The 6th day of June, in the sixteen-hundredth and twenty-third year of our lord.

A pressed rose, given to me by Mary before I left.

It has been several years since I have seen the smiling faces and green fields of Spielburg, the village that I grew up in. Though it is only a two day journey from Lancaster, this final part of my return seems like it will take an eternity. I have no regrets about leaving to pursue my education, however, for I feel that the brightness of future is to be well worth the time I have spent and the money that mother was able to convince father to put forth for this endeavor. That was of course the challenge, convincing father that my choice to study religion would only increase our family’s honour. He, of course, was almost immovable in the idea that I should follow my older brother William’s path and become a man educated solely in the law, though my brother has yet to do anything with that education other than hold it over my head. It was father’s belief that no son of his should ever be bound up in the chains of the clergy as it was not fitting for men of our stature, something that I learned from my fellow students was a commonly shared thought amongst the older gentry in England. In the end, however, my mother and I prevailed in our argument that the study of religion was not limited to becoming a priest or otherwise dedicated to the church. In the end, my father consented to send me to Oxford to study religion, under the constraint that I dedicate at least some of my time to law as well. I have to say that this, despite my initial reservations, has been enlightening to say the least. While I have thoroughly enjoyed my religious studies, I have become quite fond of applying what I have learned in my law studies to matters of religion. It would seem that my goals for myself and my father’s goals for me were not so incompatible after all. So now I am returning to the ancient streets of Spielburg to rest and determine what I shall do with the rest of my life. I would have to say that my greatest regret about leaving was not being within the presence of my childhood friend, Mary. Though we knew that our different social status would have made anything more than friendship a challenge, her family running the local inn in our village, we spent so much time together as youths that it would be incorrect to say that our feelings did not extend beyond the realm of friendship. We had exchanged several letters and other tokens since I left, but due to the distance between us, these were too few and far between for my liking.  So now, as I am about to board the carriage that will traverse that last few miles to the village of my birth, while I find myself thinking of my home and my family, the sound of her laugh and the glow of her cheeks remain at the forefront of my mind.