——What a solemne, pompous Prigge is this Doctor! He cries "humph!" and "aye!" and bites his Nails and screws his Lips together, but I don't believe he understands soe much of Physick, after alle, as Mr. Agnew.

Father came Home fulle of the Rebels' Doings, but as for me, I shoulde hear them thundering at our Gate with Apathie, except insofar as I feared their distressing Robin.

Audrey rode over with her Father, this Morn, to make Enquiries. She might have come sooner had she meant to be anie reall Use to a Family she has thought of entering. Had Rose come to our Help as late in the Day, we had been poorlie off.



Thursday.

May Heaven in its Mercy save us from the evil Consequence of this new Mischance!—Richard, jealous at being allowed so little Share in nursing Robin, whom he sayd he loved as well as anie did, would sit up with him last Night, along with Mother. Twice I heard him snoring, and stept in to prevail on him to change Places, but coulde not get him to stir. A third Time he fell asleep, and, it seems, Mother slept too; and Robin, in his Fever, got out of Bed and drank near a Quart of colde Water, waking Dick by setting down the Pitcher. Of course the Bustle soon reached my listening Ears. Dick, to do him Justice, was frightened enough, and stole away to his Bed without a Word of Defence; but poor Mother, who had been equallie off her Watch, made more Noise about it than was good for Robin; who, neverthelesse, we having warmlie covered up, burst into a profuse Heat, and fell into a sound Sleep, which hath now holden him manie Hours. Mr. Agnew augureth favourablie of his waking, but we await it in prayerfulle Anxietie.

——The Crisis is past! and the Doctor sayeth he alle along expected it last Night, which I cannot believe, but Father and Mother doe. At alle Events, praised be Heaven, there is now hope that deare Robin may recover. Rose and I have mingled Tears, Smiles, and Thankgivings; Mr. Agnew hath expressed Gratitude after a more collected Manner, and endeavoured to check the somewhat ill-governed Expression of Joy throughout the House; warning the Servants, but especiallie Dick and Harry, that Robin may yet have a Relapse.

With what Transport have I sat beside dear Robin's Bed, returning his fixed, earnest, thankfulle Gaze, and answering the feeble Pressure of his Hand!—Going into the Studdy just now, I found Father crying like a Child—the first Time I have known him give Way to Tears during Robin's Ilnesse. Mr. Agnew presentlie came in, and composed him better than I coulde.



Saturday.

Robin better, though still very weak. Had his Bed made, and took a few Spoonfuls of Broth.



Sunday.

A very different Sabbath from the last. Though Robin's Constitution hath received a Shock it may never recover, his comparative Amendment fills us with Thankfulnesse; and our chastened Suspense hath a sweet Solemnitie and Trustfullenesse in it, which pass Understanding.

Mr. Agnew conducted our Devotions. This Morning, I found him praying with Robin—I question if it were for the first Time. Robin looking on him with eyes of such sedate Affection!



Thursday.

Robin still progressing. Dear Rose and Mr. Agnew leave us to-morrow, but they will soon come agayn. Oh faithful Friends!

* * * * * *

April, 1646.

Can Aniething equall the desperate Ingratitude of the human Heart? Testifie of it, Journall, agaynst me. Here did I, throughout the incessant Cares and Anxieties of Robin's Sicknesse, find, or make Time, for almoste dailie Record of my Trouble; since which, whole Months have passed without soe much as a scrawled Ejaculation of Thankfullenesse that the Sick hath beene made whole.

Yet, not that that Thankfullenesse hath beene unfelt, nor, though unwritten, unexprest. Nay, O Lord, deeplie, deeplie have I thanked thee for thy tender Mercies. And he healed soe slowlie, that Suspense, as 'twere, wore itself out, and gave Place to a dull, mournful Persuasion that an Hydropsia would waste him away, though more slowlie, yet noe less surelie than the Fever.

Soe Weeks lengthened into Months, I mighte well say Years, they seemed soe long! and stille he seemed to neede more Care and Tendernesse; till, just as he and I had learnt to say, "Thy Will, O Lord, be done," he began to gain Flesh, his craving Appetite moderated, yet his Food nourished him, and by God's Blessing he recovered!

During that heavie Season of Probation, our Hearts were unlocked, and we spake oft to one another of Things in Heaven and Things in Earth. Afterwards, our mutuall Reserves returned, and Robin, methinks, became shyer than before, but there can never cease to be a dearer Bond between us. Now we are apart, I aim to keep him mindfulle of the high and holie Resolutions he formed in his Sicknesse; and though he never answers these Portions of my Letters, I am avised to think he finds them not displeasing.

Now that Oxford is like to be besieged, my Life is more confined than ever; yet I cannot, and will not leave Father and Mother, even for the Agnews, while they are soe much harassed. This Morning, my Father hath received a Letter from Sir Thomas Glemham, requiring a larger Quantitie of winnowed Wheat, than, with alle his Loyaltie, he likes to send.



April 23, 1646.

Ralph Hewlett hath just looked in to say, his Father and Mother have in Safetie reached London, where he will shortlie joyn them, and to ask, is there anie Service he can doe me? Ay, truly; one that I dare not name—he can bring me Word of Mr. Milton, of his Health, of his Looks, of his Speech, and whether . . .

Ralph shall be noe Messenger of mine.



April 24, 1646.

Talking of Money Matters this Morning, Mother sayd Something that brought Tears into mine Eyes. She observed, that though my Husband had never beene a Favourite of hers, there was one Thing wherein she must say he had behaved generously: he had never, to this Day, askt Father for the 500 pounds which had brought him, in the first Instance, to Forest Hill, (he having promised old Mr. Milton to try to get the Debt paid,) and the which, on his asking for my Hand, Father tolde him shoulde be made over sooner or later, in lieu of Dower.

Did Rose know the Bitter-sweet she was imparting to me, when she gave me, by Stealth as 'twere, the latelie publisht Volume of my Husband's English Versing? It hath beene my Companion ever since; for I had perused the Comus but by Snatches, under the Disadvantage of crabbed Manuscript. This Morning, to use his owne deare Words:—

I sat me down to watch, upon a Bank, With Ivy canopied, and interwove With flaunting Honeysuckle, and beganne, Wrapt in a pleasing Fit of Melancholic, To meditate.

The Text of my Meditation was this, drawne from the same loved Source:—

This I hold firm: Virtue may be assayled, but never hurt, Surprised by unjust Force, but not enthralled: Yea, even that which Mischief meant most Harm, Shall, in the happy Trial, prove most Glory.

But who hath such Virtue? have I? hath he? No, we have both gone astray, and done amiss, and wrought sinfullie; but I worst, I first, therefore more neede that I humble myself, and pray for both.

