Chapter VI: Part 6

However, we really are preparing for Country Quarters, for young _Ellwood_ hath this Morning brought us Note of a rustick Abode near his Friends, the _Penningtons_, at _Chalfont_, in _Bucks_, the Charges of which suit my Father's limited Means; and we hope to enter on it by the End of the Week. _Ellwood's_ Head seems full of _Guli Springett_, the Daughter of Master _Pennington's_ Wife by her first Husband. If Half he says of her be true, I shall like to see the young Lady. We part with one Maid, and take the other. _Betty_ was very forward to be left in Charge; and protest herself willing to abide any Risk for the Sake of the Family; more by Token she thoughte there was no Risk at alle, having boughte a sovereign Charm of Mother _Shipton_. Howbeit, on inducing her, much agaynst her Will, to open it, Nought was founde within but a wretched little Print of a Ship, with the Words, scrawled beneath it, "By Virtue of the above Sign." Father called her a silly Baggage, and sayd, he was glad, at any Rate, there was no Profanity in it; but, in Spite of _Betty_, and _Polly_, and Mother too, he is resolved to leave the House under the sole Charge of Nurse _Jellycott_. Indeed, there Will probably be more rather than less Work to do at _Chalfont_; but Mother means to get a little Boy, such as will be glad to come for Threepence a-Week, to fetch the Milk, post the Letters, get Flour from the Mill and Barm from the Brewhouse, carry Pies to the Oven, clean Boots and Shoes, bring in Wood, sweep up the Garden, roll the Grass, turn the Spit, draw the Water, lift Boxes and heavy Weights, chase away Beggars and infectious Persons, and any little odd Matter of the Kind.

Mother has drowned the Cats, and poisoned the Rats. The latter have revenged 'emselves by dying behind the Wainscot, which makes the lower Part of the House soe unbearable, 'speciallie to Father, that we are impatient to be off. Mother, intending to turn _Chalfont_ into a besieged Garrison, is laying in Stock of Sope, Candles, Cheese, Butter, Salt, Sugar, Raisins, Pease, and Bacon; besides Resin, Sulphur, and Benjamin, agaynst the Infection; and Pill Ruff, and _Venice_ Treacle, in Case it comes.

As to Father, his Thoughts naturallie run more on Food for the Mind; soe he hath layd in goodlie Store of Pens, Paper, and Ink, and sett me to pack his Books. At first, he sayd he should onlie require a few, and good ones. These were all of the biggest; and three or four Folios broke out the Bottom of the Box. So then Mother sayd the onlie Way was to cord 'em up in Sacking; which greatlie relaxed the Bounds of his Self-denial, and ended in his having a Load packed that would break a Horse's Back. Alsoe, hath had his Organ taken to Pieces; but as it must goe in two severall Loads, and we cannot get a bigger Wagon,--everie Cart and Carriage, large or little, being on such hard Duty in these Times,--I'm to be left behind till the Wagon returns, and till I've finished cataloguing the Books; after which _Ned Phillips_ hath promised to take me down on a Pillion.

Nurse _Jellycott_, being sent for from _Wapping_, looked in this Forenoon, for Father's Commands. Such Years have passed since we lost Sight of her, that I remembered not her Face in the least, but had an instant Recollection of her chearfulle, gentle Voyce. Spite of her Steeple Hat, and short scarlet Cloke, which gave her an antiquated Ayr, her cleare hazel Eyes and smooth-parted Silver Locks gave her an engaging Appearance. The World having gone ill with her, she thankfullie takes Charge of the Premises; and though her Eyes filled with Tears, 'twas with looking at Father. He, for his Part, spake most kindlie, and gave her his Hand, which she kissed.

They are all off. Never was House in such a Pickle! The Carpets rolled up, but the Boards beneath 'em unswept, and black with Dirt; as Nurse gladlie undertook everie Office of that Kind, and sayd 'twould help to amuse her when we were away. But she has tidied up the little Chamber over the House-door she means to occupy, and sett on the Mantell a Beau-pot of fresh Flowers she brought with her. The whole House smells of aromatick Herbs, we have burnt soe many of late for Fumigation; and, though we fear to open the Window, yet, being on the shady Side, we doe not feel the Heat much.

Yesterday, while in the Thick of packing, and Nobody being with Father but me, a Messenger arrived, with a few Lines, writ privily by a Friend of poor _Ellwood_, saying he was in _Aylesbury_ Gaol, not for Debt, but for his Opinions, and praying Father to send him twenty or thirty Shillings for immediate Necessaries. Mother having gone to my Lord Mayor for Passports, and Father having long given up to her his Purse, . . . (for us Girls, we rarelie have a Crown,) he was in a Strait, and at length said,

"This poor young Fellow must not be denied. . . . A Friend in Need is a Friend indeed. . . . Tie on thy Hood, Child, and step out with the Volume thou hadst in thy Hand but now, to the Stall at the Corner. See _Isaac_ himself; shew him _Tasso's_ Autograph on the Fly-leaf, and ask him for thirty or forty Shillings on it till I come back; but bid him on no Pretence to part with it."

I did so, not much liking the Job--there are often such queer People there; for old _Isaac_ deals not onlie in old Books, but old Silver Spoons. Howbeit, I took the Volume to his Shop, and as I went in, _Betty_ came out! What had been _her_ Businesse, I know not; but she lookt at me and my Book as though she should like to know _mine_; but, with her usual demure Curtsey, made Way for me, and walked off. I got the Money with much Waiting, but not much other Dimcultie, and took it to Father, who sent twenty Shillings to _Ellwood_, and gave me five for my Payns. Poor _Ellwood_! he hath good Leisure to muse now on _Guli Springett_.

