Chapter 2

WHEREIN IDEAS DIFFER.

"O man, little hast thou learned of truth in things most true."--Martin Farquhar Tupper.

(_In Helen's handwriting_.)

SELWICK HALL, OCTOBER THE XII. Well! _Milly_ saith nought never happens in this house. Lack-a-daisy! but I would fain it were so!

One may love one's friends, and must one's enemies, _Father_ saith. But how should one feel towards them that be nowise enemies, for they mean right kindly, and yet not friends, seeing they make your life a burden unto you?

Now, all our lives have I known Master _Lewthwaite_, of _Mere Lea_, and Mistress _Lewthwaite_ his wife, and their lads and lasses, _Nym, Jack_, and _Robin_, and _Alice_ and _Blanche_. Many a game at hunt the slipper and blind man's buff have we had at _Mere Lea_, and I would have said yet may, had not a thing happed this morrow which I would right fain should ne'er have happened while the world stood.

What in all this world should have made _Nym_ so to do cannot I so much as conceive. He might have found a deal fairer lasses. Why, our _Milly_ and _Edith_ are ever so much better-favoured. But to want me!-- nor only that, but to come with so pitiful a tale, that he should go straight to ruin an' I would not wed with him; that I was the only maid in all the world that should serve against the same; and that if I refused, all his sins thereafter should be laid at my door! Heard any ever the like?

And I have no list to wed with _Nym_. I like him--as a dozen other lads: but that is all. And meseems that before I could think to leave _Father_ and _Mother_ and all, and go away with a man for all my life, he must be as the whole world to me, or I could never do it. I cannot think what _Nym_ would be at. And he saith it shall be my blame and my sin, if I do it not. _Must_ I wed _Nym Lewthwaite_?

I sat and pondered drearily o'er my trouble for a season, and then went to look for Aunt _Joyce_, whom I found in the long gallery, at her sewing in a window.

"Well, _Nell_, what hast ado, maid?" saith she.

"Pray you, Aunt _Joyce_, tell me a thing," said I.

"That will I, with a very good will, my maid," saith she.

"Aunt _Joyce_, if a man were to come to you and entreat you to wed with him, by reason that he could not (should he say) keep in the right way without you did help him, and that, you refusing, you should be blameworthy of all his after sins--what should you say to him?"

I listened right earnestly for her answer. I was woeful 'feared she should say, "Wed with him, _Nell_, for sure, and thus save him."

"Say?" quoth Aunt _Joyce_, looking up, with (it seemed me) somewhat like laughter in her eyes. "Fetch him a good buffet of his ear, forsooth, and ask at him by what right he called himself a man."

"Then you should not think you bound to save him, _Aunt_?"

"Poor weak creature! Not I," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "But whatso, Nell? Hast had any such a simpleton at thee?"

"_Aunt_," said I, "'tis _Nym Lewthwaite_, who saith an' I wed him not, he shall go straight to ruin, and that I must answer unto God for all his sins if so be."

"Ask him where he found that in the Bible," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Take no thought about him, _Nell_. Trust me, if a man cannot keep straight without thee, he will not keep straight with thee. Poor limping soul! to come halting up and plead with a weak woman to leave him put his hand on her shoulder, to help him o'er the stones! `Carry me, prithee, good Mistress, o'er this rough place.' Use thine own two legs, would I say to him, and be ashamed of thy meanness. And I dare be sworn he calls himself one of the nobler sex," ends Aunt _Joyce_ with a snort of scorn.

"O _Aunt_, I am so thankful you see it thus!" said I, drawing a long breath. "I was so afeard you should bid me do as _Nym_ would."

"Nay, not this while," quoth she, of her dry fashion. "When we lack stuff for to mend the foul roads, _Nell_, we'll find somewhat fitter to break up than thee. If young _Lewthwaite_ harry thee again, send him to me. He'll not want to see me twice, I'll warrant."

