Chapter 4

--Dead tired, this Daye, with so much Exercise; but woulde not say soe, because my Husband was thinking to please me by shewing me soe much. Spiritts flagging however. These _London_ Streets wearie my Feet. We have been over the House in _Aldersgate Street_, the Garden whereof disappointed me, having hearde soe much of it; but 'tis far better than none, and the House is large enough for Mr. _Milton's_ Familie and my _Father's_ to boote. Thought how pleasant 'twould be to have them alle aboute me next _Christmasse_; but that holie Time is noe longer kept with Joyfullnesse in _London_. Ventured, therefore, to expresse a Hope, we mighte spend it at _Forest Hill_; but Mr. _Milton_ sayd 'twas unlikelie he should be able to leave Home; and askt, would I go alone?--Constrained, for Shame, to say no; but felt, in my Heart, I woulde jump to see _Forest Hill_ on anie Terms, I soe love alle that dwell there.

_Sunday Even_.

Private and publick Prayer, Sermons, and Psalm-singing from Morn until Nighte. The onlie Break hath been a Visit to a quaint but pleasing Lady, by Name _Catherine Thompson_, whome my Husband holds in great Reverence. She said manie Things worthy to be remembered; onlie _as_ I remember them, I need not to write them down. Sorrie to be caughte napping by my Husband, in the Midst of the third long Sermon. This comes of over-walking, and of being unable to sleep o' Nights; for whether it be the _London_ Ayre, or the _London_ Methods of making the Beds, or the strange Noises in the Streets, I know not, but I have scarce beene able to close my Eyes before Daybreak since I came to Town.

_Monday_.

And now beginneth a new Life; for my Husband's Pupils, who were dismist for a Time for my Sake, returne to theire Tasks this Daye, and olde Mr. _Milton_ giveth place to his two Grandsons, his widowed Daughter's Children, _Edward_ and _John Phillips_, whom my Husband led in to me just now. Two plainer Boys I never sett Eyes on; the one weak-eyed and puny, the other prim and puritanicall--no more to be compared to our sweet _Robin_! . . . After a few Words, they retired to theire Books; and my Husband, taking my Hand, sayd in his kindliest Manner,--"And now I leave my sweete _Moll_ to the pleasant Companie of her own goode and innocent Thoughtes; and, if she needs more, here are both stringed and keyed Instruments, and Books both of the older and modern Time, soe that she will not find the Hours hang heavie." Methoughte how much more I should like a Ride upon _Clover_ than all the Books that ever were penned; for the Door no sooner closed upon Mr. _Milton_ than it seemed as tho' he had taken alle the Sunshine with him; and I fell to cleaning the Casement that I mighte look out the better into the Churchyarde, and then altered Tables and Chairs, and then sate downe with my Elbows resting on the Window-seat, and my Chin on the Palms of my Hands, gazing on I knew not what, and feeling like a Butterflie under a Wine-glass.

I marvelled why it seemed soe long since I was married, and wondered what they were doing at Home,--coulde fancy I hearde _Mother_ chiding, and see _Charlie_ stealing into the Dairie and dipping his Finger in the Cream, and _Kate_ feeding the Chickens, and _Dick_ taking a Stone out of _Whitestar's_ Shoe.

--Methought how dull it was to be passing the best Part of the Summer out of the Reache of fresh Ayre and greene Fields, and wondered, woulde alle my future Summers be soe spent?

Thoughte how dull it was to live in Lodgings, where one could not even go into the Kitchen to make a Pudding; and how dull to live in a Town, without some young female Friend with whom one might have ventured into the Streets, and where one could not soe much as feed Colts in a Paddock; how dull to be without a Garden, unable soe much as to gather a Handfulle of ripe Cherries; and how dull to looke into a Churchyarde, where there was a Man digging a Grave!

