f^eitiyjM IliT/tisfi o ny ^ 
 
 
 Ihe Inlrod<pcti°n w 
 
CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 FROM 
 Miss H.B. Sumner 
 
The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013521301 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR4974.M18M3 1898 
 
 The maiden & married life of Mary Powell 
 
 3 1924 013 521 301 
 
MARY POWELL 
 
 AND ITS SEQUEL 
 
 DEBORAH'S DIARY 
 
By the same Author 
 
 In crown Zvo, uniform with this volume 
 
 Each Volume with an Introduction by the 
 
 Rev. \V. H. Hutton, B.D. , and 26 Illustrations 
 
 by John Jellicoe and Herbert Railton 
 
 The 
 Household of Sir Thos. More 
 
 Cherry & Violet : 
 
 A Tale of the Great Plague 
 
 The jnany other interesting works of this author 
 will be published from time to time uniformly with 
 the above. 
 
tJJJvff/atianf & 
 
 
 o&h&vttiix <b> ^Ra^H' 
 
'..J pf ■- 
 
 
 .*- 
 
 -_Ai %i ftill 
 
 P 
 
THE 
 
 MAIDEN & MARRIED LIFE OF 
 
 MARY POWELL 
 
 (Afterwards Mistress Milton) 
 
 AND THE SEQUEL THERETO 
 
 DEBORAH'S DIARY 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 
 
 THE REV. W. H. HUTTON, B.D. 
 
 FELLOW OF S. JOHn's COLLEGE, OXFORD 
 
 AND TWENTY-SIX ILLUSTRATIONS BY 
 JOHN JELLICOE AND HERBERT RAILTON 
 
 LONDON 
 
 JOHN C. NIMMO 
 
 NEW YORK : CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 MDCCCXCVIII 
 
Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co. 
 At the Ballantyne Press 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 From Drawings by John Jellicoe and Herbert Railton. 
 
 At Forest Hill. 
 
 Drawn by John Jellicoe and Herbert Railton Frontispiece 
 
 Title- Page. page 
 
 Designed by Herbert Railton , . . iii 
 
 Headpiece. 
 
 Drawn by Herbert Railton . . . . . i 
 
 At Sheepscote. 
 
 Drawn by John Jellicoe and Herbert Railton To face 4 
 
 "He offered me some Wild Flowers." 
 
 Drawn by John Jellicoe 7 
 
 The Bowling-Green at Forest Hill. 
 
 Drawn by John Jellicoe and Herbert Railton To face 26 
 
 " Mr. Milton loitered with me on the 
 Terrace." 
 
 Drawn by John Jellicoe and Herbert Railton ,, 30 
 
 " I WENT DOWN WITH ROBIN AND KATE TO 
 THE FlSH-PONDS." 
 
 Drawn by John Jellicoe and Herbert Railton ,, 40 
 
viii List of Illustrations 
 
 PAGE 
 
 " Strange diverting Cries in the Streets." 
 
 Drawn by John Jellicoe . . . To face 62 
 
 "Tenderly bound up his Hand." 
 
 Drawn by John JELLICOE .... 85 
 
 "At Squire Paice's Grand Dinner." 
 
 Drawn by John Jellicoe and Herbert Railton To face 106 
 
 "Then Mr. Agnew came and sate on a 
 flat Tombstone." 
 
 Drawn by John Jellicoe and Herbert Railton ,, 138 
 
 "The Rare Event of a Dinner Guest." 
 
 Drawn by John Jellicoe . . . . .166 
 
 "They paused in Surprise at seeing Milton 
 Asleep." 
 
 Drawn by John Jellicoe .... To face 182 
 
 "Threw it forthe with a Pair of Tongs." 
 
 Drawn by JOHN JELLICOE 212 
 
 "Thus I remained, agonized in Tears." 
 
 Drawn by JOHN JELLICOE ... . To face 216 
 
 Milton's House, Barbican. 
 
 Drawn by HERBERT RAILTON . lt 218 
 
 "Some poore Folk to relieve and console." 
 
 Drawn by John Jellicoe 232 
 
 Bunhill FIELDS {Frontispiece to " Deborah's Diary"). 
 
 Drawn by Herbert Railton . . To face 238 
 
List of Illustrations ix 
 
 "Out Comes a Volley of Poetry." 
 
 Drawn by John Jellicoe . ... 246 
 
 •'Yet Forty Days." 
 
 Drawn by John Jellicoe 273 
 
 " I took the Volume to his Shop." 
 
 Drawn by John Jellicoe and Herbert Railton To face 286 
 
 "Houses Padlocked and Shuttered." 
 
 Drawn by John Jellicoe and Herbert Railton ,, 294 
 
 Milton's Cottage at Chalfont. 
 
 Drawn by Herbert Railton . . . ,, 296 
 
 "Throwing his Arm about me." 
 
 Drawn by John Jellicoe .... . 299 
 
 " No Harm, I promise you, Master." 
 
 Drawn by John Jellicoe . . 314 
 
 " He pours forth the Full Tide of Melody 
 on his Organ." 
 
 Drawn by John Jellicoe and Herbert Railton To face 318 
 
Introduction 
 
 HE republication of " The 
 Household of Sir Thomas 
 More" and "Cherry and 
 Violet " has aroused much 
 interest in the personality 
 of their author. Two years 
 ago, from a brief correspondence in Notes 
 and Queries, it might have seemed as if 
 she had been entirely forgotten ; but since 
 her books have attained a new popularity 
 some interesting accounts of her retired 
 life have reached me through the kind- 
 ness of friends. 
 
 She is remembered at Reigate as a tall, 
 thin lady with black hair, an aquiline 
 nose, and a bright colour. She lived very 
 
xii Introduction 
 
 quietly,and was considered "old-fashioned" 
 by the few who knew her intimately. 
 She is described as at times bitter in her 
 satire ; and in her later years, when she 
 was obliged to spend much time on her 
 couch from ill-health, " rather hard " in 
 voice. Her literary activity, it is clear, 
 must have been very great, and she was 
 a wide reader in all directions ; but her 
 powers, it would seem, remained for a 
 long time unnoticed; and those who knew 
 her reserved character and somewhat stiff 
 manner expressed astonishment when they 
 discovered that it was she who had written 
 the charming book of which every one 
 was talking, " The Maiden and Married 
 Life of Mary Powell," which has always 
 been the most popular of her works. In 
 opinion she was a stout English Church- 
 woman, of the type, perhaps, which has 
 been dubbed " high and dry," constant in 
 attendance at daily services, correct, re- 
 strained, sincere. Of her genuine homeli- 
 ness there can be no more doubt than of 
 her real piety. One who knew her speaks 
 
Introduction xiii 
 
 of her as " a very gentle, quiet lady," 
 says that a book of quaint cookery re- 
 cipes in her writing, which she gave to a 
 friend, is still in existence, and tells that 
 she once said " she liked darning stockings, 
 as when so employed she could think out 
 her books." She was very kind to young 
 literary aspirants, and one to whom she 
 was much attached writes : " Her loss to 
 me as a dear friend, as well as a kind, 
 judicious, and actively helpful literary 
 adviser, was very great." 
 
 These few memories are helpful in 
 fixing an impression of one whom we 
 should be glad that lovers of genre-paint- 
 ing in literature should not forget. The 
 two stories which are now combined in 
 this volume possess all her characteristic 
 merits. It was a happy inspiration that 
 set Miss Manning's imagination to work 
 upon the life of the great Puritan poet. 
 There is a contrast which no student can 
 fail to have observed between the charm 
 of his character, in its purity, gentleness, 
 and eager love of truth, and the circum- 
 
xiv Introduction 
 
 stances of his relations to those most near 
 to him in kindred. It is not difficult to 
 see that, apart from the unhappy fate 
 which seems often to pursue men of genius 
 in their married life, there were reasons 
 for his sorrows in the bitterness of party 
 feeling which accompanied the strength 
 of his convictions. Married life, we are 
 told, must be always something of a com- 
 promise, and of compromise Milton was 
 utterly abhorrent. The contrasts of his 
 character and his life are reflected in his 
 work. Who could believe that the same 
 hand wrote "II Penseroso" and "Eikono- 
 klastes" ? With all the softness of face and 
 sweetness of imagination there is a certain 
 hardness, even harshness, that will not be 
 denied utterance, and the middle period 
 of his life is that in which this harshness 
 finds its chief expression. His personality, 
 indeed, lacks a perfect harmony, and it is 
 this, though it be temerarious to assert it, 
 which makes him fail to reach the perfec- 
 tion of a religious poet. Magnificence in 
 conception, profundity in thought, imagi- 
 
Introduction xv 
 
 nation, reverence, truth, he has all these, 
 and yet — if I may repeat with emphasis a 
 statement which has been severely criti- 
 cised — he has not that note of absolute 
 sincerity and self-abandonment which 
 makes Christina Rossetti supreme in spi- 
 ritual verse. He felt, perhaps, the two 
 sides of life too keenly : with all his clois- 
 tered sympathies, he dwelt too much in 
 the world, and when political and eccle- 
 siastical warfare had soured his spirit, he 
 never recovered the exquisite harmony of 
 his earlier days. Landor has said very 
 truly that in " Paradise Regained " he 
 " seems to be subject to strange halluci- 
 nations of the ear ; he who before had 
 greatly excelled all poets of all ages in 
 the science and display of harmony." I 
 will complete the passage, for it may serve 
 to correct my own less enthusiastic judg- 
 ment. " And if in his last poem we 
 exhibit his deficiencies, surely we never 
 shall be accused of disrespect or irrever- 
 ence to this immortal man. It may be 
 doubted whether the Creator ever created 
 
 b 
 
xvi Introduction 
 
 one altogether so great ; taking into our 
 view at once (as much indeed as can at 
 once be taken into it) his manly virtues, 
 his superhuman genius, his zeal for truth, 
 for true piety, true freedom, his eloquence 
 in displaying it, his contempt of personal 
 power, his glory and exaltation in his 
 country's." Alas ! his greatness is not 
 untouched by his misfortunes ; for indeed 
 it is difficult for an unbiassed moral judg- 
 ment to believe that his relations with his 
 wife and with his daughters were entirely 
 the succession of miseries utterly unde- 
 served. However this may be, it is the 
 rare merit of Miss Manning's sensitive 
 imagination that, in " The Maiden and 
 Married Life of Mary Powell " and 
 " Deborah's Diary," while she has 
 caught our sympathies for her heroines, 
 she has never made us lose our love for 
 Milton. 
 
 The historical facts on which these 
 stories have been based are perhaps too 
 familiar to need restatement ; yet they 
 may be briefly summarised. In 1643 
 
Introduction xvii 
 
 John Milton was thirty-four. He was 
 well known in high circles of literature 
 and society : he had travelled, studied, 
 and thought. There was no living Eng- 
 lishman, it might be said, who had a higher 
 ideal in life or a higher performance in 
 literature. He had already reached, in 
 "Lycidas," " the high-watermark of Eng- 
 lish poesy and of his own production." 
 But he was also already a keen politician, 
 an eager supporter of the party which felt 
 most strongly against the king and the 
 Cavaliers. 
 
 It was then, about Whitsuntide, as his 
 nephew tells us, " that he took a journey, 
 nobody about him certainly knowing the 
 reason, or that it was any more than a 
 journey of recreation. After a month's 
 stay, home he returns a married man that 
 went out a bachelor : his wife being 
 Mary, the eldest daughter of Mr. Richard 
 Powell, then a Justice of Peace, of Forest 
 Hill, near Shotover, in Oxfordshire." The 
 county he knew already, and, it is most 
 likely, the family. His father was born 
 
xviii Introduction 
 
 at Stanton St. John, the next village to 
 Forest Hill : and Richard Powell, the 
 father of his bride, was his debtor in the 
 sum of £s°°- That Milton, a marked 
 man, should have gone at this time so 
 near to the Royalist camp at Oxford, and 
 that his marriage should have been, as it 
 seems, so hastily arranged, are other points 
 in a mysterious story. The young bride 
 went to lodgings in Aldersgate Street with 
 her husband. After a month her friends 
 at home " made earnest suit, by letter, to 
 have her company the remaining part of 
 the summer." She went, and she did not 
 return at Michaelmas, as Milton had de- 
 sired. Letters were unanswered, and a 
 messenger was " dismissed with some sort 
 of contempt." Were the faults all on one 
 side ? At any rate it is certain that be- 
 fore his wife had left him Milton had 
 begun to write a pamphlet on " The 
 Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce," in 
 which the freedom of a husband to part 
 from his wife " for lack of a fit and match- 
 able conversation " is vehemently asserted, 
 
Introduction xix 
 
 though no such freedom is allowed to the 
 " weaker vessel." 
 
 Professor Masson, Mr. Mark Pattison, 
 Dr. S. R. Gardiner, Mr. Leslie Stephen, 
 have sounded the depths that cover the 
 strange history of Milton's marriage, and 
 have said many sage things, but (through 
 no fault of their own) perhaps not one 
 that is convincing. Where these grave 
 persons admit their difficulties it may be 
 a relief to turn to the delicate art with 
 which Miss Manning has told the story, 
 simply and with a true imaginative sym- 
 pathy for a young girl's inevitable diffi- 
 culties in the first weeks of married life. 
 Milton, in later days, said that " the 
 bashful muteness of a virgin may ofttimes 
 hide all the unliveliness and natural sloth 
 which is really unfit for conversation." 
 It is very likely that he did not recognise, 
 as those of poetic temper are very loth to 
 do, that a man of thirty-four is not still 
 in his first youth, while a girl of seven- 
 teen has not really reached womanhood ; 
 and there was in his soul, with all its 
 
xx Introduction 
 
 sweetness and purity, an underlying harsh- 
 ness of temper. 
 
 " God's universal law 
 Gave to man despotic power 
 Over his female in due awe, 
 Nor from that right to part an hour." 
 
 Those are lines as bitter as any that his 
 pen wrote in prose. But happily the spirit 
 which wrote the Divorce treatises, and 
 which even suggested that the banished 
 wife might find a successor in his home, 
 was not unquenchable. Before two years 
 were out, in the house of friends, the young 
 girl, not yet nineteen, threw herself at her 
 husband's feet and was taken back. 
 
 They had four children, Anne, born 
 1646 ; Mary, 1648 ; John (who died an 
 infant), 1651 ; Deborah, 1652 ; and the 
 wife died in the year of the birth of her 
 youngest child. 
 
 In 1656 Milton married Catherine 
 Woodcock, who died in February 1658. 
 In February 1663 he married Eliza- 
 beth Minshull, who lived till 1727. 
 
Introduction xxi 
 
 All accounts point to much family dis- 
 agreement, and Milton in the year of 
 his death (1674), spoke to his brother 
 of his " undutiful children." Yet here 
 again the faults were not all on one side. 
 The girls were taught to read aloud 
 in five or six languages, without being 
 allowed to learn the meaning of what they 
 read. Only Deborah was taught Latin, 
 and she became her father's amanuensis. 
 Before he died they were all sent out to 
 learn embroidery in gold and silver, that 
 they might earn their living. Mary died 
 unmarried, the others married poorly. It 
 is a story even more pathetic than the 
 first episode of misunderstanding, and it 
 seems clear that it lasted to the end. 
 Only Deborah appears in later days to 
 have entertained a kindly memory of her 
 father. Two years before her death, 
 when she was sixty-three, she was shown 
 a drawing without being told for whom 
 it was meant. " O Lord ! " she said at 
 once, " that is the picture of my father," 
 and she stroked down the hair of her 
 
xxii Introduction 
 
 forehead with "just so my father wore 
 his hair." 
 
 Miss Manning happily seized upon a 
 year which we may hope may have been 
 brighter than the rest of the poet's evil 
 days, and something of her picture of the 
 country retreat must certainly be true. It 
 is not likely that the observant Ellwood 
 would have failed to record it, if there 
 had been much family disagreement in the 
 house he so often visited. He was long 
 Milton's friend and pupil, and the formal 
 quaintness of his " History written by Him- 
 self" adds not a little to the pleasantness of 
 the picture which imagination may draw 
 of the brighter side of these last years. 
 Ellwood himself suffered persecution for 
 his opinions, and he could feel for the 
 Puritan poet who had once been Latin 
 secretary. 
 
 The words on which Miss Manning 
 founded the main story of her " Debo- 
 rah's Diary " are these : " Some little 
 time before I went to Aylesbury prison," 
 says Ellwood, " I was desired by my 
 
Introduction xxiii 
 
 quondam master, Milton, to take a house 
 for him in the neighbourhood, where 
 I dwelt, that he might go out of the 
 city, for the safety of himself and his 
 family, the pestilence then growing hot in 
 London. I took a pretty box for him in 
 Giles Chalfont, a mile from me, of which 
 I gave him notice ; and intended to have 
 waited on him, and seen him well settled 
 in it, but was prevented by that imprison- 
 ment. But now being released and re- 
 turned home, I soon made a visit to him, 
 to welcome him into the country. After 
 some common discourses had passed be- 
 tween us, he called for a manuscript of 
 his ; which being brought he delivered 
 to me, bidding me take it home with 
 me, and read it at my leisure ; and when 
 I had so done, return it to him with 
 my judgment thereupon. When I came 
 home, and had set myself to read it, 
 I found it was that excellent poem 
 which he entitled ' Paradise Lost.' After 
 I had, with the best attention, read it 
 through, I made him another visit, and 
 
xxiv Introduction 
 
 returned him his book, with due acknow- 
 ledgment of the favour he had done me 
 in communicating it to me. He asked 
 me how I liked it and what I thought of 
 it, which I modestly but freely told him, 
 and after some further discourse about it, 
 I pleasantly said to him, ' Thou hast said 
 much here of " Paradise Lost," but what 
 hast thou to say of " Paradise Found " ' ? 
 He made me no answer, but sat some time 
 in a muse ; then brake off that discourse, 
 and fell upon another subject. After the 
 sickness was over, and the city well cleansed 
 and become safely habitable again, he 
 returned thither. And when afterwards 
 I went to wait on him there, which I 
 seldom failed of doing whenever my oc- 
 casions drew me to London, he showed 
 me his second poem, called ' Paradise 
 Regained,' and in a pleasant tone said to 
 me, ' This is owing to you, for you put 
 it into my head by the question you put 
 to me at Chalfont, which before I had 
 not thought of " 
 
 The passage is a famous one, and we do 
 
Introduction xxv 
 
 not need here any comment on it, save 
 that which Miss Manning has herself 
 supplied. She has woven too into her 
 imaginary diary, with a singular skill, the 
 facts that are known as to the stepmother, 
 the daughters, and the servant, with just 
 those touches of fancy that may make the 
 picture live. 
 
 The two stories are now, I think, 
 very happily reprinted together. " Mary 
 Powell" first appeared in 1851, and went 
 through many editions. " Deborah's 
 Diary" was published in i860. We 
 have now the advantage of the skill of 
 Mr. Railton and Mr. Jellicoe, who know 
 how to make the times and the men live 
 again to-day. 
 
 I have seen the drawings from which 
 the illustrations for this book are to be 
 printed, and I cannot but feel that both 
 artists have experienced to the full the 
 attraction of the subject. To Mr. Jellicoe 
 has been given the difficult duty of draw- 
 ing the Milton whose portrait we all know, 
 and his young bride, of whose fair face we 
 
xxvi Introduction 
 
 have no record. He has had to show us 
 too the old blind man dictating to his 
 daughter ; and it could not have been 
 done more happily. To Mr. Railton it 
 has fallen to sketch, as it was in the 
 seventeenth century, the one house still 
 standing where Milton lived, and the 
 harder task to image the places which, 
 with little or no visible survival of his 
 days, we still associate with his memory : 
 and so he has given us these delightful 
 pictures of Forest Hill, and the Barbican, 
 and Bunhill Fields, instinct with true 
 feeling for the past. 
 
 The chief scenes of these two stories 
 are well worth a visit. Forest Hill stands 
 about four miles from Oxford, a short 
 way from the main road to London, and 
 up a sharp ascent — a pleasant walk or 
 ride, now as no doubt in Milton's day, 
 for scholars of the university. The old 
 manor-house, which Miss Manning no 
 doubt had seen, was pulled down in 1854. 
 In 1 85 1 it was thus described in "Im- 
 pressions of England," by the Rev. A. 
 
Introduction xxvii 
 
 Cleveland Coxe, rector of Christ Church, 
 Baltimore : — 
 
 " It presents the remains of a much 
 larger house ; but, even in its reduced di- 
 mensions, is quite sufficient for a comfort- 
 able farmer. Still the rose, the sweet-briar, 
 and the eglantine are redolent beneath 
 its casements ; the cock at the barn-door 
 may be seen from any of its windows ; 
 and doubtless, the barn itself is the very 
 one in which the shadowy flail of Robin 
 Goodfellow threshed all night, to earn his 
 bowl of cream. In the house itself, we 
 were received by the farmer's daughter, 
 who looked like the ' neat-handed Phillis ' 
 herself, although her accomplishments 
 were by no means those of a rustic maiden, 
 for she had evidently entered fully into 
 the spirit of the place, and imbued herself 
 with that of the poetry in no mean degree. 
 We were indebted to her for the most 
 courteous reception, and were conducted 
 by her into several apartments of the house, 
 concerning all of which she was able to 
 converse very intelligently. In the kitchen, 
 
xxviii Introduction 
 
 with its vast hearth and overhanging 
 chimney, we discovered tokens of the good 
 living for which the old manor-house was 
 no doubt famous in its day ; and in its 
 floor was a large stone, said to have been 
 removed from a room now destroyed, 
 which was the poet's study. 
 
 " The garden, in its massive wall, orna- 
 mented gateway, and an old sun-dial, re- 
 tains some trace of its manorial dignities 
 in former times ; when the maiden Mary 
 sat in her bower thinking of her inspired 
 lover ; or when perchance the runaway 
 wife sighed and wept over a letter brought 
 by the post, commanding Mistress Milton 
 to return to her duty in a dark corner of 
 London. . . . 
 
 " Our fair conductress next called our 
 attention to an outhouse, now degraded to 
 the office of domestic brewing, . . . and 
 in proof of the nobler office to which it 
 had been originally designed, she pointed 
 out the remains of old pargetting, or orna- 
 mented plaster-work, in its gables." 
 
 All this is now swept away, save a 
 
Introduction xxix 
 
 wall or two partly used in the construc- 
 tion of the substantial farm-house built in 
 a time of agricultural prosperity. In and 
 about the farm-yard stand many walnut 
 trees, some of great age ; and the farm 
 buildings, too, are old. Hard by in a 
 field is a spring, arched over with strong 
 masonry. Here, as the romantic Ameri- 
 can traveller thought, John Milton may 
 have tasted of the pure water. Several 
 thatched houses in the village should have 
 been seen by Mary Powell as she walked 
 to meet Master Milton along the ridge 
 that stretches, with distant views of the 
 Chilterns, towards the deserted village 
 watering-place of Brill. But the clearest 
 memories of King Charles's days come 
 from the church, set high on the hill amid 
 ancient yews. Little country girls, with 
 fresh beaming faces, hang over the old 
 grey wall as we climb the ascent. So, hat 
 in hand, would our heroine watch for her 
 poet's coming, and surely she was no 
 brighter or more happy than are they. A 
 quaint old holly, covered with berries now 
 
xxx Introduction 
 
 at midsummer, stands by the gate. The 
 high bell-cot, clothed in ivy, is the church's 
 great distinction ; but it is all, in spite 
 of the cruelties of Sir Gilbert Scott, a 
 pretty piece of restful antiquity. It was 
 consecrated, the records tell us, in 1273, 
 and it bears the name of Saint Nicholas. 
 In Laud's day it was furbished up, in the 
 spirit which made the archbishop write : 
 " It is true, the inward worship of the 
 heart is the great service of God, and no 
 service acceptable without it ; but the 
 external worship of God in His church 
 is the great witness to the world, that our 
 heart stands right in that service of God." 
 The great oak beam across the chancel 
 arch, with its inscription " C. R., 1630," 
 is a memorial of this restoration. But 
 these are after all but slight survivals of 
 the times of Mistress Mary Powell ; the 
 more abiding memory attaches to the tran- 
 quillity of the verdant slopes and the lanes, 
 with their hedges full of sweet-briar, that 
 stretch down towards Oxford. One could 
 not find a sweeter setting for the youth of 
 
Introduction xxxi 
 
 the damsel who was to be John Milton's 
 bride. 
 
 It is a different thought which brings 
 us, with " Deborah's Diary," to the cottage 
 at Chalfont, and the old age of the blind 
 poet. There are few prettier English vil- 
 lages than that in which Thomas Ellwood 
 found a lodging for his " quondam master." 
 It lies hidden in the heart of numberless 
 beech-woods, off the track of the great 
 highroads. Now it can be easily ap- 
 proached by the Metropolitan Railway, 
 which has a station about three miles off ; 
 and, indeed, the village itself is little more 
 than twenty miles from the Marble Arch. 
 None the less is it still buried in seclusion, 
 and everything that is old here shows a 
 loving care. A charming little pamphlet 
 tells the story of the village very happily, 
 and is proof, if any were wanted beyond 
 the church itself, of the rector's labours 
 and knowledge. For pilgrims who visit 
 the place because it contains the only 
 house still standing in which Milton lived, 
 there are yet many other sights which 
 
 c 
 
xxxii Introduction 
 
 should not be passed by. The church, 
 with its fine brasses and monuments, its 
 two beautiful windows by Mr. Kempe, 
 and its whole air of true " decency and 
 order," has preserved a memory of the 
 poet, though, indeed, it is like enough 
 that he never crossed its door. The vil- 
 lage green, the old red-roofed cottages, 
 the pond, the fine trees, give many pretty 
 pictures as you mount the gentle slope 
 that leads to the house which gives Chal- 
 font its fame in two continents. A very 
 simple homely dwelling it is, part of a row 
 of others still inhabited, and not a little 
 altered. The cottage itself is, one is glad 
 to see, not entirely given over to the craze 
 for a museum, and with its white-washed 
 parlour, stocked with old oak, and digni- 
 fied with framed documents that tell the 
 house's history, and books of Milton's 
 writing and his times, it has yet some 
 dwellers who serve to give it a homely 
 air of use. In the low room to the left 
 hand of the door you may fancy Milton 
 sitting with his leg over the chair-arm, 
 
Introduction xxxiii 
 
 dictating to his daughter, or you may 
 close your eyes and think you hear him 
 upstairs tapping against the wall till De- 
 borah comes in her night-cotes to take 
 down his " volley of poetry." There 
 is the garden, too, with its quaint old 
 flowers, just such another as Anne Hath- 
 away's at Shottery, with a hedge that 
 Mistress Milton may have set her clothes 
 on while her husband sat in his straight 
 chair under shade of the little porch. It 
 is pleasant that the abiding memory of 
 the poet should belong to a village so 
 sweet and unharmed as this. 
 
 All round are the Quaker memorials 
 of the Penns, the Penningtons, and stiff 
 Thomas Ellwood. The parish registers 
 have record of the deaths of the great 
 Penn himself, of his second wife, and of 
 Milton's Quaker pupil, and in the parish 
 is the famous burying-place of Jor- 
 dans, where they rest. The village has 
 its wider interests, its records of Marl- 
 borough's chaplain and secret messenger, 
 of Captain Cook and his friend Sir Hugh 
 
xxxiv Introduction 
 
 Palliser, a fiery British admiral. But the 
 memory of Milton will outlive all these. 
 Is it too much to say that Miss Manning, 
 in her simple way, did not a little to 
 preserve it ? 
 
 W. H. HUTTON. 
 
 The Great House, Burford, 
 Visitation of the B. V.M., 1897. 
 
im«i*iSii^ HMf^%mi 
 
 JOURNALL 
 
 Forest Hill, Ox on, May 1st, 1643. 
 
 EVENTEENTH Birth- 
 daye. A Gypsie Woman 
 at the Gate woulde faine 
 have tolde my Fortune ; 
 but Mother chased her 
 away, saying she had 
 doubtlesse harboured in some of the low 
 
 Houses 
 
 A 
 
2 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 Houses in Oxford, and mighte bring us 
 the Plague. Coulde have cried for Vexa- 
 tion ; she had promised to tell me the 
 Colour of my Husband's Eyes ; but 
 Mother says she believes I shall never have 
 one, I am soe sillie. Father gave me a gold 
 Piece. Dear Mother is chafed, methinks, 
 touching this Debt of five hundred Pounds, 
 which Father says he knows not how to 
 pay. Indeed, be sayd, overnighte, his 
 whole personal Estate amounts to but 
 five hundred Pounds, his Timber and 
 Wood to four hundred more, or there- 
 abouts ; and the Tithes and Messuages of 
 W hate ley are no great Matter, being mort- 
 gaged for about as much moore, and he 
 hath lent Sights of Money to them that 
 won't pay, so 'tis hard to be thus prest. 
 Poor Father I 'twas good of him to give 
 me this gold Piece. 
 
 May 
 
of Mary Powell 
 
 May 2nd. 
 ,'OUSIN Rose married to 
 Master Roger Agnew. Pre- 
 sent, Father, Mother, and 
 Brother of Rose. Father, 
 Mother, Dick, Bob, Harry, 
 and I ; Squire Pake and his 
 Daughter Audrey ; an olde Aunt of Master 
 Roger's, and one of his Cousins, a stiffe- 
 backed Man with large Eares, and such 
 a long Nose ! Cousin Rose looked bew- 
 tifulle — pitie so faire a Girl should marry 
 so olde a Man — 'tis thoughte he wants 
 not manie Years of fifty. 
 
 May jth. 
 E W Misfortunes in the 
 Poultrie Yarde. Poor Mo- 
 ther s Loyalty cannot stand 
 the Demands for her best 
 Chickens, Ducklings, &c, 
 for the Use of his Majesty's 
 Officers since the King hath beene in 
 Oxford. She accuseth my Father of having 
 
 beene 
 
4 Maiden 6sf Married Life 
 
 beene wonne over by a few faire Speeches 
 to be more of a Royalist than his natu- 
 ral Temper inclineth him to ; which, of 
 course, he will not admit. 
 
 May 8t/i. 
 >HOLE Day taken up in a 
 Visit to Rose, now a Week 
 married, and growne quite 
 matronlie already. We 
 reached Sheepscote about an 
 Hour before Noone. A 
 long, broade, strait Walke of green Turf, 
 planted with Hollyoaks, Sunflowers, &c, 
 and some earlier Flowers alreadie in 
 Bloom, led up to the rusticall Porch of 
 a truly farm-like House, with low gable 
 Roofs, a long lattice Window on either 
 Side the Doore, and three Casements 
 above. Such, and no more, is Roses 
 House ! But she is happy, for she came 
 running forthe, soe soone as she hearde 
 Clover s Feet, and helped me from my 
 Saddle all smiling, tho' she had not ex- 
 pected to see us. We had Curds and 
 
 Creame ; 
 

 
 ■ y 
 
 
 |)K> i\! 
 
 
 - -,.- i%* <■■' ■-■'■ ,\i .- i, i'l~ , wf '■V^WKfei. v ' ■ >'■' \ ' i Pill ' ■ t U *- -■ i ^ 
 
 j^f f 
 
 .r/V^ 
 
 / a5T 5£*ia ".••-V.I*- ^ 
 
 ,££-' 
 
 ^lyheep/i 
 
 'core. 
 
 -«!>'. 
 
 * 
 
 ■> 
 
of Mary Powell 5 
 
 Creame ; and she wished it were the 
 Time of Strawberries, for she sayd they 
 had large Beds ; and then my Father and 
 the Boys went forthe to looke for Master 
 Agnew. Then Rose took me up to her 
 Chamber, singing as she went ; and the 
 long, low Room was sweet with Flowers. 
 Sayd I, '■'■Rose, to be Mistress of this pretty 
 " Cottage, 'twere hardlie amisse to marry a 
 " Man as olde as Master Roger." " Olde ! " 
 quoth she, " deare Mo//, you must not 
 " deeme him olde ; why, he is but forty- 
 " two ; and am not I twenty-three ? " She 
 lookt soe earneste and hurte, that I coulde 
 not but falle a laughing. 
 
 May 8t/i. 
 [OTHER gone to Sandford. 
 She hopes to get Uncle 
 yohn to lend Father this 
 Money. Father says she 
 may try. 'Tis harde to dis- 
 courage her with an ironi- 
 calle Smile, when she is doing alle she 
 can, and more than manie Women woulde, 
 
 to 
 
6 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 to help Father in his Difficultie ; but 
 suche, she sayth somewhat bitterlie, is the 
 lot of our Sex. She bade Father mind 
 that she had brought him three thousand 
 Pounds, and askt what had come of them. 
 Answered ; helped to fille the Mouths of 
 nine healthy Children, and stop the Mouth 
 of an easie Husband ; soe, with a Kiss, 
 made it up. I have the Keys, and am 
 left Mistresse of alle, to my greate Con- 
 tentment ; but the Children clamour for 
 Sweetmeats, and Father sayth, " Remem- 
 " ber, Moll, Discretion is the better part 
 " of Valour." 
 
 After Mother had left, went into the 
 Paddock, to feed the Colts with Bread ; 
 and while they were putting their Noses 
 into Robin s Pockets, Dick brought out the 
 two Ponies, and set me on one of them, 
 and we had a mad Scamper through the 
 Meadows and down the Lanes ; I leading. 
 Just at the Turne of Ho If or a" s Close, came 
 shorte upon a Gentleman walking under 
 the Hedge, clad in a sober, genteel Suit, 
 and of most beautifulle Countenance, with 
 
 Hair 
 
of Mary Powell 
 
 7 
 
 Hair like a Woman's, of a lovely pale 
 brown, long and silky, falling over his 
 Shoulders. I nearlie went over him, for 
 
 / -*>■'->•£. 
 
 
 Clover s hard Forehead knocked agaynst his 
 Chest ; but he stoode it like a Rock ; and 
 lookinge firste at me and then at Dick, he 
 
 smiled 
 
8 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 smiled and spoke to my Brother, who 
 seemed to know him, and turned about 
 and walked by us, sometimes stroaking 
 Clover s shaggy Mane. I felte a little 
 ashamed ; for Dick had sett me on the 
 Poney just as I was, my Gown somewhat 
 too shorte for riding : however, I drewe 
 up my Feet and let Clover nibble a little 
 Grasse, and then got rounde to the neare 
 Side, our new Companion stille between 
 us. He offered me some wild Flowers, 
 and askt me theire Names ; and when I 
 tolde them, he sayd I knew more than 
 he did, though he accounted himselfe a 
 prettie fayre Botaniste : and we went on 
 thus, talking of the Herbs and Simples in 
 the Hedges ; and I sayd how prettie some 
 of theire Names were, and that, me- 
 thought, though Adam had named alle 
 the Animals in Paradise, perhaps Eve 
 had named alle the Flowers. He lookt 
 earnestlie at me, on this, and muttered 
 " prettie." Then Dick askt of him News 
 from London, and he spoke, methought, 
 reservedlie ; ever and anon turning his 
 
 bright, 
 
of Mary Powell 
 
 bright, thoughtfulle Eyes on me. At 
 length, we parted at the Turn of the Lane. 
 
 I askt Dick who he was, and he told 
 me he was one Mr. John Milton, the 
 Party to whom Father owed five hundred 
 Pounds. He was the Sonne of a Bucking- 
 hamshire Gentleman, he added, well con- 
 nected, and very scholarlike, but affected 
 towards the Parliament. His Grandsire, 
 a zealous Papiste, formerly lived in Oxon, 
 and disinherited the Father of this Gen- 
 tleman for abjuring the Romish Faith. 
 
 When I found how faire a Gentleman 
 was Father s Creditor, I became the more 
 interested in deare Mother s Successe. 
 
 the Clock. 
 
 May 13M. 
 ICK began to harpe on 
 another Ride to Sheepscote 
 this Morning, and persua- 
 ded Father to let him have 
 the bay Mare, soe he and 
 I started at aboute Ten o' 
 Arrived at Master Agneias 
 
 Doore, 
 
io Maiden & Married Life 
 
 Doore, found it open, no one in Parlour 
 or Studdy ; soe Dick tooke the Horses 
 rounde, and then we went straite thro' 
 the House, into the Garden behind, which 
 is on a rising Ground, with pleached 
 Alleys and turfen Walks, and a Peep of 
 the Church through the Trees. A Lad 
 tolde us his Mistress was with the Bees, 
 soe we walked towards the Hives ; and, 
 from an Arbour hard by, hearde a Mur- 
 mur, though not of Bees, issuing. In this 
 rusticall Bowre, found Roger Agnew reading 
 to Rose and to Mr. Milton. Thereupon 
 ensued manie cheerfulle Salutations, and 
 Rose proposed returning to the House, 
 but Master Agnew sayd it was pleasanter 
 in the Bowre, where was Room for alle ; 
 soe then Rose offered to take me to her 
 Chamber to lay aside my Hoode, and pro- 
 mised to send a Junkett into the Arbour ; 
 whereon Mr. Agnew smiled at Mr. Milton, 
 and sayd somewhat of " neat-handed 
 " Phillisr 
 
 As we went alonge, I tolde Rose I had 
 seene her Guest once before, and thought 
 
 him 
 
of Mary Powell 1 1 
 
 him a comely, pleasant Gentleman. She 
 laught, and sayd, " Pleasant ? why, he is 
 " one of the greatest Scholars of our Time, 
 " and knows more Languages than you 
 " or I ever hearde of." I made Answer, 
 " That may be, and yet might not ensure 
 " his being pleasant, but rather the con- 
 " trary, for I cannot reade Greeke and Latin, 
 " Rose, like you." Quoth Rose, " But 
 " you can reade English, and he hath writ 
 " some of the loveliest English Verses 
 " you ever hearde, and hath brought 
 " us a new Composure this Morning, 
 " which Roger, being his olde College 
 " Friend, was discussing with him, to my 
 " greate Pleasure, when you came. After 
 " we have eaten the Junkett, he shall 
 " beginne it again." " By no Means," 
 said I, " for I love Talking more than 
 " Reading." However, it was not soe to 
 be, for Rose woulde not be foyled ; and as 
 it woulde not have been good Manners to 
 decline the Hearinge in Presence of the 
 Poet, I was constrayned to suppresse a 
 secret Yawne, and feign Attention, though, 
 
 Truth 
 
i 2 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 Truth to say, it soone wandered ; and, 
 during the laste halfe Hour, I sat in a 
 compleat Dreame, tho' not unpleasant one. 
 Roger having made an End, 'twas diverting 
 to heare him commending the Piece unto 
 the Author, who as gravely accepted it ; 
 yet, with nothing fullesome about the one, 
 or misproud about the other. Indeed, 
 there was a sedate Sweetnesse in the Poet's 
 Wordes as well as Lookes ; and shortlie, 
 waiving the Discussion of his owne Com- 
 posures, he beganne to talke of those of 
 other Men, as Shakspeare, Spenser, Cowley, 
 Ben Jonson, and of Tasso, and Tasso's Friend 
 the Marquis of Villa, whome, it appeared, 
 Mr. Milton had Knowledge of in Italy. 
 Then he askt me, woulde I not willingly 
 have seene the Country of Romeo and Juliet, 
 and prest to know whether I loved Poetry; 
 but finding me loath to tell, sayd he 
 doubted not I preferred Romances, and 
 that he had read manie, and loved them 
 dearly too. I sayd, I loved Shakspeare 's 
 Plays better than Sidney's Arcadia ; on 
 which he cried " Righte," and drew nearer 
 
 to 
 
of Mary Powell 13 
 
 to me, and woulde have talked at greater 
 length ; but, knowing from Rose how 
 learned he was, I feared to shew him I 
 was a sillie Foole ; soe, like a sillie Foole, 
 held my Tongue. 
 