"I was 'feared I was wicked to shrink from it, _Aunt_," I made answer. "_Nym_ said so. He said 'twas all self-loving and seeking of mine ease that alone did make me for to hesitate; and that if I had loved God and my neighbour better than myself, I would have strake hands with him at once. And I was 'feared lest it should be true."

"Ay, it is none so difficult to paint black white," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "'Tis alway the self-lovers that cry out upon the unkindliness of other folks. And thou art one of them, _Nell_, my maid, that be prone to reckon that must needs be right which goes against the grain. There be that make self-denial run of all fours in that fashion. They think duty and pleasure must needs be enemies. Why, child, they are the best friends in the world. Only _Duty_ is the elder sister, and is jealous to be put first. Run thou after _Duty_, and see if _Pleasure_ come not running after thee to beseech thee of better acquaintance. But run after _Pleasure_, and she'll fly thee. She's a rare bashful one."

"Then you count it not wrong that one should desire to be happy, _Aunt_?"

"The Lord seems not to count it so, _Nell_. He had scarce, methinks, told us so much touching the happiness of Heaven, had He meant us to think it ill to be happy. But remember, maid, she that findeth her happiness in God hath it alway ready to her hand; while she that findeth her happiness in this world must wait till it come to seek her."

"I would I were as good as _Father_!" said I; and I believe I fetched a sigh.

"Go a little higher, _Nell_, while thou art a-climbing," quoth Aunt _Joyce_. "`I would I were as good as _Christ_.'"

"Eh, _Aunt_, but who could?" said I.

"None," she made answer. "But, _Nell_, he that shoots up into the sky is more like to rise than he that aims at a holly-bush."

"Methinks _Father_ is higher than I am ever like to get," said I.

"And if thou overtop him," she made answer, "all shall see it but thyself. Climb on, _Nell_. Thou wilt not grow giddy so long as thine eyes be turned above."

I am so glad that Aunt _Joyce_ seeth thus touching _Nym_!

SELWICK HALL, OCTOBER YE II. There goeth my first two pence for a blank week. In good sooth, I have been in ill case to write. This weary _Nym_ would in no wise leave me be, but went to _Anstace_ and _Hal_, and gat their instance [persuaded them to intercede] unto _Father_ and _Mother_. Which did send for me, and would know at me if I list to wed with _Nym_ or no. And verily, so bashful am I, and afeared to speak when I am took on the sudden thus, that I count they gat not much of me, but were something troubled to make out what I would be at. Nor wis I what should have befallen (not for that _Father_ nor _Mother_ were ever so little hard unto me, good lack! but only that I was stupid), had not Aunt _Joyce_ come in, who no sooner saw how matters stood than she up and spake for me.

"Now, _Aubrey_ and _Lettice_," saith she, "both of you, fall a-catechising me in the stead of _Nell_. The maid hath no list to wed with _Nym Lewthwaite_, and hath told me so much aforetime. Leave her be, and send him away the other side of _Jericho_, where he belongs, and let him, an' he list, fetch back a _Syrian_ maiden with a horn o'er her forehead and a ring of her nose."

"Wherefore didst thou not tell us so much, _Nell_, my lass?" saith _Father_ right kindlily, laying of his hand on my shoulder.

But in the stead of answering him thankfully, as a dutiful daughter should, what did I but burst forth o' crying, as though he had been angered with me: yea, nor might I stop the same, but went on, truly I knew not wherefore, till _Mother_ came up and put her arms around me, and hushed me as she wont to do when I was a little child.

"The poor child is o'erwrought," quoth she, tenderly. "Let us leave her be, _Aubrey_, till she calms down.--There, come to me and have it out, my _Nelly_, and none shall trouble thee, trust me."

Lack-a-daisy! I sobbed all the harder for a season, but in time I calmed down, as _Mother_ says, and when so were, I prayed her of pardon for that I could be so foolish.

"Nay, my lass," saith she, "we be made of body and soul, and either comes uppermost at times. 'Tis no good trying to live with one, which so it be."

"Ah, the old monks made that blunder," saith _Father_, "and thought they could live with souls only, or well-nigh so. And there be scores of other that essay to live with nought but bodies. A man that starves his body is ill off, but a man that starves his soul is yet worser. No is it thus, _Mynheer_?"