There is one, more unhappie, perhaps, than either. The King, most misfortunate Gentleman! who knoweth not which Way to turn, nor whom to trust. Last Time I saw him, methought never was there a Face soe full of Woe.



May 6, 1646.

The King hath escaped! He gave Orders overnight at alle the Gates, for three Persons to passe; and, accompanied onlie by Mr. Ashburnham, and Mr. Hurd, rode forthe at Nightfalle, towards London. Sure, he will not throw himselfe into the Hands of Parliament?

Mother is affrighted beyond Measure at the near Neighbourhood of Fairfax's Army, and entreats Father to leave alle behind, and flee with us into the City. It may yet be done; and we alle share her Feares.



Saturday Even.

Packing up in greate haste, after a confused Family Council, wherein some fresh Accounts of the Rebels' Advances, broughte in by Diggory, made my Father the sooner consent to a stolen Flight into Oxford, Diggory being left behind in Charge. Time of Flight, to-morrow after Dark, the Puritans being busie at theire Sermons. The better the Day, the better the Deede.—Heaven make it soe!



Tuesday.

Oxford; in most most confined and unpleasant Lodgings; but noe Matter, manie better and richer than ourselves fare worse, and our King hath not where to lay his Head. 'Tis sayd he hath turned his Course towards Scotland. There are Souldiers in this House, whose Noise distracts us. Alsoe, a poor Widow Lady, whose Husband hath beene slayn in these Wars. The Children have taken a feverish Complaynt, and require incessant tending. Theire Beds are far from cleane, in too little Space, and ill aired.



May 20, 1646.

The Widow Lady goes about visiting the Sick, and woulde faine have my Companie. The Streets have displeased me, being soe fulle of Men; however, in a close Hoode I have accompanied her sundrie Times. 'Tis a good Soul, and full of pious Works and Alms-deedes.



May 27, 1646.

Diggory hath found his Way to us, alle dismaied, and bringing Dismay with him, for the Rebels have taken and ransacked our House, and turned him forthe. "A Plague on these Wars!" as Father says. What are we to doe, or how live, despoyled of alle? Father hath lost, one Way and another, since the Civil War broke out, three thousand Pounds, and is now nearlie beggared. Mother weeps bitterlie, and Father's Countenance hath fallen more than ever I saw it before. "Nine Children!" he exclaimed, just now; "and onlie one provided for!" His Eye fell upon me for a Moment, with less Tendernesse than usuall, as though he wished me in Aldersgate Street. I'm sure I wish I were there,—not because Father is in Misfortune; oh, no.



June, 1646.

The Parliament requireth our unfortunate King to issue Orders to this and alle his other Garrisons, commanding theire Surrender; and Father, finding this is likelie to take Place forthwith, is busied in having himself comprised within the Articles of Surrender. 'Twill be hard indeed, shoulde this be denied. His Estate lying in the King's Quarters, howe coulde he doe less than adhere to his Majesty's Partie during this unnaturall War? I am sure Mother grudged the Royalists everie Goose and Turkey they had from our Yard.



June 27, 1646.

Praised be Heaven, deare Father hath just received Sir Thomas Fairfax's Protection, empowering him quietlie and without let to goe forthe "with Servants, Horses, Arms, Goods, etc." to "London or elsewhere," whithersoever he will. And though the Protection extends but over six Months, at the Expiry of which Time, Father must take Measures to embark for some Place of Refuge beyond Seas, yet who knows what may turn up in those six Months! The King may enjoy his Owne agayn. Meantime, we immediatelie leave Oxford.



Forest Hill.

At Home agayn; and what a Home! Everiething to seeke, everiething misplaced, broken, abused, or gone altogether! The Gate off its Hinges; the Stone Balls of the Pillars overthrowne, the great Bell stolen, the clipt Junipers grubbed up, the Sun-diall broken! Not a Hen or Chicken, Duck or Duckling, left! Crab half-starved, and soe glad to see us, that he dragged his Kennel after him. Daisy and Blanch making such piteous Moans at the Paddock Gate, that I coulde not bear it, but helped Lettice to milk them. Within Doors, everie Room smelling of Beer and Tobacco; Cupboards broken upon, etc. On my Chamber Floor, a greasy steeple-crowned Hat! Threw it forthe from the Window with a Pair of Tongs.

Mother goes about the House weeping. Father sits in his broken Arm-chair, the Picture of Disconsolateness. I see the Agnews, true Friends! riding hither; and with them a Third, who, methinks, is Rose's Brother Ralph.



London. St. Martin's le Grand.

Trembling, weeping, hopefulle, dismaied, here I sit in mine Uncle's hired House, alone in a Crowd, scared at mine owne Precipitation, readie to wish myselfe back, unable to resolve, to reflect, to pray . . .



Twelve at Night.

Alle is silent; even in the latelie busie Streets. Why art thou cast down, my Heart? why art thou disquieted within me? Hope thou stille in the Lord, for he is the Joy and Light of thy Countenance. Thou hast beene long of learning him to be such. Oh, forget not thy Lesson now! Thy best Friend hath sanctioned, nay, counselled this Step, and overcome alle Obstacles, and provided the Means of this Journey; and to-morrow at Noone, if Events prove not cross, I shall have Speech of him whom my Soul loveth. To-night, let me watch, fast, and pray.



Friday; at Night.

How awfulle it is to beholde a Man weepe! mine owne Tears, when I think thereon, well forthe . . .

Rose was a true Friend when she sayd, "Our prompt Affections are oft our wise Counsellors." Soe, she suggested and advised alle; wrung forthe my Father's Consent, and sett me on my Way, even putting Money in my Purse. Well for me, had she beene at my Journey's End as well as its Beginning.

'Stead of which, here was onlie mine Aunt; a slow, timid, uncertayn Soule, who proved but a broken Reed to lean upon.

Soe, alle I woulde have done arighte went crosse, the Letter never delivered, the Message delayed till he had left Home, soe that methought I shoulde goe crazie.

While the Boy, stammering in his lame Excuses, bore my chafed Reproaches the more humblie because he saw he had done me some grievous Hurt, though he knew not what, a Voice in the adjacent Chamber in Alternation with mine Uncle's, drove the Blood of a suddain from mine Heart, and then sent it back with impetuous Rush, for I knew the Accents right well.

Enters mine Aunt, alle flurried, and hushing her Voice. "Oh, Niece, he whom you wot of is here, but knoweth not you are at Hand, nor in London. Shall I tell him?"

But I gasped, and held her back by her Skirts; then, with a suddain secret Prayer, or Cry, or maybe, Wish, as 'twere, darted up unto Heaven for Assistance, I took noe Thought what I shoulde speak when confronted with him, but opening the Door between us, he then standing with his Back towards it, rushed forth and to his Feet—there sank, in a Gush of Tears; for not one Word coulde I proffer, nor soe much as look up.

