"And tell strange Stories of the Deaths of Kings," says Ned, laughing,

"That was the Saying, Ned, of one who writ much well, and much amiss."

"Let's forgive what he writ amiss, for the Sake of what he writ well," says Ned.

"That will I never," says Father. "If paltry Wits cannot be holy and witty at the same Time, that does not hold good with nobler Spiritts. . . . If it did, they had best never be witty at all. Thy Brother Jack hath yet to learn that Strength is not Coarseness."

Ned softly hummed—

"Sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's Child!"

"Ah! you may quote me against myself," says Father; "you may quote Beza against Beza, and Erasmus against Erasmus; but that will not shake the eternal Laws of Purity and Truth. But, mind you, Ned, never did anie reach a more lofty or tragic Height than this Child of Fancy; never did any represent Nature more purely to the Life; and e'en where the Polishments of Art are most wanting in him, he pleaseth with a certain wild and native Elegance."

"And what have you now in Hand, Uncle?" Ned asks.

"Firmianus Chlorus," says Father. "But I don't find Much in him."

"I mean, what of your own?"

"Oh!" laughing; "Things in Heaven, Ned, and Things on Earth, and Things under the Earth. The old Story, whereof you have alreadie seen many Parcels; but, you know, my Vein ne'er flows so happily as from the autumnal to the vernal Equinox. Howbeit, there is Something in the Quality of this Air would arouse the old Man of Chios himself."

"Sure," cries Ned, "you have less Need than any blind Man to complayn, since you have but closed your Eyes on Earth to look on Heaven!"

Father paused; then, stedfastly, in Words I've since sett down, sayd:—

"When I consider how my Light is spent, Ere half my Days, in this dark World and wide, And that one Talent, which is Death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true Account, lest He, returning, chide; 'Doth God exact Day-labour, Light denied?' I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent That Murmur, soon replies,—'God doth not need. Either Man's Work, or his own Gifts. Who best Bear his mild Yoke, they serve him best. His State Is kingly; Thousands at his Bidding speed, And post o'er Land and Ocean without Rest, They also serve who only stand and wait.'"

. . . We were all quiet enough for a while after this . . . Ned onlie breathing hard, and squeezing Father's Hand. At length, Mother calls from the House, "Who will come in to Strawberries and Cream?"

"Ah!" says Father, "that is not an ill Call. And when we have discussed our neat Repast, thou, Ned, shalt touch the Theorbo, and let us hear thy balmy Voice. Time was, when thou didst sing like a young Chorister."

. . . Just as we were returning to the House, Mary ran forth, crying, "Oh, Deb! you have not seen our Cow. She has just been milked, and is being turned out, even now, to the Pasture. See, there she is; but all the Others have gone out of Sight, over the Hill."

Mother observed, "Left to herself, she will go, her own Calf speedily seeking."

"My Dear," says Father, "that's a Hexameter: do try to make another."

"Indeed, Mr. Milton, I know nothing of Hexameters or Hexagons either: 'tis enough for me to keep all straight and tight. Let's to Supper."

Anne had crushed his Strawberries, and mixed them with Cream, and now she put his Spoon into his Hand, saying, in jest, "Father, this is Angels' Food, you know. I Have pressed the Meath from many a Berry, and tempered dulcet Creams."

"Hush, you Rogue," says he; "Ned will find us out."

"Is Uncle still at his great Work?" whispers Cousin to Mother.

"Indeed, I know not if you call it such," she replies, in the same Undertone. "He hath given over all those grand Things with hard Names, that used to make him so notable abroad, and so esteemed by his own Party at Home; and now only amuses himself by making the Bible a Peg to hang his Idlenesse upon."

Sure what a Look Ned gave her! Fearful lest Father should overhear (for Blindness quickens the other Senses), he runs up to the Bookshelf, and cries, "Why, Uncle, you have brought down Plenty of Entertainment with you! Here are Plato, Xenophon, and Sallust, Homer and Euripides, Dante and Petrarch, Chaucer and Spenser, . . . and . . . oh, oh! you read Plays sometimes, though you were so hard upon Shakspeare. . . . Here's 'La Scena Tragica d' Adamo ed Eva,' dedicated to the Duchess of Mantua."

"Come away from that Corner, Ned," says Father; "there's a Rat behind the Books; he will bite your Fingers—I hear him scratching now. You had best attack your Strawberries."

"I think this Sort will preserve well," says Mother. "Betty, in 'lighting from the Coach, must needs sett her Foot on the only Pot of Preserve I had left; which she had stuffed under the Seat, instead of carrying it, as she was bidden, in her Hand."

"How fine it is, though," says Father, laughing, "to peacock it in a Coach now and then! Pavoneggiarsi in un Cocchio! Only, except for the Bravery of it, I doubt if little Deb were not better off on her Pillion. I remember, on my Road to Paris, the Bottom of the Caroche fell out; and there sate I, with Hubert, who was my Attendant, with our Feet dangling through. Even the grave Grotius laughed at the Accident."

"Was Grotius grave?" says Ned.

"Believe me, he was," says Father. "He had had Enough to make him so. One feels taller in the Consciousness of having known such a Man. He was great in practical! Things; he was also a profound Scholar, though he made out the fourth Kingdom in Daniel's Prophecy to be the Kingdoms of the Lagidae and the Seleucidae; which, you know, Ned, could not possibly be."

Chatting thus of this and that, we idled over Supper, had some Musick, and went to Bed. And soe much for the only Guest we are like to have for some Months.

