Chapter 2
Resolved to give _Father_ a _Sheepscote_ Dinner, but _Margery_ affirmed the Haunch woulde no longer keepe, so was forced to have it drest, though meaninge to have kept it for Companie. Little _Kate_, who had been out alle the Morning, came in with her Lap full of Butter-burs, the which I was glad to see, as _Mother_ esteemes them a sovereign Remedie 'gainst the Plague, which is like to be rife in _Oxford_ this Summer, the Citie being so overcrowded on account of his Majestie. While laying them out on the Stille-room Floor, in bursts _Robin_ to say Mr. _Agnew_ and Mr. _Milton_ were with _Father_ at the Bowling Greene, and woulde dine here. Soe was glad _Margery_ had put down the Haunch. Twas past One o' the Clock, however, before it coulde be sett on Table; and I had just run up to pin on my Carnation Knots, when I hearde them alle come in discoursing merrilie.
At Dinner Mr. _Milton_ askt _Robin_ of his Studdies; and I was in Payne for the deare Boy, knowing him to be better affected to his out-doore Recreations than to his Booke; but he answered boldlie he was in _Ovid_, and I lookt in Mr. _Milton's_ Face to guesse was that goode Scholarship or no; but he turned it towards my _Father_, and sayd he was trying an Experiment on two young Nephews of his owne, whether the reading those Authors that treate of physical Subjects mighte not advantage them more than the Poets; whereat my _Father_ jested with him, he being himselfe one of the Fraternitie he seemed to despise. But he uphelde his Argumente so bravelie, that _Father_ listened in earneste Silence. Meantime, the Cloth being drawne, and I in Feare of remaining over long, was avised to withdrawe myself earlie, _Robin_ following, and begging me to goe downe to the Fish-ponds. Afterwards alle the others joyned us, and we sate on the Steps till the Sun went down, when, the Horses being broughte round, our Guests tooke Leave without returning to the House. _Father_ walked thoughtfullie Home with me, leaning on my Shoulder, and spake little.
_May 15th, 1643_.
After writing the above last Night, in my Chamber, went to Bed and had a most heavenlie Dreame. Methoughte it was brighte, brighte Moonlighte, and I was walking with Mr. _Milton_ on a Terrace,--not _our_ Terrace, but in some outlandish Place; and it had Flights and Flights of green Marble Steps, descending, I cannot tell how farre, with Stone Figures and Vases on every one. We went downe and downe these Steps, till we came to a faire Piece of Water, still in the Moonlighte; and then, methoughte, he woulde be taking Leave, and sayd much aboute Absence and Sorrowe, as tho' we had knowne eache other some Space; and alle that he sayd was delightfulle to heare. Of a suddain we hearde Cries, as of Distresse, in a Wood that came quite down to the Water's Edge, and Mr. _Milton_ sayd, "Hearken!" and then, "There is some one being slaine in the Woode, I must goe to rescue him;" and soe, drewe his Sword and ran off. Meanwhile, the Cries continued, but I did not seeme to mind them much; and, looking stedfastlie downe into the cleare Water, coulde see to an immeasurable Depth, and beheld, oh, rare! Girls sitting on glistening Rocks, far downe beneathe, combing and braiding their brighte Hair, and talking and laughing, onlie I coulde not heare aboute what. And theire Kirtles were like spun Glass, and theire Bracelets Coral and Pearl; and I thought it the fairest Sight that Eyes coulde see. But, alle at once, the Cries in the Wood affrighted them, for they started, looked upwards and alle aboute, and began swimming thro' the cleare Water so fast, that it became troubled and thick, and I coulde see them noe more. Then I was aware that the Voices in the Wood were of _Dick_ and _Harry_, calling for _me_; and I soughte to answer, "Here!" but my Tongue was heavie. Then I commenced running towards them, through ever so manie greene Paths, in the Wood; but still, we coulde never meet; and I began to see grinning Faces, neither of Man nor Beaste, peeping at me through the Trees; and one and another of them called me by Name; and in greate Feare and Paine I awoke!
. . . Strange Things are Dreames. Dear _Mother_ thinks much of them, and sayth they oft portend coming Events. My _Father_ holdeth the Opinion that they are rather made up of what hath alreadie come to passe; but surelie naught like this Dreame of mine hath in anie Part befallen me hithertoe?
. . . What strange Fable or Masque were they reading that Day at _Sheepscote_? I mind not.
_May 20th, 1643_.
