_ Ayre, or the _London_ Methods of making the Beds, or the strange Noises in the Streets, I know not, but I have scarce beene able to close my Eyes before Daybreak since I came to Town.

_Monday_.

And now beginneth a new Life; for my Husband's Pupils, who were dismist for a Time for my Sake, returne to theire Tasks this Daye, and olde Mr. _Milton_ giveth place to his two Grandsons, his widowed Daughter's Children, _Edward_ and _John Phillips_, whom my Husband led in to me just now. Two plainer Boys I never sett Eyes on; the one weak-eyed and puny, the other prim and puritanicall--no more to be compared to our sweet _Robin_! . . . After a few Words, they retired to theire Books; and my Husband, taking my Hand, sayd in his kindliest Manner,--"And now I leave my sweete _Moll_ to the pleasant Companie of her own goode and innocent Thoughtes; and, if she needs more, here are both stringed and keyed Instruments, and Books both of the older and modern Time, soe that she will not find the Hours hang heavie." Methoughte how much more I should like a Ride upon _Clover_ than all the Books that ever were penned; for the Door no sooner closed upon Mr. _Milton_ than it seemed as tho' he had taken alle the Sunshine with him; and I fell to cleaning the Casement that I mighte look out the better into the Churchyarde, and then altered Tables and Chairs, and then sate downe with my Elbows resting on the Window-seat, and my Chin on the Palms of my Hands, gazing on I knew not what, and feeling like a Butterflie under a Wine-glass.

I marvelled why it seemed soe long since I was married, and wondered what they were doing at Home,--coulde fancy I hearde _Mother_ chiding, and see _Charlie_ stealing into the Dairie and dipping his Finger in the Cream, and _Kate_ feeding the Chickens, and _Dick_ taking a Stone out of _Whitestar's_ Shoe.

--Methought how dull it was to be passing the best Part of the Summer out of the Reache of fresh Ayre and greene Fields, and wondered, woulde alle my future Summers be soe spent?

Thoughte how dull it was to live in Lodgings, where one could not even go into the Kitchen to make a Pudding; and how dull to live in a Town, without some young female Friend with whom one might have ventured into the Streets, and where one could not soe much as feed Colts in a Paddock; how dull to be without a Garden, unable soe much as to gather a Handfulle of ripe Cherries; and how dull to looke into a Churchyarde, where there was a Man digging a Grave!

--When I wearied of staring at the Grave-digger, I gazed at an olde Gentleman and a young Lady slowlie walking along, yet scarce as if I noted them; and was thinking mostlie of _Forest Hill_, when I saw them stop at our Doore, and presently they were shewn in, by the Name of Doctor and Mistress _Davies_. I sent for my Husband, and entertayned 'em bothe as well as I could, till he appeared, and they were polite and pleasant to me; the young Lady tall and slender, of a cleare brown Skin, and with Eyes that were fine enough; onlie there was a supprest Smile on her Lips alle the Time, as tho' she had seen me looking out of the Window. She tried me on all Subjects, I think; for she started them more adroitlie than I; and taking up a Book on the Window-seat, which was the _Amadigi_ of _Bernardo Tasso_, printed alle in _Italiques_, she sayd, if I loved Poetry, which she was sure I must, she knew she shoulde love me. I did not tell her whether or noe. Then we were both silent. Then Doctor _Davies_ talked vehementlie to Mr. _Milton_ agaynst the King; and Mr. _Milton_ was not so contrarie to him as I could have wished. Then Mistress _Davies_ tooke the Word from her Father and beganne to talke to Mr. _Milton_ of _Tasso_, and _Dante_, and _Boiardo_, and _Ariosto_; and then Doctor _Davies_ and I were silent. Methoughte, they both talked well, tho' I knew so little of their Subject-matter; onlie they complimented eache other too much. I mean not they were insincere, for eache seemed to think highlie of the other; onlie we neede not say alle we feele.

To conclude, we are to sup with them to-morrow.

_Wednesday_.