--When I wearied of staring at the Grave-digger, I gazed at an olde Gentleman and a young Lady slowlie walking along, yet scarce as if I noted them; and was thinking mostlie of _Forest Hill_, when I saw them stop at our Doore, and presently they were shewn in, by the Name of Doctor and Mistress _Davies_. I sent for my Husband, and entertayned 'em bothe as well as I could, till he appeared, and they were polite and pleasant to me; the young Lady tall and slender, of a cleare brown Skin, and with Eyes that were fine enough; onlie there was a supprest Smile on her Lips alle the Time, as tho' she had seen me looking out of the Window. She tried me on all Subjects, I think; for she started them more adroitlie than I; and taking up a Book on the Window-seat, which was the _Amadigi_ of _Bernardo Tasso_, printed alle in _Italiques_, she sayd, if I loved Poetry, which she was sure I must, she knew she shoulde love me. I did not tell her whether or noe. Then we were both silent. Then Doctor _Davies_ talked vehementlie to Mr. _Milton_ agaynst the King; and Mr. _Milton_ was not so contrarie to him as I could have wished. Then Mistress _Davies_ tooke the Word from her Father and beganne to talke to Mr. _Milton_ of _Tasso_, and _Dante_, and _Boiardo_, and _Ariosto_; and then Doctor _Davies_ and I were silent. Methoughte, they both talked well, tho' I knew so little of their Subject-matter; onlie they complimented eache other too much. I mean not they were insincere, for eache seemed to think highlie of the other; onlie we neede not say alle we feele.

To conclude, we are to sup with them to-morrow.

_Wednesday_.

_Journall_, I have Nobodie now but you, to whome to tell my little Griefs; indeede, before I married, I know not that I had anie; and even now, they are very small, onlie they are soe new, that sometimes my Heart is like to burst.

--I know not whether 'tis safe to put them alle on Paper, onlie it relieves for the Time, and it kills Time, and perhaps, a little While hence I may looke back and see how small they were, and how they mighte have beene shunned, or better borne. 'Tis worth the Triall.

--Yesterday Morn, for very Wearinesse, I looked alle over my Linen and Mr. _Milton's_, to see could I finde anie Thing to mend; but there was not a Stitch amiss. I woulde have played on the Spinnette, but was afrayd he should hear my indifferent Musick. Then, as a last Resource, I tooke a Book--_Paul Perrin's Historie of the Waldenses_;--and was, I believe, dozing a little, when I was aware of a continuall Whispering and Crying. I thought 'twas some Child in the Street; and, having some Comfits in my Pocket, I stept softlie out to the House-door and lookt forth, but no Child could I see. Coming back, the Door of my Husband's Studdy being ajar, I was avised to look in; and saw him, with awfulle Brow, raising his Hand in the very Act to strike the youngest _Phillips_. I could never endure to see a Child struck, soe hastilie cryed out "Oh, don't!"--whereon he rose, and, as if not seeing me, gently closed the Door, and, before I reached my Chamber, I hearde soe loud a Crying that I began to cry too. Soon, alle was quiet; and my Husband, coming in, stept gently up to me, and putting his Arm about my Neck, sayd, "My dearest Life, never agayn, I beseech you, interfere between me and the Boys: 'tis as unseemlie as tho' I shoulde interfere between you and your Maids, when you have any,--and will weaken my Hands, dear _Moll_, more than you have anie Suspicion of."

I replied, kissing that same offending Member as I spoke, "Poor _Jack_ would have beene glad, just now, if I _had_ weakened them."--"But that is not the Question," he returned, "for we shoulde alle be glad to escape necessary Punishment; whereas, it is the Power, not the Penalty of our bad Habits, that we shoulde seek to be delivered from."--"There may," I sayd, "be necessary, but need not be corporal Punishment." "That is as may be," returned he, "and hath alreadie been settled by an Authoritie to which I submit, and partlie think you will dispute, and that is, the Word of _God_. Pain of Body is in Realitie, or ought to be, sooner over and more safelie borne than Pain of an ingenuous Mind; and, as to the _Shame_,--why, as _Lorenzo de' Medici_ sayd to _Soccini_, 'The Shame is in the Offence rather than in the Punishment.'"