 Dinner ; Eggs, Bacon, roast Ribs of 
 Lamb, Spinach, Potatoes, savoury Pie, a 
 Brentford Pudding, and Cheesecakes. What 
 a pretty Housewife Rose is ! Roger s plain 
 Hospitalitie and scholarlie Discourse ap- 
 peared to much Advantage. He askt of 
 News from Paris ; and Mr. Milton spoke 
 much of the Swedish Ambassadour, Dutch 
 by Birth ; a Man renowned for his Learn- 
 ing, Magnanimity, and Misfortunes, of 
 whome he had seene much. He tolde 
 Rose and me how this Mister Van der Groote 
 had beene unjustlie caste into Prison by 
 his Countrymen ; and how his good Wife 
 had shared his Captivitie, and had tried to 
 get his Sentence reversed ; failing which, 
 she contrived his Escape in a big Chest, 
 which she pretended to be full of heavie 
 olde Bookes. Mr. Milton concluded with 
 the Exclamation, " Indeede, there never 
 
 " was 
 
14 Maiden £&P Married Life 
 
 " was such a Woman ;" on which, deare 
 Roger, whome I beginne to love, quoth, 
 " Oh yes, there are manie such, — we have 
 " two at Table now." Whereat, Mr. 
 Milton smiled. 
 
 At Leave-taking pressed Mr. Agnew 
 and Rose to come and see us soone ; and 
 Dick askt Mr. Milton to see the Bowling 
 Greene. 
 
 Ride Home, delightfulle. 
 
 May \\th. 
 BOUGHT, when I woke 
 this Morning, I had been 
 dreaminge of St. Paul let 
 down the Wall in a Basket; 
 but founde, on more close- 
 ly examining the Matter, 
 'twas Grotius carried down the Ladder in 
 a Chest ; and methought I was his Wife, 
 leaninge from the Window above, and 
 crying to the Souldiers, " Have a Care, 
 " have a Care ! " 'Tis certayn I shoulde 
 have betraied him by an Over-anxietie. 
 Resolved to give Father a Sheepscote 
 
 Dinner, 
 
of Mary Powell 1 5 
 
 Dinner, but Margery affirmed the Haunch 
 woulde no longer keepe, so was forced to 
 have it drest, though meaninge to have 
 kept it for Companie. Little Kate, who 
 had been out alle the Morning, came in 
 with her Lap full of Butter-burs, the 
 which I was glad to see, as Mother esteemes 
 them a sovereign Remedie 'gainst the 
 Plague, which is like to be rife in Ox- 
 ford this Summer, the Citie being so 
 overcrowded on account of his Majestic 
 While laying them out on the Stille-room 
 Floor, in bursts Robin to say Mr. Agnew 
 and Mr. Milton were with Father at the 
 Bowling Greene, and woulde dine here. 
 So was glad Margery had put down the 
 Haunch. 'Twas past one o' the Clock, 
 however, before it coulde be sett on Table ; 
 and I had just run up to pin on my Car- 
 nation Knots, when I hearde them alle 
 come in discoursing merrilie. 
 
 At Dinner Mr. Milton askt Robin of 
 his Studdies ; and I was in Payne for the 
 deare Boy, knowing him to be better 
 affected to his out-doore Recreations than 
 
 to 
 
1 6 Maiden ^f Married Life 
 
 to his Booke ; but he answered boldlie he 
 was in Ovid, and I lookt in Mr. Milton's 
 Face to guesse was that goode Scholarship 
 or no ; but he turned it towards my Father, 
 and sayd he was trying an Experiment on 
 two young Nephews of his owne, whether 
 the reading those Authors that treate of 
 physical Subjects mighte not advantage 
 them more than the Poets ; whereat my 
 Father jested with him, he being himselfe 
 one of the Fraternitie he seemed to despise. 
 But he uphelde his Argumente so bravelie, 
 that Father listened in earneste Silence. 
 Meantime, the Cloth being drawne, and 
 I in Feare of remaining over long, was 
 avised to withdrawe myselfe earlie, Robin 
 following, and begging me to goe downe 
 to the Fish-ponds. Afterwards alle the 
 others joyned us, and we sate on the Steps 
 till the Sun went down, when, the Horses 
 being broughte round, our Guests tooke 
 Leave without returning to the House. 
 Father walked thoughtfullie Home with 
 me, leaning on my Shoulder, and spake 
 little. 
 
 May 
 
of Mary Powell 17 
 
 May \$th. 
 jFTER writing the above 
 last Night, in my Cham- 
 ber, went to Bed and had 
 a most heavenlie Dreame. 
 Methoughte it was brighte, 
 brighte Moonlighte, and I 
 was walking with Mr. Milton on a Terrace, 
 — not our Terrace, but in some outlandish 
 Place ; and it had Flights and Flights of 
 green Marble Steps, descending, I cannot 
 tell how farre, with Stone Figures and 
 Vases on everie one. We went downe 
 and downe these Steps, till we came to a 
 faire Piece of Water, still in the Moon- 
 lighte ; and then, methoughte, he woulde 
 be taking Leave, and sayd much aboute 
 Absence and Sorrowe, as tho' we had 
 knowne eache other some Space ; and 
 alle that he sayd was delightfulle to heare. 
 Of a suddain we hearde Cries, as of Dis- 
 tresse, in a Wood that came quite down 
 to the Water's Edge, and Mr. Milton sayd, 
 " Hearken ! " and then, " There is some 
 " one being slaine in the Woode, I must 
 
 " goe 
 
 B 
 
1 8 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 " goe to rescue him ; " and soe, drewe his 
 Sword and ran off. Meanwhile, the Cries 
 continued, but I did not seeme to mind 
 them much ; and, looking stedfastlie 
 downe into the cleare Water, coulde see 
 to an immeasurable Depth, and beheld, 
 oh, rare ! Girls sitting on glistening Rocks, 
 far downe beneathe, combing and braiding 
 their brighte Hair, and talking and laugh- 
 ing, onlie I coulde not heare aboute what. 
 And theire Kirtles were like spun Glass, 
 and theire Bracelets Coral and Pearl ; and 
 I thought it the fairest Sight that Eyes 
 coulde see. But, alle at once, the Cries 
 in the Wood affrighted them, for they 
 started, looked upwards and alle aboute, 
 and began swimming thro' the cleare 
 Water so fast, that it became troubled 
 and thick, and I coulde see them noe more. 
 Then I was aware that the Voices in the 
 Wood were of Dick and Harry, calling for 
 me ; and I soughte to answer, " Here ! " 
 but my Tongue was heavie. Then I com- 
 menced running towards them, through 
 ever so manie greene Paths, in the Wood ; 
 
 but 
 
of Mary Powell i 9 
 
 but still, we coulde never meet ; and I 
 began to see grinning Faces, neither of 
 Man nor Beaste, peeping at me through 
 the Trees ; and one and another of them 
 called me by Name ; and in greate Feare 
 and Paine I awoke ! 
 
 . . . Strange Things are Dreames. Dear 
 Mother thinks much of them, and sayth 
 they oft portend coming Events. My 
 Father holdeth the Opinion that they are 
 rather made up of what hath alreadie come 
 to passe ; but surelie naught like this 
 Dreame of mine hath in anie Part befallen 
 me hithertoe ? 
 
 . . . What strange Fable or Masque 
 were they reading that Day at Sheepscote ? 
 I mind not. 
 
 May 10th. 
 ^00 much busied of late to 
 write, though much hath 
 happened which I woulde 
 fain remember. Dined at 
 Shotover yesterday. Met 
 Mother, who is coming 
 Home in a Day or two, but helde short 
 
 Speech 
 
20 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 Speech with me aside concerning House- 
 wifery. The Agtiews there, of course : 
 alsoe Mr. Milton, whom we have seene 
 continuallie, lately ; and I know not how 
 it shoulde be, but he seemeth to like me. 
 Father affects him much, but Mother loveth 
 him not. She hath seene little of him : 
 perhaps the less the better. Ralph Hewlett, 
 as usuall, forward in his rough Endeavours 
 to please ; but, though no Scholar, I have 
 yet Sense enough to prefer Mr. Milton s 
 Discourse to his. ... I wish I were 
 fonder of Studdy ; but, since it cannot be, 
 what need to vex ? Some are born of one 
 Mind, some of another. Rose was al- 
 waies for her Booke ; and, had Rose beene 
 no Scholar, Mr. Agnew woulde, may be, 
 never have given her a second Thoughte : 
 but alle are not of the same Way of 
 thinking. 
 
 ... A few Lines received from Mother s 
 "spoilt Boy," as Father hath called Brother 
 Bill, ever since he went a soldiering. 
 Blurred and mis-spelt as they are, she will 
 prize them. Trulie, we are none of us 
 
 grate 
 
of Mary Powell 2 1 
 
 grate hands at the Pen ; 'tis well I make 
 this my Copie-booke. 
 
 . . . Oh, strange Event ! Can this be 
 Happinesse ? Why, then, am I soe feared, 
 soe mazed, so prone to weeping ? I woulde 
 that Mother were here. Lord have Mercie 
 on me a sinfulle, sillie Girl, and guide my 
 Steps arighte. 
 
 ... It seemes like a Dreame, (I have 
 done noughte but dreame of late, I think,) 
 my going along the matted Passage, and 
 hearing Voices in my Father s Chamber, 
 just as my Hand was on the Latch ; and 
 my withdrawing my Hand, and going 
 softlie away, though I never paused at 
 disturbing him before ; and, after I had 
 beene a full Houre in the stille Room, 
 turning over ever soe manie Trays full of 
 dried Herbs and Flower-leaves, hearing 
 him come forthe and call, " Moll, deare 
 " Moll, where are you ? " with I know 
 not what of strange in the Tone of his 
 Voice ; and my running to him hastilie, 
 and his drawing me into his Chamber, 
 and closing the Doore. Then he takes 
 
 me 
 
22 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 me round the Waiste, and remains quite 
 silent awhile ; I gazing on him so strange- 
 lie ! and at length, he says with a Kind 
 of Sigh, " Thou art indeed but young 
 "yet! scarce seventeen, — and fresh, as 
 " Mr. Milton says, as the earlie May ; too 
 " tender, forsooth, to leave us yet, sweet 
 " Child ! But what wilt say, Moll, when 
 " I tell thee that a well-esteemed Gentle- 
 " man, whom as yet indeed I know too 
 " little of, hath craved of me Access to the 
 " House as one that woulde win your 
 " Favour ? " 
 
 Thereupon, such a suddain Faintness ot 
 the Spiritts overtooke me, (a Thing I am 
 noe way subject to,) as that I fell down 
 in a Swound at Father s Feet ; and when 
 I came to myselfe agayn, my Hands and 
 Feet seemed full of Prickles, and there 
 was a Humming, as of Roses Bees, in 
 mine Ears. Lettice and Margery were 
 tending of me, and Father watching me 
 full of Care ; but soe soone as he saw 
 me open mine Eyes, he bade the Maids 
 stand aside, and sayd, stooping over me, 
 
 " Enough, 
 
of Mary Powell 23 
 
 " Enough, dear Moll ; we will talk noe 
 " more of this at present," " Onlie just 
 " tell me," quoth I, in a Whisper, " who 
 "it is." " Guesse," sayd he. "I cannot," 
 I softlie replied; and, with the Lie, came 
 such a Rush of Blood to my Cheeks as 
 betraied me. " I am sure you have 
 " though," said deare Father, gravelie, 
 " and I neede not say it is Mr. Milton, of 
 " whome I know little more than you doe, 
 " and that is not enough. On the other 
 " hand, Roger Agneiv sayth that he is one 
 " of whome we can never know too 
 " much, and there is somewhat about 
 " him which inclines me to believe it." 
 " What will Mother say ? " interrupted I. 
 Thereat Father's Countenance changed ; 
 and he hastilie answered, " Whatever she 
 " likes : I have an Answer for her, and a 
 " Question too ; " and abruptlie left me, 
 bidding me keepe myselfe quiet. 
 
 But can I ? Oh, no ! Father hath sett 
 a Stone rolling, unwitting of its Course. 
 It hath prostrated me in the first Instance, 
 and will, I misdoubt, hurt my Mother. 
 
 Father 
 
24 Maiden ^f Married Life 
 
 Father is bold enow in her Absence, but 
 when she comes back will leave me to 
 face her Anger alone ; or else, make such 
 a Stir to shew that he is not governed by 
 a Woman, as wille make Things worse. 
 Meanwhile, how woulde I have them ? 
 Am I most pleased or payned ? dismayed 
 or flattered ? Indeed, I know not. 
 
 ... I am soe sorry to have swooned. 
 Needed I have done it, merelie to heare 
 there was one who soughte my Favour ? 
 Aye, but one so wise ! so thoughtfulle ! 
 so unlike me ! 
 
 Bedtime ; same Daye. 
 
 [HO knoweth what a Daye 
 
 will bring forth ? After 
 
 writing the above, I sate 
 
 like one stupid, ruminating 
 
 on I know not what, except 
 
 on the Unlikelihood that 
 
 one soe wise woulde trouble bimselfe 
 
 to seeke for aught and yet fail to win. 
 
 After abiding a long Space in mine owne 
 
 Chamber, 
 
of Mary Powell 25 
 
 Chamber, alle below seeming still, I began 
 to wonder shoulde we dine alone or not, 
 and to have a hundred hot and cold Fitts 
 of Hope and Feare. Thought I, if Mr. 
 Milton comes, assuredlie I cannot goe 
 down ; but yet I must ; but yet I will 
 not ; but yet the best will be to conduct 
 myselfe as though nothing had happened ; 
 and, as he seems to have left the House 
 long ago, maybe he hath returned to 
 Sheepscote, or even to London. Oh that 
 London ! Shall I indeede ever see it ? and 
 the rare Shops, and the Play-houses, and 
 St. Paul's, and the Towre f But what and 
 if that ever comes to pass ? Must I leave 
 Home ? dear Forest Hill ? and Father and 
 Mother, and the Boys ? more especiallie 
 Robin ? Ah ! but Father will give me a 
 long Time to think of it. He will, and 
 must. 
 
 Then Dinner-time came ; and, with 
 Dinner-time, Uncle Hewlett and Ralph, 
 Squire Pake and Mr. Milton. We had a 
 huge Sirloin, soe no Feare of short Com- 
 mons. I was not ill pleased to see soe 
 
 manie : 
 
26 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 manie : it gave me an Excuse for holding 
 my Peace, but I coulde have wished for 
 another Woman. However, Father never 
 thinks of that, and Mother will soone be 
 Home. After Dinner the elder Men 
 went to the Bowling-greene with Dick 
 and Ralph ; the Boys to the Fish-ponds ; 
 and, or ever I was aware, Mr. Milton was 
 walking with me on the Terrace. My 
 Dreame came soe forcibly to Mind, that 
 my Heart seemed to leap into my Mouth ; 
 but he kept away from the Fish-ponds, 
 and from Leave - taking, and from his 
 morning Discourse with my Father, — at 
 least for awhile ; but some Way he got 
 round to it, and sayd soe much, and soe 
 well, that, after alle my Father s bidding 
 me keepe quiete and take my Time, and 
 mine owne Resolution to think much and 
 long, he never rested till he had changed 
 the whole Appearance of Things, and made 
 me promise to be his, wholly and trulie.— 
 And oh ! 1 feare I have been too quickly 
 wonne ! 
 
 May 
 
\\-LV- 
 
 
 
 Th? JNuwhnt Gjreea 
 
 Ere/t Kill 
 
 4u<W 
 
of Mary Powell 27 
 
 May 2yd. 
 CT leaste, so sayeth the Calen- 
 dar ; but with me it hath 
 beene trulie an April Daye, 
 alle Smiles and Teares. And 
 now my Spiritts are soe 
 perturbed and dismaid, as 
 that I know not whether to weepe or 
 no, for methinks crying would relieve me. 
 At first waking this Morning my Mind 
 was elated at the Falsitie of my Mother s 
 Notion, that no Man of Sense woulde 
 think me worth the having ; and soe I 
 got up too proude, I think, and came 
 down too vain, for I had spent an unusuall 
 Time at the Glasse. My Spiritts, alsoe, 
 were soe unequall, that the Boys took 
 Notice of it, and it seemed as though I 
 coulde breathe nowhere but out of Doors ; 
 so the Children and I had a rare Game of 
 Play in the Home-close ; but ever and 
 anon I kept looking towards the Road 
 and listening for Horses' Feet, till Robin 
 sayd, " One would think the King was 
 
 " coming : " 
 
2 8 Maiden ^f Married Life 
 
 " coming : " but at last came Mr. Milton, 
 quite another Way, walking through the 
 Fields with huge Strides. Kate saw him 
 firste, and tolde me ; and then sayd, 
 " What makes you look soe pale ? " 
 
 We sate a good Space under the Haw- 
 thorn Hedge on the Brow of the Hill, 
 listening to the Mower's Scythe, and the 
 Song of Birds, which seemed enough for 
 him, without talking ; and as he spake 
 not, I helde my Peace, till, with the Sun 
 in my Eyes, I was like to drop asleep ; 
 which, as his own Face was from me, and 
 towards the Landskip, he noted not. I 
 was just aiming, for Mirthe's Sake, to 
 steale away, when he suddainlie turned 
 about and fell to speaking of rurall Life, 
 Happinesse, Heaven, and such like, in a 
 Kind of Rapture ; then, with his Elbow 
 half raising him from the Grass, lay look- 
 ing at me ; then commenced humming or 
 singing I know not what Strayn, but 'twas 
 of " begli Occhi" and " Chioma aurata ; " 
 and he kept smiling the while he sang. 
 
 After 
 
of Mary Powell 29 
 
 After a time we went In-doors ; and 
 then came my firste Pang : for Father 
 founde out how I had pledged myselfe 
 overnighte ; and for a Moment looked soe 
 grave, that my Heart misgave me for 
 having beene soe hastie. However, it 
 soone passed off; deare Father s Counte- 
 nance cleared, and he even seemed merrie 
 at Table ; and soon after Dinner alle the 
 Party dispersed save Mr. Milton, who 
 loitered with me on the Terrace. After 
 a short Silence he exclaimed, " How good 
 " is our God to us in alle his Gifts ! For 
 " Instance, in this Gift of Love, whereby 
 " had he withdrawn from visible Nature a 
 " thousand of its glorious Features and gay 
 " Colourings, we shoulde stille possess, 
 '■'■from within, the Means of throwing over 
 " her clouded Face an entirelie different 
 " Hue ! while as it is, what was pleasing 
 " before now pleaseth more than ever ! 
 " Is it not soe, sweet Moll? May I express 
 " thy Feelings as well as mine own, un- 
 " blamed ? or am I too adventurous ? You 
 " are silent ; well, then, let me believe 
 
 " that 
 
30 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 " that we think alike, and that the Emo- 
 " tions of the few laste Hours have given 
 " such an Impulse to alle that is high, and 
 " sweete, and deepe, and pure, and holy in 
 " our innermoste Hearts, as that we seeme 
 " now onlie flrste to taste the Life of Life, 
 " and to perceive how much nearer Earth 
 " is to Heaven than we thought ! Is it 
 " soe ? Is it not soe ? " and I was con- 
 strayned to say " Yes," at I scarcelie knew 
 what ; grudginglie too, for I feared having 
 once alreadie sayd " Yes " too soone. But 
 he saw nought amisse, for he was expect- 
 ing nought amisse ; soe went on, most like 
 Truth and Love that Lookes could speake 
 or Wordes sounde : " Oh, I know it, I 
 " feel it : — henceforthe there is a Life re- 
 " served for us in which Angels may sym- 
 " pathize. For this most excellent Gift 
 " of Love shall enable us to read together 
 " the whole Booke of Sanctity and Virtue, 
 " and emulate eache other in carrying 
 " it into Practice ; and as the wise Magians 
 " kept theire Eyes steadfastlie fixed on the 
 " Star, and followed it righte on, through 
 
 " rough 
 

of Mary Powell 3 1 
 
 " rough and smoothe, soe we, with this 
 " bright Beacon, which indeed is set on 
 " Fire of Heaven, shall pass on through 
 " the peacefull Studdies, surmounted Ad- 
 " versities, and victorious Agonies of Life, 
 " ever looking steadfastlie up ! " 
 
 Alle this, and much more, as tedious to 
 heare as to write, did I listen to, firste with 
 flagging Attention, next with concealed 
 Wearinesse ; — and as Wearinesse, if in- 
 dulged, never is long concealed, it soe 
 chanced, by Ill-luck, that Mr. Milton, sud- 
 dainlie turning his Eyes from Heaven upon 
 poor me, caughte, I can scarcelie expresse 
 how slighte, an Indication of Discomforte 
 in my Face ; and instantlie a Cloud crossed 
 his owne, though as thin as that through 
 which the Sun shines while it floats over 
 him. Oh, 'twas not of a Moment ! and 
 yet in that Moment we seemed eache to 
 have seene the other, though but at a 
 Glance, under new Circumstances : — as 
 though two Persons at a Masquerade had 
 just removed their Masques and put them 
 on agayn. This gave me my seconde 
 
 Pang :— 
 
3 2 Maiden <^f Married Life 
 
 Pang: — I felt I had given him Payn ; and 
 though he made as though he forgot it 
 directly, and I tooke Payns to make him 
 forget it, I coulde never be quite sure 
 whether he had. 
 
 . . . My Spiritts were soe dashed by 
 this, and by learning his Age to be soe 
 much more than I had deemed it, (for he 
 is thirty-five ! who coulde have thoughte 
 it ?) that I had, thenceforthe, the Aire of 
 being much more discreete and pensive 
 than belongeth to my Nature ; whereby 
 he was, perhaps, well pleased. As I be- 
 came more grave he became more gay ; 
 soe that we met eache other, as it were, 
 Half-way, and became righte pleasant. 
 If his Countenance were comely before, 
 it is quite heavenlie now ; and yet I ques- 
 tion whether my Love increaseth as rapidlie 
 as my Feare. Surelie my Folly will prove 
 as distastefull to him, as his over-much 
 Wisdom to me. The Dread of it hath 
 alarmed me alreadie. What has become, 
 even now, of alle my gay Visions of Mar- 
 riage, and Londo?i, and the Play-houses, 
 
 and 
 
of Mary Powell 33 
 
 and the Towre ? They have faded away 
 thus earlie, and in their Place comes a 
 Foreboding of I can scarce say what. I 
 am as if a Child, receiving from some 
 olde Fairy the Gift of what seemed a 
 fayre Doll's House, shoulde hastilie open 
 the Doore thereof, and starte back at 
 beholding nought within but a huge 
 Cavern, deepe, high, and vaste ; in parte 
 glittering with glorious Chrystals, and the 
 Rest hidden in obscure Darknesse. 
 
 May 2\th. 
 ^EAR Rose came this Morn- 
 ing. I flew forthe to 
 welcome her, and as I 
 drew near, she lookt upon 
 me with such a Kind of 
 Awe as that I could not 
 forbeare laughing. Mr. Milton having 
 slept at Sheepscote, had made her privy to 
 our Engagement ; for indeede, he and 
 Mr. Agneiv are such Friends, he will keep 
 nothing from him. Thus Rose heares it 
 
 before 
 c 
 
34 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 before my owne Mother, which shoulde 
 not be. When we had entered my 
 Chamber, she embraced me once and 
 agayn, and seemed to think soe much of 
 my uncommon Fortune, that I beganne 
 to think more of it myselfe. To heare 
 her talke of Mr. Milton one would have 
 supposed her more in Love with him 
 than I. Like a Bookworm as she is, she 
 fell to praysing his Composures. " Oh, 
 " the leaste I care for in him is his 
 " Versing," quoth I ; and from that 
 Moment a Spiritt of Mischief tooke 
 Possession of me, to do a thousand heed- 
 lesse, ridiculous Things throughoute the 
 Day, to shew Rose how little I set by 
 the Opinion of soe wise a Man. Once 
 or twice Mr. Milton lookt earnestlie 
 and questioninglie at me, but I heeded 
 him not. 
 
 . . . Discourse at Table graver and 
 less pleasant, methoughte, than hereto- 
 fore. Mr. Busire having dropt in, was 
 avised to ask Mr. Milton why, having 
 had an university Education, he had not 
 
 entered 
 
of Mary Powell 35 
 
 entered the Church. He replied, drylie 
 enough, because he woulde not subscribe 
 himselfe Slave to anie Formularies of 
 Men's making. I saw Father bite his 
 Lip ; and Roger Agnew mildly observed, 
 he thought him wrong ; for that it was 
 not for an Individual to make Rules for 
 another Individual, but yet that the 
 generall Voice of the Wise and Good, 
 removed from the pettie Prejudices of 
 private Feeling, mighte pronounce au- 
 thoritativelie wherein an Individual was 
 righte or wrong, and frame Laws to keepe 
 him in the righte Path. Mr. Milton re- 
 plyed, that manie Fallibles could no more 
 make up an Infallible than manie Finites 
 could make an Infinite. Mr. Agnew re- 
 joyned, that ne'erthelesse, an Individual 
 who opposed himselfe agaynst the gene- 
 rall Current of the Wise and Good, was, 
 leaste of alle, likelie to be in the Right ; 
 and that the Limitations of human Intel- 
 lect which made the Judgment of manie 
 wise Men liable to Question, certainlie 
 made the Judgment of anie wise Man, 
 
 self- 
 
36 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 self-dependent, more questionable still. 
 Mr. Milton shortlie replied that there 
 were Particulars in the required Oaths 
 which made him unable to take them 
 without Perjurie. And soe, an End : but 
 'twas worth a World to see Rose looking 
 soe anxiouslie from the one Speaker to 
 the other, desirous that eache should be 
 victorious ; and I was sorry that it lasted 
 not a little longer. 
 
 As Rose and I tooke our Way to the 
 Summer-house, she put her Arm round 
 me, saying, " How charming is divine 
 " Philosophic!" I coulde not helpe ask- 
 ing if she did not meane how charming 
 was the Philosophie of one particular 
 Divine ? Soe then she discoursed with 
 me of Things more seemlie for Women 
 than Philosophie or Divinitie either. 
 Onlie, when Mr. Agnew and Mr. Milton 
 joyned us, she woulde aske them to re- 
 peat one Piece of Poetry after another, 
 beginning with Carew's — 
 
 " He who loves a rosic Cheeke, 
 Or a coral Lip admires, — " 
 
 And 
 
of Mary Powell 37 
 
 And crying at the End of eache, " Is not 
 " that lovely ? Is not that divine ? " I 
 franklie sayd I liked none of them soe 
 much as some Mr. Agtiew had recited, 
 concluding with — 
 
 " Mortals that would follow me, 
 Love Virtue : she alone is free'' 
 
 Whereon Mr. Milton surprised me with a 
 suddain Kiss, to the immoderate Mirthe 
 of Rose, who sayd I coulde not have 
 looked more discomposed had he pre- 
 tended he was the Author of those Verses. 
 I afterwards found he was ; but I think 
 she laught more than there was neede. 
 
 We have ever been considered a suffi- 
 cientlie religious Familie : that is, we 
 goe regularly to Church on Sabbaths and 
 Prayer-dayes, and keepe alle the Fasts 
 and Festivalles. But Mr. Milton s Devo- 
 tion hath attayned a Pitch I can neither 
 imitate nor even comprehende. The spi- 
 rituall World seemeth to him not onlie 
 reall, but I may almoste say visible. For 
 instance, he tolde Rose, it appears, that on 
 
 Tuesday 
 
3 8 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 Tuesday Nighte, (that is the same Even- 
 ing I had promised to be his,) as he 
 went homewards to his Farm-lodging, he 
 fancied the Angels whisperinge in his 
 Eares, and singing over his Head, and 
 that instead of going to his Bed like a 
 reasonable Being, he lay down on the 
 Grass, and gazed on the sweete, pale 
 Moon till she sett, and then on the 
 bright Starres till he seemed to see them 
 moving in a slowe, solemn Dance, to the 
 Words, " How glorious is our God I" And 
 alle about him, he said, he knew, tho' 
 he coulde not see them, were spirituall 
 Beings repairing the Ravages of the Day 
 on the Flowers, amonge the Trees, and 
 Grasse, and Hedges ; and he believed 
 'twas onlie the Filme that originall Sin 
 had spread over his Eyes, that prevented 
 his seeing them. I am thankful for this 
 same Filme, — I cannot abide Fairies, and 
 Witches, and Ghosts — ugh! I shudder 
 even to write of them ; and were it onlie 
 of the more harmlesse Sort, one woulde 
 never have the Comforte of thinkinge to 
 
 be 
 
of Mary Powell 39 
 
 be alone. I feare Churchyardes and dark 
 Corners of alle Kinds ; more especiallie 
 Spiritts ; and there is onlie one I would 
 even wish to see at my bravest, when 
 deepe Love casteth out Feare ; and that 
 is of Sister Anne, whome I never associate 
 with the Worme and Winding-sheete. 
 Oh no ! I think she, at leaste, dwells 
 amonge the Starres, having sprung straite 
 up into Lighte and Blisse the Moment 
 she put off Mortalitie ; and if she, why 
 not others ? Are Adam and Abraham alle 
 these Yeares in the unconscious Tomb ? 
 Theire Bodies, but surelie not their 
 Spiritts ? else, why dothe Christ speak of 
 Lazarus lying in Abraham s Bosom, while 
 the Brothers of Dives are yet riotouslie 
 living ? Yet what becomes of the Daye 
 of generall Judgment, if some be thus pre- 
 judged ? I must aske Mr. Milton, — yes, I 
 thinke I can finde it in my Heart to aske 
 him about this in some solemn, stille Hour, 
 and perhaps he will sett at Rest manie 
 Doubts and Misgivings that at sundrie 
 Times trouble me ; being soe wise a Man. 
 
 Bedtime. 
 
40 Maiden ^f Married Life 
 
 Bedtime. 
 
 [LAD to steale away from 
 the noisie Companie in the 
 Supper-roome, (comprising 
 some of Father s Fellow- 
 magistrates,) I went down 
 with Robin and Kate to the 
 Fish-ponds ; it was scarce Sunset : and 
 there, while we threw Crumbs to the 
 Fish and watched them come to the 
 Surface, were followed, or ever we were 
 aware, by Mr. Milton, who sate down on 
 the stone Seat, drew Robin between his 
 Knees, stroked his Haire, and askt what 
 we were talking about. Robin sayd I had 
 beene telling them a fairie Story ; and 
 Mr. Milton observed that was an infinite 
 Improvement on the jangling, puzzle- 
 headed Prating of Country Justices, and 
 wished I woulde tell it agayn. But I 
 was afrayd. But Robin had no Feares ; 
 soe tolde the Tale roundlie ; onlie he 
 forgot the End. Soe he found his Way 
 backe to the Middle, and seemed likelie 
 
 to 
 
\i 
 
 7, y 
 
 
 
 - "* '' $5buv and Kbte tl e 
 
 J -4* w 
 
of Mary Powell 41 
 
 to make it last alle Night ; onlie Mr. 
 Milton sayd he seemed to have got into 
 the Labyrinth of Crete, and he must for 
 Pitie's Sake give him the Clew. Soe 
 he finished Robin s Story, and then tolde 
 another, a most lovelie one, of Ladies, 
 and Princes, and Enchanters, and a brazen 
 Horse, and he sayd the End of that Tale 
 had been cut off too, by Reason the 
 Writer had died before he finished it. 
 But Robin cryed, " Oh ! finish this too," 
 and hugged and kist him ; soe he did ; 
 and methoughte the End was better than 
 the Beginninge. Then he sayd, " Now, 
 " sweet Moll, you have onlie spoken this 
 " Hour past, by your Eyes ; and we 
 " must heare your pleasant Voice." " An 
 " Hour ? " cries Robin. " Where are alle 
 " the red Clouds gone, then ? " quoth 
 Mr. Milton, " and what Business hathe 
 " the Moon yonder ? " " Then we must 
 " go Indoors," quoth I. But they cried 
 " No," and Robin helde me fast, and Mr. 
 Milton sayd I might know even by the 
 distant Sounds of ill-governed Merriment 
 
 that 
 
42 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 that we were winding up the Week's 
 Accounts of Joy and Care more con- 
 sistentlie where we were than we coulde 
 doe in the House. And indeede just 
 then I hearde my Father s Voice swelling 
 a noisie Chorus ; and hoping Mr. Milton 
 did not distinguish it, I askt him if he 
 loved Musick. He answered, soe much 
 that it was Miserie for him to hear anie 
 that was not of the beste. I secretlie 
 resolved he should never heare mine. 
 He added, he was come of a musicalle 
 Familie, and that his Father not onlie 
 sang well, but played finely on the Viol 
 and Organ. Then he spake of the sweet 
 Musick in Italy, untill I longed to be 
 there ; but I tolde him nothing in its 
 Way ever pleased me more than to heare 
 the Choristers of Magdalen College usher 
 in May Day by chaunting a Hymn at the 
 Top of the Church Towre. Discoursing 
 of this and that, we thus sate a good 
 While ere we returned to the House. 
 
 Coming out of Church he woulde 
 
 shun 
 
of Mary Powell 43 
 
 shun the common Field, where the Vil- 
 lagery led up theire Sports, saying, he 
 deemed Quoit-playing and the like to be 
 unsuitable Recreations on a Daye where- 
 upon the Lord had restricted us from 
 speakinge our own Words, and thinking 
 our own (that is, secular) Thoughts : and 
 that he believed the Law of God in this 
 Particular woulde soone be the Law of 
 the Land, for Parliament woulde shortlie 
 put down Sunday Sports. I askt, " What, 
 "the King's Parliament at Oxford?" He 
 answered, " No ; the Country s Parliament 
 " at Westminster." I sayd, I was sorrie, for 
 manie poore hard-working Men had no 
 other Holiday. He sayd, another Holi- 
 day woulde be given them ; and that 
 whether or no, we must not connive at 
 Evil, which we doe in permitting an holy 
 Daye to sink into a Holiday. I sayd, but 
 was it not the Jewish Law, which had 
 made such Restrictions ? He sayd, yes, 
 but that Christ came not to destroy the 
 moral Law, of which Sabbath-keeping 
 was a Part, and that even its naturall 
 
 Fitnesse 
 
44 Maiden ^§f Married Life 
 
 Fitnesse for the bodily Welfare of Man 
 and Beast was such as no wise Legislator 
 would abolish or abuse it, even had he no 
 Consideration for our spiritual and im- 
 mortal Part : and that 'twas a well-known 
 Fact that Beasts of Burthen, which had 
 not one Daye of Rest in seven, did lesse 
 Worke in the End. As for oure Soules, 
 he sayd, they required theire spiritual 
 Meales as much as our Bodies required 
 theires; and even poore, rusticall Clownes 
 who coulde not reade, mighte nourish 
 their better Parts by an holie Pause, and 
 by looking within them, and around 
 them, and above them. I felt inclined 
 to tell him that long Sermons alwaies 
 seemed to make me love God less insteade 
 of more, but woulde not, fearing he 
 mighte take it that I meant he had been 
 giving me one. 
 
 Monday. 
 
of Mary Powell 45 
 
 Monday. 
 [OTHER hath returned! 
 The Moment I hearde her 
 Voice I fell to trembling. 
 At the same Moment I 
 hearde Robin cry, " Oh, 
 " Mother, I have broken 
 " the greene Beaker ! " which betraied 
 Apprehension in another Quarter. How- 
 ever, she quite mildlie replied, " Ah, I 
 " knew the Handle was loose," and then 
 kist me with soe great Affection that I 
 felt quite easie. She had beene with- 
 helde by a troublesome Colde from return- 
 ing at the appointed Time, and cared not 
 to write. 'Twas just Supper-time, and 
 there were the Children to kiss and to 
 give theire Bread and Milk, and Bill's 
 Letter to reade ; soe that nothing par- 
 ticular was sayd till the younger Ones 
 were gone to Bed, and Father and Mother 
 were taking some Wine and Toast. Then 
 says Father, " Well, Wife, have you got 
 "the five hundred Pounds?" "No," 
 she answers, rather carelesslie. " I tolde 
 
 " you 
 
46 Maiden ^2? Married Life 
 
 ' you how 'twould be," says Father ; 
 ' you mighte as well have stayed at 
 ' Home." " Really, Mr. Powell" says 
 
 Mother, " soe seldom as I stir from my 
 ' owne Chimney-corner, you neede not 
 ' to grudge me, I think, a few Dayes 
 ' among our mutuall Relatives." " I 
 ' shall goe to Gaol," says Father. " Non- 
 ' sense," says Mother ; " to Gaol indeed ! " 
 ' Well, then, who is to keepe me from 
 ' it ? " says Father, laughing. " I will 
 ' answer for it, Mr. Milton will wait a 
 ' little longer for his Money," says 
 
 Mother, " he is an honourable Man, I 
 ' suppose." " I wish he may thinke me 
 ' one," says Father ; " and as to a little 
 ' longer, what is the goode of waiting for 
 ' what is as unlikelie to come eventuallie 
 ' as now ? " " You must answer that for 
 ' yourselfe," says Mother, looking wearie : 
 ' I have done what I can, and can doe no 
 ' more." "Well, then, 'tis lucky Matters 
 ' stand as they do," says Father. " Mr. 
 ' Milton has been much here in your 
 ' Absence, my Dear, and has taken a 
 
 " Liking 
 
of Mary Powell 47 
 
 " Liking to our Moll ; soe, believing him, 
 
 " as you say, to be an honourable Man, 
 
 " I have promised he shall have her." 
 
