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. Dick 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 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 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 Dick 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 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 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, 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 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.



Sept. 21, 1643.

Battle 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, 1643.

Alle Sadnesse and Consternation. 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. 28, 1643.

A most displeased Letter from my Husband, minding me that my Leave of Absence hath expired, and that he likes not the Messages he received through Ralph, nor the unreasonable and hurtfulle Pastimes which he finds have beene making 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, insisting, with more Authoritie than Kindnesse, on my immediate Return.

With Tears in my Eyes, I have beene to my Father. I have tolde him I must goe. He sayth, 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 sayd, my Month had expired. He sayd, Nonsense, he had always askt me to stay over Michaelmasse, till his Birthday; 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 Answer. 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; therefore, 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 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 with 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 two Enemies instead of one. Goe, help thy Mother with her clear-starching. Be happy whilst thou art here."

But ah! more easily said than done. "Alle Joy is darkened; the Mirthe of the Land is gone!"



Michaelmasse Day.

At Squire Paice's grand Dinner we have been counting on soe many Days; but it gave me not the Pleasure expected.



Oct. 13, 1643.

The 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 above, heard very angrie Voices in the Courtyard, my Father's especiallie, louder than common; and distinguished 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 Mischiefe, 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 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, 1643.

Rose 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 farther 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 he will doe so, is my firm Persuasion. Meanwhile, I make it my Duty to joyn with some Attempt at Cheerfullenesse in the Amusements of others, to make my Father's Confinement to the House less irksome; and have in some Measure succeeded.



Oct. 23, 1643.

Noe Sighte nor Tidings of Mr. Milton.—I am uneasie, 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, methinks, 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. 24, 1643.

Thro' dank and miry Lanes and Bye-roads with Robin, to Sheepscote.

Waiting for Rose in Mr. Agnew's 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; soe will try Studdy for a while, and see if 'twill cure this dull Payn at my Heart.



Oct. 28, 1643.

Robin and I have shut ourselves up for three Hours dailie, in the small Book-room, and have made fayre Progresse. He liketh his Office of Tutor mightilie.



Oct. 31, 1643.

My Lessons are more crabbed, or I am more dull and inattentive, 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 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 Pleasure in anticipating another. Ah me! had I loved Mr. Milton more, perhaps I might better have endured the Taylor's Shop.



Sheepscote, Nov. 20, 1643.

Annoyed by Dick's Companions, I prayed Father to let me stay awhile with Rose; and gaining his Consent, came over here Yester-morn, without thinking it needfulle to send Notice, which was perhaps inconsiderate. But she received me with Kisses and Words of Tendernesse, 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 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 Legend of Holinesse, 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 my Attention, they seemed to spread a Calm and a Peace alle about, that extended 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. 21,1643.

This Morning, Rose exclaimed, "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 replyed, I learned very slowly, and wearied Robin's Patience; on which Rose, kissing me, cried, "You will never wearie mine; soe, if you please, deare Moll, we will goe to our Lessons here everie Morning; 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 sayed he would not interrupt our Studdies, though he should be within Call, and soe left us. I had not felt soe happy since Father's Birthday; 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. Oh! if Milton lived but in the poorest House in the Countrie, methinks I coulde be very happy with him.



Bedtime.

Chancing to make the above Remark to Rose, she cried, "And why not be happy with him in Aldersgate 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 started, and exclaimed, "Why, where do you suppose him to be now?" "Where but at the Taylor's in 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 that he has long since taken Possession of his new Home; that he strove to have it ready for you at Michaelmasse!"

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 leaving undone!—of what you are preparing against yourself! To put the Wickednesse of a selfish Course out of the Account, onlie think of its Mellancholie, its Miserie,—destitute of alle the sweet, bright, fresh Well-springs of Happinesse;—unblest by God!"

Here Rose wept passionatelie, and claspt her Arms about me; but, when I began 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, 1643.

