KNIA 
 
 'I S4L-* Jlu 3^- ^ctnic ( 
 .Z'u ^c-//u, (lali^oini

 
 DOROTHY OSBORNE
 
 
 
 turfwtffa fantfvn 
 
 (1 ><ru^ TfUicA,
 
 LETTERS FROM 
 DOROTHY OSBORNE 
 
 TO 
 
 SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE 
 
 1652-54 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 EDWARD ABBOTT PARRY 
 
 (Barrister-at-Law) 
 
 loch. Here are letters for you. 
 
 Post. Their tenor good, I trust? 
 lack. 'Tis very like. 
 
 Cymbeliite, Act it. Sc. U 
 
 Printed for Dodd, Mead, & Company, 
 753 and 755 Broadway, New York, 
 
 MDCCCLXXXVIII.
 
 [Tkt Right t of Trantlation and of Reproduction art retervtd.]
 
 TO 
 MY DAUGHTER 
 
 HELEN 
 
 THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED 
 EXEMPLI GRATIA.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 I. INTRODUCTION, i 
 
 II. EARLY LETTERS. Winter and Spring 1652-53, . 24 
 
 III. LIFE AT CHICK.SANDS. 1653, .... 56 
 
 IV. DESPONDENCY. Christmas 1653, . . . 197 
 
 V. THE LAST OF CHICKSANDS. February and 
 
 March 1654, . . . . . . .221 
 
 VI. VISITING. Summer 1654, 270 
 
 VII. THE END OF THE THIRD VOLUME, . . .. 316 
 
 APPENDIX LADY TEMPLE, .... 322 
 
 INDEX, 329 
 
 The two Portraits are from the originals by Sir Peter Lely, in the 
 possession of Sir George Osborn, Bart.^ of Chicksands Prionj.
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 " AN editor," says Dr. Johnson, is " he that revises or 
 prepares any work for publication ; " and this definition of 
 an editor's duty seems wholly right and satisfactory. 
 But now that the revision of these letters is apparently 
 complete, the reader has some right to expect a formal 
 introduction to a lady whose name he has, in all 
 probability, never heard ; and one may not be over- 
 stepping the modest and Johnsonian limits of an editor's 
 office, when the writing of a short introduction is included 
 among the duties of preparation. 
 
 Dorothy Osborne was the wife of the famous Sir 
 William Temple, and apology for her biography will 
 be found in her own letters, here for the first time 
 published. Some of them have indeed been printed 
 in a Life of Sir William Temple by the Right 
 Honourable Thomas Peregrine Courtenay, a man better 
 known to the Tory politician of fifty years ago than 
 to any world of letters in that day or this. Forty- 
 two extracts from these letters did Courtenay transfer 
 to an Appendix, without arrangement or any form of 
 editing, as he candidly confesses ; but not without mis- 
 givings as to how they would be received by a people 
 thirsting to read the details of the negotiations which 
 took place in connection with the Triple Alliance. If 
 Courtenay lived to learn that the world had other things 
 
 A
 
 2 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 to do than pore over dull excerpts from inhuman State 
 papers, we may pity his awakening ; but we can never 
 quite forgive the apologetic paragraph with which he 
 relegates Dorothy Osborne's letters to the mouldy 
 obscurity of an Appendix. 
 
 When Macaulay was reviewing Courtenay's book in 
 the Edinburgh Review, he took occasion to write a short 
 but living sketch of the early history of Sir William 
 Temple and Dorothy Osborne. And with this account 
 so admirably written, ready at hand, it becomes the 
 clear duty of the Editor to quote rather than to rewrite ; 
 which he does with the greater pleasure, remembering 
 that it was this very passage that first led him to read 
 the letters of Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 "William Temple, Sir John's eldest son, was born in 
 London in the year 1628. He received his early educa- 
 tion under his maternal uncle, was subsequently sent to 
 school at Bishop-Stortford, and, at seventeen, began to 
 reside at Emmanuel College, Cambridge, where the 
 celebrated Cudworth was his tutor. The times were not 
 favourable to study. The Civil War disturbed even the 
 quiet cloisters and bowling-greens of Cambridge, pro- 
 duced violent revolutions in the government and dis- 
 cipline of the colleges, and unsettled the minds of the 
 students. Temple forgot at Emmanuel all the little 
 Greek which he had brought from Bishop-Stortford, and 
 never retrieved the loss; a circumstance which would 
 hardly be worth noticing but for the almost incredible 
 fact, that fifty years later he was so absurd as to set up 
 his own authority against that of Bentley on questions of 
 Greek history and philology. He made no proficiency, 
 either in the old philosophy which still lingered in the 
 schools of Cambridge, or in the new philosophy of which 
 Lord Bacon was the founder. But to the end of his life
 
 Introduction. 3 
 
 he continued to speak of the former with ignorant 
 admiration, and of the latter with equally ignorant 
 contempt. 
 
 " After residing at Cambridge two years, he departed 
 without taking a degree, and set out upon his travels. 
 He seems to have been then a lively, agreeable young 
 man of fashion, not by any means deeply read, but 
 versed in all the superficial accomplishments of a 
 gentleman, and acceptable in all polite societies. In 
 politics he professed himself a Royalist. His opinions 
 on religious subjects seem to have been such as might 
 be expected from a young man of quick parts, who had 
 received a rambling education, who had not thought 
 deeply, who had been disgusted by the morose austerity 
 of the Puritans, and who, surrounded from childhood by 
 the hubbub of conflicting sects, might easily learn to 
 feel an impartial contempt for them all. 
 
 " On his road to France he fell in with the son and 
 daughter of Sir Peter Osborne. Sir Peter held Guernsey 
 for the King, and the young people were, like their 
 father, warm for the Royal cause. At an inn where they 
 stopped in the Isle of Wight, the brother amused himself 
 with inscribing on the windows his opinion of the ruling 
 powers. For this instance of malignancy the whole party 
 were arrested, and brought before the Governor. The 
 sister, trusting to the tenderness which, even in those 
 troubled times, scarcely any gentleman of any party ever 
 failed to show where a woman was concerned, took the 
 crime on herself, and was immediately set at liberty 
 with her fellow-travellers. 
 
 " This incident, as was natural, made a deep impression 
 on Temple. He was only twenty. Dorothy Osborne 
 was twenty-one. She is said to have been handsome ; 
 and there remains abundant proof that she possessed
 
 4 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 an ample share of the dexterity, the vivacity, and the 
 tenderness of her sex. Temple soon became, in the 
 phrase of that time, her servant, and she returned his 
 regard. But difficulties, as great as ever expanded a 
 novel to the fifth volume, opposed their wishes. When 
 the courtship commenced, the father of the hero was 
 sitting in the Long Parliament ; the father of the 
 heroine was commanding in Guernsey for King Charles. 
 Even when the war ended, and Sir Peter Osborne 
 returned to his seat at Chicksands, the prospects of 
 the lovers were scarcely less gloomy. Sir John Temple 
 had a more advantageous alliance in view for his son. 
 Dorothy Osborne was in the meantime besieged by as 
 many suitors as were drawn to Belmont by the fame 
 of Portia. The most distinguished on the list was 
 Henry Cromwell. Destitute of the capacity, the energy, 
 the magnanimity of his illustrious father, destitute also 
 of the meek and placid virtues of his elder brother, 
 this young man was perhaps a more formidable rival 
 in love than either of them would have been. Mrs. 
 Hutchinson, speaking the sentiments of the grave 
 and aged, describes him as an ' insolent foole,' and 
 a ' debauched ungodly cavalier.' These expressions 
 probably mean that he was one who, among young 
 and dissipated people, would pass for a fine gentle- 
 man. Dorothy was fond of dogs, of larger and more 
 formidable breed than those which lie on modern 
 hearthrugs ; and Henry Cromwell promised that the 
 highest functionaries at Dublin should be set to work to 
 procure her a fine Irish greyhound. She seems to have 
 felt his attentions as very flattering, though his father 
 was then only Lord General, and not yet Protector. 
 Love, however, triumphed over ambition, and the 
 young lady appears never to have regretted her
 
 Introduction. 5 
 
 decision ; though, in a letter written just at the time 
 when all England was ringing with the news of the 
 violent dissolution of the Long Parliament, she could 
 not refrain from reminding Temple with pardonable 
 vanity, 'how great she might have been, if she had 
 been so wise as to have taken hold of the offer of H. C.' 
 " Nor was it only the influence of rivals that Temple 
 had to dread. The relations of his mistress regarded 
 him with personal dislike, and spoke of him as an un- 
 principled adventurer, without honour or religion, ready 
 to render service to any party for the sake of prefer- 
 ment. This is, indeed, a very distorted view of Temple's 
 character. Yet a character, even in the most distorted 
 view taken of it by the most angry and prejudiced 
 minds, generally retains something of its outline. No 
 caricaturist ever represented Mr. Pitt as a Falstaff, or 
 Mr. Fox as a skeleton ; nor did any libeller ever impute 
 parsimony to Sheridan, or profusion to Marlborough. 
 It must be allowed that the turn of mind which the 
 eulogists of Temple have dignified with the appellation 
 of philosophical indifference, and which, however becom- 
 ing it may be in an old and experienced statesman, has 
 a somewhat ungraceful appearance in youth, might 
 easily appear shocking to a family who were ready to 
 fight or to suffer martyrdom for their exiled King and 
 their persecuted Church. The poor girl was exceed- 
 ingly hurt and irritated by these imputations on her 
 lover, defended him warmly behind his back, and 
 addressed to himself some very tender and anxious 
 admonitions, mingled with assurances of her confidence 
 in his honour and virtue. On one occasion she was 
 most highly provoked by the way in which one of her 
 brothers spoke of Temple. ' We talked ourselves 
 weary,' she says ; ' he renounced me, and I defied him.'
 
 8 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 " Mr. Courtenay proclaims that he is one of Dorothy 
 Osborne's devoted servants, and expresses a hope that 
 the publication of her letters will add to the number. 
 We must declare ourselves his rivals. She really seems 
 to have been a very charming young woman, modest, 
 generous, affectionate, intelligent, and sprightly ; a 
 Royalist, as was to be expected from her connections, 
 without any of that political asperity which is as un- 
 womanly as a long beard ; religious, and occasionally 
 gliding into a very pretty and endearing sort of preach- 
 ing, yet not too good to partake of such diversions as 
 London afforded under the melancholy rule of the 
 Puritans, or to giggle a little at a ridiculous sermon from 
 a divine who was thought to be one of the great lights 
 of the Assembly at Westminster ; with a little turn for 
 coquetry, which was yet perfectly compatible with warm 
 and disinterested attachment, and a little turn for satire, 
 which yet seldom passed the bounds of good nature. 
 She loved reading ; but her studies were not those of 
 Queen Elizabeth and Lady Jane Grey. She read the 
 verses of Cowley and Lord Broghill, French Memoirs 
 recommended by her lover, and the Travels of Fernando 
 Mendez Pinto. But her favourite books were those 
 ponderous French romances which modern readers 
 know chiefly from the pleasant satire of Charlotte 
 Lennox. She could not, however, help laughing at the 
 vile English into which they were translated. Her own 
 style is very agreeable ; nor are her letters at all the worse 
 for some passages in which raillery and tenderness are 
 mixed in a very engaging namby-pamby. 
 
 " When at last the constancy of the lovers had 
 triumphed over all the obstacles which kinsmen and 
 rivals could oppose to their union, a yet more serious 
 calamity befell them. Poor Mistress Osborne fell ill of
 
 Introduction. 9 
 
 the small-pox, and, though she escaped with life, lost 
 all her beauty. To this most severe trial the affection 
 and honour of the lovers of that age was not unfre- 
 quently subjected. Our readers probably remember 
 what Mrs. Hutchinson tells us of herself. The lofty 
 Cornelia-like spirit of the aged matron seems to melt 
 into a long forgotten softness when she relates how her 
 beloved Colonel ' married her as soon as she was able 
 to quit the chamber, when the priest and all that saw 
 her were affrighted to look on her. But God,' she 
 adds, with a not ungraceful vanity, ' recompensed his 
 justice and constancy by restoring her as well as before.' 
 Temple showed on this occasion the same justice and 
 constancy which did so much honour to Colonel 
 Hutchinson. The date of the marriage is not exactly 
 known, but Mr. Courtenay supposes it to have taken 
 place about the end of the year 1654. From this time 
 we lose sight of Dorothy, and are reduced to form our 
 opinion of the terms on which she and her husband 
 were from very slight indications which may easily 
 mislead us." 
 
 When an editor is in the pleasant position of being 
 able to retain an historian of the eminence of Macaulay 
 to write a large portion of his introduction, it would 
 ill become him to alter and correct his statements 
 wherever there was a petty inaccuracy ; still it is neces- 
 sary to say, once for all, that there are occasional errors 
 in the passage, as where Macaulay mentions that 
 Chicksands is no longer the property of the Osbornes, 
 though happily not one of these errors is in itself 
 important. To our thinking, too, in the character that 
 he draws of our heroine, Macaulay hardly appears to be 
 sufficiently aware of the sympathetic womanly nature of 
 Dorothy, and the dignity of her disposition ; so that he
 
 io Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 is persuaded to speak of her too constantly from the 
 position of a man of the world praising with patronizing 
 emphasis the pretty qualities of a school-girl. But we 
 must remember, that in forming our estimate of her 
 character, we have an extended series of letters before 
 us ; and from these the reader can draw his own conclu- 
 sions as to the accuracy of Macaulay's description, and 
 the importance of Dorothy's character. 
 
 It was this passage from Macaulay that led the 
 Editor to Courtenay's Appendix, and it was the literary 
 and human charm of the letters themselves that 
 suggested the idea of stringing them together into a 
 connected story or sketch of the love affairs of Dorothy 
 Osborne. This was published in April 1886 in the 
 English Illustrated Magazine, and happened, by good 
 luck, to fall into the hands of an admirer of Dorothy, 
 who, having had access to the original letters, had made 
 faithful and loving copies of each one, accurate even 
 to the old-world spelling. These labours had been 
 followed up by much patient research, the fruits of 
 which were now to be generously offered to the present 
 Editor on condition that he would prepare the letters for 
 the press. The owner of the letters having courteously 
 expressed his acquiescence, nothing remained but to 
 give to the task that patient care that it is easy to give 
 to a labour of love. 
 
 A few words of explanation as to the arrangement of 
 the letters. Although few of them were dated, it was 
 found possible, by minute analysis of their contents, to 
 place them in approximately correct order ; and if one 
 could not date each letter, one could at least assign 
 groups of letters to specific months or seasons of the 
 year. The fact that New Year's day was at this period 
 March 25 a fact sometimes ignored by antiquarians
 
 Introduction. 1 1 
 
 of high repute adds greatly to the difficulty of ascer- 
 taining exact dates, and as an instance of this we 
 find in different chronicles of authority Sir Peter 
 Osborne's death correctly, yet differently, given as 
 happening in March 1653 and March 1654. Through- 
 out this volume the ordinary New Year's day has been 
 retained. The further revision and preparation that the 
 letters have undergone is shortly this. The spelling has 
 been modernized, the letters punctuated and arranged 
 in paragraphs, and names indicated by initials have 
 been, wherever it was possible, written in full. A note 
 has been prefixed to each letter, printed in smaller type 
 than the letter itself, and dealing with all the allusions 
 contained in it. This system is very fit to be applied 
 to Dorothy's letters, because, by its use, Dorothy is 
 left to tell her own story without the constant and 
 irritating references to footnotes or Appendix notes 
 that other arrangements necessitate. The Editor has 
 a holy horror of the footnote, and would have it 
 relegated to those " biblia a-biblia " from which class he 
 is sure Elia would cheerfully except Dorothy's letters. 
 In the notes themselves the endeavour has been to 
 obtain, where it was possible, parallel references to 
 letters, diaries, or memoirs, and the Editor can only 
 regret that his researches, through both MSS. and printed 
 records, have been so little successful. In the case 
 of well-known men like Algernon Sydney, Lord Man- 
 chester, Edmund Waller, etc., no attempt has been made 
 to write a complete note, their lives and works being 
 sufficiently well known ; but in the case of more obscure 
 persons, as, for instance, Dorothy's brother-in-law, Sir 
 Thomas Peyton, all the known details of their history 
 have been carefully collected. Yet in spite of patience, 
 toil, and the kindness of learned friends, the Editor is
 
 io Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 is persuaded to speak of her too constantly from the 
 position of a man of the world praising with patronizing 
 emphasis the pretty qualities of a school-girl. But we 
 must remember, that in forming our estimate of her 
 character, we have an extended series of letters before 
 us ; and from these the reader can draw his own conclu- 
 sions as to the accuracy of Macaulay's description, and 
 the importance of Dorothy's character. 
 
 It was this passage from Macaulay that led the 
 Editor to Courtenay's Appendix, and it was the literary 
 and human charm of the letters themselves that 
 suggested the idea of stringing them together into a 
 connected story or sketch of the love affairs of Dorothy 
 Osbornc. This was published in April 1886 in the 
 English Illustrated Magazine^ and happened, by good 
 luck, to fall into the hands of an admirer of Dorothy, 
 who, having had access to the original letters, had made 
 faithful and loving copies of each one, accurate even 
 to the old-world spelling. These labours had been 
 followed up by much patient research, the fruits of 
 which were now to be generously offered to the present 
 Editor on condition that he would prepare the letters for 
 the press. The owner of the letters having courteously 
 expressed his acquiescence, nothing remained but to 
 give to the task that patient care that it is easy to give 
 to a labour of love. 
 
 A few words of explanation as to the arrangement of 
 the letters. Although few of them were dated, it was 
 found possible, by minute analysis of their contents, to 
 place them in approximately correct order ; and if one 
 could not date each letter, one could at least assign 
 groups of letters to specific months or seasons of the 
 year. The fact that New Year's day was at this period 
 March 25 a fact sometimes ignored by antiquarians
 
 Introduction. 1 1 
 
 of high repute adds greatly to the difficulty of ascer- 
 taining- exact dates, and as an instance of this we 
 find in different chronicles of authority Sir Peter 
 Osborne's death correctly, yet differently, given as 
 happening in March 1653 and March 1654. Through- 
 out this volume the ordinary New Year's day has been 
 retained. The further revision and preparation that the 
 letters have undergone is shortly this. The spelling has 
 been modernized, the letters punctuated and arranged 
 in paragraphs, and names indicated by initials have 
 been, wherever it was possible, written in full. A note 
 has been prefixed to each letter, printed in smaller type 
 than the letter itself, and dealing with all the allusions 
 contained in it. This system is very fit to be applied 
 to Dorothy's letters, because, by its use, Dorothy is 
 left to tell her own story without the constant and 
 irritating references to footnotes or Appendix notes 
 that other arrangements necessitate. The Editor has 
 a holy horror of the footnote, and would have it 
 relegated to those " biblia a-biblia " from which class he 
 is sure Elia would cheerfully except Dorothy's letters. 
 In the notes themselves the endeavour has been to 
 obtain, where it was possible, parallel references to 
 letters, diaries, or memoirs, and the Editor can only 
 regret that his researches, through both MSS. and printed 
 records, have been so little successful. In the case 
 of well-known men like Algernon Sydney, Lord Man- 
 chester, Edmund Waller, etc., no attempt has been made 
 to write a complete note, their lives and works being 
 sufficiently well known ; but in the case of more obscure 
 persons, as, for instance, Dorothy's brother-in-law, Sir 
 Thomas Peyton, all the known details of their history 
 have been carefully collected. Yet in spite of patience, 
 toil, and the kindness of learned friends, the Editor is
 
 12 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 bound to acknowledge that some names remain mere 
 words to him, and but too many allusions are mysteriously 
 dim. 
 
 The division of the letters into chapters, at first sight 
 an arbitrary arrangement, really follows their natural 
 grouping. The letters were written in the years 1653 
 and 1654, and form a clear and connected story of the 
 love affairs of the young couple during that time. The 
 most important group of letters, both from the number 
 of letters contained in it and the contents of the letters 
 themselves, is that entitled "Life at Chicksands, 1653." 
 The Editor regards this group as the very mainland of 
 the epistolary archipelago that we are exploring. For 
 it is in this chapter that a clear idea of the domestic 
 social life of these troublous times is obtainable, none 
 the less valuable in that it does not tally altogether 
 with our preconceived and too romantic notions. Here, 
 too, we find what Macaulay longed for those social 
 domestic trivialities which the historians have at length 
 begun to value rightly. Here are, indeed, many things 
 of no value to Dryasdust and his friends, but of 
 moment to us, who look for and find true details of life 
 and character in nearly every line. And above all 
 things, here is a living presentment of a beautiful 
 woman, pure in dissolute days, passing quiet hours of 
 domestic life amongst her own family, where we may 
 all visit her and hear her voice, even in the very tones in 
 which she spoke to her lover. 
 
 And now the Editor feels he must augment Macaulay's 
 sketch of Dorothy Osborne with some account of the 
 Osborne family, of whom it consisted, what part it took 
 in the struggle of the day, and what was the past 
 position of Dorothy's ancestors. All that can be 
 promised is, that such account shall be as concise as
 
 Introduction. 1 3 
 
 may be consistent with clearness and accuracy, and 
 that it shall contain nothing but ascertained facts. 
 
 There were Osbornes before there were Osbornes 
 of Chicksands who, coming out of the north, settled 
 at Purleigh in Essex, where we find them in the year 
 1442. From this date, passing lightly over a hundred 
 troubled years, we find Peter Osborne, Dorothy's great- 
 grandfather, born in 1521. He was Keeper of the 
 Purse to Edward VI., and was twice married, his second 
 wife being Alice, sister of Sir John Cheke, a family we 
 read of in Dorothy's letters. One of his daughters, 
 named Catharine, he had a well-balanced family of 
 eleven sons and eleven daughters, afterwards married 
 Sir Thomas Cheke. Peter Osborne died in 1 592 ; and 
 Sir John Osborne, Peter's son and Dorothy's grand- 
 father, was the first Osborne of Chicksands. It was 
 he who settled at Chicksands, in Bedfordshire, and 
 purchased the neighbouring rectory at Hawnes, to 
 restore it to that Church of which he and his family 
 were in truth militant members ; and having generously 
 built and furnished a parsonage house, he presented 
 it in the first place to the celebrated preacher Thomas 
 Brightman, who died there in 1607. It is this rectory 
 that in 1653-54 ' 1S ^ n tne hands of the Rev. Edward 
 Gibson, who appears from time to time in Dorothy's 
 letters, and who was on occasions the medium through 
 which Temple's letters reached their destination, and 
 avoided falling into the hands of Dorothy's jealous 
 brother. Sir John Osborne married Dorothy Barlee, 
 grand-daughter of Richard Lord Rich, Lord Chancellor 
 of England in the reign of Henry VIII. Sir John was 
 Treasurer's Remembrancer in the Exchequer for many 
 years during the reign of James I., and was also a 
 Commissioner of the Navy. He died November 2, 1628,
 
 14 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 and was buried in Campton Church, Chicksands lies 
 between the village of Hawnes and Campton, where a 
 tablet to his memory still exists. 
 
 Sir John had five sons : Peter, the eldest, Dorothy's 
 father, who succeeded him in his hereditary office 
 of Treasurer's Remembrancer ; Christopher, Thomas, 
 Richard, and Francis, Francis Osborne may be men- 
 tioned as having taken the side of the Parliament in the 
 Civil Wars. He was Master of the Horse to the Earl 
 of Pembroke, and is noticeable to us as the only known 
 relation of Dorothy who published a book. He was the 
 author of an Advice to his Son, in two parts, and some 
 tracts published in 1722, of course long after his death. 
 
 Of Sir Peter himself we had at one time thought to 
 write at some length. The narrative of his defence of 
 Castle Cornet for the King, embodied in his own letters, 
 in the letters and papers of George Cartcret, Governor 
 of Jersey, in the detailed account left behind by a 
 native of Guernsey, and in the State papers of the 
 period, is one of the most interesting episodes in an 
 epoch of episodes. But though the collected material 
 for some short life of Sir Peter Osborne lies at hand, it 
 seems scarcely necessary for the purpose of this book, 
 and so not without reluctance it is set aside. 
 
 Sir Peter was an ardent loyalist. In his obstinate 
 flesh and blood devotion to the house of Stuart he was 
 as sincere and thorough as Sir Henry Lee, Sir Geoffrey 
 Pcveril, or Kentish Sir Byng. He was the incarnation 
 of the malignant of latter-day fiction. 
 
 " King Charles, and who'll do him right now? 
 King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? 
 Give a rouse ; here's in hell's despite now, 
 King Charles." 
 
 To this text his life wrote the comment.
 
 Introduction. 1 5 
 
 In 1621, James I. created him Lieutenant-Governor of 
 Guernsey. He had married Dorothy, daughter of Sir 
 John Danvers. Sir John was the younger brother and 
 heir to the Earl of Danby, and was a Gentleman of the 
 Privy Chamber to the King. Clarendon tells us that he 
 got into debt, and to get out of debt found himself in 
 Cromwell's counsel ; that he was a proud, formal, weak 
 man, between being seduced and a seducer, and that he 
 took it to be a high honour to sit on the same bench 
 with Cromwell, who employed him and contemned him 
 at once. The Earl of Danby was the Governor of 
 Guernsey, and Sir Peter was his lieutenant until 1643, 
 when the Earl died, and Sir Peter was made full 
 Governor. It would be in 1643 that the siege of Castle 
 Cornet began, the same year in which the rents of the 
 Chicksands estate were assigned away from their right- 
 ful owner to one Mr. John Blackstone, M.P. Sir Peter 
 was in his stronghold on a rock in the sea ; he was for 
 the King. The inhabitants of the island, more com- 
 fortably situated, were a united party for the Parliament. 
 Thus they remained for three years ; the King writing 
 to Sir Peter to reduce the inhabitants to a state of 
 reason ; the Parliament sending instructions to the 
 jurats of Guernsey to seize the person of Sir Peter; and 
 the Earl of Warwick, prompted, we should suppose, by 
 Sir John Danvers, offering terms to Sir Peter which 
 he indignantly rejected. Meanwhile Lady Osborne 
 Dorothy with her, in all probability was doing 
 her best to victual the castle from the mainland, 
 she living at St. Malo during the siege. At length, 
 her money all spent, her health broken down, she 
 returned to England, and was lost to sight. Sir 
 Peter himself heard nothing of her, ,and her sons in 
 England, who were doing all they could for their
 
 1 6 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 father among the King's friends, did not know of her 
 whereabouts. 
 
 In 1646 he resigned his command. He was weary 
 and heavy laden with unjust burdens heaped on him by 
 those for whom and with whom he was fighting ; he was 
 worn out by the siege ; by the characteristic treachery 
 of the King, who, being unable to assist him, could not 
 refrain from sending lying promises instead ; and by the 
 malice of his neighbour, George Carteret, Governor of 
 Jersey, who himself made free with the Guernsey 
 supplies, while writing home to the King that Sir Peter 
 has betrayed his trust. Betrayed his trust, indeed, when 
 he and his garrison are reduced to " one biscuit a day 
 and a little porrage for supper," together with limpets 
 and herbs in the best mess they can make ; nay, more, 
 when they have pulled up their floors for firewood, and 
 are dying of hunger and want in the stone shell of 
 Castle Cornet for the love of their King. However, cir- 
 cumstances and Sir George Carteret were too much for 
 him, and, at the request of Prince Charles, he resigned 
 his command to Sir Baldwin Wake in May 1646, 
 remaining three years after this date at St. Malo, where 
 he did what he was able to supply the wants of the 
 castle. Sir Baldwin surrendered the castle to Blake 
 in 1650. It was the last fortress to surrender. 
 