 " Nonsense," cries Mother, turning red 
 
 and then pale. " Never farther from 
 
 " Nonsense," says Father, " for 'tis to be, 
 
 " and by the Ende of the Month too." 
 
 " You are bantering me, Mr. Powell,''' 
 
 says Mother. " How can you suppose 
 
 " soe, my Deare ? " says Father, " you doe 
 
 "me Injustice." "Why, Moll!" cries 
 
 Mother, turning sharplie towards me, as 
 
 I sate mute and fearfulle, " what is alle 
 
 " this, Child ? You cannot, you dare 
 
 " not think of wedding this round-headed 
 
 " Puritan." " Not round-headed," sayd 
 
 I, trembling ; " his Haire is as long and 
 
 " curled as mine." " Don't bandy Words 
 
 " with me, Girl," says Mother passionatelie, 
 
 " see how unfit you are to have a House 
 
 " of your owne, who cannot be left in 
 
 " Charge of your Father s for a Fort- 
 
 " nighte, without falling into Mischiefe ! " 
 
 " I won't have Moll chidden in that 
 
 " Way," says Father, " she has fallen into 
 
 " noe 
 
48 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 " noe Mischiefe, and has beene a dis- 
 "creete and dutifull Child." "Then it 
 " has beene alle your doing," says Mother, 
 " and you have forced the Child into this 
 " Match." " Noe Forcing whatever," 
 says Father, " they like one another, and 
 " I am very glad of it, for it happens 
 " to be very convenient." " Convenient, 
 " indeed," repeats Mother, and falls a 
 weeping. Thereon I must needs weepe 
 too, but she says, " Begone to Bed ; there 
 " is noe Neede that you shoulde sit 
 " by to heare your owne Father confesse 
 " what a Fool he has beene." 
 
 To my Bedroom I have come, but can- 
 not yet seek my Bed ; the more as I still 
 heare theire Voices in Contention below. 
 
 Tuesday. 
 yHIS Morninge's Breakfaste 
 was moste uncomfortable, 
 I feeling like a checkt 
 Child, scarce minding to 
 looke up or to eat. Mother, 
 with Eyes red and swollen, 
 scarce speaking save to the Children ; 
 
 Father 
 
of Mary Powell 49 
 
 Father directing his Discourse chieflie to 
 Dick, concerning Farm Matters and the 
 Rangership of Shotover, tho' 'twas easie to 
 see his Mind was not with them. Soe 
 soone as alle had dispersed to theire cus- 
 tomed Taskes, and I was loitering at the 
 Window, Father calls aloud to me from 
 his Studdy. Thither I go, and find him 
 and Mother, she sitting with her Back to 
 both. " Moll" says Father, with great 
 Determination, " you have accepted Mr. 
 " Milton to please yourself, you will marry 
 " him out of hand to please me." " Spare 
 " me, spare me, Mr. Powell" interrupts 
 Mother, " if the Engagement may not be 
 " broken off, at the least precipitate it 
 " not with this indecent haste. Post- 
 
 " pone it till " " Till when ? " says 
 
 Father. " Till the Child is olde enough 
 " to know her owne Mind." " That is, 
 " to put off an honourable Man on false 
 " Pretences," says Father, " she is olde 
 " enough to know it alreadie. Speake, 
 " Moll, are you of your Mother s Mind to 
 " give up Mr. Milton altogether ? " I 
 
 trembled, 
 
 D 
 
5<o Maiden £&P Married Life 
 
 trembled, but sayd, "No." "Then, as 
 " his Time is precious, and he knows 
 " not when he may leave his Home 
 " agayn, I save you the Trouble, Child, 
 " of naming a Day, for it shall be the 
 " Monday before Whitsuntide." Thereat 
 Mother gave a Kind of Groan ; but as 
 for me, I had like to have fallen on the 
 Ground, for I had had noe Thought of 
 suche Haste. " See what you are doing, 
 " Mr. Powell," says Mother, compassionat- 
 ing me, and raising me up, though some- 
 what roughlie; "I prophecie Evil of this 
 " Match." " Prophets of Evil are sure to 
 " find Listeners," says Father, "but I am not 
 " one of them ; " and soe left the Room. 
 Thereon my Mother, who alwaies feares him 
 when he has a Fit of Determination, loosed 
 the Bounds of her Passion, and chid me 
 so unkindlie, that, humbled and mortified, 
 I was glad to seeke my Chamber. 
 
 . . . Entering the Dining-room, how- 
 ever, I uttered a Shriek on seeing Father 
 fallen back in his Chair, as though in a 
 Fit, like unto that which terrified us a 
 
 Year 
 
of Mary Powell 5 1 
 
 Year ago ; and Mother hearing me call 
 out, ran in, loosed his Collar, and soone 
 broughte him to himselfe, tho' not with- 
 out much Alarm to alle. He made light 
 of it himselfe, and sayd 'twas merelie a 
 suddain Rush of Blood to the Head, and 
 woulde not be dissuaded from going 
 out; but Mother was playnly smote at the 
 Heart, and having lookt after him with 
 some anxietie, exclaimed, " I shall neither 
 " meddle nor make more in this Busi- 
 " nesse : your Father s suddain Seizures 
 " shall never be layd at my Doore ; " and 
 soe left me, till we met at Dinner. After 
 the Cloth was drawne, enters Mr. Milton, 
 who goes up to Mother, and with Grace- 
 fulnesse kisses her Hand ; but she with- 
 drewe it pettishly, and tooke up her 
 Sewing, on the which he lookt at her 
 wonderingly, and then at me ; then at 
 her agayne, as though he woulde reade 
 her whole Character in her Face ; which 
 having seemed to doe, and to write the 
 same in some private Page of his Heart, 
 he never troubled her or himself with 
 
 further 
 
52 Maiden £&? Married Life 
 
 further Comment, but tooke up Matters 
 just where he had left them last. Ere 
 we parted we had some private Confer- 
 ence touching our Marriage, for hastening 
 which he had soe much to say that I 
 coulde not long contend with him, espe- 
 ciallie as I founde he had plainlie made 
 out that Mother loved him not. 
 
 Wednesday. 
 ,OUSE full of Companie, 
 leaving noe Time to write 
 nor think. Mother sayth, 
 tho' she cannot forbode an 
 happy Marriage, she will 
 provide for a merrie Wed- 
 ding, and hathe growne more than com- 
 monlie tender to me, and given me some 
 Trinkets, a Piece of fine Holland Cloth, 
 and enoughe of green Sattin for a Gown, 
 that will stand on End with its owne 
 Richnesse. She hathe me constantlie with 
 her in the Kitchen, Pantrie, and Store- 
 room, telling me 'tis needfulle I shoulde 
 
 improve 
 
of Mary Powell 53 
 
 improve in Housewiferie, seeing I shall 
 soe soone have a Home of my owne. 
 
 But I think Mother knows not, and I 
 am afeard to tell her, that Mr. Milton hath 
 no House of his owne to carry me to, but 
 onlie Lodgings, which have well suited his 
 Bachelor State, but may not, 'tis likelie, 
 beseeme a Lady to live in. He deems so 
 himself, and sayeth we will look out for 
 an hired House together, at our Leisure. 
 Alle this he hath sayd to me in an Under- 
 tone, in Mother s Presence, she sewing at 
 the Table and we sitting in the Window ; 
 and 'tis difficult to tell how much she 
 hears, for she will aske no Questions, and 
 make noe Comments, onlie compresses her 
 Lips, which makes me think she knows. 
 
 The Children are in turbulent Spiritts; 
 but Robin hath done nought but mope 
 and make Moan since he learnt he must 
 soe soone lose me. A Thought hath 
 struck me, — Mr. Milton educates his Sis- 
 ter's Sons ; two Lads of about Robins 
 Age. What if he woulde consent to take 
 my Brother under his Charge ? perhaps 
 Father would be willing. Saturday. 
 
54 Maiden ^f Married Life 
 
 Saturday. 
 ^AST Visitt to Sheepscote, — at 
 leaste, as Mary Powell ; but 
 kind Rose and Roger Agnew 
 will give us the Use of it 
 for a Week on our Mar- 
 riage, and spend the Time 
 with dear Father and Mother, who will 
 neede their Kindnesse. Rose and I walked 
 long aboute the Garden, her Arm round 
 my Neck ; and she was avised to say, 
 
 " Cloth of Frieze, be not too bold, 
 Tho' thou be matcht with Cloth of Gold, — " 
 
 And then craved my Pardon for soe un- 
 mannerly a Rhyme, which indeede, me- 
 thoughte, needed an Excuse, but exprest 
 a Feare that I knew not (what she called) 
 my high Destiny, and prayed me not to 
 trifle with Mr. Milton s Feelings nor in 
 his Sighte, as I had done the Daye she 
 dined at Forest Hill. I laught, and sayd, 
 he must take me as he found me : he was 
 going to marry Mary Powell, not the Wise 
 Widow of Tekoah. Rose lookt wistfullie, 
 
 but 
 
of Mary Powell 55 
 
 but I bade her take Heart, for I doubted 
 not we shoulde content eache the other ; 
 and for the Rest, her Advice shoulde not 
 be forgotten. Thereat, she was pacyfied. 
 
 May 22nd. 
 fLLE Bustle and Confusion, 
 — slaying of Poultrie, mak- 
 ing of Pastrie, etc. People 
 coming and going, prest to 
 dine and to sup, and refuse, 
 and then stay, the colde 
 Meats and Wines ever on the Table ; and 
 in the Evening, the Rebecks and Re- 
 corders sent for that we may dance in 
 the Hall. My Spiritts have been most 
 unequall ; and this Evening I was over- 
 taken with a suddain Faintnesse, such as I 
 never but once before experienced. They 
 would let me dance no more ; and I 
 was quite tired enoughe to be glad to sit 
 aparte with Mr. Milton neare the Doore, 
 with the Moon shining on us ; untill at 
 length he drew me out into the Garden. 
 He spake of Happinesse and Home, and 
 
 Hearts 
 
56 Maiden 62? Married Life 
 
 Hearts knit in Love, and of heavenlie 
 Espousals, and of Man being the Head 
 of the Woman, and of our Lord 's Mar- 
 riage with the Church, and of white 
 Robes, and the Bridegroom coming in 
 Clouds of Glory, and of the Voices of 
 singing Men and singing Women, and 
 eternall Spring, and eternall Blisse, and 
 much that I cannot call to Mind, and 
 other-much that I coulde not compre- 
 hende, but which was in mine Ears as the 
 Song of Birds, or Falling of Waters. 
 
 May 2 3 rd. 
 [OSE hath come, and hath 
 kindlie offered to help pack 
 the Trunks, (which are to 
 be sent off by the Waggon 
 to London,) that I may have 
 the more Time to devote 
 to Mr. Milton. Nay, but he will soon 
 have all my Time devoted to himself, and 
 I would as lief spend what little remains 
 in mine accustomed Haunts, after mine 
 
 accustomed 
 
of Mary Powell 57 
 
 accustomed Fashion. I had purposed a 
 Ride on Clover this Morning, with Robin ; 
 but the poor Boy must I trow be dis- 
 appointed. 
 
 And for what ? Oh me ! I have 
 
 hearde such a long Sermon on Marriage- 
 duty and Service, that I am faine to sit 
 down and weepe. But no, I must not, 
 for they are waiting for me in the Hall, 
 and the Guests are come and the Musick 
 is tuning, and my Lookes must not be- 
 tray me. — And now farewell, Journal! ; 
 for Rose, who first bade me keepe you 
 (little deeming after what Fashion), will 
 now pack you up, and I will not close 
 you with a heavie Strayn. Robin is call- 
 ing me beneath the Window, — Father is 
 sitting in the Shade, under the old Pear- 
 tree, seemingly in gay Discourse with 
 Mr. Milton. To-morrow the Village- 
 bells will ring for the Marriage of 
 
 Mary Powell. 
 
 London* 
 
5 8 Maiden ^f Married Life 
 
 London, 
 Mr. Russell's, 'Taylor, 
 
 St. Bride s Churchyard. 
 
 H Heaven ! is this my new 
 Home ? my Heart sinkes 
 alreadie. After the swete 
 fresh Ayre of Sheepscote, 
 and the Cleanliness, and 
 the Quiet and the pleasant 
 Smells, Sightes, and Soundes, alle where- 
 of Mr. Milton enjoyed to the Full as 
 keenlie as I, saying they minded him of 
 Paradise, — how woulde Rose pitie me, 
 could she view me in this close Cham- 
 ber, the Floor whereof of dark, uneven 
 Boards, must have beene layd, methinks, 
 three hundred Years ago ; the oaken 
 Pannells, utterlie destitute of Polish and 
 with sundrie Chinks ; the Bed with dull 
 brown Hangings, lined with as dull a 
 greene, occupying Half the Space ; and 
 Half the Remainder being filled with 
 dustie Books, whereof there are Store 
 alsoe in every other Place. This Mirror, 
 
 I 
 
df Mary Powell 59 
 
 I should thinke, belonged to faire Rosa- 
 mond. And this Arm-chair to King Lear. 
 Over the Chimnie hangs a ruefull Por- 
 trait, — maybe of Grotius, but I shoulde 
 sooner deeme it of some Worthie before 
 the Flood. Onlie one Quarter of the 
 Casement will open, and that upon a 
 Prospect, oh dolefulle ! of the Church- 
 yarde. Mr. Milton had need be as blythe 
 as he was all the Time we were at Sheeps- 
 cote, or I shall be buried in that same 
 Churchyarde within the Twelvemonth. 
 'Tis well he has stepped out to see a 
 Friend, that I may in his Absence get 
 ridd of this Fit of the Dismalls. I wish 
 it may be the last. What would Mother 
 say to his bringing me to such a Home 
 as this ? I will not think. Soe this is 
 London ! How diverse from the " towred 
 " Citie " of my Husband's versing ! and 
 of his Prose too ; for as he spake, by the 
 way, of the Disorders of our Time, which 
 extend even into eache domestick Circle, 
 he sayd that alle must, for a While, ap- 
 pear confused to our imperfect View, just 
 
 as 
 
60 Maiden ^f Married Life 
 
 as a mightie Citie unto a Stranger who 
 shoulde beholde around him huge, un- 
 finished Fabrics, the Plan whereof he 
 could but imperfectlie make out, amid 
 the Builders' disorderlie Apparatus ; but 
 that, from afar, we mighte perceive glo- 
 rious Results from party Contentions, — 
 Freedom springing up from Opression, 
 Intelligence succeeding Ignorance, Order 
 following Disorder, just as that same 
 Traveller looking at the Citie from a 
 distant Height, should beholde Towres, 
 and Spires glistering with Gold and 
 Marble, Streets stretching in lessening 
 Perspectives, and Bridges flinging their 
 white Arches over noble Rivers. But 
 what of this saw we all along the Oxford 
 Road ? Firstlie, there was noe com- 
 manding Height ; second, there was the 
 Citie obscured by a drizzling Rain ; the 
 Ways were foul, the Faces of those we 
 mett spake less of Pleasure than Business, 
 and Bells were tolling, but none ringing. 
 Mr. Milton s Father, a grey-haired, kind 
 old Man, was here to give us welcome: 
 
 and 
 
of Mary Powell 61 
 
 and his firste Words were, " Why, John, 
 " thou hast stolen a March on us. Soe 
 " quickly, too, and soe snug ! But she 
 " is faire enoughe, Man, to excuse thee, 
 " Royalist or noe." 
 
 And soe, taking me in his Arms, kist 
 me franklie. — But I heare my Husband's 
 Voice, and another with it. 
 
 Thursday. 
 ,WAS a Mr. Lawrence 
 whom my Husband 
 brought Home last Nighte 
 to sup ; and the Evening 
 passed righte pleasantlie, 
 with News, Jestes, and a 
 little Musicke. Todaye hath been kindlie 
 devoted by Mr. Milton to shewing me 
 Sights : and oh ! the strange, diverting 
 Cries in the Streets, even from earlie 
 Dawn ! " New Milk and Curds from 
 " the Dairie ! " — " Olde Shoes for some 
 " Brooms ! " — " Anie Kitchen-stufFe, have 
 " you, Maids ? " — " Come buy my greene 
 " Herbes ! " — and then in the Streets, 
 
 here 
 
62 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 here a Man preaching, there another 
 juggling : here a Boy with an Ape, there 
 a Show of Nitieveh : next the News from 
 the North ; and as for the China Shops 
 and Drapers in the Strand, and the Cook's 
 Shops in Westminster, with the smoking 
 Ribs of Beef and fresh Salads set out on 
 Tables in the Street, and Men in white 
 Aprons crying out, " Calf's Liver, Tripe, 
 " and hot Sheep's Feet " — 'twas enoughe 
 to make One untimelie hungrie, — or take 
 One's Appetite away, as the Case might 
 be. Mr. Milton shewed me the noble 
 Minster, with King Harry Seventh's 
 Chapel adjoining ; and pointed out the 
 old House where Ben jfonson died. Neare 
 the Broade Sanctuarie , we fell in with a 
 slighte, dark-complexioned young Gentle- 
 man of two or three and twenty, whome 
 my Husband espying cryed, " What, 
 " Marvel I ? " the other comically answer- 
 ing, " What Marvel ? " and then, hand- 
 somlie saluting me and complimenting 
 Mr. Milton, much lighte and pleasant 
 Discourse ensued ; and finding we were 
 
 aboute 
 
5' -"/isH^k Jilgyfa^iS 
 
 
of Mary Powell 63 
 
 aboute to take Boat, he volunteered to 
 goe with us on the River. After manie 
 Hours' Exercise, I have come Home 
 fatigued, yet well pleased. Mr. Marvell 
 sups with us. 
 
 Fria 
 WISH I could note down 
 a Tithe of the pleasant 
 Things that were sayd last 
 Nighte. First, olde Mr. 
 Milton having stept out 
 with his Son, — I called 
 in Rachael, the younger of Mr. Russe/'s 
 Serving-maids, (for we have none of our 
 owne as yet, which tends to much Dis- 
 comfiture,) and, with her Aide, I dusted 
 the Bookes and sett them up in half the 
 Space they had occupied ; then cleared 
 away three large Basketfuls, of the ab- 
 solutest Rubbish, torn Letters and the 
 like, and sent out for Flowers, (which it 
 seemeth strange enoughe to me to buy,) 
 which gave the Chamber a gayer Aire, 
 and soe my Husband sayd when he came 
 
 in, 
 
64 Maiden £<§f Married Life 
 
 in, calling me the fayrest of them alle ; 
 and then, sitting down with Gayety to 
 the Organ, drew forthe from it heavenlie 
 Sounds. Afterwards Mr. Marvell came 
 in, and they discoursed about Italy, and 
 Mr. Milton promised his Friend some 
 Letters of Introduction to jfacopo Gaddi, 
 C/ementillo, and others. 
 
 After Supper, they wrote Sentences, 
 Definitions, and the like, after a Fashion 
 of Catherine de Medici, some of which I 
 have layd aside for Rose. 
 
 — To-day we have seene St. Paul's faire 
 Cathedral, and the School where Mr. 
 Milton was a Scholar when a Boy ; thence, 
 to the Fields 'oiFinsbury; where are Trees 
 and Windmills enow : a Place much fre- 
 quented for practising Archery and other 
 manlie Exercises. 
 
 Saturdi 
 
 iy. 
 
of Mary Powell 65 
 
 Saturday. 
 I HO' we rise betimes, olde 
 Mr. Milton is earlier stille; 
 and I always find him sit- 
 ting at his Table beside 
 the Window (by Reason 
 of the Chamber being soe 
 dark,) sorting I know not how manie 
 Bundles of Papers tied with red Tape ; 
 eache so like the other that I marvel how 
 he knows them aparte. This Morning, 
 I found the poore old Gentleman in sad 
 Distress at missing a Manuscript Song of 
 Mr. Hetiry Lawe's, the onlie Copy extant, 
 which he persuaded himselfe that I must 
 have sent down to the Kitchen Fire Yes- 
 terday. I am convinced I dismist not a 
 single Paper that was not torne eache 
 Way, as being utterlie uselesse ; but as 
 the unluckie Song cannot be founde, he 
 sighs and is certayn of my Delinquence, 
 as is Hubert, his owne Man ; or, as he 
 more frequentlie calls him, his " odd 
 " Man ; " — and an odd Man indeede is 
 
 Mr. 
 
 E 
 
66 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 Mr. Hubert, readie to address his Master 
 or Master's Sonne on the merest Occasion, 
 without waiting to be spoken to ; tho' he 
 expecteth Others to treat them with far 
 more Deference than he himself payeth. 
 
 — Dead tired, this Daye, with so much 
 Exercise ; but woulde not say soe, because 
 my Husband was thinking to please me by 
 shewing me soe much. Spiritts flagging 
 however. These London Streets wearie 
 my Feet. We have been over the House 
 in Aldersgate Street, the Garden whereof 
 disappointed me, having hearde soe much 
 of it ; but 'tis far better than none, and 
 the House is large enough for Mr. Mil- 
 ton s Familie and my Father s to boote. 
 Thought how pleasant 'twould be to 
 have them alle aboute me next Christ- 
 masse ; but that holie Time is noe longer 
 kept with Joyfulnesse in London. Ven- 
 tured, therefore, to expresse a Hope, we 
 mighte spend it at Forest Hill ; but Mr. 
 Milton sayd 'twas unlikelie he should be 
 able to leave Home ; and askt, would I 
 go alone ? — Constrained, for Shame, to 
 
 say 
 
of Mary Powell 67 
 
 say no ; but felt, in my Heart, I woulde 
 jump to see Forest Hill on anie Terms, I 
 soe love alle that dwell there. 
 
 Sunday Even. 
 ^RIVATE and publick 
 Prayer, Sermons, and 
 Psalm-singing from Morn 
 until Nighte. The onlie 
 Break hath been a Visit 
 to a quaint but pleasing 
 Quaker Lady, (the first of that Persuasion 
 I have ever had Speech of,) by Name 
 Catherine Thompson, whom my Husband 
 holds in great Reverence. She said 
 manie Things worthy to be remembered ; 
 onlie as I remember them, I need not to 
 write them down. Sorrie to be caughte 
 napping by my Husband, in the Midst 
 of the third long Sermon. This comes 
 of over-walking, and of being unable to 
 sleep o' Nights ; for whether it be the 
 London Ayre, or the London Methods of 
 making the Beds, or the strange Noises 
 
 in 
 
68 Maiden ^f Married Life 
 
 in the Streets, I know not, but I have 
 scarce beene able to close my Eyes before 
 Daybreak since I came to Town. 
 
 Monday. 
 jND now beginneth a new 
 Life ; for my Husband's 
 Pupils, who were dismist 
 for a Time for my Sake, 
 returne to theire Tasks this 
 Daye, and olde Mr. Milton 
 giveth Place to his two Grandsons, his 
 widowed Daughter's Children, Edward 
 and John Philips, whom my Husband led 
 in to me just now. Two plainer Boys I 
 never sett Eyes on ; the one weak-eyed 
 and puny, the other prim and puritanicall 
 — no more to be compared to our sweet 
 Robin / . . . After a few Words, they 
 retired to theire Books ; and my Hus- 
 band, taking my Hand, sayd in his kind- 
 liest Manner, — " And now I leave my 
 " sweete Moll to the pleasant Com- 
 " panie of her own goode and innocent 
 " Thoughtes ; and, if she needs more, 
 
 " here 
 
of Mary Powell 69 
 
 " here are both stringed and keyed In- 
 " struments, and Books both of the older 
 " and modern Time, soe that she will not 
 " find the Hours hang heavie." Me- 
 thoughte how much more I should like a 
 Ride upon Glover than all the Books that 
 ever were penned ; for the Door no sooner 
 closed upon Mr. Milton than it seemed as 
 tho' he had taken alle the Sunshine with 
 him ; and I fell to cleaning the Casement 
 that I mighte look out the better into the 
 Churchyarde, and then altered Tables and 
 Chairs, and then sate downe with my 
 Elbows resting on the Window-seat, and 
 my Chin on the Palms of my Hands, 
 gazing on I knew not what, and feeling 
 like a Butterflie under a Wine-glass. 
 
 I marvelled why it seemed soe long 
 since I was married, and wondered what 
 they were doing at Home, — coulde fancy 
 I hearde Mother chiding, and see Charlie 
 stealing into the Dairie and dipping his 
 Finger in the Cream, and Kate feeding 
 the Chickens, and Dick taking a Stone 
 out of White star s Shoe. 
 
 — Methought 
 
70 Maiden <^f Married Life 
 
 — Methought how dull it was to be 
 passing the best Part of the Summer out 
 of the Reache of fresh Ayre and greene 
 Fields, and wondered, would alle my 
 future Summers be soe spent ? 
 
 Thoughte how dull it was to live in 
 Lodgings, where one could not even go 
 into the Kitchen to make a Pudding ; 
 and how dull to live in a Town, without 
 some young female Friend with whom 
 one might have ventured into the Streets, 
 and where one could not soe much as 
 feed Colts in a Paddock ; how dull to be 
 without a Garden, unable soe much as to 
 gather a Handfulle of ripe Cherries ; and 
 how dull to looke into a Churchyarde, 
 where there was a Man digging a Grave ! 
 
 — When I wearied of staring at the 
 Grave-digger, I gazed at an olde Gentle- 
 man and a young Lady slowlie walking 
 along, yet scarce as if I noted them ; and 
 was thinking mostlie of Forest Hill, when 
 I saw them stop at our Doore, and pre- 
 sently they were shewn in, by the Name 
 of Doctor and Mistress Dav/'es. I sent for 
 
 my 
 
of Mary Powell 71 
 
 my Husband, and entertayned 'em bothe 
 as well as I could, till he appeared, and 
 they were polite and pleasant to me ; the 
 young Lady tall and slender, of a cleare 
 brown Skin, and with Eyes that were fine 
 enough ; onlie there was a supprest Smile 
 on her Lips alle the Time, as tho' she had 
 seen me looking out of the Window. She 
 tried me on all Subjects, I think ; for 
 she started them more adroitlie than I ; 
 and taking up a Book on the Window- 
 seat, which was the Amadigi of Bernardo 
 Tasso, printed alle in Italiques, she sayd, 
 if I loved Poetry, which she was sure I 
 must, she knew she shoulde love me. I 
 did not tell her whether or noe. Then 
 we were both silent. Then Doctor 
 Davies talked vehementlie to Mr. Milton 
 agaynst the King ; and Mr. Milton was 
 not so contrarie to him as I could have 
 wished. Then Mistress Davies tooke the 
 Word from her Father and beganne to 
 talke to Mr. Milton of Tasso, and Dante, 
 and Boiardo, and Ariosto ; and then Doctor 
 Davies and I were silent. Methoughte, 
 
 they 
 
72 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 they both talked well, tho' I knew so little 
 of their Subject-matter ; onlie they com- 
 plimented eache other too much. I mean 
 not they were insincere, for eache seemed 
 to think highlie of the other ; onlie we 
 neede not say alle we feele. 
 
 To conclude, we are to sup with them 
 to-morrow. 
 
 Wednesday. 
 fiURNALL, I have No- 
 bodie now but you, to 
 whome to tell my little 
 Griefs ; indeede, before I 
 married, I know not that I 
 had anie ; and even now, 
 they are very small, onlie they are soe new, 
 that sometimes my Heart is like to burst. 
 — I know not whether 'tis safe to put 
 them alle on Paper, onlie it relieves for 
 the Time, and it kills Time, and perhaps, 
 a little While hence I may looke back 
 and see how small they were, and how 
 they mighte have beene shunned, or better 
 borne. 'Tis worth the Triall. 
 
 — Yesterday 
 
of Mary Powell 73 
 
 — Yesterday Morn, for very Wearinesse, 
 I looked alle over my Linen and Mr. 
 Milton s, to see could I finde anie Thing to 
 mend ; but there was not a Stitch amiss. 
 I woulde have played on the Spinnette, 
 but was afrayd he should hear my indiffe- 
 rent Musick. Then, as a last Resource, 
 I tooke a Book — Paul Perrin s Historie of 
 the Waldenses ; — and was, I believe, dozing 
 a little, when I was aware of a continuall 
 Whispering and Crying. I thought 'twas 
 some Child in the Street ; and, having 
 some Comfits in my Pocket, I stept softlie 
 out to the House-door and lookt forth, but 
 no Child could I see. Coming back, the 
 Door of my Husband's Studdy being ajar, 
 I was avised to look in ; and saw him, 
 with awfulle Brow, raising his Hand in 
 the very Act to strike the youngest Phillips. 
 I could never endure to see a Child struck, 
 soe hastilie cryed out, " Oh, don't ! " — 
 whereon he rose, and, as if not seeing 
 me, gently closed the Door, and, before 
 I reached my Chamber, I hearde soe loud 
 a Crying that I began to cry too. Soon, 
 
 alle 
 
74 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 alle was quiet ; and my Husband, coming 
 in, stept gently up to me, and putting his 
 Arm about my Neck, sayd, " My dearest 
 " Life, never agayn, I beseech you, inter- 
 " fere between me and the Boys : 'tis as 
 " unseemlie as tho' I shoulde interfere be- 
 " tween you and your Maids, — when you 
 " have any, — and will weaken my Hands, 
 " dear Moll, more than you have anie 
 " suspicion of." 
 
 I replied, kissing that same offending 
 Member as I spoke, " Poor Jack would 
 " have beene glad, just now, if I had 
 " weakened them." — " But that is not the 
 " Question," he returned, "for we should 
 " alle be glad to escape necessary Punish- 
 " ment ; whereas, it is the Power, not the 
 " Penalty of our bad Habits, that we 
 " shoulde seek to be delivered from." — 
 " There may," I sayd, " be necessary, 
 " but need not be corporal Punishment." 
 " That is as may be," returned he, " and 
 " hath alreadie been settled by an Autho- 
 " ritie to which I submit, and partlie 
 " think you will not dispute, and that is, 
 
 "the 
 
of Mary Powell 75 
 
 " the Word of God. Pain of Body is in 
 " Realitie, or ought to be, sooner over and 
 " more safelie borne than Pain of an in- 
 " genuous Mind ; and, as to the Shame ', — 
 " why, as Lorenzo de Medici sayd to Soccini, 
 " ' The Shame is in the Offence rather 
 " than in the Punishment.' " 
 
 I replied, " Our Robin had never beene 
 " beaten for his Studdies ; " to which he 
 sayd with a Smile, that even I must admit 
 Robin to be noe great Scholar. And so in 
 good Humour left me ; but I was in no 
 good Humour, and hoped Heaven might 
 never make me the Mother of a Son, for 
 if I should see Mr. Milton strike him, I 
 should learn to hate the Father. — 
 
 Learning there was like to be Com- 
 panie at Doctor Davies', I was avised to 
 put on my brave greene Satin Gown ; 
 and my Husband sayd it became me well, 
 and that I onlie needed some Primroses 
 and Cowslips in my Lap, to look like 
 May ; — and somewhat he added about 
 mine Eyes' " clear shining after Rain," 
 which avised me he had perceived I had 
 
 beene 
 
76 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 beene crying in the Morning, which I 
 had hoped he had not. 
 
 Arriving at the Doctor's House, we 
 were shewn into an emptie Chamber ; at 
 least, emptie of Companie, but full of 
 every Thing else ; for there were Books, 
 and Globes, and stringed and wind In- 
 struments, and stuffed Birds and Beasts, 
 and Things I know not soe much as the 
 Names of, besides an Easel with a Paint- 
 ing by Mrs. Mildred on it, which she 
 meant to be seene, or she woulde have put 
 it away. Subject, " Brutus 's Judgment : " 
 which I thought a strange, unfeeling one 
 for a Woman ; and did not wish to be 
 her Son. Soone she came in, drest with 
 studdied and puritanicall Plainnesse ; in 
 brown Taffeta, guarded with black Velvet, 
 which became her well enough, but was 
 scarce suited for the Season. She had 
 much to say about limning, in which my 
 Husband could follow her better than I ; 
 and then they went to the Globes, and 
 Copernicus, and Galileo Galilei, whom she 
 called a Martyr, but I do not. For, is a 
 
 Martyr 
 
of Mary Powell 77 
 
 Martyr one who is unwillinglie impri- 
 soned, or who formally recants ? even tho' 
 he affecteth afterwards to say 'twas but a 
 Form, and cries " Eppure, si muoveV The 
 earlier Christians might have sayd 'twas 
 but a Form to burn a Handfull of Incense 
 before fove's Statua ; Pliny woulde have 
 let them goe. 
 
 Afterwards, when the Doctor came in 
 and engaged my Husband in Discourse, 
 Mistress Mildred devoted herselfe to me, 
 and askt what Progresse I had made with 
 Bernardo Tasso. I tolde her, none at alle, 
 for I was equallie faultie at Italiques and 
 Italian, and onlie knew his best Work 
 thro' Mr. Fairfax s Translation ; whereat 
 she fell laughing, and sayd she begged my 
 Forgivenesse, but I was confounding the 
 Father with the Sonne ; then laught agayn, 
 but pretended 'twas not at me, but at a 
 Lady I minded her of, who never coulde 
 remember to distinguish betwixt Lionardo 
 da Vinci and Lorenzo dei Medici. That last 
 Name brought up the Recollection of 
 my Morning's Debate with my Husband, 
 
 which 
 
78 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 which made me feel sad ; and then, Mrs. 
 Mildred, seeminge anxious to make me 
 forget her Unmannerliness, commenced, 
 " Can you paint ? " — " Can you sing ? " — 
 " Can you play the Lute ? " — and, at the 
 last, " What can you do ? " I mighte 
 have sayd I coulde comb out my Curls 
 smoother than she coulde hers, but did 
 not. Other Guests came in, and talked 
 so much agaynst Prelacy and the Right 
 divine of Kings that I woulde fain we had 
 remained at Astronomie and Poetry. For 
 Supper there was little Meat, and noe 
 strong Drinks, onlie a thinnish foreign 
 Wine, with Cakes, Candies, Sweetmeats, 
 Fruits, and Confections. Such, I suppose, 
 is Town Fashion. At the laste, came 
 Musick ; Mistress Mildred sang and played; 
 then prest me to do the like, but I was 
 soe fearfulle, I coulde not ; so my Hus- 
 band sayd he woulde play for me, and 
 that woulde be alle one, and soe covered 
 my Bashfullenesse handsomlie. 
 
 Onlie this Morning, just before going 
 to his Studdy, he stept back and sayd, 
 
 " Sweet 
 
of Mary Powell 79 
 
 " Sweet Moll, I know you can both play 
 " and sing — why will you not practise ? " 
 I replyed, I loved it not much. He re- 
 joyned, " But you know I love it, and is 
 " not that a Motive ? " I sayd, I feared 
 to let him hear me, I played so ill. He 
 replyed, " Why, that is the very Reason 
 " you shoulde seek to play better, and I 
 " am sure you have Plenty of Time. Per- 
 " haps, in your whole future Life, you 
 " will not have such a Season of Leisure 
 " as you have now, — a golden Opportu- 
 " nity, which you will surelie seize." — 
 Then added, " Sir Thomas More s Wife 
 " learnt to play the Lute, solely that she 
 " mighte please her Husband." I an- 
 swered, " Nay, what to tell me of Sir 
 " Thomas More s Wife, or of Hugh Grotius's 
 " Wife, when I was the Wife of John 
 " Milton ? " He looked at me twice, and 
 quicklie, too, at this Saying ; then laugh- 
 ing, cried, "You cleaving Mischief! I 
 " hardlie know whether to take that 
 " Speech amisse or well — however, you 
 " shall have the Benefit of the Doubt." 
 
 And 
 
80 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 And so away laughing ; and I, for very 
 Shame, sat down to the Spinnette for two 
 wearie Hours, till soe tired, I coulde cry ; 
 and when I desisted, coulde hear Jack 
 wailing over his Task. 'Tis raining fast, 
 I cannot get out, nor should I dare to go 
 alone, nor where to go to if 'twere fine. 
 I fancy ill Smells from the Churchyard — 
 'tis long to Dinner-time, with noe Change, 
 noe Exercise ; and oh, I sigh for Forest 
 Hill. 
 
 — A dull Dinner with Mrs. Phillips, 
 whom I like not much. Christopher Milton 
 there, who stared hard at me, and put me 
 out of Countenance with his strange Ques- 
 tions. My Husband checked him. He 
 is a Lawyer, and has Wit enoughe. 
 
 Mrs. Phillips speaking of second Mar- 
 riages, I unawares hurt her by giving 
 my Voice agaynst them. It seems she 
 is thinking of contracting a second Mar- 
 riage. 
 
 —At Supper, wishing to ingratiate 
 myself with the Boys, talked to them 
 
 of 
 
of Mary Powell 
 
 Hi 
 
 of Countrie Sports, etc. : to which the 
 youngest listened greedilie : and at length 
 I was advised to ask them woulde they 
 not like to see Forest Hill? to which the 
 elder replyed in his most methodicall 
 Manner, " If Mr. Powell has a good 
 " Library." For this Piece of Hypocrisie, 
 at which I heartilie laught, he was com- 
 mended by his Uncle. Hypocrisie it was, 
 for Master Ned cryeth over his Taskes 
 pretty nearlie as oft as the youngest. 
 
 Friday. 
 \0 rewarde my zealous Prac- 
 tice to-day on the Spin- 
 nette, Mr. Milton produced 
 a Collection of "Ayres, and 
 " Dialogues, for one, two, 
 " and three Voices" by his 
 Friend Mr. Harry Lawes, which he sayd 
 I shoulde find very pleasant Studdy ; and 
 then he told me alle about theire getting 
 up the Masque of Comus in Ludlow Castle, 
 and how well the Lady's Song was sung by 
 
 Mr. 
 
82 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 Mr. Lansoes Pupil, the Lady Alice, then a 
 sweet, modest Girl, onlie thirteen Yeares 
 of Age, — and he told me of the Singing 
 of a faire Italian young Signora, named 
 Leonora Barroni, with her Mother and 
 Sister, whome he had hearde at Rome, at 
 the Concerts of Cardinal Barberini ; and 
 how she was " as gentle and modest as 
 " sweet Moll," yet not afrayd to open her 
 Mouth, and pronounce everie Syllable 
 distinctlie, and with the proper Emphasis 
 and Passion when she sang. And after 
 this, to my greate Contentment, he tooke 
 me" to the Gray's Inn Walks, where, the 
 Afternoon being fine, was much Com- 
 panie. 
 
 Alter Supper, I proposed to the Boys 
 that we shoulde tell Stories ; and Mr. 
 Milton tolde one charminglie, but then 
 went away to write a Latin Letter. Soe 
 Ned's Turn came next ; and I must, if I 
 can, for very Mirthe's Sake, write it down 
 in his exact Words, they were soe prag- 
 maticall. 
 