A quick Hand was laid on my Head, on my Shoulder—as quicklie removed . . . and I was aware of the Door being hurriedlie opened and shut, and a Man hasting forthe; but 'twas onlie mine Uncle. Meantime, my Husband, who had at first uttered a suddain Cry or Exclamation, had now left me, sunk on the Ground as I was, and retired a Space, I know not whither, but methinks he walked hastilie to and fro. Thus I remained, agonized in Tears, unable to recal one Word of the humble Appeal I had pondered on my Journey, or to have spoken it, though I had known everie Syllable by Rote; yet not wishing myself, even in that Suspense, Shame, and Anguish, elsewhere than where I was cast, at mine Husband's Feet.

Or ever I was aware, he had come up, and caught me to his Breast: then, holding me back soe as to look me in the Face, sayd, in Accents I shall never forget,

"Much I coulde say to reproach, but will not! Henceforth, let us onlie recall this darke Passage of our deeplie sinfulle Lives, to quicken us to God's Mercy, in affording us this Re-union. Let it deepen our Penitence, enhance our Gratitude."

Then, suddainlie covering up his Face with his Hands, he gave two or three Sobs; and for some few Minutes coulde not refrayn himself; but, when at length he uncovered his Eyes and looked down on me with Goodness and Sweetnesse, 'twas like the Sun's cleare shining after Raine. . . .

Shall I now destroy the disgracefulle Records of this blotted Book? I think not; for 'twill quicken me perhaps, as my Husband sayth, to "deeper Penitence and stronger Gratitude," shoulde I henceforthe be in Danger of settling on the Lees, and forgetting the deepe Waters which had nearlie closed over mine Head. At present, I am soe joyfulle, soe light of Heart under the Sense of Forgivenesse, that it seemeth as though Sorrow coulde lay hold of me noe more; and yet we are still, as 'twere, disunited for awhile; for my Husband is agayn shifting House, and preparing to move his increased Establishment into Barbican, where he hath taken a goodly Mansion; and, until it is ready, I am to abide here. I might pleasantlie cavill at this; but, in Truth, will cavill at Nothing now.

I am, by this, full persuaded that Ralph's Tale concerning Miss Davies was a false Lie; though, at the Time, supposing it to have some Colour, it inflamed my Jealousie noe little. The cross Spight of that Youth led, under his Sister's Management, to an Issue his Malice never forecast; and now, though I might come at the Truth for Inquiry, I will not soe much as even soil my Mind with thinking of it agayn; for there is that Truth in mine Husband's Eyes, which woulde silence the Slanders of a hundred Liars. Chafed, irritated, he has beene, soe as to excite the sarcastic Constructions of those who wish him evill; but his Soul, and his Heart, and his Mind require a Flighte beyond Ralph's Witt to comprehende; and I know and feel that they are mine.

He hath just led in the two Phillips's to me, and left us together. Jack lookt at me askance, and held aloof; but deare little Ned threw his Arms about me and wept, and I did weep too; seeing the which, Jack advanced, gave me his Hand, and finally his Lips, then lookt at much as to say, "Now, Alle's right." They are grown, and are more comely than heretofore, which, in some Measure, is owing to theire Hair being noe longer cut strait and short after the Puritanicall Fashion I soe hate, but curled like their Uncle's.

I have writ, not the Particulars, but the Issue of my Journey, unto Rose, whose loving Heart, I know, yearns for Tidings. Alsoe, more brieflie unto my Mother, who loveth not Mr. Milton.



Barbican, September, 1646.

In the Night-season, we take noe Rest; we search out our Hearts, and commune with our Spiritts, and checque our Souls' Accounts, before we dare court our Sleep; but in the Day of Happinesse we cut shorte our Reckonings; and here am I, a joyfulle Wife, too proud and busie amid my dailie Cares to have Leisure for more than a brief Note in my Diarium, as Ned woulde call it. 'Tis a large House, with more Rooms than we can fill, even with the Phillips's and their Scholar-mates, olde Mr. Milton, and my Husband's Books to boot. I feel Pleasure in being housewifelie; and reape the Benefit of alle that I learnt of this Sorte at Sheepscote. Mine Husband's Eyes follow me with Delight; and once with a perplexed yet pleased Smile, he sayd to me, "Sweet Wife, thou art strangelie altered; it seems as though I have indeede lost 'sweet Moll' after alle!"

Yes, I am indeed changed; more than he knows or coulde believe. And he is changed too. With Payn I perceive a more stern, severe Tone occasionallie used by him; doubtlesse the Cloke assumed by his Griefe to hide the Ruin I had made within. Yet a more geniall Influence is fast melting this away. Agayn, I note with Payn that he complayns much of his Eyes. At first, I observed he rubbed them oft, and dared not mention it, believing that his Tears on Account of me, sinfulle Soule! had made them smart. Soe, perhaps, they did in the first Instance, for it appears they have beene ailing ever since the Year I left him; and Overstuddy, which my Presence mighte have prevented, hath conduced to the same ill Effect. Whenever he now looks at a lighted Candle, he sees a Sort of Iris alle about it; and, this Morning, he disturbed me by mentioning that a total Darknesse obscured everie Thing on the left Side of his Eye, and that he even feared, sometimes, he might eventuallie lose the Sight of both. "In which Case," he cheerfully sayd, "you, deare Wife, must become my Lecturer as well as Amanuensis, and content yourself to read to me a World of crabbed Books, in Tongues that are not nor neede ever be yours, seeing that a Woman has ever enough of her own!"

Then, more pensivelie, he added, "I discipline and tranquillize my Mind on this Subject, ever remembering, when the Apprehension afflicts me, that, as Man lives not by Bread alone, but by everie Word that proceeds out of the Mouth of God, so Man likewise lives not by Sight alone, but by Faith in the Giver of Sight. As long, therefore, as it shall please Him to prolong, however imperfectlie, this precious Gift, soe long will I lay up Store agaynst the Days of Darknesse, which may be many; and whensoever it shall please Him to withdrawe it from me altogether, I will cheerfully bid mine Eyes keep Holiday, and place my Hand trustfullie in His, to be led whithersoever He will, through the Remainder of Life."

A Honeymoon cannot for ever last; nor Sense of Danger, when it long hath past;—but one little Difference from out manie greater Differences between my late happie Fortnighte in St. Martin's-le-Grand, and my present dailie Course in Barbican, hath marked the Distinction between Lover and Husband. There it was "sweet Moll," "my Heart's Life of Life," "my dearest cleaving Mischief;" here 'tis onlie "Wife," "Mistress Milton," or at most "deare or sweet Wife." This, I know, is masterfulle and seemly.

