woulde consent to take my
Brother under his Charge? perhaps Father woulde be willing.

Saturday.

Last Visitt to _Sheepscote,—_at leaste, as Mary Powell; but kind Rose and Roger Agnew will give us the Use of it for a Week on our Marriage, and spend the Time with dear Father and Mother, who will neede their Kindnesse. Rose and I walked long aboute the Garden, her Arm round my Neck; and she was avised to say,

  "Cloth of Frieze, be not too bold,
  Tho' thou be matcht with Cloth of Gold,—"

And then craved my Pardon for soe unmannerly a Rhyme, which indeede, methoughte, needed an Excuse, but exprest a Feare that I knew not (what she called) my high Destiny, and prayed me not to trifle with Mr. Milton's Feelings nor in his Sighte, as I had done the Daye she dined at Forest Hill. I laught, and sayd, he must take me as he found me: he was going to marry Mary Powell, not the Wise Widow of Tekoah. Rose lookt wistfullie, but I bade her take Heart, for I doubted not we shoulde content eache the other; and for the Rest, her Advice shoulde not be forgotten. Thereat, she was pacyfied.

May 22d, 1643.

Alle Bustle and Confusion,—slaying of Poultrie, making of Pastrie, etc. People coming and going, prest to dine and to sup, and refuse, and then stay, the colde Meats and Wines ever on the Table; and in the Evening, the Rebecks and Recorders sent for that we may dance in the Hall. My Spiritts have been most unequall; and this Evening I was overtaken with a suddain Faintnesse, such as I never but once before experienced. They would let me dance no more; and I was quite tired enoughe to be glad to sit aparte with Mr. Milton neare the Doore, with the Moon shining on us; untill at length he drew me out into the Garden. He spake of Happinesse and Home, and Hearts knit in Love, and of heavenlie Espousals, and of Man being the Head of the Woman, and of our Lord's Marriage with the Church, and of white Robes, and the Bridegroom coming in Clouds of Glory, and of the Voices of singing Men and singing Women, and eternall Spring, and eternall Blisse, and much that I cannot call to Mind, and other-much that I coulde not comprehende, but which was in mine ears as the Song of Birds, or Falling of Waters.

May 23d, 1643.

Rose hath come, and hath kindlie offered to help pack the Trunks, (which are to be sent off by the Waggon to London,) that I may have the more Time to devote to Mr. Milton. Nay, but he will soon have all my Time devoted to himself, and I would as lief spend what little remains in mine accustomed Haunts, after mine accustomed Fashion. I had purposed a Ride on Clover this Morning, with Robin; but the poor Boy must I trow be disappointed.

——And for what? Oh me! I have hearde such a long Sermon on Marriage-duty and Service, that I am faine to sit down and weepe. But no, I must not, for they are waiting for me in the Hall, and the Guests are come and the Musick is tuning, and my Lookes must not betray me.—And now farewell, Journall; for Rose, who first bade me keepe you (little deeming after what Fashion), will not pack you up, and I will not close you with a heavie Strayn. Robin is calling me beneath the Window,—Father is sitting in the Shade, under the old Pear-tree, seemingly in gay Discourse with Mr. Milton. To-morrow the Village-bells will ring for the Marriage of

MARY POWELL.

London, Mr. Russell's, Taylor, Bride's Churchyard.

Oh Heaven! is this my new Home? my Heart sinkes alreadie. After the swete fresh Ayre of Sheepscote, and the Cleanliness, and the Quiet and the pleasant Smells, Sightes, and Soundes, alle whereof Mr. Milton enjoyed to the Full as keenlie as I, saying they minded him of _Paradise,—_how woulde Rose pitie me, could she view me in this close Chamber, the Floor whereof of dark, uneven Boards, must have beene layd, methinks, three hundred Years ago; the oaken Pannells, utterlie destitute of Polish and with sundrie Chinks; the Bed with dull brown Hangings, lined with as dull a greene, occupying Half the Space; and Half the Remainder being filled with dustie Books, whereof there are Store alsoe in every other Place. This Mirror, I should thinke, belonged to faire Rosamond. And this Arm-chair to King Lew. Over the Chimnie hangs a ruefull Portrait,—maybe of Grotius, but I shoulde sooner deeme it of some Worthie before the Flood. Onlie one Quarter of the Casement will open, and that upon a Prospect, oh dolefulle! of the Churchyarde! Mr. Milton had need be as blythe as he was all the Time we were at Sheepscote, or I shall be buried in that same Churchyarde within the Twelvemonth. 'Tis well he has stepped out to see a Friend, that I may in his Absence get ridd of this Fit of the Dismalls. I wish it may be the last. What would Mother say to his bringing me to such a Home as this? I will not think. Soe this is London! How diverse from the "towred Citie" of my Husband's versing! and of his Prose too; for as he spake, by the way, of the Disorders of our Time, which extend even into eache domestick Circle, he sayd that alle must, for a While, appear confused to our imperfect View, just as a mightie Citie unto a Stranger who shoulde beholde around him huge, unfinished Fabrics, the Plan whereof he could but imperfectlie make out, amid the Builders' disorderlie Apparatus; but that, from afar, we mighte perceive glorious Results from party Contentions,—Freedom springing up from Oppression, Intelligence succeeding Ignorance, Order following Disorder, just as that same Traveller looking at the Citie from a distant Height, should beholde Towres, and Spires glistering with Gold and Marble, Streets stretching in lessening Perspectives, and Bridges flinging their white Arches over noble Rivers. But what of this saw we all along the Oxford Road? Firstlie, there was noe commanding Height; second, there was the Citie obscured by a drizzling Rain; the Ways were foul, the Faces of those we mett spake less of Pleasure than Business, and Bells were tolling, but none ringing. Mr. Milton's Father, a grey-haired, kind old Man, was here to give us welcome: and his firste Words were, "Why, John, thou hast stolen a March on us. Soe quickly, too, and soe snug! but she is faire enoughe, Man, to excuse thee, Royalist or noe."

And soe, taking me in his Arms, kist me franklie.—But I heare my
Husband's Voice, and another with it.

Thursday.

'Twas a Mr. Lawrence whom my Husband brought Home last Nighte to sup; and the Evening passed righte pleasantlie, with News, Jestes, and a little Musicke. Todaye hath been kindlie devoted by Mr. Milton to shewing me Sights:—and oh! the strange, diverting Cries in the Streets, even from earlie Dawn! "New Milk and Curds from the Dairie!"—"Olde Shoes for some Brooms!"—"Anie Kitchen-stuffe, have you, Maids?"—"Come buy my greene Herbes!"—and then in the Streets, here a Man preaching, there another juggling: here a Boy with an Ape, there a Show of Nineveh: next the News from the North; and as for the China Shops and Drapers in the Strand, and the Cook's Shops in Westminster, with the smoking Ribs of Beef and fresh Salads set out on Tables in the Street, and Men in white Aprons crying out, "Calf's Liver, Tripe, and hot Sheep's Feet"—'twas enoughe to make One untimelie hungrie,—or take One's Appetite away, as the Case might be.