Anne told me, at Bed-time, of the Journey down. The Coach, she sayd, was most uncomfortable, Mother having so over-stuffed it. For her Share, she had a Knife-box under her Feet, a Plate-basket at her Back, a Bird-cage bobbing over her Head, and a Lapfull of Crockery-ware. Providentially, Betty turned squeamish, and could not ride inside, soe she was put upon the Box, to the great Comfort of all within. Father, at the Outset, was chafed and captious, but soon settled down, improved the Circumstances of the Times, made Jokes on Mother, recalled old Journies to Buckinghamshire, and, finally, set himself to silent Self-communion, with a pensive Smile on his Face, which, as Anne said, let her know well enow what he was about. Arrived at Chalfont, her first Care was to make him comfortable; while Mother, Mary, and Betty were turning the House upside down; and in this her Care, she so well succeeded, that, to her Dismay, he bade her take Pen and Ink, and commenced dictating to her as composedly as if they were in Bunhill Fields. This was somewhat inopportune, for every Thing was to seek and to set in Order; and, indeed, Mother soon came in, all of a Heat, and sayd, "I wonder, my Dear, you can keep Nan here, at such idling, when she has her Bed to make, and her Box to unpack." Father let her go without a Word, and sate in peacefull Cogitation all the Rest of the Evening—the only Person at Leisure in the House. Howbeit, the next Time he heard Mother chiding—which was after Supper—at Anne, for trying to catch a Bat, which was a Creature she longed to look at narrowly, he sayd, "My Dear, we should be very cautious how we cut off another Person's Pleasures. 'Tis an easy Thing to say to them, 'You are wrong or foolish,' and soe check them in their Pursuit; but what have we to give them that will compensate for it? How many harmless Refreshments and Refuges from sick or tired Thought may thus be destroyed! We may deprive the Spider of his Web, and the Robin of his Nest, but can never repair the Damage to them. Let us live, and let live; leave me to hunt my Butterfly, and Anne to catch her Bat."

Our Life here is most pleasant. Father and I pass almost the whole of our Time in the open Air—he dictating, and I writing; while Mother and Mary find 'emselves I know not whether more of Toyl or Pastime, within Doors,—washing, brewing, baking, pickling, and preserving; to say Nought of the Dairy, which supplies us with endless Variety of Country Messes, such as Father's Soul loveth. 'Tis well we have this Resource, or our Bill of Fare would be somewhat meagre; for the Butcher kills nothing but Mutton, except at Christ-mass. Then, we make our own Bread, for we now keep strict Quarantine, the Plague having now so much spread, that there have e'en been one or two Cases in Chalfont. The only One to seek for Employment has been poor Anne, whose great Resources at Home have ever been Church-going and visiting poor Folk. She can do neither here, for we keep close, even on the Sabbath; and she can neither read to Father, take long, lonely Rambles, nor help Mother in her Housewifery. Howbeit, a Resource hath at length turned up; for the lonely Cot (which is the only Dwelling within Sight) has become the Refuge of a poor, pious Widow, whose only Daughter, a Weaver of Gold and Silver Lace, has been thrown out of Employ by the present Stagnation of all Business. Anne picked up an Acquaintance with 'em shortly after our coming; and, being by Nature a Hoarder, in an innocent Way, so as always to have a few Shillings by her for charitable Uses, when Mary and I have none, she hath improved her Commerce with Joan Elliott to that Degree, as to get her to teach her her pretty Business, at the Price of the Contents of her little Purse. So these two sit harmoniously at their Loom, within Earshot of Father and me, while he dictates to me his wondrous Poem. We are nearing the End of it now, and have reached the Reconciliation of Adam and Eve, which, I think, affected him a good deal, and abstracted his Mind all the Evening; for why, else, should he have so forgotten himself as to call me sweet Moll? . . . Mary lookt up, thinking he meant her; but he never calls her Moll or Molly; and, I believe, was quite unaware he had done so to me: but it showed the Course his Mind was taking.

This Morning, I was straying down a Blackthorn Lane, when a blue-eyed, fresh-coloured young Lady, in a sad-coloured Skirt, and large-flapped Beaver, without either Feather or Buckle, swept by me on a small white Palfrey. She held a Bunch of Tiger Lilies in her Hand, the gayety of which contrasted strangelie enow with her sober Apparell; and I wondered why a peculiar Classe of Folks should deem they please God by wearing the dullest of Colours, when He hath arrayed the Flowers of the Field in the liveliest of Hues. Somehow, I conceited her to be Mistress Gulielma Springett—and so, indeed, she proved; for, on reaching Home after a lengthened Ramble, I saw the Tiger Lilies lying on the Table, and found she had spent a full Hour with Father, who much relished her Talk. Sure, she might have brought a blind Man Flowers that had some Fragrance, however dull of hue.

To-day, as we were sitting under the Hedge, we heard a rough Voice shouting, "Hoy! hoy! what are you about there?" To which another Man's Voice, just over against us, deprecatingly replied, "No Harm, I promise you, Master. . . . We have clean Bills of Health; and my Wife and I, Foot-sore and hungry, do but Purpose to set up our little Cabin against the Bank, till the Sabbath is overpast."

"But you must set it up Somewhere else," cries the other, who was the Chalfont Constable; "for we Chalfont Folks are very particular, and can't have Strangers come harbouring here in our Highways and Hedges,—dying, and making themselves disagreeable."

"But we don't mean to die or be disagreeable," says the other. "We are on our Way to my Wife's Parish; and, sure, you cannot stop us on the King's Highway."

"Oh! but we can, though," says the Constable. "And, besides, this is not the King's Highway, but only a Bye-way, which is next to private Property; and the Gentleman at present in Occupation of that private Property will be highly and justly offended if you go to give him the Plague."

"That's me," says Father. "Do tell him, Deb, not to be so hard on the poor People, but to let them abide where they are till the Sabbath is over. I dare say they have clean Bills of Health, as they state, and the Spot is so lonely, they need not be denied Fire and Water, which is next to Excommunication."