Now that I am at Forest Hill agayn, I will essay to continue 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 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 uncertain, I hearde a distant Clatter of Horse's Feet, on the hard Road a good Way off, and could descrie Dick coming towards Sheepscote. Rose saw him too, and commenced running towards me; Mr. Agnew following with long Strides. Rose drew me back into the House, and sayd, kissing 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, remember, 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 quitting it you committed a Fault you may yet repaire, though this offensive Act has made the Difficultie much greater."—"Oh, what has happened?" I impatientlie cried. Just then, Dick comes in 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 interrupted, 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 pleasant to me just now as it hath commonlie beene, by Reason of your Oxford Companions. 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 to bid Cicely hasten Dinner; the which I did, tho' thinking it strange Rose should not goe herself. But, as I returned, I hearde her say, Not a Word of it, dear Dick, at the least, till after Dinner, 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 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 Sheepscote?" Thereat I coulde not refrayn from bursting into Tears. Rose now sprang forward; but Mr. Agnew sayd, "Let her weep, let her weep, it will do her good." Then, alle at once it occurred to me that my Husband was awaiting me at Home, and I cried, "Oh, is Mr. Milton at Forest Hill?" and felt my Heart full of Gladness. Mr. Agnew answered, "Not soe, not soe, poor Moll:" and, looking up at him, I saw him wiping 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 Husband should be angry? How can you wonder at anie Evil that may result from the Provocation you have given 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 replyd, "and I seeke not to excuse him, since two Wrongs make not a Right." "But," I cried, passionately weeping, "I have given him noe Cause; my Heart has never for a Moment strayed to another, nor does he, I am sure, expect it." "Ne'erthelesse," 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 publishing 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 Waywardness, 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 controule; 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 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 domestic 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 regrettfullie 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 downright crazie aboute this Businesse, and mistrustfulle of Agnew's Influence over you,"—and would have gone on railing, 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 almost drove me mad. And, just as I was thinking I had better lived out my Dayes and dyed earlie in Bride's Churchyarde than that alle this should have come about, the suddain Recollection of what 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 Embraces of my Father and Mother completed 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. 1, 1644.

The new Year opens drearilie, on Affairs both publick 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, 1644.

I am sick of this journalling, soe shall onlie put 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 repeated. When he kissed me, he whispered, "Moll, pray for me."



Jan. 27, 1644.

Father 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 Separation 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 leaving it.



Feb. 1, 1644.

Oh 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 Journall, and tearing out much childish Nonsense 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, 1644.

I 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 to goe neare it, but my Brothers are much there, and Father in his Farm, and Mother in her Kitchen; and the Neighbours, when they call, look on me strangelie, so that I have noe Love for them. How different is Rose's holy, secluded, yet cheerefulle Life at Sheepscote! She hath a Nurserie now, soe cannot come to me, and Father likes not I should goe to her.



April 5, 1644.

They say their Majestyes' Parting at Abingdon was very sorrowfulle and tender. 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 Summer, 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 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, 1644.

Father, having a Hoarseness, hath deputed me, of late, to read the Morning and Evening Prayers. How beautifulle is our Liturgie! I grudge at the Puritans for having abolished it; and though I felt not its comprehensive Fullessse [Transcriber's note: Fullnesse?] before I married, nor indeed till now, yet I wearied to Death in London at the puritanicall Ordinances and Conscience-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 is more at his Mercy and Caprice than when he hath a printed Form set down, wherein he sees what is coming?



June 8, 1644.

Walking in the Home-close this Morning, it occurred 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 Enjoyment of mine, and perhaps of his. Lord, be merciful to me a Sinner.



June 23, 1644.

Just after writing the above, I was in the Garden, gathering a few Coronation Flowers and Sops-in-Wine, and thinking they were of deeper crimson at Sheepscote, and wondering what Rose was just 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?

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 friendlie 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 Churchyard, 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 Introduction took out his Psalter, and commenced reading the Psalms for that Evening's Service; to wit, the 41st, the 42d, the 43de; 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 graduallie 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 Service, 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 happened 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 unconnected with Sin, together with others that are unknowne and unspeakable. 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 actuall 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 distilled like the Dew, or the small Rain on the tender Grasse, did Roger Agnew comfort 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 lingering Disease.

hen 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. Agnew's Wish, gone much among the Poor, reading to one, working for another, 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 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 Houghton, 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 Bride's Churchyarde.—But it profits not to wish and to will.—What was to be, had Need to be, soe there's an End.



Aug. 1, 1644.

Mr. Agnew sayd to me this Morning, somewhat gravelie, "I observe, Cousin, you seem to consider yourselfe the Victim of Circumstances." "And am I not?" I replied. "No," he answered, "Circumstance is a false God, unrecognised by the Christian, who contemns him, though a stubborn yet a profitable Servant."—"That may be alle very grand for a Man to doe," I sayd. "Very grand, but very feasible, for a Woman as well as a Man," rejoined Mr. Agnew, "and we shall be driven to the Wall alle our Lives, unless we have this victorious Struggle with Circumstances. I seldom allude, Cousin, to yours, which are almoste too delicate 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 uncomfortable 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 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 recruited; 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? 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. Milton woulde not receive me now."

"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 sharplie. "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. Forgive 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 tonight. And they will grow all the faster.)