 " On a Daye, there was a certain Child 
 
 " wandered 
 
of Mary Powell 83 
 
 " wandered forthe, that would play. He 
 " met a Bee, and sayd, ' Bee, wilt thou 
 " play with me ? ' The Bee sayd, ' No, 
 " I have my Duties to perform, tho' you, 
 " it woulde seeme, have none. I must 
 " away to make Honey.' Then the Childe, 
 " abasht, went to the Ant. He sayd, 
 " ' Will you play with me, Ant ? ' The 
 " Ant replied, 'Nay, I must provide against 
 " the Winter.' In shorte, he found that 
 " everie Bird, Beaste, and Insect he ac- 
 " costed, had a closer Eye to the Purpose 
 " of their Creation than himselfe. Then 
 " he sayd, ' I will then back, and con 
 " my Task.' — Moral. The Moral of the 
 " foregoing Fable, my deare Aunt, is this 
 " — We must love Work better than 
 Play." 
 
 With alle my Interest for Children, 
 how is it possible to take anie Interest in 
 soe formall a little Prigge ? 
 
 Saturda 
 
 >.y. 
 
84 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 Saturday. 
 HAVE just done somewhat 
 for Master Ned which he 
 coulde not doe for him- 
 selfe — viz. tenderly bound 
 up his Hand, which he had 
 badly cut. Wiping away 
 some few naturall Tears, he must needs say, 
 " I am quite ashamed, Aunt, you shoulde 
 " see me cry ; but the worst of it is, that 
 " alle this Payne has beene for noe good ; 
 " whereas, when my Uncle beateth me 
 " for misconstruing my Latin, tho' I cry 
 " at the Time, all the while I know it is 
 " for my Advantage." — If this Boy goes 
 on preaching soe, I shall soon hate him. 
 
 — Mr. Milton having stepped out before 
 Supper, came back looking soe blythe, 
 that I askt if he had hearde good News. 
 He sayd, yes : that some Friends had long 
 beene persuading him, against his Will, 
 to make publick some of his Latin Poems ; 
 and that, having at length consented to 
 theire Wishes, he had beene with Mosley 
 the Publisher in St. Paul's Churchyard, 
 
 who 
 
of Mary Powell 
 
 85 
 
 who agreed to print them. I sayd, I was 
 sorrie I shoulde be unable to read them. 
 He sayd he was sorry too ; he must trans- 
 
 y?£\ 
 
 late them for me. I thanked him, but 
 observed that Traductions were never soe 
 good as Originalls. He rejoyned, " Nor 
 
 " am 
 
86 Maiden ^f Married Life 
 
 " am I even a good Translater." I askt, 
 
 " Why not write in your owne Tongue ?" 
 
 He sayd, " Latin is understood all over the 
 
 " Worlde." I sayd, " But there are manie 
 
 " in your owne Country do not under- 
 
 " stand it." He was silent soe long upon 
 
 that, that I supposed he did not mean to 
 
 answer me ; but then cried, " You are 
 
 ' right, sweet Moll. — Our best Writers 
 
 ' have written their best Works in Eng- 
 
 ' lisfi, and I will hereafter doe the same, 
 
 ' — for I feel that my best Work is still 
 
 ' to come. Poetry hath hitherto been with 
 
 ' me rather the Recreation of a Mind 
 
 ' conscious of its Health, than the delibe- 
 
 ' rate Task-work of a Soule that must 
 
 ' hereafter give an Account of its Talents. 
 
 ' Yet my Mind, in the free Circuit of 
 
 ' her Musing, has ranged over a thousand 
 
 ' Themes that lie, like the Marble in the 
 
 ' Quarry, readie for anie Shape that Fancie 
 
 ' and Skill may give. Neither Laziness 
 
 ' nor Caprice makes me difficult in my 
 
 ' Choice ; for, the longer I am in select- 
 
 ' ing my Tree, and laying my Axe to the 
 
 " Root, 
 
of Mary Powell 
 
 »7 
 
 Root, the sounder it will be and the 
 riper for Use. Nor is an Undertaking 
 that shall be one of high Duty, to be 
 entered upon without Prayer and Dis- 
 cipline : — it woulde be Presumption 
 indeede, to commence an Enterprise 
 which I meant shoulde delighte and 
 profit every instructed and elevated 
 Mind without so much Paynes-takinge 
 as it should cost a poor Mountebank to 
 balance a Pole on his Chin." 
 
 Sunday Even. 
 \N the Clouds agayn. At 
 Dinner, to-daye, Mr. Mil- 
 ton catechised the Boys on 
 the Morning's Sermon, the 
 Heads of which, though 
 amounting to a Dozen, 
 Ned tolde off roundlie. Roguish little 
 Jack looked slylie at me, says, " Aunt 
 " coulde not tell off the Sermon." "Why 
 " not ? " says his Uncle. " Because she 
 " was sleeping," says "Jack. Provoked 
 with the Child, I turned scarlett, and 
 
 hastilie 
 
88 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 hastilie sayd, " I was not." Nobodie 
 spoke ; but I repented the Falsitie the Mo- 
 ment it had escaped me ; and there was 
 Ned, a folding of his Hands, drawing down 
 his Mouth, and closing his Eyes. . . . My 
 Husband tooke me to taske for it when 
 we were alone, soe tenderlie that I wept. 
 
 Monday. 
 ACK sayd this Morning, 
 " I know Something — I 
 " know Aunt keeps a Jour- 
 " nail." " And a good 
 " Thing if you kept one 
 " too, 'Jack," sayd his 
 Uncle, " it would shew you how little 
 " you doe." Jack was silenced ; but Ned, 
 pursing up his Mouth, says, " I can't 
 " think what Aunt can have to put in a 
 " Journall — should not you like, Uncle, to 
 " see ? " " No, Ned" says bis Uncle, " I 
 " am upon Honour, and your dear Aunt's 
 " Journall is as safe, for me, as the golden 
 " Bracelets that King Alfred hung upon 
 " the High-way. I am glad she has such 
 
of Mary Powell 89 
 
 " a Resource, and, as we know she cannot 
 " have much News to put in it, we may 
 " the more safely rely that it is a Treasury 
 " of sweet, and high, and holy, and profit- 
 " able Thoughtes." 
 
 Oh, how deeplie I blusht at this ill- 
 deserved Prayse ! How sorrie I was that 
 I had ever registered aught that he woulde 
 grieve to read ! I secretly resolved that this 
 Daye's Journalling should be the last, un- 
 till I had attained a better Frame of Mind. 
 
 Saturday Even. 
 HAVE kept Silence, yea, 
 even from good Words, but 
 it has beene a Payn and 
 Griefe unto me. Good 
 Mistress Catherine Thomp- 
 son called on me a few 
 Dayes back, and spoke so wisely and so 
 wholesomelie concerning my Lot, and the 
 Way to make it happy, (she is the first 
 that hath spoken as if 'twere possible it 
 mighte not be soe alreadie,) that I felt for 
 a Season quite heartened ; but it has alle 
 
 faded 
 
90 Maide?i & Married Life 
 
 faded away. Because the Source of 
 Cheerfulnesse is not /// me, anie more 
 than in a dull Landskip, which the Sun 
 lighteneth for a while, and when he has 
 set, its Beauty is gone. 
 
 Oh me ! how merry I was at Home ! 
 —The Source of Cheerfulnesse seemed in 
 me then, and why is it not now ? Partly 
 because alle that I was there taught to 
 think right is here thought wrong ; because 
 much that I there thought harmlesse is 
 here thought sinfulle ; because I cannot 
 get at anie of the Things that employed 
 and interested me there, and because the 
 Things within my Reach here do not in- 
 terest me. Then, 'tis no small Thing to 
 be continuallie deemed ignorant and mis- 
 informed, and to have one's Errors contin- 
 uallie covered, however handsomelie, even 
 before Children. To say nothing of the 
 Weight upon the Spiritts at firste, from 
 Change of Ayre, and Diet, and Scene, and 
 Loss of habituall Exercise and Companie 
 and householde Cares. These petty Griefs 
 try me sorelie ; and when Cousin Ralph 
 
 came 
 
of Mary Powell 91 
 
 came in unexpectedlie this Morn, tho' I 
 never much cared for him at Home, yet 
 the Sighte of Rose's Brother, fresh from 
 Sheepscote and Oxford and Forest Hill, soe 
 upset me that I sank, into Tears. No 
 Wonder that Mr. Milton, then coming 
 in, shoulde hastilie enquire if Ralph had 
 brought ill Tidings from Home ; and, 
 finding alle was well there, shoulde look 
 strangelie. He askt Ralph, however, to 
 stay to Dinner; and we had much Talk of 
 Home ; but now, I regret having omitted 
 to ask a thousand Questions. 
 
 Sunday Even, Aug. 1 5. 
 \R. MILTON in his Closet 
 and I in my Chamber. — 
 For the first Time he seems 
 this Evening to have founde 
 out how dissimilar are our 
 Minds. Meaning to please 
 him, I sayd, " I kept awake bravelie, to- 
 " nighte, through that long, long Sermon, 
 " for your Sake." — " And why not for 
 " God's Sake ? " cried he, " why not for 
 
 " your 
 
92 Maiden £&P Married Life 
 
 "your owne Sake? — Oh, sweet Wife, I 
 " fear you have yet much to learn of the 
 " Depth of Happinesse that is comprised 
 " in the Communion between a forgiven 
 " Soul and its Creator. It hallows the 
 " most secular as well as the most spirituall 
 " Employments ; it gives pleasure that has 
 " no after Bitternesse ; it gives Pleasure to 
 " God — and oh ! thinke of the Depth of 
 " Meaning in those Words ! think what 
 " it is for us to be capable of giving God 
 " Pleasure ! " 
 
 — Much more, in the same Vein ! to 
 which I could not, with equal Power, re- 
 spond ; soe, he away to his Studdy, to pray 
 perhaps for my Change of Heart, and I to 
 my Bed. 
 
 Aug. 2 I , Saturday. 
 iH Heaven ! can it be pos- 
 sible ? am I agayn at Forest 
 Hill? How strange, how 
 joyfulle an Event, tho' 
 brought about with Teares! 
 — Can it be, that it is onlie 
 a Month since I stoode at this Toilette as 
 
 a 
 
of Mary Powell 93 
 
 a Bride ? and lay awake on that Bed, 
 thinking oi London? How long a Month ! 
 and oh ! this present one will be alle too 
 short. 
 
 It seemeth that Ralph Hewlett, shocked 
 at my Teares and the Alteration in my 
 Looks, broughte back a dismall Report of 
 me to deare Father and Mother, pronounc- 
 ing me either ill or unhappie. There- 
 upon, Richard, with his usual Impetuositie, 
 prevayled on Father to let him and Ralph 
 fetch me Home for a While, at leaste till 
 after Michaelmasse. 
 
 How surprised was I to see Dick enter ! 
 My Arms were soe fast about his Neck, 
 and my Face prest soe close to his shoulder, 
 that I did not for a While perceive the 
 grave Looke he had put on. At the last, 
 I was avised to ask what broughte him 
 soe unexpectedlie to London ; and then he 
 hemmed and looked at Ralph, and Ralph 
 looked at Dick, and then Dick sayd bluntly, 
 he hoped Mr. Milton woulde spare me 
 to go Home till after Michaelmasse, and 
 Father had sent him on Purpose to say 
 
 soe. 
 
94 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 soe. Mr. Milton lookt surprised and hurte, 
 and sayd, how could he be expected to 
 part soe soone with me, a Month's Bride? 
 it must be some other Time : he had in- 
 tended to take me himselfe to Forest Hill 
 the following Spring, but coulde not spare 
 Time now, nor liked me to goe without 
 him, nor thought I should like it myself. 
 But my Eyes said / shoulde, and then he 
 gazed earnestlie at me and lookt hurt; and 
 there was a dead Silence. Then Dick, 
 hesitating a little, sayd he was sorrie to 
 tell us my Father was ill ; on which I 
 clasped my Hands and beganne to weepe; 
 and Mr. Milton, changing Countenance, 
 askt sundrie Questions, which Dick an- 
 swered well enough ; and then said he 
 woulde not be soe cruel as to keepe me 
 from a Father I soe dearlie loved, if he 
 were sick, though he liked not my travel- 
 ling in such unsettled Times with so young 
 a Convoy. Ralph sayd they had brought 
 Diggory with them, who was olde and 
 steddy enough, and had ridden my Mother s 
 Mare for my Use ; and Dick was for our 
 
 getting 
 
of Mary Powell 95 
 
 getting forward a Stage on our Journey 
 the same Evening, but Mr. Milton insisted 
 on our abiding till the following Morn, 
 and woulde not be overruled. And gave 
 me leave to stay a Month, and gave me 
 Money, and many kind Words, which I 
 coulde mark little, being soe overtaken 
 with Concern about dear Father, whose 
 Illness I feared to be worse than Dick 
 sayd, seeing he seemed soe close and dealt 
 in dark Speeches and Parables. After 
 Dinner, they went forth, they sayd, to 
 look after the Horses, but I think to see 
 London, and returned not till Supper. 
 
 We got them Beds in a House hard by, 
 and started at earlie Dawn. 
 
 Mr. Milton kissed me most tenderlie 
 agayn and agayn at parting, as though he 
 feared to lose me ; but it had seemed to me 
 soe hard to brook the Delay of even a few 
 Hours when Father, in his Sicknesse, was 
 wanting me, that I took leave of my Hus- 
 band with less Affection than I mighte 
 have shewn, and onlie began to find my 
 Spiritts lighten when we were fairly quit 
 
 of 
 
96 Maiden £&P Married Life 
 
 of London with its vile Sewers and Drains, 
 and to breathe the sweete, pure Morning 
 Ayre, as we rode swiftlie along. Dick 
 called London a vile Place, and spake to 
 Ralph concerning what they had seene of 
 it overnighte, whence it appeared to me, 
 that he had beene pleasure-seeking more 
 than, in Father s state, he ought to have 
 beene. But Dick was always a reckless 
 Lad ; — and oh, what Joy, on reaching 
 this deare Place, to find Father had onlie 
 beene suffering under one of his usual 
 Stomach Attacks, which have no Danger 
 in them, and which Dick had exaggerated, 
 fearing Mr. Milton woulde not otherwise 
 part with me ; — I was a little shocked, and 
 coulde not help scolding him, though I 
 was the gainer ; but he boldlie defended 
 what he called his " Stratagem of War," 
 saying it was quite allowable in dealing 
 with a Puritan. 
 
 As for Robin, he was wild with Joy 
 when I arrived ; and hath never ceased to 
 hang about me. The other Children are 
 riotous in their Mirth. Little Joscelyn 
 
 hath 
 
of Mary Powell 97 
 
 hath returned from his Foster-mother's 
 Farm, and is noe longer a puny Child — 
 'tis thought he will thrive. I have him 
 constantly in my Arms or riding on my 
 Shoulder; and with Delight have revisited 
 alle my olde Haunts, patted Clover, &c. 
 Deare Mother is most kind. The Maids 
 as oft call me Mrs. Molly as Mrs. Milton, 
 and then smile, and beg Pardon. Rose 
 and Agneiso have been here, and have 
 made me promise to visit Sheepscote before 
 I return to London. The whole House 
 seems full of Glee. 
 
 Monday. 
 \T seemes quite strange to 
 heare Dick and Harry 
 singing loyal Songs and 
 drinking the Kings Health 
 after soe recentlie hearing 
 his M. soe continuallie 
 spoken agaynst. Also, to see a Lad of 
 Robin s Age, coming in and out at his 
 Will, doing aniething or nothing ; instead 
 of being ever at his Taskes, and looking 
 
 at 
 
 G 
 
9 8 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 at Meal-times as if he were repeating 
 them to himselfe. I know which I like 
 best. 
 
 A most kind Letter from Mr. Milton, 
 hoping Father is better, and praying for 
 News of him. How can I write to him 
 without betraying Dick ? Robin and I 
 rode, this Morning, to Sheepscote. Thoughte 
 Mr. Agnew received me with unwonted 
 Gravitie. He tolde me he had received 
 a Letter from my Husband, praying news 
 of my Father, seeing I had sent him none, 
 and that he had writ to him that Father 
 was quite well, never had been better. 
 Then he sayd to me he feared Mr. Milton 
 was labouring under some false Impression. 
 I tolde him trulie, that Dick, to get me 
 Home, had exaggerated a trifling Illness 
 of Father 's, but that I was guiltlesse of it. 
 He sayd Dick was inexcusable, and that 
 noe good End coulde justifie a Man of 
 Honour in overcharging the Truth ; and 
 that, since I was innocent, I shoulde write 
 to my Husband to clear myself. I said 
 briefly, I woulde ; and I mean to do soe, 
 
 onlie 
 
of Mary Powell 99 
 
 onlie not to-daye. Oh, sweet countrie 
 Life ! I was made for you and none other. 
 This riding and walking at one's owne 
 free Will, in the fresh pure Ayre, coming 
 in to earlie, heartie, wholesome Meals, 
 seasoned with harmlesse Jests, — seeing 
 fresh Faces everie Daye come to the House, 
 knowing everie Face one meets out of 
 Doores, — supping in the Garden, and 
 remaining in the Ayre long after the 
 Moon has risen, talking, laughing, or 
 perhaps dancing, — if this be not Joyful- 
 nesse, what is ? 
 
 For certain, I woulde that Mr. Milton 
 were here ; but he woulde call our Sports 
 mistimed, and throw a Damp upon our 
 Mirth by not joining in it. Soe I will 
 enjoy my Holiday while it lasts, for it 
 may be long ere I get another — especiallie 
 if his and Father s opinions get wider 
 asunder, as I think they are doing alreadie. 
 My promised Spring Holiday may come 
 to nothing. 
 
 Monday. 
 
ioo Maiden & Married Life 
 
 Monday. 
 \Y Husband hath writ to 
 me strangelie, chiding me 
 most unkindlie for what 
 was noe Fault of mine, to 
 wit, Dick's Falsitie ; and 
 wondering I can derive 
 anie Pleasure from a Holiday so obtayned, 
 which he will not curtayl, but will on 
 noe Pretence extend. Nay ! but me- 
 thinks Mr. Milton presumeth somewhat 
 too much on his marital Authoritie, 
 writing in this Strayn. I am no mere 
 Child neither, nor a runaway Wife, nor 
 in such bad Companie, in mine own 
 Father's House, where he firste saw me ; 
 and, was it anie Fault of mine, indeed, 
 that Father was not ill ? or can I wish he 
 had beene ? No, truly ! 
 
 This Letter hath sorelie vexed me. 
 Dear Father, seeing me soe dulle, askt me 
 if I had had bad News. I sayd I had, 
 for that Mr. Milton wanted me back at 
 the Month's End. He sayd, lightlie, Oh, 
 
 that 
 
of Mary Powell 101 
 
 that must not be, I must at all Events 
 stay over his Birthdaye, he could not 
 spare me sooner ; he woulde settle all 
 that. Let it be soe then — I am content 
 enoughe. 
 
 To change the Current of my Thoughts, 
 he hath renewed the Scheme for our Visit 
 to Lady Falkland, which, Weather per- 
 mitting, is to take Place to-morrow. 'Tis 
 long since I have seene her, soe I am 
 willing to goe ; but she is dearer to Rose 
 than to me, though I respect her much. 
 
 Wednesday. 
 iHE whole of Yesterday 
 occupyde with our Visitt. 
 I love Lady Falkland well, 
 yet her religious Mellan- 
 chollie and Presages of 
 Evil have left a Weight 
 upon my Spiritts. To-daye, we have a 
 Family Dinner. The Agnews come not, 
 but the Merediths doe, we shall have more 
 Mirthe if less Wit. My Time now 
 
 draweth 
 
102 Maiden £§f Married Life 
 
 draweth soe short, I must crowd into it 
 alle the Pleasure I can ; and in this, 
 everie one conspires to help me, saying, 
 " Poor Moll must soon return to London.'" 
 Never was Creature soe petted or spoylt. 
 How was it there was none of this before 
 I married, when they might have me 
 alwaies ? ah, therein lies the Secret. 
 Now, we have mutuallie tasted our 
 Losse. 
 
 Ralph Hewlett, going agayn to Town, 
 was avised to ask whether I had anie 
 Commission wherewith to charge him. 
 I bade him tell Mr. Milton that since we 
 should meet soe soone, I need not write, 
 but would keep alle my News for our 
 Fire-side. Robin added, " Say, we cannot 
 " spare her yet," and Father echoed the 
 same. 
 
 But I begin to feel now, that I must 
 not prolong my Stay. At the leaste, not 
 beyond Father s Birthday. My Month is 
 hasting to a Close. 
 
 Sept. 
 
of Mary Powell 103 
 
 Sept. 21. 
 
 (ATTLE at Newbury — Lord 
 
 Falkland slayn. Oh, fatal 
 
 Loss ! Father and Mother 
 
 going off to my Lady : 
 
 but I think she will not 
 
 see them. Aunt and Uncle 
 
 Hewlett, who brought the News, can talk 
 
 of nothing else. 
 
 Sept. 22. 
 [LLE Sadnesse and Conster- 
 nation. I am wearie of bad 
 News, public and private, 
 and feel less and less Love 
 for the Puritans, yet am 
 forced to seem more loyal 
 than I really am, soe high runs party 
 Feeling just now at Home. 
 My Month has passed ! 
 
 Sept. 
 
104 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 Sept. 28. 
 MOST displeased Letter 
 from my Husband, mind- 
 ing me that my Leave of 
 Absence hath expired, and 
 that he likes not the Mes- 
 sages he received through 
 Ralph, nor the unreasonable and hurtfulle 
 Pastimes which he finds have beene mak- 
 ing my quiet Home distastefulle. Asking, 
 are they suitable, under Circumstances of 
 nationall Consternation to my owne Party, 
 or seemlie in soe young a Wife, apart 
 from her Husband ? To conclude, in- 
 sisting, with more Authoritie than Kind- 
 nesse, on my immediate Return. 
 
 With Tears in my Eyes, I have beene 
 to my Father. I have tolde him I must 
 goe. He sayeth, Oh no, not yet. I 
 persisted, I must, my Husband was soe 
 very angry. He rejoined, What, angry 
 with my sweet Moll ? and for spending 
 a few Days with her old Father ? Can 
 it be? hath it come to this alreadie? 
 
 I 
 
of Mary Powell 105 
 
 I sayd, my Month had expired. He 
 sayd, Nonsense, he had always askt me 
 to stay over Michaelmasse, till his Birth- 
 day ; he knew Dick had named it to Mr. 
 Milton. I sayd, Mr. Milton had taken no 
 Notice thereof, but had onlie granted me 
 a Month. He grew peevish, and said 
 " Pooh, pooh ! " Thereat, after a Silence 
 of a Minute or two, I sayd yet agayn, 
 I must goe. He took me by the two 
 Wrists and sayd, Doe you wish to go ? 
 I burst into Teares, but made noe An- 
 swer. He sayd, That is Answer enough, 
 — how doth this Puritan carry it with 
 you, my Child ? and snatched his Letter. 
 I sayd, Oh, don't read that, and would 
 have drawn it back ; but Father, when 
 heated, is impossible to controwl ; there- 
 fore, quite deaf to Entreaty, he would 
 read the Letter, which was unfit for him 
 in his chafed Mood ; then, holding it at 
 Arm's Length, and smiting it with his 
 Fist, — Ha ! and is it thus he dares address 
 a Daughter of mine? (with Words added, 
 I dare not write) — but be quiet, Moll, be 
 
 at 
 
106 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 at Peace, my Child, for he shall not have 
 you back for awhile, even though he 
 come to fetch you himself. The maddest 
 Thing I ever did was to give you to this 
 Roundhead. He and Roger Agnew talked 
 me over in soe many fine Words. — What 
 possessed me, I know not. Your Mother 
 always said evil woulde come of it. But 
 as long as thy Father has a Roof over his 
 Head, Child, thou hast a Home. 
 
 As soone as he woulde hear me, I 
 begged him not to take on soe, for that 
 I was not an unhappy Wife ; but my 
 Tears, he sayd, belied me ; and indeed, 
 with Fear and Agitation, they flowed fast 
 enough. But I sayd, I must goe home, 
 and wished I had gone sooner, and woulde 
 he let Diggory take me ! No, he sayd, 
 not a Man Jack on his Land' shoulde 
 saddle a Horse for me, nor would he lend 
 me one, to carry me back to Mr. Milton; 
 at the leaste not for a While, till he had 
 come to Reason, and protested he was 
 sorry for having writ to me soe harshly. 
 
 " Soe be content, Moll, and make 
 
 "not 
 
/\\¥ . 
 
of Mary Powell 107 
 
 " not two Enemies instead of one. Goe, 
 " help thy Mother with her clear-starch- 
 " ing. Be happy whilst thou art here." 
 
 But ah ! more easily said than done. 
 " Alle Joy is darkened ; the Mirthe of 
 " the Land is gone ! " 
 
 Michaelmas se Day. 
 T Squire Pake s grand Din- 
 ner we have been counting 
 on soe many Days ; but it 
 gave me not the Pleasure 
 expected. 
 
 above, 
 
 Oct. 13. 
 HE Weather is soe foul 
 that I am sure Mr. Milton 
 woulde not like me to be 
 on the Road, even would 
 my Father let me goe. 
 — While writing the 
 heard very angrie Voices in the 
 yard, my Father's especiallie, 
 
 Court 
 
 louder than common ; and distinguished 
 
 the 
 
io8 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 the words " Knave," and " Varlet," and 
 " begone." Lookt from my Window and 
 beheld a Man, booted and cloaked, with 
 two Horses, at the Gate, parleying with 
 my Father, who stood in an offensive 
 Attitude, and woulde not let him in. I 
 could catch such Fragments as, " But, 
 " Sir ! " " What ! in such Weather as 
 " this ? " " Nay, it had not overcast 
 " when I started." " 'Tis foul enough 
 " now, then." " Let me but have speech 
 "of my Mistress." "You crosse not my 
 " Threshold." " Nay, Sir, if but to give 
 " her this Letter : " — and turning his 
 Head, I was avised of its being Hubert, 
 old Mr. Milton s Man ; doubtless sent by 
 my Husband to fetch me. Seeing my 
 Father raise his Hand in angrie Action 
 (his Riding-whip being in it), I hasted 
 down as fast as I coulde, to prevent Mis- 
 chiefe, as well as to get my Letter ; but, 
 unhappilie, not soe fleetlie as to see 
 more than Hubert's flying Skirts as he 
 gallopped from the Gate, with the led 
 Horse by the Bridle ; while my Father 
 
 flinging 
 
of Mary Powell 109 
 
 flinging downe the torne Letter, walked 
 passionatelie away. I clasped my Hands, 
 and stood mazed for a while, — was then 
 avised to piece the Letter, but could 
 not ; onlie making out such Words 
 as " Sweet Moll" in my Husband's 
 Writing. 
 
 Oct. 14. 
 \OSIL came this Morning, 
 through Rain and Mire, at 
 some Risk as well as much 
 Inconvenience, to intreat 
 of me, even with Teares, 
 not to vex Mr. Milton by 
 anie further Delays, but to return to him 
 as soon as possible. Kind Soule, her 
 Affection toucht me, and I assured her the 
 more readilie I intended to return Home 
 as soone as I coulde, which was not yet, 
 my Father having taken the Matter into 
 his own Hands, and permitting me noe 
 Escort ; but that I questioned not, Mr. 
 Milton was onlie awaiting the Weather 
 to settle, to fetch me himself. That 
 
 be 
 
1 1 o Maiden ^f Married Life 
 
 he will doe so, is my firm Persuasion. 
 Meanwhile, I make it my Duty to joyn 
 with some Attempt at Cheerfulnesse in 
 the Amusements of others, to make my 
 Father's Confinement to the House less 
 irksome ; and have in some Measure 
 succeeded. 
 
 Oct. 23. 
 !OE Sighte nor Tidings of 
 Mr. Milton. — I am un- 
 easie, frighted at myself, 
 and wish I had never left 
 him, yet hurte at the 
 Neglect. Hubert, being a 
 crabbed Temper, made Mischief on his 
 Return, I fancy. Father is vexed, me- 
 thinks, at his owne Passion, and hath 
 never, directlie, spoken, in my Hearinge, 
 of what passed ; but rayleth continuallie 
 agaynst Rebels and Roundheads. As to 
 Mother, — ah me. 
 
 Oct. 
 
of Mary Powell 
 
 hi 
 
 Oct. 24. 
 ,HRO' dank and miry Lanes 
 
 and Bye-roads with Robin, 
 
 to Sheepscote. 
 
 Waiting for Rose in 
 
 Mr. Agnews small Studdy, 
 
 where she mostlie sitteth 
 with him, oft acting as his Amanuensis, 
 was avised to take up a printed Sheet of 
 Paper that lay on the Table ; but finding 
 it to be of Latin Versing, was about to 
 laye it downe agayn, when Rose came in. 
 She changed Colour, and in a faltering 
 Voice sayd, " Ah, Cousin, do you know 
 " what that is ? One of your Husband's 
 " Proofe Sheets. I woulde that it coulde 
 " interest you in like manner as it hath 
 " me." Made her noe Answer, laying it 
 aside unconcernedlie, but secretlie felt, as 
 I have oft done before, how stupid it is 
 not to know Latin, and resolved to get 
 Robin to teach me. He is noe greate 
 Scholar himselfe, soe will not shame me. 
 — I am wearie of hearing of War and 
 
 Politicks ; 
 
112 
 
 Maiden ^P Married Life 
 
 Politicks ; soe will try Studdy for a while, 
 and see if 'twill cure this dull Payn at 
 my Heart. 
 
 Oct. 28. 
 OBIN and I have shut our- 
 selves up for three Hours 
 dailie, in the small Book- 
 room, and have made fayre 
 Progresse. He liketh his 
 Office of Tutor mightilie. 
 
 Oct. 31. 
 ^Y Lessons are more crabbed, 
 or I am more dull and in- 
 attentive, for I cannot fix 
 my Minde on my Book, 
 and am secretlie wearie. 
 Robin wearies too. But I 
 will not give up as yet ; the more soe as 
 in this quiete Studdy I am out of Sighte 
 and Hearinge of sundrie young Officers 
 Dick is continuallie bringing over from 
 Oxford, who spend manie Hours with 
 him in Countrie Sports, and then come 
 
 into 
 
of Mary Powell 113 
 
 into the House, hungry, thirstie, noisie, 
 and idle. I know Mr. Milton woulde 
 not like them. 
 
 — Surelie he will come soone ? — I sayd 
 to Father last Night, I wanted to hear from 
 Home. He sayd, " Home ! Dost call 
 " yon Taylor's Shop your Home ? " soe 
 ironicalle that I was shamed to say more. 
 
 Woulde that I had never married ! — 
 then coulde I enjoy my Childhoode's 
 Home. Yet I knew not its Value before 
 I quitted it, and had even a stupid Plea- 
 sure in anticipating another. Ah me ! 
 had I loved Mr. Milton more, perhaps I 
 might better have endured the Taylor's 
 Shop. 
 
 Sheep scote, Nov. 20. 
 ^NNOYED by Dick's com- 
 panions, I prayed Father to 
 let me stay awhile with 
 Rose; and gaining his Con- 
 sent, came over here Yes- 
 ter-morn, without thinking 
 it needfulle to send Notice, which was 
 
 perhaps 
 
 H 
 
114 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 perhaps inconsiderate. But she received 
 me with Kisses and Words of Tender- 
 nesse, though less Smiling than usualle, 
 and eagerlie accepted mine offered Visitt. 
 Then she ran off to find Roger, and I 
 heard them talking earnestlie in a low 
 Voice before they came in. His Face 
 was grave, even stern, when he entred, 
 but he held out his Hand, and sayd, 
 " Mistress Milton, you are welcome ! how 
 " is it with you ? and how was Mr. 
 " Milton when he wrote to you last ? " 
 I answered brieflie, he was well : then 
 came a Silence, and then Rose took me 
 to my Chamber, which was sweet with 
 Lavender, and its hangings of the whitest. 
 It reminded me too much of my first 
 Week of Marriage, soe I resolved to 
 think not at all lest I shoulde be bad 
 Companie, but cheer up and be gay. 
 Soe I askt Rose a thousand Questions 
 about her Dairie and Bees, laught much 
 at Dinner, and told Mr. Agnew sundrie 
 of the merrie Sayings of Dick and his 
 Oxford Friends. And, for my Reward, 
 
 when 
 
of Mary Powell 115 
 
 when we were afterwards apart, I heard 
 him tell Rose (by Reason of the Walls 
 being thin) that however she might regard 
 me for old Affection's sake, he thought 
 he had never knowne soe unpromising a 
 Character. This made me dulle enoughe 
 all the rest of the Evening, and repent 
 having come to Sheepscote : however, he 
 liked me the better for being quiete : and 
 Rose, being equallie chekt, we sewed in 
 Silence while he read to us the first 
 Division of Spencer s Legefid of Ho/inesse, 
 about Una and the Knight, and how they 
 got sundered. This led to much serious, 
 yet not unpleasing, Discourse, which 
 lasted till Supper. For the first Time at 
 Sheepscote, I coulde not eat, which Mr. 
 Agnew observing, prest me to take Wine, 
 and Rose woulde start up to fetch some of 
 her Preserves ; but I chekt her with a 
 Motion, not being quite able to speak ; 
 for their being soe kind made the Teares 
 ready to starte, I knew not why. 
 
 Family Prayers, after Supper, rather 
 too long ; yet though I coulde not keep 
 
 up 
 
116 Maiden £§f Married Life 
 
 up my Attention, they seemed to spread 
 a Calm and a Peace alle about, that ex- 
 tended even to me ; and though, after I 
 had undressed, I sat a long while in a 
 Maze, and bethought me how piteous a 
 Creature I was, yet, once layed down, I 
 never sank into deeper, more composing 
 Sleep. 
 
 Nov. 2 1. 
 .HIS Morning, Rose ex- 
 claimed, " Dear Roger ! 
 " onlie think ! Moll has 
 " begun to learn Latin 
 " since she returned to 
 " Forest Hill, thinking to 
 " surprise Mr. Milton when they meet." 
 " She will not onlie surprise but please 
 " him," returned dear Roger, taking my 
 Hand very kindlie ; " I can onlie say, I 
 " hope they will meet long before she 
 " can read his Poemata, unless she learnes 
 " much faster than most People." I re- 
 plyed, I learned very slowly, and wearied 
 Robin s Patience ; on which Rose, kissing 
 
 me. 
 
of Mary Powell 117 
 
 me, cried, "You will never wearie mine; 
 " soe, if you please, deare Moll, we will 
 " goe to our Lessons here everie Morn- 
 " ing ; and it may be that I shall get you 
 " through the Grammar faster than Robin 
 " can. If we come to anie Difficultie we 
 " shall refer it to Roger." 
 
 Now, Mr. Agnew s Looks exprest such 
 Pleasure with both, that it were difficult 
 to tell which felt the most elated ; soe 
 calling me deare Moll (he hath hitherto 
 Mistress Miltoned me ever since I sett Foot 
 in his House), he sayd he would not in- 
 terrupt our Studdies, though he should 
 be within Call, and soe left us. I had 
 not felt soe happy since Father s Birth- 
 day ; and, though Rose kept me close to 
 my Book for two Hours, I found her a 
 far less irksome Tutor than deare Robin. 
 Then she went away, singing, to make 
 Roger s favourite Dish, and afterwards we 
 took a brisk Walke, and came Home 
 hungrie enoughe to Dinner. 
 
 There is a daily Beauty in Rose's Life, 
 that I not onlie admire, but am readie to 
 
 envy. 
 
1 1 8 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 envy. Oh ! if Milton lived but in the 
 poorest House in the Countrie, methinks 
 I coulde be very happy with him. 
 
 Bedtime. 
 [HANCING to make the 
 above Remark to Rose, she 
 cried, " And why not be 
 " happy with him in Al- 
 " dersgate Street? " I briefly 
 replied that he must get 
 the House first, before it were possible 
 to tell whether I coulde be happy there 
 or not. Rose stared, and exclaimed, 
 " Why, where do you suppose him to be 
 " now ? " " Where but at the Taylor's 
 " in St. Bride's Churchyard ? " I replied. 
 She claspt her Hands with a Look I shall 
 never forget, and exclaimed in a sort of 
 vehement Passion, " Oh, Cousin, Cousin, 
 " how you throw your own Happinesse 
 " away ! How awfulle a Pause must 
 " have taken place in your Intercourse 
 " with the Man whom you promised to 
 " abide by till Death, since you know 
 
 " not 
 
of Mary Powell 119 
 
 " not that he has long since taken posses- 
 " sion of his new Home ; that he strove 
 " to have it ready for you at Michael- 
 " masse ! " 
 
 Doubtlesse I lookt noe less surprised 
 than I felt ; — a suddain Prick at the 
 Heart prevented Speech ; but it shot 
 acrosse my Heart that I had made out the 
 Words " Aldersgate " and " new Home," 
 in the Fragments of the Letter my Father 
 had torn. Rose, misjudging my Silence, 
 burst forth anew with, " Oh, Cousin ! 
 " Cousin ! coulde anie Home, however 
 " dull and noisesome, drive me from 
 " Roger Agnew ? Onlie think of what 
 " you are doing, — of what you are leav- 
 " ing undone ! — of what you are pre- 
 " paring against yourself ! To put the 
 " Wickednesse of a selfish Course out of 
 " the Account, onlie think of its Mellan- 
 " cholie, its Miserie, — destitute of alle 
 " the sweet, bright, fresh Wellsprings of 
 " Happinesse ; — unblest by God ! " 
 
 Here Rose wept passionatelie, and claspt 
 her Arms about me ; but, when I began 
 
 to 
 
120 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 to speak, and to tell her of much that 
 had made me miserable, she hearkened 
 in motionlesse Silence, till I told her that 
 Father had torn the Letter and beaten 
 the Messenger. Then she cried, " Oh, I 
 " see now what may and shall be done ! 
 " Roger shall be Peacemaker," and ran 
 off with Joyfulnesse ; I not withholding 
 her. But I can never be joyfulle more — 
 he cannot be Day's-man betwixt us now 
 — 'tis alle too late ! 
 