 In 1649 Sir Peter, finding the promises of reward 
 made by the Prince to be as sincere as those of his 
 father, returned to England, and probably through the 
 intervention of his father-in-law, who was a strict Par- 
 liament man, his house and a portion of his estates at 
 Chicksands were restored to him. To these he retired, 
 disappointed in spirit, feeble in health, soon to be bereft 
 of the company of his wife, who died towards the end 
 of 1650, and, but for the constant ministering of his
 
 Introduction. 1 7 
 
 daughter Dorothy, living lonely and forgotten, to see 
 the cause for which he had fought discredited and dead. 
 He died in March 1654, after a long, weary illness. 
 The parish register of Campton describes him as " a 
 friend to the poor, a lover of learning, a maintainer of 
 divine exercises." There is still an inscription to his 
 memory on a marble monument on the north side of 
 the chancel in Campton church. 
 
 Sir Peter had seven sons and five daughters. There 
 were only three sons living in 1653 ; the others died 
 young, one laying down his life for the King at Hart- 
 land in Devonshire, in some skirmish, we must now 
 suppose, of which no trace remains. Of those living, Sir 
 John, the eldest son and the first baronet, married his 
 cousin Eleanor Danvers, and lived in Gloucestershire 
 during his father's life. Henry, afterwards knighted, was 
 probably the jealous brother who lived at Chicksands 
 with Dorothy and her father, with whom she had many 
 skirmishes, and who wished in his kind fraternal way 
 to see his sister well that is to say, wealthily 
 married. Robert is a younger brother, a year older 
 than Dorothy, who died in September 1653, and who 
 did not apparently live at Chicksands. Dorothy her- 
 self was born in 1627 ; where, it is impossible to say. 
 Sir Peter was presumably at Castle Cornet at that date, 
 but it is doubtful if Lady Osborne ever stayed there, 
 the accommodation within its walls being straitened 
 and primitive even for that day. Dorothy was probably 
 born in England, maybe at Chicksands. Her other 
 sisters had married and settled in various parts of 
 England before 1653. Her eldest sister (not Anne, as 
 Wotton conjectures) married one Sir Thomas Peyton, 
 a Kentish Royalist of some note. What little could be 
 gleaned of his actions from amongst Kentish antiquities
 
 1 8 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 and history, and such letters of his as lie entombed in 
 the MSS. of the British Museum, is set down hereafter. 
 He appears to have acted, after her father's death, as 
 Dorothy's guardian, and his name occurs more than 
 once in the pages of her letters. 
 
 So much for the Osbornes of Chicksands ; an 
 obstinate, sturdy, quick-witted race of Cavaliers ; linked 
 by marriage to the great families of the land ; aristocrats 
 in blood and in spirit, of whom Dorothy was a worthy 
 descendant Let us try now and picture for ourselves 
 their home. Chixon, Chikesonds, or Chicksands Priory, 
 Bedfordshire, as it now stands, what a pleasing various 
 art was spelling in olden time, was, in the reign of 
 Edward III., a nunnery, situated then, as now, on a 
 slight eminence, with gently rising hills at a short dis- 
 tance behind, and a brook running to join the river Ivel, 
 thence the German Ocean, along the valley in front of 
 the house. The neighbouring scenery of Bedfordshire 
 is on a humble scale, and concerns very little those who 
 do not frequent it and live among it, as we must do for 
 the next year or more. 
 
 The Priory is a low-built sacro-secular edifice, well 
 fitted for its former service. Its priestly denizens were 
 turned out in Henry VIII.'s monk -hunting reign 
 (1538). To the joy or sorrow of the neighbourhood, 
 who knows now? Granted then to one Richard 
 Snow, of whom the records are silent ; by him sold, 
 in Elizabeth's reign, to Sir John Osborne, Knt., thus 
 becoming the ancestral home of our Dorothy. There 
 is a crisp etching of the house in Fisher's Collections 
 of Bedfordshire. The very exterior of it is Catholic, 
 unpuritanical ; no mcthodism about the square windows, 
 set here and there at undecided intervals wheresoever 
 they may be wanted. Six attic windows jut out from
 
 Introduction. 1 9 
 
 the low -tiled roof. At the corner of the house is a 
 high pinnacled buttress rising the full height of the 
 wall ; five buttresses flank the side wall, built so that 
 they shade the lower windows from the morning sun, 
 in one place reaching to the sill of an upper window. 
 At the further end of the wall are two Gothic windows, 
 claustral remnants, lighting now perhaps the dining- 
 hall where cousin Molle and Dorothy sat in state, or 
 the saloon where the latter received her servants. 
 There are still cloisters attached to the house, at the 
 other side of it maybe. Yes, a sleepy country house, 
 the warm earth and her shrubs creeping close up to 
 the very sills of the lower windows, sending in morning 
 fragrance, I doubt not, when Dorothy thrust back the 
 lattice after breakfast. A quiet place, " slow " is the 
 accurate modern epithet for it "awfully slow;" but 
 to Dorothy a quite suitable home, at which she never 
 repines. 
 
 This etching by Thomas Fisher, of December 26, 
 1816, is the more valuable to us since the old Chick- 
 sands Priory no longer remains, having suffered martyr- 
 dom at the bloody hands of the restorer. For through 
 this partly we have attained to a knowledge of 
 Dorothy's surroundings ; and through the baronetages, 
 peerages, and the invincible heaps of genealogical records, 
 we have gathered some few actual facts necessary to be 
 known of Dorothy's relations, her human surroundings, 
 their lives and actions. And we shall not find ourselves 
 following Dorothy's story with the less interest that we 
 have mastered these details about the Osbornes of 
 Chicksands. 
 
 Temple, too, claims the consideration at our hands of 
 a few words concerning his near relatives and their posi- 
 tion in the country. As Macaulay tells us, he was born
 
 2O Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 in 1628, the place of his birth being Blackfriars in 
 London. 
 
 Sir John Temple, his father, was Master of the Rolls 
 and a Privy Councillor in Ireland ; he was in the confi- 
 dence of Robert Sidney, Earl of Leicester, the Lord- 
 Lieutenant of Ireland. Algernon Sydney, the Earl's 
 son, was well known to Temple, and perhaps to Dorothy. 
 Sir John Temple, like his son in after life, refused to 
 look on politics as a game in which it was always 
 advisable to play on the winning side, and thus we 
 find him opposing the Duke of Ormond in Ireland in 
 1643, and suffering imprisonment as a partisan of the 
 Parliament. In England, in 1648, when he was member 
 for Chichester, he concurred with the Presbyterian vote, 
 thereby causing the more advanced section to look 
 askance at him, and he was turned out of the House, 
 or secluded, to use the elegant parliamentary language 
 of the day. From that time he lived in retirement in 
 London until 1654, when, as we read in Dorothy's 
 letters, he and his son go over to Ireland. He 
 resumed his office of Master of the Rolls, and in August 
 of that year was elected to the Irish Parliament as one 
 of the members for Leitrim, Sligo, and Roscommon. 
 
 Temple's mother was a sister of Dr. Hammond, to 
 whom one Dr. John Collop, a poetaster unknown in 
 these days even by name, begins an ode 
 
 "Seraphic Doctor, bright evangelist." 
 
 The "seraphic Doctor" was rector of Penshurst, near 
 Tunbridge Wells, the seat of the Sydneys. From Ham- 
 mond, who was a zealous adherent of Charles I., Temple 
 received much of his early education. When the Par- 
 liament drove Dr. Hammond from his living, Temple 
 was sent to school at Bishop-Stortford ; and the rest
 
 Introduction. 2 1 
 
 of his early life, with an account of his meeting with 
 Dorothy, has been already set down for us by Macaulay. 
 Anno Domini sixteen hundred and fifty -three; 
 let us look round through historic mist for land- 
 marks, so that we may know our whereabouts. The 
 narrow streets of Worcester had been but lately 
 stained by the blood of heaped corpses. Cromwell 
 was meditating an abolition of the Parliament, and a 
 practical coronation of himself. The world had ceased 
 to wonder at English democracy giving laws to their 
 quondam rulers, and the democracy was beginning to be 
 a little tired of itself, to disbelieve in its own irksome 
 discipline, and to sigh for the flesh-pots of a modified 
 Presbyterian monarchy. Cromwell, indeed, was at the 
 height of his glory, his honours lie thick upon him, and 
 now, if ever, he is the regal Cromwell that Victor Hugo 
 has portrayed, the uncrowned King of England, tram- 
 pling under foot that sacred liberty, the baseless ideal 
 for which so many had fought and bled. He is soon to 
 be Lord Protector. He is second to none upon earth. 
 England is again at peace with herself, and takes her 
 position as one of the great Powers of Europe ; Cromwell 
 is England's king. So much for our rulers and politics. 
 Now let us remember our friends, those whom we love 
 on account of the work they have done for us and 
 bequeathed to us, through which we have learned to 
 know them. One of the best beloved and gentlest of 
 these, who by the satire of heaven was born into 
 England in these troublous times, was now wander- 
 ing by brook and stream, scarcely annoyed by the 
 uproar and confusion of the factions around him. And 
 what he knew of England in these days he has left in 
 perhaps the gentlest and most peaceful volume the 
 world has- ever read. I speak of Master Izaak Walton,
 
 22 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 who in this year, 1653, published the first edition of his 
 Compleat Angler, and left a comrade for the idle hours 
 of all future ages. Other friends we have, then living, 
 but none so intimate or well beloved. Mr. Waller, whom 
 Dorothy may have known, Mr. Cowley, Sir Peter Lely, 
 who painted our heroine's portrait, and Dr. Jeremy 
 Taylor ; very courtly and superior persons are some 
 of these, and far removed from our world. Milton is too 
 sublime to be called our friend, but he was Cromwell's 
 friend at this time. Evelyn, too, is already making notes 
 in his journal at Paris and elsewhere ; but little prattling 
 Pepys has not yet begun diary-making. Other names 
 will come to the mind of every reader, but many of 
 these are " people we know by name," as the phrase runs, 
 mere acquaintances, not friends. Nevertheless even 
 these leave us some indirect description of their time, 
 from which we can look back through the mind's eye 
 to this year of grace 1653, in which Dorothy was living 
 and writing. Yes, if we cannot actually visualize the 
 past, these letters will at least convince us that the past 
 did exist, a past not wholly unlike the present ; and if 
 we would realize the significance of it, we have the 
 word of one of our historians, that there is no lamp 
 by which to study the history of this period that gives 
 a brighter and more searching light than contem- 
 porary letters. Thus he recommends their study, and 
 we may apply his words to the letters before us: 
 " A man intent to force for himself some path through 
 that gloomy chaos called History of the Seventeenth 
 Century, and to look face to face upon the same, may 
 perhaps try it by this method as hopefully as by 
 another. Here is an irregular row of beacon fires, once 
 all luminous as suns ; and with a certain inextinguishable 
 crubcsccncc still, in the abysses of the dead deep Night.
 
 Introduction. 23 
 
 Let us look here. In shadowy outlines, in dimmer and 
 dimmer crowding forms, the very figure of the old dead 
 Time itself may perhaps be faintly discernible here." 
 
 With this, I feel that I may cast off some of the forms 
 and solemnities necessary to an editorial introduction, 
 and, assuming a simpler and more personal pronoun, 
 ask the reader, who shall feel the full charm of 
 Dorothy's bright wit and tender womanly sympathy, 
 to remember the thanks due to my fellow -servant, 
 whose patient, single-hearted toil has placed these 
 letters within our reach. And when the reader shall 
 close this volume, let it not be without a feeling of 
 gratitude to the unknown, whose modesty alone prevents 
 me from changing the title of fellow-servant to that 
 of fellow-editor.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 EARLY LETTERS. WINTER AND SPRING 
 1652-53. 
 
 THIS first chapter begins with a long letter, dated from 
 Chicksands sometime in the autumn of 1652, when 
 Temple has returned to England after a long absence. 
 It takes us up to March 1653, about the end of which 
 time Dorothy went to London and met Temple again. 
 The engagement she mentions must have been one that 
 her parents were forcing upon her, and it was not until 
 the London visit, I fancy, that her friendship progressed 
 beyond its original limits ; but in this matter the reader 
 of Dorothy's letters will be as well able to judge as 
 myself. 
 
 Letter I. Goring House, where Dorothy and Temple 
 had last parted, was in 1646 appointed by the House of 
 Commons for the reception of the French Ambassador. 
 In 1665 it was the town house of Mr. Secretary Bennet, 
 afterwards Lord Arlington. Its grounds stood much 
 in the position of the present Arlington Street, and 
 Evelyn speaks of it as an ill-built house, but capable of 
 being made a pretty villa. 
 
 Dorothy mentions, among other things, that she has 
 been " drinking the waters," though she does not say at 
 what place. It would be cither at Barnct, Epsom, or 
 Tunbridge, all of which places are mentioned by con-
 
 Early Letters. 25 
 
 temporary letter-writers as health resorts. At Barnet 
 there was a calcareous spring with a small portion of sea 
 salt in it, which, as we may gather from a later letter, 
 had been but recently discovered. This spring was after- 
 wards, in the year 1677, endowed by one John Owen, 
 who left the sum of ,\ to keep the well in repair "as 
 long as it should be of service to the parish." Towards 
 the end of last century, Lyson mentions that the well 
 was in decay and little used. One wonders what has 
 become of John Owen's legacy. The Epsom spring 
 had been discovered earlier in the century. It was the 
 first of its kind found in England. The town was 
 already a place of fashionable resort on account of its 
 mineral waters ; they are mentioned as of European 
 celebrity ; and as early as 1609 a ball-room was erected, 
 avenues were planted, and neither Bath nor Tunbridge 
 could rival Epsom in the splendour of their appoint- 
 ments. Towards the beginning of the last century, 
 however, the waters gradually lost their reputation. 
 Tunbridge Wells, the last of the three watering-places 
 that Dorothy may have visited, is still flourishing and 
 fashionable. Its springs are said to have been dis- 
 covered by Lord North in 1606 ; and the fortunes of 
 the place were firmly established by a visit paid to the 
 springs by Queen Henrietta Maria, acting under medical 
 advice, in 1630, shortly after the birth of Prince Charles. 
 At this date there was no adequate accommodation for 
 the royal party, and Her Majesty had to live in tents on 
 the banks of the spring. An interesting account of the 
 early legends and gradual growth of Tunbridge Wells is 
 to be found in a^guide-book of 1768, edited by one Mr. 
 J. Sprange. 
 
 The elderly man who proposed to Dorothy was Sir 
 Justinian Isham, Bart, of Lamport in Northampton-
 
 26 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 shire. He himself was about forty-two years of age at 
 this time, and had lost his first wife (by whom he had 
 four daughters) in 1638. The Rev. W. Betham, with 
 that optimism which is characteristic of compilers of 
 peerages, thinks " that he was esteemed one of the 
 most accomplished persons of the time, being a gentle- 
 man, not only of fine learning, but famed for his piety 
 and exemplary life." Dorothy thinks otherwise, and 
 \vritcs of him as " the vainest, impertinent, self-conceited, 
 learned coxcomb that ever yet I saw." Peerages in 
 Dorothy's style would perhaps be unprofitable writing. 
 The " Emperor," as Dorothy calls him in writing to 
 Temple, may feel thankful that his epitaph was in other 
 hands than hers. He appears to have proposed to her 
 more than once, and evidently had her brother's good 
 offices, which I fear were not much in his favour with 
 Dorothy. He ultimately married the daughter of 
 Thomas Lord Leigh of Stoneleigh, sometime in the 
 following year. 
 
 Sir Thomas Osborne, a Yorkshire baronet, afterwards 
 Earl of Danby, is a name not unknown in history. He 
 was a cousin of Dorothy ; his mother, Elizabeth Danvers, 
 being Dorothy's aunt. He afterwards married Lady 
 Bridget Lindsay, the Earl of Lindsay's daughter, and 
 the marriage is mentioned in due course, with Dorothy's 
 comments. His leadership of the "Country Party," 
 when the reins of government were taken from the 
 discredited Cabal, is not matter for these pages, neither 
 are we much concerned to know that he was greedy of 
 wealth and honours, corrupt himself, and a corrupter of 
 others. This is the conventional character of all states- 
 men of all dates and in all ages, reflected in the mirror 
 of envious opposition ; no one believes the description 
 to be true. Judged by the moral standard of his con-
 
 Early Letters. 27 
 
 temporaries, he seems to have been at least of average 
 height. How near was Dorothy to the high places of 
 the State when this man and Henry Cromwell were 
 among her suitors ! Had she been an ambitious woman, 
 illustrious historians would have striven to do justice to 
 her character in brilliant periods, and there would be 
 no need at this day for her to claim her place among 
 the celebrated women of England. 
 
 SIR, There is nothing moves my chanty like 
 gratitude ; and when a beggar is thankful for a 
 small relief, I always repent it was not more. 
 But seriously, this place will not afford much 
 towards the enlarging of a letter, and I am grown 
 so dull with living in't (for I am not willing to 
 confess yet I was always so) as to need all helps. 
 Yet you shall see I will endeavour to satisfy 
 you, upon condition you w r ill tell me why you 
 quarrelled so at your last letter. I cannot guess 
 at it, unless it were that you repented you told 
 me so much of your story, which I am not 
 apt to believe neither, because it would not 
 become our friendship, a great part of it consist- 
 ing (as I have been taught) in a mutual con- 
 fidence. And to let you see that I believe it 
 so, I will give you an account of myself, and 
 begin my story, as you did yours, from our 
 parting at Goring House. 
 
 I came down hither not half so well pleased as 
 I went up, with an engagement upon me that I 
 had little hope of shaking off, for I had made use
 
 28 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 of all the liberty my friends would allow me to 
 preserve my own, and 'twould not do ; he was 
 so weary of his, that he would part with it upon 
 any terms. As my last refuge I got my brother 
 to go down with him to see his house, who, when 
 he came back, made the relation I wished. He 
 said the seat was as ill as so good a country would 
 permit, and the house so ruined for want of living 
 in't, as it would ask a good proportion of time and 
 money to make it fit for a woman to confine her- 
 self to. This (though it were not much) I was 
 willing to take hold of, and made it considerable 
 enough to break the engagement. I had no 
 quarrel to his person or his fortune, but was in 
 love with neither, and much out of love with a 
 thing called marriage; and have since thanked 
 God I was so, for 'tis not long since one of my 
 brothers writ me word of him that he was killed 
 in a duel, though since I have heard that 'twas 
 the other that was killed, and he is fled upon 't, 
 which does not mend the matter much. Both 
 made me glad I had 'scaped him, and sorry 
 for his misfortune, which in earnest was the 
 least return his many civilities to me could 
 deserve. 
 
 Presently, after this was at an end, my mother 
 died, and I was left at liberty to mourn her loss 
 awhile. At length my aunt (with whom I was 
 when you last saw me) commanded me to wait 
 on her at London ; and when I came, she told
 
 Early Letters. 29 
 
 me how much I was in her care, how well she 
 loved me for my mother's sake, and something 
 for my own, and drew out a long set speech 
 which ended in a good motion (as she call'd it) ; 
 and truly I saw no harm in't, for by what I had 
 heard of the gentleman I guessed he expected a 
 better fortune than mine. And it proved so. 
 Yet he protested he liked me so well, that he was 
 very angry my father would not be persuaded to 
 give .1000 more with me; and I him so ill, that 
 I vowed if I had ^1000 less I should have 
 thought it too much for him. And so we parted. 
 Since, he has made a story with a new mistress 
 that is worth your knowing, but too long for a 
 letter. I'll keep it for you. 
 
 After this, some friends that had observed a 
 gravity in my face which might become an elderly 
 man's wife (as they term'd it) and a mother-in- 
 law, proposed a widower to me, that had four 
 daughters, all old enough to be my sisters ; but 
 he had a great estate, was as fine a gentleman 
 as ever England bred, and the very pattern of 
 wisdom. I that knew how much I wanted it, 
 thought this the safest place for me to engage in, 
 and was mightily pleased to think I had met with 
 one at last that had wit enough for himself and 
 me too. But shall I tell you what I thought 
 when I knew him (you will say nothing on't) : 
 'twas the vainest, impertinent, self -conceited, 
 learned coxcomb that ever yet I saw ; to say
 
 3O Letters Jrom Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 more were to spoil his marriage, which I hear is 
 towards with a daughter of my Lord Coleraine's ; 
 but for his sake I shall take care of a fine gentle- 
 man as long as I live. 
 
 Before I have quite ended with him, coming 
 to town about that and some other occasions of 
 my own, I fell in Sir Thomas's way ; and what 
 humour took I cannot imagine, but he made very 
 formal addresses to me, and engaged his mother 
 and my brother to appear in't. This bred a story 
 pleasanter than any I have told you yet, but so 
 long a one that I must reserve it till we meet, or 
 make it a letter of itself. 
 
 The next thing I designed to be rid on was a 
 scurvy spleen that I have been subject to, and to 
 that purpose was advised to drink the waters. 
 There I spent the latter end of the summer, and 
 at my coming home found that a gentleman (who 
 has some estate in this country) had been treating 
 with my brother, and it yet goes on fair and 
 softly. I do not know him so much as to give 
 you much of his character : 'tis a modest, melan- 
 choly, reserved man, whose head is so taken up 
 with little philosophic studies, that I admire how 
 I found a room there. 'Twas sure by chance ; 
 and unless he is pleased with that part of my 
 humour which other people think the worst, 'tis 
 very possible the next new experiment may 
 crowd me out again. Thus you have all my late 
 adventures, and almost as much as this paper will
 
 Early Letters. 3 1 
 
 hold. The rest shall be employed in telling you 
 how sorry I am you have got such a cold. I am 
 the more sensible of your trouble by my own, for 
 I have newly got one myself. But I will send 
 you that which was to cure me. 'Tis like the 
 rest of my medicines : if it do no good, 'twill be 
 sure to do no harm, and 'twill be no great trouble 
 to take a little on't now and then ; for the taste 
 on't, as it is not excellent, so 'tis not very ill. 
 One thing more I must tell you, which is that 
 you are not to take it ill that I mistook your age 
 by my computation of your journey through this 
 country ; for I was persuaded t'other day that I 
 could not be less than thirty years old by One 
 that believed it himself, because he was sure it 
 was a great while since he had heard of such a 
 one as 
 
 Your humble servant. 
 
 Letter 2. This letter, which is dated, comes, I think, 
 at some distance of time from the first letter. Dorothy 
 may have dated her letters to ordinary folk ; but as she 
 writes to her servant once a week at least, she seems to 
 have considered dates to be superfluous. When Temple 
 is in Ireland, her letters are generally dated with the 
 day of the month. Temple had probably returned from 
 a journey into Yorkshire, his travels in Holland were 
 over some time ago, and passing through Bedford 
 within ten miles of Chicksands, he neglected to pay his 
 respects to Dorothy, for which he is duly called to 
 account in Letter 3.
 
 32 Letters from Dorothy Osboi , 
 
 * 
 
 December 24, 1652. 
 
 SIR, You may please to let my old servant 
 (as you call him) know that I confess I owe much 
 to his merits and the many obligations his kind- 
 ness and civilities has laid upon me ; but for the 
 ten pound he claims, it is not yet due, and I think 
 you may do well to persuade him (as a friend) to 
 put it in the number of his desperate debts, for 
 'tis a very uncertain one. In all things else, pray 
 say I am his servant. And now, sir, let me tell 
 you that I am extremely glad (whosoever gave 
 you the occasion) to hear from you, since (without 
 compliment) there are very few persons in the 
 world I am more concerned in ; to find that you 
 have overcome your long journey, and that you 
 are well and in a place where 'tis possible for me 
 to see you, is such a satisfaction as I, who have 
 not been used to many, may be allowed to doubt 
 of. Yet I will hope my eyes do not deceive me, 
 and that I have not forgot to read ; but if you 
 please to confirm it to me by another, you know 
 how to direct it, for I am where I was, still the 
 same, and always 
 
 Your humble servant, 
 
 D. OSBORNE. 
 
 For Mrs. Paynter, 
 
 In Covent Garden. 
 
 (Keep this letter till it be called for.)
 
 Early Letters. 33 
 
 Letter 3. 
 
 January 2nd, 1653. 
 
 SIR, If there were anything in my letter that 
 pleased you I am extremely glad on't, 'twas all 
 due to you, and made it but an equal return for 
 the satisfaction yours gave me. And whatsoever 
 you may believe, I shall never repent the good 
 opinion I have with so much reason taken up. 
 But I forget myself; I meant to chide, and I 
 think this is nothing towards it. Is it possible 
 you came so near me as Bedford and would not 
 see me ? Seriously, I should not have believed 
 it from another ; would your horse had lost all 
 his legs instead of a hoof, that he might not have 
 been able to carry you further, and you, something 
 that you valued extremely, and could not hope to 
 find anywhere but at Chicksands. I could wish 
 you a thousand little mischances, I am so angry 
 with you ; for my life I could not imagine how I 
 had lost you, or why you should call that a 
 silence of six or eight weeks which you intended 
 so much longer. And when I had wearied my- 
 self with thinking of all the unpleasing accidents 
 that might cause it, I at length sat down with a 
 resolution to choose the best to believe, which 
 was that at the end of one journey you had begun 
 another (which I had heard you say you intended), 
 and that your haste, or something else, had 
 hindered you from letting me know it. In this 
 
 c
 
 34 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 ignorance your letter from Breda found me. 
 But for God's sake let me ask you what you 
 have done all this while you have been away ; 
 what you have met with in Holland that could 
 keep you there so long ; why you went no 
 further ; and why I was not to know you went so 
 far ? You may do well to satisfy me in all these. 
 I shall so persecute you with questions else, when 
 I see you, that you will be glad to go thither 
 again to avoid me ; though when that will be I 
 cannot certainly say, for my father has so small a 
 proportion of health left him since my mother's 
 death, that I am in continual fear of him, and dare 
 not often make use of the leave he gives me to 
 be from home, lest he should at some time want 
 such little services as I am able to lend him. 
 Yet I think to be in London in the next term, 
 and am sure I shall desire it because you are 
 there. 
 
 Sir, your humble servant. 
 
 Letter 4. The story of the king who renounced the 
 league with his too fortunate friend is told in the third 
 book of Herodotus. Amasis is the king, and Polycrates 
 the confederate. Dorothy may have read the story in 
 one of the French translations, either that of Pierre 
 Saliat, a cramped duodecimo published in 1580, or that 
 of P. du Rycr, a magnificent folio published in 1646. 
 
 My Lord of Holland's daughter, Lady Diana Rich, 
 was one of Dorothy's dearest and most intimate 
 friends. Dorothy had a high opinion of her etfcel-
 
 Early Letters. 35 
 
 lent wit and noble character, which she is never tired 
 of repeating. We find allusions to her in many of 
 these letters ; she is called " My lady," and her name is 
 always linked to expressions of tenderness and esteem. 
 Her father, Henry Rich, Lord Holland, the second son 
 of the Earl of Warwick, has found place in sterner 
 history than this. He was concerned in a rising in 
 1648, when the King was in the Isle of Wight, the object 
 of which was to rescue and restore the royal prisoner. 
 This rising, like Sir Thomas Peyton's, miscarried, and 
 he suffered defeat at Kingston-on-Thames, on July /th 
 of that year. He was pursued, taken prisoner, and 
 kept in the Tower until after the King's execution. 
 Then he was brought to trial, and, in accordance with 
 the forms and ceremonies of justice, adjudged to death. 
 His head was struck off before the gate of Westminster 
 Hall one cold March morning in the following year, and 
 by his side died Capel and the Duke of Hamilton. 
 By marriage he acquired Holland House, Kensington, 
 which afterwards passed by purchase into the hands of 
 a very different Lord Holland, and has become famous 
 among the houses of London. Of his daughter, Lady 
 Diana, I can learn nothing but that she died unmarried. 
 She seems to have been of a lively, vivacious tempera- 
 ment, and very popular with the other sex. There is a 
 slight clue to her character in the following scrap of 
 letter-writing still preserved among some old manuscript 
 papers of the Hutton family. She writes to Mr. Hutton 
 to escort her in the Park, adding-" This, I am sure, you 
 will do, because I am a friend to the tobacco-box, and 
 such, I am sure, Mr. Hutton will have more respect for 
 than for any other account that could be pretended 
 unto by 
 
 " Your humble servant."
 