_Journall_, I have Nobodie now but you, to whome to tell my little Griefs; indeede, before I married, I know not that I had anie; and even now, they are very small, onlie they are soe new, that sometimes my Heart is like to burst.

--I know not whether 'tis safe to put them alle on Paper, onlie it relieves for the Time, and it kills Time, and perhaps, a little While hence I may looke back and see how small they were, and how they mighte have beene shunned, or better borne. 'Tis worth the Triall.

--Yesterday Morn, for very Wearinesse, I looked alle over my Linen and Mr. _Milton's_, to see could I finde anie Thing to mend; but there was not a Stitch amiss. I woulde have played on the Spinnette, but was afrayd he should hear my indifferent Musick. Then, as a last Resource, I tooke a Book--_Paul Perrin's Historie of the Waldenses_;--and was, I believe, dozing a little, when I was aware of a continuall Whispering and Crying. I thought 'twas some Child in the Street; and, having some Comfits in my Pocket, I stept softlie out to the House-door and lookt forth, but no Child could I see. Coming back, the Door of my Husband's Studdy being ajar, I was avised to look in; and saw him, with awfulle Brow, raising his Hand in the very Act to strike the youngest _Phillips_. I could never endure to see a Child struck, soe hastilie cryed out "Oh, don't!"--whereon he rose, and, as if not seeing me, gently closed the Door, and, before I reached my Chamber, I hearde soe loud a Crying that I began to cry too. Soon, alle was quiet; and my Husband, coming in, stept gently up to me, and putting his Arm about my Neck, sayd, "My dearest Life, never agayn, I beseech you, interfere between me and the Boys: 'tis as unseemlie as tho' I shoulde interfere between you and your Maids, when you have any,--and will weaken my Hands, dear _Moll_, more than you have anie Suspicion of."

I replied, kissing that same offending Member as I spoke, "Poor _Jack_ would have beene glad, just now, if I _had_ weakened them."--"But that is not the Question," he returned, "for we shoulde alle be glad to escape necessary Punishment; whereas, it is the Power, not the Penalty of our bad Habits, that we shoulde seek to be delivered from."--"There may," I sayd, "be necessary, but need not be corporal Punishment." "That is as may be," returned he, "and hath alreadie been settled by an Authoritie to which I submit, and partlie think you will dispute, and that is, the Word of _God_. Pain of Body is in Realitie, or ought to be, sooner over and more safelie borne than Pain of an ingenuous Mind; and, as to the _Shame_,--why, as _Lorenzo de' Medici_ sayd to _Soccini_, 'The Shame is in the Offence rather than in the Punishment.'"

I replied, "Our _Robin_ had never beene beaten for his Studdies;" to which he sayd with a Smile, that even I must admit _Robin_ to be noe greate Scholar. And so in good Humour left me; but I was in no good Humour, and hoped Heaven might never make me the Mother of a Son, for if I should see Mr. _Milton_ strike him, I should learn to hate the Father.--

Learning there was like to be Companie at Doctor _Davies'_, I was avised to put on my brave greene Satin Gown; and my Husband sayd it became me well, and that I onlie needed some Primroses and Cowslips in my Lap, to look like _May_;--and somewhat he added about mine Eyes' "clear shining after Rain," which avised me he had perceived I had beene crying in the Morning, which I had hoped he had not.

Arriving at the Doctor's House, we were shewn into an emptie Chamber; at least, emptie of Companie, but full of every Thing else; for there were Books, and Globes, and stringed and wind Instruments, and stuffed Birds and Beasts, and Things I know not soe much as the Names of, besides an Easel with a Painting by Mrs. _Mildred_ on it, which she meant to be seene, or she woulde have put it away. Subject, "_Brutus's Judgment:"_ which I thought a strange, unfeeling one for a Woman; and did not wish to be _her_ Son. Soone she came in, drest with studdied and puritanicall Plainnesse; in brown Taffeta, guarded with black Velvet, which became her well enough, but was scarce suited for the Season. She had much to say about limning, in which my Husband could follow her better than I; and then they went to the Globes, and _Copernicus_, and _Galileo Galilei_, whom she called a Martyr, but I do not. For, is a Martyr one who is unwillinglie imprisoned, or who formally recants? even tho' he affected afterwards to say 'twas _but_ a Form, and cries, "_Eppure, si muove_?" The earlier Christians might have sayd 'twas but a Form to burn a Handfull of Incense before _Jove's_ Statua; _Pliny_ woulde have let them goe.

