Bunhill Fields, Feb. 17, 1665.

. . . Something geniall and soothing beyond ordinarie in the Warmth and fitfulle Lighte of the Fire, made us delaye, I know not how long, to trim the Evening Lamp, and sitt muzing in Idlenesse about the Hearth; Mary revolving her Thumbs and staring at the Embers; Anne quite in the Shadowe, with her Arms behind her Head agaynst the Wall; Father in his tall Arm-chair, quite uprighte, as his Fashion is when very thoughtfulle; I on the Cushion at his Feet, with mine Head on's Knee and mine Eyes on his Shadowe on the Wall, which, as it happened, shewed in colossal Proportions, while ours were like Pigmies. Alle at once he exclaims, "We all seem very comfortable—I think we shoulde reward ourselves with some Egg-flip!"

And then offered us Pence for our Thoughts. Anne would not tell hers; Mary owned she had beene trying to account for the Deficiencie of a Groat in her housekeeping Purse; and I contest to such a Medley, that Father sayd I deserved Anne's Penny in addition to mine own, for my Strength of Mind in submitting such a Farrago of Nonsense to the Ridicule of my Friends.

Soe then I bade for his Thoughts, and he sayd he had beene questioning the Cricket on the Hearth, upon the Extinction of the Fairies; and I askt, Did anie believe in 'em now? and he made Answer, Oh, yes, he had known a Serving-Wench in Oxon depone she had beene nipped and haled by 'em; and, of Crickets, he sayd he had manie Times seene an old Wife in Buckinghamshire, who was soe pestered by one, that she cried, "I can't heare myself talk! I'd as lief heare Nought as heare thee;" soe poured a Kettle of boiling Water into the Cranny wherein the harmlesse Creature lay, and scalded it to Death; and, the next Day, became as deaf as a Stone, and remained soe ever after, a Monument of God's Displeasure, at her destroying one of the most innocent of His Creatures.

After this, he woulde tell us of this and that worn-our [Transcriber's note: worn-out?] Superstition, as o' the Friar's Lantern, and of Lob-lie-by-the-Fire, untill Mary, who affects not the Unreall, went off to make the Flip. Anne presentlie exclaimed, "Father! when you sayd—

'The Shepherds on the Lawn,
Or e'er the Point of Dawn,
Sat simply chatting in a rustic Row,
Full little thought they then
That the mighty Pan
Was kindly come to live with them, below,'

whom meant you by Pan? Sure, you would not call our Lord by the Name of a heathen Deity?"

"Well, Child," returns Father, "you know He calls Himself a Shepherd, and was in truth what Pan was onlie supposed to be, the God of Shepherds; albeit Lavaterus, in his Treatise De Lemuribus, doth indeede tell us, that by Pan some understoode noe other than the great Sathanas, whose Kingdom being overturned at Christ's Coming, his inferior Demons expelled, and his Oracles silenced, he is some sort was himself overthrown. And the Story goes, that, about the Time of our Lord's Passion, certain Persons sailing from Italy to Cyprus, and passing by certayn Islands, did heare a Voice calling aloud, Thamus, Thamus, which was the Name of the Ship's Pilot, who, making Answer to the unseene Appellant, was bidden, when he came to Palodas, to tell that the great God Pan was dead; which he doubting to doe, yet for that when he came to Palodas, there suddainlie was such a Calm of Wind that the Ship stoode still in the Sea, he was constrayned to cry aloud that Pan was dead; whereupon there were hearde such piteous Shrieks and Cries of invisible Beings, echoing from haunted Spring and Dale, as ne'er smote human Ears before nor since: Nymphs and Wood-Gods, or they that had passed for such, breaking up House and retreating to their own Place. I warrant you, there was Trouble among the Sylvan People that Day—Satyrs hirsute and cloven-footed Fauns.

". . . Many a Time and oft have Charles Diodati and I discust fond Legends, such as this, over our Winter Hearth; with our Chestnuts blackening and crackling on the Hob, and our o'er-ripe Pears sputtering in the Fire, while the Wind raved without among the creaking Elms. . . ."

Father still hammering on old Times, and his owne young Days, I beganne to frame unto myself an Image of what he might then have beene; piecing it out by Help of his Picture on the Wall; but coulde get no cleare Apprehension of my Mother, she dying soe untimelie. Askt him, Was she beautifulle? He sayth, Oh yes, and clouded over o' the suddain; then went over her Height, Size, and Colour, etc.; dwelt on the Generalls of personal Beauty, how it shadowed forthe the Mind, was desirable or dangerous, etc.

On dispersing for the Night, he noted, somewhat hurt, Anne's abrupt
Departure without kissing his Hand, and sayd, "Is she sulky or unwell?"

In our Chamber, found her alreadie half undrest, a reading of her Bible; sayd, "Father tooke your briefe Good-nighte amisse." She made Answer shortlie, "Well, what neede to marvell; he cannot put his Arm about me without being reminded how mis-shapen I am."

Poor Nan! we had been speaking of faire Proportions, and had thoughtlessly cut her to the Quick; yet Father knoweth, though he cannot see, that her Face is that of an Angel.

About One o' the Clock, was rouzed (though Anne continued sleeping soundly) by hearing Father give his three Signal-taps agaynst the Wall. Half drest, and with bare Feet thrust into Slippers, I hastily ran in to him; he cried, "Deb, for the Love of Heaven get Pen and Paper to sett Something down." I replied, "Sure, Father, you gave me quite a Turn; I thought you were ill," and sett to my Task, marvellous ill-conditioned, expecting some Crotchet had taken him concerning his Will.

'Stead of which, out comes a Volley of Poetry he had lain a brewing till his Brain was like to burst; and soe I, in my thin Night Cotes, must needs jot it all down, for Feare it should ooze away before Morning. Sure, I thought he never woulde get to the End, and really feared at firste he was crazing a little, but indeede all Poets doe when the Vein is on 'em. At length, with a Sigh of Relief, he says, "That will doe—Good-night, little Maid." I coulde not help saying, "'Twas a lucky Thing for you, Father, that Step-mother was from Home;" he laught, drew me to him, kissed me, and sayd, "Why, your Face is quite cold—are your Feet unslippered?"

"Unstockinged," I replyed.

"I am quite concerned I knew it not sooner," he rejoyned, in an Accent of such Kindnesse, that all my Vexation melted away, and I e'en protested I did not mind it a Bit.

"Since it is soe," quoth he, "I shall the less mind having Recourse to you agayn; onlie I must insist on your taking Care to wrap yourself up more warmly, since you need not feare my being ill."

I bit my Lip, and onlie saying Good-night, stole off to my warm Bed.

Returning from Morning Prayers with Anne this Forenoon, I found Mary mending a Pen with the utmost Imperturbabilitie, and Father with a Heat-spot on his Cheek, which betraied some Inquietation. Being presentlie alone with him, "Mary is irretrievably heavy," sighs he, "she would let the finest Thought escape one while she is blowing her Nose or brushing up the Cinders. I am confident she has beene writing Nonsense even now—Do run through it for me, Deb, and lett me heare what it is."

I went on, enough to his Satisfaction, till coming to

"Bring to their Sweetness no Sobriety."

"Sobriety?" interrupted he, "Satiety, Satiety! the Blockhead!—and that I
should live to call a Woman soe.—Sobriety, indeede! poor Mary, her
Wits must have been wool-gathering. 'Bring to their Sweetness no
Sobriety!' What Meaning coulde she possibly affix to such Folly?"

"Sure, Father," sayd I, "here's Enough that she could affix no Meaning to, nor I neither, without your condescending to explayn it—Cycle, Epicycle, nocturnal Rhomb."

"Well, well," returned he, beginning to smile, "'twas unlikely she shoulde be with such Discourse delighted. Not capable, alas! poor Mary's Ear, of what is high. And yet, thy Mother, Child, woulde have stretched up towards Truths, though beyond her Reach, yet to the inquiring Mind offering rich Repast. And now write Satiety for Sobriety, if you love me."

While erasing the obnoxious Word, I cried, "Dear Father, pray answer me one Question—What is a Rhomb?"

"A Rhomb, Child?" repeated he, laughing, "why, a Parallelogram or quadrangular Figure, consisting of parallel Lines, with two acute and two obtuse Angles, and formed by two equal and righte Cones, joyned together at their Base! There, are you anie wiser now? No, little Maid, 'tis best for such as you

Not with perplexing Thoughts
To interrupt the Sweet of Life, from which
God hath bid dwell far off all anxious Cares,
And not molest us, unless we ourselves
Seek them, with wandering Thoughts and Notions vain.'"

April 19, 1665.

I heartilie wish our Stepmother were back, albeit we are soe comfortable without her! Mary, taking the Maids at unawares last Night, found a strange Man in the Kitchen. Words ensued; he slunk off like a Culprit, which lookt not well, while Betty Fisher, brazening it out, woulde have at firste that he was her Brother, then her Cousin, and ended by vowing to be revenged on Mary when she lookt not for it. I would have had Mary speak to Father, but she will not; perhaps soe best. Polly is in the Sulks to Daye, as well as Betty, saying, "As well live in a Nunnerie."

April 20, 1665.

When the Horse is stolen, shut the Stable Door. Mary locked the lower Doors, and brought up the Keys herselfe, yestereven at Duske. Anon dropped in Doctor Paget, Mr. Skinner, and Uncle Dick, soe that we had quite a merrie Party. Dr. Paget sayd how that another Case of the Plague had occurred in Long Acre; howbeit, this onlie makes three, soe that we trust it will not spread, though 'twoulde be unadvised to goe needlesslie into the infected Quarter. Uncle Dick would fayn take us Girls down to Oxon, but Father sayd he could not spare us while Mother was at Stoke; and that there was noe prevalent Distemper, this bracing Weather, in our Parish. Then felle a musing; and Uncle Dick, who loves a Jeste, outs with a large brown Apple from's Pocket, and holds it aneath Father's Nose. Sayth Father, rousing, "How far Phansy goes! thy Voice, Dick, carried me back to olde Dayes, and affected, I think, even my Nose; for I could protest I smelled a Sheepscote Apple." And, feeling himselfe touched by its cold Skin, laught merrilie, and ate it with a Relish; saying, noe Sorte ever seemed unto him soe goode—he had received manie a Hamper of 'em about Christmasse. After a Time, alle but he and I went up, and out on the Leads, to see the Comet; and we two sitting quite still, and Father, doubtlesse, supposed to be alone, I saw a great round-shouldered mannish Shadowe glide acrosse the Passage, and hearde the Front-door Latch click. Darted forthe, but too late, and then into the Kitchen; with some Warmth chid Betty for soe soone agayn disobeying Orders, and threatened to tell my Mamma. She cryed pertlie, "Law, Miss Deb, I wish to Goodnesse your Mamma was here to heare you, for I'd sooner have one Mistress than three. A Shadowe, indeed! I'm sure you saw no Substance—very like, 'twas a Spirit; or, liker still, onlie the Cat. Here, Puss, Puss!" . . . and soe into the Passage, as though to look for what she was sure not to find. I had noe Patience with her; but, returning to Father, askt him if he had not heard the Latch click? He sayd, No; and, indeede, I think, had been dozing; soe then sate still, and bethoughte me what 'twere best to doe. Three Brains are too little agaynst one that is resolved to cheat. 'Tis noe Goode complayning to a Man; he will not see, even though unafflicted like Father, who cannot. Men's Minds run on greater Things, and soe they are fretted at domestic Appeals, and generallie give Judgment the wrong Way. Thus we founde it before, poor motherlesse Girls, to our Cost; and I reallie believe it was more in Kindnesse for us than himself, that Father listened to the Doctor's Overtures in behalfe of Miss Minshull; for what Companion can soe illiterate a Woman be to him? But he believed her gentle, hearde that she was a good Housewife, and apprehended she would be kind to us. . . . Alas the Daye! What Tears we three shed in our Chamber that Night! and wished, too late, we had ne'er referred to him a Grievance, nor let him know we had a Burthen. Soone we founde King Log had been succeeded by King Stork; soone made common Cause, tryed our Strength and found it wanting, and soone submitted to our new Yoke, and tried to make the best of it.

