Chapter V: Part 5

In the Night-season, we take noe Rest; we search out our Hearts, and commune with our Spiritts, and checque our Souls' Accounts, before we dare court our Sleep; but in the Day of Happinesse we cut shorte our Reckonings; and here am I, a joyfulle Wife, too proud and busie amid my dailie Cares to have Leisure for more than a brief Note in my _Diarium_, as _Ned_ woulde call it. 'Tis a large House, with more Rooms than we can fill, even with the _Phillips's_ and their Scholar-mates, olde Mr. _Milton_, and my Husband's Books to boot. I feel Pleasure in being housewifelie; and reape the Benefit of alle that I learnt of this Sorte at _Sheepscote_. Mine Husband's Eyes follow me with Delight; and once with a perplexed yet pleased Smile, he sayd to me, "Sweet Wife, thou art strangelie altered; it seems as though I have indeede lost 'sweet _Moll_' after alle!"

Yes, I am indeed changed; more than he knows or coulde believe. And he is changed too. With Payn I perceive a more stern, severe Tone occasionallie used by him; doubtlesse the Cloke assumed by his Griefe to hide the Ruin I had made within. Yet a more geniall Influence is fast melting this away. Agayn, I note with Payn that he complayns much of his Eyes. At first, I observed he rubbed them oft, and dared not mention it, believing that his Tears on Account of me, sinfulle Soule! had made them smart. Soe, perhaps, they did in the first Instance, for it appears they have beene ailing ever since the Year I left him; and Overstuddy, which my Presence mighte have prevented, hath conduced to the same ill Effect. Whenever he now looks at a lighted Candle, he sees a Sort of Iris alle about it; and, this Morning, he disturbed me by mentioning that a total Darknesse obscured everie Thing on the left Side of his Eye, and that he even feared, sometimes, he might eventuallie lose the Sight of both. "In which Case," he cheerfully sayd, "you, deare Wife, must become my Lecturer as well as Amanuensis, and content yourself to read to me a World of crabbed Books, in Tongues that are not nor neede ever be yours, seeing that a Woman has ever enough of her own!"

Then, more pensivelie, he added, "I discipline and tranquillize my Mind on this Subject, ever remembering, when the Apprehension afflicts me, that, as Man lives not by Bread alone, but by everie Word that proceeds out of the Mouth of _God_, so Man likewise lives not by _Sight_ alone, but by Faith in the Giver of Sight. As long, therefore, as it shall please Him to prolong, however imperfectlie, this precious Gift, soe long will I lay up Store agaynst the Days of Darknesse, which may be many; and whensoever it shall please Him to withdrawe it from me altogether, I will cheerfully bid mine Eyes keep Holiday, and place my Hand trustfullie in His, to be led whithersoever He will, through the Remainder of Life."

A Honeymoon cannot for ever last; nor Sense of Danger, when it long hath past;--but one little Difference from out manie greater Differences between my late happie Fortnighte in _St. Martin's-le-Grand_, and my present dailie Course in _Barbican_, hath marked the Distinction between Lover and Husband. There it was "sweet _Moll_," "my Heart's Life of Life," "my dearest cleaving Mischief;" here 'tis onlie "Wife," "Mistress _Milton_," or at most "deare or sweet Wife." This, I know, is masterfulle and seemly.

Onlie, this Morning, chancing to quote one of his owne Lines,

These Things may startle well, but not astounde,--

he sayd, in a Kind of Wonder, "Why, _Moll_, whence had you that?--Methought you hated Versing, as you used to call it. When learnt you to love it?" I hung my Head in my old foolish Way, and answered, "Since I learnt to love the Verser." "Why, this is the best of Alle!" he hastilie cried, "Can my sweet Wife be indeede Heart of my Heart and Spirit of my Spirit? I lost, or drove away a Child, and have found a Woman." Thereafter, he less often wifed me, and I found I was agayn sweet _Moll_.

This Afternoon, _Christopher Milton_ lookt in on us. After saluting me with the usuall Mixture of Malice and Civilitie in his Looks, he fell into easie Conversation; and presentlie says to his Brother quietlie enough, "I saw a curious Pennyworth at a Book-stall as I came along this Morning." "What was that?" says my Husband, brightening up. "It had a long Name," says _Christopher_,--"I think it was called _Tetrachordon_." My Husband cast at me a suddain, quick Look, but I did not soe much as change Colour; and quietlie continued my Sewing.

"I wonder," says he, after a Pause, "that you did not invest a small Portion of your Capitall in the Work, as you 'ay 'twas soe greate a Bargain. However, Mr. _Kit_, let me give you one small Hint with alle the goode Humour imaginable; don't take Advantage of our neare and deare Relation to make too frequent Opportunities of saying to me Anything that woulde certainlie procure for another Man a Thrashing!"

Then, after a short Silence betweene Alle, he suddainlie burst out laughing, and cried, "I know 'tis on the Stalk, I've seene it, _Kit_, myself! Oh, had you seene, as I did, the Blockheads poring over the Title, and hammering at it while you might have walked to _Mile End_ and back!"

"That's Fame, I suppose," says _Christopher_ drylie; and then goes off to talk of some new Exercise of the Press-licenser's Authoritie, which he seemed to approve, but it kindled my Husband in a Minute.

"What Folly! what Nonsense!" cried he, smiting the Table; "these _Jacks_ in Office sometimes devise such senselesse Things that I really am ashamed of being of theire Party. Licence, indeed! their Licence! I suppose they will shortlie license the Lengthe of _Moll's_ Curls, and regulate the Colour of her Hoode, and forbid the Larks to sing within Sounde of _Bow Bell_, and the Bees to hum o' _Sundays_. Methoughte I had broken _Mabbot's_ Teeth two Years agone; but I must bring forthe a new Edition of my _Areopagitica_; and I'll put your Name down, _Kit_, for a hundred Copies!"

_October, 1646_.