. . . Oh, my sad Heart, Roger Agnew hath pierced you at last!

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 Resentment 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 uncomfortable 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 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. Rose's 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 grufflie,—"what am I to write?"

"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 Impatience. "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. Agnew, 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 chidden for the Waywardnesse in which it persists."

"You doe me Wrong everie Way," I sayd; "I came to you willing and desirous 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 conducted 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.—Because you chid me and frightened me."

He stood silent, some While, upon this; grave, yet softer, and mechanicallie playing with the Key, which he had taken from my Hand. Rose looking in his Face 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 hitherto, 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 Reunion 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 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 certayn 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 Sympathie? 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 Character 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. '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 promoted your Marriage as far as my Interest with your Father had Weight. I own I was surprised at his easilie 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 then, after some warm and cool Words, our Correspondence languished; and hath but now beene renewed."

"He hath written us a most kind Condolence," interrupted Rose, "on the Death of our Baby."

"Yes, most kindlie, most nobly exprest," 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 myself 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 to come in, and condoled with me, and advised me, soe as that at length my Weeping bated, and I promised to return below when I shoulde have bathed mine Eyes and smoothed my Hair; but I have not gone down yet.



Bedtime.

I think I shall send to Father to have me Home at the Beginning of next Week. Rose needes me not, now; and it cannot be pleasant to Mr. Agnew to see my sorrowfulle Face about the House. His Reproofe and my Husband'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 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 Sewing 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.

I 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 Night.

Mr. Agnew's religious Services at the End of 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, fervent, and thoughtfulle, methinks there would be fewer Schismaticks; but still there woulde be some, because there are alwaies some that like to be the uppermost.

. . . 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 unwonted Relief, that since I entered into my Closet, I have repeated the same particularlie; one Request seeming to grow out of another, till I remained I know 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.

How 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 unfortunate 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, 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 henceforthe, 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 Beehives. Made manie Resolutions, which, in Church, I converted into Prayers and Promises. Hence, my holy Peace.



Monday.

Rose proposed, this Morning, we shoulde resume our Studdies. Felt loath to comply, but did soe neverthelesse, 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.

How 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 ourselves reasonable in wishing some small 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.

Took 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 Gambols. Mr. Agnew lay on the Grasse, and Rose took out her Knitting, whereat he laught, and sayd she was like the Dutch Women, that must knit, whether mourning or feasting, and even on the Sabbath. Having laught her out of her Work, he drew forth Mr. George Herbert's 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 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 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 I 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, I bud agayn, After soe manie Deaths, I bud and write, I once more smell the Dew and Rain, 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 Flowers 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 theire Pride.



Thursday.

Father 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.

Life flows away here in such unmarked Tranquilitie, that one hath Nothing whereof to write, or to remember 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 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 Bexa, concerning the French Reformed Church; oft prolix, yet interesting, especially with Mr. Agnew's Comments, and Allusions to our own Time. On the other Hand, Rose reads Davila, the sworne Apologiste of Catherine de' Medicis, 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, and if those same Authorities abuse their Trust? Nay, Women cannot understand these Matters, and I thank Heaven they need not. Onlie, they cannot 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 Bibles 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, comprehensive 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.

On Monday, I return to Forest Hill. I am well pleased to have yet another Sheepscote 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 Hill, August 3, 1644.

Home 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 Larder, there is manie a wholesome Scrap at my Disposal, and there are likewise sundrie Physiques in my Mother's Closet, which she addeth to Year by Year, and never wants, we are soe seldom ill.



Aug. 5, 1644.

Dear Father sayd this Evening, 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 Companion 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 myself to please; but, within, all is dark Shade, or at best, grey Twilight; and my Spiritts are, in Fact, worse here than they were at Sheepscote, 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 relieve 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 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 entertayned 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 before 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. Agnew'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 commended my Modesty. But we progressed well, and he soon had the Discourse all to himself, for Squire Paice 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 Letters, 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! 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 in the Exercise of the Charities than of the Affections. Safer: for, not to consider how a successfulle or unsuccessfulle 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, Marcellus, eris,'—or of Wives for their Husbands, as Artemisia and Laodamia, sometimes amounting to Idolatry—nay, the Love of Friend for Friend, with alle its 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 Torment than Profit: even if the Attachment be 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. 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 Happinesse, 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 manifold 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 Queene, soe lately read to us by Mr. Agnew, wherein the Red Cross Knight and Una were shown Mercy at her Work.



Aug. 10, 1644.