Yes, that is the onlie Course; we alle feele it; onlie, as Ill-luck will have it, we do not always feel it simultaneouslie. Anne, mayhap, has one of her dogged humours; Mary and I see how much better 'twould be, did she overcome it, or shut herself up till in better Temper. Mary is crabbed and exacting; Anne and I cannot put her straight. Well for us when we succeed just soe far as to keep it from the Notice of Father. Thus we rub on; I wonder if we ever shall pull all together?

April 22, 1665.

Like unto a wise Master-builder, who ordereth the Disposition of eache Stone till the whole Building is fitly compacted together, so doth Father build up his noble Poem, which groweth under our Hands. Three Nights have I, without Complaynt, lost my Rest while writing at his Bedside; this hath made me yawnish in the Day-time, or, as Mother will have it, lazy. However, I bethink me of Damo, Daughter of Pythagoras.

Mother came Home yesterday, and Betty, the Picture of Neatnesse, tooke goode Heede to be the first to welcome her, with officious Smiles, and Prayses of her Looks. For my Part, I thoughte it fullsome, but knew her Motives better than Mother, who took it alle in goode Part. Indeede, noe one would give this Girl credit for soe false a Heart; she is pretty, modest looking, and for a while before my Father's Marriage was as great a Favourite with Mary as now with my Mother; flattered her the same, and tempted her to idle gossiping Confidences. She was slow to believe herself cheated; and when 'twas as cleare as Day, could not convince Father of it.

On Mary's mentioning this Morning (unadvisedlie, I think,) the Kitchen
Visitor, Mother made short Answer—

"Tilly-vally! bad Mistresses make bad Maids; there will be noe such Doings now, I warrant. . . . I am sure, my Dear," appealing to Father, "you think well in the main of Betty?"

"Yes," says he, smiling, "I think well of both my Betties."

"At any rate," persists Mary, "the Man coulde not be at once her Cousin and her Brother."

"Why no," replies Father, "therein she worsened her Story, by saying too much, as Dorothea did, when she pretended to have heard of the Knight of La Mancha's Fame, when she landed at Ossuna; which even a Madman as he was, knew to be noe Sea-port. It requires more Skill than the General possess, to lie with a Circumstance."

Had a Valentine this Morning, though onlie from_ Ned Phillips_, whom
Mother is angry with, for filling my Head betimes with such Nonsense.
Howbeit, I am close on sixteen.

Mary was out of Patience with Father yesterday, who, after keeping her a full Hour at Thucydides, sayd,

"Well, now we will refresh ourselves with a Canto of Ariosto," which was as much a sealed Book to her as t'other. Howbeit, this Morning he sayd,

"Child, I have noted your Wearinesse in reading the dead Languages to me; would that I needed not to be beholden unto any, whether bound to me by Blood and Affection or not, for the Food that is as needfulle to me as my daily Bread. Nevertheless, that I be not further wearisome unto thee, I have engaged a young Quaker, named Ellwood, to relieve thee of this Portion of thy Task, soe that thou mayst have the more Leisure to enjoy the glad Sunshine and fair Sights I never more shall see."

Mary turned red, and dropt a quiet Tear; but alas, he knew it not.

"One part of my Children's Burthen, indeed," he continued, "I cannot, for obvious Reasons, relieve them of—they must still be my Secretaries, for in them alone can I confide. Soe now to your healthfulle Exercises and fitting Recreations, dear Maids, and Heaven's Blessing goe with you!"

We kissed his Hand and went, but our Walk was not merry.

Ellwood is a young Man of seven-and-twenty, of good Parts, but pragmaticalle; Son of an Oxfordshire Justice of the Peace, but not on good Terms with him, by Reason of his religious Opinions, which the Father affects not.

April 23, 1665.

Spring is coming on apace. Father even sits between the wood Fire and the open Casement, enjoying the mild Air, but it is not considered healthfulle.

"My Dear," says Mother to him this Morning, after some Hours' Absence, "I have bought me a new Mantle of the most absolute Fancy. 'Tis sad-coloured, which I knew you would approve, but with a Garniture of Orange-tawny; three Plaits at the Waist behind, and a little stuck-up Collar."

"You are a comical Woman," says Father, "to spend soe much Money and Mind on a Thing your Husband will never see."

"Oh! but it cost no Money at alle," says she; "that is the best of it."

"What is the best of it?" rejoyned he. "I suppose you bartered for it, if you did not buy it—you Women are always for cheap Pennyworths. Come, what was the Ransom? One of my old Books, or my new Coat?"

"Your last new Coat may be called old too, I'm sure," says Mother; "I believe you married me in it."

"Nay," says Father, "and what if I did? 'Twas new then, at any rate; and the Cid Ruy Diaz was married in a black Satin Doublet, which his Father had worn in three or four Battles."

"A poor Compliment to the Bride," says Mother.

"Well, but, dear Betty, what has gone for this copper-coloured
Mantle?—Sylvester's 'Du Bartas?'" . . .

"Nothing of the sort,—nothing you value or will ever miss. An old Gold
Pocket-piece, that hath lain perdue, e'er soe long, in our Dressing-table
Drawer."

He smote the Table with his Hand. "Woman!" cried he, changing Colour, "'twas a Medal of Honour given to my Father by a Polish Prince! It should have been an Heir-loom. There, say noe more about it now. 'Tis in your Jew's Furnace ere this. 'The Fining-pot for Silver and the Furnace for Gold, but . . . the Lord trieth the Spirits.' Ay me! mine is tried sometimes."

Uncle Kit most opportunelie entering at this Moment, instantaneouslie changed his Key-note.

"Ha, Kit!" he cries, gladly, "here you find me, as usual, maundering among my Women. Welcome, welcome! How is it with you, and what's the News?"

"Why, the News is, that the Plague's coming on amain," says my Uncle; "they say it's been smouldering among us all the Winter, and now it's bursting out."

"Lord save us!" says Mother, turning pale.

"You may say that," says Uncle, "but you must alsoe try to save yourselves. For my Part, I see not what shoulde keep you in Town. Come down to us at Ipswich; my Brother and you shall have the haunted Chamber; and we can make plenty of Shakedowns for the Girls in the Atticks. Your Maids can look after Matters here. By the way, you have a Merlin's Head sett up in your Neighbourhood; I saw your black-eyed Maid come forthe of it as I passed."

Mother bit her lip; but Father broke forthe with, "What can we expect but that a judiciall Punishment shoulde befall a Land where the Corruption of the Court, more potent and subtile in its Infection than anie Pestilence, hath tainted every open Resorte and bye Corner of the Capital and Country? Our Sins cry aloud; our Pulpits, Counters, and Closetts alike witness against us. 'Tis, as with the People soe with the Priest, as with the Buyer soe with the Seller, as with the Maid soe with the Mistress. Plays, Interludes, Gaming-houses, Sabbath Debauches, Dancing-rooms, Merry-Andrews, Jack Puddings, Quacks, false Prophesyings—"

"Ah! we can excuse a little Bitternesse in the losing Party now," says Uncle; "but do you seriously mean to say you think us more deserving of judiciall Punishment under the glorious Restoration than during the unnatural Rebellion? Sure you have had Time to cool upon that."

"Certainly I mean to say so," answers Father. "During the unnatural Rebellion, as you please to call it, the Commonwealth, whose Duration was very short—"

"Very short, indeed," observes Uncle, coughing. "Only from Worcester
Fight, Fifty-one, to Noll's Dissolution of the Long Parliament,
Fifty-three; yet quite long enough to see what it was."

"I deny that, as well as your Dates," says Father. "We enjoyed a Commonwealth under the Protector, who, had he not assumed that high Office which gave him his Name, would have lacked Opportunity of showing that he was capable of filling the most exalted Station with Vigour and Ability. He secured a wise Peace, obtained the respectfull Concurrence of foreign Powers, filled our domestick Courts with upright Judges, and respected the Rights of Conscience."

"Why, suppose I admitted all this, which I am far from doing," says Uncle, "what was he but a King, except by just Title? What had become, meantime, of your Commonwealth?"

"Softly, Kit," returns Father. "The Commonwealth was progressing, meantime, like a little Rivulet that rises among the Hills, amid Weeds and Moss, and gradually works itself a widening Channel, filtering over Beds of Gravel, and obstructed here and there by Fragments of Rock, that sorely chafe and trouble it, at the very Time that, to the distant Observer, it looks most picturesque and beautiful."

"Well, I suppose I was never distant enough to see it in this picturesque
Point of View," says Uncle. "Legitimate Monarchy was, to my Mind, the
Rock over which the brawling River leaped awhile, and which, in the End,
successfully opposed it; and as to your Oliver, he was a cunning
Fellow, that diverted its Course to turn his own Mill."

"They that can see any Virtue or Comeliness in a Charles Stuart," says Father, "can hardly be expected to acknowledge the rugged Merits of a plain Republican."

"Plain was the very last Thing he was," says Uncle, "either in speaking or dealing. He was as cunning as a Fox, and as rough as a Bear."

"We can overlook the Roughness of a good Man," says Father; "and if a Temper subject to hasty Ebullitions is better than one which, by Blows and hard Usage, has been silenced into Sullenness, a Republic is better than an absolute Sovereignty."

"Aye; and if a Temper under the Control of Reason and Principle," rejoins
Uncle, "is better than one unaccustomed to restrain its hasty
Ebullitions, a limited Monarchy is better than a Republic."

"But ours is not limited enough," persists Father.

"Wait awhile," returns Uncle, "till, as you say, we have filtered over the Gravel a little longer, and then see how clear we shall run."

"I don't see much present Chance of it," says Father. "Such a King, and such a Court!"