Though a rusticall Life hath ever had my Suffrages, Nothing can be more pleasant than our regular Course. We rise at five or sooner: while my Husband combs his Hair, he commonly hums or sings some Psalm or Hymn, versing it, maybe, as he goes on. Being drest, _Ned_ reads him a Chapter in the _Hebrew_ Bible. With _Ned_ stille at his Knee, and me by his Side, he expounds and improves the Same; then, after a shorte, heartie Prayer, releases us both. Before I have finished my Dressing, I hear him below at his Organ, with the two Lads, who sing as well as Choristers, hymning Anthems and _Gregorian_ Chants, now soaring up to the Clouds, as 'twere, and then dying off as though some wide echoing Space lay betweene us. I usuallie find Time to tie on my Hoode and slip away to the Herb-market for a Bunch of fresh Radishes or Cresses, a Sprig of Parsley, or at the leaste a Posy, to lay on his Plate. A good wheaten Loaf, fresh Butter and Eggs, and a large Jug of Milk, compose our simple Breakfast; for he likes not, as my Father, to see Boys hacking a huge Piece of Beef, nor cares for heavie feeding, himself. Onlie, olde Mr. _Milton_ sometimes takes a Rasher of toasted Bacon, but commonly, a Basin of Furmity, which I prepare more to his Minde than the Servants can.

After Breakfast, I well know the Boys' Lessons will last till Noone. I therefore goe to my Closett Duties after my _Forest Hill_ Fashion; thence to Market, buy what I neede, come Home, look to my Maids, give forthe needfulle Stores, then to my Needle, my Books, or perchance to my Lute, which I woulde faine play better. From twelve to one is the Boys' Hour of Pastime; and it may generallie be sayd, my Husband's and mine too. He draws aside the green Curtain,--for we sit mostly in a large Chamber shaped like the Letter T, and thus divided while at our separate Duties: my End is the pleasantest, has the Sun most upon it, and hath a Balcony overlooking a Garden. At one, we dine; always on simple, plain Dishes, but drest with Neatnesse and Care. Olde Mr. _Milton_ sits at my right Hand and says Grace; and, though growing a little deaf, enters into alle the livelie Discourse at Table. He loves me to help him to the tenderest, by Reason of his Losse of Teeth. My Husband careth not to sitt over the Wine; and hath noe sooner finished the Cheese and Pippins than he reverts to the Viol or Organ, and not onlie sings himself, but will make me sing too, though he sayth my Voice is better than my Ear. Never was there such a tunefulle Spiritt. He alwaies tears himself away at laste, as with a Kind of Violence, and returns to his Books at six o' the Clock. Meantime, his old Father dozes, and I sew at his Side.

From six to eight, we are seldom without Friends, chance Visitants, often scholarlike and witty, who tell us alle the News, and remain to partake a light Supper. The Boys enjoy this Season as much as I doe, though with Books before them, their Hands over their Ears, pretending to con the Morrow's Tasks. If the Guests chance to be musicalle, the Lute and Viol are broughte forthe, to alternate with Roundelay and Madrigal: the old Man beating Time with his feeble Fingers, and now and then joining with his quavering Voice. (By the way, he hath not forgotten, to this Hour, my imputed Crime of losing that Song by _Harry Lawes_: my Husband takes my Part, and sayth it will turn up some Day when leaste expected, like _Justinian's Pandects_.) _Hubert_ brings him his Pipe and a Glass of Water, and then I crave his Blessing and goe to Bed; first, praying ferventlie for alle beneathe this deare Roof, and then for alle at _Sheepscote_ and _Forest Hill_.

On Sabbaths, besides the publick Ordinances of Devotion, which I cannot, with alle my striving, bring myself to love like the Services to which I have beene accustomed, we have much Reading, Singing, and Discoursing among ourselves. The Maids sing, the Boys sing, _Hubert_ sings, olde Mr. _Milton_ sings; and trulie with soe much of it, I woulde sometimes as lief have them quiete. The _Sheepscote_ Sundays suited me better. The Sabbath Exercise of the Boys is to read a Chapter in the _Greek_ Testament, heare my Husband expounde the same; and write out a System of Divinitie as he dictates to them, walking to and fro. In listening thereto, I find my Pleasure and Profitt.

I have alsoe my owne little Catechising, after a humbler Sorte, in the Kitchen, and some poore Folk to relieve and console, with my Husband's Concurrence and Encouragement. Thus, the Sabbath is devoutlie and happilie passed.

My Husband alsoe takes, once in a Fortnighte or soe, what he blythelie calls "a gaudy Day," equallie to his owne Content, the Boys', and mine. On these Occasions, it is my Province to provide colde Fowls or Pigeon Pie, which _Hubert_ carries, with what else we neede, to the Spot selected for our Camp Dinner. Sometimes we take Boat to _Richmond_ or _Greenwich_. Two young Gallants, Mr. _Alphrey_ and Mr. _Miller_, love to joyn our Partie, and toil at the Oar, or scramble up the Hills, as merrilie as the Boys. I must say they deal savagelie with the Pigeon Pie afterwards. They have as wild Spiritts as our _Dick_ and _Harry_, but withal a most wonderfull Reverence for my Husband, whom they courte to read and recite, and provoke to pleasant Argument, never prolonged to Wearinesse, and seasoned with Frolic Jest and Witt. Olde Mr. _Milton_ joyns not these Parties. I leave him alwaies to _Dolly's_ Care, firste providing for him a Sweetbread or some smalle Relish, such as he loves. He is in Bed ere we return, which is oft by Moonlighte.

How soone must Smiles give Way to Tears! Here is a Letter from deare _Mother_, taking noe Note of what I write to her, and for good Reason, she is soe distraught at her owne and deare _Father's_ ill Condition. The Rebels (I must call them such,) have soe stript and opprest them, they cannot make theire House tenantable; nor have Aught to feede on, had they e'en a whole Roof over theire Heads. The Neighbourhoode is too hot to holde them; olde Friends cowardlie and suspicious, olde and new Foes in League together. Leave _Oxon_ they must; but where to goe? _Father_, despite his broken Health and Hatred of the Foreigner, must needes depart beyond Seas; at leaste within the six Months; but how, with an emptie Purse, make his Way in a strange Land, with a Wife and seven Children at his Heels? Soe ends _Mother_ with a "_Lord_ have Mercy upon us!" as though her House were as surelie doomed to destruction as if it helde the Plague.