 Nov. 28. 
 lOW that I am at Forest Hill 
 agayn, I will essay to con- 
 tinue my Journalling. — 
 
 Mr. Agnew was out ; 
 and though a keene wintry 
 Wind was blowing, and 
 Rose was suffering from Colde, yet she 
 went out to listen for his Horse's Feet at 
 the Gate, with onlie her Apron cast over 
 her Head. Shortlie, he returned ; and I 
 heard him say in a troubled Voice, " Alle 
 " are in Arms at Forest Hill." I felt soe 
 
 greatlie 
 
of Mary Powell 121 
 
 greatlie shocked as to neede to sit downe 
 instead of running forthe to learn the 
 News. I supposed the parliamentarian 
 Soldiers had advanced, unexpectedlie, 
 upon Oxford. His next Words were, 
 " Dick is coming for her at Noone — poor 
 " Soul, I know not what she will doe — 
 " her Father will trust her noe longer 
 " with you and me." Then I saw them 
 both passe the Window, slowlie pacing 
 together, and hastened forth to joyn 
 them ; but they had turned into the 
 pleached Alley, their Backs towards me ; 
 and both in such earnest and apparentlie 
 private Communication, that I dared not 
 interrupt them till they turned aboute, 
 which was not for some While ; for they 
 stood for some Time at the Head of the 
 Alley, still with theire Backs to me, 
 Rose's Hair blowing in the cold Wind ; 
 and once or twice she seemed to put her 
 Kerchief to her Eyes. 
 
 Now, while I stood mazed and uncer- 
 tain, I hearde a distant Clatter of Horse's 
 Feet, on the hard Road a good way off, 
 
 and 
 
12 2 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 and could descrie Dick coming towards 
 Sheepscote. Rose saw him too, and com- 
 menced running towards me ; Mr. Agneiv 
 following with long Strides. Rose drew 
 me back into the House, and sayd, kiss- 
 ing me, " Dearest Moll, I am soe sorry ; 
 ' Roger hath seen your Father this Morn, 
 ' and he will on no Account spare you 
 ' to us anie longer ; and Dick is coming 
 ' to fetch you even now." I sayd, " Is 
 ' Father ill ? " " Oh no," replied Mr. 
 Agnew ; then coming up, " He is not ill, 
 ' but he is perturbed at something which 
 ' has occurred ; and, in Truth, soe am I. 
 ' — But remember, Mistress Milton, re- 
 ' member, dear Cousin, that when you 
 ' married, your Father s Guardianship of 
 ' you passed into the Hands of your 
 ' Husband — your Husband's House was 
 ' thenceforthe your Home ; and in quit- 
 ' ting it you committed a Fault you may 
 ' yet repaire, though this offensive Act 
 ' has made the DifEcultie much greater." 
 — " Oh, what has happened ? " I impa- 
 tientlie cried. Just then, Dick comes in 
 
 with 
 
of Mary Powell 123 
 
 with his usual blunt Salutations, and then 
 cries, " Well, Moll, are you ready to goe 
 " back ? " " Why should I be ? " I sayd, 
 " when I am soe happy here ? unless 
 " Father is ill, or Mr. Agnew and Rose 
 " are tired of me." They both inter- 
 rupted, there was nothing they soe much 
 desired, at this present, as that I shoulde 
 prolong my Stay. And you know, Dick, 
 I added, that Forest Hill is not soe plea- 
 sant to me just now as it hath commonlie 
 beene, by Reason of your Oxford Com- 
 panions. He brieflie sayd, I neede not 
 mind that, they were coming no more to 
 the House, Father had decreed it. And 
 you know well enough, Moll, that what 
 Father decrees, must be, and he hath 
 decreed that you must come Home now ; 
 soe no more Ado, I pray you, but fetch 
 your Cloak and Hood, and the Horses 
 shall come round, for 'twill be late ere 
 we reach Home. " Nay, you must dine 
 " here at all Events," sayd Rose; "I know, 
 " Dick, you love roast Pork." Soe Dick 
 relented. Soe Rose, turning to me, prayed 
 
 me 
 
124 Maiden ^f Married Life 
 
 me to bid Cicely hasten Dinner ; the 
 which I did, tho' thinking it strange Rose 
 should not goe herself. But, as I re- 
 turned, I hearde her say, Not a Word of 
 it, dear Dick, at the least, till after Din- 
 ner, lest you spoil her Appetite. Soe 
 Dick sayd he shoulde goe and look after 
 the Horses. I sayd then, brisklie, I see 
 somewhat is the Matter — pray tell me 
 what it is. But Rose looked quite dull, 
 and walked to the Window. Then, Mr. 
 Agnew sayd, " You seem as dissatisfied to 
 " leave us, Cousin, as we are to lose you ; 
 " and yet you are going back to Forest 
 " Hill — to that Home in which you will 
 " doubtlesse be happy to live all your 
 " Dayes." — "At Forest Hill?" I sayd, 
 " oh no ! I hope not." " And why ? " 
 sayd he quicklie. I hung my Head, and 
 muttered, " I hope, some Daye, to goe 
 " back to Mr. Milton." " And why not 
 " at once ? " sayd he. I sayd, " Father 
 " would not let me." " Nay, that is 
 " childish," he answered, " your Father 
 " could not hinder you if you wanted not 
 
 " the 
 
of Mary Powell 125 
 
 " the Mind to goe — it was your first 
 " seeming soe loth to return, that made 
 " him think you unhappie and refuse to 
 " part with you." I sayd, " And what if 
 " I were unhappie ? " He paused ; and 
 knew not at the Moment what Answer 
 to make, but shortlie replyed by another 
 Question, " What Cause had you to be 
 " soe ? " I sayd, " That was more easily 
 " askt than answered, even if there were 
 " anie Neede I shoulde answer it, or he 
 " had anie Right to ask it." He cried 
 in an Accent of Tendernesse that still 
 wrings my Heart to remember, " Oh, 
 " question not the Right ! I only wish 
 " to make you happy. Were you not 
 " happy with Mr. Milton during the 
 " Week you spent together here at Sheeps- 
 " cote f " Thereat I coulde not refrayn 
 from bursting into Tears. Rose now 
 sprang forward ; but Mr. Agneiv sayd, 
 " Let her weep, let her weep, it will do 
 " her good." Then, alle at once it oc- 
 curred to me that my Husband was await- 
 ing me at Home, and I cried, " Oh, is 
 
 " Mr. 
 
126 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 " Mr. Milton at Forest Kill f " and felt 
 my Heart full of Gladness. Mr. Agnew 
 answered, "Not soe, not soe, poor Moll:''' 
 and, looking up at him, I saw him wip- 
 ing his Brow, though the Daye was soe 
 chill. " As well tell her now," sayd he 
 to Rose; and then taking my Hand, "Oh, 
 ' Mrs. Milton, can you wonder that your 
 1 Husband should be angry ? How can 
 1 you wonder at anie Evil that may result 
 ' from the Provocation you have given 
 1 him ? What Marvell, that since you 
 ' cast him off, all the sweet Fountains of 
 ' his Affections would be embittered, and 
 ' that he should retaliate by seeking a 
 ' Separation, and even a Divorce ? " — 
 There I stopt him with an outcry of 
 Divorce ? " " Even soe," he most 
 mournfully replyed, " and I seeke not to 
 ' excuse him, since two Wrongs make 
 ' not a Right." " But," I cried, passion- 
 ately weeping, " I have given him noe 
 ' Cause ; my Heart has never for a Mo- 
 ' ment strayed to another, nor does he, I 
 ' am sure, expect it." " Ne'erthelesse," 
 
 enjoy ned 
 
of Mary Powell 127 
 
 enjoyned Mr. Agnew, "He is soe aggrieved 
 "and chafed, that he has followed up- 
 " what he considers your Breach of the 
 " Marriage Contract by writing and pub- 
 " lishing a Book on Divorce ; the Tenor 
 " of which coming to your Father's Ears, 
 " has violently incensed him. And now, 
 " dear Cousin, having, by your Wayward- 
 " ness, kindled this Flame, what remains 
 " for you but to — nay, hear me, hear me, 
 " Moll, for Dick is coming in, and I may 
 " not let him hear me urge you to the 
 " onlie Course that can regayn your Peace 
 " — Mr. Milton is still your Husband ; 
 " eache of you have now Something to 
 " forgive ; do you be the firste ; nay, 
 " seeke his Forgivenesse, and you shall 
 " be happier than you have been yet." 
 
 — But I was weeping without con- 
 troule ; and Dick coming in, and with 
 Dick the Dinner, I askt to be excused, 
 and soe soughte my Chamber, to weep 
 there without Restraynt or Witnesse. 
 Poor Rose came up, as soone as she coulde 
 leave the Table, and told me she had 
 
 eaten 
 
128 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 eaten as little as I, and woulde not even 
 presse me to eat. But she carest me and 
 comforted me, and urged in her owne 
 tender Way alle that had beene sayd by 
 Mr. Agnew ; even protesting that if she 
 were in my Place, she woulde not goe 
 back to Forest Hill, but straight to London, 
 to entreat with Mr. Milton for his Mercy. 
 But I told her I could not do that, even 
 had I the means for the Journey ; for that 
 my Heart was turned against the Man 
 who coulde, for the venial Offence of a 
 young Wife, in abiding too long with her 
 old Father, not onlie cast her off from 
 his Love, but hold her up to the World's 
 Blame and Scorn, by making their do- 
 mestic Quarrel the Matter for a printed 
 Attack. Rose sayd, " I admit he is 
 " wrong, but indeed, indeed, Moll, you 
 " are wrong too, and you were wrong 
 "first : " and she sayd this soe often, that 
 at length we came to crosser Words ; 
 when Dick, calling to me from below, 
 would have me make haste, which I was 
 glad to doe, and left Sheepscote less regrett- 
 
 fullie 
 
of Mary Powell 129 
 
 fullie than I had expected. Rose kist me 
 with her gravest Face. Mr. Agnew put 
 me on my Horse, and sayd, as he gave 
 me the Rein, " Now think ! now think ! 
 " even yet ! " and then, as I silently rode 
 off, " God bless you." 
 
 I held down my Head ; but, at the 
 Turn of the Road, lookt back, and saw 
 him and Rose watching us from the 
 Porch. Dick cried, " I am righte glad 
 " we are off at last, for Father is down- 
 " right crazie aboute this Businesse, and 
 " mistrustfulle of Agneivs influence over 
 " you," — and would have gone on rail- 
 ing, but I bade him for Pitie's Sake be 
 quiete. 
 
 The Effects of my owne Follie, the 
 Losse of Home, Husband, Name, the 
 Opinion of the Agnews, the Opinion of 
 the Worlde, rose up agaynst me and al- 
 most drove me mad. And, just as I was 
 thinking I had better lived out my Dayes 
 and dyed earlie in St. Bride's Churchyarde 
 than that alle this should have come 
 about, the sudden Recollection of what 
 
 Rose 
 
30 Maiden ^f Married Life 
 
 Rose had that Morning tolde me, which 
 soe manie other Thoughts had driven out 
 of my Head, viz. that Mr. Milton had, in 
 his Desire to please me, while I was onlie 
 bent on pleasing myself, been secretly 
 striving to make readie the Aldersgate 
 Street House agaynst my Return, — soe 
 overcame me, that I wept as I rode along. 
 Nay, at the Corner of a branch Road, 
 had a Mind to beg Dick to let me goe 
 to London ; but a glance at his dogged 
 Countenance sufficed to foreshow my 
 Answer. 
 
 Half dead with Fatigue and Griefe 
 when I reached Home, the tender Em- 
 braces of my Father and Mother com- 
 pleted the Overthrowe of my Spiritts. I 
 tooke to my Bed ; and this is the first 
 Daye I have left it ; nor will they let 
 me send for Rose, nor even tell her I 
 am ill. 
 
 Jan. 
 
of Mary Powell 131 
 
 Jan. 1, 1644. 
 ■ HE new Year opens drear- 
 ilie, on Affairs both pub- 
 lick, and private. The 
 Loaf parted at Breakfast 
 this Morning, which, as 
 the Saying goes, is a Sign 
 of Separation ; but Mother onlie sayd 'twas 
 because it was badly kneaded, and chid 
 Margery. She hath beene telling me, but 
 now, how I mighte have 'scaped all my 
 Troubles, and seene as much as I woulde 
 of her and Father, and yet have contented 
 Mr. Milton and beene counted a good 
 Wife. Noe Advice soe ill to bear as that 
 which comes too late. 
 
 Jan. 7. 
 AM sick of this journall- 
 ing, soe shall onlie pat 
 downe the Date of Robin s 
 leaving Home. Lord have 
 Mercy on him, and keepe 
 him in Safetie. This is a 
 shorte Prayer ; therefore, easier to be 
 
 often 
 
132 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 often repeated. When he kissed me, he 
 whispered, " Moll, pray for me." 
 
 Jan. 27. 
 \ATHER does not seeme to 
 miss Robin much, tho' he 
 dailie drinks his Health 
 after that of the King. 
 Perhaps he did not miss 
 me anie more when I was 
 in London, though it was true and naturall 
 enough he should like to see me agayn. 
 We should have beene used to our Sepa- 
 ration by this Time ; there would have 
 beene nothing corroding in it. . . . 
 
 I pray for Robin everie Night. Since 
 he went, the House has lost its Sunshine. 
 When I was soe anxious to return to 
 Forest Hill, I never counted on his leav- 
 ing it. 
 
 Feb. 
 
of Mary Powell 133 
 
 Feb. 1. 
 \H Heaven, what would I 
 give to see the Skirts of 
 Mr. Milton's Garments 
 agayn ! My Heart is sick 
 unto Death. I have been 
 reading some of my Jour- 
 nal/, and tearing out much childish Non- 
 sense at the Beginning ; but coulde not 
 destroy the painfulle Records of the last 
 Year. How unhappy a Creature am I ! 
 — wearie, wearie of my Life, yet no 
 Ways inclined for Death. Lord, have 
 Mercy upon me. 
 
 March 27. 
 
 SPEND much of my Time, 
 
 now, in the Book-room, 
 
 and though I essay not to 
 
 pursue the Latin, I read 
 
 much English, at the least, 
 
 more than ever I did in 
 
 my Life before ; but often I fancy I 
 
 am reading when I am onlie dreaming. 
 
 Oxford is far too gay a Place for me now 
 
 ever 
 
134 Maiden £&P Married Life 
 
 ever to goe neare it, but my Brothers are 
 much there, and Father in his Farm, and 
 Mother in her Kitchen ; and the Neigh- 
 bours, when they call, look on me 
 strangelie, so that I have noe Love for 
 them. How different is Rose's holy, 
 secluded, yet cheerfulle Life at Sheepscote ! 
 She hath a Nurserie now, soe cannot 
 come to me, and Father likes not I should 
 goe to her. 
 
 April 5. 
 ■ HEY say their Majestyes' 
 Parting at Abingdon was 
 very sorrowfulle and ten- 
 der. The Lord send them 
 better Times ! The Queen 
 is to my Mind a most 
 charming Lady, and well worthy of his 
 Majesty's Affection ; yet it seems to me 
 amisse, that thro' her Influence, last Sum- 
 mer, the Opportunitie of Pacification was 
 lost. But she was elated, and naturallie 
 enoughe, at her personall Successes from 
 the Time of her landing. To me, there 
 
 seems 
 
of Mary Powell 135 
 
 seems nothing soe good as Peace. I 
 know, indeede, Mr. Milton holds that there 
 may be such Things as a holy War and a 
 cursed Peace. 
 
 April 10. 
 \ATHER, having a Hoarse- 
 ness, hath deputed me, of 
 late, to read the Morn- 
 ing and Evening Prayers. 
 How beautifulle is our 
 Liturgie ! I grudge at 
 the Puritans for having abolished it ; and 
 though I felt not its comprehensive Full- 
 nesse before I married, nor indeed till 
 now, yet I wearied to Death in London 
 at the puritanicall Ordinances and Con- 
 science-meetings and extempore Prayers, 
 wherein it was soe oft the Speaker's Care 
 to show Men how godly he was. Nay, 
 I think Mr. Milton altogether wrong in 
 the View he takes of praying to God in 
 other Men's Words ; for doth he not doe 
 soe, everie Time he followeth the Sense of 
 another Man's extempore Prayer, wherein 
 
 he 
 
136 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 he is more at his Mercy and Caprice than 
 when he hath a printed Form set down, 
 wherein he sees what is coming ? 
 
 "June 8. 
 TALKING in the Home- 
 close this Morning, it oc- 
 curred to me that Mr. 
 Milton intended bringing 
 me to Forest Hill about this 
 Time ; and that if I had 
 abided patientlie with him through the 
 Winter, we might now have beene both 
 here happily together ; untroubled by that 
 Sting which now poisons everie Enjoy- 
 ment of mine, and perhaps of his. Lord, 
 be merciful to me a Sinner. 
 
 June 23. 
 iUST after writing the above, 
 I was in the Garden, ga- 
 thering a few Coronation 
 Flowers and Sops-in-Wine, 
 and thinking they were of 
 deeper Crimson at Sheeps- 
 cote, and wondering what Rose was just 
 
 then 
 
of Mary Powell 137 
 
 then about, and whether, had I beene 
 born in her Place, I shoulde have beene 
 as goode and happy as she, — when Harry 
 came up, looking somewhat grave. I 
 sayd, " What is the Matter ? " He gave 
 Answer, "Rose hath lost her Child." Oh ! 
 
 that we should live but a two Hours' 
 
 Journey apart, and that she coulde lose a 
 Child three Months olde whom I had never 
 seene 1 
 
 I ran to Father, and never left off 
 praying him to let me goe to her till he 
 consented. 
 
 — What, and if I had begged as hard, 
 at the firste, to goe back to Mr. Milton ? 
 might he not have consented then ? 
 
 . . . Soe Harry took me ; and as we 
 drew neare Sheepscote, I was avised to think 
 how grave, how barely friendly had beene 
 our last Parting ; and to ponder, would 
 Rose make me welcome now ? The 
 Infant, Harry tolde me, had beene dead 
 some Dayes ; and, as we came in Sight 
 of the little grey old Church, we saw a 
 Knot of People coming out of the Church- 
 yard, 
 
138 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 yard, and guessed the Baby had just beene 
 buried. Soe it proved — Mr. Agnew s 
 House-door stood ajar ; and when we 
 tapped softlie and Cicely admitted us, we 
 could see him standing by Rose, who was 
 sitting on the Ground and crying as if 
 she would not be comforted. When she 
 hearde my Voice, she started up, flung 
 her Arms about me, crying more bitterlie 
 than before, and I cried too ; and Mr. 
 Agnew went away with Harry. Then 
 Rose sayd to me, " You must not leave 
 " me agayn." . . . 
 
 ... In the Cool of the Evening, when 
 Harry had left us, she took me into the 
 Churchyarde, and scattered the little 
 Grave with Flowers ; and then continued 
 sitting beside it on the Grasse, quiete, but 
 not comfortlesse. I am avised to think 
 she prayed. Then Mr. Agnew came 
 forthe and sate on a flat Tombstone hard 
 by ; and without one Word of Introduc- 
 tion took out his Psalter, and commenced 
 reading the Psalms for that Evening's 
 Service ; to wit, the 41st, the 42d, the 
 
 43 de ; 
 

 '[hen nyRTiew c&me 
 and 
 
 :ljeJ oii&/tafpinbJic.v 
 
 4%^ 
 
of Mary Powell 139 
 
 43<le ; in a low solemne Voice ; and 
 methoughte I never in my Life hearde 
 aniething to equall it in the Way of 
 Consolation. Rose s heavie Eyes gradu- 
 allie lookt up from the Ground into her 
 Husband's Face, and thence up to Heaven. 
 After this, he read, or rather repeated, 
 the Collect at the end of the Buriall Ser- 
 vice, putting this Expression, — " As our 
 " Hope is, this our deare Infant doth." 
 Then he went on to say in a soothing 
 Tone, " There hath noe Misfortune hap- 
 " pened to us, but such as is common to 
 " the Lot of alle Men. We are alle 
 " Sinners, even to the youngest, fayrest, 
 " and seeminglie purest among us ; and 
 " Death entered the World by Sin, and, 
 " constituted as we are, we would not, 
 " even if we could, dispense with Death. 
 " For, where doth it convey us ? From 
 " this burthensome, miserable World, into 
 " the generall Assemblie of Christ's First- 
 " born, to be united with the Spiritts 
 " of the Just made perfect, to partake of 
 " everie Enjoyment which in this World 
 
 "is 
 
140 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 is unconnected with Sin, together with 
 others that are unknowne and unspeak- 
 able. And there, we shall agayn have 
 Bodies as well as Soules ; Eyes to see, 
 but not to shed Tears ; Voices to speak 
 and sing, not to utter Lamentations ; 
 Hands, to doe God's Work ; Feet, and 
 it may be, Wings, to carry us on his 
 Errands. Such will be the Blessedness 
 of his glorified Saints ; even of those 
 who, having been Servants of Satan till 
 the eleventh Hour, laboured penitentlie 
 and diligentlie for their heavenlie Master 
 one Hour before Sunset ; but as for 
 those who, dying in mere Infancie, 
 never committed actual Sin, they follow 
 the Lamb whithersoever he goeth ! 
 ' Oh, think of this, dear Rose, and 
 Sorrow not as those without Hope ; 
 for be assured, your Child hath more 
 reall Reason to be grieved for you, than 
 you for him.' " 
 With this, and like Discourse, that dis- 
 tilled like the Dew, or the small Rain on 
 the tender Grasse, did Roger Agnew com- 
 fort 
 
of Mary Powell 141 
 
 fort his Wife, untill the Moon had risen. 
 Likewise he spake to us of those who 
 lay buried arounde, how one had died 
 of a broken Heart, another of suddain 
 Joy, another had let Patience have her 
 perfect Work through Years of linger- 
 ing Disease. Then we walked slowlie 
 and composedlie Home, and ate our 
 Supper peacefullie, Rose not refusing to 
 eat, though she took but little. 
 
 Since that Evening, she hath, at Mr. 
 Agneivs Wish, gone much among the 
 Poor, reading to one, working for an- 
 other, carrying Food and Medicine to 
 another ; and in this I have borne her 
 Companie. I like it well. Methinks 
 how pleasant and seemlie are the Duties 
 of a country Minister's Wife ! a God- 
 fearing Woman, that is, who considereth 
 the Poor and Needy, insteade of aiming 
 to be frounced and purfled like her 
 richest Neighbours. Mr. Agnew was 
 reading to us, last Night, of Bernard 
 Gilpin — he of whom the Lord Burleigh 
 sayd, " Who can blame that Man for 
 
142 Maiden ^f Married Life 
 
 " not accepting a Bishopric ? " How 
 charmed were we with the Description 
 of the Simplicitie and Hospitalitie of his 
 Method of living at Houghton ! — There 
 is another Place of nearlie the same 
 Name, in Buckinghamshire — not Hough- 
 ton, but Horton, . . . where one Mr. John 
 Milton spent five of the best Years of 
 his Life, — and where methinks his Wife 
 could have been happier with him than 
 in St. Bride's Churchy arde. — But it profits 
 not to wish and to will. — What was to 
 be, had Need to be, soe there's an End. 
 
 Aug. 1. 
 JR. AGNEW sayd to me this 
 Morning, somewhat grave- 
 lie, " I observe, Cousin, 
 " you seem to consider 
 " yourselfe the Victim of 
 " Circumstances." " And 
 " am I not ? " I replied. " No," he an- 
 swered, " Circumstance is a false God, 
 " unrecognised by the Christian, who 
 
 " contemns 
 
of Mary Powell 143 
 
 ' contemns him, though a stubborn yet 
 ' a profitable Servant." — " That may be 
 ' alle very grand for a Man to doe," I 
 ;ayd. " Very grand, but very feasible, 
 ' for a Woman as well as a Man," re- 
 joined Mr. Agnew, "and we shall be 
 ' driven to the Walle all our Lives, unless 
 ' we have this victorious Struggle with 
 ' Circumstances. I seldom allude, Cousin, 
 ' to yours, which are almoste too deli- 
 ' cate for me to meddle with ; and yet 
 ' I hardlie feele justified in letting soe 
 ' many Opportunities escape. Do I 
 ' offend ? or may I go on ? — Onlie 
 ' think, then, how voluntarilie you have 
 ' placed yourself in your present uncom- 
 ' fortable Situation. The Tree cannot 
 ' resist the graduall Growth of the Moss 
 ' upon it ; but you might, anie Day, 
 ' anie Hour, have freed yourself from 
 ' the equallie graduall Formation of the 
 ' Net that has enclosed you at last. You 
 ' entered too hastilie into your firste — 
 ' nay, let that pass, — you gave too shorte 
 ' a Triall of your new Home before you 
 
 " became 
 
144 Maiden ^f Married Life 
 
 " became disgusted with it. Admit it 
 " to have beene dull, even unhealthfulle, 
 " were you justified in forsaking it at a 
 " Month's End ? But your Husband 
 " gave you Leave of Absence, though 
 " obtayned on false Pretences. — When 
 " you found them to be false, should 
 " you not have cleared yourself to him 
 " of Knowledge of the Deceit ? Then 
 " your Leave, soe obtayned, expired — 
 " shoulde you not have returned then ? 
 " — Your Health and Spiritts were re- 
 " cruited ; your Husband wrote to reclaim 
 "you — shoulde you not have returned 
 " then ? He provided an Escort, whom 
 " your Father beat and drove away. — 
 " If you had insisted on going to your 
 " Husband, might you not have gone 
 " then f Oh, Cousin, you dare not look 
 " up to Heaven and say you have been 
 " the Victim of Circumstances." 
 
 I made no Answer ; onlie felt much 
 moven, and very angrie. I sayd, " If 
 " I wished to goe back, Mr. Mi/ton 
 " woulde not receive me now." 
 
 " Will 
 
of Mary Powell 145 
 
 " Will you try ? " sayd Roger. " Will 
 " you but let me try ? Will you let me 
 " write to him ? " 
 
 I had a Mind to say " Yes." — Insteade, 
 I answered " No." 
 
 " Then there's an End," cried he sharp- 
 lie. " Had you made but one fayre Triall, 
 " whether successfulle or noe, I coulde 
 " have been satisfied — no, not satisfied, 
 " but I woulde have esteemed you, coulde 
 " have taken your Part. As it is, the less 
 " I say just now, perhaps, the better. For- 
 ".give me for having spoken at alle." 
 
 Afterwards, I hearde him say to 
 
 Rose of me, " I verilie believe there is 
 " Nothing in her on which to make a 
 " permanent Impression. I verilie think 
 " she loves everie one of those long 
 " Curls of hers more than she loves 
 " Mr. Milton" 
 
 (Note : — I will cut them two Inches 
 shorter to-night. And they will grow 
 all the faster.) 
 
 . . . Oh, my sad Heart, Roger Agnew 
 hath pierced you at last ! 
 
 I 
 
 K 
 
146 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 I was moved, more than he thought, 
 by what he had sayd in the Morning ; 
 and, in writing down the Heads of his 
 Speech, to kill Time, a kind of Resent- 
 ment at myselfe came over me, unlike to 
 what I had ever felt before ; in spite of 
 my Folly about my Curls. Seeking for 
 some Trifle in a Bag that had not been 
 shaken out since I brought it from London, 
 out tumbled a Key with curious Wards — 
 I knew it at once for one that belonged 
 to a certayn Algum-wood Casket Mr. 
 Milton had Recourse to dailie, because he 
 kept small Change in it ; and I knew not 
 I had brought it away ! 'Twas worked 
 in Grotesque, the Casket, by Benvenuto, 
 for Clement the Seventh, who for some 
 Reason woulde not have it ; and soe it 
 came somehow to Clementillo, who gave it 
 to Mr. Milton. Thought I, how uncom- 
 fortable the Loss of this Key must have 
 made him ! he must have needed it a 
 hundred Times ! even if he hath bought 
 a new Casket, I will for it he habituallie 
 goes agayn and agayn to the old one, and 
 
 then 
 
of Mary Powell 147 
 
 then he remembers that he lost the Key 
 the same Day that he lost his Wife. I 
 heartilie wish he had it back. Ah, but 
 he feels not the one Loss as he feels the 
 other. Nay, but it is as well that one of 
 them, tho' the Lesser, should be repaired. 
 'Twill shew Signe of Grace, my thinking 
 of him, and may open the Way, if God 
 wills, to some Interchange of Kindnesse, 
 however fleeting. 
 
 Soe I soughte out Mr. Agnew, tapping 
 at his Studdy Doore. He sayd, " Come 
 " in," drylie enoughe ; and there were he 
 and Rose reading a Letter. I sayd, " I 
 " want you to write for me to Mr. 
 " Milton." He gave a sour Look, as 
 much as to say he disliked the Office ; 
 which threw me back, as 'twere ; he 
 having soe lately proposed it himself. 
 Roses Eyes, however, dilated with sweete 
 Pleasure, as she lookt from one to the 
 other of us. 
 
 " Well, — I fear 'tis too late," sayd he 
 at length reluctantlie, I mighte almost 
 say grurflie, — " what am I to write ? " 
 
 "To 
 
148 Maiden <Hf Married Life 
 
 " To tell him I have this Key," I made 
 Answer faltering. 
 
 " That Key ! " cried he. 
 
 " Yes, the Key of his Algum-wood 
 " Casket, which I knew not I had, and 
 " which I think he must miss dailie." 
 
 He lookt at me with the utmost Impa- 
 tience. " And is that alle ? " he sayd. 
 
 " Yes, alle," I sayd trembling. 
 
 " And have you nothing more to tell 
 " him ? " sayd he. 
 
 " No — " after a Pause, I replyed. Rose's 
 Countenance fell. 
 
 " Then you must ask some one else 
 " to write for you, Mrs. Milton" burste 
 forthe Roger Agnew, " unless you choose 
 " to write for yourself. I have neither 
 " Part nor Lot in it." 
 
 I burste forthe into Teares. 
 
 — " No, Rose, no," repeated Mr. Agneiv, 
 putting aside his Wife, who woulde have 
 interceded for me, — "her Teares have 
 " noe Effect on me now — they proceed, 
 " not from a contrite Heart, they are the 
 " Tears of a Child that cannot brook to 
 
 "be 
 
of Mary Powell 149 
 
 " be chidden for the Waywardnesse in 
 " which it persists." 
 
 " You doe me Wrong everie Way," I 
 sayd ; " I came to you willing and desi- 
 " rous to doe what you yourselfe woulde, 
 " this Morning, have had me doe." 
 
 " But in how strange a Way ! " cried 
 he. " At a Time when anie Renewal of 
 " your Intercourse requires to be con- 
 " ducted with the utmost Delicacy, and 
 " even with more Shew of Concession on 
 " your Part than, an Hour ago, I should 
 " have deemed needfulle, — to propose an 
 " abrupt, trivial Communication about an 
 " old Key ! " 
 
 " It needed not to have been abrupt," 
 I sayd, " nor yet trivial ; for I meant it to 
 " have beene exprest kindlie." 
 
 " You said not that before," answered he. 
 
 " Because you gave me not Time. — Be- 
 " cause you chid me and frightened me." 
 
 He stood silent, some While, upon this ; 
 grave, yet softer, and mechanicallie play- 
 ing with the Key, which he had taken 
 from my Hand. Rose looking in his Face 
 
 anxiouslie. 
 
150 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 anxiouslie. At lengthe, to disturbe his 
 Reverie, she playfulle tooke it from him, 
 saying, in School-girl Phrase, 
 
 " This is the Key of the Kingdom ! " 
 
 " Of the Kingdom of Heaven, it mighte 
 " be ! " exclaimed Roger, " if we knew 
 " how to use it arighte ! If we knew but 
 " how to fit it to the Wards of Milton's 
 " Heart ! — there's the Difficultie ... a 
 " greater one, poor Moll, than you know ; 
 " for hithertoe, alle the Reluctance has 
 " been on your Part. But now . . ." 
 
 " What now ? " I anxiouslie askt. 
 
 " We were talking of you but as you 
 rejoyned us," sayd Mr. Agnew, " and I 
 " was telling Rose that hithertoe I had 
 " considered the onlie Obstacle to a Re- 
 " union arose from a false Impression of 
 " your own, that Mr. Milton coulde not 
 " make you happy. But now I have 
 " beene led to the Conclusion that you 
 " cannot make him soe, which increases 
 " the Difficultie." 
 
 After a Pause, I sayd, " What makes 
 " you think soe ? " 
 
 "You 
 
of Mary Powell 151 
 
 " You and he have made me think soe," 
 he replyed. " First for yourself, dear 
 " Moll, putting aside for a Time the 
 " Consideration of your Youth, Beauty, 
 " Franknesse, Mirthfullenesse, and a cer- 
 " tayn girlish Drollerie and Mischiefe 
 " that are all very well in fitting Time 
 " and Place, — what remains in you for 
 " a Mind like John Milton s to repose 
 " upon ? what Stabilitie ? what Sym- 
 " pathie ? what steadfast Principle ? You 
 " take noe Pains to apprehend and relish 
 " his favourite Pursuits ; you care not 
 " for his wounded Feelings, you consult 
 " not his Interests, anie more than your 
 " owne Duty. Now, is such the Char- 
 " acter to make Milton happy ? " 
 
 " No one can answer that but himself," 
 I replyed, deeplie mortyfide. 
 
 " Well, he has answered it," sayd Mr. 
 Agnew, taking up the Letter he and Rose 
 had beene reading when I interrupted 
 them. ..." You must know, Cousin, 
 " that his and my close Friendship hath 
 " beene a good deal interrupted by this 
 
 " Matter. 
 
152 Maiden 6sf Married Life 
 
 " Matter. 'Twas under my Roof you 
 " met. Rose had imparted to me much 
 " of her earlie Interest in you. I fancied 
 " you had good Dispositions which, under 
 " masterlie Trayning, would ripen into 
 " noble Principles ; and therefore pro- 
 " moted your Marriage as far as my 
 " Interest with your Father had Weight. 
 ^ I own I was surprised at his easilie 
 u obtayned Consent. . . . but, that you, 
 " once domesticated with such a Man 
 " as John Milton, shoulde find your 
 " Home uninteresting, your Affections 
 " free to stray back to your owne Family, 
 " was what I had never contemplated." 
 
 Here I made a Show of taking the 
 Letter, but he held it back. 
 
 " No, Moll, you disappointed us everie 
 " Way. And, for a time, Rose and I 
 " were ashamed, for you rather than of 
 " you, that we left noe Means neglected 
 " of trying to preserve your Place in 
 " your Husband's Regard. But you did 
 " not bear us out ; and then he beganne 
 " to take it amisse that we upheld you. 
 
 "Soe 
 
of Mary Powell 153 
 
 " Soe then, after some warm and cool 
 " Words, our Correspondence languished ; 
 " and hath but now beene renewed." 
 
 " He has written us a most kind Condo- 
 " lence," interrupted Rose, " on the Death 
 " of our Baby." 
 
 " Yes, most kindlie, most nobly ex- 
 " prest," sayd Mr. Agnew ; " but what 
 " a Conclusion ! " 
 
 And then, after this long Preamble, 
 he offered me the Letter, the Beginning 
 of which, tho' doubtlesse well enough, 
 I marked not, being impatient to reach 
 the latter Part ; wherein I found my- 
 self spoken of soe bitterlie, soe harshlie, 
 as that I too plainly saw Roger Agnew 
 had not beene beside the Mark when he 
 decided I could never make Mr. Milton 
 happy. Payned and wounded Feeling 
 made me lay aside the Letter without 
 proffering another Word, and retreat 
 without soe much as a Sigh or a Sob 
 into mine own Chamber ; but noe longer 
 could the Restraynt be maintained. I 
 fell to weeping soe passionatelie that Rose 
 
 prayed 
 
154 Maiden & Married Life. 
 
 prayed to come in, and condoled with 
 me, and advised me, soe as that at length 
 my weeping bated, and I promised to re- 
 turn below when I shoulde have bathed 
 mine Eyes and smoothed my Hair ; but 
 I have not gone down yet. 
 
 Bedtime. 
 THINK I shall send to 
 Father to have me home 
 at the Beginning of next 
 Week. Rose needes me 
 not, now ; and it can- 
 not be pleasant to Mr. 
 Agnew to see my sorrowfulle Face about 
 the House. His Reproofe and my Hus- 
 band's together have riven my Heart ; I 
 think I shall never laugh agayn, nor smile 
 but after a piteous Sorte ; and soe People 
 will cease to love me, for there is Nothing 
 in me of a graver Kind to draw their 
 Affection ; and soe I shall lead a moping 
 Life unto the End of my Dayes. 
 
 — Luckilie for me, Rose hath much 
 Sewing to doe ; for she hath undertaken 
 
 with 
 
of Mary Powell 155 
 
 with great Energie her Labours for the 
 Poore, and consequentlie spends less Time 
 in her Husband's Studdy ; and, as I help 
 her to the best of my Means, my Sew- 
 ing hides my Lack of Talking, and Mr- 
 Agnew reads to us such Books as he deems 
 entertayning ; yet, half the Time, I hear 
 not what he reads. Still, I did not deeme 
 so much Amusement could have beene 
 found in Books ; and there are some of 
 his, that, if not soe cumbrous, I woulde 
 fain borrow. 
 
 Friday. 
 HAVE made up my Mind 
 now, that I shall never see 
 Mr. Milton more ; and am 
 resolved to submitt to it 
 without another Tear. 
 Rose sayd, this Morning, 
 
 she was glad to see me more composed ; 
 
 and soe am I ; but never was more 
 
 miserable. 
 
 Saturday 
 
156 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 Saturday Night. 
 'R. AGNEW'S religious Ser- 
 vices at the Endof the Week 
 have alwaies more than 
 usuall Matter and Meaninge 
 in them. They are neither 
 soe drowsy as those I have 
 beene for manie Years accustomed to at 
 Home, nor soe wearisome as to remind me 
 of the Puritans. Were there manie such 
 as he in our Church, soe faithfulle, fer- 
 vent, and thoughtfulle, methinks there 
 would be fewer Schismaticks ; but still 
 there woulde be some, because there are 
 alwaies some that like to be the upper- 
 most. . . . To-nighte, Mr. Agnew 's Prayers 
 went straight to my Heart ; and I privilie 
 turned sundrie of his generall Petitions into 
 particular ones, for myself and Robin, and 
 also for Mr. Milton. This gave such un- 
 wonted Relief, that since I entered into 
 my Closet, I have repeated the same par- 
 ticulate ; one Request seeming to grow 
 out of another, till I remained I know 
 
 not 
 
of Mary Powell 157 
 
 not how long on my Knees, and will bend 
 them yet agayn, ere I go to Bed. 
 
 How sweetlie the Moon shines through 
 my Casement to-night ! I am almoste 
 avised to accede to Rose's Request of 
 staying here to the End of the Month : — 
 everie Thing here is soe peacefulle ; and 
 Forest Hill is dull, now Robin is away. 
 
