Mary Powell & Deborah's Diary Part 17

"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 Woodp.e.c.k.e.r 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 G.o.d, 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 n.o.bler Spiritts. . . . If it did, they had best never be witty at all. Thy Brother _Jack_ hath yet to learn that Strength is not Coa.r.s.eness."

_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.

"_Firmia.n.u.s 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 G.o.d exact Day-labour, Light denied?'

I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent That Murmur, soon replies,--'G.o.d 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 _Sall.u.s.t, 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 peac.o.c.k 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 Circ.u.mstances of the Times, made Jokes on Mother, recalled old Journies to _Buckinghams.h.i.+re_, 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 b.u.t.terfly, and _Anne_ to catch her Bat."

Our Life here is most pleasant. Father and I pa.s.s 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,--was.h.i.+ng, 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-ma.s.s_. 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 h.o.a.rder, in an innocent Way, so as always to have a few s.h.i.+llings 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 Cla.s.se of Folks should deem they please G.o.d 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."