Onlie, this Morning, chancing to quote one of his owne Lines,

These Things may startle well, but not astounde,—

he sayd, in a Kind of Wonder, "Why, Moll, whence had you that?—Methought you hated Versing, as you used to call it. When learnt you to love it?" I hung my Head in my old foolish Way, and answered, "Since I learnt to love the Verser." "Why, this is the best of Alle!" he hastilie cried, "Can my sweet Wife be indeede Heart of my Heart and Spirit of my Spirit? I lost, or drove away a Child, and have found a Woman." Thereafter, he less often wifed me, and I found I was agayn sweet Moll.

This Afternoon, Christopher Milton lookt in on us. After saluting me with the usuall Mixture of Malice and Civilitie in his Looks, he fell into easie Conversation; and presentlie says to his Brother quietlie enough, "I saw a curious Pennyworth at a Book-stall as I came along this Morning." "What was that?" says my Husband, brightening up. "It had a long Name," says Christopher,—"I think it was called Tetrachordon." My Husband cast at me a suddain, quick Look, but I did not soe much as change Colour; and quietlie continued my Sewing.

"I wonder," says he, after a Pause, "that you did not invest a small Portion of your Capitall in the Work, as you 'ay 'twas soe greate a Bargain. However, Mr. Kit, let me give you one small Hint with alle the goode Humour imaginable; don't take Advantage of our neare and deare Relation to make too frequent Opportunities of saying to me Anything that woulde certainlie procure for another Man a Thrashing!"

Then, after a short Silence betweene Alle, he suddainlie burst out laughing, and cried, "I know 'tis on the Stalk, I've seene it, Kit, myself! Oh, had you seene, as I did, the Blockheads poring over the Title, and hammering at it while you might have walked to Mile End and back!"

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

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



October, 1646.

Though a rusticall Life hath ever had my Suffrages, Nothing can be more pleasant than our regular Course. We rise at five or sooner: while my Husband combs his Hair, he commonly hums or sings some Psalm or Hymn, versing it, maybe, as he goes on. Being drest, Ned reads him a Chapter in the Hebrew Bible. With Ned stille at his Knee, and me by his Side, he expounds and improves the Same; then, after a shorte, heartie Prayer, releases us both. Before I have finished my Dressing, I hear him below at his Organ, with the two Lads, who sing as well as Choristers, hymning Anthems and Gregorian Chants, now soaring up to the Clouds, as 'twere, and then dying off as though some wide echoing Space lay betweene us. I usuallie find Time to tie on my Hoode and slip away to the Herb-market for a Bunch of fresh Radishes or Cresses, a Sprig of Parsley, or at the leaste a Posy, to lay on his Plate. A good wheaten Loaf, fresh Butter and Eggs, and a large Jug of Milk, compose our simple Breakfast; for he likes not, as my Father, to see Boys hacking a huge Piece of Beef, nor cares for heavie feeding, himself. Onlie, olde Mr. Milton sometimes takes a Rasher of toasted Bacon, but commonly, a Basin of Furmity, which I prepare more to his Minde than the Servants can.

After Breakfast, I well know the Boys' Lessons will last till Noone. I therefore goe to my Closett Duties after my Forest Hill Fashion; thence to Market, buy what I neede, come Home, look to my Maids, give forthe needfulle Stores, then to my Needle, my Books, or perchance to my Lute, which I woulde faine play better. From twelve to one is the Boys' Hour of Pastime; and it may generallie be sayd, my Husband's and mine too. He draws aside the green Curtain,—for we sit mostly in a large Chamber shaped like the Letter T, and thus divided while at our separate Duties: my End is the pleasantest, has the Sun most upon it, and hath a Balcony overlooking a Garden. At one, we dine; always on simple, plain Dishes, but drest with Neatnesse and Care. Olde Mr. Milton sits at my right Hand and says Grace; and, though growing a little deaf, enters into alle the livelie Discourse at Table. He loves me to help him to the tenderest, by Reason of his Losse of Teeth. My Husband careth not to sitt over the Wine; and hath noe sooner finished the Cheese and Pippins than he reverts to the Viol or Organ, and not onlie sings himself, but will make me sing too, though he sayth my Voice is better than my Ear. Never was there such a tunefulle Spiritt. He alwaies tears himself away at laste, as with a Kind of Violence, and returns to his Books at six o' the Clock. Meantime, his old Father dozes, and I sew at his Side.

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

On Sabbaths, besides the publick Ordinances of Devotion, which I cannot, with alle my striving, bring myself to love like the Services to which I have beene accustomed, we have much Reading, Singing, and Discoursing among ourselves. The Maids sing, the Boys sing, Hubert sings, olde Mr. Milton sings; and trulie with soe much of it, I woulde sometimes as lief have them quiete. The Sheepscote Sundays suited me better. The Sabbath Exercise of the Boys is to read a Chapter in the Greek Testament, heare my Husband expounde the same; and write out a System of Divinitie as he dictates to them, walking to and fro. In listening thereto, I find my Pleasure and Profitt.

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

My Husband alsoe takes, once in a Fortnighte or soe, what he blythelie calls "a gaudy Day," equallie to his owne Content, the Boys', and mine. On these Occasions, it is my Province to provide colde Fowls or Pigeon Pie, which Hubert carries, with what else we neede, to the Spot selected for our Camp Dinner. Sometimes we take Boat to Richmond or Greenwich. Two young Gallants, Mr. Alphrey and Mr. Miller, love to joyn our Partie, and toil at the Oar, or scramble up the Hills, as merrilie as the Boys. I must say they deal savagelie with the Pigeon Pie afterwards. They have as wild Spiritts as our Dick and Harry, but withal a most wonderfull Reverence for my Husband, whom they courte to read and recite, and provoke to pleasant Argument, never prolonged to Wearinesse, and seasoned with Frolic Jest and Witt. Olde Mr. Milton joyns not these Parties. I leave him alwaies to Dolly's Care, firste providing for him a Sweetbread or some smalle Relish, such as he loves. He is in Bed ere we return, which is oft by Moonlighte.

How soone must Smiles give Way to Tears! Here is a Letter from deare Mother, taking noe Note of what I write to her, and for good Reason, she is soe distraught at her owne and deare Father's ill Condition. The Rebels (I must call them such,) have soe stript and opprest them, they cannot make theire House tenantable; nor have Aught to feede on, had they e'en a whole Roof over theire Heads. The Neighbourhoode is too hot to holde them; olde Friends cowardlie and suspicious, olde and new Foes in League together. Leave Oxon they must; but where to goe? Father, despite his broken Health and Hatred of the Foreigner, must needes depart beyond Seas; at leaste within the six Months; but how, with an emptie Purse, make his Way in a strange Land, with a Wife and seven Children at his Heels? Soe ends Mother with a "Lord have Mercy upon us!" as though her House were as surelie doomed to destruction as if it helde the Plague.