Mynheer van _Stuyvesant_ had come in while _Father_ was a-speaking.

"Ah!" saith he, "there be in my country certain called _Mennonites_, that do starve their natures of yonder fashion."

"Which half of them,--body or soul?" saith _Father_.

"Nay, I would say both two," he makes answer. "They run right to the further end of every matter. Because they read in their Bibles that `in the multitude of words there wanteth not sin,' therefore they do forbid all speech that is not of very necessity,--even a word more than needful is sin in their eyes. If you shall say, `Sit you down in that chair to your comfort,' there are eight words more than you need. You see?-- there are eight sins. `Sit' were enough. So, one mouthful more bread than you need--no, no!--that is a sin. One drop of syrup to your bread--not at all! You could eat your bread without syrup. All that is joyous, all that is comfortable, all that you like to do--all so many sins. Those are the _Mennonites_."

"What sinful men they must be!" saith _Father_.

"Good lack, Master _Stuyvesant_, but think you all those folks tarried in _Holland_?" saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Marry, I could count you a round dozen I have met in this country. And they _be_ trying, I warrant you. My fingers have itched to shake them ere now."

"How do they serve them when they would get them wed?" saith _Father_. "Quoth Master _John_ to Mistress _Bess_, `Wed me' and no more?--and saith she, `Ay' and no more? A kiss, I ween, shall be a sin, for 'tis no wise necessary."

I could not help to laugh, and so did Aunt _Joyce_ and _Mother_.

"Wed!" makes answer _Mynheer_, "the _Mennonites_ wed? Why, 'tis the biggest of all their sins, the wedding."

"There'll not be many of them, I reckon," saith Aunt _Joyce_.

"More than you should think," saith he. "There be to join them every year."

"Well, I'll not join them this bout," quoth she.

"Now, wherein doth that differ from the old monks?" saith _Father_, as in meditation. "Be we setting up monasteries for _Protestants_ already?"

_Mynheer_ shrugged up his shoulders. "They say, the _Mennonites_," he made answer, "that all pleasing of self is contrary unto God's Word. I must do nothing that pleases me. Are there two dishes for my dinner? I like this, I like not that. Good! I take that I love not. Elsewise, I please me. A Christian man must not please himself--he must please God. And (they say) he cannot please both."

"Ah, therein lieth the fallacy," saith _Father_. "All pleasing of self counter unto God, no doubt, is forbidden in Holy Scripture. But surely I am not bid to avoid doing God's commandments, if He command a thing I like?"

"Why, at that rate," quoth Aunt _Joyce_, "one should never search God's Word, nor pray unto Him,--except such as did not love it. Methinks these _Mennonites_ stand o' their heads, with their heels in air."

"Ah, but they say it is God's command that thou shalt not please thyself," saith _Mynheer_. "Therefore, that which pleases thee cannot be His will. You see?"

"They do but run the old monks' notions to ground," quoth _Father_. "They go a bit further--that is all. I take it that whensoever my will is contrary unto God's, my will must go down. But when my will runneth alongside of His, surely I am at liberty to take as much pleasure in doing His will as I may? `Ye have been called unto liberty,' saith _Paul_: `only, let not your liberty be an occasion to the flesh, but in love serve one another.'"

"And if serving one another be pleasant unto thee, then give o'er," quoth Aunt _Joyce_. "Good lack, this world doth hold some fools!"

"Pure truth, _Joyce_," saith _Father_. "Yet, for that of monks, in good sooth I do look to see them back, only under other guise. Monachism is human nature: and human nature will out. If he make not way at one door, trust him to creep forth of an other."

"But, _Aubrey_, the Church is reformed. There is no room for monks and nuns, and such rubbish," saith Aunt _Joyce_.

"The Church is reformed,--ay," saith he: "but human nature is not. That shall not be until we see the King in His beauty,--whether by our going to Him in death, or by His coming to us in the clouds of heaven."

