Mary Powell Deborahs Diary | Page 7

and Harry, calling for me; and I
soughte to answer, "Here!" but my Tongue was heavie. Then I
commenced running towards them, through ever so manie greene Paths,

in the Wood; but still, we coulde never meet; and I began to see
grinning Faces, neither of Man nor Beaste, peeping at me through the
Trees; and one and another of them called me by Name; and in greate
Feare and Paine I awoke!
. . . Strange Things are Dreames. Dear Mother thinks much of them,
and sayth they oft portend coming Events. My Father holdeth the
Opinion that they are rather made up of what hath alreadie come to
passe; but surelie naught like this Dreame of mine hath in anie Part
befallen me hithertoe?
. . . What strange Fable or Masque were they reading that Day at
Sheepscote? I mind not.

May 20th, 1643.
Too much busied of late to write, though much hath happened which I
woulde fain remember. Dined at Shotover yesterday. Met Mother, who
is coming Home in a Day or two; but helde short Speech with me aside
concerning Housewifery. The Agnews there, of course: alsoe Mr.
Milton, whom we have seene continuallie, lately; and I know not how it
shoulde be, but he seemeth to like me. Father affects him much, but
Mother loveth him not. She hath seene little of him: perhaps the less the
better. Ralph Hewlett, as usuall, forward in his rough endeavours to
please; but, though no Scholar, I have yet Sense enough to prefer Mr.
Milton's Discourse to his. . . . I wish I were fonder of Studdy; but, since
it cannot be, what need to vex? Some are born of one Mind, some of
another. Rose was alwaies for her Booke; and, had Rose beene no
Scholar, Mr. Agnew woulde, may be, never have given her a second
Thoughte: but alle are not of the same Way of thinking.
. . . A few Lines received from Mother's "spoilt Boy," as Father hath
called Brother Bill, ever since he went a soldiering. Blurred and
mis-spelt as they are, she will prize them. Trulie, we are none of us
grate hands at the Pen; 'tis well I make this my Copie-booke.

. . . Oh, strange Event! Can this be Happinesse? Why, then, am I soe
feared, soe mazed, soe prone to weeping? I woulde that Mother were
here. Lord have Mercie on me a sinfulle, sillie Girl, and guide my Steps
arighte.
. . . It seemes like a Dreame, (I have done noughte but dreame of late, I
think,) my going along the matted Passage, and hearing Voices in my
Father's Chamber, just as my Hand was on the Latch; and my
withdrawing my Hand, and going softlie away, though I never paused
at disturbing him before; and, after I had beene a full Houre in the Stille
Room, turning over ever soe manie Trays full of dried Herbs and
Flower-leaves, hearing him come forthe and call, "Moll, deare Moll,
where are you?" with I know not what of strange in the Tone of his
Voice; and my running to him hastilie, and his drawing me into his
Chamber, and closing the Doore. Then he takes me round the Waiste,
and remains quite silent awhile; I gazing on him so strangelie! and at
length, he says with a Kind of Sigh, "Thou art indeed but young yet!
scarce seventeen,--and fresh, as Mr. Milton says, as the earlie May; too
tender, forsooth, to leave us yet, sweet Child! But what wilt say, Moll,
when I tell thee that a well-esteemed Gentleman, whom as yet indeed I
know too little of, hath craved of me Access to the House as one that
woulde win your Favour?"
Thereupon, such a suddain Faintness of the Spiritts overtooke me, (a
Thing I am noe way subject to,) as that I fell down in a Swound at
Father's Feet; and when I came to myselfe again, my Hands and Feet
seemed full of Prickles, and there was a Humming, as of Rose's Bees,
in mine Ears. Lettice and Margery were tending of me, and Father
watching me full of Care; but soe soone as he saw me open mine Eyes,
he bade the Maids stand aside, and sayd, stooping over me, "Enough,
dear Moll; we will talk noe more of this at present." "Onlie just tell
me," quoth I, in a Whisper, "who it is." "Guesse," sayd he. "I cannot," I
softlie replied, and, with the Lie, came such a Rush of Blood to my
Cheeks as betraied me. "I am sure you have though," sayd deare Father,
gravelie, "and I neede not say it is Mr. Milton, of whome I know little
more than you doe, and that is not