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

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

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

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



DEBORAH'S DIARY

A FRAGMENT

Bunhill Fields, Feb. 17, 1665.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

About One o' the Clock, was rouzed (though Anne continued sleeping soundly) by hearing Father give his three Signal-taps agaynst the Wall. Half drest, and with bare Feet thrust into Slippers, I hastily ran in to him; he cried, "Deb, for the Love of Heaven get Pen and Paper to sett Something down." I replied, "Sure, Father, you gave me quite a Turn; I thought you were ill," and sett to my Task, marvellous ill-conditioned, expecting some Crotchet had taken him concerning his Will.

'Stead of which, out comes a Volley of Poetry he had lain a brewing till his Brain was like to burst; and soe I, in my thin Night Cotes, must needs jot it all down, for Feare it should ooze away before Morning. Sure, I thought he never woulde get to the End, and really feared at firste he was crazing a little, but indeede all Poets doe when the Vein is on 'em. At length, with a Sigh of Relief, he says, "That will doe—Good-night, little Maid." I coulde not help saying, "'Twas a lucky Thing for you, Father, that Step-mother was from Home;" he laught, drew me to him, kissed me, and sayd, "Why, your Face is quite cold—are your Feet unslippered?"

"Unstockinged," I replyed.

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

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

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

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

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

"Bring to their Sweetness no Sobriety."

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

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

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

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

"A Rhomb, Child?" repeated he, laughing, "why, a Parallelogram or quadrangular Figure, consisting of parallel Lines, with two acute and two obtuse Angles, and formed by two equal and righte Cones, joyned together at their Base! There, are you anie wiser now? No, little Maid, 'tis best for such as you

Not with perplexing Thoughts To interrupt the Sweet of Life, from which God hath bid dwell far off all anxious Cares, And not molest us, unless we ourselves Seek them, with wandering Thoughts and Notions vain.'"



April 19, 1665.

I heartilie wish our Stepmother were back, albeit we are soe comfortable without her! Mary, taking the Maids at unawares last Night, found a strange Man in the Kitchen. Words ensued; he slunk off like a Culprit, which lookt not well, while Betty Fisher, brazening it out, woulde have at firste that he was her Brother, then her Cousin, and ended by vowing to be revenged on Mary when she lookt not for it. I would have had Mary speak to Father, but she will not; perhaps soe best. Polly is in the Sulks to Daye, as well as Betty, saying, "As well live in a Nunnerie."



April 20, 1665.

When the Horse is stolen, shut the Stable Door. Mary locked the lower Doors, and brought up the Keys herselfe, yestereven at Duske. Anon dropped in Doctor Paget, Mr. Skinner, and Uncle Dick, soe that we had quite a merrie Party. Dr. Paget sayd how that another Case of the Plague had occurred in Long Acre; howbeit, this onlie makes three, soe that we trust it will not spread, though 'twoulde be unadvised to goe needlesslie into the infected Quarter. Uncle Dick would fayn take us Girls down to Oxon, but Father sayd he could not spare us while Mother was at Stoke; and that there was noe prevalent Distemper, this bracing Weather, in our Parish. Then felle a musing; and Uncle Dick, who loves a Jeste, outs with a large brown Apple from's Pocket, and holds it aneath Father's Nose. Sayth Father, rousing, "How far Phansy goes! thy Voice, Dick, carried me back to olde Dayes, and affected, I think, even my Nose; for I could protest I smelled a Sheepscote Apple." And, feeling himselfe touched by its cold Skin, laught merrilie, and ate it with a Relish; saying, noe Sorte ever seemed unto him soe goode—he had received manie a Hamper of 'em about Christmasse. After a Time, alle but he and I went up, and out on the Leads, to see the Comet; and we two sitting quite still, and Father, doubtlesse, supposed to be alone, I saw a great round-shouldered mannish Shadowe glide acrosse the Passage, and hearde the Front-door Latch click. Darted forthe, but too late, and then into the Kitchen; with some Warmth chid Betty for soe soone agayn disobeying Orders, and threatened to tell my Mamma. She cryed pertlie, "Law, Miss Deb, I wish to Goodnesse your Mamma was here to heare you, for I'd sooner have one Mistress than three. A Shadowe, indeed! I'm sure you saw no Substance—very like, 'twas a Spirit; or, liker still, onlie the Cat. Here, Puss, Puss!" . . . and soe into the Passage, as though to look for what she was sure not to find. I had noe Patience with her; but, returning to Father, askt him if he had not heard the Latch click? He sayd, No; and, indeede, I think, had been dozing; soe then sate still, and bethoughte me what 'twere best to doe. Three Brains are too little agaynst one that is resolved to cheat. 'Tis noe Goode complayning to a Man; he will not see, even though unafflicted like Father, who cannot. Men's Minds run on greater Things, and soe they are fretted at domestic Appeals, and generallie give Judgment the wrong Way. Thus we founde it before, poor motherlesse Girls, to our Cost; and I reallie believe it was more in Kindnesse for us than himself, that Father listened to the Doctor's Overtures in behalfe of Miss Minshull; for what Companion can soe illiterate a Woman be to him? But he believed her gentle, hearde that she was a good Housewife, and apprehended she would be kind to us. . . . Alas the Daye! What Tears we three shed in our Chamber that Night! and wished, too late, we had ne'er referred to him a Grievance, nor let him know we had a Burthen. Soone we founde King Log had been succeeded by King Stork; soone made common Cause, tryed our Strength and found it wanting, and soone submitted to our new Yoke, and tried to make the best of it.

Yes, that is the onlie Course; we alle feele it; onlie, as Ill-luck will have it, we do not always feel it simultaneouslie. Anne, mayhap, has one of her dogged humours; Mary and I see how much better 'twould be, did she overcome it, or shut herself up till in better Temper. Mary is crabbed and exacting; Anne and I cannot put her straight. Well for us when we succeed just soe far as to keep it from the Notice of Father. Thus we rub on; I wonder if we ever shall pull all together?



April 22, 1665.

Like unto a wise Master-builder, who ordereth the Disposition of eache Stone till the whole Building is fitly compacted together, so doth Father build up his noble Poem, which groweth under our Hands. Three Nights have I, without Complaynt, lost my Rest while writing at his Bedside; this hath made me yawnish in the Day-time, or, as Mother will have it, lazy. However, I bethink me of Damo, Daughter of Pythagoras.

