_May 24th, 1643_.

Deare _Rose_ came this Morning. I flew forthe to welcome her, and as I drew near, she lookt upon me with such a Kind of Awe as that I could not forbeare laughing. Mr. _Milton_ having slept at _Sheepscote_, had made her privy to our Engagement; for indeede, he and Mr. _Agnew_ are such Friends, he will keep nothing from him. Thus _Rose_ heares it before my owne Mother, which shoulde not be. When we had entered my Chamber, she embraced me once and agayn, and seemed to think soe much of my uncommon Fortune, that I beganne to think more of it myselfe. To heare her talke of Mr. _Milton_ one would have supposed her more in Love with him than I. Like a Bookworm as she is, she fell to praysing his Composures. "Oh, the leaste I care for in him is his Versing,"

quoth I; and from that Moment a Spiritt of Mischief tooke Possession of me, to do a thousand heedlesse, ridiculous Things throughoute the Day, to shew _Rose_ how little I set by the Opinion of soe wise a Man. Once or twice Mr. _Milton_ lookt earnestlie and questioninglie at me, but I heeded him not.

. . . Discourse at Table graver and less pleasant, methoughte, than heretofore. Mr. _Busire_ having dropt in, was avised to ask Mr.

_Milton_ why, having had an university Education, he had not entered the Church. He replied, drylie enough, because he woulde not subscribe himselfe _Slave_ to anie Formularies of Men's making. I saw _Father_ bite his Lip; and _Roger Agnew_ mildly observed, he thought him wrong; for that it was not for an Individual to make Rules for another Individual, but yet that the generall Voice of the Wise and Good, removed from the pettie Prejudices of private Feeling, mighte p.r.o.nounce authoritativelie wherein an Individual was righte or wrong, and frame Laws to keepe him in the righte Path. Mr. _Milton_ replyed, that manie Fallibles could no more make up an Infallible than manie Finites could make an Infinite. Mr. _Agnew_ rejoyned, that ne'erthelesse, an Individual who opposed himselfe agaynst the generall Current of the Wise and Good, was, leaste of alle, likelie to be in the Right; and that the Limitations of human Intellect which made the Judgment of manie wise Men liable to Question, certainlie made the Judgment of _anie_ wise Man, self-dependent, more questionable still. Mr. _Milton_ shortlie replied that there were Particulars in the required Oaths which made him unable to take them without Perjurie. And soe, an End: but 'twas worth a World to see _Rose_ looking soe anxiouslie from the one Speaker to the other, desirous that eache should be victorious; and I was sorry that it lasted not a little longer.

As _Rose_ and I tooke our Way to the Summer-house, she put her Arm round me, saying, "How charming is divine Philosophie!" I coulde not helpe asking if she did not meane how charming was the Philosophie of one particular Divine? Soe then she discoursed with me of Things more seemlie for Women than Philosophie or Divinitie either. Onlie, when Mr. _Agnew_ and Mr. _Milton_ joyned us, she woulde aske them to repeat one Piece of Poetry after another, beginning with _Carew's_--

"He who loves a rosie Cheeke, Or a coral Lip admires,--"

And crying at the End of eache, "Is not that lovely? Is not that divine?" I franklie sayd I liked none of them soe much as some Mr.

_Agnew_ had recited, concluding with--

"Mortals that would, follow me, Love Virtue: she alone is free."

Whereon Mr. _Milton_ surprised me with a suddain Kiss, to the immoderate Mirthe of _Rose_, who sayd I coulde not have looked more discomposed had he pretended he was the Author of those Verses. I afterwards found he _was_; but I think she laught more than there was neede.

We have ever been considered a sufficientlie religious Familie: that is, we goe regularly to Church on Sabbaths and Prayer-dayes, and keepe alle the Fasts and Festivalles. But Mr. _Milton's_ Devotion hath attayned a Pitch I can neither imitate nor even comprehende. The spirituall World seemeth to him not onlie reall, but I may almoste say visible. For instance, he told _Rose_, it appears, that on _Tuesday_ Nighte, (that is the same Evening I had promised to be his,) as he went homewards to his Farm-lodging, he fancied the Angels whisperinge in his Eares, and singing over his Head, and that instead of going to his Bed like a reasonable Being, he lay down on the Gra.s.s, and gazed on the sweete, pale Moon till she sett, and then on the bright Starres till he seemed to see them moving in a slowe, solemn Dance, to the Words, "_How glorious is our G.o.d!_" And alle about him, he said, he _knew_, tho' he coulde not see them, were spirituall Beings repairing the Ravages of the Day on the Flowers, amonge the Trees, and Gra.s.se, and Hedges; and he believed 'twas onlie the Filme that originall Sin had spread over his Eyes, that prevented his seeing them. I am thankful for this same Filme,--I cannot abide Fairies, and Witches, and Ghosts--ugh! I shudder even to write of them; and were it onlie of the more harmlesse Sort, one woulde never have the Comforte of thinkinge to be alone. I feare Churchyardes and dark Corners of alle Kinds; more especiallie Spiritts; and there is onlie one I would even wish to see at my bravest, when deepe Love casteth out Feare; and that is of Sister _Anne_, whome I never a.s.sociate with the Worme and Winding-sheete. Oh no! I think _she_, at leaste, dwells amonge the Starres, having sprung straite up into Lighte and Blisse the Moment she put off Mortalitie; and if she, why not others? Are _Adam_ and _Abraham_ alle these Yeares in the unconscious Tomb? Theire Bodies, but surelie not their Spiritts? else, why dothe _Christ_ speak of _Lazarus_ lying in _Abraham's_ Bosom, while the Brothers of _Dives_ are yet riotouslie living? Yet what becomes of the Daye of generall Judgment, if some be thus pre-judged? I must aske Mr. _Milton,--_yes, I thinke I can finde it in my Heart to aske him about this in some solemn, stille Hour, and perhaps he will sett at Rest manie Doubts and Misgivings that at sundrie Times trouble me; being soe wise a Man.

_Bedtime_.

. . . 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 _G.o.d_ 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 _G.o.d_ 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_ pa.s.sionatelie, "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 _d.i.c.k_, 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_, compa.s.sionating 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 Pa.s.sion, 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.

_Sat.u.r.day_.

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.