Chapter 3
. . . Glad to steale away from the noisie Companie in the Supper-roome, (comprising some of _Father's_ Fellow-magistrates,) I went down with _Robin_ and _Kate_ to the Fish-ponds; it was scarce Sunset: and there, while we threw Crumbs to the Fish and watched them come to the Surface, were followed, or ever we were aware, by Mr. _Milton_, who sate down on the stone Seat, drew _Robin_ between his Knees, stroked his Haire, and askt what we were talking about. _Robin_ sayd I had beene telling them a fairie Story; and Mr. _Milton_ observed that was an infinite Improvement on the jangling, puzzle-headed Prating of Country Justices, and wished I woulde tell it agayn. But I was afrayd. But _Robin_ had no Feares; soe tolde the Tale roundlie; onlie he forgot the End. Soe he found his Way backe to the Middle, and seemed likelie to make it last alle Night; onlie Mr. _Milton_ sayd he seemed to have got into the Labyrinth of _Crete_, and he must for Pitie's Sake give him the Clew. Soe he finished _Robin's_ Story, and then tolde another, a most lovelie one, of Ladies, and Princes, and Enchanters, and a brazen Horse, and he sayd the End of _that_ Tale had been cut off too, by Reason the Writer had died before he finished it. But _Robin_ cryed, "Oh! finish this too," and hugged and kist him; soe he did; and methoughte the End was better than the Beginninge. Then he sayd, "Now, sweet _Moll_, you have onlie spoken this Hour past, by your Eyes; and we must heare your pleasant Voice." "An Hour?" cries _Robin_. "Where are alle the red Clouds gone, then?" quoth Mr. _Milton_, "and what Business hathe the Moon yonder?" "Then we must go Indoors," quoth I. But they cried "No," and _Robin_ helde me fast, and Mr. Milton sayd I might know even by the distant Sounds of ill-governed Merriment that we were winding up the Week's Accounts of Joy and Care more consistentlie where we were than we coulde doe in the House. And indeede just then I hearde my _Father's_ Voice swelling a noisie Chorus; and hoping Mr. _Milton_ did not distinguish it, I askt him if he loved Musick. He answered, soe much that it was Miserie for him to hear anie that was not of the beste. I secretlie resolved he should never heare mine. He added, he was come of a musicalle Familie, and that his Father not onlie sang well, but played finely on the Viol and Organ. Then he spake of the sweet Musick in _Italy_, until I longed to be there; but I tolde him nothing in its Way ever pleased me more than to heare the Choristers of _Magdalen_ College usher in _May_ Day by chaunting a Hymn at the Top of the Church Towre. Discoursing of this and that, we thus sate a good While ere we returned to the House.
. . . Coming out of Church he woulde shun the common Field, where the Villagery led up theire Sports, saying, he deemed Quoit-playing and the like to be unsuitable Recreations on a Daye whereupon the _Lord_ had restricted us from speakinge our own Words, and thinking our own (that is, secular) Thoughts: and that he believed the Law of _God_ in this Particular woulde soone be the Law of the Land, for Parliament woulde shortlie put down _Sunday_ Sports. I askt, "What, the _King's_ Parliament at _Oxford_?" He answered, "No; _the Country's_ Parliament at _Westminster_." I sayd, I was sorrie, for manie poore hard-working Men had no other Holiday. He sayd, another Holiday woulde be given them; and that whether or no, we must not connive at Evil, which we doe in permitting an _holy Daye_ to sink into a Holiday. I sayd, but was it not the _Jewish_ Law, which had made such Restrictions? He sayd, yes, but that _Christ_ came not to destroy the moral Law, of which Sabbath-keeping was a Part, and that even its naturall Fitnesse for the bodily Welfare of Man and Beast was such as no wise Legislator would abolish or abuse it, even had he no Consideration for our spiritual and immortal Part: and that 'twas a well-known Fact that Beasts of Burthen, which had not one Daye of Rest in seven, did lesse Worke in the End. As for oure Soules, he sayd, they required theire spiritual Meales as much as our Bodies required theires; and even poore, rusticall Clownes who coulde not reade, mighte nourish their better Parts by an holie Pause, and by looking within them, and around them, and above them. I felt inclined to tell him that long Sermons alwaies seemed to make me love _God_ less insteade of more, but woulde not, fearing he mighte take it that I meant _he_ had been giving me one.
_Monday_.