Mother was soe worried by the Odour of the Rats, that they alle started off a Day sooner than was first intended, leaving me merelie a little extra Packing. Consequence was, that this Morning, before Dawn, being earlie at my Task, there taps me at the Window an old Harridan that Mother can't abide, who is always a crying, "Anie Kitchen-stuff have you, Maids?"

Quoth I, "We've Nothing for you."

"Sure, my deary," answers she, in a cajoling voyce, "there's the Dripping and Candles you promised me this Morning, along with the Pot-liquor."

"Dear Heart, Mrs. _Deb_!" says Nurse, laughing, "there is, indeed, a Lot of Kitchen-stuff hid up near the Sink, which I dare say your Maid told her she was to have; and as it will only make the House smell worse, I don't see why she should not have it, and pay for it too."

Soe I laught, and gave it her forthe, and she put into my Hand two Shillings; but then says, "Why, where's the Cheese?"

"We've no Cheese for you," sayd I.

"Well," says she, "it's a dear Bargayn; but . . ." peering towards me, "is t'other Mayd gone, then?"

"Oh, yes! both of 'em," says I; "and I'm the Mistress," soe burst out a laughing, and shut the Window, while she stumped off, with Something between a Grunt and a Grone. Of course, I gave the Money to Nurse.

We had much Talk overnight of my poor dear Mother. Nurse came to her when _Anne_ was born, and remained in the Family till after the Death of Father's second Wife. _She_ was a fayr and delicate Gentlewoman, by Nurse's Account, soft in Speech, fond of Father, and kind to us and the Servants; but all Nurse's Suffrages were in Favour of mine own loved Mother.

I askt Nurse how there came to have beene a Separation betweene Father and Mother, soone after their Marriage. She made Answer, she never could understand the Rights of it, having beene before her Time; but they were both so good, and tenderly affectioned, she never could believe there had beene anie reall Wrong on either Side. She always thought my Grandmother must have promoted the Misunderstanding. Men were seldom fond of their Mothers-in-law. He was very kind to the whole Family the Winter before _Anne_ was born, when, but for him, they would not have had a Roof over their Heads. Old Mr. _Powell_ died in this House, the very Day before _Christmas_, which cast a Gloom over alle, insomuch that my Mother would never after keep _Christmas Eve_; and, as none of the Puritans did, they were alle of a Mind. My other Grandfather dropt off a few Months after; he was very fond of Mother. At this time Grandmother was going to Law for her Widow's Thirds, which was little worth the striving for, except to One soe extreme poor. Yet, spite of Gratitude and Interest, she must quarrel with Father, and remove herself from his House; which even her own Daughter thought very wrong. Howbeit, Mother would have her first Child baptized after her; and sent her alle the little Helps she could from her owne Purse, from Time to Time, with Father's Privity and Concurrence. He woulde have his next Girl called _Mary_, after Mother; though the Name _she_ went by with him was "Sweet _Moll_;"--'tis now always "Poor _Moll_," or "Your Mother." Her health fayled about that Time, and they summered at _Forest Hill_--a Place she was always hankering after; but when she came back she told Nurse she never wished to see it agayn, 'twas soe altered. Father's Sight was, meantime, getting worse and worse. She read to him, and wrote for him often. He had become _Cromwell's_ Secretary, and had received the public Thanks of the Commonwealth. . . . Great as his Reputation was at Home, 'twas greater Abroad; and Foreigners came to see him, as they still occasionally doe, from all Parts. My Mother not onlie loved him, but was proud of him. All her Pleasures were in Home. From my Birth to that of the little Boy who died, her Health and Spiritts were good; after that they failed; but she always tried to be chearfull with Father. She read her _Bible_ much, and was good to the Poor. Nurse says 'twas almost miraculous how much Good she did at how little Cost, except of Forethought and Trouble; and all soe secretlie. She began to have an Impression she was for an early Grave, but did not seem to lament it. One Night, Nurse being beside her, awoke her from what she supposed an uneasie Dream, as she was crying in her Sleep; but as soone as she oped her Eyes, she looked surprised, and said it was a Vision of Peace. She thought the Redeemer of alle Men had been talking with her. Face to Face, as a Man talketh with his Friend, and that she had fallen at his Feet in grateful Joy, and was saying, "Oh! I can't express . . . I can't express--"

About a Week after, she dyed, without any particular Warning, except a short Prick or two at the Heart. My Father was by. 'Twas much talked of at the Time, she being soe young.

Discoursing of this and that, 'twas Midnight ere we went to Bed.

_Chalfont_.