"Dear heart, man!--be not alway on the watch for black clouds," quoth she. "As well turn _Mennonite_ at once."

"Well, `sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,'" _Father_ makes answer: "and so far thou art right, _Joyce_. Yet it is well we should remember, at times, that we be not yet in Heaven."

"`At times!'" quoth Aunt _Joyce_, with a laugh. "What a blessed life must be thine, if those that be about thee suffer thee to forget the same save `at times'! I never made that blunder yet, I can tell thee."

And so she and I away, and left all laughing.

SELWICK HALL, OCTOBER YE XXII. This afternoon come _Hal_ and _Anstace_, with their childre. _Milly_ soon carried off the childre, for she is a very child herself, and can lake [play] with childre a deal better than I: and _Hal_ went (said he) to seek _Father_, with whom I found him an hour later in the great chamber, and both right deep in public matter, whereof I do love to hear them talk at times, but _Milly_ and _Edith_ be no wise compatient [the lost adjective of compassion] therewith. _Anstace_ came with me to our chamber, and said she had list for a good chat.

"Whereof be we to chat?" said I, something laughing.

"Oh, there is plenty," saith she. "We shall not be done with the childre this hour."

"Thou wilt not, _Anstace_," said I, "for in very deed all mothers do love rarely to talk over their childre, and I need not save thee. But I am no great talker, as thou well wist."

"That do I," saith she: "for of all young maids ever I saw, thou hast the least list [inclination] to discourse. But, _Nell_, I want to know somewhat of thee. What ails thee at _Nym Lewthwaite_?"

"Why, nothing at all," I made answer: "save that I do right heartily desire him to leave me be."

"Good sooth, but I thought it a rare chance for thee," quoth she: "and I was fair astonied when _Edith_ told me thou wouldst have none ado with him. But thou must mind thy shooting, _Nell_: if thou pitchest all thine arrows over high, thou wilt catch nought."

"I want to pitch no arrows," said I.

"Well, but I do desire thee to conceive," saith she, "that too much niceness is not good for a young maid. 'Tis all very well to go a-picking and a-choosing ere thou art twenty: but trust me, _Nell_, by the time thou comest to thirty, thou shouldst be thankful to take any man that will have thee."

"Nay!" said I, "that shall I not."

"Eh, but thou wilt," quoth she, "yea, if it were _Nym Lewthwaite_."

"I won't!" said I.

_Anstace_ fell a-laughing. "Then thou wilt have to go without!" saith she.

"Well," said I, "that could I do, may-be, nor break my heart o'er it neither. But to take any that should have me,--_Anstace_, I would as soon sell me for a slave."

"Come, _Nell_!--where didst pick up such notions?" quoth she.

"Verily, I might answer thee, of the Queen's Majesty," said I: "and if I be not in good company enough, search thou for better. Only, for pity's sake, Sister _Anstace_, do let me a-be."

"Eh, I'll let thee be," saith she, and wagged her head and laughed. "But in good sooth, _Nell_, thou art a right queer body. And if it should please the Queen's Highness to wed with _Mounseer_ [Note 1], as 'tis thought of many it shall, then thou wilt be out of her company, and I shall be in. What shalt thou do then for company?"

"Marry, I can content me with Aunt _Joyce_ and Cousin _Bess_," quoth I, "and none so bad neither."

So at after that we gat to other discourse, and after a while, when _Milly_ came in with the childre, we all went down into the great chamber, where _Father_, and _Hal_, and _Mynheer_, were yet at their weighty debates. Cousin _Bess_ was sat in the window, a-sewing on some flannel: and Aunt _Joyce_, in the same window, but the other corner, was busied with tapestry-work, being a cushion that she is fashioning for a _Christmas_ gift for some dame that is her friend at _Minster Lovel_. 'Tis well-nigh done; and when it shall be finished, it shall go hence by old _Postlethwaite_ the carrier; for six weeks is not too much betwixt here and _Minster Lovel_.