Mother came Home yesterday, and Betty, the Picture of Neatnesse, tooke goode Heede to be the first to welcome her, with officious Smiles, and Prayses of her Looks. For my Part, I thoughte it fullsome, but knew her Motives better than Mother, who took it alle in goode Part. Indeede, noe one would give this Girl credit for soe false a Heart; she is pretty, modest looking, and for a while before my Father's Marriage was as great a Favourite with Mary as now with my Mother; flattered her the same, and tempted her to idle gossiping Confidences. She was slow to believe herself cheated; and when 'twas as cleare as Day, could not convince Father of it.

On Mary's mentioning this Morning (unadvisedlie, I think,) the Kitchen Visitor, Mother made short Answer—

"Tilly-vally! bad Mistresses make bad Maids; there will be noe such Doings now, I warrant. . . . I am sure, my Dear," appealing to Father, "you think well in the main of Betty?"

"Yes," says he, smiling, "I think well of both my Betties."

"At any rate," persists Mary, "the Man coulde not be at once her Cousin and her Brother."

"Why no," replies Father, "therein she worsened her Story, by saying too much, as Dorothea did, when she pretended to have heard of the Knight of La Mancha's Fame, when she landed at Ossuna; which even a Madman as he was, knew to be noe Sea-port. It requires more Skill than the General possess, to lie with a Circumstance."

Had a Valentine this Morning, though onlie from Ned Phillips, whom Mother is angry with, for filling my Head betimes with such Nonsense. Howbeit, I am close on sixteen.

Mary was out of Patience with Father yesterday, who, after keeping her a full Hour at Thucydides, sayd,

"Well, now we will refresh ourselves with a Canto of Ariosto," which was as much a sealed Book to her as t'other. Howbeit, this Morning he sayd,

"Child, I have noted your Wearinesse in reading the dead Languages to me; would that I needed not to be beholden unto any, whether bound to me by Blood and Affection or not, for the Food that is as needfulle to me as my daily Bread. Nevertheless, that I be not further wearisome unto thee, I have engaged a young Quaker, named Ellwood, to relieve thee of this Portion of thy Task, soe that thou mayst have the more Leisure to enjoy the glad Sunshine and fair Sights I never more shall see."

Mary turned red, and dropt a quiet Tear; but alas, he knew it not.

"One part of my Children's Burthen, indeed," he continued, "I cannot, for obvious Reasons, relieve them of—they must still be my Secretaries, for in them alone can I confide. Soe now to your healthfulle Exercises and fitting Recreations, dear Maids, and Heaven's Blessing goe with you!"

We kissed his Hand and went, but our Walk was not merry.

Ellwood is a young Man of seven-and-twenty, of good Parts, but pragmaticalle; Son of an Oxfordshire Justice of the Peace, but not on good Terms with him, by Reason of his religious Opinions, which the Father affects not.



April 23, 1665.

Spring is coming on apace. Father even sits between the wood Fire and the open Casement, enjoying the mild Air, but it is not considered healthfulle.

"My Dear," says Mother to him this Morning, after some Hours' Absence, "I have bought me a new Mantle of the most absolute Fancy. 'Tis sad-coloured, which I knew you would approve, but with a Garniture of Orange-tawny; three Plaits at the Waist behind, and a little stuck-up Collar."

"You are a comical Woman," says Father, "to spend soe much Money and Mind on a Thing your Husband will never see."

"Oh! but it cost no Money at alle," says she; "that is the best of it."

"What is the best of it?" rejoyned he. "I suppose you bartered for it, if you did not buy it—you Women are always for cheap Pennyworths. Come, what was the Ransom? One of my old Books, or my new Coat?"

"Your last new Coat may be called old too, I'm sure," says Mother; "I believe you married me in it."

"Nay," says Father, "and what if I did? 'Twas new then, at any rate; and the Cid Ruy Diaz was married in a black Satin Doublet, which his Father had worn in three or four Battles."

"A poor Compliment to the Bride," says Mother.

"Well, but, dear Betty, what has gone for this copper-coloured Mantle?—Sylvester's 'Du Bartas?'" . . .

"Nothing of the sort,—nothing you value or will ever miss. An old Gold Pocket-piece, that hath lain perdue, e'er soe long, in our Dressing-table Drawer."

He smote the Table with his Hand. "Woman!" cried he, changing Colour, "'twas a Medal of Honour given to my Father by a Polish Prince! It should have been an Heir-loom. There, say noe more about it now. 'Tis in your Jew's Furnace ere this. 'The Fining-pot for Silver and the Furnace for Gold, but . . . the Lord trieth the Spirits.' Ay me! mine is tried sometimes."

Uncle Kit most opportunelie entering at this Moment, instantaneouslie changed his Key-note.

"Ha, Kit!" he cries, gladly, "here you find me, as usual, maundering among my Women. Welcome, welcome! How is it with you, and what's the News?"

"Why, the News is, that the Plague's coming on amain," says my Uncle; "they say it's been smouldering among us all the Winter, and now it's bursting out."

"Lord save us!" says Mother, turning pale.

"You may say that," says Uncle, "but you must alsoe try to save yourselves. For my Part, I see not what shoulde keep you in Town. Come down to us at Ipswich; my Brother and you shall have the haunted Chamber; and we can make plenty of Shakedowns for the Girls in the Atticks. Your Maids can look after Matters here. By the way, you have a Merlin's Head sett up in your Neighbourhood; I saw your black-eyed Maid come forthe of it as I passed."

Mother bit her lip; but Father broke forthe with, "What can we expect but that a judiciall Punishment shoulde befall a Land where the Corruption of the Court, more potent and subtile in its Infection than anie Pestilence, hath tainted every open Resorte and bye Corner of the Capital and Country? Our Sins cry aloud; our Pulpits, Counters, and Closetts alike witness against us. 'Tis, as with the People soe with the Priest, as with the Buyer soe with the Seller, as with the Maid soe with the Mistress. Plays, Interludes, Gaming-houses, Sabbath Debauches, Dancing-rooms, Merry-Andrews, Jack Puddings, Quacks, false Prophesyings—"

"Ah! we can excuse a little Bitternesse in the losing Party now," says Uncle; "but do you seriously mean to say you think us more deserving of judiciall Punishment under the glorious Restoration than during the unnatural Rebellion? Sure you have had Time to cool upon that."

"Certainly I mean to say so," answers Father. "During the unnatural Rebellion, as you please to call it, the Commonwealth, whose Duration was very short—"

"Very short, indeed," observes Uncle, coughing. "Only from Worcester Fight, Fifty-one, to Noll's Dissolution of the Long Parliament, Fifty-three; yet quite long enough to see what it was."