Too much busied of late to write, though much hath happened which I woulde fain remember. Dined at _Shotover_ yesterday. Met _Mother_, who is coming Home in a Day or two; but helde short Speech with me aside concerning Housewifery. The _Agnews_ there, of course: alsoe Mr. _Milton_, whom we have seene continuallie, lately; and I know not how it shoulde be, but he seemeth to like me. _Father_ affects him much, but _Mother_ loveth him not. She hath seene little of him: perhaps the less the better. _Ralph Hewlett_, as usuall, forward in his rough endeavours to please; but, though no Scholar, I have yet Sense enough to prefer Mr. _Milton's_ Discourse to his. . . . I wish I were fonder of Studdy; but, since it cannot be, what need to vex? Some are born of one Mind, some of another. _Rose_ was alwaies for her Booke; and, had _Rose_ beene no Scholar, Mr. _Agnew_ woulde, may be, never have given her a second Thoughte: but alle are not of the same Way of thinking.
. . . A few Lines received from _Mother's_ "spoilt Boy," as _Father_ hath called Brother _Bill_, ever since he went a soldiering. Blurred and mis-spelt as they are, she will prize them. Trulie, we are none of us grate hands at the Pen; 'tis well I make this my Copie-booke.
. . . Oh, strange Event! Can this be Happinesse? Why, then, am I soe feared, soe mazed, soe prone to weeping? I woulde that _Mother_ were here. Lord have Mercie on me a sinfulle, sillie Girl, and guide my Steps arighte.
. . . It seemes like a Dreame, (I have done noughte but dreame of late, I think,) my going along the matted Passage, and hearing Voices in my _Father's_ Chamber, just as my Hand was on the Latch; and my withdrawing my Hand, and going softlie away, though I never paused at disturbing him before; and, after I had beene a full Houre in the Stille Room, turning over ever soe manie Trays full of dried Herbs and Flower-leaves, hearing him come forthe and call, "_Moll_, deare _Moll_, where are you?" with I know not what of strange in the Tone of his Voice; and my running to him hastilie, and his drawing me into his Chamber, and closing the Doore. Then he takes me round the Waiste, and remains quite silent awhile; I gazing on him so strangelie! and at length, he says with a Kind of Sigh, "Thou art indeed but young yet! scarce seventeen,--and fresh, as Mr. _Milton_ says, as the earlie May; too tender, forsooth, to leave us yet, sweet Child! But what wilt say, _Moll_, when I tell thee that a well-esteemed Gentleman, whom as yet indeed I know too little of, hath craved of me Access to the House as one that woulde win your Favour?"
Thereupon, such a suddain Faintness of the Spiritts overtooke me, (a Thing I am noe way subject to,) as that I fell down in a Swound at _Father's_ Feet; and when I came to myselfe again, my Hands and Feet seemed full of Prickles, and there was a Humming, as of _Rose's_ Bees, in mine Ears. _Lettice_ and _Margery_ were tending of me, and _Father_ watching me full of Care; but soe soone as he saw me open mine Eyes, he bade the Maids stand aside, and sayd, stooping over me, "Enough, dear _Moll_; we will talk noe more of this at present." "Onlie just tell me," quoth I, in a Whisper, "who it is." "Guesse," sayd he. "I cannot," I softlie replied, and, with the Lie, came such a Rush of Blood to my Cheeks as betraied me. "I am sure you have though," sayd deare _Father_, gravelie, "and I neede not say it is Mr. _Milton_, of whome I know little more than you doe, and that is not enough. On the other Hand, _Roger Agnew_ sayth that he is one of whome we can never know too much, and there is somewhat about him which inclines me to believe it." "What will _Mother_ say?" interrupted I. Thereat _Father's_ Countenance changed; and he hastilie answered, "Whatever she likes: I have an Answer for her, and a Question too;" and abruptlie left me, bidding me keepe myselfe quiet.
But can I? Oh, no! _Father_ hath sett a Stone rolling, unwitting of its Course. It hath prostrated me in the first Instance, and will, I misdoubt, hurt my _Mother_. _Father_ is bold enow in her Absence, but when she comes back will leave me to face her Anger alone; or else, make such a Stir to shew that he is not governed by a Woman, as wille make Things worse. Meanwhile, how woulde I have them? Am I most pleased or payned? dismayed or flattered? Indeed, I know not.
. . . I am soe sorry to have swooned. Needed I have done it, merelie to heare there was one who soughte my Favour? Aye, but one soe wise! so thoughtfulle! so unlike me!
Bedtime: same Daye.
