Chapter 7
Soe I soughte out Mr. _Agnew_, tapping at his Studdy Doore. He sayd, "Come in," drylie enoughe; and there were he and _Rose_ reading a Letter. I sayd, "I want you to write for me to Mr. _Milton_." He gave a sour Look, as much as to say he disliked the Office; which threw me back, as 'twere; he having soe lately proposed it himself. _Rose's_ Eyes, however, dilated with sweete Pleasure, as she lookt from one to the other of us.
"Well,--I fear 'tis too late," sayd he at length reluctantlie, I mighte almost say grufflie,--"what am I to write?"
"To tell him I have this Key," I made Answer faltering.
"That Key!" cried he.
"Yes, the Key of his Algum-wood Casket, which I knew not I had, and which I think he must miss dailie."
He lookt at me with the utmost Impatience. "And is that alle?" he sayd.
"Yes, alle," I sayd trembling.
"And have you nothing more to tell him?" sayd he.
"No--" after a Pause, I replyed. _Rose's_ Countenance fell.
"Then you must ask some one else to write for you, Mrs. _Milton,"_ burste forthe _Roger Agnew_, "unless you choose to write for yourself. I have neither Part nor Lot in it."
I burste forthe into Teares.
--"No, _Rose_, no," repeated Mr. _Agnew_, putting aside his Wife, who woulde have interceded for me,--"her Teares have noe Effect on me now--they proceed, not from a contrite Heart, they are the Tears of a Child that cannot brook to be chidden for the Waywardnesse in which it persists."
"You doe me Wrong everie Way," I sayd; "I came to you willing and desirous to doe what you yourselfe woulde, this Morning, have had me doe."
"But in how strange a Way!" cried he. "At a Time when anie Renewal of your Intercourse requires to be conducted with the utmost Delicacy, and even with more Shew of Concession on your Part than, an Hour ago, I should have deemed needfulle,--to propose an abrupt, trivial Communication about an old Key!"
"It needed not to have been abrupt," I sayd, "nor yet trivial; for I meant it to have beene exprest kindlie."
"You said not that before," answered he.
"Because you gave me not Time.--Because you chid me and frightened me."
He stood silent, some While, upon this; grave, yet softer, and mechanicallie playing with the Key, which he had taken from my Hand. _Rose_ looking in his Face anxiouslie. At lengthe, to disturbe his Reverie, she playfulle tooke it from him, saying, in School-girl Phrase,
"This is the Key of the Kingdom!"
"Of the Kingdom of Heaven, it mighte be!" exclaimed _Roger_, "if we knew how to use it arighte! If we knew but how to fit it to the Wards of _Milton's_ Heart!--there's the Difficultie. . . . a greater one, poor _Moll_, than you know; for hitherto, alle the Reluctance has been on your Part. But now . . ."
"What now?" I anxiouslie askt.
"We were talking of you but as you rejoyned us," sayd Mr. _Agnew_, "and I was telling _Rose_ that hithertoe I had considered the onlie Obstacle to a Reunion arose from a false Impression of your own, that Mr. _Milton_ coulde not make you happy. But now I have beene led to the Conclusion that you cannot make _him_ soe, which increases the Difficultie."
After a Pause, I sayd, "What makes you think soe?"
"You and he have made me think soe," he replyed. "First for yourself, dear _Moll_, putting aside for a Time the Consideration of your Youth, Beauty, Franknesse, Mirthfullenesse, and a certayn girlish Drollerie and Mischiefe that are all very well in fitting Time and Place,--what remains in you for a Mind like _John Milton's_ to repose upon? what Stabilitie? what Sympathie? what steadfast Principle? You take noe Pains to apprehend and relish his favourite Pursuits; you care not for his wounded Feelings, you consult not his Interests, anie more than your owne Duty. Now, is such the Character to make _Milton_ happy?"
"No one can answer that but himself," I replyed, deeplie mortyfide.
"Well, he _has_ answered it," sayd Mr. _Agnew_, taking up the Letter he and _Rose_ had beene reading when I interrupted them. . . . "You must know, _Cousin_, that his and my close Friendship hath beene a good deal interrupted by this Matter. 'Twas under my Roof you met. _Rose_ had imparted to me much of her earlie Interest in you. I fancied you had good Dispositions which, under masterlie Trayning, would ripen into noble Principles; and therefore promoted your Marriage as far as my Interest with your Father had Weight. I own I was surprised at his easilie obtayned Consent . . . but, that _you_, once domesticated with such a Man as _John Milton_, shoulde find your Home uninteresting, your Affections free to stray back to your owne Family, was what I had never contemplated."