_Mother_ hath returned! The Moment I hearde her Voice I fell to trembling. At the same Moment I hearde _Robin_ cry, "Oh, _Mother_, I have broken the greene Beaker!" which betraied Apprehension in another Quarter. However, she quite mildlie replied, "Ah, I knew the Handle was loose," and then kist me with soe great Affection that I felt quite easie. She had beene withhelde by a troublesome Colde from returning at the appointed Time, and cared not to write. 'Twas just Supper-time, and there were the Children to kiss and to give theire Bread and Milk, and _Bill's_ Letter to reade; soe that nothing particular was sayd till the younger Ones were gone to Bed, and _Father_ and _Mother_ were taking some Wine and Toast. Then says _Father_, "Well, Wife, have you got the five hundred Pounds?" "No," she answers, rather carelesslie. "I tolde you how 'twoulde be," says _Father_; "you mighte as well have stayed at Home." "Really, Mr. _Powell,"_ says _Mother_, "soe seldom as I stir from my owne Chimney-corner, you neede not to grudge me, I think, a few Dayes among our mutuall Relatives." "I shall goe to Gaol," says _Father_. "Nonsense," says _Mother_; "to Gaol indeed!" "Well, then, who is to keepe me from it?" says _Father_, laughing. "I will answer for it, Mr. _Milton_ will wait a little longer for his Money," says _Mother_, "he is an honourable Man, I suppose." "I wish he may thinke me one," says _Father_; "and as to a little longer, what is the goode of waiting for what is as unlikelie to come eventuallie as now?" "You must answer that for yourselfe," says _Mother_, looking wearie: "I have done what I can, and can doe no more." "Well, then, 'tis lucky Matters stand as they do," says _Father_. "Mr. _Milton_ has been much here in your Absence, my Dear, and has taken a Liking to our _Moll_; soe, believing him, as you say, to be an honourable Man, I have promised he shall have her." "Nonsense," cries _Mother_, turning red and then pale. "Never farther from Nonsense," says _Father_, "for 'tis to be, and by the Ende of the Month too." "You are bantering me, Mr. _Powell_," says _Mother_. "How can you suppose soe, my Deare?" says _Father_, "you doe me Injustice." "Why, _Moll_!" cries _Mother_, turning sharplie towards me, as I sate mute and fearfulle, "what is alle this, Child? You cannot, you dare not think of wedding this round-headed Puritan." "Not round-headed," sayd I, trembling; "his Haire is as long and curled as mine." "Don't bandy Words with me, Girl," says _Mother_ passionatelie, "see how unfit you are to have a House of your owne, who cannot be left in Charge of your _Father's_ for a Fortnighte, without falling into Mischiefe!" "I won't have _Moll_ chidden in that Way," says _Father_, "she has fallen into noe Mischiefe, and has beene a discreete and dutifull Child." "Then it has beene alle your doing," says _Mother_, "and you have forced the Child into this Match." "Noe Forcing whatever," says _Father_, "they like one another, and I am very glad of it, for it happens to be very convenient." "Convenient, indeed," repeats _Mother_, and falls a weeping. Thereon I must needs weepe too, but she says, "Begone to Bed; there is noe Neede that you shoulde sit by to heare your owne _Father_ confesse what a Fool he has beene."
To my Bedroom I have come, but cannot yet seek my Bed; the more as I still heare theire Voices in Contention below.
_Tuesday_.
This Morninge's Breakfaste was moste uncomfortable, I feeling like a checkt Child, scarce minding to looke up or to eat. _Mother_, with Eyes red and swollen, scarce speaking save to the Children; _Father_ directing his Discourse chieflie to _Dick_, concerning Farm Matters and the Rangership of _Shotover_, tho' 'twas easie to see his Mind was not with them. Soe soone as alle had dispersed to theire customed Taskes, and I was loitering at the Window, _Father_ calls aloud to me from his Studdy. Thither I go, and find him and _Mother_, she sitting with her Back to both. "_Moll_," says _Father_, with great Determination, "you have accepted Mr. _Milton_ to please yourself, you will marry him out of hand to please me." "Spare me, spare me, Mr. _Powell_," interrupts _Mother_, "if the Engagement may not be broken off, at the least precipitate it not with this indecent haste. Postpone it till----" "Till when?" says _Father_. "Till the Child is olde enough to know her owne Mind." "That is, to put off an honourable Man on false Pretences," says _Father_, "she is olde enough to know it alreadie. Speake, _Moll_, are you of your _Mother's_ Mind to give up Mr. _Milton_ altogether?" I trembled, but sayd, "No." "Then, as his Time is precious, and he knows not when he may leave his Home agayn, I save you the Trouble, Child, of naming a Day, for it shall be the _Monday_ before _Whitsuntide_." Thereat _Mother_ gave a Kind of Groan; but as for me, I had like to have fallen on the Ground, for I had had noe Thought of suche Haste. "See what you are doing, Mr. _Powell_," says _Mother_, compassionating me, and raising me up, though somewhat roughlie; "I prophecie Evil of this Match." "Prophets of Evil are sure to find Listeners," says _Father_, "but I am not one of them;" and soe left the Room. Thereon my _Mother_, who alwaies feares him when he has a Fit of Determination, loosed the Bounds of her Passion, and chid me so unkindlie, that, humbled and mortified, I was glad to seeke my Chamber.