Mine Eyes were yet swollen with Tears, when my Husband stept in. He askt, "What ails you, precious Wife?" I coulde but sigh, and give him the Letter. Having read the Same, he says, "But what, my dearest? Have we not ample Room here for them alle? I speak as to Generalls, you must care for Particulars, and stow them as you will. There are plenty of small Rooms for the Boys; but, if your Father, being infirm, needes a Ground-floor Chamber, you and I will mount aloft."

I coulde but look my Thankfullenesse and kiss his Hand. "Nay," he added, with increasing Gentlenesse, "think not I have seene your Cares for my owne Father without loving and blessing you. Let Mr. _Powell_ come and see us happie; it may tend to make him soe. Let him and his abide with us, at the leaste, till the Spring; his Lads will studdy and play with mine, your Mother will help you in your Housewiferie, the two olde Men will chirp together beside the _Christmasse_ Hearth; and, if I find thy Weeklie Bills the heavier 'twill be but to write another Book, and make a better Bargain for it than I did for the last. We will use Hospitalitie without grudging; and, as for your owne Increase of Cares, I suppose 'twill be but to order two Legs of Mutton insteade of one!"

And soe, with a Laugh, left me, most joyfulle, happy Wife! to drawe Sweete out of Sowre, Delighte out of Sorrowe; and to summon mine owne Kindred aboute me, and wipe away theire Tears, bid them eat, drink, and be merry, and shew myselfe to them, how proud, how cherished a Wife!

Surelie my Mother wille learne to love _John Milton_ at last! If she doth not, this will be my secret Crosse, for 'tis hard to love dearlie two Persons who esteeme not one another. But she will, she must, not onlie respect him for his Uprightnesse and Magnanimitie, coupled with what himselfe calls "an honest Haughtinesse and Self-esteeme," but _like_ him for his kind and equall Temper, (_not_ "harsh and crabbed," as I have hearde her call it,) his easie Flow of Mirthe, his Manners, unaffectedlie cheerfulle; his Voice, musicall; his Person, beautifull; his Habitt, gracefull; his Hospitalitie, naturall to him; his Purse, Countenance, Time, Trouble, at his Friend's Service; his Devotion, humble; his Forgivenesse, heavenlie! May it please _God_, that my Mother shall like _John Milton_! . . .

DEBORAH'S DIARY

A FRAGMENT

_Bunhill Fields,
Feb. 17, 1665_.

. . . Something geniall and soothing beyond ordinarie in the Warmth and fitfulle Lighte of the Fire, made us delaye, I know not how long, to trim the Evening Lamp, and sitt muzing in Idlenesse about the Hearth; _Mary_ revolving her Thumbs and staring at the Embers; _Anne_ quite in the Shadowe, with her Arms behind her Head agaynst the Wall; Father in his tall Arm-chair, quite uprighte, as his Fashion is when very thoughtfulle; I on the Cushion at his Feet, with mine Head on's Knee and mine Eyes on his Shadowe on the Wall, which, as it happened, shewed in colossal Proportions, while ours were like Pigmies. Alle at once he exclaims, "We all seem very comfortable--I think we shoulde reward ourselves with some Egg-flip!"

And then offered us Pence for our Thoughts. _Anne_ would not tell hers; _Mary_ owned she had beene trying to account for the Deficiencie of a Groat in her housekeeping Purse; and I contest to such a Medley, that Father sayd I deserved _Anne's_ Penny in addition to mine own, for my Strength of Mind in submitting such a Farrago of Nonsense to the Ridicule of my Friends.

Soe then I bade for his Thoughts, and he sayd he had beene questioning the Cricket on the Hearth, upon the Extinction of the Fairies; and I askt, Did anie believe in 'em now? and he made Answer, Oh, yes, he had known a Serving-Wench in Oxon depone she had beene nipped and haled by 'em; and, of Crickets, he sayd he had manie Times seene an old Wife in _Buckinghamshire_, who was soe pestered by one, that she cried, "I can't heare myself talk! I'd as lief heare Nought as heare thee;" soe poured a Kettle of boiling Water into the Cranny wherein the harmlesse Creature lay, and scalded it to Death; and, the next Day, became as deaf as a Stone, and remained soe ever after, a Monument of God's Displeasure, at her destroying one of the most innocent of His Creatures.

After this, he woulde tell us of this and that worn-our [Transcriber's note: worn-out?] Superstition, as o' the Friar's Lantern, and of Lob-lie-by-the-Fire, untill _Mary_, who affects not the Unreall, went off to make the Flip. _Anne_ presentlie exclaimed, "Father! when you sayd--

'The Shepherds on the Lawn,
Or e'er the Point of Dawn,
Sat simply chatting in a rustic Row,
Full little thought they then
That the mighty _Pan_
Was kindly come to live with them, below,'

whom meant you by _Pan_? Sure, you would not call our Lord by the Name of a heathen Deity?"

"Well, Child," returns Father, "you know He calls Himself a Shepherd, and was in truth what _Pan_ was onlie supposed to be, the God of Shepherds; albeit _Lavaterus_, in his Treatise _De Lemuribus_, doth indeede tell us, that by _Pan_ some understoode noe other than the great _Sathanas_, whose Kingdom being overturned at _Christ's_ Coming, his inferior Demons expelled, and his Oracles silenced, he is some sort was himself overthrown. And the Story goes, that, about the Time of our Lord's Passion, certain Persons sailing from _Italy_ to _Cyprus_, and passing by certayn Islands, did heare a Voice calling aloud, _Thamus, Thamus_, which was the Name of the Ship's Pilot, who, making Answer to the unseene Appellant, was bidden, when he came to _Palodas_, to tell that the great God _Pan_ was dead; which he doubting to doe, yet for that when he came to _Palodas_, there suddainlie was such a Calm of Wind that the Ship stoode still in the Sea, he was constrayned to cry aloud that _Pan_ was dead; whereupon there were hearde such piteous Shrieks and Cries of invisible Beings, echoing from haunted Spring and Dale, as ne'er smote human Ears before nor since: Nymphs and Wood-Gods, or they that had passed for such, breaking up House and retreating to their own Place. I warrant you, there was Trouble among the Sylvan People that Day--Satyrs hirsute and cloven-footed Fauns.