Here I made a Show of taking the Letter, but he held it back.
"No, _Moll_, you disappointed us everie Way. And, for a Time, _Rose_ and I were ashamed, _for_ you rather than of you, that we left noe Means neglected of trying to preserve your Place in your Husband's Regard. But you did not bear us out; and then he beganne to take it amisse that we upheld you. Soe then, after some warm and cool Words, our Correspondence languished; and hath but now beene renewed."
"He hath written us a most kind Condolence," interrupted _Rose_, "on the Death of our Baby."
"Yes, most kindlie, most nobly exprest," sayd Mr. _Agnew_; "but what a Conclusion!"
And then, after this long Preamble, he offered me the Letter, the Beginning of which, tho' doubtlesse well enough, I marked not, being impatient to reach the latter Part; wherein I found myself spoken of soe bitterlie, soe harshlie, as that I too plainly saw _Roger Agnew_ had not beene beside the Mark when he decided I could never make Mr. _Milton_ happy. Payned and wounded Feeling made me lay aside the Letter without proffering another Word, and retreat without soe much as a Sigh or a Sob into mine own Chamber; but noe longer could the Restraynt be maintained. I fell to weeping soe passionatelie that _Rose_ prayed to come in, and condoled with me, and advised me, soe as that at length my Weeping bated, and I promised to return below when I shoulde have bathed mine Eyes and smoothed my Hair; but I have not gone down yet.
_Bedtime_.
I think I shall send to _Father_ to have me Home at the Beginning of next Week. _Rose_ needes me not, now; and it cannot be pleasant to Mr. _Agnew_ to see my sorrowfulle Face about the House. His Reproofe and my Husband's together have riven my Heart; I think I shall never laugh agayn, nor smile but after a piteous Sorte; and soe People will cease to love me, for there is Nothing in me of a graver Kind to draw their Affection; and soe I shall lead a moping Life unto the End of my Dayes.
--Luckilie for me, _Rose_ hath much Sewing to doe; for she hath undertaken with great Energie her Labours for the Poore, and consequentlie spends less Time in her Husband's Studdy; and, as I help her to the best of my Means, my Sewing hides my Lack of Talking, and Mr. _Agnew_ reads to us such Books as he deems entertayning; yet, half the Time, I hear not what he reads. Still, I did not deeme so much Amusement could have beene found in Books; and there are some of his, that, if not soe cumbrous, I woulde fain borrow.
_Friday_.
I have made up my Mind now, that I shall never see Mr. _Milton_ more; and am resolved to submitt to it without another Tear.
_Rose_ sayd, this Morning, she was glad to see me more composed; and soe am I; but never was more miserable.
_Saturday Night_.
Mr. _Agnew's_ religious Services at the End of the Week have alwaies more than usuall Matter and Meaninge in them. They are neither soe drowsy as those I have beene for manie Years accustomed to at Home, nor soe wearisome as to remind me of the _Puritans_. Were there manie such as he in our Church, soe faithfulle, fervent, and thoughtfulle, methinks there would be fewer Schismaticks; but still there woulde be some, because there are alwaies some that like to be the uppermost.
. . . To-nighte, Mr. _Agnew's_ Prayers went straight to my Heart; and I privilie turned sundrie of his generall Petitions into particular ones, for myself and _Robin_, and also for Mr. _Milton_. This gave such unwonted Relief, that since I entered into my Closet, I have repeated the same particularlie; one Request seeming to grow out of another, till I remained I know not how long on my Knees, and will bend them yet agayn, ere I go to Bed.
How sweetlie the Moon shines through my Casement to-night! I am almoste avised to accede to _Rose's_ Request of staying here to the End of the Month:--everie Thing here is soe peacefulle; and _Forest Hill_ is dull, now _Robin_ is away.
_Sunday Evening_.
How blessed a Sabbath!--Can it be, that I thought, onlie two Days back, I shoulde never know Peace agayn? Joy I may not, but Peace I can and doe. And yet nought hath amended the unfortunate Condition of mine Affairs; but a different Colouring is caste upon them--the _Lord_ grant that it may last! How hath it come soe, and how may it be preserved? This Morn, when I awoke, 'twas with a Sense of Relief such as we have when we miss some wearying bodilie Payn; a Feeling as though I had beene forgiven, yet not by Mr. _Milton_, for I knew he had not forgiven me. Then, it must be, I was forgiven by _God_; and why? I had done nothing to get his Forgivenesse, only presumed on his Mercy to ask manie Things I had noe Right to expect. And yet I felt I _was_ forgiven. Why then mighte not Mr. _Milton_ some Day forgive me? Should the Debt of ten thousand Talents be cancelled, and not the Debt of a hundred Pence? Then I thought on that same Word, Talents; and considered, had I ten, or even one? Decided to consider it at leisure, more closelie, and to make over to _God_ henceforthe, be they ten, or be it one. Then, dressed with much Composure, and went down to Breakfast.
