Chapter 10
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--"