. . . Who knoweth what a Daye will bring forth? After writing the above, I sate like one stupid, ruminating on I know not what, except on the Unlikelihood that one soe wise woulde trouble himselfe to _seeke_ for aught and yet fail to _win_. After abiding a long Space in mine owne Chamber, alle below seeming still, I began to wonder shoulde we dine alone or not, and to have a hundred hot and cold Fitts of Hope and Feare. Thought I, if Mr. _Milton_ comes, assuredlie I cannot goe down; but yet I must; but yet I will not; but yet the best will be to conduct myselfe as though nothing had happened; and, as he seems to have left the House long ago, maybe he hath returned to _Sheepscote_, or even to _London_. Oh that _London_! Shall I indeede ever see it? and the rare Shops, and the Play-houses, and _Paul's_, and the _Towre_? But what and if that ever comes to pass? Must I leave Home? dear _Forest Hill_? and _Father_ and _Mother_, and the Boys? more especiallie _Robin_? Ah! but _Father_ will give me a long Time to think of it. He will, and must.
Then Dinner-time came; and, with Dinner-time, Uncle _Hewlett_ and _Ralph_, Squire _Paice_ and Mr. _Milton_. We had a huge Sirloin, soe no Feare of short Commons. I was not ill pleased to see soe manie: it gave me an Excuse for holding my Peace, but I coulde have wished for another Woman. However, _Father_ never thinks of that, and _Mother_ will soone be Home. After Dinner the elder Men went to the Bowling-greene with _Dick_ and _Ralph_; the Boys to the Fish-ponds; and, or ever I was aware, Mr. _Milton_ was walking with me on the Terrace. My Dreame came soe forcibly to Mind, that my Heart seemed to leap into my Mouth; but he kept away from the Fish-ponds, and from Leave-taking, and from his morning Discourse with my _Father_,--at least for awhile; but some Way he got round to it, and sayd soe much, and soe well, that, after alle my _Father's_ bidding me keepe quiete and take my Time, and mine owne Resolution to think much and long, he never rested till he had changed the whole Appearance of Things, and made me promise to be his, wholly and trulie.--And oh! I feare I have been too quickly wonne!
_May 23d, 1643_.
_May 23d_. At leaste, so sayeth the Calendar; but with me it hath beene trulie an _April_ Daye, alle Smiles and Teares. And now my Spiritts are soe perturbed and dismaid, as that I know not whether to weepe or no, for methinks crying would relieve me. At first waking this Morning my Mind was elated at the Falsitie of my _Mother's_ Notion, that no Man of Sense woulde think me worth the having; and soe I got up too proude, I think, and came down too vain, for I had spent an unusuall Time at the Glasse. My Spiritts, alsoe, were soe unequall, that the Boys took Notice of it, and it seemed as though I coulde breathe nowhere but out of Doors; so the Children and I had a rare Game of Play in the Home-close; but ever and anon I kept looking towards the Road and listening for Horses' Feet, till _Robin_ sayd, "One would think the King was coming:" but at last came Mr. _Milton_, quite another Way, walking through the Fields with huge Strides. _Kate_ saw him firste, and tolde me; and then sayd, "What makes you look soe pale?"
We sate a good Space under the Hawthorn Hedge on the Brow of the Hill, listening to the Mower's Scythe, and the Song of Birds, which seemed enough for him, without talking; and as he spake not, I helde my Peace, till, with the Sun in my Eyes, I was like to drop asleep; which, as his own Face was _from_ me, and towards the Landskip, he noted not. I was just aiming, for Mirthe's Sake, to steale away, when he suddainlie turned about and fell to speaking of rurall Life, Happinesse, Heaven, and such like, in a Kind of Rapture; then, with his Elbow half raising him from the Grass, lay looking at me; then commenced humming or singing I know not what Strayn, but 'twas of '_begli Occhi_' and '_Chioma aurata_;' and he kept smiling the while he sang.