ARRIVED at last; after what a Journey! _Ned_ had sent me Word Overnight to expect, this Forenoon, a smart young Cavalier, on a fine prancing Steed, with rich Accoutrements. Howbeit, Cousin is neither smart nor handsome; and, at the Time specifyde, there was brought up to the Door an old white Horse, blind of one Eye, with an aquiline Nose, and, I should think, eight Feet high. The Bridle was diverse from the Pillion, which was finely embroidered, but tarnish, with the Stuffing oozing out in severall Places. Howbeit, 'twas the onlie Equipage to be hired in the Ward, for Love or Money . . . so _Ned_ sayd. . . . And he had a huge Pair of gauntlett Gloves, a Whip, that was the smartest Thing about him, and a kind of Vizard over his Nose and Mouth, which, he sayd, was to prevent his being too alluring; but I know 'twas to ward off Infection. I had meant to be brave; and Nurse and I had brushed up the green camblet Skirt, but the rent Mother had made in it would show; however, Nurse thought that, when I was up she could conceal it with a Corking-pin. Thus appointed, _Ned_ led the Way, saying, the onlie Occasion on which a Gentleman needed not to excuse himself to a Lady for going first, was when they were to ride a Pillion. Noe more jesting when once a-Horseback; for, after pacing through a few deserted Streets, we found ourselves amidst such a Medly of Carts, Coaches, and Wagons, full of People and Goods, all pouring out of Town, that _Ned_ had enough to do to keep cleare of 'em, and of the Horsemen and empty Vehicles coming back for fresh Loads. Dear Heart! what jostling, cursing, and swearing! And how awfull the Cause! Houses padlocked and shuttered wherever we passed, and some with red Crosses on the Doors. At the first Turnpike 'twas worst of all--a complete Stoppage; Men squabbling, Women crying, and much good Daylight wasted. Howbeit, _Ned_ desired me to keep my Mouth shut, my Eyes open, and to trust to his good Care; and, by Dint of some shrewd Pilotage, weathered the Strait; after which, our old Horse, whose Paces, to do him Justice, proved very easie, took longer Steps than anie other on the Road, by which Means we soon got quit of the Throng; onlie, we continuallie gained on fresh Parties,--some dreadfully overloaded, some knocked up alreadie, some baiting at the Roadside, and many of the poorer Sort erecting 'emselves rude Tents and Cabins under the Hedges. Soon I began to rejoyce in the green Fields, and sayd how sweet was the Air; and _Ned_ sayd, "Ah!--a Brick-kiln," and signed at one with his Whip. But I knew the Wind came t'other Way; and e'en Bricks are better than dead Rats.

Half-way to _Amersham_ found _Hob Carter's_ Wagon, with Father's Organ in't, sticking in the Hedge, without Man or Horse; and, by-and-by, came upon _Hob_ himself, with a Party, carousing. _Ned_ gave it him well, and sent him back at double-quick Time. 'Twas too bad. He had left Town overnight, and promised to be at _Chalfont_ by Noon. I should have beene fain to keep him in Advance of us; howbeit, we were forct to leave him in the Rear; and, about two Miles beyond _Amersham_, we turned off the high Road into a country Lane, which soon brought us to a small retired Hamlet, shaded with Trees, and surrounded with pleasant Meadows and Orchards, which was no other than _Chalfont_. There was Mother near the Gate, putting some fine Things to bleach on a Sweetbriar-hedge. _Ned_ stopt to chat with her, and learn where he might put his Horse, while I went to seek Father; and soon found him, sitting up in a strait Chair, outside the Garden-door. Sayd, kissing him, "Dear Father, how is't with you? Are you comfortable here?"

"Anything but that," replies he, very shortlie. "I am not in any Way at my Ease in this Place. I can get no definite Notion of what 'tis like, and what Notion I have is unfavourable. To finish all, they have stuck me up here, like a Bottle in the Smoke."

"But here is a Cushion for you," quoth I, running in and back agayn; "and I will set your Seat in the Sun, and out of the Wind, and put your Staff within Reach."

"Thanks, dear _Deb_. And now, look about, Child, and tell me, with Precision, what the Place is like."

Soe I told him 'twas an irregular two-storied Tenement, parcel Wood, parcel Brick, with a deep Roof of old Tiles that had lost their Colour, and were curiouslie variegated with green and yellow Moss; and that the Eaves were dentilled, with Birds' Nests built in 'em, and a big Honeysuckle growing to the upper Floor; and there was a great and a little Gable, and a heavy Chimney-stack; a Casement of four Compartments next the Door, and another of two over it; four Lattice-windows at t'other End. In Front, a steep Meadow, enamelled with King-cups and Blue-bells; alongside the Gable-end, a Village Road, with deep Cart-ruts, and Hawthorn Hedges. Onlie one small Dwelling at hand, little better than a crazy Haystack; Sheep in the Field, Bees in the Honeysuckle; and a little rippling Rivulet flowing on continually.

"Why, now you have sett me quite at Ease!" cries he, turning his bright Eyes thankfully towards the Sky. "I begin to like the Place, and to bless the warm Sun and pure Air. Ha! so there is a rippling Rivulet, that floweth on continually! . . . Lord, forgive me for my peevish Petulance . . . for forgetting that I could still hear the Lark sing her Morning Hymn, scent the Meadow-sweet and new-mown Hay, detect the Bee at his Industry, and the Woodpecker at his Mischief, discern the Breath of Cows, and hear the Lambs bleat, and the Rivulet ripple continually! Come! let us go and seek _Ned_."

And, throwing his Arm about me, draws me to him, saying, "This is my best Walking-stick," and steps forward briskly and fearlessly.

Truly, I think _Ned_ loves him as though he were his own Father; and, indeed, he hath scarce known any other. Kissing his Hand reverently, he says,--"Honoured _Nunks_, how fares it with you? Do you like _Chalfont_?"

"Indeed I do, _Ned_," responds Father heartily. "'Tis a little _Zoar_, whither I and my fugitive Family have escaped from the wicked City; and, I thank God, my Wife has no Mind to look back."

"We may as well go in now," says Mother.

"No, no," says Father; "I feel there is an Hour of Summer's Sunset still left. We will abide where we are, and keep as long as we can out of the Smell of your Soapsuds. . . . Let's sit upon the Ground."

"And tell strange Stories of the Deaths of Kings," says _Ned_, laughing,

"That was the Saying, _Ned_, of one who writ much well, and much amiss."

"Let's forgive what he writ amiss, for the Sake of what he writ well," says _Ned_.

"That will I never," says Father. "If paltry Wits cannot be holy and witty at the same Time, that does not hold good with nobler Spiritts. . . . If it did, they had best never be witty at all. Thy Brother _Jack_ hath yet to learn that Strength is not Coarseness."

_Ned_ softly hummed--

"Sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's Child!"

