Chapter IV: Part 4

How blessed a Sabbath!--Can it be, that I thought, onlie two Days back, I shoulde never know Peace agayn? Joy I may not, but Peace I can and doe. And yet nought hath amended the unfortunate Condition of mine Affairs; but a different Colouring is caste upon them--the _Lord_ grant that it may last! How hath it come soe, and how may it be preserved? This Morn, when I awoke, 'twas with a Sense of Relief such as we have when we miss some wearying bodilie Payn; a Feeling as though I had beene forgiven, yet not by Mr. _Milton_, for I knew he had not forgiven me. Then, it must be, I was forgiven by _God_; and why? I had done nothing to get his Forgivenesse, only presumed on his Mercy to ask manie Things I had noe Right to expect. And yet I felt I _was_ forgiven. Why then mighte not Mr. _Milton_ some Day forgive me? Should the Debt of ten thousand Talents be cancelled, and not the Debt of a hundred Pence? Then I thought on that same Word, Talents; and considered, had I ten, or even one? Decided to consider it at leisure, more closelie, and to make over to _God_ henceforthe, be they ten, or be it one. Then, dressed with much Composure, and went down to Breakfast.

Having marked that Mr. _Agnew_ and _Rose_ affected not Companie on this Day, spent it chieflie by myself, except at Church and Meal-times; partlie in my Chamber, partlie in the Garden Bowre by the Beehives. Made manie Resolutions, which, in Church, I converted into Prayers and Promises. Hence, my holy Peace.

_Monday_.

_Rose_ proposed, this Morning, we shoulde resume our Studdies. Felt loath to comply, but did soe neverthelesse, and afterwards we walked manie Miles, to visit some poor Folk. This Evening, Mr. _Agnew_ read us the Prologue to the _Canterbury Tales_. How lifelike are the Portraitures! I mind me that Mr. _Milton_ shewed me the _Talbot_ Inn, that Day we crost the River with Mr. _Marvell_.

_Tuesday_.

How heartilie do I wish I had never read that same Letter!--or rather, that it had never beene written. Thus it is, even with our Wishes. We think ourselves reasonable in wishing some small Thing were otherwise, which it were quite as impossible to alter as some great Thing. Neverthelesse I cannot help fretting over the Remembrance of that Part wherein he spake such bitter Things of my "most ungoverned Passion for Revellings and Junketings." Sure, he would not call my Life too merrie now, could he see me lying wakefulle on my Bed, could he see me preventing the Morning Watch, could he see me at my Prayers, at my Books, at my Needle. . . . He shall find he hath judged too hardlie of poor _Moll_, even yet.

_Wednesday_.

Took a cold Dinner in a Basket with us to-day, and ate our rusticall Repast on the Skirt of a Wood, where we could see the Squirrels at theire Gambols. Mr. _Agnew_ lay on the Grasse, and _Rose_ took out her Knitting, whereat he laught, and sayd she was like the _Dutch_ Women, that must knit, whether mourning or feasting, and even on the Sabbath. Having laught her out of her Work, he drew forth Mr. _George Herbert's_ Poems, and read us a Strayn which pleased _Rose_ and me soe much, that I shall copy it herein, to have always by me.

How fresh, oh Lord: how sweet and clean
Are thy Returns! e'en as the Flowers in Spring,
To which, beside theire owne Demesne,
The late pent Frosts Tributes of Pleasure bring.
Grief melts away like Snow in May,
As if there were noe such cold Thing.

Who would have thought my shrivelled Heart
Woulde have recovered greenness? it was gone
Quite Underground, as Flowers depart
To see their Mother-root, when they have blown,
Where they together, alle the hard Weather,
Dead to the World, keep House alone.

These are thy Wonders, Lord of Power!
Killing and quickening, bringing down to Hell
And up to Heaven, in an Hour,
Making a Chiming of a passing Bell,
We say amiss "this or that is:"
Thy Word is alle, if we could spell.

Oh that I once past changing were!
Fast in thy Paradise, where no Flowers can wither;
Manie a Spring I shoot up faire,
Offering at Heaven, growing and groaning thither,
Nor doth my Flower want a Spring Shower,
My Sins and I joyning together.

But while I grow in a straight Line,
Still upwards bent, as if Heaven were my own,
Thy Anger comes, and I decline.--
What Frost to that! What Pole is not the Zone
Where alle Things burn, when thou dost turn,
And the least Frown of thine is shewn?

And now, in Age, I bud agayn,
After soe manie Deaths, I bud and write,
I once more smell the Dew and Rain,
And relish Versing! Oh my onlie Light!
It cannot be that I am he
On whom thy Tempests fell alle Night?

These are thy Wonders, Lord of Love,
To make us see we are but Flowers that glide,
Which, when we once can feel and prove,
Thou hast a Garden for us where to bide.
Who would be more, swelling their Store,
Forfeit their Paradise by theire Pride.

_Thursday_.

_Father_ sent over _Diggory_ with a Letter for me from deare _Robin_: alsoe, to ask when I was minded to return Home, as _Mother_ wants to goe to _Sandford_. Fixed the Week after next; but _Rose_ says I must be here agayn at the Apple-gathering. Answered _Robin's_ Letter. He looketh not for Choyce of fine Words; nor noteth an Error here and there in the Spelling.

_Tuesday_.

Life flows away here in such unmarked Tranquilitie, that one hath Nothing whereof to write, or to remember what distinguished one Day from another. I am sad, yet not dulle; methinks I have grown some Yeares older since I came here. I can fancy elder Women feeling much as I doe now. I have Nothing to desire. Nothing to hope, that is likelie to come to pass--Nothing to regret, except I begin soe far back, that my whole Life hath neede, as 'twere, to begin over agayn. . . .

Mr. _Agnew_ translates to us Portions of _Thuanus_ his Historie, and the Letters of _Theodore Bexa_, concerning the _French_ Reformed Church; oft prolix, yet interesting, especially with Mr. _Agnew's_ Comments, and Allusions to our own Time. On the other Hand, _Rose_ reads _Davila_, the sworne Apologiste of _Catherine de' Medicis_, whose charming _Italian_ even I can comprehende; but alle is false and plausible. How sad, that the wrong Partie shoulde be victorious! Soe it may befall in this Land; though, indeede, I have hearde soe much bitter Rayling on bothe Sides, that I know not which is right. The Line of Demarcation is not soe distinctly drawn, methinks, as 'twas in _France_. Yet it cannot be right to take up Arms agaynst constituted Authorities?--Yet, and if those same Authorities abuse their Trust? Nay, Women cannot understand these Matters, and I thank Heaven they need not. Onlie, they cannot help siding with those they love; and sometimes those they love are on opposite Sides.