Having marked that Mr. _Agnew_ and _Rose_ affected not Companie on this Day, spent it chieflie by myself, except at Church and Meal-times; partlie in my Chamber, partlie in the Garden Bowre by the Beehives. Made manie Resolutions, which, in Church, I converted into Prayers and Promises. Hence, my holy Peace.
_Monday_.
_Rose_ proposed, this Morning, we shoulde resume our Studdies. Felt loath to comply, but did soe neverthelesse, and afterwards we walked manie Miles, to visit some poor Folk. This Evening, Mr. _Agnew_ read us the Prologue to the _Canterbury Tales_. How lifelike are the Portraitures! I mind me that Mr. _Milton_ shewed me the _Talbot_ Inn, that Day we crost the River with Mr. _Marvell_.
_Tuesday_.
How heartilie do I wish I had never read that same Letter!--or rather, that it had never beene written. Thus it is, even with our Wishes. We think ourselves reasonable in wishing some small Thing were otherwise, which it were quite as impossible to alter as some great Thing. Neverthelesse I cannot help fretting over the Remembrance of that Part wherein he spake such bitter Things of my "most ungoverned Passion for Revellings and Junketings." Sure, he would not call my Life too merrie now, could he see me lying wakefulle on my Bed, could he see me preventing the Morning Watch, could he see me at my Prayers, at my Books, at my Needle. . . . He shall find he hath judged too hardlie of poor _Moll_, even yet.
_Wednesday_.
Took a cold Dinner in a Basket with us to-day, and ate our rusticall Repast on the Skirt of a Wood, where we could see the Squirrels at theire Gambols. Mr. _Agnew_ lay on the Grasse, and _Rose_ took out her Knitting, whereat he laught, and sayd she was like the _Dutch_ Women, that must knit, whether mourning or feasting, and even on the Sabbath. Having laught her out of her Work, he drew forth Mr. _George Herbert's_ Poems, and read us a Strayn which pleased _Rose_ and me soe much, that I shall copy it herein, to have always by me.
How fresh, oh Lord: how sweet and clean Are thy Returns! e'en as the Flowers in Spring, To which, beside theire owne Demesne, The late pent Frosts Tributes of Pleasure bring. Grief melts away like Snow in May, As if there were noe such cold Thing.
Who would have thought my shrivelled Heart Woulde have recovered greenness? it was gone Quite Underground, as Flowers depart To see their Mother-root, when they have blown, Where they together, alle the hard Weather, Dead to the World, keep House alone.
These are thy Wonders, Lord of Power! Killing and quickening, bringing down to Hell And up to Heaven, in an Hour, Making a Chiming of a passing Bell, We say amiss "this or that is:" Thy Word is alle, if we could spell.
Oh that I once past changing were! Fast in thy Paradise, where no Flowers can wither; Manie a Spring I shoot up faire, Offering at Heaven, growing and groaning thither, Nor doth my Flower want a Spring Shower, My Sins and I joyning together.
But while I grow in a straight Line, Still upwards bent, as if Heaven were my own, Thy Anger comes, and I decline.-- What Frost to that! What Pole is not the Zone Where alle Things burn, when thou dost turn, And the least Frown of thine is shewn?
And now, in Age, I bud agayn, After soe manie Deaths, I bud and write, I once more smell the Dew and Rain, And relish Versing! Oh my onlie Light! It cannot be that I am he On whom thy Tempests fell alle Night?
These are thy Wonders, Lord of Love, To make us see we are but Flowers that glide, Which, when we once can feel and prove, Thou hast a Garden for us where to bide. Who would be more, swelling their Store, Forfeit their Paradise by theire Pride.
_Thursday_.
_Father_ sent over _Diggory_ with a Letter for me from deare _Robin_: alsoe, to ask when I was minded to return Home, as _Mother_ wants to goe to _Sandford_. Fixed the Week after next; but _Rose_ says I must be here agayn at the Apple-gathering. Answered _Robin's_ Letter. He looketh not for Choyce of fine Words; nor noteth an Error here and there in the Spelling.
_Tuesday_.