"Ah! you may quote me against myself," says Father; "you may quote _Beza_ against _Beza_, and _Erasmus_ against _Erasmus_; but that will not shake the eternal Laws of Purity and Truth. But, mind you, _Ned_, never did anie reach a more lofty or tragic Height than this Child of Fancy; never did any represent Nature more purely to the Life; and e'en where the Polishments of Art are most wanting in him, he pleaseth with a certain wild and native Elegance."

"And what have you now in Hand, Uncle?" _Ned_ asks.

"_Firmianus Chlorus_," says Father. "But I don't find Much in him."

"I mean, what of your own?"

"Oh!" laughing; "Things in Heaven, _Ned_, and Things on Earth, and Things under the Earth. The old Story, whereof you have alreadie seen many Parcels; but, you know, my Vein ne'er flows so happily as from the autumnal to the vernal Equinox. Howbeit, there is Something in the Quality of this Air would arouse the old Man of _Chios_ himself."

"Sure," cries _Ned_, "you have less Need than any blind Man to complayn, since you have but closed your Eyes on Earth to look on Heaven!"

Father paused; then, stedfastly, in Words I've since sett down, sayd:--

"When I consider how my Light is spent,
Ere half my Days, in this dark World and wide,
And that one Talent, which is Death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true Account, lest He, returning, chide;
'Doth God exact Day-labour, Light denied?'
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That Murmur, soon replies,--'God doth not need.
Either Man's Work, or his own Gifts. Who best
Bear his mild Yoke, they serve him best. His State
Is kingly; Thousands at his Bidding speed,
And post o'er Land and Ocean without Rest,
They also serve who only stand and wait.'"

. . . We were all quiet enough for a while after this . . . _Ned_ onlie breathing hard, and squeezing Father's Hand. At length, Mother calls from the House, "Who will come in to Strawberries and Cream?"

"Ah!" says Father, "that is not an ill Call. And when we have discussed our neat Repast, thou, _Ned_, shalt touch the Theorbo, and let us hear thy balmy Voice. Time was, when thou didst sing like a young Chorister."

. . . Just as we were returning to the House, _Mary_ ran forth, crying, "Oh, _Deb_! you have not seen our Cow. She has just been milked, and is being turned out, even now, to the Pasture. See, there she is; but all the Others have gone out of Sight, over the Hill."

Mother observed, "Left to herself, she will go, her own Calf speedily seeking."

"My Dear," says Father, "that's a Hexameter: do try to make another."

"Indeed, Mr. _Milton_, I know nothing of Hexameters or Hexagons either: 'tis enough for me to keep all straight and tight. Let's to Supper."

_Anne_ had crushed his Strawberries, and mixed them with Cream, and now she put his Spoon into his Hand, saying, in jest, "Father, this is Angels' Food, you know. I Have pressed the Meath from many a Berry, and tempered dulcet Creams."

"Hush, you Rogue," says he; "_Ned_ will find us out."

"Is Uncle still at his great Work?" whispers Cousin to Mother.

"Indeed, I know not if you call it such," she replies, in the same Undertone. "He hath given over all those grand Things with hard Names, that used to make him so notable abroad, and so esteemed by his own Party at Home; and now only amuses himself by making the _Bible_ a Peg to hang his Idlenesse upon."

Sure what a Look _Ned_ gave her! Fearful lest Father should overhear (for Blindness quickens the other Senses), he runs up to the Bookshelf, and cries, "Why, Uncle, you have brought down Plenty of Entertainment with you! Here are _Plato, Xenophon_, and _Sallust, Homer_ and _Euripides, Dante_ and _Petrarch, Chaucer_ and _Spenser_, . . . and . . . oh, oh! you read Plays sometimes, though you were so hard upon _Shakspeare_. . . . Here's 'La Scena Tragica d' _Adamo_ ed _Eva_,' dedicated to the Duchess of _Mantua_."

"Come away from that Corner, _Ned,"_ says Father; "there's a Rat behind the Books; he will bite your Fingers--I hear him scratching now. You had best attack your Strawberries."

"I think this Sort will preserve well," says Mother. "_Betty_, in 'lighting from the Coach, must needs sett her Foot on the only Pot of Preserve I had left; which she had stuffed under the Seat, instead of carrying it, as she was bidden, in her Hand."

"How fine it is, though," says Father, laughing, "to peacock it in a Coach now and then! _Pavoneggiarsi in un Cocchio_! Only, except for the Bravery of it, I doubt if little _Deb_ were not better off on her Pillion. I remember, on my Road to _Paris_, the Bottom of the Caroche fell out; and there sate I, with _Hubert_, who was my Attendant, with our Feet dangling through. Even the grave _Grotius_ laughed at the Accident."

"Was _Grotius_ grave?" says _Ned_.

"Believe me, he was," says Father. "He had had Enough to make him so. One feels taller in the Consciousness of having known such a Man. He was great in practical! Things; he was also a profound Scholar, though he made out the fourth Kingdom in _Daniel's_ Prophecy to be the Kingdoms of the _Lagidae_ and the _Seleucidae_; which, you know, _Ned_, could not possibly be."

Chatting thus of this and that, we idled over Supper, had some Musick, and went to Bed. And soe much for the only Guest we are like to have for some Months.