Mr. _Agnew_ sayth, the secular Arm shoulde never be employed in spirituall Matters, and that the _Hugenots_ committed a grave Mistake in choosing Princes and Admirals for their Leaders, insteade of simple Preachers with Bibles in their hands; and he askt, "did _Luther_ or _Peter_ the Hermit most manifestlie labour with the Blessing of _God_?"

. . . I have noted the Heads of Mr. _Agnew's_ Readings, after a Fashion of _Rose's_, in order to have a shorte, comprehensive Account of the Whole; and this hath abridged my journalling. It is the more profitable to me of the two, changes the sad Current of Thought, and, though an unaccustomed Task, I like it well.

_Saturday_.

On _Monday_, I return to _Forest Hill_. I am well pleased to have yet another _Sheepscote_ Sabbath. To-day we had the rare Event of a Dinner-guest; soe full of what the Rebels are doing, and alle the Horrors of Strife, that he seemed to us quiete Folks, like the Denizen of another World.

_Forest Hill, August 3, 1644_.

Home agayn, and _Mother_ hath gone on her long intended Visitt to Uncle _John_, taking with her the two youngest. _Father_ much preoccupide, by reason of the Supplies needed for his Majesty's Service; soe that, sweet _Robin_ being away, I find myselfe lonely. _Harry_ rides with me in the Evening, but the Mornings I have alle to myself; and when I have fulfilled _Mother's_ Behests in the Kitchen and Still-room, I have nought but to read in our somewhat scant Collection of Books, the moste Part whereof are religious. And (not on that Account, but by reason I have read the most of them before), methinks I will write to borrow some of _Rose_; for Change of Reading hath now become a Want. I am minded also, to seek out and minister unto some poore Folk after her Fashion. Now that I am Queen of the Larder, there is manie a wholesome Scrap at my Disposal, and there are likewise sundrie Physiques in my Mother's Closet, which she addeth to Year by Year, and never wants, we are soe seldom ill.

_Aug. 5, 1644_.

Dear _Father_ sayd this Evening, as we came in from a Walk on the Terrace, "My sweet _Moll_, you were ever the Light of the House; but now, though you are more staid than of former Time, I find you a better Companion than ever. This last Visitt to _Sheepscote_ hath evened your Spiritts."

Poor _Father_! he knew not how I lay awake and wept last Night, for one I shall never see agayn, nor how the Terrace Walk minded me of him. My Spiritts may seem even, and I exert myself to please; but, within, all is dark Shade, or at best, grey Twilight; and my Spiritts are, in Fact, worse here than they were at _Sheepscote_, because, here, I am continuallie thinking of one whose Name is never uttered; whereas, there, it was mentioned naturallie and tenderlie, though sadly. . . .

I will forthe to see some of the poor Folk.

_Same Night_.

Resolved to make the Circuit of the Cottages, but onlie reached the first, wherein I found poor _Nell_ in such Grief of Body and Mind, that I was avised to wait with her a long Time. Askt why she had not sent to us for Relief; was answered she had thought of doing soe, but was feared of making too free. After a lengthened Visitt, which seemed to relieve her Mind, and certaynlie relieved mine, I bade her Farewell, and at the Wicket met my Father coming up with a playn-favoured but scholarlike looking reverend Man. He sayd, "_Moll_, I could not think what had become of you." I answered, I hoped I had not kept him waiting for Dinner--poor _Nell_ had entertayned me longer than I wisht, with the Catalogue of her Troubles. The Stranger looking attentively at me, observed that may be the poor Woman had entertayned an Angel unawares; and added, "Doubt not, Madam, we woulde rather await our Dinner than that you should have curtayled your Message of Charity." Hithertoe, my Father had not named this Gentleman to me; but now he sayd, "Child, this is the Reverend Doctor _Jeremy Taylor_, Chaplain in Ordinarie to his Majesty, and whom you know I have heard more than once preach before the King since he abode in _Oxford_." Thereon I made a lowly Reverence, and we walked homewards together. At first, he discoursed chiefly with my Father on the Troubles of the Times, and then he drew me into the Dialogue, in the Course of which I let fall a Saying of Mr. _Agnew's_, which drew from the reverend Gentleman a respectfulle Look I felt I no Way deserved. Soe then I had to explain that the Saying was none of mine, and felt ashamed he shoulde suppose me wiser than I was, especiallie as he commended my Modesty. But we progressed well, and he soon had the Discourse all to himself, for Squire _Paice_ came up, and detained _Father_, while the Doctor and I walked on. I could not help reflecting how odd it was, that I, whom Nature had endowed with such a very ordinarie Capacitie, and scarce anie Taste for Letters, shoulde continuallie be thrown into the Companie of the cleverest of Men,--first, Mr. _Milton_: then Mr. _Agnew_; and now, this Doctor _Jeremy Taylor_. But, like the other two, he is not merely clever, he is Christian and good. How much I learnt in this short Interview! for short it seemed, though it must have extended over a good half Hour. He sayd, "Perhaps, young Lady, the Time may come when you shall find safer Solace in the Exercise of the Charities than of the Affections. Safer: for, not to consider how a successfulle or unsuccessfulle Passion for a human Being of like Infirmities with ourselves, oft stains and darkens and shortens the Current of Life, even the chastened Love of a Mother for her Child, as of _Octavia_, who swooned at '_Tu, Marcellus, eris_,'--or of Wives for their Husbands, as _Artemisia_ and _Laodamia_, sometimes amounting to Idolatry--nay, the Love of Friend for Friend, with alle its sweet Influences and animating Transports, yet exceeding the Reasonableness of that of _David_ for _Jonathan_, or of our blessed _Lord_ for _St. John_ and the Family of _Lazarus_, may procure far more Torment than Profit: even if the Attachment be reciprocal, and well grounded, and equallie matcht, which often it is not. Then interpose human Tempers, and Chills, and Heates, and Slyghtes fancied or intended, which make the vext Soul readie to wish it had never existed. How smalle a Thing is a human Heart! you might grasp it in your little Hand; and yet its Strifes and Agonies are enough to distend a Skin that should cover the whole World! But, in the Charities, what Peace! yea, they distill Sweetnesse even from the Unthankfulle, blessing him that gives more than him that receives; while, in the Main, they are laid out at better Interest than our warmest Affections, and bring in a far richer Harvest of Love and Gratitude. Yet, let our Affections have their fitting Exercise too, staying ourselves with the Reflection, that there is greater Happinesse, after alle Things sayd, in loving than in being loved, save by the _God_ of Love who first loved us, and that they who dwell in Love dwell in _Him_."

