A town is saved, not more by the
righteous men in it than by the woods and swamps that surround it. A
township where one primitive forest waves above while another primitive
forest rots below--such a town is fitted to raise not only corn and
potatoes, but poets and philosophers for the coming ages. In such a soil
grew Homer and Confucius and the rest, and out of such a wilderness
comes the Reformer eating locusts and wild honey.
"MARY POWELL"
[Sidenote: _Anonymous_]
_Journall_
Forest Hill, _May 1st, 1643_.
Seventeenth Birthday. A gypsie Woman at the Gate would fame have tolde
my Fortune; but _Mother_ chased her away, saying she had doubtless
harboured in some of the low Houses in _Oxford_, and mighte bring us the
Plague. Coulde have cried for Vexation; she had promised to tell me the
Colour of my Husband's Eyes; but _Mother_ says she believes I shall
never have one, I am soe sillie. _Father_ gave me a gold Piece. Dear
_Mother_ is chafed, methinks, touching this Debt of five hundred Pounds,
which _Father_ says he knows not how to pay. Indeed, he sayd,
overnighte, his whole personal Estate amounts to but five hundred
Pounds, his Timber and Wood to four hundred more, or thereabouts; and
the Tithes and Messuages of _Whateley_ are no great Matter, being
mortgaged for about as much more, and he hath lent Sights of Money to
them that won't pay, so 'tis hard to be thus prest.
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