 36 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 This, with Dorothy's praise, gives us a cheerful 
 opinion of Lady Diana, of whom we must always wish 
 to know more. 
 
 January 22*/[i653]. 
 
 SIR, Not to confirm you in your belief in 
 dreams, but to avoid your reproaches, I will tell 
 you a pleasant one of mine. The night before I 
 received your first letter, I dreamt one brought 
 me a packet, and told me it was from you. I, that 
 remembered you were by your own appointment 
 to be in Italy at that time, asked the messenger 
 where he had it, who told me my lady, your 
 mother, sent him with it to me ; then my memory 
 failed me a little, for I forgot you had told me she 
 was dead, and meant to give her many humble 
 thanks if ever I were so happy as to see her. 
 When I had opened the letter I found in it 
 two rings; one was, as I remember, an emerald 
 doublet, but broken in the carriage, I suppose, as 
 it might well be, coming so far ; t'other was plain 
 gold, with the longest and the strangest posy that 
 ever was; half on't was Italian, which for my life 
 I could not guess at, though I spent much time 
 about it ; the rest was " there was a Marriage in 
 Cana of Galilee" which, though it was Scripture, 
 I had not that reverence for it in my sleep that I 
 should have had, I think, if I had been awake ; 
 for in earnest the oddness on't put me into that 
 violent laughing that I waked myself with it ; and 
 as a just punishment upon me from that hour
 
 Early Letters. 37 
 
 to this I could never learn whom those rings were 
 for, nor what was in the letter besides. This is 
 but as extravagant as yours, for it is as likely that 
 your mother should send me letters as that I 
 should make a journey to see poor people hanged, 
 or that your teeth should drop out at this age. 
 
 And to remove the opinions you have of my 
 niceness, or being hard to please, let me assure you 
 I am far from desiring my husband should be fond 
 of me at threescore, that I would not have him 
 so at all. 'Tis true I should be glad to have him 
 always kind, and know no reason why he should 
 be wearier of being my master, than he was of 
 being my servant. But it is very possible I may 
 talk ignorantly of marriage ; when I come to make 
 sad experiments on it in my own person I shall 
 know more, and say less, for fear of disheartening 
 others (since 'tis no advantage to foreknow a 
 misfortune that cannot be avoided), and for fear 
 of being pitied, which of all things I hate. Lest 
 you should be of the same humour I will not pity 
 you, lame as you are ; and to speak truth, if you 
 did like it, you should not have it, for you do not 
 deserve it. Would any one in the world, but you, 
 make such haste for a new cold before the old 
 had left him ; in a year, too, when mere colds kill 
 as many as a plague used to do ? Well, seriously, 
 either resolve to have more care of yourself, or I 
 renounce my friendship ; and as a certain king 
 (that my learned knight is very well acquainted
 
 38 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 with), who, seeing one of his confederates in so 
 happy a condition as it was not likely to last, sent 
 his ambassador presently to break off the league 
 betwixt them, lest he should be obliged to mourn 
 the change of his fortune if he continued his 
 friend ; so I, with a great deal more reason, do 
 declare that I will no longer be a friend to one 
 that's none to himself, nor apprehend the loss of 
 what you hazard every day at tennis. They had 
 served you well enough if they had crammed a 
 dozen ounces of that medicine down your throat 
 to have made you remember a quinzy. 
 
 But I have done, and am now at leisure to tell 
 you that it is that daughter of my Lord of Hol- 
 land (who makes, as you say, so many sore eyes 
 with looking on her) that is here ; and if I know 
 her at all, or have any judgment, her beauty is 
 the least of her excellences. And now I speak 
 of her, she has given me the occasion to make a 
 request to you ; it will come very seasonably after 
 my chiding, and I have great reason to expect 
 you should be in the humour of doing anything 
 for me. She says that seals are much in fashion, 
 and by showing me some that she has, has set me 
 a-longing for some too; such as are oldest and 
 oddest are most prized, and if you know anybody 
 that is lately come out of Italy, 'tis ten to one but 
 they have a store, for they are very common 
 there. I do remember you once sealed a letter to 
 me with as fine a one as I have seen. It was a
 
 Early Letters. 39 
 
 Neptune, I think, riding upon a dolphin ; but I'm 
 afraid it was not yours, for I saw it no more. 
 My old Roman head is a present for a prince. 
 If such things come in your way, pray remember 
 me. I am sorry my new carrier makes you rise 
 so early, 'tis not good for your cold ; how might 
 we do that you might lie a-bed and yet I have 
 your letter ? You must use to write before he 
 comes, I think, that it may be sure to be ready 
 against he goes. In earnest consider on't, and 
 take some course that your health and my letters 
 may be both secured, for the loss of either would 
 be very sensible to 
 
 Your humble. 
 
 Letter 5. Sir Justinian is the lover here described. 
 He had four daughters, and it is one of Dorothy's 
 favourite jests to offer Temple a mother-in-law's good 
 word if he will pay court to one of them when she has 
 married the " Emperor." 
 
 SIR, Since you are so easy to please, sure I 
 shall not miss it, and if my idle dreams and 
 thoughts will satisfy you, I am to blame if you 
 want long letters. To begin this, let me tell you 
 I had not forgot you in your absence. I always 
 meant you one of my daughters. You should 
 have had your choice, and, trust me, they say 
 some of them are handsome ; but since things did 
 not succeed, I thought to have said nothing on't, 
 lest you should imagine I expected thanks for my
 
 40 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 good intention, or rather lest you should be too 
 much affected with the thought of what you have 
 lost by my imprudence. It would have been a 
 good strengthening to my Party (as you say) ; 
 but, in earnest, it was not that I aimed at, I only 
 desired to have it in my power to oblige you ; 
 and 'tis certain I had proved a most excellent 
 mother-in-law. Oh, my conscience ! we should 
 all have joined against him as the common enemy, 
 for those poor young wenches are as weary of his 
 government as I could have been. He gives 
 them such precepts, as they say my Lord of 
 Dorchester gives his wife, and keeps them so 
 much prisoners to a vile house he has in North- 
 amptonshire, that if but once I had let them loose, 
 they and his learning would have been sufficient 
 to have made him mad without my help ; but his 
 good fortune would have it otherwise, to which 
 I will leave him, and proceed to give you some 
 reasons why the other motion was not accepted 
 on. The truth is, I had not that longing to ask 
 a mother - in - law's blessing which you say you 
 should have had, for I knew mine too well to 
 think she could make a good one ; besides, I was 
 not so certain of his nature as not to doubt 
 whether she might not corrupt it, nor so confident 
 of his kindness as to assure myself that it would 
 last longer than other people of his age and 
 humour. I am sorry to hear he looks ill, though 
 I think there is no great danger of him. 'Tis but
 
 Early Letters. 41 
 
 a fit of an ague he has got, that the next charm 
 cures, yet he will be apt to fall into it again upon 
 a new occasion, and one knows not how it may 
 work upon his thin body if it comes too often ; 
 it spoiled his beauty, sure, before I knew him, 
 for I could never see it, or else (which is as 
 likely) I do not know it when I see it ; besides 
 that, I never look for it in men. It was nothing 
 that I expected made me refuse these, but some- 
 thing that I feared ; and, seriously, I find I want 
 courage to marry where I do not like. If we 
 should once come to disputes I know who would 
 have the worst on't, and I have not faith enough 
 to believe a doctrine that is often preach'd, which 
 is, that though at first one has no kindness for 
 them, yet it will grow strongly after marriage. Let 
 them trust to it that think good ; for my part, 
 I am clearly of opinion (and shall die in't), that, 
 as the more one sees and knows a person that 
 one likes, one has still the more kindness for 
 them, so, on the other side, one is but the more 
 weary of, and the more averse to, an unpleasant 
 humour for having it perpetually by one. And 
 though I easily believe that to marry one for 
 whom we have already some affection will in- 
 finitely increase that kindness, yet I shall never 
 be persuaded that marriage has a charm to raise 
 love out of nothing, much less out of dislike. 
 
 This is next to telling you what I dreamed and 
 when I rise, but you have promised to be content
 
 42 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 with it. I would now, if I could, tell you when 
 I shall be in town, but I am engaged to my Lady 
 Diana Rich, my Lord of Holland's daughter (who 
 lies at a gentlewoman's hard by me for sore eyes), 
 that I will not leave the country till she does. 
 She is so much a stranger here, and finds so little 
 company, that she is glad of mine till her eyes 
 will give her leave to look out better. They are 
 mending, and she hopes to be at London before 
 the end of this next term ; and so do I, though 
 I shall make but a short stay, for all my business 
 there is at an end when I have seen you, and told 
 you my stories. And, indeed, my brother is so 
 perpetually from home, that I can be very little, 
 unless I would leave my father altogether alone, 
 which would not be well. We hear of great 
 disorders at your masks, but no particulars, only 
 they say the Spanish gravity was much discom- 
 posed. I shall expect the relation from you at 
 your best leisure, and pray give me an account 
 how my medicine agrees with your cold. This 
 if you can read it, for 'tis strangely scribbled, will 
 be enough to answer yours, which is not very 
 long this week; and I am grown so provident 
 that I will not lay out more than I receive, but 
 I am just withal, and therefore you know how to 
 make mine longer when you please ; though, to 
 speak truth, if I should make this so, you would 
 hardly have it this week, for 'tis a good while since 
 'twas call'd for. Your humble servant.
 
 Early Letters. 43 
 
 Letter 6. The journey that Temple is about to take 
 may be a projected journey with the Swedish Embassy, 
 which was soon to set out. Temple was, apparently, 
 on the look-out for some employment, and we hear at 
 different times of his projected excursions into foreign 
 lands. As a matter of fact, he stayed in and near 
 London until the spring of 1654, when he went to 
 Ireland with his father, who was then reinstated in his 
 office of Master of the Rolls. 
 
 Whether the Mr. Grey here written of made love to 
 one or both of the ladies Jane Seymour and Anne 
 Percy it is difficult now to say. I have been able to 
 learn nothing more on the subject than Dorothy tells us. 
 This, however, we know for certain, that they both 
 married elsewhere ; Lady Jane Seymour, the Duke of 
 Somerset's daughter, marrying Lord Clifford of Lones- 
 borough, the son of the Earl of Burleigh, and living to 
 1679, when she was buried in Westminster Abbey. 
 Poor Lady Anne Percy, daughter of the Earl of 
 Northumberland, and niece of the faithless Lady Car- 
 lisle of whom we read in these letters, was already 
 married at this date to Lord Stanhope, Lord Chester- 
 field's heir. She died probably in childbed in 
 November of next year (1654), and was buried at 
 Petworth with her infant son. 
 
 Lady Anne Wentworth was the daughter of the 
 famous and ill-fated Earl of Straffbrd. She married 
 Lord Rockingham. 
 
 The reader will remember that "my lady" is Lady 
 Diana Rich. 
 
 March $th [1653]. 
 
 SIR, I know not how to oblige so civil a 
 person as you are more than by giving you the
 
 44 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 occasion of serving a fair lady. In sober earnest, 
 I know you will not think it a trouble to let your 
 boy deliver these books and this enclosed letter 
 where it is directed for my lady, whom I would, 
 the fainest in the world, have you acquainted with, 
 that you might judge whether I had not reason to 
 say somebody was to blame. But had you reason 
 to be displeased that I said a change in you 
 would be much more pardonable than in him ? 
 Certainly you had not I spake it very inno- 
 cently, and out of a great sense how much she 
 deserves more than anybody else. I shall take 
 heed though hereafter what I write, since you 
 are so good at raising doubts to persecute your- 
 self withal, and shall condemn my own easy faith 
 no more ; for me 'tis a better-natured and a less 
 fault to believe too much than to distrust where 
 there is no cause. If you were not so apt to 
 quarrel, I would tell you that I am glad to hear 
 your journey goes forwarder, but you would 
 presently imagine that 'tis because I would be 
 glad if you were gone ; need I say that 'tis 
 because I prefer your interest much before my 
 own, because I would not have you lose so good 
 a diversion and so pleasing an entertainment (as 
 in all likelihood this voyage will be to you), and 
 because the sooner you go, the sooner I may 
 hope for your return. If it be necessary, I will 
 confess all this, and something more, which is, 
 that notwithstanding all my gallantry and resolu-
 
 Early Letters. 45 
 
 tion, 'tis much for my credit that my courage is 
 put to no greater a trial than parting with you at 
 this distance. But you are not going yet neither, 
 and therefore Ave'll leave the discourse on't till 
 then, if you please, for I find no great entertain- 
 ment in't. And let me ask you whether it be 
 possible that Mr. Grey makes love, they say he 
 does, to my Lady Jane Seymour? If it were 
 expected that one should give a reason for their 
 passions, what could he say for himself? He 
 would not offer, sure, to make us believe my 
 Lady Jane a lovelier person than my Lady Anne 
 Percy. I did not think I should have lived to 
 have seen his frozen heart melted, 'tis the greatest 
 conquest she will ever make ; may it be happy 
 to her, but in my opinion he has not a good- 
 natured look. The younger brother was a 
 servant, a great while, to my fair neighbour, 
 but could not be received ; and in earnest I 
 could not blame her. I was his confidante and 
 heard him make his addresses ; not that I brag 
 of the favour he did me, for anybody might have 
 been so that had been as often there, and he 
 was less scrupulous in that point than one would 
 have been that had had less reason. But in my 
 life I never heard a man say more, nor less to 
 the purpose ; and if his brother have not a better 
 gift in courtship, he will owe my lady's favour 
 to his fortune rather than to his address. My 
 Lady Anne Wentworth I hear is marrying, but
 
 46 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 I cannot learn to whom ; nor is it easy to guess 
 who is worthy of her. In my judgment she is, 
 without dispute, the finest lady I know (one 
 always excepted) ; not that she is at all hand- 
 some, but infinitely virtuous and discreet, of a 
 sober and very different humour from most of 
 the young people of these times, but has as 
 much wit and is as good company as anybody 
 that ever I saw. What would you give that I 
 had but the wit to know when to make an end 
 of my letters ? Never anybody was persecuted 
 with such long epistles ; but you will pardon my 
 unwillingness to leave you, and notwithstanding 
 all your little doubts, believe that I am very 
 much 
 
 Your faithful friend 
 
 and humble servant, 
 
 D. OSBORNE. 
 
 Letter 7. There seem to have been two carriers 
 bringing letters to Dorothy at this time, Harrold and 
 Collins ; we hear something of each of them in the 
 following letters. Those who have seen the present- 
 day carriers in some unawakened market-place in the 
 Midlands, heavy, rumbling, two-horse cars of huge 
 capacity, whose three miles an hour is fast becoming 
 too sluggish for their enfranchised clients ; those who 
 have jolted over the frozen ruts of a fen road, behind 
 their comfortable Flemish horses, and heard the gossip 
 of the farmers and their wives, the grunts of the 
 discontented baggage pig, and the encouraging shouts 
 of the carrier ; those, in a word, who have travelled
 
 Early Letters. 47 
 
 in a Lincolnshire carrier's cart, have, I fancy, a more 
 correct idea of Dorothy's postmen and their convey- 
 ances than any I could quote from authority or draw 
 from imagination. 
 
 Lord Lisle was the son of Robert Sidney, Earl of 
 Leicester, and brother of the famous Algernon. He sat 
 in the Long Parliament for Yarmouth, in the Isle of 
 Wight, and afterwards became a member of the Upper 
 House. Concerning his embassage to Sweden this is 
 again proposed to him in September 1653, but, as we 
 read in the minutes of the Council, " when he was desired 
 to proceed, finding himself out of health, he desired to 
 be excused, whereupon Council still wishing to send 
 the embassy the Queen of Sweden being favourably 
 inclined to the Commonwealth pitched upon Lord 
 Whitelocke, who was willing to go." 
 
 To Lady Sunderland and Mr. Smith there are several 
 amusing references in these letters. Lady Sunderland 
 was the daughter of the Earl of Leicester, and sister of 
 Algernon Sydney. She was born in 1620, and at the 
 age of nineteen married Henry Lord Spencer, who was 
 killed in the battle of Newbury in 1642. After her 
 husband's death, she retired to Brington in Northamp- 
 tonshire, until, wearied with the heavy load of house- 
 keeping, she came to live with her father and mother at 
 Penshurst. In the Earl of Leicester's journal, under 
 date Thursday, July 8th, 1652, we find : "My daughter 
 Spencer was married to Sir Robert Smith at Penshurst, 
 my wife being present with my daughters Strangford, 
 and Lacy Pelham, Algernon and Robin Sydney, etc. ; 
 but I was in London." From this we may imagine 
 the Earl did not greatly approve the match. The 
 ubiquitous Evelyn was there, too, to see " ye marriage 
 of my old fellow collegian Mr. Robt. Smith ; " and the
 
 48 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 place being full of company, he probably enjoyed 
 himself vastly. Lady Sunderland was the Sacharissa 
 of Waller the poet. 
 
 SIR, I am so great a lover of my bed myself 
 that I can easily apprehend the trouble of rising 
 at four o'clock these cold mornings. In earnest, 
 I'm troubled that you should be put to it, and 
 have chid the carrier for coming out so soon ; 
 
 O 
 
 he swears to me he never comes out of town 
 before eleven o'clock, and that my Lady Paynter's 
 footman (as he calls him) brings her letters two 
 hours sooner than he needs to do. I told him 
 he was gone one day before the letter came ; 
 he vows he was not, and that your old friend 
 Collins never brought letters of my Lady Paynter's 
 in his life ; and, to speak truth, Collins did not 
 bring me that letter. I had it from this Harrold 
 two hours before Collins came. Yet it is possible 
 all that he says may not be so, for I have known 
 better men than he lie ; therefore if Collins be 
 more for your ease or conveniency, make use 
 of him hereafter. I know not whether my letter 
 were kind or not, but I'll swear yours was not, 
 and am sure mine was meant to be so. It is 
 not kind in you to desire an increase of my 
 friendship ; that is to doubt it is not as great 
 already as it can be, than which you cannot 
 do me a greater injury. 'Tis my misfortune 
 indeed that it lies not in my power to give
 
 Early Letters. 49 
 
 you better testimony on't than words, otherwise 
 I should soon convince you that 'tis the best 
 quality I have, and that where I own a friend- 
 ship, I mean so perfect a one, as time can neither 
 lessen nor increase. If I said nothing- of my 
 coming to town, 'twas because I had nothing 
 to say that I thought you would like to hear. 
 For I do not know that ever I desired anything 
 earnestly in my life, but 'twas denied me, and I 
 am many times afraid to wish a thing merely lest 
 my Fortune should take that occasion to use me 
 ill. She cannot see, and therefore I may venture 
 to write that I intend to be in London if 
 it be possible on Friday or Saturday come 
 sennight. Be sure you do not read it aloud, 
 lest she hear it, and prevent me, or drive you 
 away before I come. It is so like my luck, 
 too, that you should be going I know not whither 
 again ; but trust me, I have looked for it ever 
 since I heard you were come home. You will 
 laugh, sure, when I shall tell you that hearing 
 that my Lord Lisle was to go ambassador into 
 Sweden, I remember'd your father's acquaintance 
 in that family with an apprehension that he might 
 be in the humour of sending you with him. But 
 for God's sake whither is it that you go ? I 
 would not willingly be at such a loss again as 
 I was after your Yorkshire journey. If it prove 
 as long a one, I shall not forget you ; but in 
 earnest I shall be so possessed with a strong 
 
 D
 
 50 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 splenetic fancy that I shall never see you more 
 in this world, as all the waters in England will 
 not cure. Well, this is a sad story ; we'll have 
 no more on't. 
 
 I humbly thank you for your offer of your 
 head ; but if you were an emperor, I should not 
 be so bold with you as to claim your promise ; 
 you might find twenty better employments for't. 
 Only with your gracious leave, I think I should 
 be a little exalted with remembering that you 
 had been once my friend ; 'twould more endanger 
 my growing proud than being Sir Justinian's 
 mistress, and yet he thought me pretty well 
 inclin'd to't then. Lord ! what would I give 
 that I had a Latin letter of his for you, that 
 he writ to a great friend at Oxford, where he 
 gives him a long and learned character of me ; 
 'twould serve you to laugh at this seven years. 
 If I remember what was told me on't, the 
 worst of my faults was a height (he would not 
 call it pride) that was, as he had heard, the 
 humour of my family; and the best of my com- 
 mendations was, that I was capable of being 
 company and conversation for him. But you 
 do not tell me yet how you found him out. If 
 I had gone about to conceal him, I had been 
 sweetly serv'd. I shall take heed of you here- 
 after ; because there is no very great likelihood 
 of your being an emperor, or that, if you were, I 
 should have your head.
 
 Early Letters. 5 1 
 
 I have sent into Italy for seals ; 'tis to be 
 hoped by that time mine come over, they may 
 be of fashion again, for 'tis an humour that your 
 old acquaintance Mr. Smith and his lady have 
 brought up ; they say she wears twenty strung 
 upon a ribbon, like the nuts boys play withal, 
 and I do not hear of anything else. Mr. Howard 
 presented his mistress but a dozen such seals 
 as are not to be valued as times now go. But 
 a propos of Monsr. Smith, what a scape has he 
 made of my Lady Barbury ; and who would 
 e'er have dreamt he should have had my Lady 
 Sunderland, though he be a very fine gentleman, 
 and does more than deserve her. I think I shall 
 never forgive her one thing she said of him, 
 which was that she married him out of pity; it 
 was the pitifullest saying that ever I heard, and 
 made him so contemptible that I should not have 
 married him for that reason. This is a strange 
 letter, sure, I have not time to read it over, but 
 I have said anything that came into my head 
 to put you out of your dumps. For God's sake 
 be in better humour, and assure yourself I am as 
 much as you can wish, 
 
 Your faithful friend and servant. 
 
 Letter 8. The name of Algernon Sydney occurs 
 more than once in these pages, and it is therefore only 
 right to remind the reader of some of the leading facts 
 in his life. He was born in 1622, and was the second 
 son of Robert Earl of Leicester. He was educated in
 
 52 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 Paris and Italy, and first served in the army in Ireland. 
 On his recall to England he espoused the popular 
 cause, and fought on that side in the battle of Marston 
 Moor. In 1651 he was elected a member of the 
 Council of State, and in this situation he continued to 
 act until 1653. It is unnecessary to mention his 
 republican sympathies, and after the dismissal of the 
 Parliament, his future actions concern us but little. 
 He was arrested, tried, and executed in 1683, on 
 the pretence of being concerned in the Rye House 
 Plot. 
 
 Arundel Howard was Henry, second son of the Karl 
 of Arundel. His father died July 12, 1652. Dorothy 
 would call him Arundel Howard, to distinguish him 
 from the Karl of Berkshire's family. 
 
 SIR, You have made me so rich as I am able 
 to help my neighbours. There is a little head 
 cut in an onyx that I take to be a very good one, 
 and the dolphin is (as you say) the better for 
 being cut less ; the oddness of the figures makes 
 the beauty of these things. If you saw one that 
 my brother sent my Lady Diana last week, you 
 would believe it were meant to fright people 
 withal ; 'twas brought out of the Indies, and cut 
 there for an idol's head : they took the devil him- 
 self for their pattern that did it, for in my life I 
 never saw so ugly a thing, and yet she is as fond 
 on't as if it were as lovely as she herself is. Her 
 eyes have not the flames they have had, nor is 
 she like (I am afraid) to recover them here; but 
 were they irrecoverably lost, the beauty of her
 
 Early Letters. 53 
 
 mind were enough to make her outshine every- 
 body else, and she would still be courted by all 
 that knew how to value her, like la belle aveugle that 
 was Philip the 2nd of France his mistress. I am 
 wholly ignorant of the story you mention, and am 
 confident you are not well inform'd, for 'tis im- 
 possible she should ever have done anything that 
 were unhandsome. If I knew who the person 
 were that is concern'd in't, she allows me so 
 much freedom with her,, that I could easily put 
 her upon the discourse, ad I do not think she 
 would use much of disguise in it towards me. I 
 should have guessed it Algernon Sydney, but 
 that I cannot see in him that likelihood of a 
 fortune which you seem to imply by saying 'tis 
 not present. But if you should mean by that, 
 that 'tis possible his wit and good parts may raise 
 him to one, you must pardon if I am not of your 
 opinion, for I do not think these are times for 
 anybody to expect preferment in that deserves 
 it, and in the best 'twas ever too uncertain for a 
 wise body to trust to. But I am altogether of 
 your mind, that my Lady Sunderland is not to be 
 followed in her marrying fashion, and that Mr. 
 Smith never appear'd less her servant than in 
 desiring it ; to speak truth, it was convenient for 
 neither of them, and in meaner people had been 
 plain undoing one another, which I cannot under- 
 stand to be kindness of either side. She has lost 
 by it much of the repute she had gained by
 
 54 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 keeping herself a widow; it was then believed 
 that wit and discretion were to be reconciled in 
 her person that have so seldom been persuaded 
 to meet in anybody else. But we are all 
 mortal. 
 
 I did not mean that Howard. 'Twas Arumlrl 
 Howard. And the seals were some remainders 
 that showed his father's love to antiquities, and 
 therefore cost him dear enough if that would 
 make them good. I am sorry I cannot follow 
 your counsel in keeping fair with Fortune. I am 
 not apt to suspect without just cause, but in 
 earnest if I once find anybody faulty towards me, 
 they lose me for ever ; I have forsworn being 
 twice deceived by the same person. For God's 
 sake do not say she has the spleen, I shall hate it 
 worse than ever I did, nor that it is a disease of 
 the wits, I shall think you abuse me, for then I 
 am sure it would not be mine ; but were it certain 
 that they went together always, I dare swear 
 there is nobody so proud of their wit as to keep 
 it upon such terms, but would be glad after they 
 had endured it a while to let them both go as 
 they came. I know nothing yet that is likely to 
 alter my resolution of being in town on Saturday 
 next ; but I am uncertain where I shall be, and 
 therefore it will be best that I send you word 
 when I am there. I should be glad to see you 
 sooner, but that I do not know myself what com- 
 pany I may have with me. I meant this letter
 
 Early Letters. 55 
 
 longer when I begun it, but an extreme cold that 
 I have taken lies so in my head, and makes it 
 ache so violently, that I hardly see what I do. 
 I'll e'en to bed as soon as I have told you that I 
 am very much 
 
 Your faithful friend 
 
 and servant, 
 
 D. OSBORNE.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 LIFE AT CHICKSANDS. 1653. 
 
 Letter 9. Temple's sister here mentioned was his 
 only sister Martha, who married Sir Thomas Giflard in 
 1662, and was left a widow within two months of her 
 marriage. She afterwards lived with Temple and his 
 wife, was a great favourite with them, and their con- 
 fidential friend. Lady Giffard has left a manuscript 
 life of her brother from which the historian Courtenay 
 deigned to extract some information, whereby we in 
 turn have benefited. She outlived both her brother and 
 his wife, to carry on a warlike encounter with her 
 brother's amanuensis, Mr. Jonathan Swift, over Temple's 
 literary remains. Esther Johnson, the unfortunate 
 Stella, was Lady Giftard's maid. 
 
 CltopAtre and Le Grand Cyrus appear to have been 
 Dorothy's literary companions at this date. She would 
 read these in the original French ; and, as she tells us 
 somewhere, had a scorn of translations. Both these 
 romances were much admired, even by people of taste ; 
 a thing difficult to understand, until we remember that 
 Fielding, the first and greatest English novelist, was yet 
 unborn, and novels, as we know them, non-existing. 
 Both the romances found translators ; Cyrus, in one 
 mysterious F. G. Gent the translation was published 
 in this year ; Ctiop&tre, in Richard Loveday, an elegant 
 letter-writer of this time.
 