Then he went on to speak of the manifold Acts and Divisions of Charity; as much, methought, in the Vein of a Poet as a Preacher; and he minded me much of that Scene in the tenth Book of the _Fairie Queene_, soe lately read to us by Mr. _Agnew_, wherein the _Red Cross Knight_ and _Una_ were shown _Mercy_ at her Work.

_Aug. 10, 1644_.

A Pack-horse from _Sheepscote_ just reported, laden with a goodlie Store of Books, besides sundrie smaller Tokens of _Rose's_ thoughtfulle Kindnesse. I have now methodicallie divided my Time into stated Hours, of Prayer, Exercise, Studdy, Housewiferie, and Acts of Mercy, on however a humble Scale; and find mine owne Peace of Mind thereby increased notwithstanding the Darknesse of publick and Dullnesse of private Affairs.

Made out the Meaning of "Cynosure" and "Cimmerian Darknesse." . . .

_Aug. 15, 1644_.

Full sad am I to learn that Mr. _Milton_ hath published another Book in Advocacy of Divorce. Alas, why will he chafe against the Chain, and widen the cruel Division between us? My Father is outrageous on the Matter, and speaks soe passionatelie of him, that it is worse than not speaking of him at alle, which latelie I was avised to complain of.

_Aug. 30, 1644_.

_Dick_ beginneth to fancie himself in Love with _Audrey Paice--_an Attachment that will doe him noe good: his Tastes alreadie want raising, and she will onlie lower them, I feare,--a comely, romping, noisie Girl, that, were she but a Farmer's Daughter, woulde be the Life and Soul of alle the Whitsun-ales, Harvest-homes, and Hay-makings in the Country: in short, as fond of idling and merrymaking as I once was myself: onlie I never was soe riotous.

I beginne to see Faults in _Dick_ and _Harry_ I never saw before. Is my Taste bettering, or my Temper worsenning? At alle Events, we have noe cross Words, for I expect them not to alter, knowing how hard it is to doe soe by myself.

I look forward with Pleasure to my _Sheepscote_ Visitt. Dear _Mother_ returneth to-morrow. Good Dr. _Taylor_ hath twice taken the Trouble to walk over from _Oxford_ to see me, but he hath now left, and we may never meet agayn. His Visitts have beene very precious to me: I think he hath some Glimmering of my sad Case: indeed, who knows it not? At parting he sayd, smiling, he hoped he should yet hear of my making Offerings to _Viriplaca_ on _Mount Palatine_; then added, gravelie, "You know where reall Offerings may be made and alwaies accepted--Offerings of spare Half-hours and Five-minutes, when we shut the Closet Door and commune with our own Hearts and are still." Alsoe he sayd, "There are Sacrifices to make which sometimes wring our very Hearts to offer; but our gracious _God_ accepts them neverthelesse, if our Feet be really in the right Path, even though, like _Chryseis_, we look back, weeping."

He sayd . . . But how manie Things as beautifulle and true did I hear my Husband say, which passed by me like the idle Wind that I regarded not!

_Sept. 8, 1644_.

_Harry_ hath just broughte in the News of his Majesty's Success in the West. Lord _Essex's_ Army hath beene completely surrounded by the royal Troops; himself forct to escape in a Boat to _Plymouth_, and all the Arms, Artillerie, Baggage, etc., of _Skippon's_ Men have fallen into the Hands of the King. _Father_ is soe pleased that he hath mounted the Flag, and given double Allowance of Ale to his Men.

I wearie to hear from _Robin_.

_Sheepscote, Oct. 10, 1644_.

How sweete a Picture of rurall Life did _Sheepscote_ present, when I arrived here this Afternoon! The Water being now much out, the Face of the Countrie presented a new Aspect: there were Men threshing the Walnut Trees, Children and Women putting the Nuts into Osier Baskets, a Bailiff on a white Horse overlooking them, and now and then galloping to another Party, and splashing through the Water. Then we found Mr. _Agnew_ equallie busie with his Apples, mounted half Way up one of the Trees, and throwing Cherry Pippins down into _Rose's_ Apron, and now and then making as though he would pelt her: onlie she dared him, and woulde not be frightened. Her Donkey, chewing Apples in the Corner, with the Cider running out of his Mouth, presented a ludicrous Image of Enjoyment, and 'twas evidently enhanct by _Giles'_ brushing his rough Coat with a Birch Besom, instead of minding his owne Businesse of sweeping the Walk. The Sun, shining with mellow Light on the mown Grass and fresh dipt Hornbeam Hedges, made even the commonest Objects distinct and cheerfulle; and the Air was soe cleare, we coulde hear the Village Childreh afar off at theire Play.

_Rose_ had abundance of delicious new Honey in the Comb, and Bread hot from the Oven, for our earlie Supper. _Dick_ was tempted to stay too late; however, he is oft as late, now, returning from _Audrey Paice_, though my Mother likes it not.

_Oct. 15, 1644_.

