Mary Powell & Deborah's Diary Part 13

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

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

_October, 1646_.

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

After Breakfast, I well know the Boys' Lessons will last till Noone. I therefore goe to my Closett Duties after my _Forest Hill_ Fashion; thence to Market, buy what I neede, come Home, look to my Maids, give forthe needfulle Stores, then to my Needle, my Books, or perchance to my Lute, which I woulde faine play better. From twelve to one is the Boys' Hour of Pastime; and it may generallie be sayd, my Husband's and mine too. He draws aside the green Curtain,--for we sit mostly in a large Chamber shaped like the Letter T, and thus divided while at our separate Duties: my End is the pleasantest, has the Sun most upon it, and hath a Balcony overlooking a Garden. At one, we dine; always on simple, plain Dishes, but drest with Neatnesse and Care. Olde Mr. _Milton_ sits at my right Hand and says Grace; and, though growing a little deaf, enters into alle the livelie Discourse at Table. He loves me to help him to the tenderest, by Reason of his Losse of Teeth. My Husband careth not to sitt over the Wine; and hath noe sooner finished the Cheese and Pippins than he reverts to the Viol or Organ, and not onlie sings himself, but will make me sing too, though he sayth my Voice is better than my Ear.

Never was there such a tunefulle Spiritt. He alwaies tears himself away at laste, as with a Kind of Violence, and returns to his Books at six o'

the Clock. Meantime, his old Father dozes, and I sew at his Side.

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

On Sabbaths, besides the publick Ordinances of Devotion, which I cannot, with alle my striving, bring myself to love like the Services to which I have beene accustomed, we have much Reading, Singing, and Discoursing among ourselves. The Maids sing, the Boys sing, _Hubert_ sings, olde Mr.

_Milton_ sings; and trulie with soe much of it, I woulde sometimes as lief have them quiete. The _Sheepscote_ Sundays suited me better. The Sabbath Exercise of the Boys is to read a Chapter in the _Greek_ Testament, heare my Husband expounde the same; and write out a System of Divinitie as he dictates to them, walking to and fro. In listening thereto, I find my Pleasure and Profitt.

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

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 _d.i.c.k_ and _Harry_, but withal a most wonderfull Reverence for my Husband, whom they courte to read and recite, and provoke to pleasant Argument, never prolonged to Wearinesse, and seasoned with Frolic Jest and Witt. Olde Mr. _Milton_ joyns not these Parties. I leave him alwaies to _Dolly's_ Care, firste providing for him a Sweetbread or some smalle Relish, such as he loves.

He is in Bed ere we return, which is oft by Moonlighte.

How soone must Smiles give Way to Tears! Here is a Letter from deare _Mother_, taking noe Note of what I write to her, and for good Reason, she is soe distraught at her owne and deare _Father's_ ill Condition.

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

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

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

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

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

DEBORAH'S DIARY

A FRAGMENT

_Bunhill Fields, Feb. 17, 1665_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

About One o' the Clock, was rouzed (though _Anne_ continued sleeping soundly) by hearing Father give his three Signal-taps agaynst the Wall.

Half drest, and with bare Feet thrust into Slippers, I hastily ran in to him; he cried, "_Deb_, for the Love of Heaven get Pen and Paper to sett Something down." I replied, "Sure, Father, you gave me quite a Turn; I thought you were ill," and sett to my Task, marvellous ill-conditioned, expecting some Crotchet had taken him concerning his Will.

'Stead of which, out comes a Volley of Poetry he had lain a brewing till his Brain was like to burst; and soe I, in my thin Night Cotes, must needs jot it all down, for Feare it should ooze away before Morning.

Sure, I thought he never woulde get to the End, and really feared at firste he was crazing a little, but indeede all Poets doe when the Vein is on 'em. At length, with a Sigh of Relief, he says, "That will doe--Good-night, little Maid." I coulde not help saying, "'Twas a lucky Thing for you, Father, that Step-mother was from Home;" he laught, drew me to him, kissed me, and sayd, "Why, your Face is quite cold--are your Feet unslippered?"

"Unstockinged," I replyed.

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

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

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

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

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

"Bring to their Sweetness no Sobriety."

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

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

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

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