". . . Many a Time and oft have _Charles Diodati_ and I discust fond Legends, such as this, over our Winter Hearth; with our Chestnuts blackening and crackling on the Hob, and our o'er-ripe Pears sputtering in the Fire, while the Wind raved without among the creaking Elms. . . ."

Father still hammering on old Times, and his owne young Days, I beganne to frame unto myself an Image of what he might then have beene; piecing it out by Help of his Picture on the Wall; but coulde get no cleare Apprehension of my Mother, she dying soe untimelie. Askt him, Was she beautifulle? He sayth, Oh yes, and clouded over o' the suddain; then went over her Height, Size, and Colour, etc.; dwelt on the Generalls of personal Beauty, how it shadowed forthe the Mind, was desirable or dangerous, etc.

On dispersing for the Night, he noted, somewhat hurt, _Anne's_ abrupt Departure without kissing his Hand, and sayd, "Is she sulky or unwell?"

In our Chamber, found her alreadie half undrest, a reading of her Bible; sayd, "Father tooke your briefe Good-nighte amisse." She made Answer shortlie, "Well, what neede to marvell; he cannot put his Arm about me without being reminded how mis-shapen I am."

Poor _Nan_! we had been speaking of faire Proportions, and had thoughtlessly cut her to the Quick; yet Father _knoweth_, though he cannot _see_, that her Face is that of an Angel.

About One o' the Clock, was rouzed (though _Anne_ continued sleeping soundly) by hearing Father give his three Signal-taps agaynst the Wall. Half drest, and with bare Feet thrust into Slippers, I hastily ran in to him; he cried, "_Deb_, for the Love of Heaven get Pen and Paper to sett Something down." I replied, "Sure, Father, you gave me quite a Turn; I thought you were ill," and sett to my Task, marvellous ill-conditioned, expecting some Crotchet had taken him concerning his Will.

'Stead of which, out comes a Volley of Poetry he had lain a brewing till his Brain was like to burst; and soe I, in my thin Night Cotes, must needs jot it all down, for Feare it should ooze away before Morning. Sure, I thought he never woulde get to the End, and really feared at firste he was crazing a little, but indeede all Poets doe when the Vein is on 'em. At length, with a Sigh of Relief, he says, "That will doe--Good-night, little Maid." I coulde not help saying, "'Twas a lucky Thing for you, Father, that Step-mother was from Home;" he laught, drew me to him, kissed me, and sayd, "Why, your Face is quite cold--are your Feet unslippered?"

"Unstockinged," I replyed.

"I am quite concerned I knew it not sooner," he rejoyned, in an Accent of such Kindnesse, that all my Vexation melted away, and I e'en protested I did not mind it a Bit.

"Since it is soe," quoth he, "I shall the less mind having Recourse to you agayn; onlie I must insist on your taking Care to wrap yourself up more warmly, since you need not feare my being ill."

I bit my Lip, and onlie saying Good-night, stole off to my warm Bed.

Returning from Morning Prayers with _Anne_ this Forenoon, I found _Mary_ mending a Pen with the utmost Imperturbabilitie, and Father with a Heat-spot on his Cheek, which betraied some Inquietation. Being presentlie alone with him, "_Mary_ is irretrievably heavy," sighs he, "she would let the finest Thought escape one while she is blowing her Nose or brushing up the Cinders. I am confident she has beene writing Nonsense even now--Do run through it for me, _Deb_, and lett me heare what it is."

I went on, enough to his Satisfaction, till coming to

"Bring to their Sweetness no Sobriety."

"Sobriety?" interrupted he, "Satiety, Satiety! the Blockhead!--and that I should live to call a Woman soe.--Sobriety, indeede! poor _Mary_, her Wits must have been wool-gathering. 'Bring to their Sweetness no Sobriety!' What Meaning coulde she possibly affix to such Folly?"

"Sure, Father," sayd I, "here's Enough that she could affix no Meaning to, nor I neither, without your condescending to explayn it--Cycle, Epicycle, nocturnal Rhomb."

"Well, well," returned he, beginning to smile, "'twas unlikely she shoulde be with such Discourse delighted. Not capable, alas! poor _Mary's_ Ear, of what is high. And yet, thy Mother, Child, woulde have stretched up towards Truths, though beyond her Reach, yet to the inquiring Mind offering rich Repast. And now write Satiety for Sobriety, if you love me."

While erasing the obnoxious Word, I cried, "Dear Father, pray answer me one Question--What is a Rhomb?"

"A Rhomb, Child?" repeated he, laughing, "why, a Parallelogram or quadrangular Figure, consisting of parallel Lines, with two acute and two obtuse Angles, and formed by two equal and righte Cones, joyned together at their Base! There, are you anie wiser now? No, little Maid, 'tis best for such as you

Not with perplexing Thoughts
To interrupt the Sweet of Life, from which
God hath bid dwell far off all anxious Cares,
And not molest us, unless we ourselves
Seek them, with wandering Thoughts and Notions vain.'"

_April 19, 1665_.

I heartilie wish our Stepmother were back, albeit we are soe comfortable without her! _Mary_, taking the Maids at unawares last Night, found a strange Man in the Kitchen. Words ensued; he slunk off like a Culprit, which lookt not well, while _Betty Fisher_, brazening it out, woulde have at firste that he was her Brother, then her Cousin, and ended by vowing to be revenged on _Mary_ when she lookt not for it. I would have had _Mary_ speak to Father, but she will not; perhaps soe best. _Polly_ is in the Sulks to Daye, as well as _Betty_, saying, "As well live in a Nunnerie."

_April 20, 1665_.