_Anne_ told me, at Bed-time, of the Journey down. The Coach, she sayd, was most uncomfortable, Mother having so over-stuffed it. For her Share, she had a Knife-box under her Feet, a Plate-basket at her Back, a Bird-cage bobbing over her Head, and a Lapfull of Crockery-ware. Providentially, _Betty_ turned squeamish, and could not ride inside, soe she was put upon the Box, to the great Comfort of all within. Father, at the Outset, was chafed and captious, but soon settled down, improved the Circumstances of the Times, made Jokes on Mother, recalled old Journies to _Buckinghamshire_, and, finally, set himself to silent Self-communion, with a pensive Smile on his Face, which, as _Anne_ said, let her know well enow what he was about. Arrived at _Chalfont_, her first Care was to make him comfortable; while Mother, _Mary_, and _Betty_ were turning the House upside down; and in this her Care, she so well succeeded, that, to her Dismay, he bade her take Pen and Ink, and commenced dictating to her as composedly as if they were in _Bunhill Fields_. This was somewhat inopportune, for every Thing was to seek and to set in Order; and, indeed, Mother soon came in, all of a Heat, and sayd, "I wonder, my Dear, you can keep _Nan_ here, at such idling, when she has her Bed to make, and her Box to unpack." Father let her go without a Word, and sate in peacefull Cogitation all the Rest of the Evening--the only Person at Leisure in the House. Howbeit, the next Time he heard Mother chiding--which was after Supper--at _Anne_, for trying to catch a Bat, which was a Creature she longed to look at narrowly, he sayd, "My Dear, we should be very cautious how we cut off another Person's Pleasures. 'Tis an easy Thing to say to them, 'You are wrong or foolish,' and soe check them in their Pursuit; but what have we to give them that will compensate for it? How many harmless Refreshments and Refuges from sick or tired Thought may thus be destroyed! We may deprive the Spider of his Web, and the Robin of his Nest, but can never repair the Damage to them. Let us live, and let live; leave me to hunt my Butterfly, and _Anne_ to catch her Bat."

Our Life here is most pleasant. Father and I pass almost the whole of our Time in the open Air--he dictating, and I writing; while Mother and _Mary_ find 'emselves I know not whether more of Toyl or Pastime, within Doors,--washing, brewing, baking, pickling, and preserving; to say Nought of the Dairy, which supplies us with endless Variety of Country Messes, such as Father's Soul loveth. 'Tis well we have this Resource, or our Bill of Fare would be somewhat meagre; for the Butcher kills nothing but Mutton, except at _Christ-mass_. Then, we make our own Bread, for we now keep strict Quarantine, the Plague having now so much spread, that there have e'en been one or two Cases in _Chalfont_. The only One to seek for Employment has been poor _Anne_, whose great Resources at Home have ever been Church-going and visiting poor Folk. She can do neither here, for we keep close, even on the Sabbath; and she can neither read to Father, take long, lonely Rambles, nor help Mother in her Housewifery. Howbeit, a Resource hath at length turned up; for the lonely Cot (which is the only Dwelling within Sight) has become the Refuge of a poor, pious Widow, whose only Daughter, a Weaver of Gold and Silver Lace, has been thrown out of Employ by the present Stagnation of all Business. _Anne_ picked up an Acquaintance with 'em shortly after our coming; and, being by Nature a Hoarder, in an innocent Way, so as always to have a few Shillings by her for charitable Uses, when _Mary_ and I have none, she hath improved her Commerce with _Joan Elliott_ to that Degree, as to get her to teach her her pretty Business, at the Price of the Contents of her little Purse. So these two sit harmoniously at their Loom, within Earshot of Father and me, while he dictates to me his wondrous Poem. We are nearing the End of it now, and have reached the Reconciliation of _Adam_ and _Eve_, which, I think, affected him a good deal, and abstracted his Mind all the Evening; for why, else, should he have so forgotten himself as to call me sweet _Moll_? . . . _Mary_ lookt up, thinking he meant her; but he never calls her _Moll_ or _Molly_; and, I believe, was quite unaware he had done so to me: but it showed the Course his Mind was taking.

This Morning, I was straying down a Blackthorn Lane, when a blue-eyed, fresh-coloured young Lady, in a sad-coloured Skirt, and large-flapped Beaver, without either Feather or Buckle, swept by me on a small white Palfrey. She held a Bunch of Tiger Lilies in her Hand, the gayety of which contrasted strangelie enow with her sober Apparell; and I wondered why a peculiar Classe of Folks should deem they please God by wearing the dullest of Colours, when He hath arrayed the Flowers of the Field in the liveliest of Hues. Somehow, I conceited her to be Mistress _Gulielma Springett_--and so, indeed, she proved; for, on reaching Home after a lengthened Ramble, I saw the Tiger Lilies lying on the Table, and found she had spent a full Hour with Father, who much relished her Talk. Sure, she might have brought a blind Man Flowers that had some Fragrance, however dull of hue.

To-day, as we were sitting under the Hedge, we heard a rough Voice shouting, "Hoy! hoy! what are you about there?" To which another Man's Voice, just over against us, deprecatingly replied, "No Harm, I promise you, Master. . . . We have clean Bills of Health; and my Wife and I, Foot-sore and hungry, do but Purpose to set up our little Cabin against the Bank, till the Sabbath is overpast."

"But you must set it up Somewhere else," cries the other, who was the _Chalfont_ Constable; "for we _Chalfont_ Folks are very particular, and can't have Strangers come harbouring here in our Highways and Hedges,--dying, and making themselves disagreeable."

"But we don't mean to die or be disagreeable," says the other. "We are on our Way to my Wife's Parish; and, sure, you cannot stop us on the King's Highway."

"Oh! but we can, though," says the Constable. "And, besides, this is not the King's Highway, but only a Bye-way, which is next to private Property; and the Gentleman at present in Occupation of that private Property will be highly and justly offended if you go to give him the Plague."

"That's me," says Father. "Do tell him, _Deb_, not to be so hard on the poor People, but to let them abide where they are till the Sabbath is over. I dare say they have clean Bills of Health, as they state, and the Spot is so lonely, they need not be denied Fire and Water, which is next to Excommunication."