"I deny that, as well as your Dates," says Father. "We enjoyed a Commonwealth under the Protector, who, had he not assumed that high Office which gave him his Name, would have lacked Opportunity of showing that he was capable of filling the most exalted Station with Vigour and Ability. He secured a wise Peace, obtained the respectfull Concurrence of foreign Powers, filled our domestick Courts with upright Judges, and respected the Rights of Conscience."

"Why, suppose I admitted all this, which I am far from doing," says Uncle, "what was he but a King, except by just Title? What had become, meantime, of your Commonwealth?"

"Softly, Kit," returns Father. "The Commonwealth was progressing, meantime, like a little Rivulet that rises among the Hills, amid Weeds and Moss, and gradually works itself a widening Channel, filtering over Beds of Gravel, and obstructed here and there by Fragments of Rock, that sorely chafe and trouble it, at the very Time that, to the distant Observer, it looks most picturesque and beautiful."

"Well, I suppose I was never distant enough to see it in this picturesque Point of View," says Uncle. "Legitimate Monarchy was, to my Mind, the Rock over which the brawling River leaped awhile, and which, in the End, successfully opposed it; and as to your Oliver, he was a cunning Fellow, that diverted its Course to turn his own Mill."

"They that can see any Virtue or Comeliness in a Charles Stuart," says Father, "can hardly be expected to acknowledge the rugged Merits of a plain Republican."

"Plain was the very last Thing he was," says Uncle, "either in speaking or dealing. He was as cunning as a Fox, and as rough as a Bear."

"We can overlook the Roughness of a good Man," says Father; "and if a Temper subject to hasty Ebullitions is better than one which, by Blows and hard Usage, has been silenced into Sullenness, a Republic is better than an absolute Sovereignty."

"Aye; and if a Temper under the Control of Reason and Principle," rejoins Uncle, "is better than one unaccustomed to restrain its hasty Ebullitions, a limited Monarchy is better than a Republic."

"But ours is not limited enough," persists Father.

"Wait awhile," returns Uncle, "till, as you say, we have filtered over the Gravel a little longer, and then see how clear we shall run."

"I don't see much present Chance of it," says Father. "Such a King, and such a Court!"

"The King and Court will soon shift Quarters, I understand," says Uncle; "for Fear of this coming Sickness. 'Twould be a rare Thing, indeed, for the King to take the Plague!"

"Why not the King, as well as any of his Commons?" says Father. "Tush! I am tired of the Account People make of him. 'Is Philip dead?' 'No; but he is sick.' Pray, what is it to us, whether Philip is sick or not?"

"Which of the Phillipses, my Dear?" asks Mother. "Did you say Jack Phillips was sick?"

"No, dear Betty; only a King of Macedon, who lived a long Time ago."

"Doctor Brice commends you much for your grounding the Phillipses so excellently in the Classicks," says Uncle.

"He should think whether his Praise is much worth having," says Father, rather haughtily. "The young Men were indebted to me for a competent Knowledge of the learned Tongues—no more."

"Nay, somewhat more," rejoined Uncle; "and the Praise of a worthy Man is surely always worth having."

"If he be our Superior in the Thing wherein he praises us," returned Father. "His Praise is then a Medal of Reward; but it should never be a current Coin, bandied from one to another. And the Inferior may never praise the Superior."

Uncle was silent a Moment, and then softly uttered, "My Soul, praise the Lord."

"There you have me," says Father, instantly softening. "Laud we the Name of the Lord, but let's not laud one another."

"Ah! I can't wait to argue the Point," says Uncle. "I must back to the Temple."

"Stay a Moment, Kit. Have you seen 'the Mysterie of Jesuitism?'"

"No; have you seen the Proof that London, not Rome, is the City on seven Hills? Ludgate Hill, Fishstreet Hill, Dowgate Hill, Garlick Hill, Saffron Hill, Holborn Hill, and Tower Hill. Clear as Day!"

"Where's Snow Hill? Come, don't go yet. We will fight over some of our old Feuds. There will be a roast Pig on Table at one o'clock, and, I fancy, a Tansy-pudding."

"I can't fancy Tansy-pudding," says Uncle, shuddering; "I cannot abide Tansies, even in Lent. Besides, I'm expecting a Reference."

"Oh! very well; then drop in again in the Evening, if you will; and very likely you will meet Cyriack Skinner. And you shall have cold Pig for Supper, not forgetting the Current-sauce, Wiltshire Cheese, Carraways, and some of your own Wine."

"Well, that sounds good. I don't mind if I do," says Uncle; "but don't expect me after nine."

"I'm in Bed by nine," says Father.

"Oh, oh!" says Uncle; and with a comical Look at us, he went off.

Uncle Kit did not come last Night; I did not much expect he woulde; nor Mr. Skinner. Insteade, we had Dr. Paget, and one or two others, who talked dolefully alle the Evening of Signs of the Times, till they gave me the Horrors. One had seen a Ghost, or at least, seen a Crowd looking at a Ghost, or for a Ghost, in Bishopgate Churchyard, that comes out and points hither and thither at future Graves. Another had seene an Apparition, or Meteor, somewhat of human or angelic Shape in the Air. Father laught at the first, but did not so discredit in toto the other; observing that Theodore Beza believed at one Time in astrologick Signs; and thought that the Appearance of the notable Star in Cassiopeiea betokened the universal End. And as for Angels, he sayd they were, questionless, ministering Spiritts, not onlie sent forth to minister unto the Heirs of Salvation, but sometimes Instruments of God's Wrath, to execute Judgments upon ungodly Men, and convince them of the ill Deeds which they have ungodly committed; as during the Pestilence in David's Time, when the King saw the Destroying Angel standing between Heaven and Earth, having a drawn Sword in his Hand, stretched over Jerusalem. Such Delegates we might, without Fanaticism, suppose to be the generall, though unseen. Instruments of public Chastisements; and, for our particular Comfort, we had equall Reason to repose on the Assurance, that even amid the Pestilence that walked in Darkness, and the Destruction that wasted by Noon-day, the Angels had charge over each particular Believer, to keep them in all their Ways. Adding, that, though he forbore, with Calvin, to pronounce that each Man had his own Guardian Spiritt,—a Subject whereon Scripture was silent,—we had the Lord's own Word for it, that little Children were the particular Care of holy Angels.

And this, and othermuch to same Purport, had soe soothing and sedative an Effect, that we might have gone to Bed in peacefull Trust, onlie that Dr. Paget must needs bring up, after Supper, the correlative Theme of the great Florentine Plague, and the poisoned Wells, which sett Father off upon the Acts of Mercy of Cardinal Borromeo,—not him called St. Charlest but the Cardinal-Archbishop,—and soe, to the Pestilence at Geneva, when even the Bars and Locks of Doors were poisoned by a Gang of Wretches, who thought to pillage the Dwellings of the Dead; till we all went to Bed, moped to Death.