"The King and Court will soon shift Quarters, I understand," says Uncle; "for Fear of this coming Sickness. 'Twould be a rare Thing, indeed, for the King to take the Plague!"

"Why not the King, as well as any of his Commons?" says Father. "Tush! I am tired of the Account People make of him. 'Is Philip dead?' 'No; but he is sick.' Pray, what is it to us, whether Philip is sick or not?"

"Which of the Phillipses, my Dear?" asks Mother. "Did you say Jack
Phillips was sick?"

"No, dear Betty; only a King of Macedon, who lived a long Time ago."

"Doctor Brice commends you much for your grounding the Phillipses so excellently in the Classicks," says Uncle.

"He should think whether his Praise is much worth having," says Father, rather haughtily. "The young Men were indebted to me for a competent Knowledge of the learned Tongues—no more."

"Nay, somewhat more," rejoined Uncle; "and the Praise of a worthy Man is surely always worth having."

"If he be our Superior in the Thing wherein he praises us," returned Father. "His Praise is then a Medal of Reward; but it should never be a current Coin, bandied from one to another. And the Inferior may never praise the Superior."

Uncle was silent a Moment, and then softly uttered, "My Soul, praise the
Lord."

"There you have me," says Father, instantly softening. "Laud we the Name of the Lord, but let's not laud one another."

"Ah! I can't wait to argue the Point," says Uncle. "I must back to the Temple."

"Stay a Moment, Kit. Have you seen 'the Mysterie of Jesuitism?'"

"No; have you seen the Proof that London, not Rome, is the City on seven Hills? Ludgate Hill, Fishstreet Hill, Dowgate Hill, Garlick Hill, Saffron Hill, Holborn Hill, and Tower Hill. Clear as Day!"

"Where's Snow Hill? Come, don't go yet. We will fight over some of our old Feuds. There will be a roast Pig on Table at one o'clock, and, I fancy, a Tansy-pudding."

"I can't fancy Tansy-pudding," says Uncle, shuddering; "I cannot abide Tansies, even in Lent. Besides, I'm expecting a Reference."

"Oh! very well; then drop in again in the Evening, if you will; and very likely you will meet Cyriack Skinner. And you shall have cold Pig for Supper, not forgetting the Current-sauce, Wiltshire Cheese, Carraways, and some of your own Wine."

"Well, that sounds good. I don't mind if I do," says Uncle; "but don't expect me after nine."

"I'm in Bed by nine," says Father.

"Oh, oh!" says Uncle; and with a comical Look at us, he went off.

Uncle Kit did not come last Night; I did not much expect he woulde; nor Mr. Skinner. Insteade, we had Dr. Paget, and one or two others, who talked dolefully alle the Evening of Signs of the Times, till they gave me the Horrors. One had seen a Ghost, or at least, seen a Crowd looking at a Ghost, or for a Ghost, in Bishopgate Churchyard, that comes out and points hither and thither at future Graves. Another had seene an Apparition, or Meteor, somewhat of human or angelic Shape in the Air. Father laught at the first, but did not so discredit in toto the other; observing that Theodore Beza believed at one Time in astrologick Signs; and thought that the Appearance of the notable Star in Cassiopeiea betokened the universal End. And as for Angels, he sayd they were, questionless, ministering Spiritts, not onlie sent forth to minister unto the Heirs of Salvation, but sometimes Instruments of God's Wrath, to execute Judgments upon ungodly Men, and convince them of the ill Deeds which they have ungodly committed; as during the Pestilence in David's Time, when the King saw the Destroying Angel standing between Heaven and Earth, having a drawn Sword in his Hand, stretched over Jerusalem. Such Delegates we might, without Fanaticism, suppose to be the generall, though unseen. Instruments of public Chastisements; and, for our particular Comfort, we had equall Reason to repose on the Assurance, that even amid the Pestilence that walked in Darkness, and the Destruction that wasted by Noon-day, the Angels had charge over each particular Believer, to keep them in all their Ways. Adding, that, though he forbore, with Calvin, to pronounce that each Man had his own Guardian Spiritt,—a Subject whereon Scripture was silent,—we had the Lord's own Word for it, that little Children were the particular Care of holy Angels.

And this, and othermuch to same Purport, had soe soothing and sedative an Effect, that we might have gone to Bed in peacefull Trust, onlie that Dr. Paget must needs bring up, after Supper, the correlative Theme of the great Florentine Plague, and the poisoned Wells, which sett Father off upon the Acts of Mercy of Cardinal _Borromeo,—_not him called St. Charlest but the Cardinal-Archbishop,—and soe, to the Pestilence at Geneva, when even the Bars and Locks of Doors were poisoned by a Gang of Wretches, who thought to pillage the Dwellings of the Dead; till we all went to Bed, moped to Death.

Howbeit, I had been warmly asleep some Hours, (more by Token I had read the ninety-first Psalm before getting into Bed), when Anne, clinging to me, woke me up with a shrill Cry. I whispered fearfullie, "What is't?—a Thief under the Bed?"

"No, no," she replies. "Listen!"

Soe I did for a While; and was just going to say, "You were dreaming," when a hollow Voice in the Street, beneath our Window, distinctlie proclaimed,

"Yet forty Days, and London shall be destroyed! I will overturn, overturn, overturn it! Oh! Woe, Woe, Woe!"

I sprang out of Bed, fell over my Shoes, got up again, and ran to the Window. There was Nothing to be seen but long, black Shadows in the Streets. The Moon was behind the House. After looking forthe awhile, with Teeth chattering, I was about to drop the Curtain, when, afar off, whether in or over some distant Quarter of the Town, I heard the same Voice, clearlie enow to recognise the Rhythm, though not the Words. I crept to Bed, chilled and awe-stricken; yet, after cowering awhile, and saying our Prayers, we both fell asleep.

The first Sounde this Morning was of Weeping and Wayling. Mother had beene scared by the Night-warning, and wearied Father to have us alle into the Countrie. He thought the Danger not yet imminent, the Expense considerable, and the Outcry that of some crazy Fanatick; ne'erthelesse, consented to employ Ellwood to look us out some country Lodgings; having noe Mind to live upon my Uncle at Ipswich.

Mary, strange to say, had heard noe Noise; nor had the Maids; but Servants always sleep heavily.

Some of the Pig having beene sett aside for my Uncle, and Mother fancying it for her Breakfast, was much putt out, on going into the Larder, to find it gone. Betty, of course, sayd it was the Cat. Mother made Answer, she never knew a Cat partiall to cold Pig; and the Door having been latched, was suspicious of a Puss in Boots.

Betty cries—"Plague take the Cat!"

Mother rejoyns—"If the Plague does take him, I shall certainly have him hanged."

"Then we shall be overrun with Rats," says Betty.

"I shall buy Ratsbane for them," says Mother; and soe into the Parlour, where Father, having hearde the whole Dialogue, had been greatlie amused.

At Twilight, she went to look at the Pantry Fastenings herselfe, but, suddenlie hearing a dolorous Voyce either within or immediately without, cry, "Oh! Woe, Woe!" she naturallie drew back. However, being a Woman of much Spiritt, she instantlie recovered herselfe, and went forward; but no one was in the Pantry. The Occurrence, therefore, made the more Impression; and she came up somewhat scared, and asked if we had heard it.

"My Dear," says Father, "you awoke me in the midst of a very interesting
Colloquy between Sir Thomas More and Erasmus. However, I think a Dog
barked, or rather howled, just now. Are you sure the words were not
'Bow, wow, wow?'"

Another Night-larum; but onlie from Father, who wanted me to write for him,—a Task he has much intromitted of late. Mother was hugelie annoyed at it, and sayd,—"My Dear, I am persuaded that if you would not persist in going to Bed soe earlie, you woulde not awake at these untimelie Hours."

"That is very well for you to say," returned he, "who can sew and spin the whole Evening through; but I, whose long entire Day is Night, grow soe tired of it by nine o'clock, that I am fit for Nothing but Bed."

"Well," says she, "I often find that brushing my Hair wakes me up when I am drowsy. I will brush yours To-morrow Evening, and see if we cannot keep you up a little later, and provide sounder Rest for you when you do turn in."

Soe, this Evening, she casts her Apron over his Shoulders, and commences combing his Hair, chatting of this and that, to keep him in good Humour.

"What beautiful Hair this is of yours, my Dear!" says she; "soe fine, long, and soft! scarcelie a Silver Thread in it. I warrant there's manie a young Gallant at Court would be proud of such."

"Girls, put your Scissars out of your Mother's Way," says Father; "she's a perfect Dalilah, and will whip off Half my Curls before I can count Three, unless you look after her. And I," he adds, with a Sigh, "am, in one Sort, a Samson."

"I'm sure Dalilah never treated Samson's old Coat with such Respect,"
says Mother, finishing her Task, resuming her Apron, and kissing him.
"Soe now, keep your Eyes open—I mean, keep awake, till I bring you a
Gossip's Bowl."

When she was gone, Father continued sitting bolt upright, his Eyes, as she sayd (his beautifull Eyes!), open and wakefull, and his Countenance composed, yet grave, as if his Thoughts were at least as far off as Tangrolipix the Turk. All at once, he says,

"Deb, are my Sleeves white at the Elbow?"

"No, Father."

"Or am I shiny about the Shoulders?"

"No, Father."

"Why, then," cries he, gaily, this Coat can't be very old, however long I may have worn it. I'll rub on in it still; and your Mother and you will have the more Money for copper-coloured Clokes. But don't, at any Time, let your Father get shabby, Children. I would never be threadbare nor unclean. Let my Habitt be neat and spotless, my Bands well washed and uncrumpled, as becometh a Gentleman. As for my Sword in the Corner, your Mother may send that after my Medal as soon as she will. The Cid parted with his Tizona in his Life-time; soe a peaceable Man, whose Eyes, like the Prophet Abijah's, are set, may well doe the same."

May 12, 1665.

Yesterday being the Lord's Day, Mother was hugely scared during Morning Service, by seeing an old Lady put her Kerchief to her Nose, look hither and thither, and, finally, walk out of Church. One whispered another, "A Plague-Smell, perchance." "No Doubt on't;" and soe, one after another left, as, at length, did Mother, who declared she beganne to feel herself ill. On the Cloth being drawn after Dinner, she made a serious Attack on my Father, upon the Subject of Country Lodgings, which he stoutly resisted at first, saying,

"If, Wife and Daughters, either the Danger were so immediate, or the Escape from it so facile as to justify these womanish Clamours, Reason would that I should listen to you. But, since that the Lord is about our Bed, and about our Path, in the Capital no less than in the Country, and knoweth them that are his, and hideth them under the Shadowe of his Wings—and since that, if the Fiat be indeed issued agaynst us, no Stronghold, though guarded with triple Walls of Circumvallation, like Ecbatana, nor pastoral Valley, that might inspire Theocritus with a new Idyl, can hide us, either by its Strength or its Obscurity, from the Arrow of the Destroying Angel; ye, therefore, seeing these Things cannot be spoken agaynst, ought to be quiet, and do Nothing rashly. Wherefore, I pray you, Wife and Daughters, get you to your Knees, before Him who alone can deliver you from these Terrors; and having cast your Burthen upon Him, eat your Bread in Peacefulness and Cheerfulness of Heart."

