THE MAIDEN AND MARRIED LIFE (continued 3)

June, 1646.

The Parliament requireth our unfortunate King to issue Orders to this and alle his other Garrisons, commanding theire Surrender; and Father, finding this is likelie to take Place forthwith, is busied in having himself comprised within the Articles of Surrender. 'Twill be hard indeed, shoulde this be denied. His Estate lying in the King's Quarters, howe coulde he doe less than adhere to his Majesty's Partie during this unnaturall War? I am sure Mother grudged the Royalists everie Goose and Turkey they had from our Yard.

June 27, 1646.

Praised be Heaven, deare Father hath just received Sir Thomas Fairfax's Protection, empowering him quietlie and without let to goe forthe "with Servants, Horses, Arms, Goods, etc." to "London or elsewhere," whithersoever he will. And though the Protection extends but over six Months, at the Expiry of which Time, Father must take Measures to embark for some Place of Refuge beyond Seas, yet who knows what may turn up in those six Months! The King may enjoy his Owne agayn. Meantime, we immediatelie leave Oxford.

Forest Hill.

At Home agayn; and what a Home! Everiething to seeke, everiething misplaced, broken, abused, or gone altogether! The Gate off its Hinges; the Stone Balls of the Pillars overthrowne, the great Bell stolen, the clipt Junipers grubbed up, the Sun-diall broken! Not a Hen or Chicken, Duck or Duckling, left! Crab half-starved, and soe glad to see us, that he dragged his Kennel after him. Daisy and Blanch making such piteous Moans at the Paddock Gate, that I coulde not bear it, but helped Lettice to milk them. Within Doors, everie Room smelling of Beer and Tobacco; Cupboards broken upon, etc. On my Chamber Floor, a greasy steeple-crowned Hat! Threw it forthe from the Window with a Pair of Tongs.

Mother goes about the House weeping. Father sits in his broken Arm-chair, the Picture of Disconsolateness. I see the Agnews, true Friends! riding hither; and with them a Third, who, methinks, is Rose's Brother Ralph.

London. St. Martin's le Grand.

Trembling, weeping, hopefulle, dismaied, here I sit in mine Uncle's hired House, alone in a Crowd, scared at mine owne Precipitation, readie to wish myselfe back, unable to resolve, to reflect, to pray . . .

Twelve at Night.

Alle is silent; even in the latelie busie Streets. Why art thou cast down, my Heart? why art thou disquieted within me? Hope thou stille in the Lord, for he is the Joy and Light of thy Countenance. Thou hast beene long of learning him to be such. Oh, forget not thy Lesson now! Thy best Friend hath sanctioned, nay, counselled this Step, and overcome alle Obstacles, and provided the Means of this Journey; and to-morrow at Noone, if Events prove not cross, I shall have Speech of him whom my Soul loveth. To-night, let me watch, fast, and pray.

Friday; at Night.

How awfulle it is to beholde a Man weepe! mine owne Tears, when I think thereon, well forthe . . .

Rose was a true Friend when she sayd, "Our prompt Affections are oft our wise Counsellors." Soe, she suggested and advised alle; wrung forthe my Father's Consent, and sett me on my Way, even putting Money in my Purse. Well for me, had she beene at my Journey's End as well as its Beginning.

'Stead of which, here was onlie mine Aunt; a slow, timid, uncertayn Soule, who proved but a broken Reed to lean upon.

Soe, alle I woulde have done arighte went crosse, the Letter never delivered, the Message delayed till he had left Home, soe that methought I shoulde goe crazie.

While the Boy, stammering in his lame Excuses, bore my chafed Reproaches the more humblie because he saw he had done me some grievous Hurt, though he knew not what, a Voice in the adjacent Chamber in Alternation with mine Uncle's, drove the Blood of a suddain from mine Heart, and then sent it back with impetuous Rush, for I knew the Accents right well.

Enters mine Aunt, alle flurried, and hushing her Voice. "Oh, Niece, he whom you wot of is here, but knoweth not you are at Hand, nor in London. Shall I tell him?"

But I gasped, and held her back by her Skirts; then, with a suddain secret Prayer, or Cry, or maybe, Wish, as 'twere, darted up unto Heaven for Assistance, I took noe Thought what I shoulde speak when confronted with him, but opening the Door between us, he then standing with his Back towards it, rushed forth and to his Feet—there sank, in a Gush of Tears; for not one Word coulde I proffer, nor soe much as look up.