 Life at Chicksands. 57 
 
 Artamencs, or Le Grand Cyrus y the masterpiece of 
 Mademoiselle Madeleine de Scuderi, is contained in no 
 less than ten volumes, each of which in its turn has 
 many books ; it is, in fact, more a collection of romances 
 than a single romance. La Cle'opdtre, a similar work, 
 was originally published in twenty-three volumes of 
 twelve parts, each part containing three or four books. 
 It is but a collection of short stories. Its author 
 rejoiced in the romantic title of Gauthier de Costes 
 Chevalier Seigneur de la Calprenede ; he published 
 Cldopdtre in 1642 ; he was the author of other romances, 
 and some tragedies, noted only for their worthlessness. 
 Even Richelieu, "quoiqu' admirateur indulgent de la 
 mediocrit^," could not stand Calprenede's tragedies. 
 Rcine Marguerite is probably the translation by Robert 
 Codrington of the Memorials of Margaret of Valois, 
 first wife of Henri IV. Bussy is a servant of the Duke 
 of Avenson, Margaret's brother, with whom Margaret 
 is very intimate. 
 
 Of Lady Sunderland and Mr. Smith we have already 
 sufficient knowledge. As for Sir Justinian, we are not 
 to think he was already married ; the reference to his 
 " new wife " is merely jocular, meaning his new wife 
 when he shall get one ; for Sir Justinian is still wife- 
 hunting, and comes back to renew his suit with Dorothy 
 after this date. " Your fellow-servant," who is as often 
 called Jane, appears to have been a friend and com- 
 panion of Dorothy, in a somewhat lower rank of life. 
 Mrs. Goldsmith, mentioned in a subsequent letter, 
 wife of Daniel Goldsmith, the rector of Campton, 
 in which parish Chicksands was situated, acted as 
 chaperon or duenna companion to Dorothy, and Jane 
 was, it seems to me, in a similar position ; only, being 
 a younger woman than the rector's wife, she was more
 
 58 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 the companion and less the duenna. The servants and 
 companions of ladies of that date were themscl 
 gentlewomen of good breeding. Waller writes ver 
 to Mrs. Braughton, servant to Sacharissa, commencing 
 his lines, " Fair fellow-servant." Temple, had he written 
 verse to his mistress, would probably have left us some 
 " Lines to Jane." 
 
 There is in Campton Church a tablet erected to 
 Daniel Goldsmith, " Ecclesiae de Campton Pastor idem 
 et Patronus ; " also to Maria Goldsmith, " uxor dilec- 
 tissima." This is erected by Maria's faithful sister, Jane 
 Wright ; and if the astute reader shall think fit to agree 
 with me in believing Temple's " fellow-servant " to be 
 this Jane Wright on such slender evidence and slight 
 thread of argument, he may well do so. Failing this, 
 all search after Jane will, I fear, prove futile at this 
 distant date. There are constant references to Jane in 
 the letters. " Her old woman," in the same passage, is, 
 of course, a jocular allusion to Dorothy herself; and 
 " the old knight " is, I believe, Sir Robert Cook, a 
 Bedfordshire gentleman, of whom nothing is known 
 except that he was knighted at Ampthill, July 2ist, 
 1621. We hear some little more of him from Dorothy. 
 
 Note well the signature of this and following letters ; 
 it will help us to discover what passed between the 
 friends in London. For my own part, I do not think 
 Dorothy means that she has ceased to be faithful in 
 that she has become " his affectionate friend and 
 servant" 
 
 SIR. I was so kind as to write to you by the 
 coachman, and let me tell you I think 'twas the 
 greatest testimony of my friendship that I could 
 give you ; for, trust me, I was so tired with my
 
 Life at C/ucksands. 59 
 
 journey, so dowd with my cold, and so out of 
 humour with our parting, that I should have done 
 it with great unwillingness to anybody else. I 
 lay abed all next day to recover myself, and 
 rised a Thursday to receive your letter with the 
 more ceremony. I found no fault with the ill 
 writing, 'twas but too easy to read, methought, 
 for I am sure I had done much sooner than I 
 could have wished. But, in earnest, I was heartily 
 troubled to find you in so much disorder. I would 
 not have you so kind to me as to be cruel to 
 yourself, in whom I am more concerned. No; 
 for God's sake, let us not make afflictions of such 
 things as these ; I am afraid we shall meet with 
 too many real ones. 
 
 I am glad your journey holds, because I think 
 'twill be a good diversion for you this summer ; 
 but I admire your father's patience, that lets you 
 rest with so much indifference when there is such 
 a fortune offered. I'll swear I have great scruples 
 of conscience myself on the point, and am much 
 afraid I am not your friend if I am any part of the 
 occasion that hinders you from accepting it. Yet 
 I am sure my intentions towards you are very 
 innocent and good, for you are one of those whose 
 interests I shall ever prefer much above my own ; 
 and you are not to thank me for it, since, to speak 
 truth, I secure my own by it ; for I defy my ill 
 fortune to make me miserable, unless she does it 
 in the persons of my friends. I wonder how your
 
 60 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 father came to know I was in town, unless my old 
 friend, your cousin Hammond, should tell him. 
 Pray, for my sake, be a very obedient son ; all 
 your faults will be laid to my charge else, and, 
 alas ! I have too many of my own. 
 
 You say nothing how your sister does, which 
 makes me hope there is no more of danger in her 
 sickness. Pray, when it may be no trouble to 
 her, tell her how much I am her servant ; ami 
 have a care of yourself this cold weather. I have 
 read your Reine Marguerite, and will return it 
 you when you please. If you will have my 
 opinion of her, I think she had a good deal of 
 wit, and a great deal of patience for a woman of 
 so high a spirit. She speaks with too much in- 
 difference of her husband's several amours, and 
 commends Bussy as if she were a little concerned 
 in him. I think her a better sister than a wife, 
 and believe she might have made a better wife to 
 a better husband. But the story of Mademoiselle 
 de Tournon is so sad, that when I had read it 
 I was able to go no further, and was fain to take 
 up something else to divert myself withal. Have 
 you read Cltopdtre ? I have six tomes on't here 
 that I can lend you if you have not ; there are 
 some stories in't you will like, I believe. But 
 what an ass am I to think you can be idle enough 
 at London to read romance ! No, I'll keep them 
 till you come hither ; here they may be welcome to 
 you for want of better company. Yet, that you
 
 Life at Chicksands. 61 
 
 may not imagine we are quite out of the world 
 here, and so be frighted from coming, I can assure 
 you we are seldom without news, such as it is ; 
 and at this present we do abound with stories 
 of my Lady Sunderland and Mr. Smith ; with 
 what reverence he approaches her, and how like 
 a gracious princess she receives him, that they say 
 'tis worth one's going twenty miles to see it. All 
 our ladies are mightily pleased with the example, 
 but I do not find that the men intend to follow it, 
 and I'll undertake Sir Solomon Justinian wishes 
 her in the Indias, for fear she should pervert his 
 new wife. 
 
 Your fellow-servant kisses your hands, and says, 
 " If you mean to make love to her old woman this 
 is the best time you can take, for she is dying ; 
 this cold weather kills her, I think." It has undone 
 me, I am sure, in killing an old knight that I have 
 been waiting for this seven year, and now he dies 
 and will leave me nothing, I believe, but leaves 
 a rich widow for somebody. I think you had best 
 come awooing to her ; I have a good interest in 
 her, and it shall be all employed in your service 
 if you think fit to make any addresses there. But 
 to be sober now again, for God's sake send me 
 word how your journey goes forward, when you 
 think you shall begin it, and how long it may 
 last, when I may expect your coming this way ; 
 and of all things, remember to provide a safe 
 address for your letters when you are abroad.
 
 64 Letters from Dorothy Osbonic. 
 
 I have to persuade myself to take it. 'Tis the 
 infusion of steel, and makes me so horridly sick, 
 that every day at ten o'clock I am making my 
 will and taking leave of all my friends. You will 
 believe you are not forgot then. They tell me I 
 must take this ugly drink a fortnight, and then 
 begin another as bad; but unless you say so too, 
 I do not think I shall. 'Tis worse than dying l>y 
 the half. 
 
 I am glad your father is so kind to you. I 
 shall not dispute it with him, because it is much 
 more in his power than in mine, but I shall never 
 yield that 'tis more in his desire, since he was 
 much pleased with that which was a truth when 
 you told it him, but would have been none if he 
 had asked the question sooner. He thought 
 there was no danger of you since you were 
 more ignorant and less concerned in my being 
 in town than he. If I were Mrs. Chambers, he 
 would be more my friend ; but, however, I am 
 much his servant as he is your father. I have 
 sent you your book. And since you are at leisure 
 to consider the moon, you may be enough to read 
 CUopdtre, therefore I have sent you three tomes ; 
 when you have done with these you shall have 
 the rest, and I believe they will please. There is 
 a story of Artemise that I will recommend to you ; 
 her disposition I like extremely, it has a great 
 deal of practical wit ; and if you meet with one 
 Hrittomart, pray send me word how you like him t
 
 Life at Chicksands. 65 
 
 I am not displeased that my Lord [Lisle] makes 
 no more haste, for though I am very willing you 
 should go the journey for many reasons, yet two 
 or three months hence, sure, will be soon enough 
 to visit so cold a country, and I would not have 
 you endure two winters in one year. Besides, I 
 look for my eldest brother and cousin Molle here 
 shortly, and I should be glad to have nobody to 
 entertain but you, whilst you are here. Lord ! 
 that you had the invisible ring, or Fortunatus his 
 wishing hat ; now, at this instant, you should be 
 here. 
 
 My brother has gone to wait upon the widow 
 homewards, she that was born to persecute you 
 and I, I think. She has so tired me with being 
 here but two da/s, that I do not think I shall 
 accept of the offer she made me of living with her 
 in case my father dies before I have disposed of 
 myself. Yet we are very great friends, and for 
 my comfort she says she will come again about 
 the latter end of June and stay longer with me. 
 My aunt is still in town, kept by her business, 
 which I am afraid will not go well, they do so 
 delay it ; and my precious uncle does so visit her, 
 and is so kind, that without doubt some mischief 
 will follow. Do you know his son, my cousin 
 Harry ? 'Tis a handsome youth, and well-natured, 
 but such a goose ; and she has bred him so 
 strangely, that he needs all his ten thousand a 
 year. I would fain have him marry my Lady 
 
 E
 
 66 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 Diana, she was his mistress when he was a boy. 
 He had more wit then than he has now, I think, 
 and I have less wit than he, sure, for spending my 
 paper upon him when I have so little. Here is 
 hardly room for 
 
 Your affectionate 
 
 friend and servant. 
 
 Letter II. It is a curious thing to find the Lord 
 General's son among our loyal Dorothy's servants ; and 
 to find, moreover, that he will be as acceptable to 
 Dorothy as any other, if she may not marry Temple. 
 Henry Cromwell was Oliver Cromwell's second son. 
 How Dorothy became acquainted with him it is impos- 
 sible to say. Perhaps they met in France. He seems 
 to have been entirely unlike his father. Good Mrs. 
 Hutchinson calls him " a debauched ungodly Cavalier," 
 with other similar expressions of Presbyterian abhor- 
 rence ; from which we need not draw any unkinder con- 
 clusion than that he was no solemn puritanical soldier, 
 but a man of the world, brighter and more courteous 
 than the frequenters of his father's Council, and there- 
 fore more acceptable to Dorothy. He was born at 
 Huntingdon in 1627, the year of Dorothy's birth. He 
 was captain under Harrison in 1647 ; colonel in Ireland 
 with his father in 1649; and married at Kensington 
 Church, on May loth, 1653, to Elizabeth, daughter of 
 Sir Francis Russell of Chippenham, Cambridgeshire. 
 He was made Lord-Deputy in Ireland in 1657, but he 
 wearied of the work of transplanting the Irish and 
 planting the new settlers, which, he writes, only brought 
 him disquiet of body and mind. This led to his retire- 
 ment from public life in 1658. Two years afterwards, at
 
 Life at Chicksands. 67 
 
 the Restoration, he came to live at Spinney Abbey, 
 near Isham, Cambridgeshire, and died on the 23rd of 
 March 1673. These are shortly the facts which remain 
 to us of the life of Henry Cromwell, Dorothy's favoured 
 servant. 
 
 SIR, I am so far from thinking you ill-natured 
 for wishing I might not outlive you, that I should 
 not have thought you at all kind if you had done 
 otherwise ; no, in earnest, I was never yet so in 
 love with my life but that I could have parted 
 with it upon a much less occasion than your death, 
 and 'twill be no compliment to you to say it would 
 be very uneasy to me then, since 'tis not very 
 pleasant to me now. Yet you will say I take 
 great pains to preserve it, as ill as I like it ; but 
 no, I'll swear 'tis not that I intend in what I do ; 
 all that I aim at is but to keep myself from prov- 
 ing a beast. They do so fright me with strange 
 stones of what the spleen will bring me to in 
 time, that I am kept in awe with them like a 
 child ; they tell me 'twill not leave me common 
 sense, that I shall hardly be fit company for my 
 own dogs, and that it will end either in a stupid- 
 ness that will make me incapable of anything, or 
 fill my head with such whims as will make me 
 ridiculous. To prevent this, who would not take 
 steel or anything, though I am partly of your 
 opinion that 'tis an ill kind of physic. Yet I am 
 confident that I take it the safest way, for I do 
 not take the powder, as many do, but only lay a
 
 62 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 This is a strange, confused one, I believe ; for 
 I have been called away twenty times, since I sat 
 down to write it, to my father, who is not well ; 
 but you will pardon it we are past ceremony, and 
 excuse me if I say no more now but that I am 
 lonjours le nusmc, that is, ever 
 
 Your affectionate 
 
 friend and servant 
 i 
 
 Letter 10. Dorothy is suffering from tJie spleen, a 
 disease as common to-day as then, though we have lost 
 the good name for it. This and the ague plague her 
 continually. My Lord Lisle's proposed embassy to 
 Sweden is, we see, still delayed ; ultimately Bulstrodc 
 Whitelocke is chosen ambassador. 
 
 Dorothy's cousin Molle, here mentioned, seems to 
 have been an old bachelor, who spent his time at one 
 country house or another, visiting his country friends ; 
 and playing the bore not a little, I should fear, with his 
 gossip and imaginary ailments. 
 
 Temple's father was at this time trying to arrange 
 a match for him with a certain Mrs. Ch. as Dorothy 
 calls her. Courtenay thinks she may be one Mistress 
 Chambers, an heiress, who ultimately married Temple's 
 brother John, and this conjecture is here followed. 
 
 SIR, Your last letter came like a pardon to 
 one upon the block. I had given over the hopes 
 on't, having received my letters by the other 
 carrier, who was always [wont] to be last. The 
 loss put me hugely out of order, and you would 
 have both pitied and laughed at me if you could
 
 Life at Chicksands. 63 
 
 have seen how woodenly I entertained the widow, 
 who came hither the day before, and surprised 
 me very much. Not being able to say anything, 
 I got her to cards, and there with a great deal 
 of patience lost my money to her ; or rather I 
 gave it as my ransom. In the midst of our play, 
 in comes my blessed boy with your letter, and, 
 in earnest, I was not able to disguise the joy it 
 gave me, though one was by that is not much 
 your friend, and took notice of a blush that for 
 my life I could not keep back. I put up the 
 letter in my pocket, and made what haste I could 
 to lose the money I had left, that I might take 
 occasion to go fetch some more ; but I did not 
 make such haste back again, I can assure you. I 
 took time enough to have coined myself some 
 money if I had had the art on't, and left my brother 
 enough to make all his addresses to her if he 
 were so disposed. I know not whether he was 
 pleased or not, but I am sure I was. 
 
 You make so reasonable demands that 'tis not 
 fit you should be denied. You ask my thoughts 
 but at one hour ; you will think me bountiful, I 
 hope, when I shall tell you that I know no hour 
 when you have them not. No, in earnest, my 
 very dreams are yours, and I have got such a 
 habit of thinking of you that any other thought 
 intrudes and proves uneasy to me. I drink 
 your health every morning in a drench that would 
 poison a horse I believe, and 'tis the only way
 
 68 Letters from Dorothy Osboi 
 
 piece of steel in white wine over night and drink 
 the infusion next morning, which one would think 
 were nothing, and yet 'tis not to be imagined how 
 sick it makes me for an hour or two, and, which is 
 the misery, all that time one must be using some 
 kind of exercise. Your fellow - servant has a 
 blessed time on't that ever you saw. I make her 
 play at shuttlecock with me, and she is the veriest 
 bungler at it ever you saw. Then am I ready to 
 beat her with the battledore, and grow so peevish 
 as I grow sick, that I'll undertake she wishes there 
 were no steel in England. But then to recom- 
 pense the morning, I am in good humour all the 
 day after for joy that I am well again. I am told 
 'twill do me good, and am content to believe it; if 
 it does not, I am but where I was. 
 
 I do not use to forget my old acquaintances. 
 Almanzor is as fresh in my memory as if I had 
 visited his tomb but yesterday, though it be at 
 least seven year agone since. You will believe I 
 had not been used to great afflictions when I made 
 his story such a one to me, as I cried an hour 
 together for him, and was so angry with Alcidiana 
 that for my life I could never love her after it. 
 You do not tell me whether you received the 
 books I sent you, but I will hope you did, because 
 you say nothing to the contrary. They are my 
 dear Lady Diana's, and therefore I am much 
 concerned that they should be safe. And now I 
 speak of her, she is acquainted with your aunt, my
 
 Life at Chicksands. 69 
 
 Lady B., and says all that you say of her. If 
 her niece has so much wit, will you not be 
 persuaded to like her ; or say she has not quite 
 so much, may not her fortune make it up ? In 
 earnest, I know not what to say, but if your 
 father does not use all his kindness and all his 
 power to make you consider your own advantage, 
 he is not like other fathers. Can you imagine 
 that he that demands ^5000 besides the rever- 
 sion of an estate will like bare ^4000 ? Such 
 miracles are seldom seen, and you must prepare 
 to suffer a strange persecution unless you grow 
 conformable ; therefore consider what you do, 'tis 
 the part of a friend to advise you. I could say a 
 great deal to this purpose, and tell you that 'tis 
 not discreet to refuse a good offer, nor safe to 
 trust wholly to your own judgment in your dis- 
 posal. I was never better provided in my life for 
 a grave admonishing discourse. Would you had 
 heard how I have been catechized for you, and 
 seen how soberly I sit and answer to interroga- 
 tories. Would you think that upon examination 
 it is found that you are not an indifferent person 
 to me ? But the mischief -is, that what my inten- 
 tions or resolutions are, is not to be discovered, 
 though much pains has been taken to collect all 
 scattering circumstances ; and all the probable 
 conjectures that can be raised from thence has 
 been urged, to see if anything would be confessed. 
 And all this done with so much ceremony and
 
 ;o Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 compliment, so many pardons asked for under- 
 taking to counsel or inquire, and so great kind- 
 ness and passion for all my interests professed, 
 that I cannot but take it well, though I am very 
 wear) r on't. You are spoken of with the reverence 
 due to a person that I seem to like, and for as 
 much as they know of you, you do deserve a very 
 good esteem; but your fortune and mine can 
 never agree, and, in plain terms, we forfeit our 
 discretions and run wilfully upon our own ruins if 
 there be such a thought. To all this I make no 
 reply, but that if they will needs have it that I 
 am not without kindness for you, they must con- 
 clude withal that 'tis no part of my intention to 
 ruin you, and so the conference breaks up for that 
 time. All this is [from] my friend, that is not 
 yours ; and the gentleman that came up-stairs in 
 a basket, I could tell him that he spends his 
 breath to very little purpose, and has but his 
 labour for his pains. Without his precepts my 
 own judgment would preserve me from doing 
 anything that might be prejudicial to you or 
 unjustifiable to the world ; but if these be secured, 
 nothing can alter the resolution I have taken of 
 settling my whole stock of happiness upon the 
 affection of a person that is dear to me, whose 
 kindness I shall infinitely prefer before any other 
 consideration whatsoever, and I shall not blush to 
 tell you that you have made the whole world 
 besides so indifferent to me that, if I cannot be
 
 Life at C hicks ands. 71 
 
 yours, they may dispose of me how they please. 
 Henry Cromwell will be as acceptable to me as 
 any one else. If I may undertake to counsel, I 
 think you shall do well to comply with your father 
 as far as possible, and not to discover any aver- 
 sion to what he desires further than you can give 
 reason for. What his disposition may be I know 
 not ; but 'tis that of many parents to judge their 
 children's dislikes to be an humour of approving 
 nothing that is chosen for them, which many 
 times makes them take up another of denying 
 their children all they choose for themselves. I 
 find I am in the humour of talking wisely if my 
 paper would give me leave. 'Tis great pity here 
 is room for no more but 
 
 Your faithful friend and servant. 
 
 Letter 12. 
 
 SIR, There shall be two posts this week, for 
 my brother sends his groom up, and I am re- 
 solved to make some advantage of it. Pray, 
 what the paper denied me in your last, let me 
 receive by him. Your fellow-servant is a sweet 
 jewel to tell tales of me. The truth is, I cannot 
 deny but that I have been very careless of 
 myself, but, alas ! who would have been other ? 
 I never thought my life worth my care whilst 
 nobody was concerned in't but myself; now I 
 shall look upon't as something that you would
 
 -2 Letters from Dorothy Osbor; 
 
 not lose, and therefore shall endeavour to keep 
 it for you. But then you must return my kind- 
 ness with the same care of a life that's much 
 dearer to me. I shall not be so unreasonable as 
 to desire that, for my satisfaction, you should 
 deny yourself a recreation that is pleasing to you, 
 and very innocent, sure, when 'tis not used in 
 excess, but I cannot consent you should disorder 
 yourself with it, and Jane was certainly in the 
 right when she told you I would have chid if I 
 had seen you so endanger a health that I am so 
 much concerned in. But for what she tell you 
 of my melancholy you must not believe; she 
 thinks nobody in good humour unless they laugh 
 perpetually, as Nan and she does, which I was 
 never given to much, and now I have been so 
 long accustomed to my own natural dull humour 
 that nothing can alter it. Tis not that I am sad 
 (for as long as you and the rest of my friends are 
 well), I thank God I have no occasion to be so, 
 but I never appear to be very merry, and if I had 
 all that I could wish for in the world, I do not 
 think it would make any visible change in my 
 humour. And yet with all my gravity I could 
 not but laugh at your encounter in the Park, 
 though I was not pleased that you should leave 
 a fair lady and go lie upon the cold ground. 
 That is full as bad as overheating yourself at 
 tennis, and therefore remember 'tis one of the 
 things you are forbidden. You have reason to
 
 Life at Chicksands. 73 
 
 think your father kind, and I have reason to 
 think him very civil ; all his scruples are very 
 just ones, but such as time and a little good 
 fortune (if we were either of us lucky to it) might 
 satisfy. He may be confident I can never think 
 of disposing myself without my father s consent ; 
 and though he has left it more in my power than 
 almost anybody leaves a daughter, yet certainly 
 I were the worst natured person in the world if 
 his kindness were not a greater tie upon me than 
 any advantage he Could have reserved. Besides 
 that, 'tis my duty, from which nothing can ever 
 tempt me, nor could you like it in me if I should 
 do otherwise, 'twould make me unworthy of 
 your esteem ; but if ever that may be obtained, or 
 I left free, and you in the same condition, all the 
 advantages of fortune or person imaginable met 
 together in one man should not be preferred 
 before you. I think I cannot leave you better 
 than with this assurance. 'Tis very late, and 
 having been abroad all this day, I knew not till 
 e'en now of this messenger. Good-night to you. 
 There need be no excuse for the conclusion of 
 your letter. Nothing can please me better. 
 Once more good-night. I am half in a dream 
 already. 
 
 Your 
 
 Letter 13. There is some allusion here to an in- 
 constant lover of my Lady Diana Rich, who seems to
 
 74 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 have deserted his mistress on account of the sore eyes 
 with which, Dorothy told us in a former letter, her 
 friend was afflicted. 
 
 I cannot find any account of the great shop above 
 the Exchange, " The Flower Pott." There were two or 
 three " Flower Pots " in London at this time, one in 
 Leadenhall Street and another in St James' Market. 
 An interesting account of the old sign is given in a 
 work on London tradesmen's tokens, in which it is 
 said to be " derived from the earlier representations of 
 the salutations of the angel Gabriel to the Virgin Mary, 
 in which either lilies were placed in his hand, or they 
 were set as an accessory in a vase. As Popery declined, 
 the angel disappeared, and the lily-pot became a vase 
 of flowers ; subsequently the Virgin was omitted, and 
 there remained only the vase of flowers. Since, to make 
 things more unmistakeable, two debonair gentlemen, 
 with hat in hand, have superseded the floral elegancies 
 of the olden time, and the poetry of the art seems lost." 
 
 SIR, I am glad you 'scaped a beating, but, in 
 earnest, would it had lighted on my brother's 
 groom. I think I should have beaten him myself 
 if I had been able. I have expected your letter 
 all this day with the greatest impatience that was 
 possible, and at last resolved to go out and meet 
 the fellow ; and when I came down to the stables, 
 I found him come, had set up his horse, and was 
 sweeping the stable in great order. I could not 
 imagine him so very a beast as to think his horses 
 were to be serv'd before me, and therefore was 
 presently struck with an apprehension he had no
 
 Life at Chicksands. 75 
 
 letter for me : it went cold to my heart as ice, and 
 hardly left me courage enough to ask him the 
 question ; but when he had drawled it out that he 
 thought there was a letter for me in his bag, I 
 quickly made him leave his broom. 'Twas well 
 'tis a dull fellow, he could not [but] have discern'd 
 else that I was strangely overjoyed with it, and 
 earnest to have it; for though the poor fellow 
 made what haste he could to untie his bag, I did 
 nothing but chide him for being so slow. Last 
 I had it, and, in earnest, I know not whether an 
 entire diamond of the bigness on't would have 
 pleased me half so well ; if it would, it must be 
 only out of this consideration, that such a jewel 
 would make me rich enough to dispute you with 
 Mrs. Chambers, and perhaps make your father 
 like me as well. I like him, I'll swear, and 
 extremely too, for being so calm in a business 
 where his desires were so much crossed. Either 
 he has a great power over himself, or you have 
 a great interest in him, or both. If you are 
 pleased it should end thus, I cannot dislike it; but 
 if it would have been happy for you, I should 
 think myself strangely unfortunate in being the 
 cause that it went not further. I cannot say that 
 I prefer your interest before my own, because all 
 yours are so much mine that 'tis impossible for 
 me to be happy if you are not so ; but if they 
 could be divided I am certain I should. And 
 though you reproached me with unkindness for
 
 76 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 advising you not to refuse a good offer, yet I 
 shall not be discouraged from doing it again when 
 there is occasion, for I am resolved to be your 
 friend whether you will or no. And, for example, 
 though I know you do not need my counsel, yet 
 I cannot but tell you that I think 'twere very well 
 that you took some care to make my Lady B. 
 your friend, and oblige her by your civilities to 
 believe that you were sensible of the favour was 
 offered you, though you had not the grace to 
 make good use on't. In very good earnest now, 
 she is a woman (by all that I have heard of her) 
 that one would not lose ; besides that, 'twill be- 
 come you to make some satisfaction for downright 
 refusing a young lady 'twas unmercifully done. 
 
 Would to God you would leave that trick of 
 making excuses ! Can you think it necessary to 
 me, or believe that your letters can be so long as 
 to make them unpleasing to me ? Are mine so to 
 you ? If they are not, yours never will be so to me. 
 You see I say anything to you, out of a belief that, 
 though my letters were more impertinent than they 
 are, you would not be without them nor wish them 
 shorter. Why should you be less kind ? If your 
 fellow-servant has been with you, she has told you 
 I part with her but for her advantage. That I 
 shall always be willing to do ; but whensoever she 
 shall think fit to serve again, and is not provided 
 of a better mistress, she knows where to find me. 
 