However, we really are preparing for Country Quarters, for young Ellwood hath this Morning brought us Note of a rustick Abode near his Friends, the Penningtons, at Chalfont, in Bucks, the Charges of which suit my Father's limited Means; and we hope to enter on it by the End of the Week. Ellwood's Head seems full of Guli Springett, the Daughter of Master Pennington's Wife by her first Husband. If Half he says of her be true, I shall like to see the young Lady. We part with one Maid, and take the other. Betty was very forward to be left in Charge; and protest herself willing to abide any Risk for the Sake of the Family; more by Token she thoughte there was no Risk at alle, having boughte a sovereign Charm of Mother Shipton. Howbeit, on inducing her, much agaynst her Will, to open it, Nought was founde within but a wretched little Print of a Ship, with the Words, scrawled beneath it, "By Virtue of the above Sign." Father called her a silly Baggage, and sayd, he was glad, at any Rate, there was no Profanity in it; but, in Spite of Betty, and Polly, and Mother too, he is resolved to leave the House under the sole Charge of Nurse Jellycott. Indeed, there Will probably be more rather than less Work to do at Chalfont; but Mother means to get a little Boy, such as will be glad to come for Threepence a-Week, to fetch the Milk, post the Letters, get Flour from the Mill and Barm from the Brewhouse, carry Pies to the Oven, clean Boots and Shoes, bring in Wood, sweep up the Garden, roll the Grass, turn the Spit, draw the Water, lift Boxes and heavy Weights, chase away Beggars and infectious Persons, and any little odd Matter of the Kind.

Mother has drowned the Cats, and poisoned the Rats. The latter have revenged 'emselves by dying behind the Wainscot, which makes the lower Part of the House soe unbearable, 'speciallie to Father, that we are impatient to be off. Mother, intending to turn Chalfont into a besieged Garrison, is laying in Stock of Sope, Candles, Cheese, Butter, Salt, Sugar, Raisins, Pease, and Bacon; besides Resin, Sulphur, and Benjamin, agaynst the Infection; and Pill Ruff, and Venice Treacle, in Case it comes.

As to Father, his Thoughts naturallie run more on Food for the Mind; soe he hath layd in goodlie Store of Pens, Paper, and Ink, and sett me to pack his Books. At first, he sayd he should onlie require a few, and good ones. These were all of the biggest; and three or four Folios broke out the Bottom of the Box. So then Mother sayd the onlie Way was to cord 'em up in Sacking; which greatlie relaxed the Bounds of his Self-denial, and ended in his having a Load packed that would break a Horse's Back. Alsoe, hath had his Organ taken to Pieces; but as it must goe in two severall Loads, and we cannot get a bigger Wagon,—everie Cart and Carriage, large or little, being on such hard Duty in these Times,—I'm to be left behind till the Wagon returns, and till I've finished cataloguing the Books; after which Ned Phillips hath promised to take me down on a Pillion.

Nurse Jellycott, being sent for from Wapping, looked in this Forenoon, for Father's Commands. Such Years have passed since we lost Sight of her, that I remembered not her Face in the least, but had an instant Recollection of her chearfulle, gentle Voyce. Spite of her Steeple Hat, and short scarlet Cloke, which gave her an antiquated Ayr, her cleare hazel Eyes and smooth-parted Silver Locks gave her an engaging Appearance. The World having gone ill with her, she thankfullie takes Charge of the Premises; and though her Eyes filled with Tears, 'twas with looking at Father. He, for his Part, spake most kindlie, and gave her his Hand, which she kissed.

They are all off. Never was House in such a Pickle! The Carpets rolled up, but the Boards beneath 'em unswept, and black with Dirt; as Nurse gladlie undertook everie Office of that Kind, and sayd 'twould help to amuse her when we were away. But she has tidied up the little Chamber over the House-door she means to occupy, and sett on the Mantell a Beau-pot of fresh Flowers she brought with her. The whole House smells of aromatick Herbs, we have burnt soe many of late for Fumigation; and, though we fear to open the Window, yet, being on the shady Side, we doe not feel the Heat much.

Yesterday, while in the Thick of packing, and Nobody being with Father but me, a Messenger arrived, with a few Lines, writ privily by a Friend of poor Ellwood, saying he was in Aylesbury Gaol, not for Debt, but for his Opinions, and praying Father to send him twenty or thirty Shillings for immediate Necessaries. Mother having gone to my Lord Mayor for Passports, and Father having long given up to her his Purse, . . . (for us Girls, we rarelie have a Crown,) he was in a Strait, and at length said,

"This poor young Fellow must not be denied. . . . A Friend in Need is a Friend indeed. . . . Tie on thy Hood, Child, and step out with the Volume thou hadst in thy Hand but now, to the Stall at the Corner. See Isaac himself; shew him Tasso's Autograph on the Fly-leaf, and ask him for thirty or forty Shillings on it till I come back; but bid him on no Pretence to part with it."

I did so, not much liking the Job—there are often such queer People there; for old Isaac deals not onlie in old Books, but old Silver Spoons. Howbeit, I took the Volume to his Shop, and as I went in, Betty came out! What had been her Businesse, I know not; but she lookt at me and my Book as though she should like to know mine; but, with her usual demure Curtsey, made Way for me, and walked off. I got the Money with much Waiting, but not much other Dimcultie, and took it to Father, who sent twenty Shillings to Ellwood, and gave me five for my Payns. Poor Ellwood! he hath good Leisure to muse now on Guli Springett.

Mother was soe worried by the Odour of the Rats, that they alle started off a Day sooner than was first intended, leaving me merelie a little extra Packing. Consequence was, that this Morning, before Dawn, being earlie at my Task, there taps me at the Window an old Harridan that Mother can't abide, who is always a crying, "Anie Kitchen-stuff have you, Maids?"

Quoth I, "We've Nothing for you."

"Sure, my deary," answers she, in a cajoling voyce, "there's the Dripping and Candles you promised me this Morning, along with the Pot-liquor."

"Dear Heart, Mrs. Deb!" says Nurse, laughing, "there is, indeed, a Lot of Kitchen-stuff hid up near the Sink, which I dare say your Maid told her she was to have; and as it will only make the House smell worse, I don't see why she should not have it, and pay for it too."

Soe I laught, and gave it her forthe, and she put into my Hand two
Shillings; but then says, "Why, where's the Cheese?"

"We've no Cheese for you," sayd I.

"Well," says she, "it's a dear Bargayn; but . . ." peering towards me, "is t'other Mayd gone, then?"

"Oh, yes! both of 'em," says I; "and I'm the Mistress," soe burst out a laughing, and shut the Window, while she stumped off, with Something between a Grunt and a Grone. Of course, I gave the Money to Nurse.

We had much Talk overnight of my poor dear Mother. Nurse came to her
when Anne was born, and remained in the Family till after the Death of
Father's second Wife. She was a fayr and delicate Gentlewoman, by
Nurse's Account, soft in Speech, fond of Father, and kind to us and the
Servants; but all Nurse's Suffrages were in Favour of mine own loved
Mother.

I askt Nurse how there came to have beene a Separation betweene Father and Mother, soone after their Marriage. She made Answer, she never could understand the Rights of it, having beene before her Time; but they were both so good, and tenderly affectioned, she never could believe there had beene anie reall Wrong on either Side. She always thought my Grandmother must have promoted the Misunderstanding. Men were seldom fond of their Mothers-in-law. He was very kind to the whole Family the Winter before Anne was born, when, but for him, they would not have had a Roof over their Heads. Old Mr. Powell died in this House, the very Day before Christmas, which cast a Gloom over alle, insomuch that my Mother would never after keep Christmas Eve; and, as none of the Puritans did, they were alle of a Mind. My other Grandfather dropt off a few Months after; he was very fond of Mother. At this time Grandmother was going to Law for her Widow's Thirds, which was little worth the striving for, except to One soe extreme poor. Yet, spite of Gratitude and Interest, she must quarrel with Father, and remove herself from his House; which even her own Daughter thought very wrong. Howbeit, Mother would have her first Child baptized after her; and sent her alle the little Helps she could from her owne Purse, from Time to Time, with Father's Privity and Concurrence. He woulde have his next Girl called Mary, after Mother; though the Name she went by with him was "Sweet Moll;"—'tis now always "Poor Moll," or "Your Mother." Her health fayled about that Time, and they summered at Forest Hill—a Place she was always hankering after; but when she came back she told Nurse she never wished to see it agayn, 'twas soe altered. Father's Sight was, meantime, getting worse and worse. She read to him, and wrote for him often. He had become Cromwell's Secretary, and had received the public Thanks of the Commonwealth. . . . Great as his Reputation was at Home, 'twas greater Abroad; and Foreigners came to see him, as they still occasionally doe, from all Parts. My Mother not onlie loved him, but was proud of him. All her Pleasures were in Home. From my Birth to that of the little Boy who died, her Health and Spiritts were good; after that they failed; but she always tried to be chearfull with Father. She read her Bible much, and was good to the Poor. Nurse says 'twas almost miraculous how much Good she did at how little Cost, except of Forethought and Trouble; and all soe secretlie. She began to have an Impression she was for an early Grave, but did not seem to lament it. One Night, Nurse being beside her, awoke her from what she supposed an uneasie Dream, as she was crying in her Sleep; but as soone as she oped her Eyes, she looked surprised, and said it was a Vision of Peace. She thought the Redeemer of alle Men had been talking with her. Face to Face, as a Man talketh with his Friend, and that she had fallen at his Feet in grateful Joy, and was saying, "Oh! I can't express . . . I can't express—"

About a Week after, she dyed, without any particular Warning, except a short Prick or two at the Heart. My Father was by. 'Twas much talked of at the Time, she being soe young.

Discoursing of this and that, 'twas Midnight ere we went to Bed.

Chalfont.