So I parleyed with John Constable, and he parleyed with the Travellers, who really had Passports, and seemed Honest as well as Sound. So they were permitted, without Let or Hindrance, to erect their little Booth; and in a little while they had collected Sticks enough to light a Fire, the Smoke of which annoyed us not, because we were to Windward.

"What have we for Dinner To-day?" says Father.

"A cold Shoulder of Mutton," says Mother, who had thrown 'em a couple of Cabbages.

"Well," says Father, "'twas to a cold Shoulder of Mutton that Samuel set down Saul; and what was good enough for a Prophet may well content a Poet. I propose, that what we leave of ours To-day, should be given to these poor People for their Sabbath's Dinner; and I, for one, shall eat no Meat To-day."

In fact, none did but Mary and Mother, who find fasting not good for their Stomachs; soe Anne, who is the most fearlesse of us all, handed the Joint over to them, with some broken Bread and Dripping, which was most thankfully received. In Truth, I believe them harmless People, for they are now a singing Psalms.

Ellwood has turned up agayn, to the great Pleasure of Father, who delights in his Company, and likes his Reading better than ours, though he will call Pater Payter. Consequence is, I have infinitely more Leisure, and can ramble hither and thither, (always shunning Wayfarers), and bring Home my Lap full of Flowers and Weeds, with rusticall Names, such as Ragged Robin, Sneezewort, Cream-and-Codlins, Jack-in-the-Hedge, or Sauce-alone. Many of these I knew not before; but I describe them to Father, and he tells me what they are. He hath finished his Poem, and given it Ellwood to read, in the most careless Fashion imaginable, saying, "You can take this Home, and run through it at your Leisure. I should like to hear your Judgment on it some Time or other." Nor do I believe he has ever since given himself an uneasy Thought of what that Judgment may be, nor what the World at large may think of it. His Pleasure is not in Praise but Production; the last makes him now and then a little feverish; the other, or its want, never. Just at last, 'twas hard Work to us both; he was like a Wheel running downhill, that must get to the End before it stopped. Mother scolded him, and made him promise he would leave off for a Week or so; at least, she says he did, and he says he did not, and asks her whether, if the Grass had promised not to grow she would believe it.

Poor Ellwood's Love-bonds prove rather more irksome to him than those of his Gaol; he hath renewed his Intercourse with our Friends at the Grange, only to find a dangerous Rival stept into his Place, in the Person of one William Penn—in fact, I suspect Mistress Guli is engaged to him already. Ellwood hath been closetted with my Father this Morning, pouring out his Woes—methinks he must have been to seek for a Confidant! When he came forth, the poor young Man's Eyes were red. I cannot but pity him, tho' he is such a Formalist.

I wish Anne were a little more demonstrative; Father would then be as assured of her Affection as of mine, and treat her with equal Tenderness. But, no, she cannot be; she will sitt and look piteously on his blind Face, but, alas! he cannot see that; and when he pours forth the full Tide of Melody on his Organ, and hymns mellifluous Praise, the Tears rush to her eyes, and she is oft obliged to quit the Chamber; but, alas! he knows not that. So he goes on, deeming her, I fear me, stupid as well as silent, indifferent as well as infirm.

I am not avised of her ever having let him feel her Sympathy, save when he was inditing to me his third Book, while she sate at her Sewing. 'Twas at these lines:—

"Thus with the Year, Seasons return; but not to me returns Day, or the sweet Approach of Even or Morn, Or Sight of vernal Bloom or Summer's Rose, Or Flocks or Herds, or human Face divine, But Clouds instead, and over-during Dark Surrounds me; from the cheerful Ways of Men Cut off: and for the Book of Knowledge fair, Presented with an universal Blank."

His Brow was a little contracted, but his Face was quite composed; while she, on t'other Hand, with her Work dropped from her Lap, and her Eyes streaming, sate gazing on him, the Image of Woe. At length, timidly stole to his Side, and, after hesitating awhile, kissed both his Eyelids. He caught her to him, quite taken by Surprise, and, for a Moment, both wept bitterly. This was soon put a Stop to, by Mother's coming in, with her Head full of stale Fish; howbeit Father treated Anne with uncommon Tenderness all that Evening, calling her his sweet Nan; while she, shrinking back again into her Shell, was shyer than ever. But his Spiritts were soothed rather than dashed by this little Outbreak; and at Bedtime, he said, even cheerfully, "Now, good-night, Girls: . . . may it, indeed, be as good to you as to me. You know, Night brings back my Day—I am not blind in my Dreams."

I wish I knew the Distinction between Temperament and Genius: how far Father's even Frame is attributable to one or t'other. If to the former, why, we might hope to attain it as well as he;—yet, no; this is equallie the Gift of God's Grace. Our Humours we may controwl, but our Temperament is born with us; and if one should say, "Why are you a Vessel of glorious things, while I am a Vessel of Things weak and vile?"—nay, but oh! Man or Woman, who art thou that questionest the Will of God? His Election is shewn no less in the Gift of Genius or of an equable Temperament than of spirituall Life; and the Thing formed may not say to him that formed it, "Why hast thou made me thus?"