Life flows away here in such unmarked Tranquilitie, that one hath Nothing whereof to write, or to remember what distinguished one Day from another. I am sad, yet not dulle; methinks I have grown some Yeares older since I came here. I can fancy elder Women feeling much as I doe now. I have Nothing to desire. Nothing to hope, that is likelie to come to pass--Nothing to regret, except I begin soe far back, that my whole Life hath neede, as 'twere, to begin over agayn. . . .
Mr. _Agnew_ translates to us Portions of _Thuanus_ his Historie, and the Letters of _Theodore Bexa_, concerning the _French_ Reformed Church; oft prolix, yet interesting, especially with Mr. _Agnew's_ Comments, and Allusions to our own Time. On the other Hand, _Rose_ reads _Davila_, the sworne Apologiste of _Catherine de' Medicis_, whose charming _Italian_ even I can comprehende; but alle is false and plausible. How sad, that the wrong Partie shoulde be victorious! Soe it may befall in this Land; though, indeede, I have hearde soe much bitter Rayling on bothe Sides, that I know not which is right. The Line of Demarcation is not soe distinctly drawn, methinks, as 'twas in _France_. Yet it cannot be right to take up Arms agaynst constituted Authorities?--Yet, and if those same Authorities abuse their Trust? Nay, Women cannot understand these Matters, and I thank Heaven they need not. Onlie, they cannot help siding with those they love; and sometimes those they love are on opposite Sides.
Mr. _Agnew_ sayth, the secular Arm shoulde never be employed in spirituall Matters, and that the _Hugenots_ committed a grave Mistake in choosing Princes and Admirals for their Leaders, insteade of simple Preachers with Bibles in their hands; and he askt, "did _Luther_ or _Peter_ the Hermit most manifestlie labour with the Blessing of _God_?"
. . . I have noted the Heads of Mr. _Agnew's_ Readings, after a Fashion of _Rose's_, in order to have a shorte, comprehensive Account of the Whole; and this hath abridged my journalling. It is the more profitable to me of the two, changes the sad Current of Thought, and, though an unaccustomed Task, I like it well.
_Saturday_.
On _Monday_, I return to _Forest Hill_. I am well pleased to have yet another _Sheepscote_ Sabbath. To-day we had the rare Event of a Dinner-guest; soe full of what the Rebels are doing, and alle the Horrors of Strife, that he seemed to us quiete Folks, like the Denizen of another World.
_Forest Hill, August 3, 1644_.
Home agayn, and _Mother_ hath gone on her long intended Visitt to Uncle _John_, taking with her the two youngest. _Father_ much preoccupide, by reason of the Supplies needed for his Majesty's Service; soe that, sweet _Robin_ being away, I find myselfe lonely. _Harry_ rides with me in the Evening, but the Mornings I have alle to myself; and when I have fulfilled _Mother's_ Behests in the Kitchen and Still-room, I have nought but to read in our somewhat scant Collection of Books, the moste Part whereof are religious. And (not on that Account, but by reason I have read the most of them before), methinks I will write to borrow some of _Rose_; for Change of Reading hath now become a Want. I am minded also, to seek out and minister unto some poore Folk after her Fashion. Now that I am Queen of the Larder, there is manie a wholesome Scrap at my Disposal, and there are likewise sundrie Physiques in my Mother's Closet, which she addeth to Year by Year, and never wants, we are soe seldom ill.
_Aug. 5, 1644_.
Dear _Father_ sayd this Evening, as we came in from a Walk on the Terrace, "My sweet _Moll_, you were ever the Light of the House; but now, though you are more staid than of former Time, I find you a better Companion than ever. This last Visitt to _Sheepscote_ hath evened your Spiritts."
Poor _Father_! he knew not how I lay awake and wept last Night, for one I shall never see agayn, nor how the Terrace Walk minded me of him. My Spiritts may seem even, and I exert myself to please; but, within, all is dark Shade, or at best, grey Twilight; and my Spiritts are, in Fact, worse here than they were at _Sheepscote_, because, here, I am continuallie thinking of one whose Name is never uttered; whereas, there, it was mentioned naturallie and tenderlie, though sadly. . . .
I will forthe to see some of the poor Folk.
_Same Night_.