 I have sent you the rest of Ctiopdtre, pray keep
 
 Life at Chicksands. 77 
 
 them all in your hands, and the next week I will 
 send you a letter and directions where you shall 
 deliver that and the books for my lady. Is it 
 possible that she can be indifferent to anybody ? 
 Take heed of telling me such stories ; if all those 
 
 o 
 
 excellences she is rich in cannot keep warm a 
 passion without the sunshine of her eyes, what 
 are poor people to expect ; and were it not a 
 strange vanity in me to believe yours can be long- 
 lived ? It would be very pardonable in you to 
 change, but, sure, in him 'tis a mark of so great 
 inconstancy as shows him of an humour that 
 nothing can fix. When you go into the Ex- 
 change, pray call at the great shop above, " The 
 Flower Pott." I spoke to Heams, the man of 
 the shop, when I was in town, for a quart of 
 orange-flower water ; he had none that was good 
 then, but promised to get me some. Pray put 
 him in mind of it, and let him show it you before 
 he sends it me, for I will not altogether trust to 
 his honesty ; you see I make no scruple of giving 
 you little idle commissions, 'tis a freedom you 
 allow me, and that I should be glad you would 
 take. The Frenchman that set my seals lives 
 between Salisbury House and the Exchange, at 
 a house that was not finished when I was there, 
 and the master of the shop, his name is Walker, 
 he made me pay 505. for three, but 'twas too 
 dear. You will meet with a story in these parts 
 of Ctiopatre that pleased me more than any that
 
 / 8 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. . 
 
 ever I read in my life ; 'tis of one Delie, pray give 
 me your opinion of her and her prince. This 
 letter is writ in great haste, as you may see ; 'tis 
 my brother's sick day, and I'm not willing to 
 leave him long alone. I forgot to tell you in my 
 last that he was come hither to try if he can lose 
 an ague here that he got in Gloucestershire. He 
 asked me for you very kindly, and if he knew I 
 writ to you I should have something to say from 
 him besides what I should say for myself if I had 
 room. 
 
 Yrs. 
 
 Letter 14. This letter contains the most interesting 
 political reference of the whole series. Either Temple 
 has written Dorothy an account of Cromwell's dissolv- 
 ing the Long Parliament, or perhaps some news-letter 
 has found its way to Chicksands with the astounding 
 news. All England is filled with intense excitement 
 over Cromwell's coup d\'tat ; and it cannot be unin- 
 teresting to quote a short contemporary account of 
 the business. Algernon Sydney's father, the Earl of 
 Leicester, whose journal has already been quoted, under 
 date Wednesday, April 2Oth, 1653, writes as follows : 
 " My Lord General came into the House clad in plain 
 black clothes with grey worsted stockings, and sat down, 
 as he used to do, in an ordinary place." Then he began 
 to speak, and presently " he put on his hat, went out of 
 his place, and walked up and down the stage or floor in 
 the midst of the House, with his hat on his head, and 
 chid them soundly." After this had gone on for some 
 time, Colonel Harrison was called in to remove the
 
 Life at Chicksands. 79 
 
 Speaker, which he did ; " and it happened that Alger- 
 non Sydney sat next to the Speaker on the right hand. 
 The General said to Harrison, ' Put him out ! ' 
 
 " Harrison spake to Sydney to go out, but he said he 
 would not go out and waited still. 
 
 " The General said again, ' Put him out ! ' Then 
 Harrison and Wortley [Worsley] put their hands upon 
 Sydney's shoulders as if they would force him to go out. 
 Then he rose and went towards the door." 
 
 Such is the story which reaches Dorothy, and startles 
 all England at this date. 
 
 SIR, That you may be sure it was a dream 
 that I writ that part of my letter in, I do not now 
 remember what it was I writ, but seems it was 
 very kind, and possibly you owe the discovery 
 on't to my being asleep. But I do not repent it, 
 for I should not love you if I did not think you 
 discreet enough to be trusted with the knowledge 
 of all my kindness. Therefore 'tis not that I 
 desire to hide it from you, but that I do not love 
 to tell it ; and perhaps if you could read my heart, 
 I should make less scruple of your seeing on't 
 there than in my letters. 
 
 I can easily guess who the pretty young lady is, 
 for there are but two in England of that fortune, 
 and they are sisters, but I am to seek who the 
 gallant should be. If it be no secret, you may tell 
 me. However, I shall wish him all good success 
 if he be your friend, as I suppose he is by his con- 
 fidence in you. If it be neither of the Spencers,
 
 8o Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 I wish it were ; I have not seen two young men 
 that looked as if they deserved better fortunes so 
 much as those brothers. 
 
 But, bless me, what will become of us all now ? 
 Is not this a strange turn ? What does my Lord 
 Lisle ? Sure this will at least defer your journey ? 
 Tell me what I must think on't ; whether it be 
 better or worse, or whether you are at all con- 
 cern'd in't ? For if you are not I am not, only if 
 I had been so wise as to have taken hold of the 
 offer was made me by Henry Cromwell, I might 
 have been in a fair way of preferment, for, sure, 
 they will be greater now than ever. Is it true that 
 Algernon Sydney was so unwilling to leave the 
 House, that the General was fain to take the 
 pains to turn him out himself? Well, 'tis a 
 pleasant world this. If Mr. Pirn were alive again, 
 I wonder what he would think of these proceed- 
 ings, and whether this would appear so great a 
 breach of the Privilege of Parliament as the 
 demanding the 5 members ? But I shall talk 
 treason by and by if I do not look to myself. 
 'Tis safer talking of the orange-flower water you 
 sent me. The carrier has given me a great 
 charge to tell you that it came safe, and that 
 I must do him right. As you say, 'tis not the 
 best I have seen, nor the worst. 
 
 I shall expect your Diary next week, though 
 this will be but a short letter : you may allow me 
 to make excuses too sometimes ; but, seriously,
 
 Life at Ckicksands. 81 
 
 my father is now so continuously ill, that I have 
 hardly time for anything. 'Tis but an ague that 
 he has, but yet I am much afraid that is more 
 than his age and weakness will be able to bear ; 
 he keeps his bed, and never rises but to have it 
 made, and most times faints with that. You 
 ought in charity to write as much as you can, 
 for, in earnest, my life here since my father's 
 sickness is so sad that, to another humour than 
 mine, it would be unsupportable ; but I have been 
 so used to misfortunes, that I cannot be much 
 surprised with them, though perhaps I am as 
 sensible of them as another. I'll leave you, for 
 I find these thoughts begin to put me in ill 
 humour; farewell, may you be ever happy. If 
 I am so at all, it is in being 
 
 Your 
 
 Letter 15. What Temple had written about Mr. 
 Arbry's prophecy and " the falling down of the form," 
 we cannot know. Mr. Arbry was probably William 
 Erbury, vicar of St. Mary's, Cardiff, a noted schismatic. 
 He is said to have been a " holy, harmless man," but 
 incurred both the hate and ridicule of his opponents. 
 Many of his tracts are still extant, and they contain 
 extravagant prophecies couched in the peculiar phrase- 
 ology of the day. 
 
 The celebrated Sir Samuel Luke was a near neighbour 
 of the Osbornes, and Mr. Luke was one of his numerous 
 family. Sir Samuel was Lord of the Manor of Hawnes, 
 and in the Hawnes parish register there are notices of
 
 82 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 the christenings of his sons and daughters. Sir Samuel 
 was not only a colonel in the Parliament Army, but 
 Scout-Master-General in the counties of Bedford and 
 Surrey. Samuel Butler, the author of Hudibras, lived 
 with Sir Samuel Luke as his secretary, at some date 
 prior to the Restoration ; and Dr. Grey, his learned 
 editor, believes that he wrote Hudibras about that time, 
 " because he had then the opportunity to converse 
 with those living characters of rebellion, nonsense, and 
 hypocrisy which he so lively and pathetically exposes 
 throughout the whole work." Sir Samuel is said himself 
 to be the original "Hudibras;" and if Dr. Grey's con- 
 jecture on this matter is a right one, we have already 
 in our minds a very complete portrait of Dorothy's 
 neighbour. 
 
 The old ballad that Dorothy encloses to her lover 
 has not been preserved with her letter. If it is older 
 than the ballad of "The Lord of Lome," it must have 
 been composed before Henry VIII.'s reign ; for 
 Edward Guilpin, in his Skialethia [1598], speaks of 
 
 TV olde ballad of the Lord of Lome, 
 
 Whose last line in King Harrie's day was borne. 
 
 " The Lord of Learnc " (this was the old spelling) may 
 be found in Bishop Percy's well -known collection of 
 Ballads and Romances. 
 
 SIR, You must pardon me, I could not burn 
 your other letter for my life ; I was so pleased to 
 see I had so much to read, and so sorry I had 
 done so soon, that I resolved to begin them again, 
 and had like to have lost my dinner by it. I 
 know not what humour you were in when you
 
 Life at Ckicksands. 83 
 
 writ it ; but Mr. Arbry's prophecy and the falling 
 down of the form did a little discompose my 
 gravity. But I quickly recovered myself with 
 thinking that you deserved to be chid for going 
 where you knew you must of necessity lose your 
 time. In earnest, I had a little scruple when I 
 went with you thither, and but that I was assured 
 it was too late to go any whither else, and be- 
 lieved it better to hear an ill sermon than none, I 
 think I should have missed his Belles remarqiies. 
 You had repented you, I hope, of that and all 
 other your faults before you thought of dying. 
 
 What a satisfaction you had found out to make 
 me for the injuries you say you have done me ! 
 And yet I cannot tell neither (though 'tis not the 
 remedy I should choose) whether that were not 
 a certain one for all my misfortunes ; for, sure, I 
 should have nothing then to persuade me to stay 
 longer where they grow, and I should quickly 
 take a resolution of leaving them and the world 
 at once. I agree with you, too, that I do not see 
 any great likelihood of the change of our fortunes, 
 and that we have much more to wish than to 
 hope for ; but 'tis so common a calamity that 
 I dare not murmur at it ; better people have 
 endured it, and I can give no reason why (almost) 
 all are denied the satisfaction of disposing them- 
 selves to their own desires, but that it is a 
 happiness too great for this world, and might 
 endanger one's forgetting the next ; whereas if we
 
 84 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 are crossed in that which only can make the 
 world pleasing to us, we are quickly tired with 
 the length of our journey and the disquiet of our 
 inns, and long to be at home. One would think 
 it were I who had heard the three sermons and 
 were trying to make a fourth ; these are truths 
 that might become a pulpit better than Mr. 
 Arbry's predictions. But lest you should think 
 I have as many worms in my head as he, I'll give 
 over in time, and tell you how far Mr. Luke and 
 I are acquainted. He lives within three or four 
 miles of me, and one day that I had been to visit 
 a lady that is nearer him than me, as I came back 
 I met a coach with some company in't that I 
 knew, and thought myself obliged to salute. We 
 all lighted and met, and I found more than I looked 
 for by two damsels and their squires. I was after- 
 wards told they were of the Lukes, and possibly 
 this man might be there, or else I never saw him; 
 for since these times we have had no commerce 
 with that family, but have kept at great distance, 
 as having on several occasions been disobliged 
 by them. But of late, I know not how, Sir Sam 
 has grown so kind as to send to me for some 
 things he desired out of this garden, and withal 
 made the offer of what was in his, which I had 
 reason to take for a high favour, for he is a nice 
 florist; and since this we are insensibly come to as 
 good degrees of civility for one another as can be 
 expected from people that never meet.
 
 Life at Chicksands. 85 
 
 Who those demoiselles should be that were at 
 Heamses I cannot imagine, and I know so few 
 that are concerned in me or my name that I 
 admire you should meet with so many that seem 
 to be acquainted with it. Sure, if you had liked 
 them you would not have been so sullen, and a 
 less occasion would have served to make you 
 entertain their discourse if they had been hand- 
 some. And yet I know no reason I have to 
 believe that beauty is any argument to make you 
 like people ; unless I had more on't myself. But 
 be it what it will that displeased you, I am glad 
 they did not fright you away before you had the 
 orange-flower water, for it is very good, and I am 
 so sweet with it a days that I despise roses. 
 When I have given you humble thanks for it, I 
 mean to look over your other letter and take the 
 heads, and to treat of them in order as my time 
 and your patience shall give me leave. 
 
 And first for my Sheriff, let me desire you to 
 believe he has more courage than to die upon a 
 denial. No (thanks be to God !), none of my 
 servants are given to that ; I hear of many every 
 day that do marry, but of none that do worse. 
 My brother sent me word this week that my 
 fighting servant is married too, and with the news 
 this ballad, which was to be sung in the grave 
 that you dreamt of, I think ; but because you tell 
 me I shall not want company then, you may dis- 
 pose of this piece of poetry as you please when
 
 86 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 you have sufficiently admired with me where 
 he found it out, for 'tis much older than that of 
 my " Lord of Lome." You are altogether in the 
 right that my brother will never be at quiet till he 
 sees me disposed of, but he does not mean to lose 
 me by it ; he knows that if I were married at this 
 present, I should not be persuaded to leave my 
 father as long as he lives ; and when this house 
 breaks up, he is resolved to follow me if he can, 
 which he thinks he might better do to a house 
 where I had some power than where I am but 
 upon courtesy myself. Besides that, he thinks it 
 would be to my advantage to be well bestowed, 
 and by that he understands richly. He is much of 
 your sister's humour, and many times wishes me a 
 husband that loved me as well as he does (though 
 he seems to doubt the possibility on't), but never 
 desires that I should love that husband with any 
 passion, and plainly tells me so. He says it 
 would not be so well for him, nor perhaps for me, 
 that I should; for he is of opinion that all passions 
 have more of trouble than satisfaction in them, 
 and therefore they are happiest that have least of 
 them. You think him kind from a letter that 
 you met with of his ; sure, there was very little 
 of anything in that, or else I should not have 
 employed it to wrap a book up. But, seriously, 
 I many times receive letters from him, that were 
 they seen without an address to me or his name, 
 nobody would believe they were from a brother;
 
 Life at Chicksauds. 87 
 
 and I cannot but tell him sometimes that, sure, 
 he mistakes and sends me letters that were meant 
 to his mistress, till he swears to me that he has 
 none. 
 
 Next week my persecution begins again ; he 
 comes down, and my cousin Molle is already 
 cured of his imaginary dropsy, and means to meet 
 here. I shall be baited most sweetly, but sure 
 they will not easily make me consent to make my 
 life unhappy to satisfy their importunity. I was 
 born to be very happy or very miserable, I know 
 not which, but I am very certain that you will 
 never read half this letter 'tis so scribbled ; but 'tis 
 no matter, 'tis not much worth it. 
 
 Your most faithful friend and servant. 
 
 Letter 16. The trial of Lord Chandos for killing Mr. 
 Compton in a duel was, just at this moment, exciting 
 the fickle attention of the town, which had probably said 
 its say on the subject of Cromwell's coup <f/tat, and 
 was only too ready for another subject of conversation. 
 The trial is not reported among the State Trials, but 
 our observant friend the Earl of Leicester has again 
 taken note of the matter in his journal, and can give us 
 at least his own ideas of the trial and its political and 
 social importance. Under date May 1653, he writes: 
 " Towards the end of Easter Term, the Lord Chandos, 
 for killing in duel Mr. Compton the year before," that is 
 to say, in March ; the new year begins on March 25th, 
 " and the Lord Arund.el of Wardour, one of his seconds, 
 were brought to their trial for their lives at the Upper 
 Bench in Westminster Hall, when it was found man-
 
 88 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 slaughter only, as by a jury at Kingston-upon-Thamcs 
 it had been found formerly. The Lords might have 
 had the privilege of peerage (Justice Rolles being 
 Lord Chief Justice), but they declined it by the advice 
 of Mr. Maynard and the rest of their counsel, least by 
 that means the matter might have been brought about 
 again, therefore they went upon the former verdict of 
 manslaughter, and so were acquitted ; yet to be burned 
 in the hand, which was done to them both a day or two 
 after, but very favourably." These were the first peers 
 that had been burned in the hand, and the democratic 
 Earl of Leicester expresses at the event some satisfaction, 
 and derives from the whole circumstances of the trial 
 comfortable assurance of the power and stability of the 
 Government. The Earl, however, misleads us in one 
 particular. Lord Arundel was Henry Compton's second. 
 He had married Cecily Compton, and naturally enough 
 acted as his brother-in-law's second. It is also interest- 
 ing to remember that Lord Chandos was known to the 
 world as something other than a duellist. He was an 
 eminent loyalist, among the first of those nobles who 
 left Westminster, and at Newbury fight had his three 
 horses killed under him. Lady Carey was Mary, 
 natural daughter of Lord Scrope, who married Henry 
 Carey, commonly called Lord Leppington. Lady 
 Leppington (or Carey) lost her husband in 1649, and 
 her son died May 24, 1653. This helps us to date 
 the letter. Of her " kindness to Compton," of which 
 Dorothy writes in her next letter, nothing is known, 
 but she married Charles Paulet, Lord St. John, after- 
 wards the Duke of Bolton, early in 1654. 
 
 The jealous Sir T here mentioned may be Sir 
 
 Thomas Osborne, who, we may suppose, was not well 
 pleased at the refusal of his offer.
 
 Life at Chicksands. 89 
 
 Sir Peter Lely did paint a portrait of Lady Diana 
 Rich some months after this date. It is somewhat 
 curious that he should remain in England during the 
 Civil Wars ; but his business was to paint all men's 
 portraits. He had painted Charles I. ; now he was 
 painting Cromwell. It was to him Cromwell is said to 
 have shouted : " Paint the warts ! paint the warts ! " 
 when the courtly Sir Peter would have made a 
 presentable picture even of the Lord General himself. 
 Cromwell was a sound critic in this, and had detected 
 the main fault of Sir Peter's portraits, whose value to 
 us is greatly lessened by the artist's constant habit of 
 flattery. 
 
 SIR, If it were the carrier's fault that you 
 stayed so long for your letters, you are revenged, 
 for I have chid him most unreasonably. But I 
 must confess 'twas not for that, for I did not 
 know it then, but going to meet him (as I usually 
 do), when he gave me your letter I found the 
 upper seal broken open, and underneath where it 
 uses to be only closed with a little wax, there was 
 a seal, which though it were an anchor and a 
 heart, methought it did not look like yours, but 
 less, and much worse cut. This suspicion was so 
 strong upon me, that I chid till the poor fellow 
 was ready to cry, and swore to me that it had 
 never been touched since he had it, and that he 
 was careful of it, as he never put it with his other 
 letters, but by itself, and that now it come 
 amongst his money, which perhaps might break 
 the seal ; and lest I should think it was his
 
 9O Letters from Dorothy Osbor, 
 
 curiosity, he told me very ingenuously he could 
 not read, and so we parted for the present. But 
 since, he has been with a neighbour of mine 
 whom he sometimes delivers my letters to, and 
 begged her that she would go to me and desire 
 my worship to write to your worship to know how 
 the letter was sealed, for it has so grieved him 
 that he has neither eat nor slept (to do him any 
 good) since he came home, and in grace of God 
 this shall be a warning to him as long as he lives. 
 He takes it so heavily that I think I must be 
 friends with him again ; but pray hereafter seal 
 your letters, so that the difficulty of opening them 
 may dishearten anybody from attempting it. 
 
 It was but my guess that the ladies at H cams' 
 were unhandsome ; but since you tell me they 
 were remarkably so, sure I know them by it ; 
 they are two sisters, and might have been mine 
 if the Fates had so pleased. They have a brother 
 that is not like them, and is a baronet besides. 
 Tis strange that you tell me of my Lords 
 Shandoys [Chandos] and Arundel ; but what 
 becomes of young Compton's estate ? Sure my 
 Lady Carey cannot neither in honour nor con- 
 science keep it ; besides that, she needs it less 
 now than ever, her son (being, as I hear) 
 dead. 
 
 Sir T., I suppose, avoids you as a friend of 
 mine. My brother tells me they meet sometimes, 
 and have the most ado to pull off their hats to
 
 Life at Chicksands. 91 
 
 one another that can be, and never speak. If I 
 were in town I'll undertake he would venture the 
 being choked for want of air rather than stir out 
 of doors for fear of meeting me. But did you 
 not say in your last that you took something very 
 ill from me ? If 'twas my humble thanks, well, 
 you shall have no more of them then, nor no 
 more servants. I think that they are not 
 necessary among friends. 
 
 I take it very kindly that your father asked 
 for me, and that you were not pleased with the 
 question he made of the continuance of my 
 friendship. I can pardon it him, because he 
 does not know me, but I should never forgive 
 you if you could doubt it. Were my face in no 
 more danger of changing than my mind, I should 
 be worth the seeing at threescore ; and that which 
 is but very ordinary now, would then be counted 
 handsome for an old woman ; but, alas ! I am 
 more likely to look old before my time with grief. 
 Never anybody had such luck with servants ; what 
 with marrying and what with dying, they all leave 
 me. Just now I have news brought me of the 
 death of an old rich knight that has promised 
 me this seven years to marry me whensoever his 
 wife died, and now he's dead before her, and has 
 left her such a widow, it makes me mad to think 
 on't, ^1200 a year jointure and ^20,000 in money 
 and personal estate, and all this I might have had 
 if Mr. Death had been pleased to have taken her
 
 92 Letters from Dorothy Osbonic. 
 
 instead of him. Well, who can help these things ? 
 But, since I cannot have him, would you had her ! 
 What say you ? Shall I speak a good word for 
 you ? She will marry for certain, and perhaps, 
 though my brother may expect I should serve 
 him in it, yet if you give me commission I'll say 
 I was engaged beforehand for a friend, and leave 
 him to shift for himself. You would be my 
 neighbour if you had her, and I should see you 
 often. Think on't, and let me know what you 
 resolve ? My lady has writ me word that she 
 intends very shortly to sit at Lely's for her picture 
 for me ; I give you notice on't, that you may have 
 the pleasure of seeing it sometimes whilst 'tis 
 there. I imagine 'twill be so to you, for I am 
 sure it would be a great one to me, and we do 
 not use to differ in our inclinations, though I 
 cannot agree with you that my brother's kindness 
 to me has anything of trouble in't ; no, sure, I may 
 be just to you and him both, and to be a kind 
 sister will take nothing from my being a perfect 
 friend. 
 
 Letter 17. Lady Newcastle was Margaret Duchess of 
 Newcastle. " The thrice noble, chaste, and virtuous, but 
 again somewhat fantastical and original-brained, generous 
 Margaret Newcastle," as Elia describes her. She was the 
 youngest daughter of Sir Charles Lucas, and was born at 
 Colchester towards the end of the reign of James I. Her 
 mother appears to have been remarkably careful of her 
 education in all such lighter matters as dancing, music,
 
 Life at Chicksands. 93 
 
 and the learning of the French tongue ; but she does 
 not seem to have made any deep study of the classics. 
 In 1643 she joined the Court at Oxford, and was made 
 one of the Maids of Honour to Henrietta Maria, whom 
 she afterwards attended in exile. At Paris she met the 
 Marquis of Newcastle, who married her in that city in 
 1645. From Paris they went to Rotterdam, she leaving 
 the Queen to follow her husband's fortunes ; and after 
 stopping at Rotterdam and Brabant for short periods, 
 they settled at Antwerp. 
 
 At the Restoration she returned to England with her 
 husband, and employed her time in writing letters, plays, 
 poems, philosophical discourses, and orations. There is 
 a long catalogue of her works in Ballard's Memoirs, but 
 all published at a date subsequent to 1653. However, 
 from Anthony Wood and other sources one gathers 
 somewhat different details of her life and writings ; and 
 the book to which Dorothy refers here and in Letter 
 21, is probably the Poems and Fancies, an edition of 
 which was published, I believe, in this year [1653]. 
 Many of her verses are more strangely incomprehen- 
 sible than anything even in the poetry of to-day. Take, 
 for instance, a poem of four lines, from the Poems and 
 Fancies, entitled 
 
 THE JOINING OF SEVERAL FIGUR'D ATOMS MAKES 
 OTHER FIGURES. 
 
 Several figur'd Atoms well agreeing 
 When joined, do give another figure being. 
 For as those figures joined several ways 
 The fabrick of each several creature raise. 
 
 This seems to be a rhyming statement of the Atomic 
 theory, but whether it is a poem or a fancy we should 
 find it hard to decide, It is not, however, an unfair
 
 94 Letters from Dorothy Osbor 
 
 example of Lady Newcastle's fantastic style. L;uly 
 Newcastle died in 1673, when she was buried in West- 
 minster Abbey, " A wise, witty, and learned Lad)', 
 which her many books do well testify." 
 
 SIR, I received your letter to-day, when I 
 thought it almost impossible that I should be 
 sensible of anything but my father's sickness and 
 my own affliction in it. Indeed, he was then so 
 dangerously ill that we could not reasonably hope 
 he should outlive this day ; yet he is now, I thank 
 God, much better, and I am come so much to 
 myself with it, as to undertake a long letter to 
 you whilst I watch by him. Towards the latter 
 end it will be excellent stuff, I believe ; but, alas ! 
 you may allow me to dream sometimes. I have 
 had so little sleep since my father was sick that 
 I am never thoroughly awake. Lord, how I have 
 wished for you ! Here do I sit all night by a 
 poor moped fellow that serves my father, and 
 have much ado to keep him awake and myself 
 too. If you heard the wise discourse that is 
 between us, you would swear we wanted sleep ; 
 but I shall leave him to-night to entertain him- 
 self, and try if I can write as wisely as I talk. I 
 am glad all is well again. In earnest, it would 
 have lain upon my conscience if I had been the 
 occasion of making your poor boy lose a service, 
 that if he has the wit to know how to value it, 
 he would never have forgiven me while he had 
 lived.
 
 Life at Chicksands. 95 
 
 But while I remember it, let me ask you if you 
 did not send my letter and Cltopdtre where I 
 directed you for my lady ? I received one from 
 her to-day full of the kindest reproaches, that she 
 has not heard from me this three weeks. I have 
 writ constantly to her, but I do not so much 
 wonder that the rest are lost, as that she seems 
 not to have received that which I sent to you nor 
 the books. I do not understand it, but I know 
 there is no fault of yours in't But, mark you ! if 
 you think to 'scape with sending me such bits of 
 letters, you are mistaken. You say you are often 
 interrupted, and I believe it ; but you must use 
 then to begin to write before you receive mine, 
 and whensoever you have any spare time allow 
 me some of it. Can you doubt that anything 
 can make your letters cheap ? In earnest, 'twas 
 unkindly said, and if I could be angry with you 
 it should be for that. No, certainly they are, and 
 ever will be, dear to me as that which I receive 
 a huge contentment by. How shall I long when 
 you are gone your journey to hear from you ! how 
 shall I apprehend a thousand accidents that are 
 not likely nor will never happen, I hope ! Oh, if 
 you do not send me long letters, then you are the 
 cruellest person that can be ! If you love me you 
 will ; and if you do not, I shall never love myself. 
 You need not fear such a command as you 
 mention. Alas ! I am too much concerned that 
 you should love me ever to forbid it you ; 'tis
 
 96 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 all that I propose of happiness to myself in the 
 world. The burning of my paper has waked me ; 
 all this while I was in a dream. But 'tis no 
 matter, I am content you should know they are 
 of you, and that when my thoughts are left most 
 at liberty they are the kindest. I swear my eyes 
 are so heavy that I hardly see what I write, nor 
 do I think you will be able to read it when I 
 have done ; the best on't is 'twill be no great loss 
 to you if you do not, for, sure, the greatest part 
 on't is not sense, and yet on my conscience I shall 
 go on with it. 'Tis like people that talk in their 
 sleep, nothing interrupts them but talking to them 
 again, and that you are not like to do at this 
 distance ; besides that, at this instant you are, I 
 believe, more asleep than I, and do not so much 
 as dream that I am writing to you. My fellow- 
 watchers have been asleep too, till just now they 
 begin to stretch and yawn ; they are going to try 
 if eating and drinking can keep them awake, and 
 I am kindly invited to be of their company ; and 
 my father's man has got one of the maids to talk 
 nonsense to to-night, and they have got between 
 them a bottle of ale. I shall lose my share if 
 I do not take them at their first offer. Your 
 patience till I have drunk, and then I'll for you 
 again. 
 