A quick Hand was laid on my Head, on my Shoulder—as quicklie removed . . . and I was aware of the Door being hurriedlie opened and shut, and a Man hasting forthe; but 'twas onlie mine Uncle. Meantime, my Husband, who had at first uttered a suddain Cry or Exclamation, had now left me, sunk on the Ground as I was, and retired a Space, I know not whither, but methinks he walked hastilie to and fro. Thus I remained, agonized in Tears, unable to recal one Word of the humble Appeal I had pondered on my Journey, or to have spoken it, though I had known everie Syllable by Rote; yet not wishing myself, even in that Suspense, Shame, and Anguish, elsewhere than where I was cast, at mine Husband's Feet.

Or ever I was aware, he had come up, and caught me to his Breast: then, holding me back soe as to look me in the Face, sayd, in Accents I shall never forget,

"Much I coulde say to reproach, but will not! Henceforth, let us onlie recall this darke Passage of our deeplie sinfulle Lives, to quicken us to God's Mercy, in affording us this Re-union. Let it deepen our Penitence, enhance our Gratitude."

Then, suddainlie covering up his Face with his Hands, he gave two or three Sobs; and for some few Minutes coulde not refrayn himself; but, when at length he uncovered his Eyes and looked down on me with Goodness and Sweetnesse, 'twas like the Sun's cleare shining after Raine. . . .

Shall I now destroy the disgracefulle Records of this blotted Book? I think not; for 'twill quicken me perhaps, as my Husband sayth, to "deeper Penitence and stronger Gratitude," shoulde I henceforthe be in Danger of settling on the Lees, and forgetting the deepe Waters which had nearlie closed over mine Head. At present, I am soe joyfulle, soe light of Heart under the Sense of Forgivenesse, that it seemeth as though Sorrow coulde lay hold of me noe more; and yet we are still, as 'twere, disunited for awhile; for my Husband is agayn shifting House, and preparing to move his increased Establishment into Barbican, where he hath taken a goodly Mansion; and, until it is ready, I am to abide here. I might pleasantlie cavill at this; but, in Truth, will cavill at Nothing now.

I am, by this, full persuaded that Ralph's Tale concerning Miss Davies was a false Lie; though, at the Time, supposing it to have some Colour, it inflamed my Jealousie noe little. The cross Spight of that Youth led, under his Sister's Management, to an Issue his Malice never forecast; and now, though I might come at the Truth for Inquiry, I will not soe much as even soil my Mind with thinking of it agayn; for there is that Truth in mine Husband's Eyes, which woulde silence the Slanders of a hundred Liars. Chafed, irritated, he has beene, soe as to excite the sarcastic Constructions of those who wish him evill; but his Soul, and his Heart, and his Mind require a Flighte beyond Ralph's Witt to comprehende; and I know and feel that they are mine.

He hath just led in the two Phillips's to me, and left us together. Jack lookt at me askance, and held aloof; but deare little Ned threw his Arms about me and wept, and I did weep too; seeing the which, Jack advanced, gave me his Hand, and finally his Lips, then lookt at much as to say, "Now, Alle's right." They are grown, and are more comely than heretofore, which, in some Measure, is owing to theire Hair being noe longer cut strait and short after the Puritanicall Fashion I soe hate, but curled like their Uncle's.

I have writ, not the Particulars, but the Issue of my Journey, unto Rose, whose loving Heart, I know, yearns for Tidings. Alsoe, more brieflie unto my Mother, who loveth not Mr. Milton.

Barbican, September, 1646.

In the Night-season, we take noe Rest; we search out our Hearts, and commune with our Spiritts, and checque our Souls' Accounts, before we dare court our Sleep; but in the Day of Happinesse we cut shorte our Reckonings; and here am I, a joyfulle Wife, too proud and busie amid my dailie Cares to have Leisure for more than a brief Note in my Diarium, as Ned woulde call it. 'Tis a large House, with more Rooms than we can fill, even with the Phillips's and their Scholar-mates, olde Mr. Milton, and my Husband's Books to boot. I feel Pleasure in being housewifelie; and reape the Benefit of alle that I learnt of this Sorte at Sheepscote. Mine Husband's Eyes follow me with Delight; and once with a perplexed yet pleased Smile, he sayd to me, "Sweet Wife, thou art strangelie altered; it seems as though I have indeede lost 'sweet Moll' after alle!"