Afterwards, when the Doctor came in and engaged my Husband in Discourse, Mistress _Mildred_ devoted herselfe to me, and askt what Progresse I had made with _Bernardo Tasso_. I tolde her, none at alle, for I was equallie faultie at _Italiques_ and _Italian_, and onlie knew his best Work thro' Mr. _Fairfax's_ Translation; whereat she fell laughing, and sayd she begged my Forgivenesse, but I was confounding the Father with the Sonne; then laught agayn, but pretended 'twas not at me but at a Lady I minded her of, who never coulde remember to distinguish betwixt _Lionardo da Vinci_ and _Lorenzo dei Medici_. That last Name brought up the Recollection of my Morning's Debate with my Husband, which made me feel sad; and then, Mrs. _Mildred_, seeminge anxious to make me forget her Unmannerliness, commenced, "Can you paint?"--"Can you sing?"--"Can you play the Lute?"--and, at the last, "What _can_ you do?" I mighte have sayd I coulde comb out my Curls smoother than she coulde hers, but did not. Other Guests came in, and talked so much agaynst Prelacy and the Right divine of Kings that I woulde fain we had remained at Astronomie and Poetry. For Supper there was little Meat, and noe strong Drinks, onlie a thinnish foreign Wine, with Cakes, Candies, Sweetmeats, Fruits, and Confections. Such, I suppose, is Town Fashion. At the laste, came Musick; Mistress _Mildred_ sang and played; then prest me to do the like, but I was soe fearfulle, I coulde not; so my Husband sayd he woulde play for me, and that woulde be alle one, and soe covered my Bashfullenesse handsomlie.

Onlie this Morning, just before going to his Studdy, he stept back and sayd, "Sweet _Moll_, I know you can both play and sing--why will you not practise?" I replyed, I loved it not much. He rejoyned, "But you know I love it, and is not that a Motive?" I sayd, I feared to let him hear me, I played so ill. He replyed, "Why, that is the very Reason you shoulde seek to play better, and I am sure you have Plenty of Time. Perhaps, in your whole future Life, you will not have such a Season of Leisure as you have now,--a golden Opportunity, which you will surelie seize."--Then added, "Sir _Thomas More's_ Wife learnt to play the Lute, solely that she mighte please her Husband." I answered, "Nay, what to tell me of Sir _Thomas More's_ Wife, or of _Hugh Grotius's_ Wife, when I was the Wife of _John Milton_?" He looked at me twice, and quicklie, too, at this Saying; then laughing, cried, "You cleaving Mischief! I hardlie know whether to take that Speech amisse or well--however, you shall have the Benefit of the Doubt."

And so away laughing; and I, for very Shame, sat down to the Spinnette for two wearie Hours, till soe tired, I coulde cry; and when I desisted, coulde hear _Jack_ wailing over his Task. 'Tis raining fast, I cannot get out, nor should I dare to go alone, nor where to go to if 'twere fine. I fancy ill Smells from the Churchyard--'tis long to Dinner-time, with noe Change, noe Exercise; and oh, I sigh for _Forest Hill_.

--A dull Dinner with Mrs. _Phillips_, whom I like not much. _Christopher Milton_ there, who stared hard at me, and put me out of Countenance with his strange Questions. My Husband checked him. He is a Lawyer, and has Wit enoughe.

Mrs. _Phillips_ speaking of second Marriages, I unawares hurt her by giving my Voice agaynst them. It seems she is thinking of contracting a second Marriage.