I replied, "Our _Robin_ had never beene beaten for his Studdies;" to which he sayd with a Smile, that even I must admit _Robin_ to be noe greate Scholar. And so in good Humour left me; but I was in no good Humour, and hoped Heaven might never make me the Mother of a Son, for if I should see Mr. _Milton_ strike him, I should learn to hate the Father.--

Learning there was like to be Companie at Doctor _Davies'_, I was avised to put on my brave greene Satin Gown; and my Husband sayd it became me well, and that I onlie needed some Primroses and Cowslips in my Lap, to look like _May_;--and somewhat he added about mine Eyes' "clear shining after Rain," which avised me he had perceived I had beene crying in the Morning, which I had hoped he had not.

Arriving at the Doctor's House, we were shewn into an emptie Chamber; at least, emptie of Companie, but full of every Thing else; for there were Books, and Globes, and stringed and wind Instruments, and stuffed Birds and Beasts, and Things I know not soe much as the Names of, besides an Easel with a Painting by Mrs. _Mildred_ on it, which she meant to be seene, or she woulde have put it away. Subject, "_Brutus's Judgment:"_ which I thought a strange, unfeeling one for a Woman; and did not wish to be _her_ Son. Soone she came in, drest with studdied and puritanicall Plainnesse; in brown Taffeta, guarded with black Velvet, which became her well enough, but was scarce suited for the Season. She had much to say about limning, in which my Husband could follow her better than I; and then they went to the Globes, and _Copernicus_, and _Galileo Galilei_, whom she called a Martyr, but I do not. For, is a Martyr one who is unwillinglie imprisoned, or who formally recants? even tho' he affected afterwards to say 'twas _but_ a Form, and cries, "_Eppure, si muove_?" The earlier Christians might have sayd 'twas but a Form to burn a Handfull of Incense before _Jove's_ Statua; _Pliny_ woulde have let them goe.

Afterwards, when the Doctor came in and engaged my Husband in Discourse, Mistress _Mildred_ devoted herselfe to me, and askt what Progresse I had made with _Bernardo Tasso_. I tolde her, none at alle, for I was equallie faultie at _Italiques_ and _Italian_, and onlie knew his best Work thro' Mr. _Fairfax's_ Translation; whereat she fell laughing, and sayd she begged my Forgivenesse, but I was confounding the Father with the Sonne; then laught agayn, but pretended 'twas not at me but at a Lady I minded her of, who never coulde remember to distinguish betwixt _Lionardo da Vinci_ and _Lorenzo dei Medici_. That last Name brought up the Recollection of my Morning's Debate with my Husband, which made me feel sad; and then, Mrs. _Mildred_, seeminge anxious to make me forget her Unmannerliness, commenced, "Can you paint?"--"Can you sing?"--"Can you play the Lute?"--and, at the last, "What _can_ you do?" I mighte have sayd I coulde comb out my Curls smoother than she coulde hers, but did not. Other Guests came in, and talked so much agaynst Prelacy and the Right divine of Kings that I woulde fain we had remained at Astronomie and Poetry. For Supper there was little Meat, and noe strong Drinks, onlie a thinnish foreign Wine, with Cakes, Candies, Sweetmeats, Fruits, and Confections. Such, I suppose, is Town Fashion. At the laste, came Musick; Mistress _Mildred_ sang and played; then prest me to do the like, but I was soe fearfulle, I coulde not; so my Husband sayd he woulde play for me, and that woulde be alle one, and soe covered my Bashfullenesse handsomlie.