Father, indeed, can flame out in political Controversy, and lay about him as with a Flail, right and left, making the Chaff, and sometimes the Wheat too, fly about his Ears. 'Twas while threshing the Wheat by the Wine-press at Ophrah, that Gideon was called by the Angel; and methinks Father hath in like Manner been summoned from the Floor of his Threshing, to discourse of Heaven and Earth, and bring forth from his Mind's Storehouse Things new and old. I wonder if the World will ever give heed to his Teaching. Suppose a Spark of Fire should drop some Night on the Manuscript, while Ettwood is dozing over it;—why, there's an end on't. I suppose Father could never do it over again. I wonder how many fine Things have been lost in suchlike Ways; or whether God ever permitts a truly fine Thing to be utterly lost. We may drop a Diamond into the Sea; but there it is, at the Bottom of the Great Deep. Justinian's Pandects turned up again. The Art of making Glass was lost once. The Passage round the Cape was made and forgotten.——If I pore over this, I shall puzzle my Head. Howbeit, were I to round the Cape, I should hardly look for stranger and more glorious Scenes than Father hath in his Poem made familiar to me. He hath done more for me than Columbus for Queen Isabel—hath revealed to me a far better New World. Now, I scarce ever look on the setting Sun, surrounded by Hues more gorgeous than those of the High-priest's Breast-plate, without picturing the Angel of the Sun seated on that bright Beam which bore him, Slope downward, beneath the Azores. And, in the less brilliant Hour, I, by Faith or Fancy, discern Ithuriel and Zephon in the Shade; and by their Side a third, of regal Port, but faded Splendour wan. A little later still, can sometimes hear the Voice of God, or, as I suppose, we might say, the Word of God, walking in the Garden. Pneuma! His Breath! His Spirit! How hushed and still! Then, the Night cometh, when no Man can work—when the young Lions, in tropical Climes, waking from their Day-sleep, seek their Meat from God. Albeit they may prowl about the Dwellings of his people, they cannot enter, for He that watcheth them neither slumbers nor sleeps. Moreover, heavenly Vigils relieve one another at their Posts, and go their Midnight Rounds; sometimes, singing (Father says), with heavenly Touch of instrumental Sounds, in full harmonic Number joined . . . yes, and Shepherds, once, at least, have heard them.

And then . . . and then Mother cries, "How often, Deb, shall I bid you lock the Gate at nine o'clock, and bring me in the Key?"



Sept. 2nd, 1665.

Good so! Master Ellwood hath brought back the MS. at last, and delivered his Approbation thereon with the Air of a competent Authority, which Father took in the utmost good part, and chatted with him on the Subject for some Time. Howbeit, he is not much flattered, I fancy, by the Quaker's pragmatick Sanction, qualifyde, too, as it was, to show his own Discernment; and when I consider that the major part of Criticks may be as little fitted to take the Measure of their Subject as Ellwood is of Father, I cannot but see that the gleaning of Father's Grapes is better than the Vintage of the Critick's Abiezer.

To wind up all, Ellwood, primming up his Mouth, says, "Thou hast found much to tell us, Friend Milton, on Paradise Lost;—now, what hast thou to tell of Paradise Regained?"

Father said nothing at the Time, but hath since been brooding a good deal, and keeping me much to the Reading of the New Testament; and I think my Night-work will soon begin again.

Ellwood's Talk was much of Guli Springett, whom I have seen sundry times, and think high-flown, in spight of her levelling Principles and demure Carriage. The Youth is bewitched with her, I think; what has a Woman to do with Logique? My Belief is, he might as well hope to marry the Moon as to win Mistress Springett's Hand; however, his Self-opinion is considerable. He chode Father this Morning for Organ-playing, saying he doubted its lawfullness. Oh, the Prigg!

I grieve to think Mary can sometimes be a little spightfull as well as unduteous. She is ill at her Pen, and having To-day made some Blunder, for which Father chid her, not overmuch, she rudely made Answer, "I never had a Writing-master." Betty, being by, treasured up, as I could see, this ill-natured Speech: and 'twas unfair too; for, if we never had a Writing-master, yet my Aunt Agar taught us; and 'twas our own Fault if we improved no more. Indeed, we have had a scrambling Sort of Education; but, in many respects, our Advantages have exceeded those of many young Women; and among them I reckon, first and foremost, continuall Intercourse with a superior Mind.

If a Piece of mere Leather, by frequent Contact with Silver, acquires a certain Portion of the pure and bright Metal; sure, the Children of a gifted Parent must, by the Collision of their Minds, insensibly, as 'twere, imbibe somewhat of his finer Parts. Ned Phillips, indeed, sayth we are like People living so close under a big Mountain, as not to know how high it is; but I think we . . . at least, I do. And, whatever be our scant Learnings, Father, despite his limited Means, hath never grutched us the Supply of a reall Want; and is, at this Time, paying Joan Elliott at a good Rate for perfecting Anne in her pretty Work. I am sorry Mary should thus have sneaped him; and I am sorry I ever either hurt him—by uncivil Speech, or wronged him by unkind Thought. Poor Nan, with all her Infirmities, is, perhaps, his best Child. Not that I am a bad one, neither.

My Night-tasks have recommenced of late; because, as he says—

"I suoi Pensieri in lui Dormir non ponno:"

which, being interpreted, means, "His Thoughts would let him and his Daughter take no rest."



12th.

I know not that any one but Father hath ever concerned themselves to imagine the Anxieties of the blessed Virgin during her Son's forty Days' mysterious Absence. No wonder that

"Within her Breast, tho' calm, her Breast, tho' pure, Motherly Fears got Head."

Father hath touched her with a very tender and reverent Hand, dwelling less on her than he did on Eve, whom he with perfect Beauty adorned, onlie to make her Sin appear more Sad. Well, we know not ourselves; but methinks I should not have transgrest as she did, neither, for an Apple.



15th.

And now I have transgrest about a Pin! O me! what weak, wicked Wretches we are! "Behold, how great a Matter a little Fire kindleth!" And the Tongue is a Fire, an unruly Member. Sure, when I was writing, at Father's Dictation, such heavy Charges against Eve, I privily thought I was better than she; and, sifting the Doings of Mary and Anne through a somewhat censorious Judgment, maybe I thought I was better than they. Alas! we know not our own selves. And so, dropping a Stitch in my Knitting, I must needs cry out—"Here, any of you . . . oh, Mother! do bring me a Pin." My Sisters, as Ill-luck would have it, not being by, cries she, "Forsooth, Manners have come to a fine Pass in these Days! Bring her a Pin, quotha!" Instead of making answer, "Well, 'twas disrespectful; I ask your Pardon;" I must mutter, "I see what I'm valued at—less than a Pin."