--At Supper, wishing to ingratiate myself with the Boys, talked to them of Countrie Sports, etc.: to which the youngest listened greedilie; and at length I was advised to ask them woulde they not like to see _Forest Hill_? to which the elder replyed in his most methodicall Manner, "If Mr. _Powell_ has a good Library." For this Piece of Hypocrisie, at which I heartilie laught, he was commended by his Uncle. Hypocrisie it was, for Master _Ned_ cryeth over his Taskes pretty nearlie as oft as the youngest.

_Friday_.

To rewarde my zealous Practice to-day on the Spinnette, Mr. _Milton_ produced a Collection of "_Ayres, and Dialogues, for one, two, and three Voices_," by his Friend, Mr. _Harry Lawes_, which he sayd I shoulde find very pleasant Studdy; and then he tolde me alle about theire getting up the Masque of _Comus_ in _Ludlow_ Castle, and how well the Lady's Song was sung by Mr. _Lawes'_ Pupil, the Lady _Alice_, then a sweet, modest Girl, onlie thirteen Yeares of Age,--and he told me of the Singing of a faire _Italian_ young Signora, named _Leonora Barroni_, with her Mother and Sister, whome he had hearde at _Rome_, at the Concerts of Cardinal _Barberini_; and how she was "as gentle and modest as sweet _Moll_," yet not afrayed to open her Mouth, and pronounce everie Syllable distinctlie, and with the proper Emphasis and Passion when she sang. And after this, to my greate Contentment, he tooke me to the _Gray's Inn Walks_, where, the Afternoon being fine, was much Companie.

After Supper, I proposed to the Boys that we shoulde tell Stories; and Mr. _Milton_ tolde one charminglie, but then went away to write a _Latin_ Letter. Soe _Ned's_ Turn came next; and I must, if I can, for very Mirthe's Sake, write it down in his exact Words, they were soe pragmaticall.

"On a Daye, there was a certain Child wandered forthe, that would play. He met a Bee, and sayd, 'Bee, wilt thou play with me?' The Bee sayd, 'No, I have my Duties to perform, tho' you, it woulde seeme, have none. I must away to make Honey.' Then the Childe, abasht, went to the Ant. He sayd, 'Will you play with me, Ant?' The Ant replied, 'Nay, I must provide against the Winter.' In shorte, he found that everie Bird, Beaste, and Insect he accosted, had a closer Eye to the Purpose of their Creation than himselfe. Then he sayd, 'I will then back, and con my Task.'--_Moral_. The Moral of the foregoing Fable, my deare _Aunt_, is this--We must love Work better than Play."

With alle my Interest for Children, how is it possible to take anie Interest in soe formall a little Prigge?

_Saturday_.

I have just done somewhat for Master _Ned_ which he coulde not doe for himselfe--_viz_. tenderly bound up his Hand, which he had badly cut. Wiping away some few naturall Tears, he must needs say, "I am quite ashamed, _Aunt_, you shoulde see me cry; but the worst of it is, that alle this Payne has beene for noe good; whereas, when my Uncle beateth me for misconstruing my _Latin_, tho' I cry at the Time, all the while I know it is for my Advantage."--If this Boy goes on preaching soe, I shall soon hate him.