Resolved to make the Circuit of the Cottages, but onlie reached the first, wherein I found poor _Nell_ in such Grief of Body and Mind, that I was avised to wait with her a long Time. Askt why she had not sent to us for Relief; was answered she had thought of doing soe, but was feared of making too free. After a lengthened Visitt, which seemed to relieve her Mind, and certaynlie relieved mine, I bade her Farewell, and at the Wicket met my Father coming up with a playn-favoured but scholarlike looking reverend Man. He sayd, "_Moll_, I could not think what had become of you." I answered, I hoped I had not kept him waiting for Dinner--poor _Nell_ had entertayned me longer than I wisht, with the Catalogue of her Troubles. The Stranger looking attentively at me, observed that may be the poor Woman had entertayned an Angel unawares; and added, "Doubt not, Madam, we woulde rather await our Dinner than that you should have curtayled your Message of Charity." Hithertoe, my Father had not named this Gentleman to me; but now he sayd, "Child, this is the Reverend Doctor _Jeremy Taylor_, Chaplain in Ordinarie to his Majesty, and whom you know I have heard more than once preach before the King since he abode in _Oxford_." Thereon I made a lowly Reverence, and we walked homewards together. At first, he discoursed chiefly with my Father on the Troubles of the Times, and then he drew me into the Dialogue, in the Course of which I let fall a Saying of Mr. _Agnew's_, which drew from the reverend Gentleman a respectfulle Look I felt I no Way deserved. Soe then I had to explain that the Saying was none of mine, and felt ashamed he shoulde suppose me wiser than I was, especiallie as he commended my Modesty. But we progressed well, and he soon had the Discourse all to himself, for Squire _Paice_ came up, and detained _Father_, while the Doctor and I walked on. I could not help reflecting how odd it was, that I, whom Nature had endowed with such a very ordinarie Capacitie, and scarce anie Taste for Letters, shoulde continuallie be thrown into the Companie of the cleverest of Men,--first, Mr. _Milton_: then Mr. _Agnew_; and now, this Doctor _Jeremy Taylor_. But, like the other two, he is not merely clever, he is Christian and good. How much I learnt in this short Interview! for short it seemed, though it must have extended over a good half Hour. He sayd, "Perhaps, young Lady, the Time may come when you shall find safer Solace in the Exercise of the Charities than of the Affections. Safer: for, not to consider how a successfulle or unsuccessfulle Passion for a human Being of like Infirmities with ourselves, oft stains and darkens and shortens the Current of Life, even the chastened Love of a Mother for her Child, as of _Octavia_, who swooned at '_Tu, Marcellus, eris_,'--or of Wives for their Husbands, as _Artemisia_ and _Laodamia_, sometimes amounting to Idolatry--nay, the Love of Friend for Friend, with alle its sweet Influences and animating Transports, yet exceeding the Reasonableness of that of _David_ for _Jonathan_, or of our blessed _Lord_ for _St. John_ and the Family of _Lazarus_, may procure far more Torment than Profit: even if the Attachment be reciprocal, and well grounded, and equallie matcht, which often it is not. Then interpose human Tempers, and Chills, and Heates, and Slyghtes fancied or intended, which make the vext Soul readie to wish it had never existed. How smalle a Thing is a human Heart! you might grasp it in your little Hand; and yet its Strifes and Agonies are enough to distend a Skin that should cover the whole World! But, in the Charities, what Peace! yea, they distill Sweetnesse even from the Unthankfulle, blessing him that gives more than him that receives; while, in the Main, they are laid out at better Interest than our warmest Affections, and bring in a far richer Harvest of Love and Gratitude. Yet, let our Affections have their fitting Exercise too, staying ourselves with the Reflection, that there is greater Happinesse, after alle Things sayd, in loving than in being loved, save by the _God_ of Love who first loved us, and that they who dwell in Love dwell in _Him_."
Then he went on to speak of the manifold Acts and Divisions of Charity; as much, methought, in the Vein of a Poet as a Preacher; and he minded me much of that Scene in the tenth Book of the _Fairie Queene_, soe lately read to us by Mr. _Agnew_, wherein the _Red Cross Knight_ and _Una_ were shown _Mercy_ at her Work.
_Aug. 10, 1644_.
A Pack-horse from _Sheepscote_ just reported, laden with a goodlie Store of Books, besides sundrie smaller Tokens of _Rose's_ thoughtfulle Kindnesse. I have now methodicallie divided my Time into stated Hours, of Prayer, Exercise, Studdy, Housewiferie, and Acts of Mercy, on however a humble Scale; and find mine owne Peace of Mind thereby increased notwithstanding the Darknesse of publick and Dullnesse of private Affairs.
Made out the Meaning of "Cynosure" and "Cimmerian Darknesse." . . .
_Aug. 15, 1644_.
Full sad am I to learn that Mr. _Milton_ hath published another Book in Advocacy of Divorce. Alas, why will he chafe against the Chain, and widen the cruel Division between us? My Father is outrageous on the Matter, and speaks soe passionatelie of him, that it is worse than not speaking of him at alle, which latelie I was avised to complain of.
_Aug. 30, 1644_.