ARRIVED at last; after what a Journey! Ned had sent me Word Overnight to expect, this Forenoon, a smart young Cavalier, on a fine prancing Steed, with rich Accoutrements. Howbeit, Cousin is neither smart nor handsome; and, at the Time specifyde, there was brought up to the Door an old white Horse, blind of one Eye, with an aquiline Nose, and, I should think, eight Feet high. The Bridle was diverse from the Pillion, which was finely embroidered, but tarnish, with the Stuffing oozing out in severall Places. Howbeit, 'twas the onlie Equipage to be hired in the Ward, for Love or Money . . . so Ned sayd. . . . And he had a huge Pair of gauntlett Gloves, a Whip, that was the smartest Thing about him, and a kind of Vizard over his Nose and Mouth, which, he sayd, was to prevent his being too alluring; but I know 'twas to ward off Infection. I had meant to be brave; and Nurse and I had brushed up the green camblet Skirt, but the rent Mother had made in it would show; however, Nurse thought that, when I was up she could conceal it with a Corking-pin. Thus appointed, Ned led the Way, saying, the onlie Occasion on which a Gentleman needed not to excuse himself to a Lady for going first, was when they were to ride a Pillion. Noe more jesting when once a-Horseback; for, after pacing through a few deserted Streets, we found ourselves amidst such a Medly of Carts, Coaches, and Wagons, full of People and Goods, all pouring out of Town, that Ned had enough to do to keep cleare of 'em, and of the Horsemen and empty Vehicles coming back for fresh Loads. Dear Heart! what jostling, cursing, and swearing! And how awfull the Cause! Houses padlocked and shuttered wherever we passed, and some with red Crosses on the Doors. At the first Turnpike 'twas worst of all—a complete Stoppage; Men squabbling, Women crying, and much good Daylight wasted. Howbeit, Ned desired me to keep my Mouth shut, my Eyes open, and to trust to his good Care; and, by Dint of some shrewd Pilotage, weathered the Strait; after which, our old Horse, whose Paces, to do him Justice, proved very easie, took longer Steps than anie other on the Road, by which Means we soon got quit of the Throng; onlie, we continuallie gained on fresh Parties,—some dreadfully overloaded, some knocked up alreadie, some baiting at the Roadside, and many of the poorer Sort erecting 'emselves rude Tents and Cabins under the Hedges. Soon I began to rejoyce in the green Fields, and sayd how sweet was the Air; and Ned sayd, "Ah!—a Brick-kiln," and signed at one with his Whip. But I knew the Wind came t'other Way; and e'en Bricks are better than dead Rats.

Half-way to Amersham found Hob Carter's Wagon, with Father's Organ in't, sticking in the Hedge, without Man or Horse; and, by-and-by, came upon Hob himself, with a Party, carousing. Ned gave it him well, and sent him back at double-quick Time. 'Twas too bad. He had left Town overnight, and promised to be at Chalfont by Noon. I should have beene fain to keep him in Advance of us; howbeit, we were forct to leave him in the Rear; and, about two Miles beyond Amersham, we turned off the high Road into a country Lane, which soon brought us to a small retired Hamlet, shaded with Trees, and surrounded with pleasant Meadows and Orchards, which was no other than Chalfont. There was Mother near the Gate, putting some fine Things to bleach on a Sweetbriar-hedge. Ned stopt to chat with her, and learn where he might put his Horse, while I went to seek Father; and soon found him, sitting up in a strait Chair, outside the Garden-door. Sayd, kissing him, "Dear Father, how is't with you? Are you comfortable here?"

"Anything but that," replies he, very shortlie. "I am not in any Way at my Ease in this Place. I can get no definite Notion of what 'tis like, and what Notion I have is unfavourable. To finish all, they have stuck me up here, like a Bottle in the Smoke."

"But here is a Cushion for you," quoth I, running in and back agayn; "and I will set your Seat in the Sun, and out of the Wind, and put your Staff within Reach."

"Thanks, dear Deb. And now, look about, Child, and tell me, with
Precision, what the Place is like."

Soe I told him 'twas an irregular two-storied Tenement, parcel Wood, parcel Brick, with a deep Roof of old Tiles that had lost their Colour, and were curiouslie variegated with green and yellow Moss; and that the Eaves were dentilled, with Birds' Nests built in 'em, and a big Honeysuckle growing to the upper Floor; and there was a great and a little Gable, and a heavy Chimney-stack; a Casement of four Compartments next the Door, and another of two over it; four Lattice-windows at t'other End. In Front, a steep Meadow, enamelled with King-cups and Blue-bells; alongside the Gable-end, a Village Road, with deep Cart-ruts, and Hawthorn Hedges. Onlie one small Dwelling at hand, little better than a crazy Haystack; Sheep in the Field, Bees in the Honeysuckle; and a little rippling Rivulet flowing on continually.

"Why, now you have sett me quite at Ease!" cries he, turning his bright Eyes thankfully towards the Sky. "I begin to like the Place, and to bless the warm Sun and pure Air. Ha! so there is a rippling Rivulet, that floweth on continually! . . . Lord, forgive me for my peevish Petulance . . . for forgetting that I could still hear the Lark sing her Morning Hymn, scent the Meadow-sweet and new-mown Hay, detect the Bee at his Industry, and the Woodpecker at his Mischief, discern the Breath of Cows, and hear the Lambs bleat, and the Rivulet ripple continually! Come! let us go and seek Ned."

And, throwing his Arm about me, draws me to him, saying, "This is my best
Walking-stick," and steps forward briskly and fearlessly.

Truly, I think Ned loves him as though he were his own Father; and, indeed, he hath scarce known any other. Kissing his Hand reverently, he says,—"Honoured Nunks, how fares it with you? Do you like Chalfont?"

"Indeed I do, Ned," responds Father heartily. "'Tis a little Zoar, whither I and my fugitive Family have escaped from the wicked City; and, I thank God, my Wife has no Mind to look back."

"We may as well go in now," says Mother.

"No, no," says Father; "I feel there is an Hour of Summer's Sunset still left. We will abide where we are, and keep as long as we can out of the Smell of your Soapsuds. . . . Let's sit upon the Ground."

"And tell strange Stories of the Deaths of Kings," says Ned, laughing,

"That was the Saying, Ned, of one who writ much well, and much amiss."

"Let's forgive what he writ amiss, for the Sake of what he writ well," says Ned.

"That will I never," says Father. "If paltry Wits cannot be holy and
witty at the same Time, that does not hold good with nobler
Spiritts. . . . If it did, they had best never be witty at all. Thy
Brother Jack hath yet to learn that Strength is not Coarseness."

Ned softly hummed—

"Sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's Child!"

"Ah! you may quote me against myself," says Father; "you may quote Beza against Beza, and Erasmus against Erasmus; but that will not shake the eternal Laws of Purity and Truth. But, mind you, Ned, never did anie reach a more lofty or tragic Height than this Child of Fancy; never did any represent Nature more purely to the Life; and e'en where the Polishments of Art are most wanting in him, he pleaseth with a certain wild and native Elegance."

"And what have you now in Hand, Uncle?" Ned asks.

"Firmianus Chlorus," says Father. "But I don't find Much in him."

"I mean, what of your own?"

"Oh!" laughing; "Things in Heaven, Ned, and Things on Earth, and Things under the Earth. The old Story, whereof you have alreadie seen many Parcels; but, you know, my Vein ne'er flows so happily as from the autumnal to the vernal Equinox. Howbeit, there is Something in the Quality of this Air would arouse the old Man of Chios himself."

"Sure," cries Ned, "you have less Need than any blind Man to complayn, since you have but closed your Eyes on Earth to look on Heaven!"

Father paused; then, stedfastly, in Words I've since sett down, sayd:—

"When I consider how my Light is spent,
Ere half my Days, in this dark World and wide,
And that one Talent, which is Death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true Account, lest He, returning, chide;
'Doth God exact Day-labour, Light denied?'
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That Murmur, soon replies,—'God doth not need.
Either Man's Work, or his own Gifts. Who best
Bear his mild Yoke, they serve him best. His State
Is kingly; Thousands at his Bidding speed,
And post o'er Land and Ocean without Rest,
They also serve who only stand and wait.'"

. . . We were all quiet enough for a while after this . . . Ned onlie breathing hard, and squeezing Father's Hand. At length, Mother calls from the House, "Who will come in to Strawberries and Cream?"

"Ah!" says Father, "that is not an ill Call. And when we have discussed our neat Repast, thou, Ned, shalt touch the Theorbo, and let us hear thy balmy Voice. Time was, when thou didst sing like a young Chorister."

. . . Just as we were returning to the House, Mary ran forth, crying, "Oh, Deb! you have not seen our Cow. She has just been milked, and is being turned out, even now, to the Pasture. See, there she is; but all the Others have gone out of Sight, over the Hill."

Mother observed, "Left to herself, she will go, her own Calf speedily seeking."

"My Dear," says Father, "that's a Hexameter: do try to make another."

"Indeed, Mr. Milton, I know nothing of Hexameters or Hexagons either: 'tis enough for me to keep all straight and tight. Let's to Supper."

Anne had crushed his Strawberries, and mixed them with Cream, and now she put his Spoon into his Hand, saying, in jest, "Father, this is Angels' Food, you know. I Have pressed the Meath from many a Berry, and tempered dulcet Creams."

"Hush, you Rogue," says he; "Ned will find us out."

"Is Uncle still at his great Work?" whispers Cousin to Mother.

"Indeed, I know not if you call it such," she replies, in the same Undertone. "He hath given over all those grand Things with hard Names, that used to make him so notable abroad, and so esteemed by his own Party at Home; and now only amuses himself by making the Bible a Peg to hang his Idlenesse upon."

Sure what a Look Ned gave her! Fearful lest Father should overhear (for Blindness quickens the other Senses), he runs up to the Bookshelf, and cries, "Why, Uncle, you have brought down Plenty of Entertainment with you! Here are Plato, Xenophon, and Sallust, Homer and Euripides, Dante and Petrarch, Chaucer and Spenser, . . . and . . . oh, oh! you read Plays sometimes, though you were so hard upon Shakspeare. . . . Here's 'La Scena Tragica d' Adamo ed Eva,' dedicated to the Duchess of Mantua."

"Come away from that Corner, Ned," says Father; "there's a Rat behind the Books; he will bite your Fingers—I hear him scratching now. You had best attack your Strawberries."

"I think this Sort will preserve well," says Mother. "Betty, in 'lighting from the Coach, must needs sett her Foot on the only Pot of Preserve I had left; which she had stuffed under the Seat, instead of carrying it, as she was bidden, in her Hand."

"How fine it is, though," says Father, laughing, "to peacock it in a
Coach now and then! Pavoneggiarsi in un Cocchio! Only, except for the
Bravery of it, I doubt if little Deb were not better off on her
Pillion. I remember, on my Road to Paris, the Bottom of the Caroche
fell out; and there sate I, with Hubert, who was my Attendant, with our
Feet dangling through. Even the grave Grotius laughed at the Accident."

"Was Grotius grave?" says Ned.

"Believe me, he was," says Father. "He had had Enough to make him so. One feels taller in the Consciousness of having known such a Man. He was great in practical! Things; he was also a profound Scholar, though he made out the fourth Kingdom in Daniel's Prophecy to be the Kingdoms of the Lagidae and the Seleucidae; which, you know, Ned, could not possibly be."

Chatting thus of this and that, we idled over Supper, had some Musick, and went to Bed. And soe much for the only Guest we are like to have for some Months.