As we came in, I heard _Father_ to say--

"Truly, there is no end of the diverse fantasy of men's minds." And then he brought forth some _Latin_, which I conceived not: but whispering unto Aunt _Joyce_ (which is something learned in that tongue) to say what it were, she made answer, "So many men, so many minds." [_Quot homines, tot sententiae_.]

"Ha!" saith _Mynheer_. "Was it not that which the Emperor _Charles_ did discover with his clocks and watches? He was very curious in clocks and watches--the Emperor _Charles_ the Fifth--you know?--and in his chamber at the Monastery of _San Yuste_ he had so many. And watching them each day, he found they went not all at one. The big clock was five minutes to twelve when the little watch was two minutes past. So he tried to make them at one: but they would not. No, no! the big clock and the little watch, they go their own way. Then said the Emperor, `Now I see something I saw not aforetime. I thought I could make these clocks go together, but no! Yet they are only the work of men like me. Ah, the foolish man to think that I could compel men to think all alike, who are the work of the great God.' You see?"

"If His Majesty had seen it a bit sooner," quoth _Hal_, "there should have been spared some ill work both in _Spain_ and the Low Countries."

_Mynheer_ saith, "Ah!" more than once, and wagged his head right sadly.

"Why," quoth _Hal_, something earnestly, "mind you not, some dozen years gone, of the stir was made all over this realm, when the ministers were appointed to wear their surplices at all times of their ministration, and no longer to minister in gowns ne cloaks, with their hats on, as they had been wont? Yea, what tumult had we then against the order taken by the Queen and Council, and against the Archbishop and Bishops for consenting thereto! And, all said, what was the mighty ado about? Why, whether a man should wear a black gown or a white. Heard one ever such stuff?"

"Ah, _Hal_, that shall scantly serve," saith _Father_. "Mind, I pray thee, that the question to the eyes of these men was somewhat far otherwise. Thou wouldst not say that _Adam_ and _Eva_ were turned forth of _Paradise_ by reason they plucked an apple?"

"But, I pray you, Sir _Aubrey_, what was the question?" saith _Mynheer_. "For I do not well know, as I fain should."

"Look you," quoth _Father_, "in the beginning of the Book of Common Prayer, and you shall find a rubric, that `such ornaments of the church and of the ministers thereof, at all times of their ministration, shall be retained and be in use, as were in this Church of _England_, by the authority of Parliament, in the second year of King _Edward_ the Sixth.'"

"But they were not retained," breaks in _Hal_, that will alway be first to speak of aught.

(Lack-a-day! shall that cost me two pence?)

"They were not retained," repeateth _Father_, "but the clergy took to ministering in their gowns and other common apparel, such as they ware every day, with no manner of vestments of no sort. Whereupon, such negligence being thought unseemly, it pleased the Queen's Majesty, sitting in her Council, and with consent of the Archbishop and Bishops, to issue certain injunctions for the better ordering of the Church: to wit, that at all times of their ministration the clergy should wear a decent white surplice, and no other vestment, nor should minister in their common apparel as aforetime."

"Then the rubric touching the garments as worn under King _Edward_ was done away?" saith _Mynheer_.

"Done away completely," quoth _Hal_, afore _Father_ could speak.

"But not by Parliament?" answers _Mynheer_.

"Good lack, what matter?" saith _Hal_. "The Queen's Majesty is supreme in this Church of _England_. If she issue her injunctions through her great Council, or her little Council, or her Bishops, they are all one, so they be her true injunctions."

"These were issued through the Bishops," saith _Father_, "though determined on in the Privy Council."

"Then did the ministers not obey?" asks _Mynheer_.