After a time we went In-doors; and then came my firste Pang: for _Father_ founde out how I had pledged myselfe overnighte; and for a Moment looked soe grave, that my Heart misgave me for having beene soe hastie. However, it soone passed off; deare _Father's_ Countenance cleared, and he even seemed merrie at Table; and soon after Dinner alle the Party dispersed save Mr. _Milton_, who loitered with me on the Terrace. After a short Silence he exclaimed, "How good is our God to us in alle his Gifts! For Instance, in this Gift of _Love_, whereby had he withdrawn from visible Nature a thousand of its glorious Features and gay Colourings, we shoulde stille possess, _from within_, the Means of throwing over her clouded Face an entirelie different Hue! while as it is, what was pleasing before now pleaseth more than ever! Is it not soe, sweet _Moll_? May I express thy Feelings as well as mine own, unblamed? or am I too adventurous? You are silent; well, then, let me believe that we think alike, and that the Emotions of the few laste Hours have given such an Impulse to alle that is high, and sweete, and deepe, and pure, and holy in our innermoste Hearts, as that we seeme now onlie firste to taste the _Life of Life_, and to perceive how much nearer Earth is to Heaven than we thought! Is it soe? Is it not soe?" and I was constrayned to say, "Yes," at I scarcelie knew what; grudginglie too, for I feared having once alreadie sayd "Yes" too soone. But he saw nought amisse, for he was expecting nought amisse; soe went on, most like Truth and Love that Lookes could speake or Words founde: "Oh, I know it, I feel it:--henceforthe there is a Life reserved for us in which Angels may sympathize. For this most excellent Gift of Love shall enable us to read together the whole Booke of Sanctity and Virtue, and emulate eache other in carrying it into Practice; and as the wise _Magians_ kept theire Eyes steadfastlie fixed on the Star, and followed it righte on, through rough and smoothe, soe we, with this bright Beacon, which indeed is set on Fire of Heaven, shall pass on through the peacefull Studdies, surmounted Adversities, and victorious Agonies of Life, ever looking steadfastlie up!"
Alle this, and much more, as tedious to heare as to write, did I listen to, firste with flagging Attention, next with concealed Wearinesse;--and as Wearinesse, if indulged, never _is_ long concealed, it soe chanced, by Ill-luck, that Mr. _Milton_, suddainlie turning his Eyes from Heaven upon poor me, caughte, I can scarcelie expresse how slighte, an Indication of Discomforte in my Face; and instantlie a Cloud crossed his owne, though as thin as that through which the Sun shines while it floats over him. Oh, 'twas not of a Moment! and yet _in that Moment_ we seemed eache to have seene the other, though but at a Glance, under new Circumstances:--as though two Persons at a Masquerade had just removed their Masques and put them on agayn. This gave me my seconde Pang:--I felt I had given him Payn; and though he made as though he forgot it directly, and I tooke Payns to make him forget it, I coulde never be quite sure whether he had.
. . . My Spiritts were soe dashed by this, and by learning his Age to be soe much more than I had deemed it, (for he is thirty-five! who coulde have thoughte it?) that I had, thenceforthe, the Aire of being much more discreete and pensive than belongeth to my Nature; whereby he was, perhaps, well pleased. As I became more grave he became more gay; soe that we met eache other, as it were, half-way, and became righte pleasant. If his Countenance were comely before, it is quite heavenlie now; and yet I question whether my Love increaseth as rapidlie as my Feare. Surelie my Folly will prove as distastefull to him, as his overmuch Wisdom to me. The Dread of it hath alarmed me alreadie. What has become, even now, of alle my gay Visions of Marriage, and _London_, and the Play-houses, and the _Touire_? They have faded away thus earlie, and in their Place comes a Foreboding of I can scarce say what. I am as if a Child, receiving frome some olde Fairy the Gift of what seemed a fayre Doll's House, shoulde hastilie open the Doore thereof, and starte back at beholding nought within but a huge Cavern, deepe, high, and vaste; in parte glittering with glorious Chrystals, and the Rest hidden in obscure Darknesse.
_May 24th, 1643_.
Deare _Rose_ came this Morning. I flew forthe to welcome her, and as I drew near, she lookt upon me with such a Kind of Awe as that I could not forbeare laughing. Mr. _Milton_ having slept at _Sheepscote_, had made her privy to our Engagement; for indeede, he and Mr. _Agnew_ are such Friends, he will keep nothing from him. Thus _Rose_ heares it before my owne Mother, which shoulde not be. When we had entered my Chamber, she embraced me once and agayn, and seemed to think soe much of my uncommon Fortune, that I beganne to think more of it myselfe. To heare her talke of Mr. _Milton_ one would have supposed her more in Love with him than I. Like a Bookworm as she is, she fell to praysing his Composures. "Oh, the leaste I care for in him is his Versing," quoth I; and from that Moment a Spiritt of Mischief tooke Possession of me, to do a thousand heedlesse, ridiculous Things throughoute the Day, to shew _Rose_ how little I set by the Opinion of soe wise a Man. Once or twice Mr. _Milton_ lookt earnestlie and questioninglie at me, but I heeded him not.