Anne told me, at Bed-time, of the Journey down. The Coach, she sayd, was most uncomfortable, Mother having so over-stuffed it. For her Share, she had a Knife-box under her Feet, a Plate-basket at her Back, a Bird-cage bobbing over her Head, and a Lapfull of Crockery-ware. Providentially, Betty turned squeamish, and could not ride inside, soe she was put upon the Box, to the great Comfort of all within. Father, at the Outset, was chafed and captious, but soon settled down, improved the Circumstances of the Times, made Jokes on Mother, recalled old Journies to Buckinghamshire, and, finally, set himself to silent Self-communion, with a pensive Smile on his Face, which, as Anne said, let her know well enow what he was about. Arrived at Chalfont, her first Care was to make him comfortable; while Mother, Mary, and Betty were turning the House upside down; and in this her Care, she so well succeeded, that, to her Dismay, he bade her take Pen and Ink, and commenced dictating to her as composedly as if they were in Bunhill Fields. This was somewhat inopportune, for every Thing was to seek and to set in Order; and, indeed, Mother soon came in, all of a Heat, and sayd, "I wonder, my Dear, you can keep Nan here, at such idling, when she has her Bed to make, and her Box to unpack." Father let her go without a Word, and sate in peacefull Cogitation all the Rest of the Evening—the only Person at Leisure in the House. Howbeit, the next Time he heard Mother chiding—which was after Supper—at Anne, for trying to catch a Bat, which was a Creature she longed to look at narrowly, he sayd, "My Dear, we should be very cautious how we cut off another Person's Pleasures. 'Tis an easy Thing to say to them, 'You are wrong or foolish,' and soe check them in their Pursuit; but what have we to give them that will compensate for it? How many harmless Refreshments and Refuges from sick or tired Thought may thus be destroyed! We may deprive the Spider of his Web, and the Robin of his Nest, but can never repair the Damage to them. Let us live, and let live; leave me to hunt my Butterfly, and Anne to catch her Bat."

Our Life here is most pleasant. Father and I pass almost the whole of our Time in the open Air—he dictating, and I writing; while Mother and Mary find 'emselves I know not whether more of Toyl or Pastime, within Doors,—washing, brewing, baking, pickling, and preserving; to say Nought of the Dairy, which supplies us with endless Variety of Country Messes, such as Father's Soul loveth. 'Tis well we have this Resource, or our Bill of Fare would be somewhat meagre; for the Butcher kills nothing but Mutton, except at Christ-mass. Then, we make our own Bread, for we now keep strict Quarantine, the Plague having now so much spread, that there have e'en been one or two Cases in Chalfont. The only One to seek for Employment has been poor Anne, whose great Resources at Home have ever been Church-going and visiting poor Folk. She can do neither here, for we keep close, even on the Sabbath; and she can neither read to Father, take long, lonely Rambles, nor help Mother in her Housewifery. Howbeit, a Resource hath at length turned up; for the lonely Cot (which is the only Dwelling within Sight) has become the Refuge of a poor, pious Widow, whose only Daughter, a Weaver of Gold and Silver Lace, has been thrown out of Employ by the present Stagnation of all Business. Anne picked up an Acquaintance with 'em shortly after our coming; and, being by Nature a Hoarder, in an innocent Way, so as always to have a few Shillings by her for charitable Uses, when Mary and I have none, she hath improved her Commerce with Joan Elliott to that Degree, as to get her to teach her her pretty Business, at the Price of the Contents of her little Purse. So these two sit harmoniously at their Loom, within Earshot of Father and me, while he dictates to me his wondrous Poem. We are nearing the End of it now, and have reached the Reconciliation of Adam and Eve, which, I think, affected him a good deal, and abstracted his Mind all the Evening; for why, else, should he have so forgotten himself as to call me sweet Moll? . . . Mary lookt up, thinking he meant her; but he never calls her Moll or Molly; and, I believe, was quite unaware he had done so to me: but it showed the Course his Mind was taking.

This Morning, I was straying down a Blackthorn Lane, when a blue-eyed, fresh-coloured young Lady, in a sad-coloured Skirt, and large-flapped Beaver, without either Feather or Buckle, swept by me on a small white Palfrey. She held a Bunch of Tiger Lilies in her Hand, the gayety of which contrasted strangelie enow with her sober Apparell; and I wondered why a peculiar Classe of Folks should deem they please God by wearing the dullest of Colours, when He hath arrayed the Flowers of the Field in the liveliest of Hues. Somehow, I conceited her to be Mistress Gulielma Springett—and so, indeed, she proved; for, on reaching Home after a lengthened Ramble, I saw the Tiger Lilies lying on the Table, and found she had spent a full Hour with Father, who much relished her Talk. Sure, she might have brought a blind Man Flowers that had some Fragrance, however dull of hue.

To-day, as we were sitting under the Hedge, we heard a rough Voice shouting, "Hoy! hoy! what are you about there?" To which another Man's Voice, just over against us, deprecatingly replied, "No Harm, I promise you, Master. . . . We have clean Bills of Health; and my Wife and I, Foot-sore and hungry, do but Purpose to set up our little Cabin against the Bank, till the Sabbath is overpast."

"But you must set it up Somewhere else," cries the other, who was the Chalfont Constable; "for we Chalfont Folks are very particular, and can't have Strangers come harbouring here in our Highways and Hedges,—dying, and making themselves disagreeable."

"But we don't mean to die or be disagreeable," says the other. "We are on our Way to my Wife's Parish; and, sure, you cannot stop us on the King's Highway."

"Oh! but we can, though," says the Constable. "And, besides, this is not
the King's Highway, but only a Bye-way, which is next to private
Property; and the Gentleman at present in Occupation of that private
Property will be highly and justly offended if you go to give him the
Plague."

"That's me," says Father. "Do tell him, Deb, not to be so hard on the poor People, but to let them abide where they are till the Sabbath is over. I dare say they have clean Bills of Health, as they state, and the Spot is so lonely, they need not be denied Fire and Water, which is next to Excommunication."

So I parleyed with John Constable, and he parleyed with the Travellers, who really had Passports, and seemed Honest as well as Sound. So they were permitted, without Let or Hindrance, to erect their little Booth; and in a little while they had collected Sticks enough to light a Fire, the Smoke of which annoyed us not, because we were to Windward.

"What have we for Dinner To-day?" says Father.

"A cold Shoulder of Mutton," says Mother, who had thrown 'em a couple of
Cabbages.

"Well," says Father, "'twas to a cold Shoulder of Mutton that Samuel set down Saul; and what was good enough for a Prophet may well content a Poet. I propose, that what we leave of ours To-day, should be given to these poor People for their Sabbath's Dinner; and I, for one, shall eat no Meat To-day."

In fact, none did but Mary and Mother, who find fasting not good for their Stomachs; soe Anne, who is the most fearlesse of us all, handed the Joint over to them, with some broken Bread and Dripping, which was most thankfully received. In Truth, I believe them harmless People, for they are now a singing Psalms.

Ellwood has turned up agayn, to the great Pleasure of Father, who delights in his Company, and likes his Reading better than ours, though he will call Pater Payter. Consequence is, I have infinitely more Leisure, and can ramble hither and thither, (always shunning Wayfarers), and bring Home my Lap full of Flowers and Weeds, with rusticall Names, such as Ragged Robin, Sneezewort, Cream-and-Codlins, Jack-in-the-Hedge, or Sauce-alone. Many of these I knew not before; but I describe them to Father, and he tells me what they are. He hath finished his Poem, and given it Ellwood to read, in the most careless Fashion imaginable, saying, "You can take this Home, and run through it at your Leisure. I should like to hear your Judgment on it some Time or other." Nor do I believe he has ever since given himself an uneasy Thought of what that Judgment may be, nor what the World at large may think of it. His Pleasure is not in Praise but Production; the last makes him now and then a little feverish; the other, or its want, never. Just at last, 'twas hard Work to us both; he was like a Wheel running downhill, that must get to the End before it stopped. Mother scolded him, and made him promise he would leave off for a Week or so; at least, she says he did, and he says he did not, and asks her whether, if the Grass had promised not to grow she would believe it.

Poor Ellwood's Love-bonds prove rather more irksome to him than those of his Gaol; he hath renewed his Intercourse with our Friends at the Grange, only to find a dangerous Rival stept into his Place, in the Person of one William Penn—in fact, I suspect Mistress Guli is engaged to him already. Ellwood hath been closetted with my Father this Morning, pouring out his Woes—methinks he must have been to seek for a Confidant! When he came forth, the poor young Man's Eyes were red. I cannot but pity him, tho' he is such a Formalist.

I wish Anne were a little more demonstrative; Father would then be as assured of her Affection as of mine, and treat her with equal Tenderness. But, no, she cannot be; she will sitt and look piteously on his blind Face, but, alas! he cannot see that; and when he pours forth the full Tide of Melody on his Organ, and hymns mellifluous Praise, the Tears rush to her eyes, and she is oft obliged to quit the Chamber; but, alas! he knows not that. So he goes on, deeming her, I fear me, stupid as well as silent, indifferent as well as infirm.

I am not avised of her ever having let him feel her Sympathy, save when he was inditing to me his third Book, while she sate at her Sewing. 'Twas at these lines:—

"Thus with the Year,
Seasons return; but not to me returns
Day, or the sweet Approach of Even or Morn,
Or Sight of vernal Bloom or Summer's Rose,
Or Flocks or Herds, or human Face divine,
But Clouds instead, and over-during Dark
Surrounds me; from the cheerful Ways of Men
Cut off: and for the Book of Knowledge fair,
Presented with an universal Blank."

His Brow was a little contracted, but his Face was quite composed; while she, on t'other Hand, with her Work dropped from her Lap, and her Eyes streaming, sate gazing on him, the Image of Woe. At length, timidly stole to his Side, and, after hesitating awhile, kissed both his Eyelids. He caught her to him, quite taken by Surprise, and, for a Moment, both wept bitterly. This was soon put a Stop to, by Mother's coming in, with her Head full of stale Fish; howbeit Father treated Anne with uncommon Tenderness all that Evening, calling her his sweet Nan; while she, shrinking back again into her Shell, was shyer than ever. But his Spiritts were soothed rather than dashed by this little Outbreak; and at Bedtime, he said, even cheerfully, "Now, good-night, Girls: . . . may it, indeed, be as good to you as to me. You know, Night brings back my Day—I am not blind in my Dreams."

I wish I knew the Distinction between Temperament and Genius: how far Father's even Frame is attributable to one or t'other. If to the former, why, we might hope to attain it as well as he;—yet, no; this is equallie the Gift of God's Grace. Our Humours we may controwl, but our Temperament is born with us; and if one should say, "Why are you a Vessel of glorious things, while I am a Vessel of Things weak and vile?"—nay, but oh! Man or Woman, who art thou that questionest the Will of God? His Election is shewn no less in the Gift of Genius or of an equable Temperament than of spirituall Life; and the Thing formed may not say to him that formed it, "Why hast thou made me thus?"