When the Horse is stolen, shut the Stable Door. _Mary_ locked the lower Doors, and brought up the Keys herselfe, yestereven at Duske. Anon dropped in Doctor _Paget_, Mr. _Skinner_, and Uncle _Dick_, soe that we had quite a merrie Party. Dr. _Paget_ sayd how that another Case of the Plague had occurred in _Long Acre_; howbeit, this onlie makes three, soe that we trust it will not spread, though 'twoulde be unadvised to goe needlesslie into the infected Quarter. Uncle _Dick_ would fayn take us Girls down to _Oxon_, but Father sayd he could not spare us while Mother was at _Stoke_; and that there was noe prevalent Distemper, this bracing Weather, in our Parish. Then felle a musing; and Uncle _Dick_, who loves a Jeste, outs with a large brown Apple from's Pocket, and holds it aneath Father's Nose. Sayth Father, rousing, "How far Phansy goes! thy Voice, _Dick_, carried me back to olde Dayes, and affected, I think, even my Nose; for I could protest I smelled a _Sheepscote_ Apple." And, feeling himselfe touched by its cold Skin, laught merrilie, and ate it with a Relish; saying, noe Sorte ever seemed unto him soe goode--he had received manie a Hamper of 'em about Christmasse. After a Time, alle but he and I went up, and out on the Leads, to see the Comet; and we two sitting quite still, and Father, doubtlesse, supposed to be alone, I saw a great round-shouldered mannish Shadowe glide acrosse the Passage, and hearde the Front-door Latch click. Darted forthe, but too late, and then into the Kitchen; with some Warmth chid _Betty_ for soe soone agayn disobeying Orders, and threatened to tell my Mamma. She cryed pertlie, "Law, Miss _Deb_, I wish to Goodnesse your Mamma was here to heare you, for I'd sooner have one Mistress than three. A Shadowe, indeed! I'm sure you saw no Substance--very like, 'twas a Spirit; or, liker still, onlie the Cat. Here, Puss, Puss!" . . . and soe into the Passage, as though to look for what she was sure not to find. I had noe Patience with her; but, returning to Father, askt him if he had not heard the Latch click? He sayd, No; and, indeede, I think, had been dozing; soe then sate still, and bethoughte me what 'twere best to doe. Three Brains are too little agaynst one that is resolved to cheat. 'Tis noe Goode complayning to a Man; he will not see, even though unafflicted like Father, who cannot. Men's Minds run on greater Things, and soe they are fretted at domestic Appeals, and generallie give Judgment the wrong Way. Thus we founde it before, poor motherlesse Girls, to our Cost; and I reallie believe it was more in Kindnesse for us than himself, that Father listened to the Doctor's Overtures in behalfe of Miss _Minshull_; for what Companion can soe illiterate a Woman be to him? But he believed her gentle, hearde that she was a good Housewife, and apprehended she would be kind to us. . . . Alas the Daye! What Tears we three shed in our Chamber that Night! and wished, too late, we had ne'er referred to him a Grievance, nor let him know we had a Burthen. Soone we founde King _Log_ had been succeeded by King _Stork_; soone made common Cause, tryed our Strength and found it wanting, and soone submitted to our new Yoke, and tried to make the best of it.

Yes, that is the onlie Course; we alle feele it; onlie, as Ill-luck will have it, we do not always feel it simultaneouslie. _Anne_, mayhap, has one of her dogged humours; _Mary_ and I see how much better 'twould be, did she overcome it, or shut herself up till in better Temper. _Mary_ is crabbed and exacting; _Anne_ and I cannot put her straight. Well for us when we succeed just soe far as to keep it from the Notice of Father. Thus we rub on; I wonder if we ever shall pull all together?

_April 22, 1665_.

Like unto a wise Master-builder, who ordereth the Disposition of eache Stone till the whole Building is fitly compacted together, so doth Father build up his noble Poem, which groweth under our Hands. Three Nights have I, without Complaynt, lost my Rest while writing at his Bedside; this hath made me yawnish in the Day-time, or, as Mother will have it, lazy. However, I bethink me of _Damo_, Daughter of _Pythagoras_.

Mother came Home yesterday, and _Betty_, the Picture of Neatnesse, tooke goode Heede to be the first to welcome her, with officious Smiles, and Prayses of her Looks. For my Part, I thoughte it fullsome, but knew her Motives better than Mother, who took it alle in goode Part. Indeede, noe one would give this Girl credit for soe false a Heart; she is pretty, modest looking, and for a while before my Father's Marriage was as great a Favourite with _Mary_ as now with my Mother; flattered her the same, and tempted her to idle gossiping Confidences. She was slow to believe herself cheated; and when 'twas as cleare as Day, could not convince Father of it.

On _Mary's_ mentioning this Morning (unadvisedlie, I think,) the Kitchen Visitor, Mother made short Answer--

"Tilly-vally! bad Mistresses make bad Maids; there will be noe such Doings now, I warrant. . . . I am sure, my Dear," appealing to Father, "you think well in the main of _Betty_?"

"Yes," says he, smiling, "I think well of both my _Betties_."

"At any rate," persists _Mary_, "the Man coulde not be at once her Cousin and her Brother."

"Why no," replies Father, "therein she worsened her Story, by saying too much, as _Dorothea_ did, when she pretended to have heard of the Knight of _La Mancha's_ Fame, when she landed at _Ossuna_; which even a Madman as he was, knew to be noe Sea-port. It requires more Skill than the General possess, to lie with a Circumstance."

Had a Valentine this Morning, though onlie from_ Ned Phillips_, whom Mother is angry with, for filling my Head betimes with such Nonsense. Howbeit, I am close on sixteen.

_Mary_ was out of Patience with Father yesterday, who, after keeping her a full Hour at _Thucydides_, sayd,

"Well, now we will refresh ourselves with a Canto of _Ariosto_," which was as much a sealed Book to her as t'other. Howbeit, this Morning he sayd,

"Child, I have noted your Wearinesse in reading the dead Languages to me; would that I needed not to be beholden unto any, whether bound to me by Blood and Affection or not, for the Food that is as needfulle to me as my daily Bread. Nevertheless, that I be not further wearisome unto thee, I have engaged a young Quaker, named _Ellwood_, to relieve thee of this Portion of thy Task, soe that thou mayst have the more Leisure to enjoy the glad Sunshine and fair Sights I never more shall see."

_Mary_ turned red, and dropt a quiet Tear; but alas, he knew it not.