_Rose_ is quite in good Spiritts now, and we goe on most harmoniouslie and happilie. Alle our Tastes are now in common; and I never more enjoyed this Union of Seclusion and Society. Besides, Mr. _Agnew_ is more than commonlie kind, and never speaks sternlie or sharplie to me now. Indeed, this Morning, looking thoughtfullie at me, he sayd, "I know not_, Cousin_, what Change has come over you, but you are now alle that a wise Man coulde love and approve." I sayd, It must be owing then to Dr. _Jeremy Taylor_, who had done me more goode, it woulde seeme, in three Lessons, than he or Mr. _Milton_ coulde imparte in thirty or three hundred. He sayd he was inclined to attribute it to a higher Source than that; and yet, there was doubtlesse a great Knack in teaching, and there was a good deal in liking the Teacher. He had alwaies hearde the Doctor spoken of as a good, pious, and clever Man, though rather too high a Prelatist. I sayd, "There were good Men of alle Sorts: there was Mr. _Milton_, who woulde pull the Church down; there was Mr. _Agnew_, who woulde onlie have it mended; and there was Dr. _Jeremy Taylor_, who was content with it as it stoode." Then _Rose_ askt me of the puritanicall Preachers. Then I showed her how they preached, and made her laugh. But Mr. _Agnew_ woulde not laugh. But I made him laugh at last. Then he was angrie with himself and with me; only not very angry; and sayd, I had a Right to a Name which he knew had beene given me, of "cleaving Mischief." I knew not he knew of it, and was checked, though I laught it off.

_Oct. 16, 1644_.

Walking together, this Morning, _Rose_ was avised to say, "Did Mr. _Milton_ ever tell you the Adventures of the _Italian_ Lady?" "Rely on it he never did," sayd Mr. _Agnew.--"Milton_ is as modest a Man as ever breathed--alle Men of first class Genius are soe." "What was the Adventure?" I askt, curiouslie. "Why, I neede not tell you, _Moll_, that _John Milton_, as a Youth, was extremelie handsome, even beautifull. His Colour came and went soe like a Girl's, that we of _Christ's_ College used to call him 'the Lady,' and thereby annoy him noe little. One summer Afternoone he and I and young _King_ (_Lycidas_, you know) had started on a country Walk, (the Countrie is not pretty, round _Cambridge_) when we met in with an Acquaintance whom Mr. _Milton_ affected not, soe he sayd he would walk on to the first rising Ground and wait us there. On this rising Ground stood a Tree, beneath which our impatient young Gentleman presentlie cast himself, and, having walked fast, and the Weather being warm, soon falls asleep as sound as a Top. Meantime, _King_ and I quit our Friend and saunter forward pretty easilie. Anon comes up with us a Caroche, with something I know not what of outlandish in its Build; and within it, two Ladies, one of them having the fayrest Face I ever set Eyes on, present Companie duly excepted. The Caroche having passed us, _King_ and I mutuallie express our Admiration, and thereupon, preferring Turf to Dust, got on the other Side the Hedge, which was not soe thick but that we could make out the Caroche, and see the Ladies descend from it, to walk up the Hill. Having reached the Tree, they paused in Surprise at seeing _Milton_ asleep beneath it; and in prettie dumb Shew, which we watcht sharplie, exprest their Admiration of his Appearance and Posture, which woulde have suited an _Arcadian_ well enough. The younger Lady, hastilie taking out a Pencil and Paper, wrote something which she laughinglie shewed her Companion, and then put into the Sleeper's Hand. Thereupon, they got into their Caroche, and drove off. _King_ and I, dying with Curiositie to know what she had writ, soon roused our Friend and possest ourselves of the Secret. The Verses ran thus. . . .

Occhi, Stelle mortali,
Ministre de miei Mali,
Se, chiusi, m' uccidete,
Aperti, che farete?

"_Milton_ coloured, crumpled them up, and yet put them in his Pocket; then askt us what the Lady was like. And herein lay the Pleasantry of the Affair; for I truly told him she had a Pear-shaped Face, lustrous black Eyes, and a Skin that shewed '_il bruno il bel non toglie_;' whereas, _King_, in his Mischief, drew a fancy Portrait, much liker you, _Moll_, than the Incognita, which hit _Milton's_ Taste soe much better, that he was believed for his Payns; and then he declared that I had beene describing the Duenna! . . . Some Time after, when _Milton_ beganne to talk of visiting _Italy_, we bantered him, and sayd he was going to look for the Incognita. He stoode it well, and sayd, 'Laugh on! do you think I mind you? Not a Bit.' I think he did."

Just at this Turn, Mr. _Agnew_ stumbled at something in the long Grass. It proved to be an old, rustic Horse-pistol. His Countenance changed at once from gay to grave. "I thought we had noe such Things hereabouts yet," cried he, viewing it askance.--"I suppose I mighte as well think I had found a Corner of the Land where there was noe originall Sin." And soe, flung it over the Hedge.

----First class Geniuses are alwaies modest, are they?--Then I should say that young _Italian_ Lady's Genius was not of the first Class.

_Oct. 19, 1644_.

Speaking, to-day, of Mr. _Waller_, whom I had once seen at Uncle _John's_, Mr. _Agnew_ sayd he had obtayned the Reputation of being one of our smoothest Versers, and thereupon brought forth one or two of his small Pieces in Manuscript, which he read to _Rose_ and me. They were addrest to the Lady _Dorothy Sydney_; and certainlie for specious Flatterie I doe not suppose they can be matcht; but there is noe Impress of reall Feeling in them. How diverse from my Husband's Versing! He never writ anie mere Love-verses, indeede, soe far as I know; but how much truer a Sence he hath of what is reallie beautifulle and becoming in a Woman than Mr. _Waller_! The Lady _Alice Egerton_ mighte have beene more justlie proud of the fine Things written _for_ her in _Comus_, than the Lady _Dorothea_ of anie of the fine Things written _of_ her by this courtier-like Poet. For, to say that Trees bend down in homage to a Woman when she walks under them, and that the healing Waters of _Tonbridge_ were placed there by Nature to compensate for the fatal Pride of _Sacharissa_, is soe fullesome and untrue as noe Woman, not devoured by Conceite, coulde endure; whereas, the Check that Villanie is sensible of in the Presence of Virtue, is most nobly, not extravagantlie, exprest by _Comus_. And though my Husband be almost too lavish, even in his short Pieces, of classic Allusion and Personation, yet, like antique Statues and Busts well placed in some statelie Pleasaunce, they are alwaies appropriate and gracefulle, which is more than can be sayd of Mr. _Waller's_ overstrayned Figures and Metaphors.

_Oct. 20, 1644_.