. . . Discourse at Table graver and less pleasant, methoughte, than heretofore. Mr. _Busire_ having dropt in, was avised to ask Mr. _Milton_ why, having had an university Education, he had not entered the Church. He replied, drylie enough, because he woulde not subscribe himselfe _Slave_ to anie Formularies of Men's making. I saw _Father_ bite his Lip; and _Roger Agnew_ mildly observed, he thought him wrong; for that it was not for an Individual to make Rules for another Individual, but yet that the generall Voice of the Wise and Good, removed from the pettie Prejudices of private Feeling, mighte pronounce authoritativelie wherein an Individual was righte or wrong, and frame Laws to keepe him in the righte Path. Mr. _Milton_ replyed, that manie Fallibles could no more make up an Infallible than manie Finites could make an Infinite. Mr. _Agnew_ rejoyned, that ne'erthelesse, an Individual who opposed himselfe agaynst the generall Current of the Wise and Good, was, leaste of alle, likelie to be in the Right; and that the Limitations of human Intellect which made the Judgment of manie wise Men liable to Question, certainlie made the Judgment of _anie_ wise Man, self-dependent, more questionable still. Mr. _Milton_ shortlie replied that there were Particulars in the required Oaths which made him unable to take them without Perjurie. And soe, an End: but 'twas worth a World to see _Rose_ looking soe anxiouslie from the one Speaker to the other, desirous that eache should be victorious; and I was sorry that it lasted not a little longer.
As _Rose_ and I tooke our Way to the Summer-house, she put her Arm round me, saying, "How charming is divine Philosophie!" I coulde not helpe asking if she did not meane how charming was the Philosophie of one particular Divine? Soe then she discoursed with me of Things more seemlie for Women than Philosophie or Divinitie either. Onlie, when Mr. _Agnew_ and Mr. _Milton_ joyned us, she woulde aske them to repeat one Piece of Poetry after another, beginning with _Carew's_--
"He who loves a rosie Cheeke, Or a coral Lip admires,--"
And crying at the End of eache, "Is not that lovely? Is not that divine?" I franklie sayd I liked none of them soe much as some Mr. _Agnew_ had recited, concluding with--
"Mortals that would, follow me, Love Virtue: she alone is free."
Whereon Mr. _Milton_ surprised me with a suddain Kiss, to the immoderate Mirthe of _Rose_, who sayd I coulde not have looked more discomposed had he pretended he was the Author of those Verses. I afterwards found he _was_; but I think she laught more than there was neede.
We have ever been considered a sufficientlie religious Familie: that is, we goe regularly to Church on Sabbaths and Prayer-dayes, and keepe alle the Fasts and Festivalles. But Mr. _Milton's_ Devotion hath attayned a Pitch I can neither imitate nor even comprehende. The spirituall World seemeth to him not onlie reall, but I may almoste say visible. For instance, he told _Rose_, it appears, that on _Tuesday_ Nighte, (that is the same Evening I had promised to be his,) as he went homewards to his Farm-lodging, he fancied the Angels whisperinge in his Eares, and singing over his Head, and that instead of going to his Bed like a reasonable Being, he lay down on the Grass, and gazed on the sweete, pale Moon till she sett, and then on the bright Starres till he seemed to see them moving in a slowe, solemn Dance, to the Words, "_How glorious is our God!_" And alle about him, he said, he _knew_, tho' he coulde not see them, were spirituall Beings repairing the Ravages of the Day on the Flowers, amonge the Trees, and Grasse, and Hedges; and he believed 'twas onlie the Filme that originall Sin had spread over his Eyes, that prevented his seeing them. I am thankful for this same Filme,--I cannot abide Fairies, and Witches, and Ghosts--ugh! I shudder even to write of them; and were it onlie of the more harmlesse Sort, one woulde never have the Comforte of thinkinge to be alone. I feare Churchyardes and dark Corners of alle Kinds; more especiallie Spiritts; and there is onlie one I would even wish to see at my bravest, when deepe Love casteth out Feare; and that is of Sister _Anne_, whome I never associate with the Worme and Winding-sheete. Oh no! I think _she_, at leaste, dwells amonge the Starres, having sprung straite up into Lighte and Blisse the Moment she put off Mortalitie; and if she, why not others? Are _Adam_ and _Abraham_ alle these Yeares in the unconscious Tomb? Theire Bodies, but surelie not their Spiritts? else, why dothe _Christ_ speak of _Lazarus_ lying in _Abraham's_ Bosom, while the Brothers of _Dives_ are yet riotouslie living? Yet what becomes of the Daye of generall Judgment, if some be thus pre-judged? I must aske Mr. _Milton,--_yes, I thinke I can finde it in my Heart to aske him about this in some solemn, stille Hour, and perhaps he will sett at Rest manie Doubts and Misgivings that at sundrie Times trouble me; being soe wise a Man.
_Bedtime_.