"Many did. But some counted the surplice a return towards Popery, and utterly refused to wear it. I mind [remember] there was a burying at that time at Saint _Giles'_ Church in _London_, without [outside] _Cripplegate_, where were six clerks that ware the white surplice: and Master _Crowley_, the Vicar, stood in the church door to withstand their entering, saying that no such superstitious rags of _Rome_ should come into his church. There should have been a bitter tumult there, had not the clerks had the wit to give way and tarry withoutside the door. And about the same time, a _Scots_ minister did preach in _London_ right vehemently against the order taken for the apparel of ministers. Why, at Saint _Mildred's_ in _Bread_ Street, where a minister that had conformed was brought of the worshipful of that parish for the communion service, he was so withstood by the minister of the church and his adherents, that the Deputy of the Ward and other were fain to stand beside him in the chancel to defend him during the service, or the parson and his side should have plucked him down with violence. And at long last," saith _Father_, laughing, "the _Scots_ minister that had so inveighed against them was brought to conform; but no sooner did he show himself in the pulpit of Saint _Margaret Pattens_ in a surplice, than divers wives rose up and pulled him forth of the pulpit, tearing his surplice and scratting his face right willingly."

"Eh, good lack!" cries _Mynheer_. "Your women, they keep silence in the churches after such a manner?"

"There was not much silence that morrow, I warrant," quoth _Hal_, laughing right merrily.

"Eh, my gentlemen, I pray you of pardon," saith Cousin _Bess_, looking up earnestly from her flannel, "but had I been in yon church I'd have done the like thing. I'd none have scrat his face, but I'd have rent a good tear in that surplice."

"Thou didst not so, _Bess_, the last _Sunday_ morrow," quoth _Father_, laughing as he turned to look at her.

"Nay, 'tis all done and settled by now," saith she. "I should but get took up for brawling. But I warrant you, that flying white thing sticketh sore in my throat, and ever did. An' I had my way, no parson should minister but in his common coat."

"But that were unseemly and undecent, _Bess_," quoth Aunt _Joyce_.

"Nay, Mistress _Joyce_, but methinks 'tis a deal decenter," answers she. "Wherefore, if a man can speak to me of earthly things in a black gown, must he needs don a white when he cometh to speak to me of heavenly things? There is no wit in such stuff."

"See you, _Mynheer_," saith _Father_, again laughing, "even here in _Selwick_ Hall, where I trust we be little given to quarrel, yet the clocks keep not all one time."

"Eh! No!" saith _Mynheer_, shrugging of his shoulders and smiling. "The gentlewomen, they be very determined in their own opinions."

"Well, I own, I like to see things decent," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "I desire not to have back the Popish albs and such like superstitious gauds--not I: but I do like to see a parson in a clean white surplice, and I would be right sorry were it laid aside."

Cousin _Bess_ said nought, but wagged her head, and tare her flannel in twain.

"Now, I dare be bound, _Bess_, thou countest me gone half-way back to _Rome_," saith Aunt _Joyce_.

"That were nigh the _Via Mala_," quoth _Father_.

"Eh, Mistress _Joyce_, I'll judge no man, nor no woman," makes answer Cousin _Bess_. "The Lord looketh on the heart; and 'tis well for us He doth, for if we were judged by what other folk think of us, I reckon we should none of us come so well off. But them white flying kites be rags of _Popery_, that _will_ I say,--yea, and stand to."

"Which side be you, _Father_?" asks _Anstace_.

"Well, my lass," saith he, "though I see not, mine own self, the Pope and all his Cardinals to lurk in the folds of Dr _Meade's_ white surplice, and I am bound to say his tall, portly figure carrieth it off rarely, yet I do right heartily respect _Bess_ her scruple, and desire to abstain from that which she counteth the beginnings of _evil_."

"Now, I warrant you, _Bess_ shall reckon that, of carrying it off well, to be the lust of the eye," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "She's a bit of a _Mennonite_, is _Bess_."

"Eh, Mistress _Joyce_, pray you, give me not such an ill word!" saith Cousin _Bess_, reproachfully. "I never cared for Mammon, not I. I'd be thankful for a crust of bread and a cup of water, and say grace o'er him with _Amen_."

We all laughed, and _Father_ saith--

"Nay, _Bess_, thou takest _Joyce_ wrong. In that of the _Mennonites_, she would say certain men of whom _Mynheer_ told us a few days gone, that should think all things pleasurable and easeful to be wrong."