News from Home: alle well. _Audrey Paice_ on a Visitt there. I hope _Mother_ hath not put her into my Chamber, but I know that she hath sett so manie Trays full of Spearmint, Peppermint, Camomiles, and Poppie-heads in the blue Chamber to dry, that she will not care to move them, nor have the Window opened lest they shoulde be blown aboute. I wish I had turned the Key on my ebony Cabinett.

_Oct. 24, 1644_.

_Richard_ and _Audrey_ rode over here, and spent a noisie Afternoone. _Rose_ had the Goose dressed which I know she meant to have reserved for to-morrow. _Clover_ was in a Heat, which one would have thoughte he needed not to have beene, with carrying a Lady; but _Audrey_ is heavie. She treats _Dick_ like a boy; and, indeede he is not much more; but he is quite taken up with her. I find she lies in the blue Chamber, which she says smells rarelie of Herbs. They returned not till late, after sundrie Hints from Mr. _Agnew_.

_Oct. 27, 1644_.

Alas, alas, _Robin's_ Silence is too sorrowfullie explained! He hath beene sent Home soe ill that he is like to die. This Report I have from _Diggory_, just come over to fetch me, with whom I start, soe soone as his Horse is bated. _Lord_, have Mercie on _Robin_.

The Children are alle sent away to keep the House quiete.

_At Robin's Bedside,
Saturday Night_.

Oh, woefulle Sight! I had not known that pale Face, had I met it unawares. So thin and wan,--and he hath shot up into a tall Stripling during the last few Months. These two Nights of Watching have tried me sorelie, but I would not be witholden from sitting up with him yet agayn--what and if this Night should be his last? how coulde I forgive myself for sleeping on now and taking my Rest? The first Night, he knew me not; yet it was bitter-sweet to hear him chiding at sweet _Moll_ for not coming. Yesternight he knew me for a While, kissed me, and _fell_ into an heavie Sleepe, with his Hand locked in mine. We hoped the Crisis was come; but 'twas not soe. He raved much of a Man alle in red, riding hard after him. I minded me of those Words, "The Enemy sayd, I will overtake, I will pursue,"--and, noe one being by, save the unconscious Sufferer, I kneeled down beside him, and most earnestlie prayed for his Deliverance from all spirituall Adversaries. When I lookt up, his Eyes, larger and darker than ever, were fixt on me with a strange, wistfulle Stare, but he spake not. From that Moment he was quiete.

The Doctor thought him rambling this Morning, though I knew he was not, when he spake of an Angel in a long white Garment watching over him and kneeling by him in the Night.

_Sunday Evening_.

Poor _Nell_ sitteth up with _Mother_ to-night--right thankfulle is she to find that she can be of anie Use: she says it seems soe strange that she should be able to make any Return for my Kindnesse. I must sleep to-night, that I may watch to-morrow. The Servants are nigh spent, and are besides foolishlie afrayd of Infection. I hope _Rose_ prays for me. Soe drowsie and dulle am I, as scarce to be able to pray for myself.

_Monday_.

_Rose_ and Mr. _Agnew_ come to abide with us for some Days. How thankfulle am I! Tears have relieved me.

_Robin_ worse to-day. _Father_ quite subdued. Mr. _Agnew_ will sit up to-night, and insists on my sleeping.

_Crab_ howled under my Window yesternight as he did before my Wedding. I hope there is nothing in it. _Harry_ got up and beat him, and at last put him in the Stable.

_Tuesday_.

After two Nights' Rest, I feel quite strengthened and restored this Morning. Deare _Rose_ read me to sleep in her low, gentle Voice, and then lay down by my Side, twice stepping into _Robin's_ Chamber during the Night, and bringing me News that all was well. Relieved in Mind, I slept heavilie nor woke till late. Then, returned to the sick Chamber, and found _Rose_ bathing dear _Robin's_ Temples with Vinegar, and changing his Pillow--his thin Hand rested on Mr. _Agnew_, on whom he lookt with a composed, collected Gaze. Slowlie turned his Eyes on me, and faintlie smiled, but spake not.

Poor dear _Mother_ is ailing now. I sate with her and _Father_ some Time; but it was a true Relief when _Rose_ took my Place and let me return to the sick Room. _Rose_ hath alreadie made several little Changes for the better; improved the Ventilation of _Robin's_ Chamber, and prevented his hearing soe manie Noises. Alsoe, showed me how to make a pleasant cooling Drink, which he likes better than the warm Liquids, and which she assures me he may take with perfect Safetie.

_Same Evening_.

_Robin_ vext, even to Tears, because the Doctor forbids the use of his cooling Drink, though it hath certainlie abated the Fever. At his Wish I stept down to intercede with the Doctor, then closetted with my Father, to discourse, as I supposed, of _Robin's_ Symptoms. Insteade of which, found them earnestlie engaged on the never-ending Topick of Cavaliers and Roundheads. I was chafed and cut to the Heart, yet what can poor _Father_ do; he is useless in the Sick-room, he is wearie of Suspense, and 'tis well if publick Affairs can divert him for an odd Half-hour.

The Doctor would not hear of _Robin_ taking the cooling Beverage, and warned me that his Death woulde be upon my Head if I permitted him to be chilled: soe what could I doe? Poor _Robin_ very impatient in consequence; and raving towards Midnight. _Rose_ insisted in taking the last Half of my Watch.

I know not that I was ever more sorelie exercised than during the first Half of this Night. _Robin_, in his crazie Fit, would leave his Bed, and was soe strong as nearlie to master _Nell_ and me, and I feared I must have called _Richard_. The next Minute he fell back as weak as a Child: we covered him up warm, and he was overtaken either with Stupor or Sleep. Earnestlie did I pray it might be the latter, and conduce to his healing. Afterwards, there being writing Implements at Hand, I wrote a Letter to Mr. _Milton_, which, though the Fancy of sending it soon died away, yet eased my Mind. When not in Prayer, I often find myself silently talking to him.

_Wednesday_.