Yes, I am indeed changed; more than he knows or coulde believe. And he is changed too. With Payn I perceive a more stern, severe Tone occasionallie used by him; doubtlesse the Cloke assumed by his Griefe to hide the Ruin I had made within. Yet a more geniall Influence is fast melting this away. Agayn, I note with Payn that he complayns much of his Eyes. At first, I observed he rubbed them oft, and dared not mention it, believing that his Tears on Account of me, sinfulle Soule! had made them smart. Soe, perhaps, they did in the first Instance, for it appears they have beene ailing ever since the Year I left him; and Overstuddy, which my Presence mighte have prevented, hath conduced to the same ill Effect. Whenever he now looks at a lighted Candle, he sees a Sort of Iris alle about it; and, this Morning, he disturbed me by mentioning that a total Darknesse obscured everie Thing on the left Side of his Eye, and that he even feared, sometimes, he might eventuallie lose the Sight of both. "In which Case," he cheerfully sayd, "you, deare Wife, must become my Lecturer as well as Amanuensis, and content yourself to read to me a World of crabbed Books, in Tongues that are not nor neede ever be yours, seeing that a Woman has ever enough of her own!"

Then, more pensivelie, he added, "I discipline and tranquillize my Mind on this Subject, ever remembering, when the Apprehension afflicts me, that, as Man lives not by Bread alone, but by everie Word that proceeds out of the Mouth of God, so Man likewise lives not by Sight alone, but by Faith in the Giver of Sight. As long, therefore, as it shall please Him to prolong, however imperfectlie, this precious Gift, soe long will I lay up Store agaynst the Days of Darknesse, which may be many; and whensoever it shall please Him to withdrawe it from me altogether, I will cheerfully bid mine Eyes keep Holiday, and place my Hand trustfullie in His, to be led whithersoever He will, through the Remainder of Life."

A Honeymoon cannot for ever last; nor Sense of Danger, when it long hath past;—but one little Difference from out manie greater Differences between my late happie Fortnighte in St. Martin's-le-Grand, and my present dailie Course in Barbican, hath marked the Distinction between Lover and Husband. There it was "sweet Moll," "my Heart's Life of Life," "my dearest cleaving Mischief;" here 'tis onlie "Wife," "Mistress Milton," or at most "deare or sweet Wife." This, I know, is masterfulle and seemly.

Onlie, this Morning, chancing to quote one of his owne Lines,

These Things may startle well, but not astounde,—

he sayd, in a Kind of Wonder, "Why, Moll, whence had you that?—Methought you hated Versing, as you used to call it. When learnt you to love it?" I hung my Head in my old foolish Way, and answered, "Since I learnt to love the Verser." "Why, this is the best of Alle!" he hastilie cried, "Can my sweet Wife be indeede Heart of my Heart and Spirit of my Spirit? I lost, or drove away a Child, and have found a Woman." Thereafter, he less often wifed me, and I found I was agayn sweet Moll.

This Afternoon, Christopher Milton lookt in on us. After saluting me with the usuall Mixture of Malice and Civilitie in his Looks, he fell into easie Conversation; and presentlie says to his Brother quietlie enough, "I saw a curious Pennyworth at a Book-stall as I came along this Morning." "What was that?" says my Husband, brightening up. "It had a long Name," says Christopher,—"I think it was called Tetrachordon." My Husband cast at me a suddain, quick Look, but I did not soe much as change Colour; and quietlie continued my Sewing.

"I wonder," says he, after a Pause, "that you did not invest a small Portion of your Capitall in the Work, as you 'ay 'twas soe greate a Bargain. However, Mr. Kit, let me give you one small Hint with alle the goode Humour imaginable; don't take Advantage of our neare and deare Relation to make too frequent Opportunities of saying to me Anything that woulde certainlie procure for another Man a Thrashing!"

Then, after a short Silence betweene Alle, he suddainlie burst out laughing, and cried, "I know 'tis on the Stalk, I've seene it, Kit, myself! Oh, had you seene, as I did, the Blockheads poring over the Title, and hammering at it while you might have walked to Mile End and back!"

"That's Fame, I suppose," says Christopher drylie; and then goes off to talk of some new Exercise of the Press-licenser's Authoritie, which he seemed to approve, but it kindled my Husband in a Minute.