"One part of my Children's Burthen, indeed," he continued, "I cannot, for obvious Reasons, relieve them of--they must still be my Secretaries, for in them alone can I confide. Soe now to your healthfulle Exercises and fitting Recreations, dear Maids, and Heaven's Blessing goe with you!"

We kissed his Hand and went, but our Walk was not merry.

_Ellwood_ is a young Man of seven-and-twenty, of good Parts, but pragmaticalle; Son of an Oxfordshire Justice of the Peace, but not on good Terms with him, by Reason of his religious Opinions, which the Father affects not.

_April 23, 1665_.

Spring is coming on apace. Father even sits between the wood Fire and the open Casement, enjoying the mild Air, but it is not considered healthfulle.

"My Dear," says Mother to him this Morning, after some Hours' Absence, "I have bought me a new Mantle of the most absolute Fancy. 'Tis sad-coloured, which I knew you would approve, but with a Garniture of Orange-tawny; three Plaits at the Waist behind, and a little stuck-up Collar."

"You are a comical Woman," says Father, "to spend soe much Money and Mind on a Thing your Husband will never see."

"Oh! but it cost no Money at alle," says she; "that is the best of it."

"What is the best of it?" rejoyned he. "I suppose you bartered for it, if you did not buy it--you Women are always for cheap Pennyworths. Come, what was the Ransom? One of my old Books, or my new Coat?"

"Your last new Coat may be called old too, I'm sure," says Mother; "I believe you married me in it."

"Nay," says Father, "and what if I did? 'Twas new then, at any rate; and the Cid _Ruy Diaz_ was married in a black Satin Doublet, which his Father had worn in three or four Battles."

"A poor Compliment to the Bride," says Mother.

"Well, but, dear _Betty_, what has gone for this copper-coloured Mantle?--_Sylvester's_ 'Du Bartas?'" . . .

"Nothing of the sort,--nothing you value or will ever miss. An old Gold Pocket-piece, that hath lain perdue, e'er soe long, in our Dressing-table Drawer."

He smote the Table with his Hand. "Woman!" cried he, changing Colour, "'twas a Medal of Honour given to my Father by a Polish Prince! It should have been an Heir-loom. There, say noe more about it now. 'Tis in your Jew's Furnace ere this. 'The Fining-pot for Silver and the Furnace for Gold, but . . . the Lord trieth the Spirits.' Ay me! mine is tried sometimes."

Uncle _Kit_ most opportunelie entering at this Moment, instantaneouslie changed his Key-note.

"Ha, _Kit_!" he cries, gladly, "here you find me, as usual, maundering among my Women. Welcome, welcome! How is it with you, and what's the News?"

"Why, the News is, that the Plague's coming on amain," says my Uncle; "they say it's been smouldering among us all the Winter, and now it's bursting out."

"Lord save us!" says Mother, turning pale.

"You may say that," says Uncle, "but you must alsoe try to save yourselves. For my Part, I see not what shoulde keep you in Town. Come down to us at _Ipswich_; my Brother and you shall have the haunted Chamber; and we can make plenty of Shakedowns for the Girls in the Atticks. Your Maids can look after Matters here. By the way, you have a Merlin's Head sett up in your Neighbourhood; I saw your black-eyed Maid come forthe of it as I passed."

Mother bit her lip; but Father broke forthe with, "What can we expect but that a judiciall Punishment shoulde befall a Land where the Corruption of the Court, more potent and subtile in its Infection than anie Pestilence, hath tainted every open Resorte and bye Corner of the Capital and Country? Our Sins cry aloud; our Pulpits, Counters, and Closetts alike witness against us. 'Tis, as with the People soe with the Priest, as with the Buyer soe with the Seller, as with the Maid soe with the Mistress. Plays, Interludes, Gaming-houses, Sabbath Debauches, Dancing-rooms, Merry-Andrews, Jack Puddings, Quacks, false Prophesyings--"

"Ah! we can excuse a little Bitternesse in the losing Party now," says Uncle; "but do you seriously mean to say you think us more deserving of judiciall Punishment under the glorious Restoration than during the unnatural Rebellion? Sure you have had Time to cool upon that."

"Certainly I mean to say so," answers Father. "During the unnatural Rebellion, as you please to call it, the Commonwealth, whose Duration was very short--"

"Very short, indeed," observes Uncle, coughing. "Only from _Worcester_ Fight, Fifty-one, to _Noll's_ Dissolution of the Long Parliament, Fifty-three; yet quite long enough to see what it was."

"I deny that, as well as your Dates," says Father. "We enjoyed a Commonwealth under the Protector, who, had he not assumed that high Office which gave him his Name, would have lacked Opportunity of showing that he was capable of filling the most exalted Station with Vigour and Ability. He secured a wise Peace, obtained the respectfull Concurrence of foreign Powers, filled our domestick Courts with upright Judges, and respected the Rights of Conscience."

"Why, suppose I admitted all this, which I am far from doing," says Uncle, "what was he but a King, except by just Title? What had become, meantime, of your Commonwealth?"

"Softly, _Kit_," returns Father. "The Commonwealth was progressing, meantime, like a little Rivulet that rises among the Hills, amid Weeds and Moss, and gradually works itself a widening Channel, filtering over Beds of Gravel, and obstructed here and there by Fragments of Rock, that sorely chafe and trouble it, at the very Time that, to the distant Observer, it looks most picturesque and beautiful."

"Well, I suppose I was never distant enough to see it in this picturesque Point of View," says Uncle. "Legitimate Monarchy was, to my Mind, the Rock over which the brawling River leaped awhile, and which, in the End, successfully opposed it; and as to your _Oliver_, he was a cunning Fellow, that diverted its Course to turn his own Mill."

"They that can see any Virtue or Comeliness in a _Charles Stuart_," says Father, "can hardly be expected to acknowledge the rugged Merits of a plain Republican."

"Plain was the very last Thing he was," says Uncle, "either in speaking or dealing. He was as cunning as a Fox, and as rough as a Bear."

"We can overlook the Roughness of a good Man," says Father; "and if a Temper subject to hasty Ebullitions is better than one which, by Blows and hard Usage, has been silenced into Sullenness, a Republic is better than an absolute Sovereignty."

