Mary Powell & Deborah's Diary Part 4

"On a Daye, there was a certain Child 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 accosted, 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?

_Sat.u.r.day_.

I have just done somewhat for Master _Ned_ which he coulde not doe for himselfe--_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 agreed to print them. I sayd, I was sorrie I shoulde be unable to read them. He sayd he was sorry too; he must translate them for me. I thanked him, but observed that Traductions were never soe good as Originalls. He rejoyned, "Nor am I even a good Translator." 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 understand 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 _English_, 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 deliberate 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 Fancy and Skill may give. Neither Laziness nor Caprice makes me difficult in my Choice; for, the longer I am in selecting my Tree, and laying my Axe to the 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 Discipline:--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_.

In the Clouds agayn. At Dinner, to-daye, Mr. _Milton_ 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 sayd, "I was not." n.o.bodie spoke; but I repented the Falsitie the Moment 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_.

_Jack_ sayd this Morning, "I know Something--I know _Aunt_ keeps a Journall." "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 his 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 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 profitable 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, untill I had attained a better Frame of Mind.

_Sat.u.r.day Even_.

I have kept Silence, yea, even from good Words, but it has beene a Payn and Griefe unto me. Good Mistress _Catherine Thompson_ 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 it 'twere possible it mighte not be soe alreadie,) that I felt for a Season quite heartened; but it has alle faded away. Because the Source of Cheerfulnesse is not _in_ me, anie more than in a dull Landskip, which the Sun lighteneth for awhile, 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 interest me. Then, 'tis no small Thing to be continuallie deemed ignorant and misinformed, and to have one's Errors continuallie 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 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. 15, 1643_.

Mr. _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, tonighte, through that long, long Sermon, for your Sake." "And why not for _G.o.d's_ Sake?" cried he, "why not for 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 _G.o.d_--and oh! thinke of the Depth of Meaning in those Words! think what it is for us to be capable of giving _G.o.d_ Pleasure!"

--Much more, in the same Vein! to which I could not, with equal Power, respond; soe, he away to his Studdy, to pray perhaps for my Change of Heart, and I to my Bed.

_Sat.u.r.day, Aug. 21, 1643_.

Oh Heaven! can it be possible? 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 Bride? and lay awake on that Bed, thinking of _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_, p.r.o.nouncing me either ill or unhappie.

Thereupon, _Richard_, with his usuall Impetuositie, prevayled on _Father_ to let him and _Ralph_ fetch me Home for a While, at leaste till after _Michaelma.s.se_.

How surprised was I to see _d.i.c.k_ 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 _d.i.c.k_, and then _d.i.c.k_ sayd bluntly, he hoped Mr. _Milton_ woulde spare me to go Home till after _Michaelma.s.se_, and _Father_ had sent him on Purpose to say 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 intended 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 I _shoulde_, and then he gazed earnestlie at me and lookt hurt; and there was a dead Silence. Then _d.i.c.k_, 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 _d.i.c.k_ answered 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 travelling 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 _d.i.c.k_ was for our 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 _d.i.c.k_ 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 Husband with less Affection than I mighte have shewn, and onlie began to find my Spiritts lighten when we were fairly quit of _London_, with its vile Sewers and Drains, and to breathe the sweete, pure Morning Ayre, as we rode swiftlie along.

_d.i.c.k_ called _London_ a vile Place, and spake to _Ralph_ concerning what they had seen 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 _d.i.c.k_ 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 _d.i.c.k_ 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 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_, etc. Deare _Mother_ is most kind. The Maids as oft call me Mrs. _Molly_ as Mrs.

_Milton_, and then smile, and beg Pardon. _Rose_ and _Agnew_ have been here, and have made me promise to visit _Sheepscote_ before I return to _London_. The whole House seems full of Glee.

_Monday_.

It seemes quite strange to heare _d.i.c.k_ and _Harry_ singing loyal Songs and drinking the _King's_ 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 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 _d.i.c.k_? _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 _d.i.c.k_, to get me Home, had exaggerated a trifling Illness of _Father's_, but that I was guiltlesse of it. He sayd _d.i.c.k_ 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 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 Joyfulnesse, 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_.

My Husband hath writ to me strangelie, chiding me most unkindlie for what was noe Fault of mine, to wit, _d.i.c.k'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 methinks 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 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 permitting, is to take Place tomorrow. '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_.

The whole of Yesterday occupyde with our Visit. I love Lady _Falkland_ well, yet her religious Mellanchollie 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 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.