Onlie this Morning, just before going to his Studdy, he stept back and sayd, "Sweet _Moll_, I know you can both play and sing--why will you not practise?" I replyed, I loved it not much. He rejoyned, "But you know I love it, and is not that a Motive?" I sayd, I feared to let him hear me, I played so ill. He replyed, "Why, that is the very Reason you shoulde seek to play better, and I am sure you have Plenty of Time. Perhaps, in your whole future Life, you will not have such a Season of Leisure as you have now,--a golden Opportunity, which you will surelie seize."--Then added, "Sir _Thomas More's_ Wife learnt to play the Lute, solely that she mighte please her Husband." I answered, "Nay, what to tell me of Sir _Thomas More's_ Wife, or of _Hugh Grotius's_ Wife, when I was the Wife of _John Milton_?" He looked at me twice, and quicklie, too, at this Saying; then laughing, cried, "You cleaving Mischief! I hardlie know whether to take that Speech amisse or well--however, you shall have the Benefit of the Doubt."

And so away laughing; and I, for very Shame, sat down to the Spinnette for two wearie Hours, till soe tired, I coulde cry; and when I desisted, coulde hear _Jack_ wailing over his Task. 'Tis raining fast, I cannot get out, nor should I dare to go alone, nor where to go to if 'twere fine. I fancy ill Smells from the Churchyard--'tis long to Dinner-time, with noe Change, noe Exercise; and oh, I sigh for _Forest Hill_.

--A dull Dinner with Mrs. _Phillips_, whom I like not much. _Christopher Milton_ there, who stared hard at me, and put me out of Countenance with his strange Questions. My Husband checked him. He is a Lawyer, and has Wit enoughe.

Mrs. _Phillips_ speaking of second Marriages, I unawares hurt her by giving my Voice agaynst them. It seems she is thinking of contracting a second Marriage.

--At Supper, wishing to ingratiate myself with the Boys, talked to them of Countrie Sports, etc.: to which the youngest listened greedilie; and at length I was advised to ask them woulde they not like to see _Forest Hill_? to which the elder replyed in his most methodicall Manner, "If Mr. _Powell_ has a good Library." For this Piece of Hypocrisie, at which I heartilie laught, he was commended by his Uncle. Hypocrisie it was, for Master _Ned_ cryeth over his Taskes pretty nearlie as oft as the youngest.

_Friday_.

To rewarde my zealous Practice to-day on the Spinnette, Mr. _Milton_ produced a Collection of "_Ayres, and Dialogues, for one, two, and three Voices_," by his Friend, Mr. _Harry Lawes_, which he sayd I shoulde find very pleasant Studdy; and then he tolde me alle about theire getting up the Masque of _Comus_ in _Ludlow_ Castle, and how well the Lady's Song was sung by Mr. _Lawes'_ Pupil, the Lady _Alice_, then a sweet, modest Girl, onlie thirteen Yeares of Age,--and he told me of the Singing of a faire _Italian_ young Signora, named _Leonora Barroni_, with her Mother and Sister, whome he had hearde at _Rome_, at the Concerts of Cardinal _Barberini_; and how she was "as gentle and modest as sweet _Moll_," yet not afrayed to open her Mouth, and pronounce everie Syllable distinctlie, and with the proper Emphasis and Passion when she sang. And after this, to my greate Contentment, he tooke me to the _Gray's Inn Walks_, where, the Afternoon being fine, was much Companie.

After Supper, I proposed to the Boys that we shoulde tell Stories; and Mr. _Milton_ tolde one charminglie, but then went away to write a _Latin_ Letter. Soe _Ned's_ Turn came next; and I must, if I can, for very Mirthe's Sake, write it down in his exact Words, they were soe pragmaticall.

