Chapter 13

_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--"