--Mr. _Milton_ having stepped out before Supper, came back looking soe blythe, that I askt if he had hearde good News. He sayd, yes: that some Friends had long beene persuading him, against his Will, to make publick some of his _Latin_ Poems; and that, having at length consented to theire Wishes, he had beene with _Mosley_ the Publisher in St. _Paul's Churchyard_, who agreed to print them. I sayd, I was sorrie I shoulde be unable to read them. He sayd he was sorry too; he must translate them for me. I thanked him, but observed that Traductions were never soe good as Originalls. He rejoyned, "Nor am I even a good Translator." I askt, "Why not write in your owne Tongue?" He sayd, "_Latin_ is understood all over the Worlde." I sayd, "But there are manie in your owne Country do not understand it." He was silent soe long upon that, that I supposed he did not mean to answer me; but then cried, "You are right, sweet _Moll.--_Our best Writers have written their best Works in _English_, and I will hereafter doe the same,--for I feel that my best Work is still _to come_. Poetry hath hitherto been with me rather the Recreation of a Mind conscious of its Health, than the deliberate Task-work of a Soule that must hereafter give an Account of its Talents. Yet my Mind, in the free Circuit of her Musing, has ranged over a thousand Themes that lie, like the Marble in the Quarry, readie for anie Shape that Fancy and Skill may give. Neither Laziness nor Caprice makes me difficult in my Choice; for, the longer I am in selecting my Tree, and laying my Axe to the Root, the sounder it will be and the riper for Use. Nor is an Undertaking that shall be one of high Duty, to be entered upon without Prayer and Discipline:--it woulde be Presumption indeede, to commence an Enterprise which I meant shoulde delighte and profit every instructed and elevated Mind without so much Paynes-takinge as it should cost a poor Mountebank to balance a Pole on his Chin."

_Sunday Even_.

In the Clouds agayn. At Dinner, to-daye, Mr. _Milton_ catechised the Boys on the Morning's Sermon, the Heads of which, though amounting to a Dozen_, Ned_ tolde off roundlie. Roguish little _Jack_ looked slylie at me, says, "_Aunt_ coulde not tell off the Sermon." "Why not?" says his Uncle. "Because she was sleeping," says _Jack_. Provoked with the Child, I turned scarlett, and hastilie sayd, "I was not." Nobodie spoke; but I repented the Falsitie the Moment it had escaped me; and there was _Ned_, a folding of his Hands, drawing down his Mouth, and closing his Eyes. . . . My Husband tooke me to taske for it when we were alone, soe tenderlie that I wept.

_Monday_.

_Jack_ sayd this Morning, "I know Something--I know _Aunt_ keeps a Journall." "And a good Thing if you kept one too, _Jack,"_ sayd his Uncle, "it would shew you how little you doe." _Jack_ was silenced; but _Ned_, pursing up his Mouth, says, "I can't think what _Aunt_ can have to put in a Journall--should not you like, _Uncle_, to see?" "No, _Ned,"_ says his Uncle, "I am upon Honour, and your dear Aunt's Journall is as safe, for me, as the golden Bracelets that King _Alfred_ hung upon the High-way. I am glad she has such a Resource, and, as we know she cannot have much News to put in it, we may the more safely rely that it is a Treasury of sweet, and high, and holy, and profitable Thoughtes."

Oh, how deeplie I blusht at this ill-deserved Prayse! How sorrie I was that I had ever registered aught that he woulde grieve to read! I secretly resolved that this Daye's Journalling should be the last, untill I had attained a better Frame of Mind.

_Saturday Even_.

I have kept Silence, yea, even from good Words, but it has beene a Payn and Griefe unto me. Good Mistress _Catherine Thompson_ called on me a few Dayes back, and spoke so wisely and so wholesomelie concerning my Lot, and the Way to make it happy, (she is the first that hath spoken as it 'twere possible it mighte not be soe alreadie,) that I felt for a Season quite heartened; but it has alle faded away. Because the Source of Cheerfulnesse is not _in_ me, anie more than in a dull Landskip, which the Sun lighteneth for awhile, and when he has set, its Beauty is gone.

Oh me! how merry I was at Home!--The Source of Cheerfulnesse seemed in me _then_, and why is it not _now_? Partly because alle that I was there taught to think right is here thought wrong; because much that I there thought harmlesse is here thought sinfulle; because I cannot get at anie of the Things that employed and interested me _there_, and because the Things within my Reach _here_ do not interest me. Then, 'tis no small Thing to be continuallie deemed ignorant and misinformed, and to have one's Errors continuallie covered, however handsomelie, even before Children. To say nothing of the Weight upon the Spiritts at firste, from Change of Ayre, and Diet, and Scene, and Loss of habituall Exercise and Companie and householde Cares. These petty Griefs try me sorelie; and when Cousin _Ralph_ came in unexpectedlie this Morn, tho' I never much cared for him at Home, yet the Sighte of _Rose's_ Brother, fresh from_ Sheepscote_ and _Oxford_ and _Forest Hill_, soe upset me that I sank into Tears. No wonder that Mr. _Milton_, then coming in, shoulde hastilie enquire if _Ralph_ had brought ill Tidings from Home; and, finding alle was well there, shoulde look strangelie. He askt _Ralph_, however, to stay to Dinner; and we had much Talk of Home; but now, I regret having omitted to ask a thousand Questions.