"On a Daye, there was a certain Child wandered forthe, that would play. He met a Bee, and sayd, 'Bee, wilt thou play with me?' The Bee sayd, 'No, I have my Duties to perform, tho' you, it woulde seeme, have none. I must away to make Honey.' Then the Childe, abasht, went to the Ant. He sayd, 'Will you play with me, Ant?' The Ant replied, 'Nay, I must provide against the Winter.' In shorte, he found that everie Bird, Beaste, and Insect he accosted, had a closer Eye to the Purpose of their Creation than himselfe. Then he sayd, 'I will then back, and con my Task.'--_Moral_. The Moral of the foregoing Fable, my deare _Aunt_, is this--We must love Work better than Play."

With alle my Interest for Children, how is it possible to take anie Interest in soe formall a little Prigge?

_Saturday_.

I have just done somewhat for Master _Ned_ which he coulde not doe for himselfe--_viz_. tenderly bound up his Hand, which he had badly cut. Wiping away some few naturall Tears, he must needs say, "I am quite ashamed, _Aunt_, you shoulde see me cry; but the worst of it is, that alle this Payne has beene for noe good; whereas, when my Uncle beateth me for misconstruing my _Latin_, tho' I cry at the Time, all the while I know it is for my Advantage."--If this Boy goes on preaching soe, I shall soon hate him.

--Mr. _Milton_ having stepped out before Supper, came back looking soe blythe, that I askt if he had hearde good News. He sayd, yes: that some Friends had long beene persuading him, against his Will, to make publick some of his _Latin_ Poems; and that, having at length consented to theire Wishes, he had beene with _Mosley_ the Publisher in St. _Paul's Churchyard_, who agreed to print them. I sayd, I was sorrie I shoulde be unable to read them. He sayd he was sorry too; he must translate them for me. I thanked him, but observed that Traductions were never soe good as Originalls. He rejoyned, "Nor am I even a good Translator." I askt, "Why not write in your owne Tongue?" He sayd, "_Latin_ is understood all over the Worlde." I sayd, "But there are manie in your owne Country do not understand it." He was silent soe long upon that, that I supposed he did not mean to answer me; but then cried, "You are right, sweet _Moll.--_Our best Writers have written their best Works in _English_, and I will hereafter doe the same,--for I feel that my best Work is still _to come_. Poetry hath hitherto been with me rather the Recreation of a Mind conscious of its Health, than the deliberate Task-work of a Soule that must hereafter give an Account of its Talents. Yet my Mind, in the free Circuit of her Musing, has ranged over a thousand Themes that lie, like the Marble in the Quarry, readie for anie Shape that Fancy and Skill may give. Neither Laziness nor Caprice makes me difficult in my Choice; for, the longer I am in selecting my Tree, and laying my Axe to the Root, the sounder it will be and the riper for Use. Nor is an Undertaking that shall be one of high Duty, to be entered upon without Prayer and Discipline:--it woulde be Presumption indeede, to commence an Enterprise which I meant shoulde delighte and profit every instructed and elevated Mind without so much Paynes-takinge as it should cost a poor Mountebank to balance a Pole on his Chin."

_Sunday Even_.

In the Clouds agayn. At Dinner, to-daye, Mr. _Milton_ catechised the Boys on the Morning's Sermon, the Heads of which, though amounting to a Dozen_, Ned_ tolde off roundlie. Roguish little _Jack_ looked slylie at me, says, "_Aunt_ coulde not tell off the Sermon." "Why not?" says his Uncle. "Because she was sleeping," says _Jack_. Provoked with the Child, I turned scarlett, and hastilie sayd, "I was not." Nobodie spoke; but I repented the Falsitie the Moment it had escaped me; and there was _Ned_, a folding of his Hands, drawing down his Mouth, and closing his Eyes. . . . My Husband tooke me to taske for it when we were alone, soe tenderlie that I wept.

_Monday_.