"Deb, don't be unduteous," says Father to me. "Woulde it not have been better to fetch what you wanted, than strangely ask your Mother to bring it?"

"And thereby spoil my Work," answered I; "but 'tis no Matter."

"Tis a great Matter to be uncivil," says Father.

"Oh! dear Husband, do not concern yourself," interrupts Mother; "the Girl's incivility is no new Matter, I protest."

On this, a Battle of Words on both sides, ending in Tears, Bitterness, and my being sent by Father to my Chamber till Dinner. "And, Deb," he adds, gravely, but not harshly, "take no Book with you, unless it be your Bible."

Soe, hither, with swelling Heart, I have come. I never drew on myself such Condemnation before—at least, since childish Days; and could be enraged with Mother, were I not enraged with myself. I'm in no Hurry for Dinner-time; I cannot sober down. My Temples beat, and my Throat has a great Lump in it. Why was Nan out of the Way? Yet, would she have made Things better? I was in no Fault at first, that's certain; Mother took Offence where none was meant; but I meant Offence afterwards. Lord, have mercy upon me! I can ask Thy Forgiveness, though not hers. And I could find it in me to ask Father's too, and say, "I have sinned against Heaven, and in thy . . . thy Hearing.'" And now I come to write that Word, I have a Mind to cry; and the Lump goes down, and I feel earnest to look into my Bible, and more humbled towards Mother. And . . . what is it Father says?—

"What better can I do, than to the Place Repairing, where he judged me, there confess Humbly my Fault, and Pardon beg, with Tears Of Sorrow unfeign'd, and Humiliation meek?"

. . . He met me at the very first Word. "I knew you would," he said; "I knew the kindest Thing was to send you to commune with your own Heart in your Chamber, and be still. 'Tis there we find the Holy Spirit and Holy Saviour in waiting for us; and in the House where they abide, as long as they abide in it, there is no Room for Satan to enter. But let this Morning's Work, Deb, be a Warning to you, not thus to transgress again. As long as we are in peaceful Communion among ourselves, there is a fine, invisible Cobweb, too clear for mortal Sight, spun from Mind to Mind, which the least Breath of Discord rudely breaks. You owe to your Mother a Daughter's Reverence; and if you behave like a Child, you must look to be punisht like a Child."

"I am not a mere Baby, neither," I said.

"No," he replied. "I see you can make Distinction between Teknia and Paidia; but a Baby is the more inoffensive and less responsible Agent of the two. If you are content to be a Baby in Grace, you must not contend for a Baby's Immunities. I have heard a Baby cry pretty loudly about a Pin."

This shut my Mouth close enough.

"You are now," he added gently, "nearly as old as your Mother was when I married her."

I said, "I fear I am not much like her."

He said nothing, only smiled. I made bold to pursue:—"What was she like?"

Again he was silent, at least for a Minute; and then, in quite a changed Tone, with somewhat hurried in it, cried,—

"Like the fresh Sweetbriar and early May! Like the fresh, cool, pure Air of opening Day . . . Like the gay Lark, sprung from the glittering Dew . . . An Angel! yet . . . a very Woman too!"

And, kicking back his Chair, he got up, and began to walk hastily about the Chamber, as fearlessly as he always does when he is thinking of something else, I springing up to move one or two Chairs out of his Way. Hearing some high Voices in the Offices, he presently observed, "A contentious Woman is like a continuall Dropping. Shakspeare spoke well when he said that a sweet, low Voice is an excellent Thing in Woman. I wish you good Women would recollect that one Avenue of my Senses being stopt, makes me keener to any Impression on the others. Where Strife is, there is Confusion and every evil Work. Why should not we dwell in Peace, in this quiet little Nest, instead of rendering our Home liker to a Cage of unclean Birds?"



Bunhill Fields, London, Oct. 1666.

People have phansied Appearances of Armies in the Air, flaming Swords, Fields of Battle, and other Images; and, truly, the Evening before we left Chalfont, methought I beheld the Glories of the ancient City Ctesiphon in the Sunset Clouds, with gilded Battlements, conspicuous far—Turrets, and Terraces, and glittering Spires. The light-armed Parthians pouring through the Gates, in Coats of Mail, and military Pride. In the far Perspective of the open Plain, two ancient Rivers, the one winding, t'other straight, losing themselves in the glowing Distance, among the Tents of the ten lost Tribes. Such are One's Dreams at Sunset. And, when I cast down my dazed Eyes on the shaded Landskip, all looked in Comparison, so black and bleak, that methought how dull and dreary this lower World must have appeared to Moses when he descended from Horeb, and to our Saviour, when he came down from the Mount of Transfiguration, and to St. Paul, when he dropt from the seventh Heaven.