Waking late after my scant Night's Rest, I found my Breakfaste neatlie layd out in the little Ante-chamber, to prevent the Fatigue of going down Stairs. A Handfulle of Autumn Flowers beside my Plate, left me in noe Doubt it was _Rose's_ doing; and Mr. _Agnew_ writing at the Window, tolde me he had persuaded my Father to goe to _Shotover_ with _Dick_. Then laying aside his Pen, stept into the Sick-chamber for the latest News, which was good: and, sitting next me, talked of the Progress of _Robin's_ Illness in a grave yet hopefulle Manner; leading, as he chieflie does, to high and unearthlie Sources of Consolation. He advised me to take a Turn in the fresh Ayr, though but as far as the two Junipers, before I entered _Robin's_ Chamber, which, somewhat reluctantlie, I did; but the bright Daylight and warm Sun had no good Effect on my Spiritts: on the Contrarie, nothing in blythe Nature seeming in unison with my Sadnesse, Tears flowed without relieving me.

----What a solemne, pompous Prigge is this Doctor! He cries "humph!" and "aye!" and bites his Nails and screws his Lips together, but I don't believe he understands soe much of Physick, after alle, as Mr. _Agnew_.

_Father_ came Home fulle of the Rebels' Doings, but as for me, I shoulde hear them thundering at our Gate with Apathie, except insofar as I feared their distressing _Robin_.

_Audrey_ rode over with her Father, this Morn, to make Enquiries. She might have come sooner had she meant to be anie reall Use to a Family she has thought of entering. Had _Rose_ come to our Help as late in the Day, we had been poorlie off.

_Thursday_.

May _Heaven_ in its Mercy save us from the evil Consequence of this new Mischance!--_Richard_, jealous at being allowed so little Share in nursing _Robin_, whom he sayd he loved as well as anie did, would sit up with him last Night, along with _Mother_. Twice I heard him snoring, and stept in to prevail on him to change Places, but coulde not get him to stir. A third Time he fell asleep, and, it seems, _Mother_ slept too; and _Robin_, in his Fever, got out of Bed and drank near a Quart of colde Water, waking _Dick_ by setting down the Pitcher. Of course the Bustle soon reached my listening Ears. _Dick_, to do him Justice, was frightened enough, and stole away to his Bed without a Word of Defence; but poor _Mother_, who had been equallie off her Watch, made more Noise about it than was good for _Robin_; who, neverthelesse, we having warmlie covered up, burst into a profuse Heat, and fell into a sound Sleep, which hath now holden him manie Hours. Mr. _Agnew_ augureth favourablie of his waking, but we await it in prayerfulle Anxietie.

----The Crisis is past! and the Doctor sayeth he alle along expected it last Night, which I cannot believe, but _Father_ and _Mother_ doe. At alle Events, praised be _Heaven_, there is now hope that deare _Robin_ may recover. _Rose_ and I have mingled Tears, Smiles, and Thankgivings; Mr. _Agnew_ hath expressed Gratitude after a more collected Manner, and endeavoured to check the somewhat ill-governed Expression of Joy throughout the House; warning the Servants, but especiallie _Dick_ and _Harry_, that _Robin_ may yet have a Relapse.

With what Transport have I sat beside dear _Robin's_ Bed, returning his fixed, earnest, thankfulle Gaze, and answering the feeble Pressure of his Hand!--Going into the Studdy just now, I found _Father_ crying like a Child--the first Time I have known him give Way to Tears during _Robin's_ Ilnesse. Mr. _Agnew_ presentlie came in, and composed him better than I coulde.

_Saturday_.

_Robin_ better, though still very weak. Had his Bed made, and took a few Spoonfuls of Broth.

_Sunday_.

A very different Sabbath from the last. Though _Robin's_ Constitution hath received a Shock it may never recover, his comparative Amendment fills us with Thankfulnesse; and our chastened Suspense hath a sweet Solemnitie and Trustfullenesse in it, which pass Understanding.

Mr. _Agnew_ conducted our Devotions. This Morning, I found him praying with _Robin_--I question if it were for the first Time. _Robin_ looking on him with eyes of such sedate Affection!

_Thursday_.

_Robin_ still progressing. Dear _Rose_ and Mr. _Agnew_ leave us to-morrow, but they will soon come agayn. Oh faithful Friends!

* * * * * *

_April, 1646_.

Can Aniething equall the desperate Ingratitude of the human Heart? Testifie of it, Journall, agaynst me. Here did I, throughout the incessant Cares and Anxieties of _Robin's_ Sicknesse, find, or make Time, for almoste dailie Record of my Trouble; since which, whole Months have passed without soe much as a scrawled Ejaculation of Thankfullenesse that the Sick hath beene made whole.

Yet, not that that Thankfullenesse hath beene unfelt, nor, though unwritten, unexprest. Nay, O _Lord_, deeplie, deeplie have I thanked thee for thy tender Mercies. And he healed soe slowlie, that Suspense, as 'twere, wore itself out, and gave Place to a dull, mournful Persuasion that an Hydropsia would waste him away, though more slowlie, yet noe less surelie than the Fever.

Soe Weeks lengthened into Months, I mighte well say Years, they seemed soe long! and stille he seemed to neede more Care and Tendernesse; till, just as he and I had learnt to say, "Thy Will, O _Lord_, be done," he began to gain Flesh, his craving Appetite moderated, yet his Food nourished him, and by _God's_ Blessing he recovered!

During that heavie Season of Probation, our Hearts were unlocked, and we spake oft to one another of Things in Heaven and Things in Earth. Afterwards, our mutuall Reserves returned, and _Robin_, methinks, became shyer than before, but there can never cease to be a dearer Bond between us. Now we are apart, I aim to keep him mindfulle of the high and holie Resolutions he formed in his Sicknesse; and though he never answers these Portions of my Letters, I am avised to think he finds them not displeasing.

Now that _Oxford_ is like to be besieged, my Life is more confined than ever; yet I cannot, and will not leave _Father_ and _Mother_, even for the _Agnews_, while they are soe much harassed. This Morning, my Father hath received a Letter from Sir _Thomas Glemham_, requiring a larger Quantitie of winnowed Wheat, than, with alle his Loyaltie, he likes to send.

_April 23, 1646_.

_Ralph Hewlett_ hath just looked in to say, his Father and Mother have in Safetie reached _London_, where he will shortlie joyn them, and to ask, is there anie Service he can doe me? Ay, truly; one that I dare not name--he can bring me Word of Mr. _Milton_, of his Health, of his Looks, of his Speech, and whether . . .