. . . Entering the Dining-room, however, I uttered a Shriek on seeing _Father_ fallen back in his Chair, as though in a Fit, like unto that which terrified us a Year ago; and _Mother_ hearing me call out, ran in, loosed his Collar, and soone broughte him to himselfe, tho' not without much Alarm to alle. He made light of it himselfe, and sayd 'twas merelie a suddain Rush of Blood to the Head, and woulde not be dissuaded from going out; but _Mother_ was playnly smote at the Heart, and having lookt after him with some anxietie, exclaimed, "I shall neither meddle nor make more in this Businesse: your _Father's_ suddain Seizures shall never be layd at my Doore;" and soe left me, till we met at Dinner. After the Cloth was drawne, enters Mr. _Milton_, who goes up to _Mother_, and with Gracefulnesse kisses her Hand; but she withdrewe it pettishly, and tooke up her Sewing, on the which he lookt at her wonderingly, and then at me; then at her agayne, as though he woulde reade her whole Character in her Face; which having seemed to doe, and to write the same in some private Page of his Heart, he never troubled her or himself with further Comment, but tooke up Matters just where he had left them last. Ere we parted we had some private Conference touching our Marriage, for hastening which he had soe much to say that I coulde not long contend with him, especiallie as I founde he had plainlie made out that _Mother_ loved him not.
_Wednesday_.
House full of Companie, leaving noe Time to write nor think. _Mother_ sayth, tho' she cannot forbode an happie Marriage, she will provide for a merrie Wedding, and hathe growne more than commonlie tender to me, and given me some Trinkets, a Piece of fine _Holland_ Cloth, and enoughe of green Sattin for a Gown, that will stand on End with its owne Richnesse. She hathe me constantlie with her in the Kitchen, Pastrie, and Store-room, telling me 'tis needfulle I shoulde improve in Housewiferie, seeing I shall soe soone have a Home of my owne.
But I think _Mother_ knows not, and I am afeard to tell her, that Mr. _Milton_ hath no House of his owne to carry me to, but onlie Lodgings, which have well suited his Bachelor State, but may not, 'tis likelie, beseeme a Lady to live in. He deems so himself, and sayeth we will look out for an hired House together, at our Leisure. Alle this he hath sayd to me in an Undertone, in _Mother's_ Presence, she sewing at the Table and we sitting in the Window; and 'tis difficult to tell how much she hears, she for will aske no Questions, and make noe Comments, onlie compresses her Lips, which makes me think she knows.
The Children are in turbulent Spiritts; but _Robin_ hath done nought but mope and make Moan since he learnt he must soe soone lose me. A Thought hath struck me,--Mr. _Milton_ educates his Sister's Sons; two Lads of about _Robin's_ Age. What if he woulde consent to take my Brother under his Charge? perhaps _Father_ woulde be willing.
_Saturday_.
Last Visitt to _Sheepscote,--_at leaste, as _Mary Powell_; but kind _Rose_ and _Roger Agnew_ will give us the Use of it for a Week on our Marriage, and spend the Time with dear _Father_ and _Mother_, who will neede their Kindnesse. _Rose_ and I walked long aboute the Garden, her Arm round my Neck; and she was avised to say,
"Cloth of Frieze, be not too bold, Tho' thou be matcht with Cloth of Gold,--"
And then craved my Pardon for soe unmannerly a Rhyme, which indeede, methoughte, needed an Excuse, but exprest a Feare that I knew not (what she called) my high Destiny, and prayed me not to trifle with Mr. _Milton's_ Feelings nor in his Sighte, as I had done the Daye she dined at _Forest Hill_. I laught, and sayd, he must take me as he found me: he was going to marry _Mary Powell_, not the _Wise Widow of Tekoah_. _Rose_ lookt wistfullie, but I bade her take Heart, for I doubted not we shoulde content eache the other; and for the Rest, her Advice shoulde not be forgotten. Thereat, she was pacyfied.
_May 22d, 1643_.