Father, indeed, can flame out in political Controversy, and lay about him as with a Flail, right and left, making the Chaff, and sometimes the Wheat too, fly about his Ears. 'Twas while threshing the Wheat by the Wine-press at Ophrah, that Gideon was called by the Angel; and methinks Father hath in like Manner been summoned from the Floor of his Threshing, to discourse of Heaven and Earth, and bring forth from his Mind's Storehouse Things new and old. I wonder if the World will ever give heed to his Teaching. Suppose a Spark of Fire should drop some Night on the Manuscript, while Ettwood is dozing over it;—why, there's an end on't. I suppose Father could never do it over again. I wonder how many fine Things have been lost in suchlike Ways; or whether God ever permitts a truly fine Thing to be utterly lost. We may drop a Diamond into the Sea; but there it is, at the Bottom of the Great Deep. Justinian's Pandects turned up again. The Art of making Glass was lost once. The Passage round the Cape was made and forgotten.——If I pore over this, I shall puzzle my Head. Howbeit, were I to round the Cape, I should hardly look for stranger and more glorious Scenes than Father hath in his Poem made familiar to me. He hath done more for me than Columbus for Queen Isabel—hath revealed to me a far better New World. Now, I scarce ever look on the setting Sun, surrounded by Hues more gorgeous than those of the High-priest's Breast-plate, without picturing the Angel of the Sun seated on that bright Beam which bore him, Slope downward, beneath the Azores. And, in the less brilliant Hour, I, by Faith or Fancy, discern Ithuriel and Zephon in the Shade; and by their Side a third, of regal Port, but faded Splendour wan. A little later still, can sometimes hear the Voice of God, or, as I suppose, we might say, the Word of God, walking in the Garden. Pneuma! His Breath! His Spirit! How hushed and still! Then, the Night cometh, when no Man can work—when the young Lions, in tropical Climes, waking from their Day-sleep, seek their Meat from God. Albeit they may prowl about the Dwellings of his people, they cannot enter, for He that watcheth them neither slumbers nor sleeps. Moreover, heavenly Vigils relieve one another at their Posts, and go their Midnight Rounds; sometimes, singing (Father says), with heavenly Touch of instrumental Sounds, in full harmonic Number joined . . . yes, and Shepherds, once, at least, have heard them.

And then . . . and then Mother cries, "How often, Deb, shall I bid you lock the Gate at nine o'clock, and bring me in the Key?"

Sept. 2nd, 1665.

Good so! Master Ellwood hath brought back the MS. at last, and delivered his Approbation thereon with the Air of a competent Authority, which Father took in the utmost good part, and chatted with him on the Subject for some Time. Howbeit, he is not much flattered, I fancy, by the Quaker's pragmatick Sanction, qualifyde, too, as it was, to show his own Discernment; and when I consider that the major part of Criticks may be as little fitted to take the Measure of their Subject as Ellwood is of Father, I cannot but see that the gleaning of Father's Grapes is better than the Vintage of the Critick's Abiezer.

To wind up all, Ellwood, primming up his Mouth, says, "Thou hast found much to tell us, Friend Milton, on Paradise Lost;—now, what hast thou to tell of Paradise Regained?"

Father said nothing at the Time, but hath since been brooding a good deal, and keeping me much to the Reading of the New Testament; and I think my Night-work will soon begin again.

Ellwood's Talk was much of Guli Springett, whom I have seen sundry times, and think high-flown, in spight of her levelling Principles and demure Carriage. The Youth is bewitched with her, I think; what has a Woman to do with Logique? My Belief is, he might as well hope to marry the Moon as to win Mistress Springett's Hand; however, his Self-opinion is considerable. He chode Father this Morning for Organ-playing, saying he doubted its lawfullness. Oh, the Prigg!

I grieve to think Mary can sometimes be a little spightfull as well as unduteous. She is ill at her Pen, and having To-day made some Blunder, for which Father chid her, not overmuch, she rudely made Answer, "I never had a Writing-master." Betty, being by, treasured up, as I could see, this ill-natured Speech: and 'twas unfair too; for, if we never had a Writing-master, yet my Aunt Agar taught us; and 'twas our own Fault if we improved no more. Indeed, we have had a scrambling Sort of Education; but, in many respects, our Advantages have exceeded those of many young Women; and among them I reckon, first and foremost, continuall Intercourse with a superior Mind.

If a Piece of mere Leather, by frequent Contact with Silver, acquires a certain Portion of the pure and bright Metal; sure, the Children of a gifted Parent must, by the Collision of their Minds, insensibly, as 'twere, imbibe somewhat of his finer Parts. Ned Phillips, indeed, sayth we are like People living so close under a big Mountain, as not to know how high it is; but I think we . . . at least, I do. And, whatever be our scant Learnings, Father, despite his limited Means, hath never grutched us the Supply of a reall Want; and is, at this Time, paying Joan Elliott at a good Rate for perfecting Anne in her pretty Work. I am sorry Mary should thus have sneaped him; and I am sorry I ever either hurt him—by uncivil Speech, or wronged him by unkind Thought. Poor Nan, with all her Infirmities, is, perhaps, his best Child. Not that I am a bad one, neither.

My Night-tasks have recommenced of late; because, as he says—

"I suoi Pensieri in lui Dormir non ponno:"

which, being interpreted, means, "His Thoughts would let him and his Daughter take no rest."

12th.

I know not that any one but Father hath ever concerned themselves to imagine the Anxieties of the blessed Virgin during her Son's forty Days' mysterious Absence. No wonder that

"Within her Breast, tho' calm, her Breast, tho' pure,
Motherly Fears got Head."

Father hath touched her with a very tender and reverent Hand, dwelling less on her than he did on Eve, whom he with perfect Beauty adorned, onlie to make her Sin appear more Sad. Well, we know not ourselves; but methinks I should not have transgrest as she did, neither, for an Apple.

15th.

And now I have transgrest about a Pin! O me! what weak, wicked Wretches we are! "Behold, how great a Matter a little Fire kindleth!" And the Tongue is a Fire, an unruly Member. Sure, when I was writing, at Father's Dictation, such heavy Charges against Eve, I privily thought I was better than she; and, sifting the Doings of Mary and Anne through a somewhat censorious Judgment, maybe I thought I was better than they. Alas! we know not our own selves. And so, dropping a Stitch in my Knitting, I must needs cry out—"Here, any of you . . . oh, Mother! do bring me a Pin." My Sisters, as Ill-luck would have it, not being by, cries she, "Forsooth, Manners have come to a fine Pass in these Days! Bring her a Pin, quotha!" Instead of making answer, "Well, 'twas disrespectful; I ask your Pardon;" I must mutter, "I see what I'm valued at—less than a Pin."

"Deb, don't be unduteous," says Father to me. "Woulde it not have been better to fetch what you wanted, than strangely ask your Mother to bring it?"

"And thereby spoil my Work," answered I; "but 'tis no Matter."

"Tis a great Matter to be uncivil," says Father.

"Oh! dear Husband, do not concern yourself," interrupts Mother; "the
Girl's incivility is no new Matter, I protest."

On this, a Battle of Words on both sides, ending in Tears, Bitterness, and my being sent by Father to my Chamber till Dinner. "And, Deb," he adds, gravely, but not harshly, "take no Book with you, unless it be your Bible."

Soe, hither, with swelling Heart, I have come. I never drew on myself such Condemnation before—at least, since childish Days; and could be enraged with Mother, were I not enraged with myself. I'm in no Hurry for Dinner-time; I cannot sober down. My Temples beat, and my Throat has a great Lump in it. Why was Nan out of the Way? Yet, would she have made Things better? I was in no Fault at first, that's certain; Mother took Offence where none was meant; but I meant Offence afterwards. Lord, have mercy upon me! I can ask Thy Forgiveness, though not hers. And I could find it in me to ask Father's too, and say, "I have sinned against Heaven, and in thy . . . thy Hearing.'" And now I come to write that Word, I have a Mind to cry; and the Lump goes down, and I feel earnest to look into my Bible, and more humbled towards Mother. And . . . what is it Father says?—

"What better can I do, than to the Place
Repairing, where he judged me, there confess
Humbly my Fault, and Pardon beg, with Tears
Of Sorrow unfeign'd, and Humiliation meek?"

. . . He met me at the very first Word. "I knew you would," he said; "I knew the kindest Thing was to send you to commune with your own Heart in your Chamber, and be still. 'Tis there we find the Holy Spirit and Holy Saviour in waiting for us; and in the House where they abide, as long as they abide in it, there is no Room for Satan to enter. But let this Morning's Work, Deb, be a Warning to you, not thus to transgress again. As long as we are in peaceful Communion among ourselves, there is a fine, invisible Cobweb, too clear for mortal Sight, spun from Mind to Mind, which the least Breath of Discord rudely breaks. You owe to your Mother a Daughter's Reverence; and if you behave like a Child, you must look to be punisht like a Child."

"I am not a mere Baby, neither," I said.

"No," he replied. "I see you can make Distinction between Teknia and Paidia; but a Baby is the more inoffensive and less responsible Agent of the two. If you are content to be a Baby in Grace, you must not contend for a Baby's Immunities. I have heard a Baby cry pretty loudly about a Pin."

This shut my Mouth close enough.

"You are now," he added gently, "nearly as old as your Mother was when I married her."

I said, "I fear I am not much like her."

He said nothing, only smiled. I made bold to pursue:—"What was she like?"

Again he was silent, at least for a Minute; and then, in quite a changed
Tone, with somewhat hurried in it, cried,—

"Like the fresh Sweetbriar and early May!
Like the fresh, cool, pure Air of opening Day . . .
Like the gay Lark, sprung from the glittering Dew . . .
An Angel! yet . . . a very Woman too!"

And, kicking back his Chair, he got up, and began to walk hastily about the Chamber, as fearlessly as he always does when he is thinking of something else, I springing up to move one or two Chairs out of his Way. Hearing some high Voices in the Offices, he presently observed, "A contentious Woman is like a continuall Dropping. Shakspeare spoke well when he said that a sweet, low Voice is an excellent Thing in Woman. I wish you good Women would recollect that one Avenue of my Senses being stopt, makes me keener to any Impression on the others. Where Strife is, there is Confusion and every evil Work. Why should not we dwell in Peace, in this quiet little Nest, instead of rendering our Home liker to a Cage of unclean Birds?"

Bunhill Fields, London, Oct. 1666.