_Ralph_ shall be noe Messenger of mine.

_April 24, 1646_.

Talking of Money Matters this Morning, _Mother_ sayd Something that brought Tears into mine Eyes. She observed, that though my Husband had never beene a Favourite of hers, there was one Thing wherein she must say he had behaved generously: he had never, to this Day, askt _Father_ for the 500 pounds which had brought him, in the first Instance, to _Forest Hill_, (he having promised old Mr. _Milton_ to try to get the Debt paid,) and the which, on his asking for my Hand, _Father_ tolde him shoulde be made over sooner or later, in lieu of Dower.

Did _Rose_ know the Bitter-sweet she was imparting to me, when she gave me, by Stealth as 'twere, the latelie publisht Volume of my Husband's _English_ Versing? It hath beene my Companion ever since; for I had perused the _Comus_ but by Snatches, under the Disadvantage of crabbed Manuscript. This Morning, to use his owne deare Words:--

I sat me down to watch, upon a Bank,
With Ivy canopied, and interwove
With flaunting Honeysuckle, and beganne,
Wrapt in a pleasing Fit of Melancholic,
To meditate.

The Text of my Meditation was this, drawne from the same loved Source:--

This I hold firm:
Virtue may be assayled, but never hurt,
Surprised by unjust Force, but not enthralled:
Yea, even that which Mischief meant most Harm,
Shall, in the happy Trial, prove most Glory.

But who hath such Virtue? have I? hath he? No, we have both gone astray, and done amiss, and wrought sinfullie; but I worst, I first, therefore more neede that I humble myself, and pray for both.

There is one, more unhappie, perhaps, than either. The _King_, most misfortunate Gentleman! who knoweth not which Way to turn, nor whom to trust. Last Time I saw him, methought never was there a Face soe full of Woe.

_May 6, 1646_.

The _King_ hath escaped! He gave Orders overnight at alle the Gates, for three Persons to passe; and, accompanied onlie by Mr. _Ashburnham_, and Mr. _Hurd_, rode forthe at Nightfalle, towards _London_. Sure, he will not throw himselfe into the Hands of Parliament?

_Mother_ is affrighted beyond Measure at the near Neighbourhood of _Fairfax's_ Army, and entreats _Father_ to leave alle behind, and flee with us into the City. It may yet be done; and we alle share her Feares.

_Saturday Even_.

Packing up in greate haste, after a confused Family Council, wherein some fresh Accounts of the Rebels' Advances, broughte in by _Diggory_, made my Father the sooner consent to a stolen Flight into _Oxford_, _Diggory_ being left behind in Charge. Time of Flight, to-morrow after Dark, the _Puritans_ being busie at theire Sermons. The better the Day, the better the Deede.--_Heaven_ make it soe!

_Tuesday_.

_Oxford_; in most most confined and unpleasant Lodgings; but noe Matter, manie better and richer than ourselves fare worse, and our King hath not where to lay his Head. 'Tis sayd he hath turned his Course towards _Scotland_. There are Souldiers in this House, whose Noise distracts us. Alsoe, a poor Widow Lady, whose Husband hath beene slayn in these Wars. The Children have taken a feverish Complaynt, and require incessant tending. Theire Beds are far from cleane, in too little Space, and ill aired.

_May 20, 1646_.

The Widow Lady goes about visiting the Sick, and woulde faine have my Companie. The Streets have displeased me, being soe fulle of Men; however, in a close Hoode I have accompanied her sundrie Times. 'Tis a good Soul, and full of pious Works and Alms-deedes.

_May 27, 1646_.

_Diggory_ hath found his Way to us, alle dismaied, and bringing Dismay with him, for the Rebels have taken and ransacked our House, and turned him forthe. "A Plague on these Wars!" as _Father_ says. What are we to doe, or how live, despoyled of alle? _Father_ hath lost, one Way and another, since the Civil War broke out, three thousand Pounds, and is now nearlie beggared. _Mother_ weeps bitterlie, and _Father's_ Countenance hath fallen more than ever I saw it before. "Nine Children!" he exclaimed, just now; "and onlie one provided for!" His Eye fell upon me for a Moment, with less Tendernesse than usuall, as though he wished me in _Aldersgate Street_. I'm sure I wish I were there,--not because _Father_ is in Misfortune; oh, no.

_June, 1646_.

The Parliament requireth our unfortunate King to issue Orders to this and alle his other Garrisons, commanding theire Surrender; and _Father_, finding this is likelie to take Place forthwith, is busied in having himself comprised within the Articles of Surrender. 'Twill be hard indeed, shoulde this be denied. His Estate lying in the King's Quarters, howe coulde he doe less than adhere to his Majesty's Partie during this unnaturall War? I am sure _Mother_ grudged the Royalists everie Goose and Turkey they had from our Yard.

_June 27, 1646_.

Praised be _Heaven_, deare _Father_ hath just received Sir _Thomas Fairfax's_ Protection, empowering him quietlie and without let to goe forthe "with Servants, Horses, Arms, Goods, etc." to "_London_ or elsewhere," whithersoever he will. And though the Protection extends but over six Months, at the Expiry of which Time, _Father_ must take Measures to embark for some Place of Refuge beyond Seas, yet who knows what may turn up in those six Months! The King may enjoy his Owne agayn. Meantime, we immediatelie leave _Oxford_.

_Forest Hill_.

At Home agayn; and what a Home! Everiething to seeke, everiething misplaced, broken, abused, or gone altogether! The Gate off its Hinges; the Stone Balls of the Pillars overthrowne, the great Bell stolen, the clipt Junipers grubbed up, the Sun-diall broken! Not a Hen or Chicken, Duck or Duckling, left! _Crab_ half-starved, and soe glad to see us, that he dragged his Kennel after him. _Daisy_ and _Blanch_ making such piteous Moans at the Paddock Gate, that I coulde not bear it, but helped _Lettice_ to milk them. Within Doors, everie Room smelling of Beer and Tobacco; Cupboards broken upon, etc. On my Chamber Floor, a greasy steeple-crowned Hat! Threw it forthe from the Window with a Pair of Tongs.