 And now on the strength of this ale, I believe 
 I shall be able to fill up this paper that's left with 
 something or other ; and first let me ask you if
 
 Life at Chicksands. 97 
 
 you have seen a book of poems newly come out, 
 made by my Lady Newcastle ? For God's sake 
 if you meet with it send it to me ; they say 'tis 
 ten times more extravagant than her dress. Sure, 
 the poor woman is a little distracted, she could 
 never be so ridiculous else as to venture at writing 
 books, and in verse too. If I should not sleep 
 this fortnight I should not come to that. My 
 eyes grow a little dim though, for all the ale, and 
 I believe if I could see it this is most strangely 
 scribbled. Sure, I shall not find fault with your 
 writing in haste, for anything but the shortness of 
 your letter ; and 'twould be very unjust in me 
 to tie you to a ceremony that I do not observe 
 myself. No, for God's sake let there be no 
 such thing between us ; a real kindness is so far 
 beyond all compliment, that it never appears more 
 than when there is least of t'other mingled with 
 it. If, then, you would have me believe yours to 
 be perfect, confirm it to me by a kind freedom. 
 Tell me if there be anything that I can serve you 
 in, employ me as you would do that sister that 
 you say you love so well. Chide me when I do 
 anything that is not well, but then make haste to 
 tell me that you have forgiven me, and that you 
 are what I shall ever be, a faithful friend. 
 
 Letter 1 8. I cannot pass by this letter without say- 
 ing that the first part of it is, to my thinking, the most 
 dainty and pleasing piece of writing that Dorothy has 
 
 G
 
 98 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 left us. The account of her life, one day and every 
 day, is like a gust of fresh country air clearing away 
 the mist of time and enabling one to see Dorothy at 
 Chicksands quite clearly. It is fashionable to deny 
 Macaulay everything but memory ; but he had the good 
 taste and discernment to admire this letter, and quote 
 from it in his Essay on Sir William Temple, a quota- 
 tion for which I shall always remain very grateful to 
 him. 
 
 Sir Thomas Peyton, "Brother Peyton," was born in 
 1619, being, I believe, the second baronet of that name ; 
 his seat was at Knowlton, in the county of Kent. 
 Early in the reign of Charles I. we find him as Member 
 of Parliament for Sandwich, figuring in a Committee 
 side by side with the two Sir Harry Vanes ; the Com- 
 mittee having been sent into Kent to prevent the 
 dispersal of rumours to the scandal of Parliament, no 
 light task, one would think. In 1643 he is in prison, 
 charged among other things with being a malignant 
 An unjust charge, as he thinks ; for he writes to his 
 brother, "If to wish on earth peace, goodwill towards 
 men, be a malignant, none is greater than your affec- 
 tionate brother, Thomas Peyton." But in spite of these 
 peaceful thoughts in prison, in May 1648 he is heading 
 a loyalist rising in Kent. The other counties not join- 
 ing in at the right moment, in accordance with the 
 general procedure at Royalist risings, it is defeated by 
 Fairfax. Sir Thomas's house is ransacked, he himself is 
 taken prisoner near Bury St. Edmunds, brought to the 
 House of Commons, and committed to the Tower. A 
 right worthy son-in-law of good Sir Peter. We are 
 cjlad to find him at large again in 1653, his head safe on 
 his shoulders, and do not grudge him his grant of duties 
 on sea-coal, dated 1660; nor are we sorry that he should
 
 Life at Chicksands. 99 
 
 once again grace the House of Commons with his pre- 
 sence as one of the members for loyal Kent in the good 
 days when the King enjoyed his own again. 
 
 SIR, I have been reckoning up how many 
 faults you lay to my charge in your last letter, and 
 I find I am severe, unjust, unmerciful, and unkind. 
 Oh me, how should one do to mend all these ! 
 'Tis work for an age, and 'tis to be feared I shall 
 be so old before I am good, that 'twill not be 
 considerable to anybody but myself whether I am 
 so or not. I say nothing of the pretty humour 
 you fancied me in, in your dream, because 'twas 
 but a dream. Sure, if it had been anything else, 
 I should have remembered that my Lord L. loves 
 to have his chamber and his bed to himself. But 
 seriously, now, I wonder at your patience. How 
 could you hear me talk so senselessly, though 
 'twere but in your sleep, and not be ready to beat 
 me ? What nice mistaken points of honour I 
 pretended to, and yet could allow him room in 
 the same bed with me! Well, dreams are pleasant 
 things to people whose humours are so ; but to 
 have the spleen, and to dream upon't, is a punish- 
 ment I would not wish my greatest enemy. I 
 seldom dream, or never remember them, unless 
 they have been so sad as to put me into such 
 disorder as I can hardly recover when I am 
 awake, and some of those I am confident I shall 
 never forget.
 
 ioo Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 You ask me how I pass my time here. I can 
 give you a perfect account not only of what I do 
 for the present, but of what I am likely to do this 
 seven years if I stay here so long. I rise in the 
 morning reasonably earl)', and before I am ready 
 I go round the house till I am weary of that, and 
 then into the garden till it grows too hot for me. 
 About ten o'clock I think of making me ready, 
 and when that's done I go into my father's 
 chamber, from whence to dinner, where my 
 cousin Molle and I sit in great state in a room, 
 and at a table that would hold a great many 
 more. After dinner we sit and talk till Mr. B. 
 comes in question, and then I am gone. The 
 heat of the day is spent in reading or working, 
 and about six or seven o'clock I walk out into 
 a common that lies hard by the house, where a 
 great many young wenches keep sheep and cows, 
 and sit in the shade singing of ballads. I go to 
 them and compare their voices and beauties to 
 some ancient shepherdesses that I have read of, 
 and find a vast difference there ; but, trust me, I 
 think these are as innocent as those could be. I 
 talk to them, and find they want nothing to make 
 them the happiest people in the world but the 
 knowledge that they are so. Most commonly, 
 when we are in the midst of our discourse, one 
 looks about her, and spies her cows going into 
 the corn, and then away they all run as if they 
 had wings at their heels. I, that am not so
 
 Life at CJdcksands. 101 
 
 nimble, stay behind ; and when I see them driv- 
 ing home their cattle, I think 'tis time for me to 
 return too. When I have supped, I go into the 
 garden, and so to the side of a small river that 
 runs by it, when I sit down and wish you were 
 with me (you had best say this is not kind 
 neither). In earnest, 'tis a pleasant place, and 
 would be much more so to me if I had your 
 company. I sit there sometimes till I am lost 
 with thinking ; and were it not for some cruel 
 thoughts of the crossness of our fortunes that 
 
 O 
 
 will not let me sleep there, I should forget that 
 there were such a thing to be done as going to 
 bed. 
 
 Since I writ this my company is increased by 
 two, my brother Harry and a fair niece, the 
 eldest of my brother Peyton's children. She is 
 so much a woman that I am almost ashamed to 
 say I am her aunt; and so pretty, that, if I had 
 any design to gain of servants, I should not like 
 her company ; but I have none, and therefore 
 shall endeavour to keep her here as long as I can 
 persuade her father to spare her, for she will 
 easily consent to it, having so much of my humour 
 (though it be the worst thing in her) as to like 
 a melancholy place and little company. My 
 brother John is not come down again, nor am 
 I certain when he will be here. He went from 
 London into Gloucestershire to my sister who 
 was very ill, and his youngest girl, of which he
 
 IO2 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 was very fond, is since dead. But I believe by 
 that time his wife has a little recovered her sick- 
 ness and loss of her child, he will be coming this 
 way. My father is reasonably well, but keeps his 
 chamber still, and will hardly, I am afraid, ever be 
 so perfectly recovered as to come abroad again. 
 
 I am sorry for poor Walker, but you need not 
 doubt of what he has of yours in his hands, for 
 it seems he does not use to do his work himself. 
 I speak seriously, he keeps a Frenchman that 
 sets all his seals and rings. If what you say of 
 my Lady Leppington be of your own knowledge, 
 I shall believe you, but otherwise I can assure 
 you I have heard from people that pretend to 
 know her very well, that her kindness to Compton 
 was very moderate, and that she never liked him 
 so well as when he died and gave her his estate. 
 But they might be deceived, and 'tis not so 
 strange as that you should imagine a coldness 
 and an indifference in my letters when I so little 
 meant it; but I am not displeased you should 
 desire my kindness enough to apprehend the loss 
 of it when it is safest. Only I would not have 
 you apprehend it so far as to believe it possible, 
 that were an injury to all the assurances I have 
 given you, and if you love me you cannot think 
 me unworthy. I should think myself so, if I 
 found you grew indifferent to me, that I have had 
 so long and so particular a friendship for; but, 
 sure, this is more than I need to say. You are
 
 Life at Chicksands. 103 
 
 enough in my heart to know all my thoughts, 
 and if so, you know better than I can tell you 
 how much I am 
 
 Yours. 
 
 Letter 19. Lady Ruthin is Susan, daughter and 
 heiress of Charles Longueville Lord Grey de Ruthin. 
 She married Sir Harry Yelverton, a match of which 
 Dorothy thoroughly approved. We hear more of 
 Dorothy's beautiful friend at the time when the treaty 
 with Sir Harry Yelverton is going forward. Of Mr. 
 Talbot I find nothing ; we must rest contented in 
 knowing him to be a fellow-servant. 
 v R. Spencer is Robert Spencer, Earl of Sunderland, 
 Lady Sunderland's brother-in-law. He was afterwards 
 one of the inner council of four in Temple's Scheme 
 of Government. " In him," says Macaulay, in a some- 
 what highly-coloured character-sketch, " the political 
 immorality of his age was personified in the most lively 
 manner. Nature had given him a keen understanding, 
 a restless and mischievous temper, a cold heart, and an 
 abject spirit. His mind had undergone a training by 
 which all his vices had been nursed up to the rankest 
 maturity." 
 
 Lady Lexington was Mary, daughter of Sir Anthony 
 Leger ; she was the third wife of Robert Sutton, Earl of 
 Lexington. I cannot find that her daughter married 
 one of the Spencers. 
 
 SIR, If to know I wish you with me pleases 
 you, 'tis a satisfaction you may always have, for I 
 do it perpetually ; but were it really in my power 
 to make you happy, I could not miss being so
 
 IO4 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 myself, for I know nothing else I want towards it. 
 You are admitted to all my entertainments ; and 
 'twould be a pleasing surprise to me to see you 
 amongst my shepherdesses. I meet some there 
 sometimes that look very like gentlemen (for 'tis 
 a road), and when they are in good humour they 
 give us a compliment as they go by ; but you 
 would be so courteous as to stay, I hope, if we 
 entreated you ; 'tis in your way to this place, 
 and just before the house. Tis our Hyde Park, 
 and every fine evening, anybody that wanted a 
 mistress might be sure to find one there. I have 
 wondered often to meet my fair Lady Ruthin 
 there alone ; methinks it should be dangerous for 
 an heir. I could find in my heart to steal her 
 away myself, but it should be rather for her 
 person than her fortune. My brother says not a 
 word of you, nor your service, nor do I expect he 
 should ; if I could forget you, he would not help 
 my memory. You would laugh, sure, if I could 
 tell you how many servants he has offered me 
 since he came down ; but one above all the rest I 
 think he is in love with himself, and may marry 
 him too if he pleases, I shall not hinder him. 
 Tis one Talbot, the finest gentleman he has seen 
 this seven year ; but the mischief on't is he has 
 not above fifteen or sixteen hundred pound a year, 
 though he swears he begins to think one might 
 bate ^500 a year for such a husband. I tell him 
 I am glad to hear it ; and if I was as much taken
 
 Life at Chicksands. 105 
 
 (as he) with Mr. Talbot, I should not be less 
 gallant; but I doubted the first extremely. I have 
 spleen enough to carry me to Epsom this summer; 
 but yet I think I shall not go. If I make one 
 journey, I must make more, for then I have no 
 excuse. Rather than be obliged to that, I'll make 
 none. You have so often reproached me with 
 the loss of your liberty, that to make you some 
 amends I am contented to be your prisoner this 
 summer; but you shall do one favour for me 
 into the bargain. When your father goes into 
 Ireland, lay your commands upon some of his 
 servants to get you an Irish greyhound. I have 
 one that was the General's ; but 'tis a bitch, and 
 those are always much less than the dogs. I got 
 it in the time of my favour there, and it was all 
 they had. Henry Cromwell undertook to write 
 to his brother Fleetwood for another for me ; but 
 I have lost my hopes there. Whomsoever it is 
 that you employ, he will need no other instruc- 
 tions but to get the biggest he can meet with ; 
 'tis all the beauty of those dogs, or of any kind, I 
 think. A masty [mastif ] is handsomer to me than 
 the most exact little dog that ever lady played 
 withal. You will not offer to take it ill that I 
 employ you in such a commission, since I have 
 told you that the General's son did not refuse it ; 
 but I shall take it ill if you do not take the same 
 freedom with me whensoever I am capable of 
 serving you. The town must needs be unplea-
 
 106 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 sant now, and, methinks, you might contrive some 
 way of having your letters sent to you without 
 giving yourself the trouble of coming to town 
 for them when you have no other business ; 
 you must pardon me if I think they cannot be 
 worth it. 
 
 I am told that R. Spencer is a servant to a 
 lady of my acquaintance, a daughter of my Lady 
 Lexington's. Is it true ? And if it be, what is 
 become of the ^2500 lady ? Would you think it, 
 that I have an ambassador from the Emperor 
 Justinian that comes to renew the treaty? In 
 earnest, 'tis true, and I want your counsel ex- 
 tremely, what to do in it. You told me once 
 that of all my servants you liked him the best. 
 If I could do so too, there were no dispute in't. 
 Well, I'll think on't, and if it succeed I will be as 
 good as my word ; you shall take your choice of 
 my four daughters. Am not I beholding to him, 
 think you ? He says that he has made addresses, 
 'tis true, in several places since we parted, but 
 could not fix anywhere; and, in his opinion, he 
 sees nobody that would make so fit a wife for 
 him as I. He has often inquired after me to 
 hear if I were marrying, and somebody told him 
 I had an ague, and he presently fell sick of one 
 too, so natural a sympathy there is between us ; 
 and yet for all this, on my conscience, we shall 
 never marry. He desires to know whether I am 
 at liberty or not. What shall I tell him? Or
 
 Life at Chicksands. 107 
 
 shall I send him to you to know ? I think that 
 will be best. I'll say that you are much my 
 friend, and that I have resolved not to dispose 
 of myself but with your consent and approba- 
 tion, and therefore he must make all his court 
 to you ; and when he can bring me a certificate 
 under your hand, that you think him a fit husband 
 for me, 'tis very likely I may have him. Till then 
 I am his humble servant and your faithful friend. 
 
 Letter 20. In this letter the journey into Sweden is 
 given up finally, and Temple is once more without 
 employment or the hope of employment This was 
 probably brought about by the alteration of the 
 Government plans; and as Lord Lisle was not to go 
 to Sweden, there was no chance of Temple's being 
 attached to the Embassy. 
 
 SIR, I am sorry my last letter frighted you 
 so ; 'twas no part of my intention it should ; but 
 I am more sorry to see by your first chapter that 
 your humour is not always so good as I could 
 wish it. 'Twas the only thing I ever desired we 
 might differ in, and therefore I think it is denied 
 me. Whilst I read the description on't, I could 
 not believe but that I had writ it myself, it was 
 so much my own. I pity you in earnest much 
 more than I do myself ; and yet I may deserve 
 yours when I shall have told you, that besides all 
 that you speak of, I have gotten an ague that 
 with two fits has made me so very weak, that I
 
 io8 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 doubted extremely yesterday whether I should be 
 able to sit up to-day to write to you. But you 
 must not be troubled at this ; that's the way to 
 kill me indeed. Besides, it is impossible I should 
 keep it long, for here is my eldest brother, and 
 my cousin Molle, and two or three more that 
 have great understanding in agues, as people that 
 have been long acquainted with them, and they 
 do so tutor and govern me, that I am neither to 
 eat, drink, nor sleep without their leave ; and, 
 sure, my obedience deserves they should cure 
 me, or else they are great tyrants to very little 
 purpose. You cannot imagine how cruel they 
 are to me, and yet will persuade me 'tis for my 
 good. I know they mean it so, and therefore say 
 nothing on't, I admit, and sigh to think those are 
 not here that would be kinder to me. But you 
 were cruel yourself when you seemed to appre- 
 hend I might oblige you to make good your last 
 offer. Alack ! if I could purchase the empire of 
 the world at that rate, I should think it much too 
 dear ; and though, perhaps, I am too unhappy 
 myself ever to make anybody else happy, yet, 
 sure, I shall take heed that my misfortunes may 
 not prove infectious to my friends. You ask 
 counsel of a person that is very little able to give 
 it. I cannot imagine whither you should go, 
 since this journey is broke. You must e'en be 
 content to stay at home, I think, and see what 
 will become of us, though I expect nothing of
 
 Life at Chicksands. 109 
 
 good ; and, sure, you never made a truer remark 
 in your life than that all changes are for the 
 worse. Will it not stay your father's journey 
 too ? Methinks it should. For God's sake write 
 me all that you hear or can think of, that I may 
 have something to entertain myself withal. I 
 have a scurvy head that will not let me write 
 longer. 
 
 I am your. 
 [Directed] 
 
 For Mrs. Paynter, at her house 
 
 in Bedford Street, next ye Goate, 
 In Covent Garden. 
 
 Letter 21. Sir Thomas Osborne is Dorothy's " Cousin 
 Osborne " here mentioned. He was, you remember, a 
 suitor for Dorothy's hand, but has now married Lady 
 Bridget Lindsay. 
 
 The " squire that is as good as a knight," is, in all pro- 
 bability, Richard Bennet. Thomas Bennet, his father, 
 an alderman of the city of London, had bought a seat 
 near Cambridge, called Babraham or Babram, that had 
 belonged to Sir Toby Palavicini. The alderman appears 
 to have been a loyal citizen, as he was created baronet 
 in 1660. His two sons, Sir Richard and Sir Thomas, 
 married daughters of Sir Lavinius Munck ; so we need 
 not accuse Dorothy of irretrievably breaking hearts by 
 her various refusals. 
 
 When Dorothy says she will " sit like the lady of the 
 lobster, and give audience at Babram," she simply 
 means that she will sit among magnificent surroundings 
 unsuited to her modest disposition. The "lady" of a
 
 1 10 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 lobster is a curious -shaped substance in the head of 
 that fish, bearing some distant resemblance to the figure 
 of a woman. The expression is still known to fish- 
 mongers and others, who also refer to the " Adam and 
 Eve" in a shrimp, a kindred formation. Curiously 
 enough, this very phrase has completely puzzled Dr. 
 Grosart, the learned editor of Herrick, who confesses 
 that he can make nothing of the allusion in the follow- 
 ing passage from Tlte Fairie Temple : 
 
 " The saint to which the most he prayes, 
 And offers Incense Nights and Dayes, 
 The Lady of the Lobster is 
 Whose foot-pace he doth stroak and kiss." 
 
 Swift, too, uses the phrase in his Battle of the Books in 
 describing the encounter between Virgil and Dryden, 
 where he says, " The helmet was nine times too large 
 for the head, which appeared situate far in the hinder 
 part, even like the lady in a lobster, or a mouse under 
 a canopy of state, or like a shrivelled beau from within 
 the pent-house of a modern periwig." 
 
 SIR, I do not know that anybody has frighted 
 me, or beaten me, or put me into more passion 
 than what I usually carry about me, but yesterday 
 I missed my fit, and am not without hope I shall 
 hear no more on't. My father has lost his too, 
 and my eldest brother, but we all look like people 
 risen from the dead. Only my cousin Molle 
 keeps his still ; and, in earnest, I am not certain 
 whether he would lose it or not, for it gives him 
 a lawful occasion of being nice and cautious about 
 himself, to which he in his own humour is so 
 much inclined that 'twere not easy for him to
 
 Life at Chicksands. 1 1 1 
 
 forbear it. You need not send me my Lady 
 Newcastle's book at all, for I have seen it, and 
 am satisfied that there are many soberer people 
 in Bedlam. I'll swear her friends are much to 
 blame to let her go abroad. 
 
 But I am hugely pleased that you have seen 
 my Lady. I knew you could not choose but like 
 her ; but yet, let me tell you, you have seen but 
 the worst of her. Her conversation has more 
 charms than can be in mere beauty, and her 
 humour and disposition would make a deformed 
 person appear lovely. You had strange luck to 
 meet my brother so soon. He went up but last 
 Tuesday. I heard from him on Thursday, but 
 he did not tell me he had seen you ; perhaps he 
 did not think it convenient to put me in mind 
 of you ; besides, he thought he told me enough 
 in telling me my cousin Osborne was married. 
 Why did you not send me that news and a 
 garland ? Well, the best on't is I have a squire 
 now that is as good as a knight. He was coming 
 as fast as a coach and six horses could carry him, 
 but I desired him to stay till my ague was gone, 
 and give me a little time to recover my good 
 looks ; for I protest if he saw me now he would 
 never deign to see me again. Oh, me ! I can 
 but think how I shall sit like the lady of the 
 lobster, and give audience at Babram. You have 
 been there, I am sure. Nobody that is at Cam- 
 bridge 'scapes it But you were never so wel-
 
 112 Letters from Dorothy Osbonic. 
 
 come thither as you shall be when I am mistress 
 on'L In the meantime, I have sent you the first 
 tome of Cyrus to read ; when you have done with 
 it, leave it at Mr. Hollingsworth's, and I'll send 
 you another. I have had ladies with me all the 
 afternoon that are for London to-morrow, and 
 now I have as many letters to write as my Lord 
 General's Secretary. Forgive me that this is no 
 longer, for 
 
 I am your. 
 
 Addressed 
 
 For Mrs. Paynter, at her house in 
 Bedford Street, next ye Goate, 
 In Co vent Garden. 
 
 Letter 22. Mr. Fish and Mr. Freeman were probably 
 neighbours of Dorothy. There is a Mr. Ralph Freeman 
 of Aspedon Hall, in Hertfordshire, mentioned in 
 contemporary chronicles; he died in 1714, aged 88, 
 and was therefore about 37 years of age at this time. 
 His father seems to have been an ideal country gentle- 
 man, " who," says Sir Henry Chauncy, " made his house 
 neat, his gardens pleasant, his groves delicious, his 
 children cheerful, his servants easy, and kept excellent 
 order in his family." 
 
 SIR, You are more in my debt than you 
 imagine. I never deserved a long letter so much 
 as now, when you sent me a short one. I could 
 tell you such a story ('tis too long to be written)
 
 Life at Chicksands. 113 
 
 as would make you see (what I never discovered 
 in myself before) that I am a valiant lady. In 
 earnest, we have had such a skirmish, and upon 
 so foolish an occasion, as I cannot tell which is 
 strangest. The Emperor and his proposals began 
 it ; I talked merrily on't till I saw my brother 
 put on his sober face, and could hardly then 
 believe he was in earnest. It seems he was, for 
 when I had spoke freely my meaning, it wrought 
 so with him as to fetch up all that lay on his 
 stomach. All the people that I had ever in my 
 life refused were brought again upon the stage, 
 like Richard the III.'s ghosts, to reproach me 
 withal ; and all the kindness his discoveries could 
 make I had for you was laid to my charge. My 
 best qualities (if I have any that are good) served 
 but for aggravations of my fault, and I was 
 allowed to have wit and understanding and dis- 
 cretion in other things, that it might appear I had 
 none in this. Well, 'twas a pretty lecture, and I 
 grew warm with it after a while ; in short, we came 
 so near an absolute falling out, that 'twas time to 
 give over, and we said so much then that we 
 have hardly spoken a word together since. But 
 'tis wonderful to see what curtseys and legs pass 
 between us ; and as before we were thought the 
 kindest brother and sister, we are certainly the 
 most complimental couple in England. 'Tis a 
 strange change, and I am very sorry for it, but 
 I'll swear I know not how to help it. I look 
 
 H
 
 1 14 Letters from Dorothy Os borne. 
 
 upon't as one of my great misfortunes, and I must 
 bear it, as that which is not my first nor likely to 
 be my last Tis but reasonable (as you say) that 
 you should see me, and yet I know not now how 
 it can well be. I am not for disguises, it looks like 
 guilt, and I would not do a thing I durst not 
 own. I cannot tell whether (if there were a 
 necessity of your coming) I should not choose to 
 have it when he is at home, and rather expose 
 him to the trouble of entertaining a person whose 
 company (here) would not be pleasing to him, 
 and perhaps an opinion that I did it purposely to 
 cross him, than that your coming in his absence 
 should be thought a concealment. 'Twas one 
 reason more than I told you why I resolv'd not 
 to go to Epsom this summer, because I knew he 
 would imagine it an agreement between us, and 
 that something besides my spleen carried me 
 thither ; but whether you see me or not you may 
 be satisfied I am safe enough, and you are in no 
 danger to lose your prisoner, since so great a 
 violence as this has not broke her chains. You 
 will have nothing to thank me for after this ; my 
 whole life will not yield such another occasion to 
 let you see at what rate I value your friendship, 
 and I have been much better than my word in 
 doing but what I promised you, since I have 
 found it a much harder thing not to yield to the 
 power of a near relation, and a greater kindness 
 than I could then imagine it.
 
 Life at Chicksands. 1 15 
 
 To let you see I did not repent me of the last 
 commission, I'll give you another. Here is a 
 seal that Walker set for me, and 'tis dropt out ; 
 pray give it him to mend. If anything could be 
 wonder'd at in this age, I should very much how 
 you came by your informations. 
 
 'Tis more than I know if Mr. Freeman be my 
 servant. I saw him not long since, and he told 
 me no such thing. Do you know him? In 
 earnest, he's a pretty gentleman, and has a great 
 deal of good nature, I think, which may oblige 
 him perhaps to speak well of his acquaintances 
 without design. Mr. Fish is the Squire of 
 Dames, and has so many mistresses that anybody 
 may pretend a share in him and be believed ; but 
 though I have the honour to be his near neigh- 
 bour, to speak freely, I cannot brag much that he 
 makes any court to me ; and I know no young 
 woman in the country that he does not visit often. 
 
 I have sent you another tome of Cyrus, pray 
 send the first to Mr. Hollingsworth for my Lady. 
 My cousin Molle went from hence to Cambridge 
 on Thursday, and there's an end of Mr. Bennet. 
 I have no company now but my niece Peyton, 
 and my brother will be shortly for the term, but 
 will make no long stay in town. I think my 
 youngest brother comes down with him. Re- 
 member that you owe me a long letter and some- 
 thing for forgiving your last. I have no room 
 for more than your.
 
 u6 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 Letter 23. 
 
 SIR, I will tell you no more of my servants. 
 I can no sooner give you some little hints where- 
 abouts they live, but you know them presently, 
 and I meant you should be beholding to me for 
 your acquaintance. But it seems this gentleman 
 is not so easy access, but you may acknowledge 
 something due to me, if I incline him to look 
 graciously upon you, and therefore there is not 
 much harm done. What has kept him from 
 marrying all this time, or how the humour comes 
 so furiously upon him now, I know not ; but if he 
 may be believed, he is resolved to be a most 
 romance squire, and go in quest of some en- 
 chanted damsel, whom if he likes, as to her 
 person (for fortune is a thing below him), and 
 we do not read in history that any knight or 
 squire was ever so discourteous as to inquire 
 what portions their ladies had, then he comes 
 with the power of the county to demand her 
 (which for the present he may dispose of, being 
 Sheriff), so I do not see who is able to resist 
 him. All that is to be hoped is, that since he may 
 reduce whomsoever he pleases to his obedience, 
 he will be very curious in his choice, and then I 
 am secure. 
 
