Читать книгу Mary Powell & Deborah's Diary - Anne Manning - Страница 7

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. Mr. Milton shewed me the noble Minster, with King Harry Seventh's Chapel adjoining; and pointed out the old House where Ben Jonson died. Neare the Broade Sanctuarie, we fell in with a slighte, dark-complexioned young Gentleman of two or three and twenty, whome my Husband espying cryed, "What, Marvell!" the other comically answering, "What Marvel?" and then, handsomlie saluting me and complimenting Mr. Milton, much lighte and pleasant Discourse ensued; and finding we were aboute to take Boat, he volunteered to goe with us on the River. After manie Hours' Exercise, I have come Home fatigued, yet well pleased. Mr. Marvell sups with us.

Friday.

I wish I could note down a Tithe of the pleasant Things that were sayd last Nighte. First, olde Mr. Milton having slept out with his Son—I called in Rachael, the younger of Mr. Russel's Serving-maids, (for we have none of our owne as yet, which tends to much Discomfiture,) and, with her Aide, I dusted the Bookes and sett them up in half the Space they had occupied; then cleared away three large Basketfuls, of the absolutest Rubbish, torn Letters and the like, and sent out for Flowers, (which it seemeth strange enoughe to me to buy,) which gave the Chamber a gayer Aire, and soe my Husband sayd when he came in, calling me the fayrest of them alle; and then, sitting down with Gayety to the Organ, drew forthe from it heavenlie Sounds. Afterwards Mr. Marvell came in, and they discoursed about Italy, and Mr. Milton promised his Friend some Letters of Introduction to Jacopo Gaddi, Clementillo, and others.—

After Supper, they wrote Sentences, Definitions, and the like, after a Fashion of Catherine de Medici, some of which I have layd aside for Rose.

—To-day we have seene St. Paul's faire Cathedral, and the School where Mr. Milton was a Scholar when a Boy; thence, to the Fields of Finsbury; where are Trees and Windmills enow: a Place much frequented for practising Archery and other manlie Exercises.

Saturday.

Tho' we rise betimes, olde Mr. Milton is earlier stille; and I always find him sitting at his Table beside the Window (by Reason of the Chamber being soe dark,) sorting I know not how manie Bundles of Papers tied with red Tape; eache so like the other that I marvel how he knows them aparte. This Morning, I found the poore old Gentleman in sad Distress at missing a Manuscript Song of Mr. Henry Lawes', the onlie Copy extant, which he persuaded himselfe that I must have sent down to the Kitchen Fire Yesterday. I am convinced I dismist not a single Paper that was not torne eache Way, as being utterlie uselesse; but as the unluckie Song cannot be founde, he sighs and is certayn of my Delinquence, as is Hubert, his owne Man; or, as he more frequentlie calls him, his "odd Man;"—and an odd Man indeede is Mr. Hubert, readie to address his Master or Master's Sonne on the merest Occasion, without waiting to be spoken to; tho' he expecteth Others to treat them with far more Deference than he himself payeth.