Alle Bustle and Confusion,--slaying of Poultrie, making of Pastrie, etc. People coming and going, prest to dine and to sup, and refuse, and then stay, the colde Meats and Wines ever on the Table; and in the Evening, the Rebecks and Recorders sent for that we may dance in the Hall. My Spiritts have been most unequall; and this Evening I was overtaken with a suddain Faintnesse, such as I never but once before experienced. They would let me dance no more; and I was quite tired enoughe to be glad to sit aparte with Mr. _Milton_ neare the Doore, with the Moon shining on us; untill at length he drew me out into the Garden. He spake of Happinesse and Home, and Hearts knit in Love, and of heavenlie Espousals, and of Man being the Head of the Woman, and of our _Lord's_ Marriage with the Church, and of white Robes, and the Bridegroom coming in Clouds of Glory, and of the Voices of singing Men and singing Women, and eternall Spring, and eternall Blisse, and much that I cannot call to Mind, and other-much that I coulde not comprehende, but which was in mine ears as the Song of Birds, or Falling of Waters.
_May 23d, 1643_.
_Rose_ hath come, and hath kindlie offered to help pack the Trunks, (which are to be sent off by the Waggon to _London_,) that I may have the more Time to devote to Mr. _Milton_. Nay, but he will soon have all my Time devoted to himself, and I would as lief spend what little remains in mine accustomed Haunts, after mine accustomed Fashion. I had purposed a Ride on _Clover_ this Morning, with _Robin_; but the poor Boy must I trow be disappointed.
----And for what? Oh me! I have hearde such a long Sermon on Marriage-duty and Service, that I am faine to sit down and weepe. But no, I must not, for they are waiting for me in the Hall, and the Guests are come and the Musick is tuning, and my Lookes must not betray me.--And now farewell, _Journall_; for _Rose_, who first bade me keepe you (little deeming after what Fashion), will not pack you up, and I will not close you with a heavie Strayn. _Robin_ is calling me beneath the Window,--_Father_ is sitting in the Shade, under the old Pear-tree, seemingly in gay Discourse with Mr. _Milton_. To-morrow the Village-bells will ring for the Marriage of
MARY POWELL.
_London, Mr. Russell's, Taylor, Bride's Churchyard_.
Oh Heaven! is this my new Home? my Heart sinkes alreadie. After the swete fresh Ayre of _Sheepscote_, and the Cleanliness, and the Quiet and the pleasant Smells, Sightes, and Soundes, alle whereof Mr. _Milton_ enjoyed to the Full as keenlie as I, saying they minded him of _Paradise,--_how woulde _Rose_ pitie me, could she view me in this close Chamber, the Floor whereof of dark, uneven Boards, must have beene layd, methinks, three hundred Years ago; the oaken Pannells, utterlie destitute of Polish and with sundrie Chinks; the Bed with dull brown Hangings, lined with as dull a greene, occupying Half the Space; and Half the Remainder being filled with dustie Books, whereof there are Store alsoe in every other Place. This Mirror, I should thinke, belonged to faire _Rosamond_. And this Arm-chair to King _Lew_. Over the Chimnie hangs a ruefull Portrait,--maybe of _Grotius_, but I shoulde sooner deeme it of some Worthie before the Flood. Onlie one Quarter of the Casement will open, and that upon a Prospect, oh dolefulle! of the Churchyarde! Mr. _Milton_ had need be as blythe as he was all the Time we were at _Sheepscote_, or I shall be buried in that same Churchyarde within the Twelvemonth. 'Tis well he has stepped out to see a Friend, that I may in his Absence get ridd of this Fit of the Dismalls. I wish it may be the last. What would _Mother_ say to his bringing me to such a Home as this? I will not think. Soe this is _London_! How diverse from the "towred Citie" of my Husband's versing! and of his Prose too; for as he spake, by the way, of the Disorders of our Time, which extend even into eache domestick Circle, he sayd that alle must, for a While, appear confused to our imperfect View, just as a mightie Citie unto a Stranger who shoulde beholde around him huge, unfinished Fabrics, the Plan whereof he could but imperfectlie make out, amid the Builders' disorderlie Apparatus; but that, _from afar_, we mighte perceive glorious Results from party Contentions,--Freedom springing up from Oppression, Intelligence succeeding Ignorance, Order following Disorder, just as that same Traveller looking at the Citie from a distant Height, should beholde Towres, and Spires glistering with Gold and Marble, Streets stretching in lessening Perspectives, and Bridges flinging their white Arches over noble Rivers. But what of this saw we all along the _Oxford_ Road? Firstlie, there was noe commanding Height; second, there was the Citie obscured by a drizzling Rain; the Ways were foul, the Faces of those we mett spake less of Pleasure than Business, and Bells were tolling, but none ringing. Mr. _Milton's_ Father, a grey-haired, kind old Man, was here to give us welcome: and his firste Words were, "Why, _John_, thou hast stolen a March on us. Soe quickly, too, and soe snug! but she is faire enoughe, Man, to excuse thee, Royalist or noe."