 It may be I dreamt it that you had met my 
 brother, or else it was one of the reveries of 
 my ague ; if so, I hope I shall fall into no more
 
 Life at Chicksands. 1 17 
 
 of them. I have missed four fits, and had but 
 five, and have recovered so much strength as 
 made me venture to meet your letter on Wednes- 
 day, a mile from home. Yet my recovery will 
 be nothing towards my leaving this place, where 
 many reasons will oblige me to stay at least all 
 this summer, unless some great alteration should 
 happen in this family ; that which I most own is 
 my father's ill-health, which, though it be not in 
 that extremity it has been, yet keeps him still a 
 prisoner in his chamber, and for the most part to 
 his bed, which is reason enough. But, besides, I 
 can give you others. I am here much more out 
 of people's way than in town, where my aunt and 
 such as pretend an interest in me, and a power 
 over me, do so persecute me with their good 
 nature, and take it so ill that they are not ac- 
 cepted, as I would live in a hollow tree to avoid 
 them. Here I have nobody but my brother to 
 torment me, whom I can take the liberty to dis- 
 pute with, and whom I have prevailed with 
 hitherto to bring none of his pretenders to this 
 place, because of the noise all such people make 
 in a country, and the tittle - tattle it breeds 
 among neighbours that have nothing to do but 
 to inquire who marries and who makes love. If 
 I can but keep him still in that humour, Mr. 
 Bennet and I are likely to preserve our state and 
 treat at distance like princes ; but we have not sent 
 one another our pictures yet, though my cousin
 
 1 1 8 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 Molle, who was his agent here, begged mine very 
 earnestly. But, I thank God, an imagination 
 took him one morning that he was falling into a 
 dropsy, and made him in such haste to go back 
 to Cambridge to his doctor, that he never remem- 
 bers anything he has to ask of me, but the coach 
 to carry him away. I lent it most willingly, and 
 gone he is. My eldest brother goes up to town 
 on Monday too ; perhaps you may see him, but 
 I cannot direct you where to find him, for he is 
 not yet resolved himself where to lie ; only 'tis 
 likely Nan may tell you when he is there. He 
 will make no stay, I believe. You will think him 
 altered (and, if it be possible) more melancholy 
 than he was. If marriage agrees no better with 
 other people than it does with him, I shall pray 
 that all my friends may 'scape it. Yet if I were 
 my cousin, H. Danvers, my Lady Diana should 
 not, if I could help it, as well as I love her: I 
 would try if ten thousand pound a year with a 
 husband that doted on her, as I should do, could 
 not keep her from being unhappy. Well, in 
 earnest, if I were a prince, that lady should be 
 my mistress, but I can give no rule to any one 
 else, and perhaps those that are in no danger of 
 losing their hearts to her may be infinitely taken 
 with one I should not value at all; for (so says 
 the Justinian) wise Providence has ordained it 
 that by their different humours everybody might 
 find something to please themselves withal, with-
 
 Life at Chicksands. 1 19 
 
 out envying their neighbours. And now I have 
 begun to talk gravely and wisely, I'll try if I can 
 go a little further without being out. No, I can- 
 not, for I have forgot already what 'twas I would 
 have said ; but 'tis no matter, for, as I remember, 
 it was not much to the purpose, and, besides, I 
 have paper little enough left to chide you for 
 asking so unkind a question as whether you 
 were still the same in my thoughts. Have you 
 deserved to be otherwise ; that is, am I no more 
 in yours ? For till that be, it's impossible the 
 other should ; but that will never be, and I shall 
 always be the same I am. My heart tells me 
 so, and I believe it; for were it otherwise, Fortune 
 would not persecute me thus. Oh, me ! she's 
 cruel, and how far her power may reach I know 
 not, only I am sure, she cannot call back time 
 that is past, and it is long since we resolved to be 
 for ever 
 
 Most faithful friends. 
 
 Letter 24. Tom Cheeke is Sir Thomas Cheeke, Knight, 
 of Purgo, in the county of Essex, or more probably his 
 son, from the way Dorothy speaks of him ; but it is 
 difficult to discriminate among constant generations of 
 Toms after a lapse of two hundred years. We find 
 Sir Thomas's daughter was at this time the third wife 
 of Lord Manchester ; and it appears that Dorothy's 
 great-grandfather married Catherine Cheeke, daughter 
 of the then Sir Thomas. This will assist us to the 
 connection between Dorothy, Tom Cheeke, and Lord
 
 12O Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 Manchester. Sir Richard Franklin, Knight, married a 
 daughter of Sir Thomas Cheeke. He purchased Moor 
 Park, Hertfordshire, about this time. The park and 
 the mansion he bought in 1652 from the Earl of 
 Monmouth, and the manor in 165 5 from Sir Charles 
 Harbord. The gardens had been laid out by the 
 Countess of Bedford, who had sold the place in 1626 
 to the Earl of Pembroke. The house was well known 
 to Temple, who describes the gardens in his Essay on 
 Gardening ; and when he retired in later years to an 
 estate near Farnham in Surrey, he gave to it the name 
 of Moor Park. 
 
 Lord Manchester was Edward Montagu, second Earl 
 of Manchester. He was educated at Sidney Sussex 
 College, Cambridge, and sat for Huntingdonshire in the 
 first two Parliaments of Charles I. He was called to 
 the Upper House as Lord Kimbolton in 1626, and 
 succeeded his father in 1642. His name is well known 
 in history as that of the leader of the Puritans in the 
 House of Lords, and as the only peer joined with the 
 five members impeached by the King. He raised a 
 regiment and fought under Essex at Edgchill, recon- 
 quered Lincolnshire, and took part in the battle of 
 Marston Moor. At this time Cromwell was his sub- 
 ordinate, and to his directions Lord Manchester's 
 successes are in all probability due. At the second 
 battle of Newbury, Lord Manchester showed some 
 hesitation in following up his success, and Cromwell 
 accused him of lukewarmness in the cause from his 
 place in the House of Commons. An inquiry was 
 instituted, but the Committee never carried out their 
 investigations, and in parliamentary language the matter 
 then dropped. He afterwards held, among other offices, 
 that of Chancellor of the University of Cambridge,
 
 Life at Ckicksands. 121 
 
 and inducted a visitation and reform of that University. 
 He resisted the trial of the King and the foundation of 
 the Commonwealth, refused to sit in Cromwell's new 
 House of Lords, and was among those Presbyterians 
 who helped to bring about the Restoration. 
 
 Cooper and Hoskins were famous miniature painters 
 of the day. Samuel Cooper was a nephew of John 
 Hoskins, who instructed him in the art of miniature 
 painting, in which he soon out -rivalled his master. 
 Cooper, who is styled by contemporary eulogists the 
 " prince of limners," gave a strength and freedom to the 
 art which it had not formerly possessed ; but where he 
 attempted to express more of the figure than the head, 
 his drawing is defective. His painting was famous for 
 the beauty of his carnation tints, and the loose flowing 
 lines in which he described the hair of his model. He 
 was a friend of the famous Samuel Butler. Hoskins, 
 though a painter of less merit, had had the honour of 
 painting His Majesty King Charles I., his Queen, and 
 many members of the Court ; and had passed through 
 the varying fortunes of a fashionable portrait -painter, 
 whose position, leaning as it does on the fickle approba- 
 tion of the connoisseurs, is always liable to be wrested 
 from him by a younger rival. 
 
 It is noticeable that this is the first letter in which 
 we have intimation of the world's gossip about Dorothy's 
 love affairs. We may, perhaps not unfairly, trace the 
 growth of Dorothy's affection for Temple by the actions 
 of others. First her brother raises his objections, and 
 then her relations begin to gossip ; meanwhile the letters 
 do not grow less kind. 
 
 SIR, You amaze me with your story of Tom 
 Cheeke. I am certain he could not have had it
 
 1 22 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 where you imagine, and 'tis a miracle to me that 
 he remember that there is such a one in the 
 world as his cousin D. O. I am sure he has not 
 seen her this six year, and I think but once in 
 his life. If he has spread his opinion in that 
 family, I shall quickly hear on't, for my cousin 
 Molle is now gone to Kimbolton to my Lord 
 Manchester, and from there he goes to Moor Park 
 to my cousin Franklin's, and in one, or both, he 
 will be sure to meet with it. The matter is not 
 great, for I confess I do naturally hate the noise 
 and talk of the world, and should be best pleased 
 never to be known in't upon any occasion what- 
 soever ; yet, since it can never be wholly avoided, 
 one must satisfy oneself by doing nothing that 
 one need care who knows. I do not think d 
 propos to tell anybody that you and I are very 
 good friends, and it were better, sure, if nobody 
 knew it but we ourselves. But if, in spite of all 
 our caution, it be discovered, 'tis no treason nor 
 anything else that's ill ; and if anybody should tell 
 me that I have had a greater kindness and esteem 
 for you than for any one besides, I do not think I 
 should deny it ; howsoever you do, oblige me by 
 not owning any such thing, for as you say, I have 
 no reason to take it ill that you endeavour to 
 preserve me a liberty, though I'm never likely to 
 make use on't. Besides that, I agree with you too 
 that certainly 'tis much better you should owe my 
 kindness to nothing but your own merit and my
 
 Life at Chicksands. 123 
 
 inclination, than that there should lie any other 
 necessity upon me of making good my words to 
 you. 
 
 For God's sake do not complain so that you do 
 not see me ; I believe I do not suffer less in't than 
 you, but 'tis not to be helped. If I had a picture 
 that were fit for you, you should have it. I have 
 but one that's anything like, and that's a great 
 one, but I will send it some time or other to 
 Cooper or Hoskins, and have a little one drawn 
 by it, if I cannot be in town to sit myself. You 
 undo me by but dreaming how happy we might 
 have been, when I consider how far we are from 
 it in reality. Alas ! how can you talk of defying 
 fortune ; nobody lives without it, and therefore 
 why should you imagine you could ? I know not 
 how my brother comes to be so well informed as 
 you say, but I am certain he knows the utmost of 
 the injuries you have received from her. 'Tis not 
 possible she should have used you worse than he 
 says. We have had another debate, but much 
 more calmly. 'Twas just upon his going up to 
 town, and perhaps he thought it not fit to part in 
 anger. Not to wrong him, he never said to me 
 (whate'er he thought) a word in prejudice of 
 you in your own person, and I never heard him 
 accuse any but your fortune and my indiscretion. 
 And whereas I did expect that (at least in com- 
 pliment to me) he should have said we had been 
 a couple of fools well met, he says by his troth he
 
 124 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 does not blame you, but bids me not deceive my- 
 self to think you have any great passion for me. 
 
 If you have done with the first part of Cyrus, I 
 should be glad Mr. Hollingsworth had it, because 
 I mentioned some such thing in my last to my 
 Lady ; but there is no haste of restoring the other 
 unless she should send to me for it, which I 
 believe she will not. I have a third tome here 
 against you have done with that second ; and to 
 encourage you, let me assure you that the more 
 you read of them you will like them still better. 
 Oh, me ! whilst I think on't, let me ask you one 
 question seriously, and pray resolve me truly ; do 
 I look so stately as people apprehend ? I vow to 
 you I made nothing on't when Sir Emperor said 
 so, because I had no great opinion of his judg- 
 ment, but Mr. Freeman makes me mistrust myself 
 extremely, not that I am sorry I did appear so 
 to him (since it kept me from the displeasure of 
 refusing an offer which I do not perhaps deserve), 
 but that it is a scurvy quality in itself, and I am 
 afraid I have it in great measure if I showed any 
 of it to him, for whom I have so much respect 
 and esteem. If it be so you must needs know it ; 
 for though my kindness will not let me look so upon 
 you, you can see what I do to other people. And, 
 besides, there was a time when we ourselves were 
 indifferent to one another ; did I do so then, or 
 have I learned it since ? For God's sake tell me, 
 that I may try to mend it. I could wish, too, that
 
 Life at Chicksands, 125 
 
 you would lay your commands on me to forbear 
 fruit : here is enough to kill 1000 such as I am, 
 and so extremely good, that nothing but your 
 power can secure me ; therefore forbid it me, that 
 I may live to be 
 
 Your. 
 
 Letter 25. Dorothy's dissertations on love and 
 marriage are always amusing in their demureness. 
 Who Cousin Peters was we cannot now say, but she 
 was evidently a relation and a gossip. The episode con- 
 cerning Mistress Harrison and the Queen is explained 
 by the following quotation from the autobiography of 
 the Countess of Warwick. 
 
 She is writing of Mr. Charles Rich, and says : " He 
 was then in love with a Maid of Honour to the Queen, 
 one Mrs. Hareson, that had been chamber-fellow to my 
 sister-in-law whilst she lived at Court, and that brought 
 on the acquaintance between him and my sister. He 
 continued to be much with us for about five or six 
 months, till my brother Broghill then (afterwards Earl of 
 Orrery) grew also to be passionately in love with the 
 same Mrs. Hareson. My brother then having a quarrel 
 with Mr. Thomas Howard, second son to the Earl of 
 Berkshire, about Mrs. Hareson (with whom he also was 
 in love), Mr. Rich brought my brother a challenge from 
 Mr. Howard, and was second to him against my brother 
 when they fought, which they did without any great hurt 
 of any side, being parted. This action made Mr. Rich 
 judge it not civil to come to our house, and so for some 
 time forbore doing it ; but at last my brother's match 
 with Mrs. Hareson being unhandsomely (on her side) 
 broken off, when they were so near being married as the
 
 126 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 wedding clothes were to be made, and she after married 
 Mr. Thomas Howard (to my father's great satisfaction), 
 who always was averse to it, though, to comply with my 
 brother's passion, he consented to it." There is a refer- 
 ence to the duel in a letter of Lord Cork, which fixes 
 the date as 1639-40, but Mr. Nevile's name is nowhere 
 mentioned. 
 
 Lord Broghill is well known to the history of that 
 time, both literary and political. He was Roger Boyle, 
 afterwards Earl of Orrery, the fifth son of the " great 
 Earl of Cork." He acted for the Parliament against the 
 Catholics in Ireland, but was still thought to retain some 
 partiality for the King's party. Cromwell, however, 
 considered himself secure in Lord Broghill's attachment ; 
 and, indeed, he continued to serve not only Cromwell 
 during his lifetime, but his son Richard, after his father's 
 death, with great fidelity. Lord Broghill was active in 
 forwarding the Restoration in Ireland, and in reward of 
 his services was made Earl of Orrery. He died in 1679. 
 
 SIR, You have furnished me now with argu- 
 ments to convince my brother, if he should ever 
 enter on the dispute again. In earnest, I believed 
 all this before, but 'twas something an ignorant 
 kind of faith in me. I was satisfied myself, but 
 could not tell how to persuade another of the 
 truth on't ; and to speak indifferently, there are 
 such multitudes that abuse the names of love and 
 friendship, and so very few that either understand 
 or practise it in reality, that it may raise great 
 doubts whether there is any such thing in the 
 world or not, and such as do not find it in them-
 
 Life at Chicksands. 127 
 
 selves will hardly believe 'tis anywhere. But it 
 will easily be granted, that most people make 
 haste to be miserable ; that they put on their 
 fetters as inconsiderately as a woodcock runs into 
 a noose, and are carried by the weakest con- 
 siderations imaginable to do a thing of the 
 greatest consequence of anything that concerns 
 this world. I was told by one (who pretends to 
 know him very well) that nothing tempted my 
 cousin Osborne to marry his lady (so much) as 
 that she was an Earl's daughter; which methought 
 was the prettiest fancy, and had the least of sense 
 in it, of any I had heard on, considering that it 
 was no addition to her person, that he had honour 
 enough before for his fortune, and how little it is 
 esteemed in this age, if it be anything in a better, 
 which for my part I am not well satisfied in. 
 Beside that, in this particular it does not sound 
 handsomely. My Lady Bridget Osborne makes 
 a worse name a great deal, methinks, than plain 
 my Lady Osborne would do. 
 
 I have been studying how Tom Cheeke might 
 come by his intelligence, and I verily believe he 
 has it from my cousin Peters. She lives near 
 them in Essex, and in all likelihood, for want of 
 other discourse to entertain him withal, she has 
 come out with all she knows. The last time I 
 saw her she asked me for you before she had 
 spoke six words to me; and I, who of all things do 
 not love to make secrets of trifles, told her I had
 
 1 28 Letters from Dorothy Osdorne. 
 
 seen you that day. She said no more, nor I neither; 
 but perhaps it worked in her little brain. The best 
 on't is, the matter is not great, for though I con- 
 fess I had rather nobody knew it, yet 'tis that I 
 shall never be ashamed to own. 
 
 How kindly do I take these civilities of your 
 father's ; in earnest, you cannot imagine how his 
 letter pleased me. I used to respect him merely 
 as he was your father, but I begin now to owe it 
 to himself; all that he says is so kind and so 
 obliging, so natural and so easy, that one may see 
 'tis perfectly his disposition, and has nothing to 
 disguise in it. 'Tis long since that I knew 
 how well he writ, perhaps you have forgot that 
 you showed me a letter of his (to a French 
 Marquis, I think, or some such man of his 
 acquaintance) when I first knew you ; I remember 
 it very well, and that I thought it as handsome a 
 letter as I had seen ; but I have not skill it seems, 
 for I like yours too. 
 
 I can pardon all my cousin Franklin's little 
 plots of discovery, if she believed herself when 
 she said she was confident our humours would 
 agree extremely well. In earnest, I think they do ; 
 for I mark that I am always of your opinion, 
 unless it be when you will not allow that you 
 write well, for there I am too much concerned. 
 Jane told me t'other day very soberly that we 
 write very much alike. I think she said it with 
 an intent to please me, and did not fail in't; but
 
 Life at Chicksands. 129 
 
 if you write ill, 'twas no great compliment to me. 
 A propos de Jane, she bids me tell you that, if you 
 liked your marmalade of quince, she would send 
 you more, and she thinks better, that has been 
 made since. 
 
 'Twas a strange caprice, as you say, of Mrs. 
 Harrison, but there is fate as well as love in 
 those things. The Queen took the greatest 
 pains to persuade her from it that could be ; and 
 (as somebody says, I know not who) " Majesty is 
 no ill orator ; " but all would not do. When she 
 had nothing to say for herself, she told her she 
 had rather beg with Mr. Howard than live in the 
 greatest plenty that could be with either my Lord 
 Broghill, Charles Rich, or Mr. Nevile, for all 
 these were dying for her then. I am afraid she 
 has altered her opinion since 'twas too late, for I 
 do not take Mr. Howard to be a person that can 
 deserve one should neglect all the world for him. 
 And where there is no reason to uphold a passion, 
 it will sink of itself; but where there is, it may last 
 eternally. I am yours. 
 
 Letter 26. 
 
 SIR, The day I should have received your 
 letter I was invited to dine at a rich widow's 
 (whom I think I once told you of, and offered my 
 service in case you thought fit to make addresses 
 there) ; and she was so kind, and in so good 
 
 i
 
 130 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 humour, that if I had had any commission I should 
 have thought it a very fit time to speak. We 
 had a huge dinner, though the company was only 
 of her own kindred that are in the house with her 
 and what I brought ; but she is broke loose from 
 an old miserable husband that lived so long, she 
 thinks if she does not make haste she shall not 
 have time to spend what he left. She is old and 
 was never handsome, and yet is courted a thou- 
 sand times more than the greatest beauty in the 
 world would be that had not a fortune. We could 
 not eat in quiet for the letters and presents that 
 came in from people that would not have looked 
 upon her when they had met her if she had been 
 left poor. I could not but laugh to myself at the 
 meanness of their humour, and was merry enough 
 all day, for the company was very good ; and 
 besides, I expected to find when I came home a 
 letter from you that would be more a feast and 
 company to me than all that was there. But 
 never anybody was so defeated as I was to find 
 none. I could not imagine the reason, only I 
 assured myself it was no fault of yours, but 
 perhaps a just punishment upon me for having 
 been too much pleased in a company where you 
 were not. 
 
 After supper my brother and I fell into dispute 
 about riches, and the great advantages of it ; he 
 instanced in the widow that it made one respected 
 in the world. I said 'twas true, but that was a
 
 Life at Chicksands. 131 
 
 respect I should not at all value when I owed it 
 only to my fortune. And we debated it so long 
 till we had both talked ourselves weary enough to 
 go to bed. Yet I did not sleep so well but that I 
 chid my maid for waking me in the morning, till 
 she stopped my mouth with saying she had letters 
 for me. I had not patience to stay till I could 
 rise, but made her tie up all the curtains to let in 
 light ; and among some others I found my dear 
 letter that was first to be read, and which made 
 all the rest not worth the reading. I could not 
 but wonder to find in it that my cousin Franklin 
 should want a true friend when 'tis thought she 
 has the best husband in the world ; he was so 
 passionate for her before he had her, and so 
 pleased with her since, that, in earnest, I did not 
 think it possible she could have anything left to 
 wish for that she had not already in such a 
 husband with such a fortune. But she can best 
 tell whether she is happy or not ; only if she be 
 not, I do not see how anybody else can hope it. 
 I know her the least of all the sisters, and perhaps 
 'tis to my advantage that she knows me no more, 
 since she speaks so obligingly of me. But do 
 you think it was altogether without design she 
 spoke it to you ? When I remember she is Tom 
 Cheeke's sister, I am apt to think she might have 
 heard his news, and meant to try whether there 
 was anything of truth in't. My cousin Molle, I 
 think, means to end the summer there. They
 
 132 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 say, indeed, 'tis a very fine seat, but if I did not 
 mistake Sir Thomas Cheeke, he told me there was 
 never a good room in the house. I was wonder- 
 ing how you came by an acquaintance there, 
 because I had never heard you speak that you 
 knew them. I never saw him in my life, but he 
 is famous for a kind husband. Only 'twas found 
 fault with that he could not forbear kissing his 
 wife before company, a foolish trick that young 
 married men are apt to ; he has left it long since, 
 I suppose. But, seriously, 'tis as ill a sight as one 
 would wish to see, and appears very rude, me- 
 thinks, to the company. 
 
 What a strange fellow this goldsmith is, he 
 has a head fit for nothing but horns. I chid 
 him once for a seal he set me just of this 
 fashion and the same colours. If he were to 
 make twenty they should be all so, his invention 
 can stretch no further than blue and red. It 
 makes me think of the fellow that could paint 
 nothing but a flower-de-luce, who, when he met 
 with one that was so firmly resolved to have 
 a lion for his sign that there was no persuading 
 him out on't, " Well," says the painter, " let it be 
 a lion then, but it shall be as like a flower-de- 
 luce as e'er you saw." So, because you would 
 have it a dolphin, he consented to it, but it is like 
 an ill-favoured knot of ribbon. I did not say 
 anything of my father's being ill of late ; I think I 
 told you before, he kept his chamber ever since
 
 Life at Ckicksands. 133 
 
 his last sickness, and so he does still. Yet I 
 cannot say that he is at all sick, but has so general 
 a weakness upon him that I am much afraid their 
 opinion of him has too much of truth in it, and do 
 extremely apprehend how the winter may work 
 upon him. Will you pardon this strange scribbled 
 letter, and the disorderliness on't ? I know you 
 would, though I should not tell you that I am not 
 so much at leisure as I used to be. You can 
 forgive your friends anything, and when I am not 
 the faithfulest of those, never forgive me. You 
 may direct your letters how you please, here will 
 be nobody to receive it but 
 
 Your. 
 
 Letter 27. Althorp, in Northamptonshire, was the seat 
 of Lady Sunderland's first husband, Robert Lord Spencer. 
 
 SIR, Your last came safe, and I shall follow 
 your direction for the address of this, though, as 
 you say, I cannot imagine what should tempt 
 anybody to so severe a search for them, unless 
 it be that he is not yet fully satisfied to what 
 degree our friendship is grown, and thinks he 
 may best inform himself from them. In earnest, 
 'twould not be unpleasant to hear our discourse. 
 He forms his with so much art and design, and 
 is so pleased with the hopes of making some 
 discovery, and I [who] know him as well as he 
 does himself, cannot but give myself the recrea- 
 tion sometimes of confounding him and destroying
 
 134 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 all that his busy head had been working on since 
 the last conference. He gives me some trouble 
 with his suspicions ; yet, on my conscience, he is 
 a greater to himself, and I deal with so much 
 franchise as to tell him so ; and yet he has no 
 more the heart to ask me directly what he 
 would so fain know, than a jealous man has to 
 ask (one that might tell him) whether he were a 
 cuckold or not, for fear of being resolved of that 
 which is yet a doubt to him. My eldest brother 
 is not so inquisitive ; he satisfies himself with 
 persuading me earnestly to marry, and takes 
 no notice of anything that may hinder me, but 
 a carelessness of my fortune, or perhaps an 
 aversion to a kind of life that appears to have 
 less of freedom in't than that which at present 
 I enjoy. But, sure, he gives himself another 
 reason, for 'tis not very long since he took 
 occasion to inquire for you very kindly of me ; 
 and though I could then give but little account 
 of you, he smiled as if he did not altogether 
 believe me, and afterwards maliciously said he 
 wondered you did not marry. And I seemed to 
 do so too, and said, if I knew any woman that 
 had a great fortune, and were a person worthy of 
 you, I should wish her you with all my heart. 
 " But, sister," says he, " would you have him 
 love her ? " " Do you doubt it ? " did I say ; 
 " he were not happy in't else." He laughed, 
 and said my humour was pleasant ; but he made
 
 Life at Chicksands. 135 
 
 some question whether it was natural or not. 
 He cannot be so unjust as to let me lose him, 
 sure, I was kind to him though I had some reason 
 not to take it very well when he made that a 
 secret to me which was known to so many that 
 did not know him ; but we shall never fall out, I 
 believe, we are not apt to it, neither of us. 
 
 If you are come back from Epsom, I may ask 
 you how you like drinking water ? I have wished 
 it might agree as well with you as it did with me ; 
 and if it were as certain that the same thing 
 would do us good as 'tis that the same thing 
 would please us, I should not need to doubt it 
 Otherwise my wishes do not signify much, but I am 
 forbid complaints, or to express my fears. And be 
 it so, only you must pardon me if I cannot agree 
 to give you false hopes ; I must be deceived myself 
 before I can deceive you, and I have so accustomed 
 myself to tell you all that I think, that I must either 
 say nothing, or that which I believe to be true. 
 
 I cannot say but that I have wanted Jane ; 
 but it has been rather to have somebody to talk 
 with of you, than that I needed anybody to put me 
 in mind of you, and with all her diligence I should 
 have often prevented her in that discourse. Were 
 you at Althorp when you saw my Lady Sunder- 
 land and Mr. Smith, or are they in town ? I 
 have heard, indeed, that they are very happy ; 
 but withal that, as she is a very extraordinary 
 person herself, so she aimed at doing extra-
 
 136 Letters from Dorothy Osboi 
 
 ordinary things, and when she had married Mr. 
 Smith (because some people were so bold as to 
 think she did it because she loved him) she 
 undertook to convince the world that what she 
 had done was in mere pity to his sufferings, 
 and that she could not go a step lower to meet 
 anybody than that led her, though when she 
 thought there were no eyes on her, she was 
 more gracious to him. But perhaps this might 
 not be true, or it may be she is now grown 
 weary of that constraint she put upon herself. 
 I should have been sadder than you if I had 
 been their neighbour to have seen them so kind ; 
 as I must have been if I had married the 
 Emperor. He used to brag to me always of a 
 great acquaintance he had there, what an esteem 
 my lady had for him, and had the vanity (not to 
 call it impudence) to talk sometimes as if he 
 would have had me believe he might have had 
 her, and would not; I'll swear I blushed for him 
 when I saw he did not. He told me too, that 
 though he had carried his addresses to me with 
 all the privacy that was possible, because he saw I 
 liked it best, and that 'twas partly his own humour 
 too, yet she had discovered it, and could tell that 
 there had been such a thing, and that it was broke 
 off again, she knew not why ; which certainly was 
 a lie, as well as the other, for I do not think she 
 ever heard there was such a one in the world as 
 
 Your faithful friend.
 
 Life at Chick sands. 137 
 
 Letter 28. Dorothy's allusion to the " Seven Sleepers " 
 refers to a story which occurs in the Golden Legend and 
 other places, of seven noble youths of Ephesus, who fled 
 from persecution to a cave in Mount Celion. After two 
 hundred and thirty years they awoke, but only to die soon 
 afterwards. The fable is said to have arisen from a mis- 
 interpretation of the text, "They fell asleep in the Lord." 
 