A Pack-horse from Sheepscote just reported, laden with a goodlie Store of Books, besides sundrie smaller Tokens of Rose's thoughtfulle 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 publick and Dullnesse of private Affairs.

Made out the Meaning of "Cynosure" and "Cimmerian Darknesse." . . .



Aug. 15, 1644.

Full 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 Division between us? My Father is outrageous 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, 1644.

Dick beginneth to fancie himself in Love with Audrey Paice—an Attachment that will doe him noe good: his Tastes alreadie 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, 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 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, 1644.

Harry 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, etc., of Skippon's Men have fallen into the Hands 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.



Sheepscote, Oct. 10, 1644.

How 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 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 sweeping the Walk. The Sun, shining with mellow Light on the mown Grass and fresh dipt Hornbeam Hedges, made even the commonest Objects distinct and cheerfulle; and the Air was soe cleare, we coulde hear the Village Childreh 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 Paice, though my Mother likes it not.



Oct. 15, 1644.

Rose is quite in good Spiritts now, and we goe on most harmoniouslie and happilie. 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 inclined to attribute it to a higher Source than that; and yet, there was doubtlesse a great Knack in teaching, and there was 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 onlie 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 beene given me, of "cleaving Mischief." I knew not he knew of it, and was checked, though I laught it off.



Oct. 16, 1644.

Walking together, this Morning, Rose was avised to say, "Did Mr. Milton ever tell you the Adventures of the Italian Lady?" "Rely on it he never did," sayd 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 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 outlandish in its Build; and within it, two Ladies, one of them having the fayrest Face I ever set Eyes on, present Companie 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 Surprise at seeing Milton asleep beneath it; and in prettie dumb Shew, which we watcht sharplie, exprest their Admiration of his Appearance and Posture, which woulde have suited an Arcadian well enough. The younger Lady, hastilie 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, Ministre de miei Mali, Se, chiusi, m' uccidete, Aperti, che farete?

"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 'il bruno il bel non toglie;' whereas, King, in his Mischief, drew a fancy Portrait, much liker you, 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, rustic Horse-pistol. His Countenance changed at once from gay to grave. "I thought we had noe such Things hereabouts yet," cried he, viewing 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 alwaies modest, are they?—Then I should say that young Italian Lady's Genius was not of the first Class.



Oct. 19, 1644.

Speaking, to-day, of Mr. Waller, whom I had once seen at Uncle John's, Mr. Agnew sayd he had obtayned 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 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 compensate for the fatal Pride of Sacharissa, is soe fullesome and untrue as noe Woman, not devoured by Conceite, coulde endure; 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 Personation, yet, like antique Statues and Busts well placed in some statelie Pleasaunce, they are alwaies appropriate and gracefulle, which is more than can be sayd of Mr. Waller's overstrayned Figures and Metaphors.



Oct. 20, 1644.

News from Home: alle well. Audrey Paice 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.



Oct. 24, 1644.

Richard 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-morrow. Clover was in a Heat, which 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. Agnew.



Oct. 27, 1644.

Alas, 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 Robin's Bedside, Saturday Night.

Oh, 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, 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.

Poor 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 Kindnesse. I must sleep to-night, that I may 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.

Rose and Mr. Agnew come to abide with us for some Days. How thankfulle am I! Tears have relieved me.

Robin worse to-day. Father quite subdued. Mr. Agnew will sit up to-night, and insists on my sleeping.

Crab howled under my Window yesternight 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.

After 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 Robin's 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 Ventilation of Robin's Chamber, and prevented his hearing soe manie Noises. Alsoe, showed me how to make a pleasant cooling Drink, which he likes better than the warm Liquids, and which she assures me he may take with perfect Safetie.



Same Evening.

Robin vext, even to Tears, because the Doctor forbids the use of his cooling Drink, though it hath certainlie abated the Fever. At his Wish I stept down to intercede with the Doctor, then closetted with my Father, to discourse, as I supposed, of Robin's Symptoms. Insteade 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 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 towards Midnight. Rose insisted in taking the last Half of my Watch.

I know not that I was ever more sorelie 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 Implements at Hand, I wrote a Letter to Mr. Milton, which, though the Fancy of sending it soon died away, yet eased my Mind. When not in Prayer, I often find myself silently talking to him.



Wednesday.

Waking late after my scant Night's Rest, I found my Breakfaste neatlie layd out in the little Ante-chamber, 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, tolde 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 Illness 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, somewhat reluctantlie, I did; but the bright Daylight and warm Sun had no good Effect on my Spiritts: on the Contrarie, nothing in blythe Nature seeming in unison with my Sadnesse, Tears flowed without relieving me.