"Aye; and if a Temper under the Control of Reason and Principle," rejoins Uncle, "is better than one unaccustomed to restrain its hasty Ebullitions, a limited Monarchy is better than a Republic."

"But ours is not limited enough," persists Father.

"Wait awhile," returns Uncle, "till, as you say, we have filtered over the Gravel a little longer, and then see how clear we shall run."

"I don't see much present Chance of it," says Father. "Such a King, and such a Court!"

"The King and Court will soon shift Quarters, I understand," says Uncle; "for Fear of this coming Sickness. 'Twould be a rare Thing, indeed, for the King to take the Plague!"

"Why not the King, as well as any of his Commons?" says Father. "Tush! I am tired of the Account People make of him. 'Is _Philip_ dead?' 'No; but he is sick.' Pray, what is it to us, whether _Philip_ is sick or not?"

"Which of the _Phillipses_, my Dear?" asks Mother. "Did you say _Jack Phillips_ was sick?"

"No, dear _Betty_; only a King of _Macedon_, who lived a long Time ago."

"Doctor _Brice_ commends you much for your grounding the _Phillipses_ so excellently in the Classicks," says Uncle.

"He should think whether his Praise is much worth having," says Father, rather haughtily. "The young Men were indebted to me for a competent Knowledge of the learned Tongues--no more."

"Nay, somewhat more," rejoined Uncle; "and the Praise of a worthy Man is surely always worth having."

"If he be our Superior in the Thing wherein he praises us," returned Father. "His Praise is then a Medal of Reward; but it should never be a current Coin, bandied from one to another. And the Inferior may never praise the Superior."

Uncle was silent a Moment, and then softly uttered, "My Soul, praise the Lord."

"There you have me," says Father, instantly softening. "Laud we the Name of the Lord, but let's not laud one another."

"Ah! I can't wait to argue the Point," says Uncle. "I must back to the _Temple_."

"Stay a Moment, _Kit_. Have you seen 'the Mysterie of Jesuitism?'"

"No; have _you_ seen the Proof that _London_, not _Rome_, is the City on seven Hills? _Ludgate Hill, Fishstreet Hill, Dowgate Hill, Garlick Hill, Saffron Hill, Holborn Hill_, and _Tower Hill_. Clear as Day!"

"Where's _Snow Hill_? Come, don't go yet. We will fight over some of our old Feuds. There will be a roast Pig on Table at one o'clock, and, I fancy, a Tansy-pudding."

"_I_ can't fancy Tansy-pudding," says Uncle, shuddering; "I cannot abide Tansies, even in Lent. Besides, I'm expecting a Reference."

"Oh! very well; then drop in again in the Evening, if you will; and very likely you will meet _Cyriack Skinner_. And you shall have cold Pig for Supper, not forgetting the Current-sauce, _Wiltshire_ Cheese, Carraways, and some of your own Wine."

"Well, that sounds good. I don't mind if I do," says Uncle; "but don't expect me after nine."

"I'm in Bed by nine," says Father.

"Oh, oh!" says Uncle; and with a comical Look at us, he went off.

Uncle _Kit_ did not come last Night; I did not much expect he woulde; nor Mr. _Skinner_. Insteade, we had Dr. _Paget_, and one or two others, who talked dolefully alle the Evening of Signs of the Times, till they gave me the Horrors. One had seen a Ghost, or at least, seen a Crowd looking at a Ghost, or for a Ghost, in _Bishopgate_ Churchyard, that comes out and points hither and thither at future Graves. Another had seene an Apparition, or Meteor, somewhat of human or angelic Shape in the Air. Father laught at the first, but did not so discredit _in toto_ the other; observing that _Theodore Beza_ believed at one Time in astrologick Signs; and thought that the Appearance of the notable Star in _Cassiopeiea_ betokened the universal End. And as for Angels, he sayd they were, questionless, ministering Spiritts, not onlie sent forth to minister unto the Heirs of Salvation, but sometimes Instruments of God's Wrath, to execute Judgments upon ungodly Men, and convince them of the ill Deeds which they have ungodly committed; as during the Pestilence in _David's_ Time, when the King saw the Destroying Angel standing between Heaven and Earth, having a drawn Sword in his Hand, stretched over Jerusalem. Such Delegates we might, without Fanaticism, suppose to be the generall, though unseen. Instruments of public Chastisements; and, for our particular Comfort, we had equall Reason to repose on the Assurance, that even amid the Pestilence that walked in Darkness, and the Destruction that wasted by Noon-day, the Angels had charge over each particular Believer, to keep them in all their Ways. Adding, that, though he forbore, with _Calvin_, to pronounce that each Man had his own Guardian Spiritt,--a Subject whereon Scripture was silent,--we had the Lord's own Word for it, that little Children were the particular Care of holy Angels.

And this, and othermuch to same Purport, had soe soothing and sedative an Effect, that we might have gone to Bed in peacefull Trust, onlie that Dr. _Paget_ must needs bring up, after Supper, the correlative Theme of the great _Florentine_ Plague, and the poisoned Wells, which sett Father off upon the Acts of Mercy of Cardinal _Borromeo,--_not him called St. _Charlest_ but the Cardinal-Archbishop,--and soe, to the Pestilence at _Geneva_, when even the Bars and Locks of Doors were poisoned by a Gang of Wretches, who thought to pillage the Dwellings of the Dead; till we all went to Bed, moped to Death.

Howbeit, I had been warmly asleep some Hours, (more by Token I had read the ninety-first Psalm before getting into Bed), when _Anne_, clinging to me, woke me up with a shrill Cry. I whispered fearfullie, "What is't?--a Thief under the Bed?"

"No, no," she replies. "Listen!"

Soe I did for a While; and was just going to say, "You were dreaming," when a hollow Voice in the Street, beneath our Window, distinctlie proclaimed,

"Yet forty Days, and _London_ shall be destroyed! I will overturn, overturn, overturn it! Oh! Woe, Woe, Woe!"