 Sunday Evening. 
 t OW blessed a Sabbath !— 
 Can it be, that I thought, 
 onlie two Days back, I 
 shoulde never know Peace 
 agayn ? Joy I may not, 
 but Peace I can and doe. 
 And yet nought hath amended the un- 
 fortunate Condition of mine Affairs ; but 
 a different Colouring is caste upon them 
 — the Lord grant that it may last ! How 
 hath it come soe, and how may it be 
 preserved ? This Morn, when I awoke, 
 'twas with a Sense of Relief such as we 
 have when we miss some wearying bodilie 
 Payn ; a Feeling as though I had beene 
 
 forgiven, 
 
158 Maiden £&f Married Life 
 
 forgiven, yet not by Mr. Milton, for I 
 knew he had not forgiven me. Then, it 
 must be, I was forgiven by God ; and 
 why ? I had done nothing to get his 
 Forgivenesse, only presumed on his Mercy 
 to ask manie Things I had noe Right to 
 expect. And yet I felt I was forgiven. 
 Why then mighte not Mr. Milton some 
 Day forgive me ? Should the Debt of 
 ten thousand Talents be cancelled, and 
 not the Debt of a hundred Pence ? Then 
 I thought on that same Word, Talents ; 
 and considered, had I ten, or even one ? 
 Decided to consider it at leisure, more 
 closelie, and to make over to God hence- 
 forthe, be they ten, or be it one. Then, 
 dressed with much Composure, and went 
 down to Breakfast. 
 
 Having marked that Mr. Agnew and 
 Rose affected not Companie on this 
 Day, spent it chieflie by myself, except 
 at Church and Meal-times ; partlie in 
 my Chamber, partlie in the Garden 
 Bowre by the Bee-hives. Made manie 
 Resolutions, which, in Church, I con- 
 verted 
 
of Mary Powell 159 
 
 verted into Prayers and Promises. Hence, 
 my holy Peace. 
 
 Monday. 
 [OSE proposed, this Morn- 
 ing, we shoulde resume our 
 Studdies. Felt loath to 
 comply, but did soe never- 
 thelesse, and afterwards we 
 walked manie Miles, to 
 visit some poor Folk. This Evening, 
 Mr. Agnew read us the Prologue to the 
 Canterbury Tales. How lifelike are the 
 Portraitures ! I mind me that Mr. Milton 
 shewed me the Talbot Inn, that Day we 
 crost the River with Mr. Marvell. 
 
 Tuesday. 
 ,OW heartilie do I wish I 
 had never read that same 
 Letter ! — or rather, that it 
 had never beene written. 
 Thus it is, even with our 
 Wishes. We think our- 
 selves reasonable in wishing some small 
 
 Thing 
 
160 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 Thing were otherwise, which it were 
 quite as impossible to alter as some great 
 Thing. Neverthelesse I cannot help 
 fretting over the Remembrance of that 
 Part wherein he spake such bitter Things 
 of my " most ungoverned Passion for 
 " Revellings and Junketings." Sure, he 
 would not call my Life too merrie now, 
 could he see me lying wakefulle on my 
 Bed, could he see me preventing the 
 Morning Watch, could he see me at my 
 Prayers, at my Books, at my Needle. 
 . . . He shall find he hath judged too 
 hardlie of poor Moll, even yet. 
 
 Wednesday. 
 \OOK a cold Dinner in a 
 Basket with us to-day, and 
 ate our rusticall Repast 
 on the Skirt of a Wood, 
 where we could see the 
 Squirrels at theire Gam- 
 bols. Mr. Agnew lay on the Grasse, and 
 Rose took out her knitting, whereat he 
 laught, and sayd she was like the Dutch 
 
 Women, 
 
of Mary Powell 161 
 
 Women, that must knit, whether mourn- 
 ing or feasting, and even on the Sabbath. 
 Having laught her out of her Work, he 
 drew forth Mr. George Herberts Poems, 
 and read us a Strayn which pleased Rose 
 and me soe much, that I shall copy it 
 herein, to have always by me. 
 
 How fresh, oh Lord ; how sweet and clean t 
 
 Are thy Returns! e'en as the Flowers in Spring, 
 
 To which, beside theire owne Demesne, 
 
 The late pent Frosts Tributes of Pleasure bring. 
 
 Grief melts away like Snow in May, 
 
 As if there were noe such cold Thing. 
 
 Who would have thought my shrivelled Heart 
 Woulde have recovered greenness ? it was gone 
 Quite Underground, as Flowers depart 
 To see their Mother-root, when they have blown, 
 Where they together, alle the hard Weather, 
 Dead to the World, keep House alone. 
 
 These are thy Wonders, Lord of Power ! 
 Killing and quickening, bringing down to Hell 
 And up to Heaven, in an Hour, 
 Making a Chiming of a passing Bell. 
 We say amiss " this or that is ; " 
 Thy Word is alle, if we could spell. 
 
 Oh 
 
 L 
 
162 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 Oh that I once past changing were ! 
 
 Fast in thy Paradise, where no Flowers can wither; 
 
 Manie a Spring I shoot up faire, 
 
 Offering at Heaven, growing and groaning thither, 
 
 Nor doth my Flower want a Spring Shower, 
 
 My Sins and I joyning together. 
 
 But while I grow in a straight Line, 
 
 Still upwards bent, as if Heaven were my own, 
 
 Thy Anger comes, and T decline. — 
 
 What Frost to that ? What Pole is not the Zone 
 
 Where alle Things burn, when thou dost turn, 
 
 And the least Frown of thine is shewn ? 
 
 And now, in Age, T bud agayn, 
 
 After soe manie Deaths, T bud and write, 
 
 I once more smell the Dew and Pain, 
 
 And relish Versing! Oh my onlie Light ! 
 
 It cannot be that I am he 
 
 On whom thy Tempests fell alle Night ? 
 
 These are thy Wonders, Lord of Love, 
 To make us see we are but Flozvers that glide, 
 Which, when we once can feel and prove, 
 Thou hast a Garden for us where to bide. 
 Who would be more, swelling their Store, 
 Forfeit their Paradise by their Pride. 
 
 Thursday. 
 
of Mary Powell 163 
 
 Thursday. 
 yiTHER sent over Diggory 
 with a Letter for me from 
 deare Robin : alsoe, to ask. 
 when I was minded to 
 return Home, as Mother 
 wants to goe to Sandford. 
 Fixed the Week after next ; but Rose 
 says I must be here agayn at the Apple- 
 gathering. Answered Robin's Letter. He 
 looketh not for Choyce of fine Words ; 
 nor noteth an Error here and there in the 
 Spelling. 
 
 Tuesday. 
 fIFE flows away here in such 
 unmarked Tranquilitie, that 
 one hath Nothing where- 
 of to write, or to remem- 
 ber what distinguished one 
 Day from another. I am 
 sad, yet not dulle ; methinks I have 
 grown some Yeares older since I came 
 here. I can fancy elder Women feeling 
 
 much 
 
1 64 Maiden £&f Married Life 
 
 much as I doe now. I have Nothing to 
 desire, Nothing to hope, that is likelie 
 to come to pass — Nothing to regret, 
 except I begin soe far back, that my 
 whole Life hath neede, as 'twere, to begin 
 over agayn. . . . 
 
 Mr. Agnew translates to us Portions of 
 Thuanus his Historie, and the Letters 
 of Theodore Beza, concerning the French 
 Reformed Church ; oft prolix, yet inte- 
 resting, especially with Mr. Agnew s Com- 
 ments, and Allusions to our own Time. 
 On the other Hand, Rose reads Davi/a, 
 the sworne Apologiste of Catherine de' 
 Medici's, whose charming Italian even I 
 can comprehende ; but alle is false and 
 plausible. How sad, that the wrong 
 Partie shoulde be victorious ! Soe it may 
 befall in this Land ; though, indeede, I 
 have hearde soe much bitter Rayling on 
 bothe Sides, that I know not which is 
 right. The Line of Demarcation is not 
 soe distinctly drawn, methinks, as 'twas 
 in France. Yet it cannot be right to take 
 up Arms agaynst constituted Authorities ? 
 
 Yet, 
 
of Mary Powell 165 
 
 Yet, and if those same Authorities abuse 
 their Trust ? Nay, Women cannot 
 understand these Matters, and I thank 
 Heaven they need not. Onlie, they can- 
 not help siding with those they love ; 
 and sometimes those they love are on 
 opposite sides. 
 
 Mr. Agnew sayth, the secular Arm 
 shoulde never be employed in spirituall 
 Matters, and that the Hugenots committed 
 a grave Mistake in choosing Princes and 
 Admirals for their Leaders, insteade of 
 simple Preachers with Bible in their 
 Hands ; and he askt, " did Luther or Peter 
 " the Hermit most manifestlie labour 
 " with the Blessing of God ? " 
 
 ... I have noted the Heads of Mr. 
 Agnew 's Readings, after a Fashion of 
 Rose's, in order to have a shorte, com- 
 prehensive Account of the Whole ; and 
 this hath abridged my journalling. It 
 is the more profitable to me of the two, 
 changes the sad Current of Thought, 
 and, though an unaccustomed Task, I 
 like it well. 
 
 Saturday. 
 
1 66 Maiden ^f Married Life 
 
 Saturday. 
 \N Monday I return to Forest 
 Hill. I am well pleased 
 to have yet another Sheeps- 
 cote Sabbath. To-day we 
 had the rare Event of a 
 Dinner-guest ; soe full of 
 what the Rebels are doing, and alle the 
 
 Horrors of Strife, that he seemed to 
 us quiete Folks, like the Denizen of 
 another World. 
 
 Forest 
 
of Mary Powell 167 
 
 Forest Hill, August 3. 
 \OME agayn, and Mother 
 hath gone on her long 
 intended Visitt to Uncle 
 John, taking with her the 
 two youngest. Father much 
 preoccupide, by reason of 
 the Supplies needed for his Majesty's 
 Service ; soe that, sweet Robin being 
 away, I find myselfe lonely. Harry 
 rides with me in the Evening, but the 
 Mornings I have alle to myself; and 
 when I have fulfilled Mother s Behests 
 in the Kitchen and Still-room, I have 
 nought but to read in our somewhat 
 scant Collection of Books, the moste 
 Part whereof are religious. And (not 
 on that Account, but by reason I have 
 read the most of them before), methinks 
 I will write to borrow some of Rose ; 
 for Change of Reading hath now become 
 a Want. I am minded also, to seek out 
 and minister unto some poore Folk after 
 her Fashion. Now that I am Queen of 
 
 the, 
 
1 68 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 the Larder, there is manie a wholesome 
 Scrap at my Disposal, and there are like- 
 wise sundrie Physiques in my Mother's 
 Closet, which she addeth to Year by 
 Year, and never wants, we are soe sel- 
 dom ill. 
 
 Aug. 5. 
 (EAR Father sayd this Even- 
 ing, as we came in from 
 a Walk on the Terrace, 
 " My sweet Moll, you 
 " were ever the Light of 
 " the House ; but now, 
 " though you are more staid than of 
 " former Time, I find you a better Com- 
 " panion than ever. This last Visitt to 
 " Sheepscote hath evened your Spiritts." 
 
 Poor Father ! he knew not how I 
 lay awake and wept last Night, for one 
 I shall never see agayn, nor how the 
 Terrace Walk minded me of him. My 
 Spiritts may seem even, and I exert my- 
 self to please ; but, within, all is dark 
 Shade, or at best, grey Twilight ; and 
 
 my 
 
of Mary Powell 169 
 
 my Spiritts are, in Fact, worse here than 
 they were at S/ieepscote, because, here, I 
 am continuallie thinking of one whose 
 Name is never uttered ; whereas, there, 
 it was mentioned naturallie and tenderlie, 
 though sadly. . . . 
 
 I will forthe to see some of the poor 
 Folk. 
 
 Same Night. 
 RESOLVED to make the 
 Circuit of the Cottages, 
 but onlie reached the first, 
 wherein I found poor Nell 
 in such Grief of Body and 
 Mind, that I was avised to 
 wait with her a long Time. Askt why 
 she had not sent to us for Relief; was 
 answered she had thought of doing soe, 
 but was feared of making too free. After 
 a lengthened Visitt, which seemed to re- 
 lieve her Mind, and certaynlie relieved 
 mine, I bade her Farewell, and at the 
 Wicket met my Father coming up with 
 a playn-favoured but scholarlike looking 
 
 reverend 
 
170 Maiden ^f Marriea Life 
 
 reverend Man. He sayd, " Moll, I could 
 " not think what had become of you." 
 I answered, I hoped I had not kept him 
 waiting for Dinner — poor Nell had enter- 
 tayned me longer than I wisht, with the 
 Catalogue of her Troubles. The Stranger 
 looking attentively at me, observed that 
 may be the poor Woman had entertayned 
 an Angel unawares ; and added, " Doubt 
 " not, Madam, we woulde rather await 
 " our Dinner than that you should have 
 " curtayled your Message of Charity." 
 Hithertoe, my Father had not named 
 this Gentleman to me ; but now he sayd, 
 " Child, this is the Reverend Doctor 
 " Jeremy Taylor, Chaplain in Ordinarie 
 " to his Majesty, and whom you know I 
 " have heard more than once preach be- 
 " fore the King since he abode in Oxford." 
 Thereon I made a lowly Reverence, and 
 we walked homewards together. At first, 
 he discoursed chiefly with my Father on 
 the Troubles of the Times, and then he 
 drew me into the Dialogue, in the Course 
 of which I let fall a Saying of Mr. 
 
 Agneivs 
 
of Mary Powell 171 
 
 Agnelli's which drew from the reverend 
 Gentleman a respectfulle Look I felt I 
 no Way deserved. Soe then I had to 
 explain that the Saying was none of mine, 
 and felt ashamed he shoulde suppose me 
 wiser than I was, especiallie as he com- 
 mended my Modesty. But we progressed 
 well, and he soon had the Discourse all 
 to himself, for Squire Pake came up, and 
 detained Father, while the Doctor and I 
 walked on. I could not help reflecting 
 how odd it was, that I, whom Nature 
 had endowed with such a very ordinarie 
 Capacitie, and scarce anie Taste for Let- 
 ters, shoulde continuallie be thrown into 
 the Companie of the cleverest of Men, — 
 first, Mr. Milton ; then Mr. Agnew ; and 
 now, this Doctor Jeremy Taylor. But, 
 like the other two, he is not merely 
 clever, he is Christian and good. How 
 much I learnt in this short Interview I 
 for short it seemed, though it must have 
 extended over a good half Hour. He 
 sayd, " Perhaps, young Lady, the Time 
 " may come when you shall find safer 
 
 " Solace 
 
172 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 Solace in the Exercise of the Charities 
 than of the Affections. Safer : for, not 
 to consider how a successfulle or unsuc- 
 cessfulle Passion for a human Being of 
 like Infirmities with ourselves, oft stains 
 and darkens and shortens the Current 
 of Life, even the chastened Love of a 
 Mother for her Child, as of Octavia, 
 who swooned at ' Tu, Marcei/us, eris,' 
 — or of Wives for their Husbands, 
 as Artemisia and Laodamia, sometimes 
 amounting to Idolatry — nay, the Love 
 of Friend for Friend, while alle is sweet 
 Influences and animating Transports, yet 
 exceeding the Reasonableness of that of 
 David for Jonathan, or of our blessed 
 Lord for St. 'John and the Family of 
 Lazarus, may procure far more Tor- 
 ment than Profit : even if the Attach- 
 ment is reciprocal, and well grounded, 
 and equallie matcht, which often it is 
 not. Then interpose human Tempers, 
 and Chills, and Heates, and Slyghtes 
 fancied or intended, which make the 
 vext Soul readie to wish it had never 
 
 " existed. 
 
of Mary Powell 173 
 
 " existed. How smalle a Thing is a 
 " human Heart ! you might grasp it in 
 " your little Hand ; and yet its Strifes 
 "• and Agonies are enough to distend a 
 " Skin that should cover the whole 
 " World ! But, in the Charities, what 
 " Peace ! yea, they distill Sweetnesse 
 " even from the Unthankfulle, blessing 
 " him that gives more than him that 
 " receives ; while, in the Main, they are 
 " laid out at better Interest than our 
 " warmest Affections, and bring in a far 
 " richer Harvest of Love and Gratitude. 
 " Yet, let our Affections have their fitting 
 " Exercise too, staying ourselves with the 
 " Reflection, that there is greater Happi- 
 " nesse, after alle Things sayd, in loving 
 " than in being loved, save by the God of 
 " Love who first loved us, and that they 
 " who dwell in Love dwell in Him." 
 
 Then he went on to speak of the mani- 
 fold Acts and Divisions of Charity ; as 
 much, methought, in the Vein of a Poet 
 as a Preacher ; and he minded me much 
 of that Scene in the tenth Book of the 
 
 Fairie 
 
174 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 Fairie §>ueene, soe lately read to us by- 
 Mr. Agneu\ wherein the Red Cross Knight 
 and Una were shown Mercy at her work. 
 
 Aug. 10. 
 PACK-HORSE homSheeps- 
 cote just reported, laden with 
 a goodlie Store of Books, 
 besides sundrie smaller 
 Tokens of Rose's thought- 
 fulle Kindnesse. I have 
 now methodicallie divided my Time into 
 stated Hours, of Prayer, Exercise, Studdy, 
 Housewiferie, and Acts of Mercy, on 
 however a humble Scale ; and find mine 
 owne Peace of Mind thereby increased 
 notwithstanding the Darknesse of pub- 
 lick and Dullnesse of private Affairs. 
 
 Made out the Meaning of "Cynosure" 
 and " Cimmerian Darknesse." . . . 
 
 Aug. 
 
of Mary Powell 175 
 
 Aug. 15. 
 \ULL sad am I to learn that 
 Mr. Milton hath published 
 another book in Advocacy 
 of Divorce. Alas, why will 
 he chafe against the Chain, 
 and widen the cruel Divi- 
 sion between us ? My Father is out- 
 rageous on the Matter, and speaks soe 
 passionatelie of him, that it is worse than 
 not speaking of him at alle, which latelie 
 I was avised to complain of. 
 
 Aug. 30. 
 IICK beginneth to fancie 
 himself in Love with Au- 
 drey Pake — an Attach- 
 ment that will doe him 
 noe good : his Tastes al- 
 readie want raising, and 
 she will onlie lower them, I feare, — a 
 comely, romping, noisie Girl, that, were 
 she but a Farmer's Daughter, woulde be 
 the Life and Soul of alle the Whitsun- 
 
 ales, 
 
176 Maiden ^f Married Life 
 
 ales, Harvest-homes, and Hay-makings in 
 the Country : in short, as fond of idling 
 and merrymaking as I once was myself: 
 onlie I never was soe riotous. 
 
 I beginne to see Faults in Dick and 
 Harry I never saw before. Is my Taste 
 bettering, or my Temper worsenning ? 
 At alle Events, we have noe cross Words, 
 for I expect them not to alter, knowing 
 how hard it is to doe soe by myself. 
 
 I look forward with Pleasure to my 
 Sheepscote Visitt. Dear Mother returneth 
 to-morrow. Good Dr. Taylor hath twice 
 taken the Trouble to walk over from 
 Oxford to see me, but he hath now left, 
 and we may never meet agayn. His 
 Visitts have beene very precious to me : 
 I think he hath some Glimmering of my 
 sad Case : indeed, who knows it not ? 
 At parting he sayd, smiling, he hoped he 
 should yet hear of my making Offerings 
 to Viriplaca on Mount Palatine ; then 
 added, gravelie, " You know where reall 
 " Offerings may be made and alwaies 
 " accepted — Offerings of spare Half-hours 
 
 " and 
 
of Mary Powell 177 
 
 " and Five-minutes, when we shut the 
 " Closet Door and commune with our 
 " own Hearts and are still." Alsoe he 
 sayd, "There are Sacrifices to make which 
 " sometimes wring our very Hearts to 
 " offer ; but our gracious God accepts 
 " them neverthelesse, if our Feet be really 
 " in the right Path, even though, like 
 " Chryseis, we look back, weeping." 
 
 He sayd . . . But how manie Things 
 as beautifulle and true did I hear my 
 Husband say, which passed by me like 
 the idle Wind that I regarded not ! 
 
 Sept. 8. 
 
 \ARRY hath just broughte in 
 
 the News of his Majesty's 
 
 Success in the West. Lord 
 
 Essex's Army hath beene 
 
 completely surrounded by 
 
 the royal Troops ; himself 
 
 forct to escape in a boat to Plymouth, and 
 
 all the Arms, Artillerie, Baggage, &c, of 
 
 Skippon's Men have fallen into the Hands 
 
 of 
 
 M 
 
178 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 of the King. Father is soe pleased that 
 he hath mounted the Flag, and given 
 double Allowance of Ale to his Men. 
 I wearie to hear from Robin. 
 
 Sheep s cote, Oct. 10. 
 v OW sweete a Picture of 
 rurall Life did Sheepscote 
 present, when I arrived 
 here this Afternoon ! The 
 Water being now much 
 out, the Face of the 
 Countrie presented a new Aspect : there 
 were men threshing the Walnut Trees, 
 Children and Women putting the Nuts 
 into Osier Baskets, a Bailiff on a white 
 Horse overlooking them, and now and 
 then galloping to another Party, and 
 splashing through the Water. Then we 
 found Mr. Agnew equallie busie with his 
 Apples, mounted half Way up one of the 
 Trees, and throwing Cherry Pippins down 
 into Rose's Apron, and now and then 
 making as though he would pelt her : 
 
 onlie 
 
of Mary Powell 179 
 
 onlie she dared him, and woulde not 
 be frightened. Her Donkey, chewing 
 Apples in the Corner, with the Cider 
 running out of his Mouth, presented a 
 ludicrous Image of Enjoyment, and 'twas 
 evidently enhanct by Giles brushing his 
 rough Coat with a Birch Besom, instead 
 of minding his owne Businesse of sweep- 
 ing the Walk. The Sun, shining with 
 mellow Light on the mown Grass and 
 fresh dipt Hornbeam Hedges, made even 
 the commonest Objects distinct and cheer- 
 fulle ; and the Air was soe cleare, we 
 coulde hear the Village Children afar off 
 at theire Play. 
 
 Rose had abundance of delicious new 
 Honey in the Comb, and Bread hot from 
 the Oven, for our earlie Supper. Dick 
 was tempted to stay too late ; however, 
 he is oft as late, now, returning from 
 Audrey Pake, though my Mother likes 
 it not. 
 
 Oct. 
 
180 Maiden ^f Married Life 
 
 Oct. 15. 
 ' OSE is quite in good Spiritts 
 now, and we go on most 
 harmoniouslie and happi- 
 lie. Alle our Tastes are 
 now in common ; and I 
 never more enjoyed this 
 Union of Seclusion and Society. Besides, 
 Mr. Agnew is more than commonlie kind, 
 and never speaks sternlie or sharplie to 
 me now. Indeed, this Morning, looking 
 thoughtfullie at me, he sayd, " I know 
 " not, Cousin, what Change has come over 
 " you, but you are now alle that a wise 
 " Man coulde love and approve." I sayd, 
 It must be owing then to Dr. Jeremy 
 Taylor, who had done me more goode, it 
 woulde seeme, in three Lessons, than he 
 or Mr. Milton coulde imparte in thirty 
 or three hundred. He sayd he was in- 
 clined to attribute it to a higher Source 
 than that ; and yet, there was doubtlesse 
 a great Knack in teaching, and there was 
 
 a 
 
of Mary Powell 1 8 1 
 
 a good deal in liking the Teacher. He 
 had alwaies hearde the Doctor spoken of 
 as a good, pious, and clever Man, though 
 rather too high a Prelatist. I sayd, 
 " There were good Men of alle Sorts : 
 " there was Mr. Milton, who woulde 
 " pull the Church down ; there was 
 " Mr. Agnew, who woulde only have it 
 " mended ; and there was Dr. Jeremy 
 " Taylor, who was content with it as it 
 " stoode." Then Rose askt me of the 
 puritanicall Preachers. Then I showed 
 her how they preached, and made her 
 laugh. But Mr. Agnew woulde not laugh. 
 But I made him laugh at last. Then he 
 was angrie with himself and with me ; 
 only not very angry ; and sayd, I had a 
 Right to a Name which he knew had 
 been given me, of " cleaving Mischief." 
 I knew not he knew of it, and was 
 checked, though I laught it off. 
 
 Oct. 
 
1 8 2 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 Oct. 1 6. 
 ,ALKING together, this 
 Morning, Rose was avised 
 to say, " Did Mr. Milton 
 " ever tell you the Adven- 
 " tures of the Italian Lady?" 
 " Rely on it he never did," 
 said Mr. Agnew. — " Milton is as modest a 
 " Man as ever breathed — alle Men of first 
 " class Genius are soe." " What was the 
 " Adventure ?" I askt, curiouslie. " Why, 
 " I neede not tell you, Moll, that John 
 " Milton, as a Youth, was extremelie 
 " handsome, even beautifull. His Colour 
 " came and went soe like a Girl's, that 
 " we of Christ's College used to call him 
 " ' the Lady,' and thereby annoy him noe 
 " little. One summer Afternoone he and 
 " I and young King (Lycidas, you know) 
 " had started on a country Walk, (the 
 " Countrie is not pretty, round Cambridge) 
 " when we met in with an Acquaintance 
 " whom Mr. Milton affected not, soe he 
 " sayd he would walk on to the first rising 
 
 " Ground 
 
£■<■ M^'" ' 
 
 
 
 hw^'^ 
 
 1 /Vf 7 f 
 
 d J*e£.iuc c rtiiton. djiecp' 
 
of Mary Powell 183 
 
 Ground and wait us there. On this 
 rising Ground stood a Tree, beneath 
 which our impatient young Gentleman 
 presentlie cast himself, and, having 
 walked fast, and the Weather being 
 warm, soon falls asleep as sound as a 
 Top. Meantime, King and I quit our 
 Friend and saunter forward pretty easilie. 
 Anon comes up with us a Caroche, with 
 something I know not what of out- 
 landish in its Build ; and within it, two 
 Ladies, one of them having the fayrest 
 Face I ever set Eyes on, present Com- 
 panie duly excepted. The Caroche 
 having passed us, King and I mutuallie 
 express our Admiration, and thereupon, 
 preferring Turf to Dust, got on the 
 other Side the Hedge, which was not 
 soe thick but that we could make out 
 the Caroche, and see the Ladies descend 
 from it, to walk up the Hill. Having 
 reached the Tree, they paused in Sur- 
 prise at seeing Milton asleep beneath it ; 
 and in prettie dumb Shew, which we 
 watcht sharplie, exprest their Admira- 
 
 " tion 
 
184 Maiden ^f Married Life 
 
 " tion of his Appearance and Posture, 
 " which woulde have suited an Arcadian 
 " well enough. The younger Lady, has- 
 " tilie taking out a Pencil and Paper, 
 " wrote something which she laughinglie 
 " shewed her Companion, and then put 
 " into the Sleeper's Hand. Thereupon, 
 " they got into their Caroche, and drove 
 " off. King and I, dying with Curiositie 
 " to know what she had writ, soon roused 
 " our Friend and possest ourselves of the 
 " Secret. The Verses ran thus . . . 
 
 Occhi, Stelle mortali, 
 Minis tre de mid Mali, 
 Se, chiiisi, i)i ticcidete, 
 Apcrti, die farcte ? 
 
 " Milton coloured, crumpled them up, 
 " and yet put them in his Pocket ; then 
 " askt us what the Lady was like. And 
 " herein lay the Pleasantry of the Affair ; 
 " for I truly told him she had a Pear- 
 " shaped Face, lustrous black Eyes, and 
 " a Skin that shewed ' // bruno il bel non 
 " toglie ; ' whereas, King, in his Mischief, 
 " drew a fancy Portrait, much liker you, 
 
 " Moll, 
 
of Mary Powell 185 
 
 " Moll, than the Incognita, which hit 
 " Milton s Taste soe much better, that he 
 " was believed for his Payns ; and then 
 " he declared that I had beene describing 
 " the Duenna ! . . . Some Time after, 
 " when Milton beganne to talk of visiting 
 " Italy, we bantered him, and sayd he 
 " was going to look for the Incognita. 
 " He stoode it well, and sayd, ' Laugh 
 " on ! do you think I mind you ? Not 
 " a Bit.' I think he did." 
 
 Just at this Turn, Mr. Agnew stumbled 
 at something in the long Grass. It proved 
 to be an old, rustie Horse-pistol. His 
 Countenance changed at once from gay 
 to grave. " I thought we had noe such 
 " Things hereabouts yet," cried he, view- 
 ing it askance. — " I suppose I mighte as 
 " well think I had found a Corner of 
 " the Land where there was noe originall 
 " Sin." And soe, flung it over the Hedge. 
 
 First class Geniuses are always 
 
 modest, are they ? — Then I should say 
 that young Italian Lady's Genius was not 
 of the first Class. 
 
 Oct. 
 
1 86 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 Oct. 19. 
 PEAKING, to-day, of Mr. 
 Waller, whom I had once 
 seen at Uncle Johns, Mr. 
 Agneiso sayd he had ob- 
 tayned the Reputation of 
 being one of our smoothest 
 Versers, and thereupon brought forth one 
 or two of his small pieces in Manuscript, 
 which he read to Rose and me. They 
 were addrest to the Lady Dorothy Sydney ; 
 and certainlie for specious Flatterie I doe 
 not suppose they can be matcht ; but 
 there is noe Impress of reall Feeling in 
 them. How diverse from my Husband's 
 Versing ! He never writ anie mere Love- 
 verses, indeede, soe far as I know ; but 
 how much truer a Sence he hath of what 
 is reallie beautifulle and becoming in a 
 Woman than Mr. Waller ! The Lady 
 Alice Egerton mighte have beene more 
 justlie proud of the fine Things written 
 for her in Comus, than the Lady Dorothea 
 
 of 
 
of Mary Powell 187 
 
 of anie of the fine Things written of her 
 by this courtier-like Poet. For, to say 
 that Trees bend down in homage to a 
 Woman when she walks under them, and 
 that the healing Waters of Tonbridge 
 were placed there by Nature to compen- 
 sate for the fatal Pride of Sacharissa, is 
 soe fullesome and untrue as noe Woman, 
 not devoured by Conceite, coulde en- 
 dure ; whereas, the Check that Villanie 
 is sensible of in the Presence of Virtue, 
 is most nobly, not extravagantlie, exprest 
 by Comus. And though my Husband be 
 almost too lavish, even in his short 
 Pieces, of classic Allusion and Persona- 
 tion, yet, like antique Statues and Busts 
 well placed in some statelie Pleasaunce, 
 they are alwaies appropriate and grace- 
 fulle, which is more than can be sayd 
 of Mr. Waller's overstrayned Figures and 
 Metaphors. 
 
 Oct. 
 
8 8 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 Oct. 20. 
 JEWS from Home : alle well. 
 Audrey Pake on a Visitt 
 there. I hope Mother hath 
 not put her into my 
 Chamber, but I know that 
 she hath sett so manie 
 Trays full of Spearmint, Peppermint, 
 Camomiles, and Poppie-heads in the blue 
 Chamber to dry, that she will not care to 
 move them, nor have the Window opened 
 lest they shoulde be blown aboute. I 
 wish I had turned the Key on my ebony 
 Cabinett. 
 
 morrow. 
 
 Oct. 24. 
 ICHARD and Audrey rode 
 over here, and spent a 
 noisie Afternoone. Rose 
 had the Goose dressed 
 which I know she meant 
 to have reserved for to- 
 C/over was in a Heat, which 
 
 one 
 
of Mary Powell 189 
 
 one would have thoughte he needed not 
 to have beene, with carrying a Lady ; 
 but Audrey is heavie. She treats Dick 
 like a Boy ; and, indeede, he is not much 
 more ; but he is quite taken up with 
 her. I find she lies in the blue Chamber, 
 which she says smells rarelie of Herbs. 
 They returned not till late, after sundrie 
 Hints from Mr. Agneiv. 
 
 Oct. 27. 
 
 [LAS, alas, Robin s Silence is 
 
 too sorrowfullie explained ! 
 
 He hath beene sent Home 
 
 soe ill that he is like to 
 
 die. This Report I have 
 
 from Diggory, just come 
 
 over to fetch me, with whom I start, soe 
 
 soone as his Horse is bated. Lord, have 
 
 Mercie on Robin. 
 
 The Children are alle sent away to 
 keep the House quiete. 
 
 At 
 
190 Maiden ^f Married Life 
 
 At Robin 's Bedside, 
 
 Saturday Night. 
 ,H, woefulle Sight ! I had 
 not known that pale Face, 
 had I met it unawares. 
 So thin and wan, — and 
 he hath shot up into a 
 tall Stripling during the 
 last few Months. These two Nights of 
 Watching have tried me sorelie, but I 
 would not be witholden from sitting up 
 with him yet agayn — what and if this 
 Night should be his last ? how coulde I 
 forgive myself for sleeping on now and 
 taking my Rest ? The first Night, he 
 knew me not ; yet it was bitter-sweet to 
 hear him chiding at sweet Moll for not 
 coming. Yesternight he knew me for a 
 While, kissed me, and fell into an heavie 
 Sleepe, with his Hand locked in mine. 
 We hoped the Crisis was come ; but 
 'twas not soe. He raved much of a Man 
 alle in red, riding hard after him. I 
 minded me of those words, " the Enemy 
 
 " sayd, 
 
of Mary Powell 191 
 
 " sayd, I will overtake, I will pursue," — 
 and, noe one being by, save the unconscious 
 Sufferer, I kneeled down beside him, and 
 most earnestlie prayed for his Deliverance 
 from all spirituall Adversaries. When I 
 lookt up, his Eyes, larger and darker than 
 ever, were fixt on me with a strange, 
 wistfulle Stare, but he spake not. From 
 that Moment he was quiete. 
 
 The Doctor thought him rambling this 
 Morning, though I knew he was not, 
 when he spake of an Angel in a long 
 white Garment watching over him and 
 kneeling by him in the Night. 
 
 Sunday Evening. 
 
 n,OOR Nell sitteth up with 
 
 Mother to-night — right 
 
 thankfulle is she to find 
 
 that she can be of anie 
 
 use : she says it seems soe 
 
 strange that she should be 
 
 able to make any Return for my Kind- 
 
 nesse. I must sleep to-night, that I may 
 
 watch 
 
92 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 watch to-morrow. The Servants are nigh 
 spent, and are besides foolishlie afrayd of 
 Infection. I hope Rose prays for me. 
 Soe drowsie and dulle am I, as scarce to 
 be able to pray for myself. 
 
 Monday. 
 OSE and Mr. Agnew come 
 to abide with us for some 
 Days. How thankfulle 
 am I ! Tears have re- 
 lieved me. 
 
 Robin worse to - day. 
 Father quite subdued. Mr. Agnew will 
 sit up to-night, and insists on my sleep- 
 ing. 
 
 Crab howled under my Window Yester- 
 night as he did before my Wedding. I 
 hope there is nothing in it. Harry got 
 up and beat him, and at last put him in 
 the Stable. 
 
 Tuesday. 
 
of Mary Powell 193 
 
 Tuesday. 
 [FTER two Nights' Rest, I 
 feel quite strengthened 
 and restored this Morning. 
 Deare Rose read me to sleep 
 in her low, gentle Voice, 
 and then lay down by my 
 Side, twice stepping into Robin s Chamber 
 during the Night, and bringing me News 
 that all was well. Relieved in Mind, I 
 slept heavilie nor woke till late. Then, 
 returned to the sick Chamber, and found 
 Rose bathing dear Robins Temples with 
 Vinegar, and changing his Pillow — his 
 thin Hand rested on Mr. Agnew, on whom 
 he lookt with a composed, collected Gaze. 
 Slowlie turned his Eyes on me, and faintlie 
 smiled, but spake not. 
 
 Poor dear Mother is ailing now. I sate 
 with her and Father some Time ; but it 
 was a true Relief when Rose took my 
 Place and let me return to the sick 
 Room. Rose hath alreadie made several 
 little Changes for the better ; improved 
 
 the 
 
194 Maiden £&f Married Life 
 
 the Ventilation of Robin s Chamber, and 
 prevented his hearing soe manie Noises. 
 Alsoe, showed me how to make a plea- 
 sant cooling Drink, which he likes better 
 than the warm Liquids, and which she as- 
 sures me he may take with perfect Safetie. 
 
 Same Evenitig. 
 \OBIN vext, even to Tears, 
 because the Doctor forbids 
 the use of his cooling 
 Drink, though it hath cer- 
 tainlie abated the Fever. 
 At his Wish I stept down 
 to intercede with the Doctor, then 
 closetted with my Father, to discourse, 
 as I suppose, of Robin s Symptoms. In- 
 steade of which, found them earnestlie 
 engaged on the never-ending Topick of 
 Cavaliers and Roundheads. I was chafed 
 and cut to the Heart, yet what can poor 
 Father do ; he is useless in the Sick- 
 room, he is wearie of Suspense, and 'tis 
 well if publick Affairs can divert him 
 for an odd Half-hour. 
 
 The 
 
of Mary Powell 195 
 
 The Doctor would not hear of Robin 
 taking the cooling Beverage, and warned 
 me that his Death woulde be upon my 
 Head if I permitted him to be chilled : 
 soe what could I doe ? Poor Robin very- 
 impatient in consequence ; and raving to- 
 wards Midnight. Rose insisted in taking 
 the last Half of my Watch. 
 
 I know not that I was ever more sore- 
 lie exercised than during the first Half 
 of this Night. Robin, in his crazie Fit, 
 would leave his Bed, and was soe strong 
 as nearlie to master Nell and me, and I 
 feared I must have called Richard. The 
 next Minute he fell back as weak as a 
 Child : we covered him up warm, and 
 he was overtaken either with Stupor or 
 Sleep. Earnestlie did I pray it might 
 be the latter, and conduce to his healing. 
 Afterwards, there being writing Imple- 
 ments at Hand, I wrote a Letter to Mr. 
 Milton, which, though the Fancy of send- 
 ing it soon died away, yet eased my 
 Mind. When not in Prayer, I often find 
 myself silently talking to him. 
 
 Wednesday. 
 