_Sunday Even., Aug. 15, 1643_.

Mr. _Milton_ in his Closet and I in my Chamber.--For the first Time he seems this Evening to have founde out how dissimilar are our Minds. Meaning to please him, I sayd, "I kept awake bravelie, tonighte, through that long, long Sermon, for your Sake." "And why not for _God's_ Sake?" cried he, "why not for your owne Sake?--Oh, sweet _Wife_, I fear you have yet much to learn of the Depth of Happinesse that is comprised in the Communion between a forgiven Soul and its Creator. It hallows the most secular as well as the most spirituall Employments; it gives Pleasure that has no after Bitternesse; it gives Pleasure to _God_--and oh! thinke of the Depth of Meaning in those Words! think what it is for us to be capable of giving _God_ Pleasure!"

--Much more, in the same Vein! to which I could not, with equal Power, respond; soe, he away to his Studdy, to pray perhaps for my Change of Heart, and I to my Bed.

_Saturday, Aug. 21, 1643_.

Oh Heaven! can it be possible? am I agayn at _Forest Hill_? How strange, how joyfulle an Event, tho' brought about with Teares!--Can it be, that it is onlie a Month since I stoode at this Toilette as a Bride? and lay awake on that Bed, thinking of _London_? How long a Month! and oh! this present one will be alle too short.

It seemeth that _Ralph Hewlett_, shocked at my Teares and the Alteration in my Looks, broughte back a dismall Report of me to deare _Father_ and _Mother_, pronouncing me either ill or unhappie. Thereupon, _Richard_, with his usuall Impetuositie, prevayled on _Father_ to let him and _Ralph_ fetch me Home for a While, at leaste till after _Michaelmasse_.

How surprised was I to see _Dick_ enter! My Arms were soe fast about his Neck, and my Face prest soe close to his Shoulder, that I did not for a While perceive the grave Looke he had put on. At the last, I was avised to ask what broughte him soe unexpectedlie to _London_; and then he hemmed and looked at _Ralph_, and _Ralph_ looked at _Dick_, and then _Dick_ sayd bluntly, he hoped Mr. _Milton_ woulde spare me to go Home till after _Michaelmasse_, and _Father_ had sent him on Purpose to say soe. Mr. _Milton_ lookt surprised and hurte, and sayd, how could he be expected to part soe soone with me, a Month's Bride? it must be some other Time: he had intended to take me himselfe to _Forest Hill_ the following Spring, but coulde not spare Time now, nor liked me to goe without him, nor thought I should like it myself. But my Eyes said I _shoulde_, and then he gazed earnestlie at me and lookt hurt; and there was a dead Silence. Then _Dick_, hesitating a little, sayd he was sorrie to tell us my _Father_ was ill; on which I clasped my Hands and beganne to weepe; and Mr. _Milton_, changing Countenance, askt sundrie Questions, which _Dick_ answered well enough; and then said he woulde not be soe cruel as to keepe me from a Father I soe dearlie loved, if he were sick, though he liked not my travelling in such unsettled Times with so young a Convoy. _Ralph_ sayd they had brought _Diggory_ with them, who was olde and steddy enough, and had ridden my _Mother's_ Mare for my Use; and _Dick_ was for our getting forward a Stage on our Journey the same Evening, but Mr. _Milton_ insisted on our abiding till the following Morn, and woulde not be overruled. And gave me leave to stay a Month, and gave me Money, and many kind Words, which I coulde mark little, being soe overtaken with Concern about dear _Father_, whose Illness I feared to be worse than _Dick_ sayd, seeing he seemed soe close and dealt in dark Speeches and Parables. After Dinner, they went forth, they sayd, to look after the Horses, but I think to see _London_, and returned not till Supper.