So I parleyed with _John Constable_, and he parleyed with the Travellers, who really had Passports, and seemed Honest as well as Sound. So they were permitted, without Let or Hindrance, to erect their little Booth; and in a little while they had collected Sticks enough to light a Fire, the Smoke of which annoyed us not, because we were to Windward.

"What have we for Dinner To-day?" says Father.

"A cold Shoulder of Mutton," says Mother, who had thrown 'em a couple of Cabbages.

"Well," says Father, "'twas to a cold Shoulder of Mutton that _Samuel_ set down _Saul_; and what was good enough for a Prophet may well content a Poet. I propose, that what we leave of ours To-day, should be given to these poor People for their Sabbath's Dinner; and I, for one, shall eat no Meat To-day."

In fact, none did but _Mary_ and Mother, who find fasting not good for their Stomachs; soe _Anne_, who is the most fearlesse of us all, handed the Joint over to them, with some broken Bread and Dripping, which was most thankfully received. In Truth, I believe them harmless People, for they are now a singing Psalms.

_Ellwood_ has turned up agayn, to the great Pleasure of Father, who delights in his Company, and likes his Reading better than ours, though he _will_ call Pater Payter. Consequence is, I have infinitely more Leisure, and can ramble hither and thither, (always shunning Wayfarers), and bring Home my Lap full of Flowers and Weeds, with rusticall Names, such as _Ragged Robin, Sneezewort, Cream-and-Codlins, Jack-in-the-Hedge_, or _Sauce-alone_. Many of these I knew not before; but I describe them to Father, and he tells me what they are. He hath finished his Poem, and given it _Ellwood_ to read, in the most careless Fashion imaginable, saying, "You can take this Home, and run through it at your Leisure. I should like to hear your Judgment on it some Time or other." Nor do I believe he has ever since given himself an uneasy Thought of what that Judgment may be, nor what the World at large may think of it. His Pleasure is not in Praise but Production; the last makes him now and then a little feverish; the other, or its want, never. Just at last, 'twas hard Work to us both; he was like a Wheel running downhill, that must get to the End before it stopped. Mother scolded him, and made him promise he would leave off for a Week or so; at least, she says he did, and he says he did not, and asks her whether, if the Grass had promised not to grow she would believe it.

Poor _Ellwood's_ Love-bonds prove rather more irksome to him than those of his Gaol; he hath renewed his Intercourse with our Friends at the _Grange_, only to find a dangerous Rival stept into his Place, in the Person of one _William Penn_--in fact, I suspect Mistress _Guli_ is engaged to him already. _Ellwood_ hath been closetted with my Father this Morning, pouring out his Woes--methinks he must have been to seek for a Confidant! When he came forth, the poor young Man's Eyes were red. I cannot but pity him, tho' he is such a Formalist.

I wish _Anne_ were a little more demonstrative; Father would then be as assured of her Affection as of mine, and treat her with equal Tenderness. But, no, she cannot be; she will sitt and look piteously on his blind Face, but, alas! he cannot see that; and when he pours forth the full Tide of Melody on his Organ, and hymns mellifluous Praise, the Tears rush to her eyes, and she is oft obliged to quit the Chamber; but, alas! he knows not that. So he goes on, deeming her, I fear me, stupid as well as silent, indifferent as well as infirm.

I am not avised of her ever having let him feel her Sympathy, save when he was inditing to me his third Book, while she sate at her Sewing. 'Twas at these lines:--

"Thus with the Year,
Seasons return; but not to me returns
Day, or the sweet Approach of Even or Morn,
Or Sight of vernal Bloom or Summer's Rose,
Or Flocks or Herds, or human Face divine,
But Clouds instead, and over-during Dark
Surrounds me; from the cheerful Ways of Men
Cut off: and for the Book of Knowledge fair,
Presented with an universal Blank."

His Brow was a little contracted, but his Face was quite composed; while she, on t'other Hand, with her Work dropped from her Lap, and her Eyes streaming, sate gazing on him, the Image of Woe. At length, timidly stole to his Side, and, after hesitating awhile, kissed both his Eyelids. He caught her to him, quite taken by Surprise, and, for a Moment, both wept bitterly. This was soon put a Stop to, by Mother's coming in, with her Head full of stale Fish; howbeit Father treated _Anne_ with uncommon Tenderness all that Evening, calling her his sweet _Nan_; while she, shrinking back again into her Shell, was shyer than ever. But his Spiritts were soothed rather than dashed by this little Outbreak; and at Bedtime, he said, even cheerfully, "Now, good-night, Girls: . . . may it, indeed, be as good to you as to me. You know, Night brings back my Day--_I am not blind in my Dreams_."

I wish I knew the Distinction between Temperament and Genius: how far Father's even Frame is attributable to one or t'other. If to the former, why, we might hope to attain it as well as he;--yet, no; this is equallie the Gift of God's Grace. Our Humours we may controwl, but our Temperament is born with us; and if one should say, "Why are you a Vessel of glorious things, while I am a Vessel of Things weak and vile?"--nay, but oh! Man or Woman, who art thou that questionest the Will of God? His Election is shewn no less in the Gift of Genius or of an equable Temperament than of spirituall Life; and the Thing formed may not say to him that formed it, "Why hast thou made me thus?"