What a Click, Click, the Bricklayers make with their Trowels, thus bringing me down from my Altitudes! Sure, we hardly knew how well off we were at Chalfont, till we came back to this unlucky Capital, looking as desolate as Jerusalem, when the City was ruinated and the People captivated. Weeds in the Streets—smouldering Piles—blackened, tottering Walls—and inexhaustible Heaps of vile Rubbish. Even with closed Windows, everything gets covered with a Coating of fine Dust. Cousin Jack Yesterday picked up a half-burnt Acceptance for twenty thousand Pounds. There is a fine Time coming for Builders and Architects—Anne's Lover among the Rest. The Way she picked him up was notable. Returning to Town, she falls to her old Practices of daily Prayer, and visiting the Poor. At Church she sits over against a good-looking young Man, recovered from the Plague, whose near Approach to Death's Door had made him more godly in his Walk than the general of his Age and Condition. He notes her beautiful Face—marks not her deformed Shape; and, because that, by Reason of the late Distresses, the Calamities of the Poor have been met by unusuall Charities of the upper Classes, he, on his Errands of Mercy among the Rest, presently falls in with her at a poor sick Man's House, and marvels when the limping Stranger turns about and discovers the beautiful Votaress. After one or two chance Meetings, respectfully accosts her—Anne draws back—he finds a mutuall Friend—the Acquaintance progresses; and at length, by Way of first Introduction to my Father, he steps in to ask him (preamble supposed) to give him his eldest Daughter. Then what a Storm ensues! Father's Objections do not transpire, no one being by but Mother, who is unlikely to soften Matters. But, so soon as John Herring shuts the Door behind him, and walks off quickly, Anne is called down, and I follow, neither bidden nor hindered. Thereupon, Father, with a red Heat-spot on his Cheek, asks Anne what she knows of this young Man. Her answer, "Nothing but good." "How came she to know him at all?" . . . Silent; then makes Answer, "Has seen him at Mrs. French's and elsewhere." "Where else?" "Why, at Church, and other Places." Mother here puts in, "What other Places?" . . . "Sure what can it signify," Anne asks, turning short round upon her; "and especially to you, who would be glad to get quit of me on any Terms?"

"Anne, Anne!" interrupts Father, "does this Concern of ours for you look like it? You know you are saying what is uncivil and untrue."

"Well," resumes Anne, her breath coming quick, "but what's the Objection to John Herring?"

"John? is he John with you already?" cries Mother. "Then you must know more of him than you say."

"Sure, Mother," cries Anne, bursting into Tears, "you are enough to overcome the Patience of Job. I know nothing of the young Man, but that he is pious, and steady, and well read, and a good Son of reputable Parents, as well to do in the World as ourselves; and that he likes me, whom few like, and offers me a quiet, happy Home."

"How fast some People can talk when they like," observes Mother; at which Allusion to Anne's Impediment, I dart at her a Look of Wrath; but Nan only continues weeping.

"Come hither, Child," interposes Father, holding his Hand towards her; "and you, good Betty, leave us awhile to talk over this without Interruption." At which, Mother, taking him literally, sweeps up her Work, and quits the Room. "The Address of this young Man," says Father, "has taken me wholly by Surprise, and your Encouragement of it has incontestably had somewhat of clandestine in it; notwithstanding which, I have, and can have, nothing in View, dear Nan, but your Well-being. As to his Calling, I take no Exceptions at it, even though, like Caementarius, he should say, I am a Bricklayer, and have got my Living by my Labour—"

"A Master-builder, not a Bricklayer," interposes Anne.

Father stopt for a Moment; then resumed. "You talk of his offering you a quiet Home: why should you be dissatisfied with your own, where, in the Main, we are all very happy together? In these evil Times, 'tis something considerable to have, as it were, a little Chamber on the Wall, where your Candle is lighted by the Lord, your Table spread by him, your Bed made by him in your Health and Sickness, and where he stands behind the Door, ready to come in and sup with you. All this you will leave for One you know not. How bitterly may you hereafter look back on your present Lot! You know, I have the Apostle's Word for it, that, if I give you in Marriage, I may do well; but, if I give you not, I shall do better. The unmarried Woman careth for the Things of the Lord, that she may be holy in Body and Spirit, and attend upon him without Distraction. Thus was it with the five wise Maidens, who kept their Lamps ready trimmed until the Coming of their Lord. I wish we only knew of five that were foolish. Time would fail me to tell you of all the godly Women, both of the elder and later Time, who have led single Lives without Superstition, and without Hypocrisy. Howbeit, you may marry if you will; but you will be wiser if you abide as you are, after my Judgment. Let me not to the Marriage of true Minds oppose Impediment; but, in your own Case—"

"Father," interrupts Anne, "you know I am ill at speaking; but permit me to say, you are now talking wide of the Mark. Without going back to the Beginning of the World, or all through the Romish Calendar, I will content me with the more recent Instance of yourself, who have thrice preferred Marriage, with all its concomitant Evils, to the single State you laud so highly. Is it any Reason we should not dwell in a House, because St. Jerome lived in a Cave? The godly Women of whom you speak might neither have had so promising a Home offered to them, nor so ill a Home to quit."

"What call you an ill Home?" says Father, his Brow darkening.

"I call that an ill Home," returns Anne, stoutly, "where there is neither Union nor Sympathy—at least, for my Share,—where there are no Duties of which I can well acquit myself, and where those I have made for myself, and find suitable to my Capacity and Strength, are contemned, let, and hindered,—where my Mother-Church, my Mother's Church, is reviled—my Mother's Family despised,—where the few Friends I have made are never asked, while every Attention I pay them is grudged,—where, for keeping all my hard Usage from my Father's Hearing, all the Reward I get is his thinking I have no hard Usage to bear—"

"Hold, ungrateful Girl!" says Father; "I've heard enough, and too much. Tis Time wasted to reason with a Woman. I do believe there never yet was one who would not start aside like a broken Bow, or pierce the Side like a snapt Reed, at the very Moment most Dependance was placed in her. Let her Husband humour her to the Top of her Bent,—she takes French Leave of him, departs to her own Kindred, and makes Affection for her Childhood's Home the Pretext for defying the Laws of God and Man. Let her Father cherish her, pity her, bear with her, and shelter her from even the Knowledge of the Evils of the World without,—her Ingratitude will keep Pace with her Ignorance, and she will forsake him for the Sweetheart of a Week. You think Marriage the supreme Bliss: a good many don't find it so. Lively Passions soon burn out; and then come disappointed Expectancies, vain Repinings, fretful Complainings, wrathful Rejoinings. You fly from Collision with jarring Minds: what Security have you for more Forbearance among your new Connexions? Alas! you will carry your Temper with you—you will carry your bodily Infirmities with you;—your little Stock of Experience, Reason, and Patience will be exhausted before the Year is out, and at the End, perhaps, you will—die—"

"As well die," cries Anne, bursting into Tears, "as live to hear such a Rebuke as this." And so, passionately wringing her Hands, runs out of the Room.