"What Folly! what Nonsense!" cried he, smiting the Table; "these Jacks in Office sometimes devise such senselesse Things that I really am ashamed of being of theire Party. Licence, indeed! their Licence! I suppose they will shortlie license the Lengthe of Moll's Curls, and regulate the Colour of her Hoode, and forbid the Larks to sing within Sounde of Bow Bell, and the Bees to hum o' Sundays. Methoughte I had broken Mabbot's Teeth two Years agone; but I must bring forthe a new Edition of my Areopagitica; and I'll put your Name down, Kit, for a hundred Copies!"

October, 1646.

Though a rusticall Life hath ever had my Suffrages, Nothing can be more pleasant than our regular Course. We rise at five or sooner: while my Husband combs his Hair, he commonly hums or sings some Psalm or Hymn, versing it, maybe, as he goes on. Being drest, Ned reads him a Chapter in the Hebrew Bible. With Ned stille at his Knee, and me by his Side, he expounds and improves the Same; then, after a shorte, heartie Prayer, releases us both. Before I have finished my Dressing, I hear him below at his Organ, with the two Lads, who sing as well as Choristers, hymning Anthems and Gregorian Chants, now soaring up to the Clouds, as 'twere, and then dying off as though some wide echoing Space lay betweene us. I usuallie find Time to tie on my Hoode and slip away to the Herb-market for a Bunch of fresh Radishes or Cresses, a Sprig of Parsley, or at the leaste a Posy, to lay on his Plate. A good wheaten Loaf, fresh Butter and Eggs, and a large Jug of Milk, compose our simple Breakfast; for he likes not, as my Father, to see Boys hacking a huge Piece of Beef, nor cares for heavie feeding, himself. Onlie, olde Mr. Milton sometimes takes a Rasher of toasted Bacon, but commonly, a Basin of Furmity, which I prepare more to his Minde than the Servants can.

After Breakfast, I well know the Boys' Lessons will last till Noone. I therefore goe to my Closett Duties after my Forest Hill Fashion; thence to Market, buy what I neede, come Home, look to my Maids, give forthe needfulle Stores, then to my Needle, my Books, or perchance to my Lute, which I woulde faine play better. From twelve to one is the Boys' Hour of Pastime; and it may generallie be sayd, my Husband's and mine too. He draws aside the green Curtain,—for we sit mostly in a large Chamber shaped like the Letter T, and thus divided while at our separate Duties: my End is the pleasantest, has the Sun most upon it, and hath a Balcony overlooking a Garden. At one, we dine; always on simple, plain Dishes, but drest with Neatnesse and Care. Olde Mr. Milton sits at my right Hand and says Grace; and, though growing a little deaf, enters into alle the livelie Discourse at Table. He loves me to help him to the tenderest, by Reason of his Losse of Teeth. My Husband careth not to sitt over the Wine; and hath noe sooner finished the Cheese and Pippins than he reverts to the Viol or Organ, and not onlie sings himself, but will make me sing too, though he sayth my Voice is better than my Ear. Never was there such a tunefulle Spiritt. He alwaies tears himself away at laste, as with a Kind of Violence, and returns to his Books at six o' the Clock. Meantime, his old Father dozes, and I sew at his Side.

From six to eight, we are seldom without Friends, chance Visitants, often scholarlike and witty, who tell us alle the News, and remain to partake a light Supper. The Boys enjoy this Season as much as I doe, though with Books before them, their Hands over their Ears, pretending to con the Morrow's Tasks. If the Guests chance to be musicalle, the Lute and Viol are broughte forthe, to alternate with Roundelay and Madrigal: the old Man beating Time with his feeble Fingers, and now and then joining with his quavering Voice. (By the way, he hath not forgotten, to this Hour, my imputed Crime of losing that Song by Harry Lawes: my Husband takes my Part, and sayth it will turn up some Day when leaste expected, like Justinian's Pandects.) Hubert brings him his Pipe and a Glass of Water, and then I crave his Blessing and goe to Bed; first, praying ferventlie for alle beneathe this deare Roof, and then for alle at Sheepscote and Forest Hill.

On Sabbaths, besides the publick Ordinances of Devotion, which I cannot, with alle my striving, bring myself to love like the Services to which I have beene accustomed, we have much Reading, Singing, and Discoursing among ourselves. The Maids sing, the Boys sing, Hubert sings, olde Mr. Milton sings; and trulie with soe much of it, I woulde sometimes as lief have them quiete. The Sheepscote Sundays suited me better. The Sabbath Exercise of the Boys is to read a Chapter in the Greek Testament, heare my Husband expounde the same; and write out a System of Divinitie as he dictates to them, walking to and fro. In listening thereto, I find my Pleasure and Profitt.