196 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 Wednesday. 
 RAKING late after my scant 
 Night's Rest, I found my 
 Breakfaste neatlie layd out 
 in the little Antechamber, 
 to prevent the Fatigue of 
 going down Stairs. A 
 Handfulle of Autumn Flowers beside my 
 Plate, left me in noe Doubt it was Rose's 
 doing ; and Mr. Agnew writing at the 
 Window, told me he had persuaded my 
 Father to goe to Shotover with Dick. 
 Then laying aside his Pen, stept into the 
 Sick-chamber for the latest News, which 
 was good : and, sitting next me, talked 
 of the Progress of Robin s Illnesse in a 
 grave yet hopefulle Manner ; leading, as 
 he chieflie does, to high and unearthlie 
 Sources of Consolation. He advised me 
 to take a Turn in the fresh Ayr, though 
 but as far as the two Junipers, before I 
 entered Robin s Chamber, which, some- 
 what reluctantlie, I did ; but the bright 
 Daylight and warm Sun had no good 
 
 Effect 
 
of Mary Powell 197 
 
 Effect on my Spiritts : on the Contrarie, 
 nothing in blythe Nature seeming in 
 unison with my Sadnesse, Tears flowed 
 without relieving me. 
 
 What a solemne, pompous Prigge 
 
 is this Doctor ! He cries " humph ! " 
 and " aye ! " and bites his Nails and 
 screws his Lips together, but I don't be- 
 lieve he understands soe much of Physick, 
 after alle, as Mr. Agnew. 
 
 Father came Home fulle of the Rebels' 
 Doings, but as for me, I shoulde hear 
 them thundering at our Gate with 
 Apathie, except insofar as I feared them 
 distressing Robin. 
 
 Audrey rode over with her Father, this 
 Morn, to make Enquiries. She might 
 have come sooner had she meant to be 
 anie reall Use to a Family she has 
 thought of entering. Had Rose come to 
 our Help as late in the Day, we had been 
 poorlie off. 
 
 Thursday. 
 
198 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 Thursday. 
 [AY Heaven in its Mercy 
 save us from the evil Con- 
 sequence of this new Mis- 
 chance ! — Richard, jealous 
 at being allowed so little 
 Share in nursing Robin, 
 whom he sayd he loved as well as anie 
 did, would sit up with him last Night, 
 along with Mother. Twice I heard him 
 snoring, and stept in to prevail on him 
 to change Places, but coulde not get him 
 to stir. A third Time he fell asleep, 
 and, it seems, Mother slept too ; and 
 Robin, in his Fever, got out of Bed and 
 drank near a Quart of colde Water, 
 waking Dick by setting down the Pitcher. 
 Of course the Bustle soon reached my 
 listening Ears. Dick, to do him Justice, 
 was frightened enough, and stole away 
 to his Bed without a Word of Defence ; 
 but poor Mother, who had been equallie 
 off her Watch, made more Noise about 
 it than was good for Robin ; who, never- 
 
 thelesse, 
 
of Mary Powell 199 
 
 thelesse, we having warmlie covered up, 
 burst into a profuse Heat, and fell into 
 a sound Sleep, which hath now holden 
 him manie Hours. Mr. Agnew augureth 
 favourablie of his waking, but we await 
 it in prayerfulle Anxietie. 
 
 The Crisis is past ! and the Doc- 
 tor sayeth he alle along expected it last 
 Night, which I cannot believe, but Father 
 and Mother doe. At alle Events, praised 
 be Heaven, there is now hope that deare 
 Robin may recover. Rose and I have 
 mingled Tears, Smiles, and Thanksgiv- 
 ings ; Mr. Agnew hath expressed Grati- 
 tude after a more collected Manner, and 
 endeavoured to check the somewhat ill- 
 governed Expression of Joy throughout 
 the House ; warning the Servants, but 
 especiallie Dick and Harry, that Robin 
 may yet have a Relapse. 
 
 With what Transport have I sat beside 
 dear Robin's Bed, returning his fixed, 
 earnest, thankfulle Gaze, and answering 
 the feeble Pressure of his Hand ! — Going 
 into the Studdy just now, I found Father 
 
 crying 
 
200 Maiden 6§P Married Life 
 
 crying like a Child — the first Time I 
 have known him give Way to Tears 
 during Robin s Illnesse. Mr. Agnew pre- 
 sentlie came in, and composed him better 
 than I coulde. 
 
 Saturday. 
 OBIN better, though still 
 very weak. Had his Bed 
 made, and took a few 
 Spoonfuls of Broth. 
 
 Sunday. 
 VERY different Sabbath 
 from the last. Though 
 Robin's Constitution hath 
 received a Shock it may 
 never recover, his compa- 
 rative Amendment fills us 
 with Thankfulnesse ; and our chastened 
 Suspense hath a sweet Solemnitie and 
 Trustfullenesse in it, which pass Under- 
 standing. 
 
 Mr. Agnew conducted our Devotions. 
 
 This 
 
of Mary Powell 201 
 
 This Morning, I found him praying with 
 Robin — I question if it were for the first 
 Time. Robin looking on him with Eyes 
 of such sedate Affection ! 
 
 Thursday. 
 OBIN still progressing. Dear 
 Rose and Mr. Agnew leave 
 us tomorrow, but they will 
 soon come agayn. Oh 
 faithful Friends ! 
 
 April, 1646. 
 [AN Aniething equall the 
 desperate Ingratitude of the 
 human Heart ? Testifie of 
 it, Journall, agaynst me. 
 Here did I, throughout the 
 incessant Cares and Anxie- 
 ties of Robin s Sicknesse, find, or make 
 Time, for almoste dailie Record of my 
 Trouble ; since which, whole Months 
 have passed without soe much as a 
 
 scrawled 
 
202 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 scrawled Ejaculation of Thankfullenesse 
 that the Sick hath beene made whole. 
 
 Yet, not that that Thankfullenesse hath 
 beene unfelt, nor, though unwritten, un- 
 exprest. Nay, O Lord, deeplie, deeplie 
 have I thanked thee for thy tender 
 Mercies. And he healed soe slowlie, 
 that Suspense, as 'twere wore itself out, 
 and gave Place to a dull, mournful Per- 
 suasion that an Hydropsia would waste 
 him away, though more slowlie, yet noe 
 less surelie than the Fever. 
 
 Soe Weeks lengthened into Months, I 
 mighte well say Years, they seemed soe 
 long ! and stille he seemed to neede more 
 Care and Tendernesse ; till, just as he and 
 I had learnt to say, " Thy Will, O Lord, 
 " be done," he began to gain Flesh, his 
 craving Appetite moderated, yet his Food 
 nourished him, and by God's Blessing he 
 recovered ! 
 
 During that heavie Season of Proba- 
 tion, our Hearts were unlocked, and we 
 spake oft to one another of Things in 
 Heaven and Things in Earth. After- 
 wards, 
 
of Mary Powell 203 
 
 wards, our mutuall Reserves returned, and 
 Robin, methinks, became shyer than be- 
 fore, but there can never cease to be a 
 dearer Bond between us. Now we are 
 apart, I aim to keep him mindfulle of 
 the high and holie Resolutions he formed 
 in his Sicknesse ; and though he never 
 answers these Portions of my Letters, I 
 am avised to think he finds them not 
 displeasing. 
 
 Now that Oxford is like to be besieged, 
 my Life is more confined than ever ; yet 
 I cannot, and will not leave Father and 
 Mother, even for the Agnews, while they 
 are soe much harassed. This Morning, 
 my Father hath received a Letter from 
 Sir Thomas Glemham, requiring a larger 
 Quantitie of winnowed Wheat, than, 
 with alle his Loyaltie, he likes to 
 send. 
 
 April. 
 
204 Maiden ^f Married Life 
 
 April 23. 
 \ALPH HEWLETT hath 
 just looked in to say, his 
 Father and Mother have 
 in Safetie reached London, 
 where he will shortlie joyn 
 them, and to ask, is there 
 anie Service he can doe me ? Ay, 
 truly ; one that I dare not name — he can 
 bring me Word of Mr. Milton, of his 
 Health, of his Looks, of his Speech, and 
 whether . . . 
 
 Ralph shall be noe Messenger of mine. 
 
 April 24. 
 ^ALKING of Money Mat- 
 ters this Morning, Mo- 
 ther sayd Something that 
 brought Tears into mine 
 Eyes. She observed, that 
 though my Husband had 
 never beene a Favourite of hers, there 
 was one Thing wherein she must say he 
 had behaved generously : he had never, 
 
 to 
 
of Mary Powell 205 
 
 to this Day, askt Father for the 500/. 
 which had brought him, in the first In- 
 stance, to Forest Hill, (he having promised 
 old Mr. Milton to try to get the Debt 
 paid,) and the which, on his asking for 
 my Hand, Father tolde him shoulde be 
 made over sooner or later, in lieu of 
 Dower. 
 
 Did Rose know the Bitter-sweet she 
 was imparting to me, when she gave me, 
 by stealth as 'twere, the latelie publisht 
 Volume of my Husband's English Vers- 
 ing? It hath beene my Companion ever 
 since ; for I had perused the Comus but 
 by Snatches, under the Disadvantage of 
 crabbed Manuscript. This Morning, to 
 use his owne deare Words : — 
 
 / sat me down to watch, upon a Bank, 
 With Ivy canopied, and interwove 
 With flaunting Honeysuckle, and beganne, 
 Wrapt in a pleasing Fit of Melancholie, 
 To meditate. 
 
 The Text of my Meditation was this, 
 drawne from the same loved Source : — 
 
 This 
 
206 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 This I hold firm ; 
 l z irtue may be assayled, but never hurt, 
 Surprised by unjust Force, but not enthralled ; 
 Yea, even that which Mischief meant most Harm, 
 Shall, in the happy Trial, prove most Glory. 
 
 But who hath such Virtue ? have I ? 
 hath he ? No, we have both gone astray, 
 and done amiss, and wrought sinfullie ; 
 but I worst, I first, therefore more neede 
 that I humble myself, and pray for both. 
 
 There is one, more unhappie, per- 
 haps, than either. The King, most mis- 
 fortunate Gentleman ! who knoweth not 
 which Way to turn, nor whom to trust. 
 Last Time I saw him, methought never 
 was there a Face soe full of Woe. 
 
 May 6. 
 \HE King hath escaped ! 
 He gave Orders overnight 
 at alle the Gates, for three 
 Persons to passe ; and, ac- 
 companied onlie by Mr. 
 Ashburnham, and NLr.Hurd, 
 rode forthe at Nightfalle, towards London. 
 
 Sure, 
 
of Mary Powell 207 
 
 Sure, he will not throw himselfe into the 
 Hands of Parliament ? 
 
 Mother is affrighted beyond Measure 
 at the near Neighbourhood of Fairfax's 
 Army, and entreats Father to leave alle 
 behind, and flee with us into the City. 
 It may yet be done ; and we alle share 
 her Feares. 
 
 Saturday Even. 
 . ACKING up in greate haste, 
 after a confused Family 
 Council, wherein some fresh 
 Accounts of the Rebels' 
 Advances, broughte in by 
 Diggory, made my Father 
 the sooner consent to a stolen Flight into 
 Oxford, Diggory being left behind in 
 Charge. Time of Flight, To-morrow 
 after Dark, the Puritans being busie at 
 theire Sermons. The better the Day, the 
 better the Deede. — Heaven make it soe ! 
 
 Tuesday. 
 
208 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 Tuesday. 
 ^XFORD ; in most confined 
 and unpleasant Lodgings ; 
 but noe Matter, manie 
 better and richer than 
 ourselves fare worse, and 
 our King hath not where 
 to lay his Head. 'Tis sayd he hath turned 
 his Course towards Scotland. There are 
 Souldiers in this House, whose Noise dis- 
 tracts us. Alsoe, a poor Widow Lady, 
 whose Husband hath beene slayn in these 
 Wars. The Children have taken a feverish 
 Complaynt, and require incessant tending. 
 Theire Beds are far from cleane, in too 
 little Space, and ill aired. 
 
 May 20. 
 HE Widow Lady goes 
 about visiting the Sick, 
 and would faine have my 
 Companie. The Streets 
 have displeased me, being 
 soe fulle of Men ; how- 
 close Hoode I have accom- 
 panied 
 
 ever, in a 
 
of Mary Powell 209 
 
 panied her sundrie Times. 'Tis a good 
 Soul, and full of pious Works and Alms- 
 deedes. 
 
 May 27. 
 JGGORT hath found his 
 Way to us, alle dismaied, 
 and bringing Dismay with 
 him, for the Rebels have 
 taken and ransacked our 
 House, and turned him 
 forthe. " A Plague on these Wars ! " as 
 Father says. What are we to doe, or 
 how live, despoyled of alle ? Father hath 
 lost, one Way and another, since the 
 Civil War broke out, three thousand 
 Pounds, and is now nearlie beggared. 
 Mother weeps bitterlie, and Father s Coun- 
 tenance hath fallen more than ever I 
 saw it before. " Nine Children ! " he 
 exclaimed, just now; "and onlie one 
 " provided for ! " His Eye fell upon 
 me for a Moment, with less Tendernesse 
 than usuall, as though he wished me in 
 
 Aldersgate 
 o 
 
210 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 Aldersgate Street. I'm sure I wish I were 
 there, — not because Father is in Mis- 
 fortune ; oh, no. 
 
 jfune. 
 I HE Parliament requireth 
 our unfortunate King to 
 issue Orders to this and 
 alle his other Garrisons, 
 commanding theire Sur- 
 render ; and Father, find- 
 ing this is likelie to take Place forthwith, 
 is busied in having himself comprised 
 within the Articles of Surrender. 'Twill 
 be hard indeede, shoulde this be denied. 
 His Estate lying in the King's Quarters, 
 how coulde he doe less than adhere to 
 his Majesty's Partie during this unnaturall 
 War ? I am sure Mother grudged the 
 Royalists everie Goose and Turkey they 
 had from our Yard. 
 
 J' 
 
 line 
 
of Mary Powell 
 
 211 
 
 'June 27. 
 ^RAISED be Heaven, deare 
 Father hath just received 
 Sir Thomas Fairfax s Pro- 
 tection, empowering him 
 quietlie and without let to 
 goe forthe " with Servants, 
 " Horses, Arms, Goods, etc." to " London 
 " or elsewhere," whithersoever he will. 
 And though the Protection extends but 
 over six Months, at the Expiry of which 
 Time, Father must take Measures to em- 
 bark for some Place of Refuge beyond 
 Seas, yet who knows what may turn up 
 in those six Months ! The King may 
 enjoy his Owne agayn. Meantime, we im- 
 mediatelie leave Oxford. 
 
 Forest Hill. 
 VT Home agayn ; and what 
 a Home ! Everiething to 
 seeke, everiething mis- 
 placed, broken, abused, or 
 gone altogether ! The 
 Gate off its Hinges ; the 
 Stone Balls of the Pillars overthrowne, 
 
 the 
 
2 12 
 
 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 the great Bell stolen, the dipt Junipers 
 grubbed up, the Sun-diall broken ! Not 
 a Hen or Chicken, Duck or Duckling, 
 left. Crab half-starved, and soe glad to 
 
 see us, that he dragged his Kennel after 
 him. Daisy and Blanch making such 
 piteous Moans at the Paddock Gate, that 
 I coulde not bear it, but helped Lettice to 
 
 milk 
 
of Mary Powell 213 
 
 milk them. Within Doors, everie Room 
 smelling of Beer and Tobacco ; Cup- 
 boards broken open, etc. On my Cham- 
 ber Floor, a greasy steeple-crowned Hat ! 
 Threw it forthe from the Window with 
 a Pair of Tongs. 
 
 Mother goes about the House weeping. 
 Father sits in his broken Arm-chair, the 
 Picture of Disconsolateness. I see the 
 Agnews, true Friends ! riding hither ; and 
 with them a Third, who, methinks, is 
 Rose's Brother Ralph. 
 
 London. 
 St. Martin s le Grand. 
 ,REMBLING, weeping, 
 hopefulle, dismaied, here 
 I sit in mine Uncle's hired 
 House, alone in a Crowd, 
 scared at mine owne Pre- 
 cipitation, readie to wish 
 myselfe back, unable to resolve, to reflect, 
 to pray. . . . 
 
 Twelve 
 
214 Maiden ^f Married Life 
 
 Twelve at Night. 
 [LLE is silent ; even in the 
 latelie busie Streets. Why 
 art thou cast down, my 
 Heart ? why art thou dis- 
 quieted within me ? Hope 
 thou stille in the Lord, for 
 he is the Joy and Light of thy Counte- 
 nance. Thou hast beene long of learn- 
 ing him to be such. Oh, forget not 
 thy Lesson now ! Thy best Friend hath 
 sanctioned, nay, counselled this Step, and 
 overcome alle Obstacles, and provided the 
 Means of this Journey ; and to-morrow 
 at Noone, if Events prove not cross, I 
 shall have Speech of him whom my Soul 
 loveth. To-night, let me watch, fast, and 
 pray. 
 
 Friday 
 
of Mary Powell 215 
 
 Friday ; at Night. 
 v OW awfulle it is to beholde 
 a Man weepe ! mine owne 
 Tears, when I think there- 
 on, well forthe. . . . 
 
 Rose was a true Friend 
 when she sayd "our prompt 
 " Affections are oft our wise Counsel- 
 lors." Soe, she suggested and advised 
 alle ; wrung forthe my Father's Consent, 
 and sett me on my Way, even putting 
 Money in my Purse. Well for me, had 
 she beene at my Journey's End as well as 
 its Beginning. 
 
 'Stead of which, here was onlie mine 
 Aunt ; a slow, timid, uncertayn Soule, 
 who proved but a broken Reed to lean 
 upon. 
 
 Soe, alle I woulde have done arighte 
 went crosse, the Letter never delivered, 
 the Message delayed till he had left 
 Home, soe that methought I shoulde goe 
 crazie. 
 
 While the Boy, stammering in his lame 
 
 Excuses, 
 
2 1 6 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 Excuses, bore my chafed Reproaches the 
 more humblie because he saw he had 
 done me some grievous Hurt, though 
 he knew not what, a Voice in the adja- 
 cent Chamber in Alternation with mine 
 Uncle's, drove the Blood of a Suddain 
 from mine Heart, and then sent it back 
 with impetuous Rush, for I knew the 
 Accents right well. 
 
 Enters mine Aunt, alle flurried, and 
 hushing her Voice. " Oh, Niece, he whom 
 " you wot of is here, but knoweth not 
 " you are at Hand, nor in London. Shall 
 " I tell him ? " 
 
 But I gasped, and held her back by 
 her Skirts ; then, with a suddain secret 
 Prayer, or Cry, or maybe, Wish, as 
 'twere, darted up unto Heaven for Assist- 
 ance, I took noe Thought what I shoulde 
 speak when confronted with him, but 
 opening the Door between us, he then 
 standing with his Back towards it, rushed 
 forth and to his Feet — there sank, in a 
 Gush of Tears ; for not one Word coulde 
 I proffer, nor soe much as look up. 
 
 A 
 
lhuf I remained , 
 dkomzeA in Tecirjf. 
 
of Mary Powell 217 
 
 A quick Hand was laid on my Head, 
 on my Shoulder — as quicklie removed 
 . . . and I was aware of the Door being 
 hurriedlie opened and shut, and a Man 
 hasting forthe ; but 'twas onlie mine 
 Uncle. Meantime, my Husband, who 
 had at first uttered a suddain Cry or Ex- 
 clamation, had now left me, sunk on the 
 Ground as I was, and retired a Space, 
 I know not whither, but methinks he 
 walked hastilie to and fro. Thus I re- 
 mained, agonized in Tears, unable to recal 
 one Word of the humble Appeal I had 
 pondered on my Journey, or to have 
 spoken it, though I had known everie 
 Syllable by Rote ; yet not wishing my- 
 self, even in that Suspense, Shame, and 
 Anguish, elsewhere than where I was cast, 
 at mine Husband's Feet. 
 
 Or ever I was aware, he had come up, 
 and caught me to his Breast : then, hold- 
 ing me back soe as to look me in the Face, 
 sayd, in Accents I shall never forget, 
 
 " Much I coulde say to reproach, but 
 " will not ! Henceforth, let us onlie re- 
 
 " call 
 
2 i 8 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 " call this darke Passage of our deeplie 
 " sinfulle Lives, to quicken us to God's 
 " Mercy in affording us this Re-union. 
 " Let it deepen our Penitence, enhance 
 " our Gratitude." 
 
 Then, suddainlie covering up his Face 
 with his Hands, he gave two or three 
 Sobs ; and for some few Minutes coulde 
 not refrayn himself; but, when at length 
 he uncovered his Eyes and looked down 
 on me with Goodness and Sweetnesse, 
 'twas like the Sun's cleare shining after 
 Raine. . . . 
 
 Shall I now destroy the disgracefulle 
 Records of this blotted Book ? I think 
 not ; for 'twill quicken me perhaps, as 
 my Husband sayth, to " deeper Penitence 
 " and stronger Gratitude," shoulde I hence- 
 forthe be in Danger of settling on the 
 Lees, and forgetting the deepe Waters 
 which had nearlie closed over mine Head. 
 At present, I am soe joyfulle, soe light of 
 Heart under the Sense of Forgivenesse, 
 that it seemeth as though Sorrow coulde 
 
 lay 
 
i^ibnfKo-uJe 
 
 
 vJw'wCN^ 
 
 -' ' 
 
of Mary Powell 219 
 
 lay hold of me noe more ; and yet we are 
 still, as 'twere, disunited for awhile ; for 
 my Husband is agayn shifting House, and 
 preparing to move his increased Estab- 
 lishment into Barbican, where he hath 
 taken a goodly Mansion ; and, until it is 
 ready, I am to abide here. I might 
 pleasantlie cavill at this ; but, in Truth, 
 will cavill at Nothing now. 
 
 I am, by this, full persuaded that 
 Ralph's Tale concerning Miss Davies was 
 a false Lie ; though, at the Time, suppos- 
 ing it to have some Colour, it inflamed 
 my Jealousie noe little. The cross Spight 
 of that Youth led, under his Sister's 
 Management, to an Issue his Malice 
 never forecast ; and now, though I might 
 come at the Truth for Inquiry, I will not 
 soe much as even soil my Mind with 
 thinking of it agayn ; for there is that 
 Truth in mine Husband's Eyes, which 
 woulde silence the Slanders of a hundred 
 Liars. Chafed, irritated, he has beene, 
 soe as to excite the sarcastic Constructions 
 of those who wish him evill ; but his 
 
 Soul, 
 
220 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 Soul, and his Heart, and his Mind require 
 a Flighte beyond Ralph's Witt to com- 
 prehende ; and I know and feel that they 
 are mine. 
 
 He hath just led in the two Philips s 
 to me, and left us together. Jack lookt 
 at me askance, and held aloof; but deare 
 little Ned threw his Arms about me and 
 wept, and I did weep too ; seeing the 
 which, Jack advanced, gave me his Hand, 
 and finally his Lips, then lookt as much 
 as to say, " Now, Alle's right." They 
 are grown, and are more comely than 
 heretofore, which, in some Measure, is 
 owing to theire Hair being noe longer 
 cut strait and short after the Puritanicall 
 Fashion I soe hate, but curled like their 
 Uncle's. 
 
 I have writ, not the Particulars, but 
 the Issue of my Journey, unto Rose, whose 
 loving Heart, I know, yearns for Tidings. 
 Alsoe, more brieflie unto my Mother, who 
 loveth not Mr. Milton. 
 
 Barbican, 
 
of Mary Powell 221 
 
 Barbican, September. 
 iN the Night - season, we 
 take noe Rest ; we search 
 out our Hearts, and com- 
 mune with our Spiritts, 
 and checque our Souls' 
 Accounts, before we dare 
 court our Sleep ; but in the Day of 
 Happinesse we cut shorte our Reckon- 
 ings ; 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 Philips' '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 
 
222 Maiden ^f Married Life 
 
 "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 Influ- 
 ence 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, be- 
 lieving 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 Over- 
 studdy, 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 
 
of Mary Powell 223 
 
 of his Eye, and that he even feared, some- 
 times, 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 with- 
 " drawe it from me altogether, I will 
 " cheerfully bid mine Eyes keep Holiday, 
 
 "and 
 
224 Maiden £§P Married Life 
 
 " 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-Gr and, 
 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 ? — Me- 
 " thought you hated Versing, as you used 
 " to call it. When learnt you to love 
 
 " it ? " 
 
of Mary Powell 225 
 
 " 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." There- 
 after, 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 Penny-worth at 
 " a Book-stall as I came along this Morn- 
 " ing." " What was that ? " says my 
 Husband, brightening up. " It had a 
 " long Name," says Christopher, — " I think 
 " it was called Tetrachordon." My Hus- 
 band 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 
 
226 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 " that you did not invest a small Portion 
 " of your Capitall in the Work, as you 
 " say 'twas soe greate a Bargain. How- 
 " ever, 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 would certainlie pro- 
 " cure for another Man a Thrashing ! " 
 
 Then, after a short Silence betweene 
 Alle, he suddainlie burst out laughing, 
 and cried, " I know 'tis on the Stalls ; 
 " I've seene it, Kit, myself ! Oh, had 
 " you seene, as I did, the Blockheads por- 
 " ing over the Title, and hammering at it 
 " while you might have walked to Mile 
 " End and back ! " 
 
 " That's Fame, I suppose," says Christo- 
 pher 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 
 
of Mary Powell 227 
 
 " Office sometimes devise such senselesse 
 " Things that I really am ashamed of 
 " being of theire Party. Licence, in- 
 " deed ! 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. Me- 
 " thoughte I had broken Mabbot's Teeth 
 " two Years agone ; but I must bring 
 " forthe a new Edition of my Areopa- 
 " gitica; and I'll put your Name down, 
 " Kit, for a hundred Copies ! " 
 
 October. 
 , HOUGH a rusticall Life 
 hath ever had my Suf- 
 frages, Nothing can be 
 more pleasant than our 
 regular Course. We rise 
 at five or sooner : while 
 my Husband combs his Hair, he com- 
 monly hums or sings some Psalm or 
 Hymn, versing it, maybe, as he goes on. 
 
 Being 
 
228 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 Being drest, Ned reads him a Chapter in 
 the Hebrew Bible. With Ned stille at 
 his Knee, and me by his Side, he ex- 
 pounds and improves the Same ; then, 
 after a shorte, heartie Prayer, releases us 
 both. Before I have finished my Dress- 
 ing, I hear him below at his Organ, with 
 the two lads, who sing as well as Choris- 
 ters, 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 Break- 
 fast ; 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 
 
of Mary Powell 229 
 
 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 Dis- 
 course at Table. He loves me to help 
 
 him 
 
230 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 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, pre- 
 tending 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, 
 
of Mary Powell 231 
 
 Fingers, and now and then joining with 
 his quavering Voice. (By the way, he 
 hath not forgotten to this Hour, my im- 
 puted 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 Ordi- 
 nances of Devotion, which I cannot, with 
 alle my striving, bring myself to love like 
 the Services to which I have beene accus- 
 tomed, 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 Hus- 
 band 
 
232 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 band 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. 
 
 <Y 
 
 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. 
 
of Mary Powell 233 
 
 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 Argu- 
 ment, 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 
 
234 Maiden £&? Married Life 
 
 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, de- 
 spite his broken Health and Hatred of 
 the Foreigner, must needes depart be- 
 yond 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 ? 
 
of Mary Powell 235 
 
 Heels ? Soe ends Mother with a " Lord 
 " have Mercy upon us ! " as though her 
 House were as surelie doomed to Destruc- 
 tion 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 
 
236 Maiden & Married Life 
 
 " the Spring ; his Lads will studdy and 
 " play with mine, your Mother will help 
 " you in your Housewiferie, the two 
 " olde Men will chrip 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 In- 
 " crease 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 my- 
 selfe to them, how proud, how cherished 
 a Wife ! 
 
 Surelie my Mother will 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 
 
of Mary Powell 237 
 
 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 cheer- 
 fulle ; 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 ! . . . . 
 
r~=^~ 
 
 
 ^jjjffimM 
 
 &'* Iwyl^f * , 
 
 5 
 
DEBORAH'S DIARY 
 
 A FRAGMENT 
 Bun hill Fields, Feb. ij, 1665. 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 ^OMETHING geniall and 
 soothing beyond ordinarie 
 in the Warmth and fit- 
 fulle Lighte of the Fire, 
 made us delaye, I know 
 not how long, to trim the 
 Evening Lamp, and sitt muzing in Idle- 
 nesse 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 up- 
 righte, as his Fashion is when very 
 thoughtfulle ; I on the Cushion at his 
 
 Feet, 
 
240 Deborah's Diary 
 
 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 confest 
 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 Extinc- 
 tion 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 
 
Deborah's Diary 241 
 
 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 Dis- 
 pleasure, at her destroying one of the 
 most innocent of His Creatures. 
 
 After this, he woulde tell us of this 
 and that 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 
 
242 Deborah's Diary 
 
 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 Le- 
 muribus, 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 in 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 call- 
 ing aloud, Thamus, Thamus, which was 
 the Name of the Ship's Pilot, who, 
 making Answer to the unseene Appel- 
 lant, was bidden, when he came to 
 Pa/odas, to tell that the great God 
 Pan was dead ; which he doubting to 
 
 " doe, 
 
Deborahs Diary 243 
 
 ' doe, yet for that when he came to 
 ' Pa/odas, 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 blacken- 
 ' ing 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 
 
244 Deborah's Diary 
 
 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 mv 
 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 can- 
 " not 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 
 
Deborah 's Diary 245 
 
 cut her to the Quick ; yet Father knoiveth, 
 though he cannot see, that her Face is 
 that of an Angel. 
 
 [BOUT 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 
 
246 Deborah's Diary 
 
 before Morning. Sure, I thought he 
 
 Wmk^^M 
 
 never would get to the End, and really 
 
 feared 
 
Deborah 's Diary 247 
 
 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 
 <c 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 
 
248 Deborah's Diary 
 
 .ETURNING from Morn- 
 ing Prayers with Anne this 
 Forenoon, I found Mary 
 mending a Pen with the 
 utmoste 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 
 
Deborah's Diary 249 
 
 " 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, noc- 
 " turnal 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 quad- 
 " rangular Figure, consisting of parallel 
 
 " Lines, 
 
250 Deborah 's Diary 
 
 " 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. 
 HEARTILIE wish our 
 Stepmother were back, 
 albeit we are soe comfort- 
 able without her ! Mary, 
 taking the Maids at un- 
 awares 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 
 
Deborah's Diary 251 
 
 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, say- 
 ing, " As well live in a Nunnerie." 
 
 April 20. 
 (HEN the Horse is stolen, 
 shut the Stable Door. Mary 
 locked the lower Doors, and 
 brought up the Keys her- 
 selfe, 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 ; how- 
 beit, 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 
 
252 Deborah 's Diary 
 
 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 him- 
 selfe touched by its cold Skin, laugbt 
 merrilie, and ate it with a Relish ; say- 
 ing, 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, doubt- 
 lesse, supposed to be alone, I saw a great 
 round-shouldered mannish Shadowe glide 
 across 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, 
 
Deborah's Diary 253 
 
 " 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, indeede ! 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 gene- 
 rallie give Judgment the wrong Way. 
 Thus we founde it before, poor mother- 
 lesse Girls, to our Cost ; and I reallie 
 believe it was more in Kindnesse for us 
 
 than 
 
254 Deborah" 's Diary 
 
 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 
 
Deborah's Diary 255 
 
 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. 
 (IKE 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 yawn- 
 ish 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, 
 
256 Deborah' 's Diary 
 
 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 
 
Deborahs Diary 257 
 
 " Why no," replies Father, " therein 
 " she worsened her Story, by saying too 
 " much, as Dorothea did, when she pre- 
 " tended 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." 
 
 \AD a Valentine this Morn- 
 ing, 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, 
 
 R 
 
258 Deborah 's Diary 
 
 " 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 Ell- 
 " wood, 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 Recrea- 
 " tions, dear Maids, and Heaven's Blessing 
 " goe with you ! " 
 
 We kissed his Hand and went, but our 
 Walk was not merry. 
 
 Ellwood 
 
Deborah's Diary 259 
 
 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. 
 , PRING 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 
 
260 Deborah's Diary 
 
 " 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, 
 
Deborahs Diary 261 
 
 " 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 
 
262 Deborah's Diary 
 
 " 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 ajudiciall Punishment shoulde be- 
 " fall 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, Coun- 
 " ters, and Closetts alike witness against 
 
 "us. 
 
Deborah's Diary 263 
 
 " 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 Bitter- 
 " nesse 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 Rebel- 
 " lion, as you please to call it, the Com- 
 " monwealth, 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 
 
264 Deborah's Diary 
 
 " I deny that, as well as your Dates," 
 
 says Father. " We enjoyed a Common- 
 
 " wealth 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, ex- 
 
 ' cept by just Title ? What had become, 
 
 ' meantime, of your Commonwealth ? " 
 
 " Softly, Kit" returns Father. " The 
 ' Commonwealth was progressing, mean- 
 ' time, 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 
 
Deborah 's Diary 265 
 
 ' 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. " Legiti- 
 ' mate 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 
 
266 Deborah 's Diary 
 
 " a Temper subject to hasty Ebullitions 
 " is better than one which, by Blows and 
 " hard Usage, has been silenced into Sul- 
 " lenness, a Republic is better than an 
 " absolute Sovereignty." 
 
 " Aye ; and if a Temper under the 
 " Control of Reason and Principle," re- 
 joins Uncle, " is better than one unaccus- 
 " tomed 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 
 
Deborah's Diary 267 
 
 " 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 Phil- 
 " lips 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 ex- 
 " cellently 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 Know- 
 " ledge of the learned Tongues — no more." 
 
 " Nay,somewhat more,"rejoinedUncle ; 
 " 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 
 
268 Deborah's Diary 
 
 " 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, in- 
 stantly 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, Fish-street Hill, 
 " Dowgate Hill, Gar lick 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." 
 
 " / can't fancy Tansy-pudding," says 
 
 Uncle, 
 
Deborah's Diary 269 
 
 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 Currant-sauce, Wilt- 
 " shire 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. 
 
 (NCLE 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, 
 
270 Deborah's Diary 
 
 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 //; toto the other ; observing that 
 Theodore Beza believed at one Time in 
 astrologick Signs ; and thought that the 
 Appearance of the notable Star in Cassi- 
 opeiea betokened the universal End. And 
 as for Angels, he sayd they were, ques- 
 tionless, 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 com- 
 mitted; as during the Pestilence in David's 
 Time, when the King saw the Destroy- 
 ing Angel standing between Heaven and 
 Earth, having a drawn Sword in his 
 
 Hand, 
 
Deborah 's Diary 271 
 
 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 Cahin, 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 Pur- 
 port, 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 
 
272 Deborah 's Diary 
 
 of Cardinal Borromeo, — not him called St. 
 Charles, 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 
 
Deborah's Diary 273 
 
 There was Nothing to be seen but long, 
 
 
 black Shadows in the Streets. The Moon 
 was behind the House. After looking 
 
 forthe 
 
 s 
 
274 Deborah" s Diary 
 
 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. 
 
 HE first Sounde this Morn- 
 ing was of Weeping and 
 Wayling. Mother had 
 beene scared by the Night- 
 warning, and wearied Fa- 
 ther to have us alle into 
 the Countrie. He thought the Danger 
 not yet imminent, the Expense consider- 
 able, and the Outcry that of some crazy 
 Fanatick ; ne'erthelesse, consented to em- 
 ploy 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 ; 
 
Deborah's Diary 275 
 
 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 
 " not 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 Dia- 
 logue, 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 ! " 
 
276 Deborah's Diary 
 
 " Woe !" she naturallie drew back. How- 
 ever, 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 ' ? " 
 
 jNOTHER Night-larum ; 
 but onlie from Father, who 
 wanted me to write for 
 him, — a Task he has much 
 intromitted of late. Mo- 
 ther was hugelie annoyed 
 at it, and sayd, — " My Dear, I am per- 
 " suaded that if you would not persist in 
 " going to Bed soe earlie, you woulde not 
 " awake at these untimelie Hours." 
 
 " That 
 
Deborah's Diary 277 
 
 " That is very well for you to say," re- 
 turned 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 comb- 
 ing 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 
 
278 Deborah's Diary 
 
 " 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 Sam- 
 " sons 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 beautiful 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 
 
Deborah 's Diary 279 
 
 ' 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 Abija/is, 
 ' are set, may well doe the same." 
 
 May 12. 
 (ESTERDAY being the 
 Lord's Day, Mother was 
 hugely scared during 
 Morning Service, by see- 
 ing an old Lady put her 
 Kerchief to her Nose, look 
 hither and thither, and, finally, walk out 
 
 of 
 
280 Deborah 's Diary 
 
 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 Es- 
 ' cape 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 Ec- 
 ' batana, nor pastoral Valley, that might 
 ' inspire Theocritus with a new Idyl, can 
 ' hide us, either by its Strength or its 
 
 " Obscurity, 
 
Deborah's Diary 281 
 
 " Obscurity, from the Arrow of the 
 " Destroying Angel ; ye, therefore, see- 
 " ing 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." 
 
 However, we really are preparing for 
 Country Quarters, for young Ellwood hath 
 this Morning brought us Note of a rus- 
 tick Abode near his Friends, the Penning- 
 tons, 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 
 
282 Deborah' 's Diary 
 
 and profest 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 
 Je/lycott. 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 
 
Deborah's Diary 283 
 
 draw the Water, lift Boxes and heavy- 
 weights, chase away Beggars and infec- 
 tious Persons, and any little odd Matter 
 of the Kind. 
 
 {OTHER 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, in- 
 tending to turn Chalfont into a besieged 
 Garrison, is laying in Stock of Sope, 
 Candles, Cheese, Butter, Salt, Sugar, Rai- 
 sins, Pease, and Bacon ; besides Resin, 
 Sulphur, and Benjamin, agaynst the In- 
 fection ; 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 
 
284 Dehor ah' 's Diary 
 
 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 
 JFapping, 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 
 
Deborah's Diary 285 
 
 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 Ap- 
 pearance. 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. 
 
 HEY 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 
 
286 Deborahs Diary 
 
 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 pack- 
 ing, 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 Shil- 
 lings for immediate Necessaries. Mother 
 having gone to my Lord Mayor for Pass- 
 ports, 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 him- 
 "self; shew him Tassos Autograph on 
 
 "the 
 
Deborah's Diary 287 
 
 " 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 Difficultie, 
 and took it to Father, who sent twenty 
 Shillings to E//wood, and gave me five for 
 my Payns. Poor Ellwood ! he hath good 
 Leisure to muse now on Guli Springett. 
 