"Follow after her, Deb," cries Father; "she is beside herself. Unhappy me! tried every Way! An Oedipus with no Antigone!"

And, rising from his Seat, he began to pace up and down, while I ran up to Nan. But scarce had I reached the Stair-head, when we both heard a heavy Fall in the Chamber below. We cried, "Sure, that is Father!" and ran down quicker than we had run up. He was just rising as we entered, his Foot having caught in a long Coil of Gold Lace, which Anne, in her disorderly Exit, had unwittingly dragged after her. I saw at a Glance he was annoyed rather than hurt; but Nan, without a Moment's Pause, darts into his Arms, in a Passion of Pity and Repentance, crying, "Oh, Father, Father, forgive me! oh, Father!"

"Tis all of a Piece, Nan," he replies; "alternate hot and cold; every Thing for Passion, nothing for Reason. Now all for me; a Minute ago, I might go to the Wall for John Herring."

"No, never, Father!" cries Anne; "never, dear Father—"

"Dark are the Ways of God," continues he, unheeding her; "not only annulling his first best Gift of Light to me, and leaving me a Prey to daily Contempt, Abuse, and Wrong, but mangling my tenderest, most apprehensive Feelings—"

Anne again breaks in with, "Oh! Father, Father!"

"Dark, dark, for ever dark!" he went on; "but just are the Ways of God to Man. Who shall say, 'What doest Thou?'"

"Father, I promise you," says Anne, "that I will never more think of John Herring."

"Foolish Girl!" he replies sadly; "as ready now to promise too Much, as resolute just now to hear Nothing. How can you promise never to think of him? I never asked it of you."

"At least I can promise not to speak of him," says Anne.

"Therein you will do wisely," rejoins Father. "My Consent having been asked is an Admission that I have a Right to give or withhold it; and, as I have already told John Herring, I shall certainly not grant it before you are of Age. Perhaps by that Time you may be your own Mistress, without even such an ill Home as I, while I live, can afford you."

"No more of that," says Anne, interrupting him; and a Kiss sealed the Compact.

All this Time, Mother and Mary were, providentially, out of the Way. Mother had gone off in a Huff, and Mary was busied in making some marbled Veal.

The rest of the Day was dull enough: violent Emotions are commonly succeeded by flat Stagnations. Anne, however, seemed kept up by some Energy from within, and looked a little flushed. At Bed-time she got the start of me, as usuall; and, on entering our Chamber, I found her quite undrest, sitting at the Table, not reading of her Bible, but with her Head resting on it. I should have taken her to be asleep, but for the quick Pulsation of some Nerve or Muscle at the back of the Neck, somewhere under the right Ear. She looks up, commences rubbing her Eyes, and says, "My Eyes are full of Sand, I think. I will give you my new Crown-piece, Deb, if you will read me to sleep without another Word." So I say, "A Bargain," though without meaning to take the Crown; and she jumps into Bed in a Minute, and I begin at the Sermon on the Mount, and keep on and on, in more and more of a Monotone; but every Time I lookt up, I saw her Eyes wide open, agaze at the top of the Bed; and so I go on and on, like a Bee humming over a Flower, till she shuts her Eyes; but, at last, when I think her off, having just got to Matthew, eleven, twenty-eight, she fetches a deep sigh, and says, "I wish I could hear Him saying so to me . . . 'Come, Anne, unto me, and I will give you Rest.' But, in fact, He does so as emphatically in addressing all the weary and heavy-laden, as if I heard Him articulating, 'Come, Anne, come!'"



POST SCRIPTUM

Spitalfields, 1680.

A generous Mind finds even its just Resentments languish and die away when their Object becomes the unresisting prey of Death. Such is my Experience with regard to Betty Fisher, whose ill Life hath now terminated, and from whom, confronted at the Bar of their great Judge, Father will, one Day, hear the Truth. As to my Stepmother, Time and Distance have had their soothing Effect on me even regarding her. She is down in Cheshire, among her own People; is a hale, hearty Woman yet, and will very likely outlive me. If she looked in on me this Moment, and saw me in this homely but decent Suit, sitting by my clear Coal-fire, in this little oak-panelled Room, with a clean, though coarse Cloth neatly laid on the Supper Table, with Covers for two, could she sneer at the Spouse of the Spitalfields Weaver? Belike she might, for Spight never wanted Food; but I would have her into the Nursery, shew her the two sleeping Faces, and ask her. Did I need her Pity then?

Betty's Death, calling up Memories of old Times, hath made me somewhat cynical, I think. I cannot but call to Mind her many ill Turns. 'Twas shortly after the Rupture of Anne's Match with John Herring. Poor Nan had over-reckoned on her own Strength of Mind, when she promised Father to speak of him no more; and, after the first Fervour of Self-denial, became so captious, that Father said he heard John Herring in every Tone. This set them at Variance, to commence with; and then, Mary detecting Betty in certain Malpractices, Mother could no longer keep her, for Decency's Sake; and Betty, in revenge, came up to Father before she left, and told him a tissue of Lies concerning us,—how that Mary had wished him dead, and I had made away with his Books and Kitchen-stuff. I, being at Hackney at the Time, on a Visitt to Rosamond Woodcock, was not by to refute the infamous Charge, which had Time to rankle in Father's Mind before I returned; and Mary having lost his Opinion by previous Squabbles with Mother and the Maids, I came back only to find the House turned upside down. 'Twas under these misfortunate Circumstances that poor Father commenced his Sampson Agonistes; and, though his Object was, primarily, to divert his Mind, it too often ran upon Things around him, and made his Poem the Shadow and Mirrour of himself. When he got to Dalilah, I could not forbear saying, "How hard you are upon Women, Father!"