I sprang out of Bed, fell over my Shoes, got up again, and ran to the Window. There was Nothing to be seen but long, black Shadows in the Streets. The Moon was behind the House. After looking forthe awhile, with Teeth chattering, I was about to drop the Curtain, when, afar off, whether in or over some distant Quarter of the Town, I heard the same Voice, clearlie enow to recognise the Rhythm, though not the Words. I crept to Bed, chilled and awe-stricken; yet, after cowering awhile, and saying our Prayers, we both fell asleep.

The first Sounde this Morning was of Weeping and Wayling. Mother had beene scared by the Night-warning, and wearied Father to have us alle into the Countrie. He thought the Danger not yet imminent, the Expense considerable, and the Outcry that of some crazy Fanatick; ne'erthelesse, consented to employ _Ellwood_ to look us out some country Lodgings; having noe Mind to live upon my Uncle at _Ipswich_.

_Mary_, strange to say, had heard noe Noise; nor had the Maids; but Servants always sleep heavily.

Some of the Pig having beene sett aside for my Uncle, and Mother fancying it for her Breakfast, was much putt out, on going into the Larder, to find it gone. _Betty_, of course, sayd it was the Cat. Mother made Answer, she never knew a Cat partiall to cold Pig; and the Door having been latched, was suspicious of a Puss in Boots.

_Betty_ cries--"Plague take the Cat!"

Mother rejoyns--"If the Plague does take him, I shall certainly have him hanged."

"Then we shall be overrun with Rats," says _Betty_.

"I shall buy Ratsbane for them," says Mother; and soe into the Parlour, where Father, having hearde the whole Dialogue, had been greatlie amused.

At Twilight, she went to look at the Pantry Fastenings herselfe, but, suddenlie hearing a dolorous Voyce either within or immediately without, cry, "Oh! Woe, Woe!" she naturallie drew back. However, being a Woman of much Spiritt, she instantlie recovered herselfe, and went forward; but no one was in the Pantry. The Occurrence, therefore, made the more Impression; and she came up somewhat scared, and asked if we had heard it.

"My Dear," says Father, "you awoke me in the midst of a very interesting Colloquy between _Sir Thomas More_ and _Erasmus_. However, I think a Dog barked, or rather howled, just now. Are you sure the words were not 'Bow, wow, wow?'"

Another Night-larum; but onlie from Father, who wanted me to write for him,--a Task he has much intromitted of late. Mother was hugelie annoyed at it, and sayd,--"My Dear, I am persuaded that if you would not persist in going to Bed soe earlie, you woulde not awake at these untimelie Hours."

"That is very well for you to say," returned he, "who can sew and spin the whole Evening through; but I, whose long entire Day is Night, grow soe tired of it by nine o'clock, that I am fit for Nothing but Bed."

"Well," says she, "I often find that brushing my Hair wakes me up when I am drowsy. I will brush yours To-morrow Evening, and see if we cannot keep you up a little later, and provide sounder Rest for you when you do turn in."

Soe, this Evening, she casts her Apron over his Shoulders, and commences combing his Hair, chatting of this and that, to keep him in good Humour.

"What beautiful Hair this is of yours, my Dear!" says she; "soe fine, long, and soft! scarcelie a Silver Thread in it. I warrant there's manie a young Gallant at Court would be proud of such."

"Girls, put your Scissars out of your Mother's Way," says Father; "she's a perfect _Dalilah_, and will whip off Half my Curls before I can count Three, unless you look after her. And I," he adds, with a Sigh, "am, in one Sort, a _Samson_."

"I'm sure _Dalilah_ never treated _Samson's_ old Coat with such Respect," says Mother, finishing her Task, resuming her Apron, and kissing him. "Soe now, keep your Eyes open--I mean, keep awake, till I bring you a Gossip's Bowl."

When she was gone, Father continued sitting bolt upright, _his Eyes_, as she sayd (his beautifull Eyes!), open and wakefull, and his Countenance composed, yet grave, as if his Thoughts were at least as far off as _Tangrolipix_ the _Turk_. All at once, he says,

"_Deb_, are my Sleeves white at the Elbow?"

"No, Father."

"Or am I shiny about the Shoulders?"

"No, Father."

"Why, then," cries he, gaily, this Coat can't be very old, however long I may have worn it. I'll rub on in it still; and your Mother and you will have the more Money for copper-coloured Clokes. But don't, at any Time, let your Father get shabby, Children. I would never be threadbare nor unclean. Let my Habitt be neat and spotless, my Bands well washed and uncrumpled, as becometh a Gentleman. As for my Sword in the Corner, your Mother may send that after my Medal as soon as she will. The _Cid_ parted with his _Tizona_ in his Life-time; soe a peaceable Man, whose Eyes, like the Prophet _Abijah's_, are set, may well doe the same."

_May 12, 1665_.

Yesterday being the _Lord's Day_, Mother was hugely scared during Morning Service, by seeing an old Lady put her Kerchief to her Nose, look hither and thither, and, finally, walk out of Church. One whispered another, "A Plague-Smell, perchance." "No Doubt on't;" and soe, one after another left, as, at length, did Mother, who declared she beganne to feel herself ill. On the Cloth being drawn after Dinner, she made a serious Attack on my Father, upon the Subject of Country Lodgings, which he stoutly resisted at first, saying,

"If, Wife and Daughters, either the Danger were so immediate, or the Escape from it so facile as to justify these womanish Clamours, Reason would that I should listen to you. But, since that the Lord is about our Bed, and about our Path, in the Capital no less than in the Country, and knoweth them that are his, and hideth them under the Shadowe of his Wings--and since that, if the Fiat be indeed issued agaynst us, no Stronghold, though guarded with triple Walls of Circumvallation, like _Ecbatana_, nor pastoral Valley, that might inspire _Theocritus_ with a new Idyl, can hide us, either by its Strength or its Obscurity, from the Arrow of the Destroying Angel; ye, therefore, seeing these Things cannot be spoken agaynst, ought to be quiet, and do Nothing rashly. Wherefore, I pray you, Wife and Daughters, get you to your Knees, before Him who alone can deliver you from these Terrors; and having cast your Burthen upon Him, eat your Bread in Peacefulness and Cheerfulness of Heart."