We got them Beds in a House hard by, and started at earlie Dawn.

Mr. _Milton_ kissed me most tenderlie agayn and agayn at parting, as though he feared to lose me; but it had seemed to me soe hard to brook the Delay of even a few Hours when _Father_, in his Sicknesse, was wanting me, that I took leave of my Husband with less Affection than I mighte have shewn, and onlie began to find my Spiritts lighten when we were fairly quit of _London_, with its vile Sewers and Drains, and to breathe the sweete, pure Morning Ayre, as we rode swiftlie along. _Dick_ called _London_ a vile Place, and spake to _Ralph_ concerning what they had seen of it overnighte, whence it appeared to me, that he had beene pleasure-seeking more than, in _Father's_ state, he ought to have beene. But _Dick_ was always a reckless Lad;--and oh, what Joy, on reaching this deare Place, to find _Father_ had onlie beene suffering under one of his usual Stomach Attacks, which have no Danger in them, and which _Dick_ had exaggerated, fearing Mr. _Milton_ woulde not otherwise part with me;--I was a little shocked, and coulde not help scolding him, though I was the gainer; but he boldlie defended what he called his "Stratagem of War," saying it was quite allowable in dealing with a _Puritan_.

As for _Robin_, he was wild with Joy when I arrived; and hath never ceased to hang about me. The other Children are riotous in their Mirth. Little _Joscelyn_ hath returned from his Foster-mother's Farm, and is noe longer a puny Child--'tis thought he will thrive. I have him constantly in my Arms or riding on my Shoulder; and with Delight have revisited alle my olde Haunts, patted _Clover_, etc. Deare _Mother_ is most kind. The Maids as oft call me Mrs. _Molly_ as Mrs. _Milton_, and then smile, and beg Pardon. _Rose_ and _Agnew_ have been here, and have made me promise to visit _Sheepscote_ before I return to _London_. The whole House seems full of Glee.

_Monday_.

It seemes quite strange to heare _Dick_ and _Harry_ singing loyal Songs and drinking the _King's_ Health after soe recentlie hearing his M. soe continuallie spoken agaynst. Also, to see a Lad of _Robin's_ Age, coming in and out at his Will, doing aniething or nothing; instead of being ever at his Taskes, and looking at Meal-times as if he were repeating them to himselfe. I know which I like best.

A most kind Letter from Mr. _Milton_, hoping _Father_ is better, and praying for News of him. How can I write to him without betraying _Dick_? _Robin_ and I rode, this Morning, to _Sheepscote_. Thoughte Mr. _Agnew_ received me with unwonted Gravitie. He tolde me he had received a Letter from my Husband, praying News of my Father, seeing I had sent him none, and that he had writ to him that _Father_ was quite well, never had been better. Then he sayd to me he feared Mr. _Milton_ was labouring under some false Impression. I tolde him trulie, that _Dick_, to get me Home, had exaggerated a trifling Illness of _Father's_, but that I was guiltlesse of it. He sayd _Dick_ was inexcusable, and that noe good End coulde justifie a Man of Honour in overcharging the Truth; and that, since I was innocent, I shoulde write to my Husband to clear myself. I said briefly, I woulde; and I mean to do soe, onlie not to-daye. Oh, sweet countrie Life! I was made for you and none other. This riding and walking at one's owne free Will, in the fresh pure Ayre, coming in to earlie, heartie, wholesome Meals, seasoned with harmlesse Jests,--seeing fresh Faces everie Daye come to the House, knowing everie Face one meets out of Doores,--supping in the Garden, and remaining in the Ayre long after the Moon has risen, talking, laughing, or perhaps dancing,--if this be not Joyfulnesse, what is?