_Jack_ sayd this Morning, "I know Something--I know _Aunt_ keeps a Journall." "And a good Thing if you kept one too, _Jack,"_ sayd his Uncle, "it would shew you how little you doe." _Jack_ was silenced; but _Ned_, pursing up his Mouth, says, "I can't think what _Aunt_ can have to put in a Journall--should not you like, _Uncle_, to see?" "No, _Ned,"_ says his Uncle, "I am upon Honour, and your dear Aunt's Journall is as safe, for me, as the golden Bracelets that King _Alfred_ hung upon the High-way. I am glad she has such a Resource, and, as we know she cannot have much News to put in it, we may the more safely rely that it is a Treasury of sweet, and high, and holy, and profitable Thoughtes."

Oh, how deeplie I blusht at this ill-deserved Prayse! How sorrie I was that I had ever registered aught that he woulde grieve to read! I secretly resolved that this Daye's Journalling should be the last, untill I had attained a better Frame of Mind.

_Saturday Even_.

I have kept Silence, yea, even from good Words, but it has beene a Payn and Griefe unto me. Good Mistress _Catherine Thompson_ called on me a few Dayes back, and spoke so wisely and so wholesomelie concerning my Lot, and the Way to make it happy, (she is the first that hath spoken as it 'twere possible it mighte not be soe alreadie,) that I felt for a Season quite heartened; but it has alle faded away. Because the Source of Cheerfulnesse is not _in_ me, anie more than in a dull Landskip, which the Sun lighteneth for awhile, and when he has set, its Beauty is gone.

Oh me! how merry I was at Home!--The Source of Cheerfulnesse seemed in me _then_, and why is it not _now_? Partly because alle that I was there taught to think right is here thought wrong; because much that I there thought harmlesse is here thought sinfulle; because I cannot get at anie of the Things that employed and interested me _there_, and because the Things within my Reach _here_ do not interest me. Then, 'tis no small Thing to be continuallie deemed ignorant and misinformed, and to have one's Errors continuallie covered, however handsomelie, even before Children. To say nothing of the Weight upon the Spiritts at firste, from Change of Ayre, and Diet, and Scene, and Loss of habituall Exercise and Companie and householde Cares. These petty Griefs try me sorelie; and when Cousin _Ralph_ came in unexpectedlie this Morn, tho' I never much cared for him at Home, yet the Sighte of _Rose's_ Brother, fresh from_ Sheepscote_ and _Oxford_ and _Forest Hill_, soe upset me that I sank into Tears. No wonder that Mr. _Milton_, then coming in, shoulde hastilie enquire if _Ralph_ had brought ill Tidings from Home; and, finding alle was well there, shoulde look strangelie. He askt _Ralph_, however, to stay to Dinner; and we had much Talk of Home; but now, I regret having omitted to ask a thousand Questions.

_Sunday Even., Aug. 15, 1643_.

Mr. _Milton_ in his Closet and I in my Chamber.--For the first Time he seems this Evening to have founde out how dissimilar are our Minds. Meaning to please him, I sayd, "I kept awake bravelie, tonighte, through that long, long Sermon, for your Sake." "And why not for _God's_ Sake?" cried he, "why not for your owne Sake?--Oh, sweet _Wife_, I fear you have yet much to learn of the Depth of Happinesse that is comprised in the Communion between a forgiven Soul and its Creator. It hallows the most secular as well as the most spirituall Employments; it gives Pleasure that has no after Bitternesse; it gives Pleasure to _God_--and oh! thinke of the Depth of Meaning in those Words! think what it is for us to be capable of giving _God_ Pleasure!"

--Much more, in the same Vein! to which I could not, with equal Power, respond; soe, he away to his Studdy, to pray perhaps for my Change of Heart, and I to my Bed.

_Saturday, Aug. 21, 1643_.

Oh Heaven! can it be possible? am I agayn at _Forest Hill_? How strange, how joyfulle an Event, tho' brought about with Teares!--Can it be, that it is onlie a Month since I stoode at this Toilette as a Bride? and lay awake on that Bed, thinking of _London_? How long a Month! and oh! this present one will be alle too short.