_Mother_ goes about the House weeping. _Father_ sits in his broken Arm-chair, the Picture of Disconsolateness. I see the _Agnews_, true Friends! riding hither; and with them a Third, who, methinks, is _Rose's_ Brother _Ralph_.

_London. St. Martin's le Grand_.

Trembling, weeping, hopefulle, dismaied, here I sit in mine Uncle's hired House, alone in a Crowd, scared at mine owne Precipitation, readie to wish myselfe back, unable to resolve, to reflect, to pray . . .

_Twelve at Night_.

Alle is silent; even in the latelie busie Streets. Why art thou cast down, my Heart? why art thou disquieted within me? Hope thou stille in the _Lord_, for he is the Joy and Light of thy Countenance. Thou hast beene long of learning him to be such. Oh, forget not thy Lesson now! Thy best Friend hath sanctioned, nay, counselled this Step, and overcome alle Obstacles, and provided the Means of this Journey; and to-morrow at Noone, if Events prove not cross, I shall have Speech of him whom my Soul loveth. To-night, let me watch, fast, and pray.

_Friday; at Night_.

How awfulle it is to beholde a Man weepe! mine owne Tears, when I think thereon, well forthe . . .

_Rose_ was a true Friend when she sayd, "Our prompt Affections are oft our wise Counsellors." Soe, she suggested and advised alle; wrung forthe my Father's Consent, and sett me on my Way, even putting Money in my Purse. Well for me, had she beene at my Journey's End as well as its Beginning.

'Stead of which, here was onlie mine Aunt; a slow, timid, uncertayn Soule, who proved but a broken Reed to lean upon.

Soe, alle I woulde have done arighte went crosse, the Letter never delivered, the Message delayed till he had left Home, soe that methought I shoulde goe crazie.

While the Boy, stammering in his lame Excuses, bore my chafed Reproaches the more humblie because he saw he had done me some grievous Hurt, though he knew not what, a Voice in the adjacent Chamber in Alternation with mine Uncle's, drove the Blood of a suddain from mine Heart, and then sent it back with impetuous Rush, for I knew the Accents right well.

Enters mine Aunt, alle flurried, and hushing her Voice. "Oh, _Niece_, he whom you wot of is here, but knoweth not you are at Hand, nor in _London_. Shall I tell him?"

But I gasped, and held her back by her Skirts; then, with a suddain secret Prayer, or Cry, or maybe, Wish, as 'twere, darted up unto Heaven for Assistance, I took noe Thought what I shoulde speak when confronted with him, but opening the Door between us, he then standing with his Back towards it, rushed forth and to his Feet--there sank, in a Gush of Tears; for not one Word coulde I proffer, nor soe much as look up.

A quick Hand was laid on my Head, on my Shoulder--as quicklie removed . . . and I was aware of the Door being hurriedlie opened and shut, and a Man hasting forthe; but 'twas onlie mine Uncle. Meantime, my Husband, who had at first uttered a suddain Cry or Exclamation, had now left me, sunk on the Ground as I was, and retired a Space, I know not whither, but methinks he walked hastilie to and fro. Thus I remained, agonized in Tears, unable to recal one Word of the humble Appeal I had pondered on my Journey, or to have spoken it, though I had known everie Syllable by Rote; yet not wishing myself, even in that Suspense, Shame, and Anguish, elsewhere than where I was cast, at mine Husband's Feet.

Or ever I was aware, he had come up, and caught me to his Breast: then, holding me back soe as to look me in the Face, sayd, in Accents I shall never forget,

"Much I coulde say to reproach, but will not! Henceforth, let us onlie recall this darke Passage of our deeplie sinfulle Lives, to quicken us to _God's_ Mercy, in affording us this Re-union. Let it deepen our Penitence, enhance our Gratitude."

Then, suddainlie covering up his Face with his Hands, he gave two or three Sobs; and for some few Minutes coulde not refrayn himself; but, when at length he uncovered his Eyes and looked down on me with Goodness and Sweetnesse, 'twas like the Sun's cleare shining after Raine. . . .

Shall I now destroy the disgracefulle Records of this blotted Book? I think not; for 'twill quicken me perhaps, as my Husband sayth, to "deeper Penitence and stronger Gratitude," shoulde I henceforthe be in Danger of settling on the Lees, and forgetting the deepe Waters which had nearlie closed over mine Head. At present, I am soe joyfulle, soe light of Heart under the Sense of Forgivenesse, that it seemeth as though Sorrow coulde lay hold of me noe more; and yet we are still, as 'twere, disunited for awhile; for my Husband is agayn shifting House, and preparing to move his increased Establishment into _Barbican_, where he hath taken a goodly Mansion; and, until it is ready, I am to abide here. I might pleasantlie cavill at this; but, in Truth, will cavill at Nothing now.

I am, by this, full persuaded that _Ralph's_ Tale concerning Miss _Davies_ was a false Lie; though, at the Time, supposing it to have some Colour, it inflamed my Jealousie noe little. The cross Spight of that Youth led, under his Sister's Management, to an Issue his Malice never forecast; and now, though I might come at the Truth for Inquiry, I will not soe much as even soil my Mind with thinking of it agayn; for there is that Truth in mine Husband's Eyes, which woulde silence the Slanders of a hundred Liars. Chafed, irritated, he has beene, soe as to excite the sarcastic Constructions of those who wish him evill; but his Soul, and his Heart, and his Mind require a Flighte beyond _Ralph's_ Witt to comprehende; and I know and feel that they are _mine_.

He hath just led in the two _Phillips's_ to me, and left us together. _Jack_ lookt at me askance, and held aloof; but deare little _Ned_ threw his Arms about me and wept, and I did weep too; seeing the which, _Jack_ advanced, gave me his Hand, and finally his Lips, then lookt at much as to say, "Now, Alle's right." They are grown, and are more comely than heretofore, which, in some Measure, is owing to theire Hair being noe longer cut strait and short after the Puritanicall Fashion I soe hate, but curled like their Uncle's.

I have writ, not the Particulars, but the Issue of my Journey, unto _Rose_, whose loving Heart, I know, yearns for Tidings. Alsoe, more brieflie unto my Mother, who loveth not Mr. _Milton_.

_Barbican, September, 1646_.