Father, indeed, can flame out in political Controversy, and lay about him as with a Flail, right and left, making the Chaff, and sometimes the Wheat too, fly about his Ears. 'Twas while threshing the Wheat by the Wine-press at _Ophrah_, that _Gideon_ was called by the Angel; and methinks Father hath in like Manner been summoned from the Floor of his Threshing, to discourse of Heaven and Earth, and bring forth from his Mind's Storehouse Things new and old. I wonder if the World will ever give heed to his Teaching. Suppose a Spark of Fire should drop some Night on the Manuscript, while _Ettwood_ is dozing over it;--why, there's an end on't. I suppose Father could never do it over again. I wonder how many fine Things have been lost in suchlike Ways; or whether God ever permitts a truly fine Thing to be utterly lost. We may drop a Diamond into the Sea; but there it is, at the Bottom of the Great Deep. _Justinian's Pandects_ turned up again. The Art of making Glass was lost once. The Passage round the _Cape_ was made and forgotten.----If I pore over this, I shall puzzle my Head. Howbeit, were I to round the _Cape_, I should hardly look for stranger and more glorious Scenes than Father hath in his Poem made familiar to me. He hath done more for me than _Columbus_ for Queen _Isabel_--hath revealed to me a far better _New World_. Now, I scarce ever look on the setting Sun, surrounded by Hues more gorgeous than those of the High-priest's Breast-plate, without picturing the Angel of the Sun seated on that bright Beam which bore him, Slope downward, beneath the _Azores_. And, in the less brilliant Hour, I, by Faith or Fancy, discern _Ithuriel_ and _Zephon_ in the Shade; and by their Side a third, of regal Port, but faded Splendour wan. A little later still, can sometimes hear the Voice of God, or, as I suppose, we might say, the Word of God, walking in the Garden. _Pneuma_! His Breath! His Spirit! How hushed and still! Then, the Night cometh, when no Man can work--when the young Lions, in tropical Climes, waking from their Day-sleep, seek their Meat from God. Albeit they may prowl about the Dwellings of his people, they cannot enter, for He that watcheth them neither slumbers nor sleeps. Moreover, heavenly Vigils relieve one another at their Posts, and go their Midnight Rounds; sometimes, singing (Father says), with heavenly Touch of instrumental Sounds, in full harmonic Number joined . . . yes, and Shepherds, once, at least, have heard them.

And then . . . and then Mother cries, "How often, _Deb_, shall I bid you lock the Gate at nine o'clock, and bring me in the Key?"

_Sept. 2nd, 1665_.

Good so! Master _Ellwood_ hath brought back the MS. at last, and delivered his Approbation thereon with the Air of a competent Authority, which Father took in the utmost good part, and chatted with him on the Subject for some Time. Howbeit, he is not much flattered, I fancy, by the Quaker's pragmatick Sanction, qualifyde, too, as it was, to show his own Discernment; and when I consider that the major part of Criticks may be as little fitted to take the Measure of their Subject as _Ellwood_ is of Father, I cannot but see that the gleaning of Father's Grapes is better than the Vintage of the Critick's _Abiezer_.

To wind up all, _Ellwood_, primming up his Mouth, says, "Thou hast found much to tell us, Friend _Milton_, on _Paradise Lost_;--now, what hast thou to tell of _Paradise Regained_?"

Father said nothing at the Time, but hath since been brooding a good deal, and keeping me much to the Reading of the _New Testament_; and I think my Night-work will soon begin again.

_Ellwood's_ Talk was much of _Guli Springett_, whom I have seen sundry times, and think high-flown, in spight of her levelling Principles and demure Carriage. The Youth is bewitched with her, I think; what has a Woman to do with Logique? My Belief is, he might as well hope to marry the Moon as to win Mistress _Springett's_ Hand; however, his Self-opinion is considerable. He chode Father this Morning for Organ-playing, saying he doubted its lawfullness. Oh, the Prigg!

I grieve to think _Mary_ can sometimes be a little spightfull as well as unduteous. She is ill at her Pen, and having To-day made some Blunder, for which Father chid her, not overmuch, she rudely made Answer, "I never had a Writing-master." _Betty_, being by, treasured up, as I could see, this ill-natured Speech: and 'twas unfair too; for, if we never had a Writing-master, yet my Aunt _Agar_ taught us; and 'twas our own Fault if we improved no more. Indeed, we have had a scrambling Sort of Education; but, in many respects, our Advantages have exceeded those of many young Women; and among them I reckon, first and foremost, continuall Intercourse with a superior Mind.

If a Piece of mere Leather, by frequent Contact with Silver, acquires a certain Portion of the pure and bright Metal; sure, the Children of a gifted Parent must, by the Collision of their Minds, insensibly, as 'twere, imbibe somewhat of his finer Parts. _Ned Phillips_, indeed, sayth we are like People living so close under a big Mountain, as not to know how high it is; but I think we . . . at least, I do. And, whatever be our scant Learnings, Father, despite his limited Means, hath never grutched us the Supply of a reall Want; and is, at this Time, paying _Joan Elliott_ at a good Rate for perfecting _Anne_ in her pretty Work. I am sorry _Mary_ should thus have sneaped him; and I am sorry I ever either hurt him--by uncivil Speech, or wronged him by unkind Thought. Poor _Nan_, with all her Infirmities, is, perhaps, his best Child. Not that I am a bad one, neither.

My Night-tasks have recommenced of late; because, as he says--

"I suoi Pensieri in lui Dormir non ponno:"

which, being interpreted, means, "His Thoughts would let him and his Daughter take no rest."

_12th_.

I know not that any one but Father hath ever concerned themselves to imagine the Anxieties of the blessed Virgin during her Son's forty Days' mysterious Absence. No wonder that

"Within her Breast, tho' calm, her Breast, tho' pure,
Motherly Fears got Head."

Father hath touched her with a very tender and reverent Hand, dwelling less on her than he did on _Eve_, whom he with perfect Beauty adorned, onlie to make her Sin appear more Sad. Well, we know not ourselves; but methinks I should not have transgrest as she did, neither, for an Apple.