"Hard?" repeated he; "I think I am anything but that. Do you call me hard on Eve, and the Lady in Comus?"

"No, indeed," I returned. "The Lady, like Una, makes Sunshine in a shady Place; and, in fact, how should it be otherwise? For Truth and Purity, like Diamonds, shine in the Dark."

He smiled, and, passing his Hand across his Brow to re-collect himself, went on in a freer, less biting Spirit, to the Encounter with Harapha of Gath, in which he evidently revelled, even to making me laugh, when the big, cowardly Giant excused himself from coming within the blind Man's Reach, by saying of him, that he had need of much washing to be willingly touched. He went on flowingly to

"But take good Heed my Hand survey not thee; My Heels are fetter'd, but my Fist is free,"

and then broke into a merry Laugh himself; adding, a Line or two after,

"His Giantship is gone, somewhat crest-fallen;

". . . there, Girl, that will do for To-day."

Meantime, his greater Poem had come out, for which he had got an immediate Payment of five Pounds, with a conditional Expectance of fifteen Pounds more on the three following Editions, should the Public ever call for 'em. And truly, when one considers how much Meat and Drink One may buy for Twenty Pounds, and how capricious is the Taste of the critikal World, 'tis no mean Venture of a Bookseller on a Manuscript of which he knows the actual value as little as a Salvage of the Gold-dust he parts with for a Handful of old Nails. At all events, the Sale of the Work gave Father no Reason to suppose he had made an ill Bargain; but, indeed, he gave himself very little Concern about it; and was quite satisfied when, now and then, Mr. Marvell and Mr. Skinner, or some other old Crony, having waded through it, looked in on him to talk it over. Money, indeed, a little more of it, would have been often acceptable. Mother now began to pinch us pretty short, and lament the unsaleable Quality of Father's Productions; also to call us a Set of lazy Drones, and wonder what would come of us some future Day; insomuch that Father, turning the Matter sedately in his Mind, did seriously conclude 'twould be well for us to go forth for a While, to learn some Method of Self-support. And this was accelerated by an unhappy Collision 'twixt my Mother and me, which, in a hasty Moment, sent me, with swelling Heart, to take Counsel of Mrs. Lefroy, my sometime Playfellow Rosamond Woodcock, then on the Point of embarking for Ireland; who volunteered to take me with her, and be at my Charges; so I took leave of Father with a bursting Heart, not troubling him with an Inkling of my Ill-usage, which has been a Comfort to me ever since, though he went to the Grave believing I had only sought my own Well-doing.

We never met again. Had I foreseen it, I could not have left him. The next Stroke was to get away Mary and Anne, and take back Betty Fisher. Then the nuncupative Will was hatched up; for I never will believe it authentick—no, never; and Sir Leoline Jenkins, that upright and able Judge, set it aside, albeit Betty Fisher would swear through thick and thin.

Sure, Things must have come to a pretty Pass, when Father was brought to take his Meals in the Kitchen! a Thing he had never been accustomed to in his Life, save at Chalfont, by Reason of the Parlour being so small. And the Words, both as to Sense and Choice, which Betty put into his Mouth, betrayed the Counterfeit, by favouring over-much of the Scullion. "God have Mercy, Betty! I see thou wilt perform according to thy Promise, in providing me such Dishes as I think fit whilst I live; and when I die, thou knowest I have left thee all!" Phansy Father talking like that! Were I not so provoked, I could laugh. And he to sell his Children's Birthright for a Mess of Pottage, who, instead of loving savoury Meat, like blind Isaac, was, in fact, the most temperate of Men! who cared not what he ate, so 'twas sweet and clean; who might have said with godly Mr. Ball of Whitmore, that he had two Dishes of Meat to his Sabbath-dinner,—a Dish of hot Milk, and a Dish of cold Milk; and that was enough and enough. Whose Drink was from the Well;—often have I drawn it for him at Chalfont!—and who called Bread-and-butter a lordly Dish;—often have I cut him thick Slices, and brought him Cresses from the Spring! Well placed he his own Principle and Practice in the Chorus's Mouth, where they say,

"Oh, Madness! to think Use of strongest Wines And strongest Drinks our chief Support of Health!"

So that Story carries its Confutation with it: Ned Phillips says so, too. As to what passed, that July Forenoon, between him and Uncle Kit, before the latter left Town in the Ipswich Coach, and with Betty Fisher fidgetting in and out of the Chamber all the Time . . . he may, or may not have called us his unkind Children; for we can never tell what Reasons had been given him to make him think us so. That must stand over. How many human Misapprehensions must do the same! Enough that one Eye sees all, that one Spirit knows all . . . even all our Misdoings; or else, how could we bear to tell Him even the least of them? But it requires great Faith in the greatly wronged, to obtain that Calm of Mind, all Passion spent, which some have arrived at. When we can stand firm on that Pinnacle, Satan falls prone. He sets us on that dizzy Height, as he did our Master; saying, in his taunting Fashion,—

"There stand, if thou canst stand; to stand upright Will ask thee Skill;"

but the Moment he sees we can, down he goes himself!—falls whence he stood to see his Victor fall! This is what Man has done, and Man may do,—and Woman too; the Strength, for asking, being promised and given.

THE END