People have phansied Appearances of Armies in the Air, flaming Swords, Fields of Battle, and other Images; and, truly, the Evening before we left Chalfont, methought I beheld the Glories of the ancient City Ctesiphon in the Sunset Clouds, with gilded Battlements, conspicuous far—Turrets, and Terraces, and glittering Spires. The light-armed Parthians pouring through the Gates, in Coats of Mail, and military Pride. In the far Perspective of the open Plain, two ancient Rivers, the one winding, t'other straight, losing themselves in the glowing Distance, among the Tents of the ten lost Tribes. Such are One's Dreams at Sunset. And, when I cast down my dazed Eyes on the shaded Landskip, all looked in Comparison, so black and bleak, that methought how dull and dreary this lower World must have appeared to Moses when he descended from Horeb, and to our Saviour, when he came down from the Mount of Transfiguration, and to St. Paul, when he dropt from the seventh Heaven.

What a Click, Click, the Bricklayers make with their Trowels, thus bringing me down from my Altitudes! Sure, we hardly knew how well off we were at Chalfont, till we came back to this unlucky Capital, looking as desolate as Jerusalem, when the City was ruinated and the People captivated. Weeds in the Streets—smouldering Piles—blackened, tottering Walls—and inexhaustible Heaps of vile Rubbish. Even with closed Windows, everything gets covered with a Coating of fine Dust. Cousin Jack Yesterday picked up a half-burnt Acceptance for twenty thousand Pounds. There is a fine Time coming for Builders and Architects—Anne's Lover among the Rest. The Way she picked him up was notable. Returning to Town, she falls to her old Practices of daily Prayer, and visiting the Poor. At Church she sits over against a good-looking young Man, recovered from the Plague, whose near Approach to Death's Door had made him more godly in his Walk than the general of his Age and Condition. He notes her beautiful Face—marks not her deformed Shape; and, because that, by Reason of the late Distresses, the Calamities of the Poor have been met by unusuall Charities of the upper Classes, he, on his Errands of Mercy among the Rest, presently falls in with her at a poor sick Man's House, and marvels when the limping Stranger turns about and discovers the beautiful Votaress. After one or two chance Meetings, respectfully accosts her—Anne draws back—he finds a mutuall Friend—the Acquaintance progresses; and at length, by Way of first Introduction to my Father, he steps in to ask him (preamble supposed) to give him his eldest Daughter. Then what a Storm ensues! Father's Objections do not transpire, no one being by but Mother, who is unlikely to soften Matters. But, so soon as John Herring shuts the Door behind him, and walks off quickly, Anne is called down, and I follow, neither bidden nor hindered. Thereupon, Father, with a red Heat-spot on his Cheek, asks Anne what she knows of this young Man. Her answer, "Nothing but good." "How came she to know him at all?" . . . Silent; then makes Answer, "Has seen him at Mrs. French's and elsewhere." "Where else?" "Why, at Church, and other Places." Mother here puts in, "What other Places?" . . . "Sure what can it signify," Anne asks, turning short round upon her; "and especially to you, who would be glad to get quit of me on any Terms?"

"Anne, Anne!" interrupts Father, "does this Concern of ours for you look like it? You know you are saying what is uncivil and untrue."

"Well," resumes Anne, her breath coming quick, "but what's the
Objection to John Herring?"

"John? is he John with you already?" cries Mother. "Then you must know more of him than you say."

"Sure, Mother," cries Anne, bursting into Tears, "you are enough to overcome the Patience of Job. I know nothing of the young Man, but that he is pious, and steady, and well read, and a good Son of reputable Parents, as well to do in the World as ourselves; and that he likes me, whom few like, and offers me a quiet, happy Home."

"How fast some People can talk when they like," observes Mother; at which Allusion to Anne's Impediment, I dart at her a Look of Wrath; but Nan only continues weeping.

"Come hither, Child," interposes Father, holding his Hand towards her; "and you, good Betty, leave us awhile to talk over this without Interruption." At which, Mother, taking him literally, sweeps up her Work, and quits the Room. "The Address of this young Man," says Father, "has taken me wholly by Surprise, and your Encouragement of it has incontestably had somewhat of clandestine in it; notwithstanding which, I have, and can have, nothing in View, dear Nan, but your Well-being. As to his Calling, I take no Exceptions at it, even though, like Caementarius, he should say, I am a Bricklayer, and have got my Living by my Labour—"

"A Master-builder, not a Bricklayer," interposes Anne.

Father stopt for a Moment; then resumed. "You talk of his offering you a quiet Home: why should you be dissatisfied with your own, where, in the Main, we are all very happy together? In these evil Times, 'tis something considerable to have, as it were, a little Chamber on the Wall, where your Candle is lighted by the Lord, your Table spread by him, your Bed made by him in your Health and Sickness, and where he stands behind the Door, ready to come in and sup with you. All this you will leave for One you know not. How bitterly may you hereafter look back on your present Lot! You know, I have the Apostle's Word for it, that, if I give you in Marriage, I may do well; but, if I give you not, I shall do better. The unmarried Woman careth for the Things of the Lord, that she may be holy in Body and Spirit, and attend upon him without Distraction. Thus was it with the five wise Maidens, who kept their Lamps ready trimmed until the Coming of their Lord. I wish we only knew of five that were foolish. Time would fail me to tell you of all the godly Women, both of the elder and later Time, who have led single Lives without Superstition, and without Hypocrisy. Howbeit, you may marry if you will; but you will be wiser if you abide as you are, after my Judgment. Let me not to the Marriage of true Minds oppose Impediment; but, in your own Case—"

"Father," interrupts Anne, "you know I am ill at speaking; but permit me to say, you are now talking wide of the Mark. Without going back to the Beginning of the World, or all through the Romish Calendar, I will content me with the more recent Instance of yourself, who have thrice preferred Marriage, with all its concomitant Evils, to the single State you laud so highly. Is it any Reason we should not dwell in a House, because St. Jerome lived in a Cave? The godly Women of whom you speak might neither have had so promising a Home offered to them, nor so ill a Home to quit."

"What call you an ill Home?" says Father, his Brow darkening.

"I call that an ill Home," returns Anne, stoutly, "where there is neither Union nor Sympathy—at least, for my Share,—where there are no Duties of which I can well acquit myself, and where those I have made for myself, and find suitable to my Capacity and Strength, are contemned, let, and hindered,—where my Mother-Church, my Mother's Church, is reviled—my Mother's Family despised,—where the few Friends I have made are never asked, while every Attention I pay them is grudged,—where, for keeping all my hard Usage from my Father's Hearing, all the Reward I get is his thinking I have no hard Usage to bear—"

"Hold, ungrateful Girl!" says Father; "I've heard enough, and too much. Tis Time wasted to reason with a Woman. I do believe there never yet was one who would not start aside like a broken Bow, or pierce the Side like a snapt Reed, at the very Moment most Dependance was placed in her. Let her Husband humour her to the Top of her Bent,—she takes French Leave of him, departs to her own Kindred, and makes Affection for her Childhood's Home the Pretext for defying the Laws of God and Man. Let her Father cherish her, pity her, bear with her, and shelter her from even the Knowledge of the Evils of the World without,—her Ingratitude will keep Pace with her Ignorance, and she will forsake him for the Sweetheart of a Week. You think Marriage the supreme Bliss: a good many don't find it so. Lively Passions soon burn out; and then come disappointed Expectancies, vain Repinings, fretful Complainings, wrathful Rejoinings. You fly from Collision with jarring Minds: what Security have you for more Forbearance among your new Connexions? Alas! you will carry your Temper with you—you will carry your bodily Infirmities with you;—your little Stock of Experience, Reason, and Patience will be exhausted before the Year is out, and at the End, perhaps, you will—die—"

"As well die," cries Anne, bursting into Tears, "as live to hear such a Rebuke as this." And so, passionately wringing her Hands, runs out of the Room.

"Follow after her, Deb," cries Father; "she is beside herself. Unhappy me! tried every Way! An Oedipus with no Antigone!"

And, rising from his Seat, he began to pace up and down, while I ran up to Nan. But scarce had I reached the Stair-head, when we both heard a heavy Fall in the Chamber below. We cried, "Sure, that is Father!" and ran down quicker than we had run up. He was just rising as we entered, his Foot having caught in a long Coil of Gold Lace, which Anne, in her disorderly Exit, had unwittingly dragged after her. I saw at a Glance he was annoyed rather than hurt; but Nan, without a Moment's Pause, darts into his Arms, in a Passion of Pity and Repentance, crying, "Oh, Father, Father, forgive me! oh, Father!"

"Tis all of a Piece, Nan," he replies; "alternate hot and cold; every Thing for Passion, nothing for Reason. Now all for me; a Minute ago, I might go to the Wall for John Herring."

"No, never, Father!" cries Anne; "never, dear Father—"

"Dark are the Ways of God," continues he, unheeding her; "not only annulling his first best Gift of Light to me, and leaving me a Prey to daily Contempt, Abuse, and Wrong, but mangling my tenderest, most apprehensive Feelings—"

Anne again breaks in with, "Oh! Father, Father!"

"Dark, dark, for ever dark!" he went on; "but just are the Ways of God to
Man. Who shall say, 'What doest Thou?'"

"Father, I promise you," says Anne, "that I will never more think of John Herring."

"Foolish Girl!" he replies sadly; "as ready now to promise too Much, as resolute just now to hear Nothing. How can you promise never to think of him? I never asked it of you."

"At least I can promise not to speak of him," says Anne.

"Therein you will do wisely," rejoins Father. "My Consent having been asked is an Admission that I have a Right to give or withhold it; and, as I have already told John Herring, I shall certainly not grant it before you are of Age. Perhaps by that Time you may be your own Mistress, without even such an ill Home as I, while I live, can afford you."

"No more of that," says Anne, interrupting him; and a Kiss sealed the
Compact.

All this Time, Mother and Mary were, providentially, out of the Way. Mother had gone off in a Huff, and Mary was busied in making some marbled Veal.

The rest of the Day was dull enough: violent Emotions are commonly succeeded by flat Stagnations. Anne, however, seemed kept up by some Energy from within, and looked a little flushed. At Bed-time she got the start of me, as usuall; and, on entering our Chamber, I found her quite undrest, sitting at the Table, not reading of her Bible, but with her Head resting on it. I should have taken her to be asleep, but for the quick Pulsation of some Nerve or Muscle at the back of the Neck, somewhere under the right Ear. She looks up, commences rubbing her Eyes, and says, "My Eyes are full of Sand, I think. I will give you my new Crown-piece, Deb, if you will read me to sleep without another Word." So I say, "A Bargain," though without meaning to take the Crown; and she jumps into Bed in a Minute, and I begin at the Sermon on the Mount, and keep on and on, in more and more of a Monotone; but every Time I lookt up, I saw her Eyes wide open, agaze at the top of the Bed; and so I go on and on, like a Bee humming over a Flower, till she shuts her Eyes; but, at last, when I think her off, having just got to Matthew, eleven, twenty-eight, she fetches a deep sigh, and says, "I wish I could hear Him saying so to me . . . 'Come, Anne, unto me, and I will give you Rest.' But, in fact, He does so as emphatically in addressing all the weary and heavy-laden, as if I heard Him articulating, 'Come, Anne, come!'"