I have alsoe my owne little Catechising, after a humbler Sorte, in the Kitchen, and some poore Folk to relieve and console, with my Husband's Concurrence and Encouragement. Thus, the Sabbath is devoutlie and happilie passed.

My Husband alsoe takes, once in a Fortnighte or soe, what he blythelie calls "a gaudy Day," equallie to his owne Content, the Boys', and mine. On these Occasions, it is my Province to provide colde Fowls or Pigeon Pie, which Hubert carries, with what else we neede, to the Spot selected for our Camp Dinner. Sometimes we take Boat to Richmond or Greenwich. Two young Gallants, Mr. Alphrey and Mr. Miller, love to joyn our Partie, and toil at the Oar, or scramble up the Hills, as merrilie as the Boys. I must say they deal savagelie with the Pigeon Pie afterwards. They have as wild Spiritts as our Dick and Harry, but withal a most wonderfull Reverence for my Husband, whom they courte to read and recite, and provoke to pleasant Argument, never prolonged to Wearinesse, and seasoned with Frolic Jest and Witt. Olde Mr. Milton joyns not these Parties. I leave him alwaies to Dolly's Care, firste providing for him a Sweetbread or some smalle Relish, such as he loves. He is in Bed ere we return, which is oft by Moonlighte.

How soone must Smiles give Way to Tears! Here is a Letter from deare Mother, taking noe Note of what I write to her, and for good Reason, she is soe distraught at her owne and deare Father's ill Condition. The Rebels (I must call them such,) have soe stript and opprest them, they cannot make theire House tenantable; nor have Aught to feede on, had they e'en a whole Roof over theire Heads. The Neighbourhoode is too hot to holde them; olde Friends cowardlie and suspicious, olde and new Foes in League together. Leave Oxon they must; but where to goe? Father, despite his broken Health and Hatred of the Foreigner, must needes depart beyond Seas; at leaste within the six Months; but how, with an emptie Purse, make his Way in a strange Land, with a Wife and seven Children at his Heels? Soe ends Mother with a "Lord have Mercy upon us!" as though her House were as surelie doomed to destruction as if it helde the Plague.

Mine Eyes were yet swollen with Tears, when my Husband stept in. He askt, "What ails you, precious Wife?" I coulde but sigh, and give him the Letter. Having read the Same, he says, "But what, my dearest? Have we not ample Room here for them alle? I speak as to Generalls, you must care for Particulars, and stow them as you will. There are plenty of small Rooms for the Boys; but, if your Father, being infirm, needes a Ground-floor Chamber, you and I will mount aloft."

I coulde but look my Thankfullenesse and kiss his Hand. "Nay," he added, with increasing Gentlenesse, "think not I have seene your Cares for my owne Father without loving and blessing you. Let Mr. Powell come and see us happie; it may tend to make him soe. Let him and his abide with us, at the leaste, till the Spring; his Lads will studdy and play with mine, your Mother will help you in your Housewiferie, the two olde Men will chirp together beside the Christmasse Hearth; and, if I find thy Weeklie Bills the heavier 'twill be but to write another Book, and make a better Bargain for it than I did for the last. We will use Hospitalitie without grudging; and, as for your owne Increase of Cares, I suppose 'twill be but to order two Legs of Mutton insteade of one!"

And soe, with a Laugh, left me, most joyfulle, happy Wife! to drawe Sweete out of Sowre, Delighte out of Sorrowe; and to summon mine owne Kindred aboute me, and wipe away theire Tears, bid them eat, drink, and be merry, and shew myselfe to them, how proud, how cherished a Wife!

Surelie my Mother wille learne to love John Milton at last! If she doth not, this will be my secret Crosse, for 'tis hard to love dearlie two Persons who esteeme not one another. But she will, she must, not onlie respect him for his Uprightnesse and Magnanimitie, coupled with what himselfe calls "an honest Haughtinesse and Self-esteeme," but like him for his kind and equall Temper, (not "harsh and crabbed," as I have hearde her call it,) his easie Flow of Mirthe, his Manners, unaffectedlie cheerfulle; his Voice, musicall; his Person, beautifull; his Habitt, gracefull; his Hospitalitie, naturall to him; his Purse, Countenance, Time, Trouble, at his Friend's Service; his Devotion, humble; his Forgivenesse, heavenlie! May it please God, that my Mother shall like John Milton! . . .