Howbeit, I had been warmly asleep some Hours, (more by Token I had read the ninety-first Psalm before getting into Bed), when Anne, clinging to me, woke me up with a shrill Cry. I whispered fearfullie, "What is't?—a Thief under the Bed?"

"No, no," she replies. "Listen!"

Soe I did for a While; and was just going to say, "You were dreaming," when a hollow Voice in the Street, beneath our Window, distinctlie proclaimed,

"Yet forty Days, and London shall be destroyed! I will overturn, overturn, overturn it! Oh! Woe, Woe, Woe!"

I sprang out of Bed, fell over my Shoes, got up again, and ran to the Window. There was Nothing to be seen but long, black Shadows in the Streets. The Moon was behind the House. After looking forthe awhile, with Teeth chattering, I was about to drop the Curtain, when, afar off, whether in or over some distant Quarter of the Town, I heard the same Voice, clearlie enow to recognise the Rhythm, though not the Words. I crept to Bed, chilled and awe-stricken; yet, after cowering awhile, and saying our Prayers, we both fell asleep.

The first Sounde this Morning was of Weeping and Wayling. Mother had beene scared by the Night-warning, and wearied Father to have us alle into the Countrie. He thought the Danger not yet imminent, the Expense considerable, and the Outcry that of some crazy Fanatick; ne'erthelesse, consented to employ Ellwood to look us out some country Lodgings; having noe Mind to live upon my Uncle at Ipswich.

Mary, strange to say, had heard noe Noise; nor had the Maids; but Servants always sleep heavily.

Some of the Pig having beene sett aside for my Uncle, and Mother fancying it for her Breakfast, was much putt out, on going into the Larder, to find it gone. Betty, of course, sayd it was the Cat. Mother made Answer, she never knew a Cat partiall to cold Pig; and the Door having been latched, was suspicious of a Puss in Boots.

Betty cries—"Plague take the Cat!"

Mother rejoyns—"If the Plague does take him, I shall certainly have him hanged."

"Then we shall be overrun with Rats," says Betty.

"I shall buy Ratsbane for them," says Mother; and soe into the Parlour, where Father, having hearde the whole Dialogue, had been greatlie amused.

At Twilight, she went to look at the Pantry Fastenings herselfe, but, suddenlie hearing a dolorous Voyce either within or immediately without, cry, "Oh! Woe, Woe!" she naturallie drew back. However, being a Woman of much Spiritt, she instantlie recovered herselfe, and went forward; but no one was in the Pantry. The Occurrence, therefore, made the more Impression; and she came up somewhat scared, and asked if we had heard it.

"My Dear," says Father, "you awoke me in the midst of a very interesting Colloquy between Sir Thomas More and Erasmus. However, I think a Dog barked, or rather howled, just now. Are you sure the words were not 'Bow, wow, wow?'"

Another Night-larum; but onlie from Father, who wanted me to write for him,—a Task he has much intromitted of late. Mother was hugelie annoyed at it, and sayd,—"My Dear, I am persuaded that if you would not persist in going to Bed soe earlie, you woulde not awake at these untimelie Hours."

"That is very well for you to say," returned he, "who can sew and spin the whole Evening through; but I, whose long entire Day is Night, grow soe tired of it by nine o'clock, that I am fit for Nothing but Bed."

"Well," says she, "I often find that brushing my Hair wakes me up when I am drowsy. I will brush yours To-morrow Evening, and see if we cannot keep you up a little later, and provide sounder Rest for you when you do turn in."

Soe, this Evening, she casts her Apron over his Shoulders, and commences combing his Hair, chatting of this and that, to keep him in good Humour.

"What beautiful Hair this is of yours, my Dear!" says she; "soe fine, long, and soft! scarcelie a Silver Thread in it. I warrant there's manie a young Gallant at Court would be proud of such."

"Girls, put your Scissars out of your Mother's Way," says Father; "she's a perfect Dalilah, and will whip off Half my Curls before I can count Three, unless you look after her. And I," he adds, with a Sigh, "am, in one Sort, a Samson."

"I'm sure Dalilah never treated Samson's old Coat with such Respect," says Mother, finishing her Task, resuming her Apron, and kissing him. "Soe now, keep your Eyes open—I mean, keep awake, till I bring you a Gossip's Bowl."

When she was gone, Father continued sitting bolt upright, his Eyes, as she sayd (his beautifull Eyes!), open and wakefull, and his Countenance composed, yet grave, as if his Thoughts were at least as far off as Tangrolipix the Turk. All at once, he says,

"Deb, are my Sleeves white at the Elbow?"

"No, Father."

"Or am I shiny about the Shoulders?"

"No, Father."

"Why, then," cries he, gaily, this Coat can't be very old, however long I may have worn it. I'll rub on in it still; and your Mother and you will have the more Money for copper-coloured Clokes. But don't, at any Time, let your Father get shabby, Children. I would never be threadbare nor unclean. Let my Habitt be neat and spotless, my Bands well washed and uncrumpled, as becometh a Gentleman. As for my Sword in the Corner, your Mother may send that after my Medal as soon as she will. The Cid parted with his Tizona in his Life-time; soe a peaceable Man, whose Eyes, like the Prophet Abijah's, are set, may well doe the same."



May 12, 1665.

Yesterday being the Lord's Day, Mother was hugely scared during Morning Service, by seeing an old Lady put her Kerchief to her Nose, look hither and thither, and, finally, walk out of Church. One whispered another, "A Plague-Smell, perchance." "No Doubt on't;" and soe, one after another left, as, at length, did Mother, who declared she beganne to feel herself ill. On the Cloth being drawn after Dinner, she made a serious Attack on my Father, upon the Subject of Country Lodgings, which he stoutly resisted at first, saying,

"If, Wife and Daughters, either the Danger were so immediate, or the Escape from it so facile as to justify these womanish Clamours, Reason would that I should listen to you. But, since that the Lord is about our Bed, and about our Path, in the Capital no less than in the Country, and knoweth them that are his, and hideth them under the Shadowe of his Wings—and since that, if the Fiat be indeed issued agaynst us, no Stronghold, though guarded with triple Walls of Circumvallation, like Ecbatana, nor pastoral Valley, that might inspire Theocritus with a new Idyl, can hide us, either by its Strength or its Obscurity, from the Arrow of the Destroying Angel; ye, therefore, seeing these Things cannot be spoken agaynst, ought to be quiet, and do Nothing rashly. Wherefore, I pray you, Wife and Daughters, get you to your Knees, before Him who alone can deliver you from these Terrors; and having cast your Burthen upon Him, eat your Bread in Peacefulness and Cheerfulness of Heart."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Chalfont.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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