_15th_.

And now I have transgrest about a Pin! O me! what weak, wicked Wretches we are! "Behold, how great a Matter a little Fire kindleth!" And the Tongue is a Fire, an unruly Member. Sure, when I was writing, at Father's Dictation, such heavy Charges against _Eve_, I privily thought I was better than she; and, sifting the Doings of _Mary_ and _Anne_ through a somewhat censorious Judgment, maybe I thought I was better than they. Alas! we know not our own selves. And so, dropping a Stitch in my Knitting, I must needs cry out--"Here, any of you . . . oh, Mother! do bring me a Pin." My Sisters, as Ill-luck would have it, not being by, cries she, "Forsooth, Manners have come to a fine Pass in these Days! Bring her a Pin, quotha!" Instead of making answer, "Well, 'twas disrespectful; I ask your Pardon;" I must mutter, "I see what I'm valued at--less than a Pin."

"_Deb_, don't be unduteous," says Father to me. "Woulde it not have been better to fetch what you wanted, than strangely ask your Mother to bring it?"

"And thereby spoil my Work," answered I; "but 'tis no Matter."

"Tis a great Matter to be uncivil," says Father.

"Oh! dear Husband, do not concern yourself," interrupts Mother; "the Girl's incivility is no new Matter, I protest."

On this, a Battle of Words on both sides, ending in Tears, Bitterness, and my being sent by Father to my Chamber till Dinner. "And, _Deb_," he adds, gravely, but not harshly, "take no Book with you, unless it be your _Bible_."

Soe, hither, with swelling Heart, I have come. I never drew on myself such Condemnation before--at least, since childish Days; and could be enraged with Mother, were I not enraged with myself. I'm in no Hurry for Dinner-time; I cannot sober down. My Temples beat, and my Throat has a great Lump in it. Why was _Nan_ out of the Way? Yet, would she have made Things better? I was in no Fault at first, that's certain; Mother took Offence where none was meant; but I meant Offence afterwards. Lord, have mercy upon me! I can ask Thy Forgiveness, though not hers. And I could find it in me to ask Father's too, and say, "I have sinned against Heaven, and in thy . . . thy _Hearing_.'" And now I come to write that Word, I have a Mind to cry; and the Lump goes down, and I feel earnest to look into my _Bible_, and more humbled towards Mother. And . . . what is it Father says?--

"What better can I do, than to the Place
Repairing, where he judged me, there confess
Humbly my Fault, and Pardon beg, with Tears
Of Sorrow unfeign'd, and Humiliation meek?"

. . . He met me at the very first Word. "I knew you would," he said; "I knew the kindest Thing was to send you to commune with your own Heart in your Chamber, and be still. 'Tis there we find the Holy Spirit and Holy Saviour in waiting for us; and in the House where they abide, as long as they abide in it, there is no Room for _Satan_ to enter. But let this Morning's Work, _Deb_, be a Warning to you, not thus to transgress again. As long as we are in peaceful Communion among ourselves, there is a fine, invisible Cobweb, too clear for mortal Sight, spun from Mind to Mind, which the least Breath of Discord rudely breaks. You owe to your Mother a Daughter's Reverence; and if you behave like a Child, you must look to be punisht like a Child."

"I am not a mere Baby, neither," I said.

"No," he replied. "I see you can make Distinction between _Teknia_ and _Paidia_; but a Baby is the more inoffensive and less responsible Agent of the two. If you are content to be a Baby in Grace, you must not contend for a Baby's Immunities. I have heard a Baby cry pretty loudly about a Pin."

This shut my Mouth close enough.

"You are now," he added gently, "nearly as old as your Mother was when I married her."

I said, "I fear I am not much like her."

He said nothing, only smiled. I made bold to pursue:--"What was she like?"

Again he was silent, at least for a Minute; and then, in quite a changed Tone, with somewhat hurried in it, cried,--

"Like the fresh Sweetbriar and early May!
Like the fresh, cool, pure Air of opening Day . . .
Like the gay Lark, sprung from the glittering Dew . . .
An Angel! yet . . . a very Woman too!"

And, kicking back his Chair, he got up, and began to walk hastily about the Chamber, as fearlessly as he always does when he is thinking of something else, I springing up to move one or two Chairs out of his Way. Hearing some high Voices in the Offices, he presently observed, "A contentious Woman is like a continuall Dropping. _Shakspeare_ spoke well when he said that a sweet, low Voice is an excellent Thing in Woman. I wish you good Women would recollect that one Avenue of my Senses being stopt, makes me keener to any Impression on the others. Where Strife is, there is Confusion and every evil Work. Why should not we dwell in Peace, in this quiet little Nest, instead of rendering our Home liker to a Cage of unclean Birds?"

_Bunhill Fields, London, Oct. 1666_.

People have phansied Appearances of Armies in the Air, flaming Swords, Fields of Battle, and other Images; and, truly, the Evening before we left _Chalfont_, methought I beheld the Glories of the ancient City _Ctesiphon_ in the Sunset Clouds, with gilded Battlements, conspicuous far--Turrets, and Terraces, and glittering Spires. The light-armed _Parthians_ pouring through the Gates, in Coats of Mail, and military Pride. In the far Perspective of the open Plain, two ancient Rivers, the one winding, t'other straight, losing themselves in the glowing Distance, among the Tents of the ten lost Tribes. Such are One's Dreams at Sunset. And, when I cast down my dazed Eyes on the shaded Landskip, all looked in Comparison, so black and bleak, that methought how dull and dreary this lower World must have appeared to _Moses_ when he descended from _Horeb_, and to our Saviour, when he came down from the _Mount of Transfiguration_, and to St. _Paul_, when he dropt from the seventh Heaven.