And soe, taking me in his Arms, kist me franklie.--But I heare my Husband's Voice, and another with it.
_Thursday_.
'Twas a Mr. _Lawrence_ whom my Husband brought Home last Nighte to sup; and the Evening passed righte pleasantlie, with News, Jestes, and a little Musicke. Todaye hath been kindlie devoted by Mr. _Milton_ to shewing me Sights:--and oh! the strange, diverting Cries in the Streets, even from earlie Dawn! "New Milk and Curds from the Dairie!"--"Olde Shoes for some Brooms!"--"Anie Kitchen-stuffe, have you, Maids?"--"Come buy my greene Herbes!"--and then in the Streets, here a Man preaching, there another juggling: here a Boy with an Ape, there a Show of _Nineveh_: next the News from the North; and as for the China Shops and Drapers in the _Strand_, and the Cook's Shops in _Westminster_, with the smoking Ribs of Beef and fresh Salads set out on Tables in the Street, and Men in white Aprons crying out, "Calf's Liver, Tripe, and hot Sheep's Feet"--'twas enoughe to make One untimelie hungrie,--or take One's Appetite away, as the Case might be. Mr. _Milton_ shewed me the noble Minster, with King _Harry_ Seventh's Chapel adjoining; and pointed out the old House where _Ben Jonson_ died. Neare the _Broade Sanctuarie_, we fell in with a slighte, dark-complexioned young Gentleman of two or three and twenty, whome my Husband espying cryed, "What, _Marvell_!" the other comically answering, "What Marvel?" and then, handsomlie saluting me and complimenting Mr. _Milton_, much lighte and pleasant Discourse ensued; and finding we were aboute to take Boat, he volunteered to goe with us on the River. After manie Hours' Exercise, I have come Home fatigued, yet well pleased. Mr. _Marvell_ sups with us.
_Friday_.
I wish I could note down a Tithe of the pleasant Things that were sayd last Nighte. First, olde Mr. _Milton_ having slept out with his Son,--I called in _Rachael_, the younger of Mr. _Russel's_ Serving-maids, (for we have none of our owne as yet, which tends to much Discomfiture,) and, with her Aide, I dusted the Bookes and sett them up in half the Space they had occupied; then cleared away three large Basketfuls, of the absolutest Rubbish, torn Letters and the like, and sent out for Flowers, (which it seemeth strange enoughe to me to _buy_,) which gave the Chamber a gayer Aire, and soe my Husband sayd when he came in, calling me the fayrest of them alle; and then, sitting down with Gayety to the Organ, drew forthe from it heavenlie Sounds. Afterwards Mr. _Marvell_ came in, and they discoursed about _Italy_, and Mr. _Milton_ promised his Friend some Letters of Introduction to _Jacopo Gaddi, Clementillo_, and others.--
After Supper, they wrote Sentences, Definitions, and the like, after a Fashion of _Catherine de Medici_, some of which I have layd aside for _Rose_.
--_To-day_ we have seene St. _Paul's_ faire Cathedral, and the School where Mr. _Milton_ was a Scholar when a Boy; thence, to the Fields of _Finsbury_; where are Trees and Windmills enow: a Place much frequented for practising Archery and other manlie Exercises.
_Saturday_.
Tho' we rise betimes, olde Mr. _Milton_ is earlier stille; and I always find him sitting at his Table beside the Window (by Reason of the Chamber being soe dark,) sorting I know not how manie Bundles of Papers tied with red Tape; eache so like the other that I marvel how he knows them aparte. This Morning, I found the poore old Gentleman in sad Distress at missing a Manuscript Song of Mr. _Henry Lawes'_, the onlie Copy extant, which he persuaded himselfe that I must have sent down to the Kitchen Fire Yesterday. I am convinced I dismist not a single Paper that was not torne eache Way, as being utterlie uselesse; but as the unluckie Song cannot be founde, he sighs and is certayn of my Delinquence, as is _Hubert_, his owne Man; or, as he more frequentlie calls him, his "odd Man;"--and an odd Man indeede is Mr. _Hubert_, readie to address his Master or Master's Sonne on the merest Occasion, without waiting to be spoken to; tho' he expecteth Others to treat them with far more Deference than he himself payeth.