"Good lack, Mistress _Joyce_, but I'm none so bad as that!" saith _Bess_. "I'm sure, when I make gruel for whoso it be, I leave no lumps in, nor let it burn neither."

"No, dear heart, thou art only a _Mennonite_ to thyself, not to other folk," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Thou shouldst be right well content of a board for thy bed, but if any one of us had the blanket creased under our backs, it should cost thee thy night's rest. I know thee, _Bess Wolvercot_."

"Well, and I do dearly love to see folk comfortable," quoth she. "As for me, what recketh? I thank the Lord, my health is good enough; and a very fool were I to grumble at every bit of discomfort. Why, only do think, Mistress _Joyce_, how much worser I might have been off! Had I been born of that country I heard Master _Banaster_ a-telling of, where they never see the sun but of the summer, and dwell of huts full o' smoke, with ne'er a chimney--why, I never could see if my face were clean, nor my table rubbed bright. Eh, but I wouldn't like that fashion of living!"

"They have no tables in _Greenland_ for to rub, _Bess_," quoth _Hal_.

"Nor o'er many clean faces, I take it," saith _Father_.

"Ah! did you hear, Sir," saith _Mynheer_, "of Mynheer _Heningsen's_ voyage to _Greenland_ the last year?"

"I have not, _Mynheer_," saith _Father_. "Pray you, what was notable therein?"

"Ah! he was not far from the coast of _Greenland_, when he found the ship go out of her course. He turned the rudder, or how you say, to guide the ship--I am not sea-learned, I ask your pardon if I mistake-- but the ship would not move. Then they found, beneath a sunken rock, and it was--how you say?--magnetical, that drew to it the iron of the ship. Then Mynheer _Heningsen_, he look to his charts, for he know no rock just there. And what think you he found? Why, two hundred years back, exactly--in the year of our Lord 1380, there were certain _Venetians_, the brothers _Zeni_, sailing in these seas, and they brought word home to _Venice_ that on this very spot, where _Heningsen_ found nothing but a sunken rock, they found a beautiful large island, where were one hundred villages, inhabited by _Christian_ people, in a state of great civility [civilisation], but so simple and guileless that hardly you can conceive. Think you! nothing now but a sunken rock."

"But what name hath the island?" asks _Hal_.

"No name at all. No eyes ever saw it but the brothers _Zeni_ of _Venice_."

"Nay, _Mynheer_, I cry you mercy," saith _Father_ of his thoughtful fashion. "If the brothers _Zeni_ told truth (as I mean to signify no doubt), there was One that saw it, from the time when He pronounced all things very good, to the day when some convulsion of nature, whatso it were, by His commandment engulfed that fair isle in the waters. `Whatsoever the Lord pleased, that did He,--in heaven, and in earth, and in the sea, and in all deep places.' Not one hair from the head of those unknown _Christians_, that were _Christians_ in truth, perished in those North waters. We shall know it when we meet them in the Land that is very far off."

SELWICK HALL, OCTOBER YE XXXI. Mine hand was so weary when I was come to the last sentence afore this, that I set down no more. Truly, there was little at after that demerited the same.

And now I be come to the end of my month, I have been a-reading over what I writ, to see how much I must needs pay. There be but two blots, the which shall be so many pence: and two blank spaces of one week or over, the which at two pence each brings the account to sixpence. I cannot perceive that I have at any time writ disrespectfully of my betters--which, I take it, be _Father_, and _Mother_, and Aunt _Joyce_, and Cousin _Bess_, and Mynheer _Stuyvesant_, But for speaking unkindly of other, I fear I am not blameless. I can count six two-pences, which shall be one shilling and sixpence. I must try and do better when my month cometh round again. Verily, I had not thought that I should speak unkindly six times in one month! 'Tis well to find out a body's faults.

So now I pass my book over to _Milly_--and do right earnestly desire that she may be less faultful than I. What poor infirm things be we, in very sooth!

Note 1. Francois Duke of Anjou, who visited the Queen in September, 1579, to urge his suit. Elizabeth hesitated for some time before she gave a decided negative.