 Mother 
 
288 Deborah' 's Diary 
 
 tOTHER was soe worried by 
 the Odour of the Rats, that 
 they alle started off a Day 
 sooner than was first in- 
 tended, leaving me merelie 
 a little extra Packing. Con- 
 sequence 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 I " says Nurse, 
 laughing, " there is, indeed, a Lot of Kit- 
 " chen-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 
 
Deborah 's Diary 289 
 
 Soe I laught, and gave it her forthe, 
 and she put into my Hand two Shil- 
 lings ; 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 laugh- 
 ing, 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 
 
 T 
 
2 go DeboraFs Diary 
 
 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 be- 
 lieve 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 Puri- 
 tans 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 were little 
 worth the striving for, except to One soe 
 
 extreme 
 
Deborah's Diary 291 
 
 extreme poor. Yet, spite of Gratitude 
 and Interest, she must quarrel with Fa- 
 ther, 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 Con- 
 currence. 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 
 
292 Deborah's Diary 
 
 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 
 
Deborah 's Diary 293 
 
 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 Mid- 
 night ere we went to Bed. 
 
 Chalfont. 
 1RRIVED at last ; after what 
 a Journey ! Ned had sent 
 me Word Overnight to ex- 
 pect, this Forenoon, a smart 
 young Cavalier, on a fine 
 prancing Steed, with rich 
 Accoutrements. Howbeit, Cousin is nei- 
 ther 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 
 
294 Deborah's Diary 
 
 Bridle was diverse from the Pillion, which 
 was finely embroidered, but tarnisht, 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, 
 
ilterecl ' 
 
Deborahs Diary 295 
 
 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 swear- 
 ing ! 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 Jus- 
 tice, 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 Par- 
 ties, — some dreadfully overloaded, some 
 knocked up alreadie, some baiting at the 
 Roadside, and many of the poorer Sort 
 
 erecting 
 
296 Deborah 's Diary 
 
 erecting 'emselves rude Tents and Cabins 
 under the Hedges. Soon I began to re- 
 joyce 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 Car- 
 ter 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 
 

 ijlbiy @&e 
 
Deborah's Diary 297 
 
 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, out- 
 side 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 Pre- 
 " cision, what the Place is like." 
 
 Soe 
 
298 Deborah' 's Diary 
 
 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 Honey- 
 suckle 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 
 
Deborah's Diary 299 
 
 " 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 for- 
 
 " getting 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 
 
300 Deborah 's Diary 
 
 " 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. 
 
Deborahs Diary 301 
 
 " 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 Shakspeare, Fancy 's Child!" 
 
 " Ah ! you may quote me against my- 
 " self," says Father ; " you may quote 
 " Beza against Beza, and Erasmus against 
 " Erasmus ; but that will not shake the 
 
 " eternal 
 
3<D2 Deborah's Diary 
 
 " 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 repre- 
 " sent 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 Ele- 
 " gance." 
 
 " 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 him- 
 " self." 
 
 " Sure," cries Ned, " you have less Need 
 
 " than 
 
Deborah's Diary 303 
 
 " 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 breath- 
 ing hard, and squeezing Father's Hand. 
 At length, Mother calls from the House, 
 
 " Who 
 
304 Deborah's Diary 
 
 " 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 
 
Deborah' 's Diary 305 
 
 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 Under- 
 tone. " 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 
 v 
 
306 Deborah' 's Diary 
 
 " 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 & Adamo ed 
 " Eva,' dedicated to the Duchess of Man- 
 " tua." 
 
 " 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 
 
Deborah's Diary 307 
 
 " Road to Paris, the Bottom of the Ca- 
 " roche 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 practicall Things ; he was also 
 " a profound Scholar, though he made 
 " out the fourth Kingdom in Daniel 's 
 " Prophecy to be the Kingdoms of the 
 " Lagidte and the Seleucidce ; 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 said, was 
 most uncomfortable, Mother having so 
 over-stufFed it. For her Share, she had 
 a Knife-box under her Feet, a Plate- 
 basket 
 
308 Deborah" 1 s Diary 
 
 basket at her Back, a Bird-cage bobbing 
 over her Head, and a Lapfull of Crock- 
 ery-ware. Providentially, Betty turned 
 squeamish, and could not ride inside, so 
 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 some- 
 what inopportune, for every Thing was 
 to seek and to set in Order ; and, indeed, 
 Mother soon came in, all of a Heat, and 
 
 sayd, 
 
Deborah's Diary 309 
 
 sayd, " I wonder, my Dear, you can keep 
 " Nan here, at such idling, when she has 
 " her Bed to make, and her Box to un- 
 " pack." 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 try- 
 ing 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 Plea- 
 " sures. '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 harm- 
 " less 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 But- 
 " terfly, and Anne to catch her Bat." 
 
 Our 
 
310 Deborah 's Diary 
 
 iUR Life here is most plea- 
 sant. Father and I pass 
 almost the whole of our 
 Time in the open Air — 
 he dictating, and I writ- 
 ing ; 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 Christmass. 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, 
 
Deborah 's Diary 311 
 
 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. How- 
 beit, 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 Acquaint- 
 ance with 'era 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, with- 
 in Earshot of Father and me, while he 
 dictates to me his wondrous Poem. We 
 are nearing the End of it now, and have 
 
 reached 
 
312 Deborah' 's Diary 
 
 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 un- 
 aware 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 wear- 
 ing 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 
 
Deborah 's Diary 313 
 
 Springett — and so, indeed, she proved ; 
 for, on reaching Home after a length- 
 ened 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 Flow- 
 ers that had some Fragrance, however 
 dull of hue. 
 
 To-day, as we were sitting under the 
 Hedge, we heard a rough Voice shout- 
 ing, " 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 
 
314 Deborah' 's Diary 
 
 " 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 
 
Deborahs Diary 315 
 
 " and the Gentleman at present in Occu- 
 " pation 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 Excommuni- 
 " cation." 
 
 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 per- 
 mitted, 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 Wind- 
 ward. 
 
 " What have we for Dinner To-day ? " 
 says Father. 
 
 "A 
 
316 Deborah's Diary 
 
 "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 sing- 
 ing Psalms. 
 
 Ell wood 
 
Deborah 's Diary 317 
 
 \LLWOOD has turned up 
 agayn, to the great Plea- 
 sure of Father, who de- 
 lights 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 shun- 
 ning 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 Fa- 
 shion 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 
 
3 1 8 Deborah's Diary 
 
 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 
 

 flflfW ■>!«'>- 
 
 m 
 
 1 VI 
 
 jr/^/orik they 
 cjT/lelody on hi/" Orfian." 
 
 he pour/^/orik theyTill tide 
 
Deborah's Diary 319 
 
 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 demon- 
 strative ; Father would then be as assured 
 of her Affection as of mine, and treat her 
 with equal Tenderness. But, no, she can- 
 not 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 
 
320 Deborah' 's Diary 
 
 " Or Sight of vernal Bloom or Summer ' s Rose, 
 " Or Flocks or Herds, or human Face divine, 
 " But Clouds instead, and ever-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 
 
Deborah 's Diary 321 
 
 " night, Girls : . . . may it, indeed, be 
 " as good to you as to me. You know, 
 " Night brings back my Day — / am not 
 " blind in my Dreams." 
 
 WISH I knew the Distinc- 
 tion between Tempera- 
 ment 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 
 
322 Deborah' s Diary 
 
 to him that formed it, " Why hast thou 
 " made me thus ? " 
 
 Father, indeed, can flame out in poli- 
 tical 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 won- 
 der if the World will ever give heed to 
 his Teaching. Suppose a Spark of Fire 
 should drop some Night on the Manu- 
 script, while Ellwood 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 
 
Deborah's Diary 323 
 
 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 pic- 
 turing 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 ! 
 
324 Dehor 'ah 's Diary 
 
 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 .? " 
 
 Good 
 
Deborah's Diary 325 
 
 Sept. 2nd. 
 [OOD so ! Master Ellivood 
 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 Sanc- 
 tion, 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 
 
326 Deborah 's Diary 
 
 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. 
 
 E//wooa"s Talk was much of Guli Sprin- 
 gett, whom I have seen sundry times, and 
 think high-flown, in spight of her level- 
 ling 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 Springetfs 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, 
 
Deborah's Diary 327 
 
 see, this ill-natured Speech : and 'twas 
 unfair too ; for, if we never had a Writ- 
 ing-master, yet my Aunt Agar taught us ; 
 and 'twas our own Fault if we improved 
 no more. Indeed, we have had a scram- 
 bling Sort of Education ; but, in many 
 respects, our Advantages have exceeded 
 those of many young Women; and among 
 them I reckon, first and foremost, con- 
 tinuall 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 
 bis 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 
 
328 Deborah' 's Diary 
 
 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 — 
 
 " / suoi Pensieri in lui Dormir non ponno ; " 
 
 which, being interpreted, means, " His 
 " Thoughts would let him and his Daugh- 
 " ter take no rest." 
 
 rious Absence. 
 
 1 2th. 
 KNOW not that any one 
 but Father hath ever con- 
 cerned themselves to ima- 
 gine the Anxieties of the 
 blessed Virgin during her 
 Son's forty Days' myste- 
 No wonder that 
 
 " Within her Breast, thd calm, her Breast, tho pure, 
 " Motherly Fears got Head." 
 
 Father 
 
DeboraFs Diary 329 
 
 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. 
 
 15M. 
 [ND 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, 
 
330 Deborah 's Diary 
 
 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," an- 
 swered 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 
 
Deborah's Diary 331 
 
 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 
 
332 Deborah' 's Diary 
 
 " lihat 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 unfeignd, 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 Cob- 
 web, 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 Reve- 
 rence ; and if you behave like a Child, 
 you must look to be punisht like a 
 Child." 
 
 "I 
 
Deborah' 's Diary 333 
 
 " 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 inoffen- 
 " sive 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, 
 
334 Deborah' 's Diary 
 
 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 ob- 
 served, " 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 recol- 
 " lect that one Avenue of my Senses being 
 " stopt, makes me keener to any Impres- 
 " sion 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 render- 
 " ing our Home liker to a Cage of un- 
 " clean Birds ? " 
 
 Bun hill 
 
Deborah 's Diary 335 
 
 Bunhill Fields, London, 
 Oct. 1666. 
 iEOPLE have phansied Ap- 
 pearances of Armies in the 
 Air, flaming Swords, Fields 
 of Battle, and other Images ; 
 and, truly, the Evening 
 before we left Chalfont, me- 
 thought I beheld the Glories of the an- 
 cient City Ctesiphon in the Sunset Clouds, 
 with gilded Battlements, conspicuous far 
 — Turrets, and Terraces, and glittering 
 Spires. The light-armed Parthians pour- 
 ing through the Gates, in Coats of Mail, 
 and military Pride. In the far Perspec- 
 tive 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 Compari- 
 son, so black and bleak, that methought 
 
 how 
 
336 Deborah's Diary 
 
 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. 
 
 What a Click, Click, the Bricklayers 
 make with their Trowels, thus bring- 
 ing me down from my Altitudes ! Sure, 
 we hardly knew how well off we were 
 at Chaljont, till we came back to this 
 unlucky Capital, looking as desolate as 
 Jerusalem, when the City was ruinated 
 and the People captivated. Weeds in 
 the Streets — smouldering Piles — black- 
 ened, tottering Walls — and inexhaustible 
 Heaps of vile Rubbish. Even with closed 
 Windows, everything gets covered with 
 a Coating of fine Dust. Cousin Jack 
 Yesterday picked up a half-burnt Ac- 
 ceptance for twenty thousand Pounds. 
 There is a fine Time coming for 
 Builders and Architects — Anne's Lover 
 among the Rest. The Way she picked 
 him up was notable. Returning to 
 
 Town, 
 
Deborah 'j Diary 337 
 
 Town, she falls to her old Practices of 
 daily Prayers and visiting the Poor. At 
 Church she sits over against a good- 
 looking young Man, recovered from the 
 Plague, whose near approach to Death's 
 Door had made him more godly in his 
 Walk than the general of his Age and 
 Condition. He notes her beautiful Face 
 — marks not her deformed Shape ; and, 
 because that, by Reason of the late Dis- 
 tresses, the Calamities of the Poor have 
 been met by unusuall Charities of the 
 upper Classes, he, on his Errands of 
 Mercy among the Rest, presently falls 
 in with her at a poor sick Man's House, 
 and marvels when the limping Stranger 
 turns about and discovers the beautiful 
 Votaress. After one or two chance 
 Meetings, respectfully accosts her — Anne 
 draws back — he finds a mutuall Friend 
 — the Acquaintance progresses ; and at 
 length, by Way of first Introduction to 
 my Father, he steps in to ask him (pre- 
 amble supposed) to give him his eldest 
 Daughter. Then what a Storm ensues ! 
 
 Father's 
 
338 Deborah 's Diary 
 
 Father's Objections do not transpire, no 
 one being by but Mother, who is un- 
 likely to soften Matters. But, so soon 
 as John Herring shuts the Door behind 
 him, and walks off quickly, Anne is called 
 down, and I follow, neither bidden nor 
 hindered. Thereupon, Father, with a 
 red Heat-spot on his Cheek, asks Anne 
 what she knows of this young Man. Her 
 answer, " Nothing but good." "How 
 " came she to know him at all ? " . . . 
 Silent ; then makes Answer, " Has seen 
 " him at Mrs. French's and elsewhere." 
 " Where else ? " " Why, at Church, and 
 " other Places." Mother here puts in, 
 " What other Places ?"..." Sure what 
 " can it signify," Anne asks, turning short 
 round upon her ; " and especially to you, 
 " who would be glad to get quit of me 
 " on any Terms ? " 
 
 " Anne, Anne ! " interrupts Father, 
 " does this Concern of ours for you 
 " look like it ? You know you are say- 
 " ing what is uncivil and untrue." 
 
 " Well," resumes Anne, her breath 
 
 coming 
 
Deborah's Diary 339 
 
 coming quick, " but what's the Objec- 
 " tion to 'John Herring ? " 
 
 " John ? is he John with you already ? " 
 cries Mother. " Then you must know 
 " more of him than you say." 
 
 " Sure, Mother," cries Anne, bursting 
 into Tears, " you are enough to overcome 
 " the Patience of Job. I know nothing 
 " of the young Man, but that he is pious, 
 " and steady, and well read, and a good 
 " Son of reputable Parents, as well to do 
 " in the World as ourselves ; and that he 
 " likes me, whom few like, and offers me 
 " a quiet, happy Home." 
 
 " How fast some People can talk when 
 " they like," observes Mother ; at which 
 Allusion to Anne's Impediment, I dart 
 at her a Look of Wrath ; but Nan only 
 continues weeping. 
 
 " Come hither, Child," interposes Father, 
 holding his Hand towards her ; " and you, 
 " good Betty, leave us awhile to talk over 
 " this without Interruption." At which, 
 Mother, taking him literally, sweeps up 
 her Work, and quits the Room. " The 
 
 " Address 
 
34° Deborah 's Diary 
 
 " Address of this young Man," says Father, 
 " has taken me wholly by Surprise, and 
 " your Encouragement of it has incontest- 
 " ably had somewhat of clandestine in it ; 
 " notwithstanding which, I have, and can 
 " have, nothing in View, dear Nan, but 
 " your Well-being. As to his Calling, I 
 " take no Exceptions at it, even though, 
 " like Camentarius, he should say, I am a 
 " Bricklayer, and have got my Living by 
 " my Labour — " 
 
 " A Master-builder, not a Bricklayer," 
 interposes Anne. 
 
 Father stopt for a Moment ; then re- 
 sumed. " You talk of his offering you a 
 " quiet Home : why should you be dis- 
 " satisfied with your own, where, in the 
 " Main, we are all very happy together ? 
 " In these evil Times, 'tis something con- 
 " siderable to have, as it were, a little 
 " Chamber on the Wall, where your 
 " Candle is lighted by the Lord, your 
 " Table spread by him, your Bed made 
 " by him in your Health and Sickness, 
 " and where he stands behind the Door, 
 
 " ready 
 
Deborah's Diary 341 
 
 ' ready to come in and sup with you. 
 ' All this you will leave for One you 
 ' know not. How bitterly may you 
 ' hereafter look back on your present 
 ' Lot ! You know, I have the Apostle's 
 ' Word for it, that, if I give you in 
 ' Marriage, I may do well ; but, if I 
 ' give you not, I shall do better. The 
 ' unmarried Woman careth for the Things 
 1 of the Lord, that she may be holy in 
 ' Body and Spirit, and attend upon him 
 ' without Distraction. Thus was it with 
 ' the five wise Maidens, who kept their 
 ' Lamps ready trimmed until the Coming 
 ' of their Lord. I wish we only knew 
 ' of five that were foolish. Time would 
 ' fail me to tell you of all the godly 
 ' Women, both of the elder and later 
 ' Time, who have led single Lives with- 
 ' out Superstition, and without Hypocrisy. 
 ' Howbeit, you may marry if you will ; 
 ' but you will be wiser if you abide as you 
 ' are, after my Judgment. Let me not to 
 ' the Marriage of true Minds oppose Im- 
 ' pediment ; but, in your own Case — " 
 
 " Father, 
 
342 Deborah's Diary 
 
 " Father," interrupts Anne, " you know 
 ' I am ill at speaking ; but permit me to 
 ' say, you are now talking wide of the 
 ' Mark. Without going back to the 
 ' Beginning of the World, or all through 
 ' the Romish Calendar, I will content me 
 ' with the more recent Instance of your- 
 ' self, who have thrice preferred Marriage, 
 ' with all its concomitant Evils, to the 
 ' single State you laud so highly. Is it 
 ' any Reason we should not dwell in a 
 ' House, because St. 'Jerome lived in a 
 ' Cave ? The godly Women of whom 
 ' you speak might neither have had so 
 ' promising a Home offered to them, nor 
 ' so ill a Home to quit." 
 
 " What call you an ill Home ? " says 
 Father, his Brow darkening. 
 
 " I call that an ill Home," returns Anne, 
 stoutly, " where there is neither Union 
 " nor Sympathy — at least, for my Share, 
 " — where there are no Duties of which 
 " I can well acquit myself, and where 
 " those I have made for myself, and find 
 " suitable to my Capacity and Strength, 
 
 " are 
 
Deborah 's Diary 343 
 
 " are contemned, let, and hindered, — 
 "where my Mother -Church, my Mo- 
 " ther's Church, is reviled — my Mother's 
 " Family despised, — where the few Friends 
 " I have made are never asked, while 
 " every Attention I pay them is grudged, — 
 " where, for keeping all my hard Usage 
 " from my Father's Hearing, all the Re- 
 " ward I get is his thinking I have no 
 " hard Usage to bear — " 
 
 " Hold, ungrateful Girl ! " says Father ; 
 " Fve heard enough, and too much. 'Tis 
 " Time wasted to reason with a Woman. 
 " I do believe there never yet was one 
 " who would not start aside like a broken 
 " Bow, or pierce the Side like a snapt 
 " Reed, at the very Moment most De- 
 " pendance was placed in her. Let her 
 " Husband humour her to the Top of her 
 " Bent, — she takes French Leave of him, 
 " departs to her own Kindred, and makes 
 " Affection for her Childhood's Home the 
 " Pretext for defying the Laws of God and 
 " Man. Let her Father cherish her, pity 
 ' c her, bear with her, and shelter her from 
 
 " even 
 
344 Deborah's Diary 
 
 " even the Knowledge of the Evils of the 
 " World without, — her Ingratitude will 
 " keep Pace with her Ignorance, and she 
 " will forsake him for the Sweetheart of 
 " a Week. You think Marriage the 
 " supreme Bliss : a good many don't find 
 " it so. Lively Passions soon burn out ; 
 " and then come disappointed Expec- 
 " tancies, vain Repinings, fretful Com- 
 " plainings, wrathful Rejoinings. You 
 ■" fly from Collision with jarring Minds : 
 " what Security have you for more For- 
 " bearance among your new Connexions ? 
 *' Alas ! you will carry your Temper with 
 " you — you will carry your bodily Infir- 
 " mities with you ; — your little Stock of 
 " Experience, Reason, and Patience will 
 " be exhausted before the Year is out, and 
 " at the End, perhaps, you will — die — " 
 
 " As well die," cries Anne, bursting into 
 Tears, " as live to hear such a Rebuke as 
 " this." And so, passionately wringing 
 her Hands, runs out of the Room. 
 
 " Follow after her, Deb" cries Father ; 
 " she is beside herself. Unhappy me ! 
 
 " tried 
 
Deborah's Diary 345 
 
 " tried every Way ! An (Edipus with no 
 " Antigone ! " 
 
 And, rising from his Seat, he began to 
 pace up and down, while I ran up to Nan. 
 But scarce had I reached the Stair-head, 
 when we both heard a heavy Fall in the 
 Chamber below. We cried, " Sure, that 
 " is Father ! " and ran down quicker than 
 we had run up. He was just rising as we 
 entered, his Foot having caught in a long 
 Coil of Gold Lace, which Anne, in her 
 disorderly Exit, had unwittingly dragged 
 after her. I saw at a Glance be was 
 annoyed rather than hurt ; but Nan, with- 
 out a Moment's Pause, darts into his 
 Arms, in a Passion of Pity and Repent- 
 ance, crying, " Oh, Father, Father, for- 
 " give me ! oh, Father ! " 
 
 " 'Tis all of a Piece, Nan," he replies ; 
 " alternate hot and cold ; every Thing for 
 " Passion, nothing for Reason. Now all 
 " for me ; a Minute ago, I might go to 
 " the Wall for John Herring." 
 
 " No, never, Father ! " cries Anne ; 
 " never, dear Father — " 
 
 " Dark 
 
346 Deborah' s Diary 
 
 " Dark are the Ways of God," con- 
 tinues he, unheeding her ; " not only 
 " annulling his first best Gift of Light 
 " to me, and leaving me a Prey to daily 
 " Contempt, Abuse, and Wrong, but 
 " mangling my tenderest, most apprehen- 
 " sive Feelings — " 
 
 Anne again breaks in with, "Oh, Father, 
 " Father ! " 
 
 " Dark, dark, for ever dark ! " he went 
 on ; "but just are the Ways of God to 
 " Man. Who shall say, ' What doest 
 " Thou ? ' " 
 
 " Father, I promise you," says Anne, 
 " that I will never more think of John 
 " Herring." 
 
 " Foolish Girl ! " he replies sadly ; " as 
 " ready now to promise too Much, as 
 " resolute just now to hear Nothing. 
 " How can you promise never to think 
 " of him ? I never asked it of you." 
 
 " At least I can promise not to speak 
 " of him," says Anne. 
 
 "Therein you will do wisely," rejoins 
 Father. " My Consent having been 
 
 " asked 
 
Deborah 's Diary 347 
 
 " asked is an Admission that I have a 
 " Right to give or withhold it ; and, as 
 " I have already told "John Herring, I shall 
 " certainly not grant it before you are of 
 " Age. Perhaps by that Time you may 
 " be your own Mistress, without even 
 " such an ill Home as I, while I live, 
 " can afford you." 
 
 " No more of that," says Anne, inter- 
 rupting him ; and a Kiss sealed the 
 Compact. 
 
 All this Time, Mother and Mary 
 were, providentially, out of the Way. 
 Mother had gone off in a Huff, and 
 Mary was busied in making some marbled 
 Veal. 
 
 The rest of the Day was dull enough : 
 violent Emotions are commonly suc- 
 ceeded by flat Stagnations. Anne, how- 
 ever, seemed kept up by some Energy 
 from within, and looked a little flushed. 
 At Bed-time she got the start of me, as 
 usuall ; and, on entering our Chamber, 
 I found her quite undrest, sitting at the 
 Table, not reading of her Bible, but with 
 
 her 
 
348 Deborahs Diary 
 
 her Head resting on it. I should have 
 taken her to be asleep, but for the quick 
 Pulsation of some Nerve or Muscle at the 
 back of the Neck, somewhere under the 
 right Ear. She looks up, commences 
 rubbing her Eyes, and says, " My Eyes 
 " are full of Sand, I think. I will give 
 " you my new Crown-piece, Deb, if you 
 " will read me to sleep without another 
 " Word." So I say, "A Bargain," though 
 without meaning to take the Crown ; 
 and she jumps into Bed in a Minute, and 
 I begin at the Sermon on the Mount, and 
 keep on and on, in more and more of a 
 Monotone ; but every Time I lookt up, 
 I saw her Eyes wide open, agaze at the 
 top of the Bed ; and so I go on and on, 
 like a Bee humming over a Flower, till 
 she shuts her Eyes ; but, at last, when I 
 think her off, having just got to Matthew, 
 eleven, twenty-eight, she fetches a deep 
 sigh, and says, " I wish I could hear Him 
 " saying so to me . . . ' Come, Anne, 
 " unto me, and I will give you Rest.' 
 " But, in fact, He does so as emphatically 
 
Deborah's Diary 349 
 
 " in addressing all the weary and heavy- 
 " laden, as if I heard Him articulating, 
 " ' Come, Ant7e, come ! ' " 
 
 POST SCRIPTUM. 
 
 Spitalfields, 1680. 
 GENEROUS Mind finds 
 even its just Resentments 
 languish and die away when 
 their Object becomes the 
 unresisting prey of Death. 
 Such is my Experience 
 with regard to Betty Fisher, whose ill Life 
 hath now terminated, and from whom, 
 confronted at the Bar of their great Judge, 
 Father will, one Day, hear the Truth. 
 As to my Stepmother, Time and Distance 
 have had their soothing Effect on me 
 even regarding her. She is down in 
 Cheshire, among her own People ; is a 
 hale, hearty Woman yet, and will very 
 likely outlive me. If she looked in on 
 
 me 
 
350 Deborah's Diary 
 
 me this Moment, and saw me in this 
 homely but decent Suit, sitting by mv 
 clear Coal-fire, in this little oak-panelled 
 Room, with a clean, though coarse Cloth 
 neatly laid on the Supper Table, with 
 Covers for two, could she sneer at the 
 Spouse of the Spitaljields Weaver ? Be- 
 like she might, for Spight never wanted 
 Food ; but I would have her into the 
 Nursery, shew her the two sleeping Faces, 
 and ask her, Did I need her Pity then ? 
 
 Betty s Death, calling up Memories of 
 old Times, hath made me somewhat 
 cynical, I think. I cannot but call to 
 Mind her many ill Turns. 'Twas shortly 
 after the Rupture of Anne s Match with 
 John Herring. Poor Nan had over- 
 reckoned on her own Strength of Mind, 
 when she promised Father to speak of 
 him no more ; and, after the first Fervour 
 of Self-denial, became so captious, that 
 Father said he heard John Herring in 
 every Tone. This set them at Variance, 
 to commence with ; and then, Mary 
 detecting Betty in certain Malpractices, 
 
 Mother 
 
Deborah 'j Diary 351 
 
 Mother could no longer keep her, for 
 Decency's Sake ; and Betty, in revenge, 
 came up to Father before she left, and 
 told him a tissue of Lies concerning us, 
 — how that Mary had wished him dead, 
 and I had made away with his Books and 
 Kitchen-stuff. I, being at Hackney at the 
 Time, on a Visitt to Rosamond Woodcock, 
 was not by to refute the infamous Charge, 
 which had Time to rankle in Father's 
 Mind before I returned ; and Mary hav- 
 ing lost his Opinion by previous Squabbles 
 with Mother and the Maids, I came back 
 only to find the House turned upside 
 down. 'Twas under these misfortunate 
 Circumstances that poor Father com- 
 menced his Sampson Agonistes ; and, though 
 his Object was, primarily, to divert his 
 Mind, it too often ran upon Things 
 around him, and made his Poem the 
 Shadow and Mirrour of himself. When 
 he got to Dalilah, I could not forbear say- 
 ing, " How hard you are upon Women, 
 " Father ! " 
 
 " Hard ? " repeated he ; "I think I 
 
 "am 
 
352 Deborahs Diary 
 
 " am anything but that. Do you call 
 " me hard on Eve, and the Lady in 
 " Comus ? " 
 
 " No, indeed," I returned. " The 
 " Lady, like Una, makes Sunshine in a 
 " shady Place ; and, in fact, how should 
 " it be otherwise ? For Truth and Purity, 
 " like Diamonds, shine in the Dark." 
 
 He smiled, and, passing his Hand 
 across his Brow to re-collect himself, 
 went on in a freer, less biting Spirit, to 
 the Encounter with Harapha of Gath, in 
 which he evidently revelled, even to mak- 
 ing me laugh, when the big, cowardly 
 Giant excused himself from coming with- 
 in the blind Man's Reach, by saying of 
 him, that he had need of much washing 
 to be willingly touched. He went on 
 flowingly to 
 
 " But take good Heed my Hand survey not thee ; 
 " Jly Heels are fetter d, but my Fist is free" 
 
 and then broke into a merry Laugh him- 
 self ; adding, a Line or two after, 
 
 " His Giantship is gone, somczvhat crest-fallen ; 
 
 "... there, 
 
Deborahs Diary 353 
 
 "... there, Girl, that will do for To- 
 " day." 
 
 Meantime, his greater Poem had come 
 out, for which he had got an immediate 
 Payment of five Pounds, with a condi- 
 tional Expectance of fifteen Pounds more 
 on the three following Editions, should 
 the Public ever call for 'em. And truly, 
 when one considers how much Meat and 
 Drink One may buy for Twenty Pounds, 
 and how capricious is the Taste of the 
 critikal World, 'tis no mean Venture of 
 a Bookseller on a Manuscript of which 
 he knows the actual value as little as a 
 Salvage of the Gold-dust he parts with 
 for a Handful of old Nails. At all events, 
 the Sale of the Work gave Father no 
 Reason to suppose he had made an ill 
 Bargain ; but, indeed, he gave himself 
 very little Concern about it ; and was 
 quite satisfied when, now and then, Mr. 
 Marvell and Mr. Skinner, or some other 
 old Crony, having waded through it, 
 looked in on him to talk it over. Money, 
 indeed, a little more of it, would have 
 
 been 
 
354 Deborah's Diary 
 
 been often acceptable. Mother now be- 
 gan to pinch us pretty short, and lament 
 the unsaleable Quality of Father's Pro- 
 ductions ; also to call us a Set of lazy 
 Drones, and wonder what would come 
 of us some future Day ; insomuch that 
 Father, turning the Matter sedately in 
 his Mind, did seriously conclude 'twould 
 be well for us to go forth for a While, 
 to learn some Method of Self-support. 
 And this was accelerated by an unhappy 
 Collision 'twixt my Mother and me, 
 which, in a hasty Moment, sent me, 
 with swelling Heart, to take Counsel of 
 Mrs. Lefroy, my sometime Playfellow 
 Rosamond Woodcock, then on the Point 
 of embarking for Ireland; who volun- 
 teered to take me with her, and be at 
 my Charges ; so I took leave of Father 
 with a bursting Heart, not troubling 
 him with an Inkling of my Ill-usage, 
 which has been a Comfort to me ever 
 since, though he went to the Grave 
 believing I had only sought my own 
 Well-doing. 
 
 We 
 
Deborah's Diary 355 
 
 We never met again. Had I foreseen 
 it, I could not have left him. The next 
 Stroke was to get away Mary and Anne, 
 and take back Betty Fisher. Then the 
 nuncupative Will was hatched up ; for 
 I never will believe it authentick — no, 
 never ; and Sir Leoline Jenkins, that up- 
 right and able Judge, set it aside, albeit 
 Betty Fisher would swear through thick 
 and thin. 
 
 Sure, Things must have come to a 
 pretty Pass, when Father was brought to 
 take his Meals in the Kitchen ! a Thing 
 he had never been accustomed to in his 
 Life, save at Chalfont, by Reason of the 
 Parlour being so small. And the Words, 
 both as to Sense and Choice, which Betty 
 put into his Mouth, betrayed the Counter- 
 feit, by savouring overmuch of the Scul- 
 lion. " God have Mercy, Betty ! I see 
 " thou wilt perform according to thy 
 " Promise, in providing me such Dishes 
 " as I think fit whilst I live ; and when I 
 " die, thou knowest I have left thee all ! " 
 Phansy Father talking like that ! Were 
 
 I 
 
356 Deborah's Diary 
 
 I not so provoked, I could laugh. And 
 he to sell his Children's Birthright for a 
 Mess of Pottage, who, instead of loving 
 savoury Meat, like blind Isaac, was, in 
 fact, the most temperate of Men ! who 
 cared not what he ate, so 'twas sweet and 
 clean ; who might have said with godly 
 Mr. Ball of Whitmore, that he had two 
 Dishes of Meat to his Sabbath-dinner, — 
 a Dish of hot Milk, and a Dish of cold 
 Milk ; and that was enough and enough. 
 Whose Drink was from the Well ; — often 
 have I drawn it for him at Ghalfont ! — 
 and who called Bread-and-butter a lordly 
 Dish ; — often have I cut him thick Slices, 
 and brought him Cresses from the Spring ! 
 Well placed he his own Principle and 
 Practice in the Chorus's Mouth, where 
 they say, 
 
 "Oh, Madness! to think Use of strongest Wines 
 "And strongest Drinks our chief Support of 
 Health ! " 
 
 So that Story carries its Confutation 
 with it : Ned Phillips says so, too. As to 
 
 what 
 
Deborahs Diary 357 
 
 what passed, that July Forenoon, between 
 him and Uncle Kit, before the latter left 
 Town in the Ipswich Coach, and with 
 Betty Fisher fidgetting in and out of the 
 Chamber all the Time ... he may, or 
 may not have called us his unkind Chil- 
 dren ; for we can never tell what Reasons 
 had been given him to make him think 
 us so. That must stand over. How 
 many human Misapprehensions must do 
 the same ! Enough that one Eye sees all, 
 that one Spirit knows all . . . even all 
 our Misdoings ; or else, how could we 
 bear to tell Him even the least of them ? 
 But it requires great Faith in the greatly 
 wronged, to obtain that Calm of Mind, 
 all Passion spent, which some have arrived 
 at. When we can stand firm on that 
 Pinnacle, Satan falls prone. He sets us 
 on that dizzy Height, as he did our Mas- 
 ter ; saying, in his taunting Fashion, — 
 
 " There stand, if thou canst stand ; to stand upright 
 " Will ask thee Skill; " 
 
 but the Moment he sees we can, down 
 
 he 
 
358 Deborah's Diary 
 
 he goes himself! — falls whence he stood 
 to see his Victor fall ! This is what 
 Man has done, and Man may do, — and 
 Woman too ; the Strength, for asking, 
 being promised and given. 
 
 FINIS 
 
 Printed by Ballantvne, Hanson d^ Co. 
 Edinburgh &* London 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 In crown 8vo, with an Introduction by the Rev. W. H. Hutton, B.D., 
 
 and Twenty-five Illustrations by John Jellicoe and Herbert 
 
 Railton, price 6s. cloth elegant, gilt top. 
 
 The Household of 
 
 Sir Thos. More 
 
 SOME PRESS NOTICES 
 
 Spectator. — "A delightful book. . . . Twenty-five illustrations by 
 John Jellicoe and Herbert Railton show off the book to the best 
 advantage." 
 
 Graphic. — "A picture, not merely of great charm, but of infinite 
 value in helping the many to understand a famous Englishman and 
 the times in which he lived." 
 
 literary World. — " A charming reprint. . . . Every feature of the 
 pictorial work is in keeping with the spirit of the whole." 
 
 Scotsman. — "This clever work of the historical imagination has 
 gone through several editions, and is one of the most successful artistic 
 creations of its kind." 
 
 Glasgow Herald. — "An extremely beautiful reprint of the late 
 Miss Manning's quaint and charming work." 
 
 Sketch. — " In the front rank of the gift-books of the season is this 
 beautiful and very cleverly illustrated reprint of a work which has 
 lasting claims to popularity." 
 
 Magazine of Art. — "The grace and beauty of the late Miss 
 Manning's charming work, 'The Household Of Sir Thomas More,' 
 has been greatly enhanced by the new edition now put forth by Mr. 
 John C. Nimmo. . . . This remarkable work is not to be read without 
 keen delight." 
 
 Academy. — ' ' It is illustrated cleverly and prettily, and tastefully 
 bound, so as to make an attractive gift-book." 
 
 Liverpool Post. — ' ' We welcome the tasteful reprint with its 
 artistic illustrations by John Jellicoe and Herbert Railton, and its 
 helpful introduction by the Rev. W. H. Hutton." 
 
 London : JOHN C. NIMMO, 14 King William St., Strand. 
 
B Y THE SAME A UTHOR 
 
 In crown 8vo, with an Introduction by the Rev. W. H. Hutton, B.D. , 
 
 and Twenty-six Illustrations by John Jellicoe and Herbert 
 
 Railton, price 6s. cloth elegant, gilt top. 
 
 Cherry & Violet 
 
 A Tale of the Great Plague 
 
 SOME PRESS NOTICES 
 
 Athenaeum. — "The late Miss Manning's delicate and fanciful little 
 cameos of historical romance possess a flavour of their own. . . . The 
 numerous illustrations by Mr. Jellicoe and Mr. Railton are particularly 
 pretty. " 
 
 Sketch. — "A beautiful book! is the verdict, and one to read and 
 read again. A similar verdict is to be passed on the drawings with 
 which Messrs. Herbert Railton and John Jellicoe have enriched this 
 edition, for which the Rev. W. H. Hutton has written a sympathetic 
 prefatory note." 
 
 Daily Chronicle. — " We cannot doubt that ' Cherry and Violet ' in 
 its present attractive form will gain many new readers and still delight 
 the old." 
 
 British Review. — " ' Cherry and Violet ' is a tale of the early years 
 of the Stuart Restoration, of the Plague, and of the Fire of London. 
 It is told with all the grace and skill which characterises ' Mary Powell.' 
 . . . The book is well worthy of the attention of every one to whom 
 Miss Manning's name and writings are unknown." 
 
 Literary World. — " Nearly thirty illustrations by Mr. John Jellicoe 
 and Mr. Herbert Railton enrich the volume, and materially help to 
 make it a dainty and acceptable book for presentation purposes." 
 
 Scotsman. — "Charmingly illustrated. . . . The book is all the 
 more valuable, too, for a genial and recommendatory introduction 
 from the pen of the Rev. W. Hutton." 
 
 Magazine of Art. — "With such a work of fiction before her as 
 Defoe's ' Journal of the Plague,' Miss Manning showed not only extra- 
 ordinary courage, but even a touch of genius, in approaching a similar 
 theme, and dealing with it charmingly and successfully. It is her own 
 grace and charm which have rendered this book worth preserving, fit 
 to place with others of our foremost women writers." 
 
 Pnhllc Opinion. — " It is an example of a pure and beautiful style 
 of literature." 
 
 Saturday Review. — " A very well written tale of the Great Plague. " 
 
 London: JOHN C. NIMMO, 14 King William St., Strand.