 SIR, I did not lay it as a fault to your charge 
 that you were not good at disguise ; if it be one, 
 I am too guilty on't myself to accuse another. 
 And though I have been told it shows an un- 
 practisedness in the world, and betrays to all 
 that understand it better, yet since it is a 
 quality I was not born with, nor ever like to get, 
 I have always thought good to maintain that it 
 was better not to need it than to have it. 
 
 I give you many thanks for your care of my 
 Irish dog, but I am extremely out of countenance 
 your father should be troubled with it. Sure, he 
 will think I have a most extravagant fancy ; but 
 do me the right as to let him know I am not 
 so possessed with it as to consent he should be 
 employed in such a commission. 
 
 Your opinion of my eldest brother is, I think, 
 very just, and when I said maliciously, I meant a 
 French malice, which you know does not signify 
 the same with an English one. I know not 
 whether I told it you or not, but I concluded (from 
 what you said of your indisposition) that it was 
 very like the spleen ; but perhaps I foresaw you
 
 138 Letters from Dorothy Osbor 
 
 would not be willing to own a disease that the 
 severe part of the world holds to be merely 
 imaginary and affected, and therefore proper only 
 to women. However, I cannot but wish you had 
 stayed longer at Epsom and drunk the waters 
 with more order though in a less proportion, 
 But did you drink them immediately from the 
 well ? I remember I was forbid it, and methought 
 with a great deal of reason, for (especially at this 
 time of year) the well is so low, and there is such 
 a multitude to be served out on't, that you can 
 hardly get any but what is thick and troubled ; 
 and I have marked that when it stood all night 
 (for that was my direction) the bottom of the 
 vessel it stood in would be covered an inch thick 
 with a white clay, which, sure, has no great virtue 
 in't, and is not very pleasant to drink. 
 
 What a character of a young couple you give 
 me ! Would you would ask some one who knew 
 him, whether he be not much more of an ass 
 since his marriage than he was before. I have 
 some reason to doubt that it alters people 
 strangely. I made a visit t'other day to welcome 
 a lady into this country whom her husband had 
 newly brought down, and because I knew him, 
 though not her, and she was a stranger here, 
 'twas a civility I owed them. But you cannot 
 imagine how I was surprised to see a man that 
 I had known so handsome, so capable of being 
 made a pretty gentleman (for though he was no
 
 Life at Chicksands. 139 
 
 proud philosopher, as the Frenchmen say, he was 
 that which good company and a little knowledge 
 of the world would have made equal to many that 
 think themselves very well, and are thought so), 
 transformed into the direct shape of a great boy 
 newly come from school. To see him wholly 
 taken up with running on errands for his wife, and 
 teaching her little dog tricks ! And this was the 
 best of him ; for when he was at leisure to talk, 
 he would suffer no one else to do it, and what he 
 said, and the noise he made, if you had heard it, 
 you would have concluded him drunk with joy 
 that he had a wife and a pack of hounds. I was 
 so weary on't that I made haste home, and could 
 not but think of the change all the way till my 
 brother (who was with me) thought me sad, and 
 so, to put me in better humour, said he believed 
 I repented me I had not this gentleman, now I 
 saw how absolutely his wife governed him. But 
 I assured him, that though I thought it very fit 
 such as he should be governed, yet I should not 
 like the employment by no means. It becomes no 
 woman, and did so ill with this lady that in my 
 opinion it spoiled a good face and a very fine 
 gown. Yet the woman you met upon the way 
 governed her husband and did it handsomely. It 
 was, as you say, a great example of friendship, and 
 much for the credit of our sex. 
 
 You are too severe to Walker. I'll undertake 
 he would set me twenty seals for nothing rather
 
 140 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 than undergo your wrath. I am in no haste for 
 it, and so he does it well we will not fall out ; 
 perhaps he is not in the humour of keeping his 
 word at present, and nobody can blame him if he 
 be often in an ill one. But though I am merciful 
 to him, as to one that has suffered enough already, 
 I cannot excuse you that profess to be my friend 
 and yet are content to let me live in such ignor- 
 ance, write to me every week, and yet never send 
 me any of the new phrases of the town. I could 
 tell you, without abandoning the truth, that it is 
 part of your devoyre to correct the imperfections 
 you find under my hand, and that my trouble 
 resembles my wonder you can let me be dis- 
 satisfied. I should never have learnt any of these 
 fine things from you ; and, to say truth, I know 
 not whether I shall from anybody else, if to learn 
 them be to understand them. Pray what is meant 
 by wellness and unwellness ; and why is to some 
 extreme better than to some extremity ? I believe 
 I shall live here till there is quite a new language 
 spoke where you are, and shall come out like one 
 of the Seven Sleepers, a creature of another age. 
 But 'tis no matter so you understand me, though 
 nobody else do, when I say how much I am 
 
 Your faithful. 
 
 Letter 29. 
 
 SIR, I can give you leave to doubt anything 
 but my kindness, though I can assure you I spake
 
 Life at Chicksands. 141 
 
 as I meant when I said I had not the vanity to 
 believe I deserv'd yours, for I am not certain 
 whether 'tis possible for anybody to deserve that 
 another should love them above themselves, 
 though I am certain many may deserve it more 
 than me. But not to dispute this with you, let 
 me tell you that I am thus far of your opinion, 
 that upon some natures nothing is so powerful as 
 kindness, and that I should give that to yours 
 which all the merit in the world besides would 
 not draw from me. I spake as if I had not done 
 so already ; but you may choose whether you will 
 believe me or not, for, to say truth, I do not much 
 believe myself in that point. No, all the kindness 
 I have or ever had is yours ; nor shall I ever repent 
 it so, unless you shall ever repent yours. Without 
 telling you what the inconveniences of your coming 
 hither are, you may believe they are considerable, 
 or else I should not deny you or myself the 
 happiness of seeing one another ; and if you dare 
 trust me where I am equally concerned with you, 
 I shall take hold of the first opportunity that may 
 either admit you here or bring me nearer you. 
 Sure you took somebody else for my cousin 
 Peters ? I can never believe her beauty able to 
 smite anybody. I saw her when I was fast in 
 town, but she appear'd wholly the same to me, 
 she was at St. Malo, with all her innocent good 
 nature too, and asked for you so kindly, that I am 
 sure she cannot have forgot you ; nor do I think
 
 1 4- Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 she has so much address as to do it merely in 
 compliment to me. No, you are mistaken certainly ; 
 what should she do amongst all that company, 
 unless she be towards a wedding ? She has been 
 kept at home, poor soul, and suffer'd so much of 
 purgatory in this world that she needs not fear it 
 in the next ; and yet she is as merry as ever she 
 was, which perhaps might make her look young, 
 but that she laughs a little too much, and that 
 will bring wrinkles, they say. Oh, me ! now I talk 
 of laughing, it makes me think of poor Jane. I 
 had a letter from her the other day ; she desired 
 me to present her humble service to her master, 
 she did mean you, sure, for she named everybody 
 else that she owes any service to, and bid me 
 say that she would keep her word with him. God 
 knows what you have agreed on together. She 
 tells me she shall stay long enough there to hear 
 from me once more, and then she is resolved to 
 come away. 
 
 Here is a seal, which pray give Walker to set 
 for me very handsomely, and not of any of those 
 fashions he made my others, but of something 
 that may differ from the rest. 'Tis a plain head, 
 but not ill cut, I think. My eldest brother is now 
 here, and we expect my youngest shortly, and 
 then we shall be altogether, which I do not think 
 we ever were twice in our lives. My niece is still 
 with me, but her father threatens to fetch her 
 away. If I can keep her to Michaelmas I may
 
 Life at Chicksands. 143 
 
 perhaps bring her up to town myself, and take 
 that occasion of seeing you ; but I have no other 
 business that is worth my taking a journey, for I 
 have had another summons from my aunt, and I 
 protest I am afraid I shall be in rebellion there ; 
 but 'tis not to be helped. The widow writes me 
 word, too, that I must expect her here about a 
 month hence ; and I find that I shall want no 
 company, but only that which I would have, and 
 for which I could willingly spare all the rest. 
 Will it be ever thus ? I am afraid it will. There 
 has been complaints made on me already to my 
 eldest brother (only in general, or at least he takes 
 notice of no more), what offers I refuse, and what 
 a strange humour has possessed me of being deaf 
 to the advice of all my friends. I find I am to be 
 baited by them all by turns. They weary them- 
 selves, and me too, to very little purpose, for to 
 my thinking they talk the most impertinently that 
 ever people did ; and I believe they are not in my 
 debt, but think the same of me. Sometimes I tell 
 them I will not marry, and then they laugh at 
 me ; sometimes I say, " Not yet," and they laugh 
 more, and would make me believe I shall be old 
 within this twelvemonth. I tell them I shall be 
 wiser then. They say 'twill be to no purpose. 
 Sometimes we are in earnest and sometimes in 
 jest, but always saying something since my 
 brother Henry found his tongue again. If you 
 were with me I could make sport of all this ; but
 
 144 Letters from Djrothy Osbonic. 
 
 "patience is my penance" is somebody's motto, 
 
 and I think it must be mine. 
 
 I am your. 
 
 Letter 30. Here is Lord Lislc's embassage discussed 
 again ! We know that in the end it comes to nothing ; 
 Whitelocke going, but without Temple. The statute 
 commanding the marriage ceremony to be conducted 
 before Justices of the Peace was passed in August 1653 ; 
 it is to some extent by such references as these that the 
 letters have been dated and grouped. The Marriage 
 Act of 1653, with the other statutes of this period, have 
 been erased from the Statute Book ; but a draft of it in 
 Somers' Tracts remains to us for reference. It contained 
 provisions for the names of those who intended being 
 joined together in holy matrimony to be posted, with 
 certain other particulars, upon the door of the common 
 meeting-house, commonly called the parish church or 
 chapel ; and after the space of three weeks the parties, 
 with two witnesses, might go before a magistrate, who, 
 having satisfied himself, by means of examining witnesses 
 on oath or otherwise, that all the preliminaries com- 
 manded by the Act had been properly fulfilled, further 
 superintended the proceedings to perfect the said 
 intended marriage as follows : The man taking the 
 woman by the hand pronounced these words, " I, A. B., 
 do hereby in the presence of God take thee C. D. to my 
 wedded wife, and do also in the presence of God, and 
 before these witnesses, promise to be unto thee a loving 
 and faithful husband." Then the woman in similar formula 
 promised to be a " loving, faithful, and obedient wife," 
 and the magistrate pronounced the parties to be man 
 and wife. This ceremony, and this only, was to be a 
 legal marriage. It is probable that parties might and
 
 Life at Chicksands. 145 
 
 did add a voluntary religious rite to this compulsory 
 civil ceremony, as is done at this day in many foreign 
 countries. 
 
 SIR, You cannot imagine how I was surpris'd 
 to find a letter that began " Dear brother ; " I 
 thought sure it could not belong at all to me, and 
 was afraid I had lost one by it ; that you intended 
 me another, and in your haste had mistook this 
 for that. Therefore, till I found the permission 
 you gave me, I had laid it by with a resolution 
 not to read it, but to send it again. If I had done 
 so, I had missed a great deal of satisfaction which 
 I received from it. In earnest, I cannot tell you 
 how kindly I take all the obliging things you say 
 in it of me ; nor how pleased I should be (for 
 your sake) if I were able to make good the 
 character you give me to your brother, and that 
 I did not owe a great part of it wholly to your 
 friendship for me. I dare call nothing on't my 
 own but faithfulness ; that I may boast of with 
 truth and modesty, since 'tis but a simple virtue ; 
 and though some are without it, yet 'tis so 
 absolutely necessary, that nobody wanting it 
 can be worthy of any esteem. I see you speak 
 well of me to other people, though you complain 
 always to me. I know not how to believe I 
 should misuse your heart as you pretend ; I never 
 had any quarrel to it, and since our friendship it 
 has been dear to me as my own. 'Tis rather, 
 sure, that you have a mind to try another, than 
 
 K
 
 146 Letters from Dorothy Osbor 
 
 that any dislike of yours makes you turn it over 
 to me ; but be it as it will, I am contented to 
 stand to the loss, and perhaps when you have 
 changed you will find so little difference that 
 you'll be calling for your own again. Do but 
 assure me that I shall find you almost as merry 
 as my Lady Anne Wentworth is always, and 
 nothing shall fright me from my purpose of seeing 
 you as soon as I can with any conveniency. I 
 would not have you insensible of our misfortunes, 
 but I would not either that you should revenge 
 them on yourself; no, that shows a want of 
 constancy (which you will hardly yield to be your 
 fault) ; but 'tis certain that there was never any- 
 thing more mistaken than the Roman courage, 
 when they killed themselves to avoid misfortunes 
 that were infinitely worse than death. You con- 
 fess 'tis an age since our story began, as is not fit 
 for me to own. Is it not likely, then, that if my 
 face had ever been good, it might be altered since 
 then ; or is it as unfit for me to own the change 
 as the time that makes it ? Be it as you please, 
 I am not enough concerned in't to dispute it with 
 you ; for, trust me, if you would not have my face 
 better, I am satisfied it should be as it is ; since if 
 ever I wished it otherwise, 'twas for your sake. 
 
 I know not how I stumbled upon a news-book 
 this week, and, for want of something else to do, 
 read it ; it mentions my Lord Lisle's embassage 
 again. Is there any such thing towards ? I met
 
 Life at Chick sands. 147 
 
 with somebody else too in't that may concern 
 anybody that has a mind to marry ; 'tis a new 
 form for it, that, sure, will fright the country people 
 extremely, for they apprehend nothing like going 
 before "a Justice ; they say no other marriage shall 
 stand good in law. In conscience, I believe the 
 old one is the better ; and for my part I am 
 resolved to stay till that comes in fashion again. 
 
 Can your father have so perfectly forgiven 
 already the injury I did him (since you will not 
 allow it to be any to you), in hindering you of 
 Mrs. Chambers, as to remember me with kind- 
 ness ? 'Tis most certain that I am obliged to 
 him, and, in earnest, if I could hope it might ever 
 be in my power to serve him I would promise 
 something for myself. But is it not true, too, that 
 you have represented me to him rather as you 
 imagine me than as I am ; and have you not given 
 him an expectation that I shall never be able to 
 satisfy ? If you have, I can forgive you, because 
 I know you meant well in't ; but I have known 
 some women that have commended others merely 
 out of spite, and if I were malicious enough to envy 
 anybody's beauty, I would cry it up to all that 
 had not seen them ; there's no such way to make 
 anybody appear less handsome than they are. 
 
 You must not forget that you are some letters 
 in my debt, besides the answer to this. If there 
 were not conveniences of sending, I should per- 
 secute you strangely. And yet you cannot wonder
 
 148 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 at it ; the constant desire I have to hear from you, 
 and the satisfaction your letters give me, would 
 oblige one that has less time to write often. But 
 yet I know what 'tis to be in the town. I could 
 never write a letter from thence in my life of 
 above a dozen lines ; and though I see as little 
 company as anybody that comes there, yet I 
 always met with something or other that kept me 
 idle. Therefore I can excuse it, though you do 
 not exactly pay all that you owe, upon condition 
 you shall tell me when I see you all that you 
 should have writ if you had had time, and all that 
 you can imagine to say to a person that is 
 
 Your faithful friend. 
 
 Letter 31. Dorothy is in mourning for her youngest 
 brother, Robert, who died about this time. As she does 
 not mention his death to Temple, we may take it that 
 he was, though her brother, practically a stranger to her, 
 living away from Chicksands, and rarely visiting her. 
 
 General Monk's brother, to whom Dorothy refers, was 
 Mr. Nicholas Monk, vicar of Kelkhampton, in Cornwall. 
 General Monk's misfortune is no less a calamity than 
 his marriage. The following extract from Guizot's Life 
 of Monk will fully explain the allusion : " The return of 
 the new admiral [Monk] was marked by a domestic 
 event which was not without its influence on his public 
 conduct and reputation. Unrefined tastes, and that 
 need of repose in his private life which usually accom- 
 panies activity in public affairs, had consigned him to 
 the dominion of a woman of low character, destitute 
 even of the charms which seduce, and whose manners
 
 Life at Chicksands. 149 
 
 did not belie the rumour which gave her for extraction 
 a market stall, or even, according to some, a much less 
 respectable profession. She had lived for some time 
 past with Monk, and united to the influence of habit an 
 impetuosity of will and words difficult to be resisted by 
 the tranquil apathy of her lover. It is asserted that she 
 had managed, as long since as 1649, to force him to a 
 marriage ; but this marriage was most certainly not 
 declared until 1653." M. Guizot then quotes a letter, 
 dated September 19, 1653, announcing the news of 
 General Monk's marriage, and this would about corre- 
 spond with the presumed date of Dorothy's letter. 
 Greenwich Palace was probably occupied by Monk at 
 this time, and Dorothy meant to say that Ann Clarges 
 would be as much at home in Greenwich Palace as, say, 
 the Lord Protector's wife, at Whitehall. 
 
 SIR, It was, sure, a less fault in me to make 
 a scruple of reading your letter to your brother, 
 which in all likelihood I could not be concerned 
 in, than for you to condemn the freedom you 
 take of giving me directions in a thing where we 
 are equally concerned. Therefore, if I forgive 
 you this, you may justly forgive me t'other ; and 
 upon these terms we are friends again, are we 
 not ? No, stay ! I have another fault to chide 
 you for. You doubted whether you had not writ 
 too much, and whether I could have the patience 
 to read it or not. Why do you dissemble so 
 abominably; you cannot think these things ? How 
 I should love that plain-heartedness you speak of, 
 if you would use it; nothing is civil but that
 
 1 50 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 amongst friends. Your kind sister ought to chide 
 you, too, for not writing to her, unless you have 
 been with her to excuse it. I hope you have ; 
 and pray take some time to make her one visit 
 from me, and carry my humble service with you, 
 and tell her that 'tis not my fault that you are no 
 better. I do not think I shall see the town 
 before Michaelmas, therefore you may make what 
 sallies you please. I am tied here to expect my 
 brother Peyton, and then possibly we may go up 
 together, for I should be at home again before 
 the term. Then I may show you my niece ; and 
 you may confess that I am a kind aunt to desire 
 her company, since the disadvantage of our being 
 together will lie wholly upon me. But I must 
 make it my bargain, that if I come you will not 
 be frighted to see me; you think, I'll warrant, 
 you have courage enough to endure a worse 
 sight. You may be deceived, you never saw me 
 in mourning yet ; nobody that has will e'er desire 
 to do it again, for their own sakes as well as mine. 
 Oh, 'tis a most dismal dress, I have not dared 
 to look in the glass since I wore it ; and certainly 
 if it did so ill with other people as it does with 
 me, it would never be worn. 
 
 You told me of writing to your father, but you 
 did not say whether you had heard from him, or 
 how he did. May not I ask it? Is it possible 
 that he saw me ? Where were my eyes that I 
 did not see him, for I believe I should have
 
 Life at Chicksands. 151 
 
 guessed at least that 'twas he if I had ? They 
 say you are very like him ; but 'tis no wonder 
 neither that I did not see him, for I saw not you 
 when I met you there. 'Tis a place I look upon 
 nobody in ; and it was reproached to me by a 
 kinsman, but a little before you came to me, that 
 he had followed me to half a dozen shops to see 
 when I would take notice of him, and was at last 
 going away with a belief 'twas not I, because I 
 did not seem to know him. Other people make 
 it so much their business to gape, that I'll swear 
 they put me so out of countenance I dare not 
 look up for my life. 
 
 I am sorry for General Monk's misfortunes, 
 because you say he is your friend ; but otherwise 
 she will suit well enough with the rest of the 
 great ladies of the times, and become Greenwich 
 as well as some othfrs do the rest of the King's 
 houses. If I am not mistaken, that Monk has a 
 brother lives in Cornwall ; an honest gentleman, 
 I have heard, and one that was a great acquaint- 
 ance of a brother of mine who was killed there 
 during the war, and so much his friend that upon 
 his death he put himself and his family into 
 mourning for him, which is not usual, I think, 
 where there is no relation of kindred. 
 
 I will take order that my letters shall be left 
 with Jones, and yours called for there. As long 
 as your last was, I read it over thrice in less than 
 an hour, though, to say truth, I had skipped some
 
 152 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 on't the last time. I could not read my own 
 confession so often. Love is a terrible word, and 
 I should blush to death if anything but a letter 
 accused me on't. Pray be merciful, and let it run 
 friendship in my next charge. My Lady sends 
 me word she has received those parts of Cyrus 
 I lent you. Here is another for you which, when 
 you have read, you know how to dispose. There 
 are four pretty stories in it, " L'Amaftt Absente" 
 "LAmant non Aimt" " LAmant Jaloux" et 
 " L'Amant dont La Maiiresse est mart" Tell 
 me which you have most compassion for when 
 you have read what every one says for himself. 
 Perhaps you will not think it so easy to decide 
 which is the most unhappy, as you may think by 
 the titles their stories bear. Only let me desire 
 you not to pity the jealous one, for I remember 
 I could do nothing but laugfy at him as one that 
 sought his own vexation. This, and the little 
 journeys (you say) you are to make, will enter- 
 tain you till I come ; which, sure, will be as soon 
 as possible I can, since 'tis equally desired by you 
 and your faithful. 
 
 Letter 32. Things being more settled in that part of 
 the world, Sir John Temple is returning to Ireland, 
 where he intends taking his seat as Master of the Rolls 
 once again. Temple joins his father soon after this, and 
 stays in Ireland a few months. 
 
 Lady Ormond was the wife of the first Duke of
 
 Life at Chick sands. 153 
 
 Ormond. She had obtained her pass to go over to 
 Ireland on August 24th, 1653. The Ormonds had 
 indeed been in great straits for want of money, and in 
 August 1652 Lady Ormond had come over from Caen, 
 where they were then living, to endeavour to claim 
 Cromwell's promise of reserving to her that portion of 
 their estate which had been her inheritance. After 
 great delays she obtained ^"500, and a grant of 
 j2ooo per annum out of their Irish lands "lying most 
 conveniently to Dunmore House." It must have 
 been this matter that Dorothy had heard of when 
 she questions " whether she will get it when she comes 
 there." 
 
 Francis Annesley, Lord Valentia, belonged to an 
 ancient Nottinghamshire family, though he himself was 
 born in Newport, Buckinghamshire. Of his daughter's 
 marriage I can find nothing. Lord Valentia was at this 
 time Secretary of State at Dublin. 
 
 Sir Justinian has at length found a second wife. Her 
 name is Vere, and she is the daughter of Lord Leigh 
 of Stoneleigh. Thus do Dorothy's suitors, one by one, 
 recover and cease to lament her obduracy. When she 
 declares that she would rather have chosen a chain to 
 lead her apes in than marry Sir Justinian, she refers to 
 an old superstition as to the ultimate fate of spinsters 
 
 Women, dying maids, lead apes in hell, 
 
 runs the verse of an old play, and that is the whole 
 superstition, the origin of which seems somewhat inex- 
 plicable. The phrase is thrice used by Shakespeare, 
 and constantly occurs in the old burlesques and 
 comedies ; in one instance, in a comedy entitled 
 "Love's Convert" (1651), it is altered to "lead an ape 
 in heaven" Many will remember the fate of "The
 
 154 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 young Mary Anne" in the famous Ingoldsby legend, 
 44 Bloudie Jacke : " 
 
 So they say she is now leading apes 
 
 Bloudie Jack, 
 And mends bachelors' smallclothes below. 
 
 No learned editor that I am acquainted with has 
 been able to suggest an explanation of this curious 
 expression. 
 
 SIR, All my quarrels to you are kind ones, for, 
 sure, 'tis alike impossible for me to be angry as 
 for you to give me the occasion ; therefore, when 
 I chide (unless it be that you are not careful 
 enough of yourself, and hazard too much a health 
 that I am more concerned in than my own), you 
 need not study much for excuses, I can easily 
 forgive you anything but want of kindness. The 
 judgment you have made of the four lovers I 
 recommended to you does so perfectly agree with 
 what I think of them, that I hope it will not alter 
 when you have read their stories. L? A mant Absent 
 has (in my opinion) a mistress so much beyond 
 any of the rest, that to be in danger of losing her 
 is more than to have lost the others; LAmant 
 non Aime" was an ass, under favour (notwithstand- 
 the Princcsse Cleobulines letter) ; his mistress had 
 caprices that would have suited better with our 
 Amant Jaloux than with anybody else ; and the 
 Prince Artibie was much to blame that he out- 
 lived his belle Lcontine. But if you have met 
 with the beginning of the story of Amcstris and
 
 Life at Ckicksands. 155 
 
 Aglatides, you will find the rest of it in this part 
 I send you now ; and 'tis, to me, one of the 
 prettiest I have read, and the most natural. 
 They say the gentleman that writes this romance 
 has a sister that lives with him, a maid, and she 
 furnishes him with all the little stories that come 
 between, so that he only contrives the main 
 design ; and when he wants something to en- 
 tertain his company withal, he calls to her for 
 it. She has an excellent fancy, sure, and a great 
 wit ; but, I am sorry to tell it you, they say 'tis 
 the most ill-favoured creature that ever was born. 
 And 'tis often so ; how seldom do we see a person 
 excellent in anything but they have some great 
 defect with it that pulls them low enough to make 
 them equal with other people ; and there is justice 
 in't. Those that have fortunes have nothing 
 else, and those that want it deserve to have it. 
 That's but small comfort, though, you'll say ; 'tis 
 confessed, but there is no such thing as perfect 
 happiness in this world, those that have come 
 the nearest it had many things to wish ; and, 
 bless me, whither am I going ? Sure, 'tis the 
 death's head I see stand before me puts me into 
 this grave discourse (pray do not think I meant 
 that for a conceit neither) ; how idly have I spent 
 two sides of my paper, and am afraid, besides, 
 I shall not have time to write two more. There- 
 fore I'll make haste to tell you that my friendship 
 for you makes me concerned in all your relations ;
 
 156 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 that I have a great respect for Sir John, merely 
 as he is your father, and that 'tis much increased 
 by his kindness to you ; that he has all my 
 prayers and wishes for his safety ; and that you 
 will oblige me in letting me know when you hear 
 any good news from him. He has met with a 
 great deal of good company, I believe. My Lady 
 Ormond, I am told, is waiting for a passage, and 
 divers others ; but this wind (if I am not mis- 
 taken) is not good for them. In earnest, 'tis a 
 most sad thing that a person of her quality should 
 be reduced to such a fortune as she has lived 
 upon these late years, and that she should lose 
 that which she brought, as well as that which 
 was her husband's. Yet, I hear, she has now got 
 some of her own land in Ireland granted her; but 
 whether she will get it when she comes there is, I 
 think, a question. 
 
 We have a lady new come into this country 
 that I pity, too, extremely. She is one of my 
 Lord of Valentia's daughters, and has married 
 an old fellow that is some threescore and ten, 
 who has a house that is fitter for the hogs than 
 for her, and a fortune that will not at all recom- 
 pense the least of these inconveniences. Ah ! 'tis 
 most certain I should have chosen a handsome 
 chain to lead my apes in before such a husband ; 
 but marrying and hanging go by destiny, they 
 say. It was not mine, it seems, to have an 
 emperor; the spiteful man, merely to vex me,
 
 Life at Ckicksands. 157 
 
 has gone and married my countrywoman, my 
 Lord Lee's daughter. What a multitude of 
 willow garlands I shall weave before I die; I 
 think I had best make them into faggots this 
 cold weather, the flame they would make in a 
 chimney would be of more use to me than that 
 which was in the hearts of all those that gave 
 them me, and would last as long. I did not 
 think I should have got thus far. I have been 
 so persecuted with visits all this week I have had 
 no time to despatch anything of business, so that 
 now I have done this I have forty letters more 
 to write ; how much rather would I have them 
 all to you than to anybody else ; or, rather, how 
 much better would it be if there needed none to 
 you, and that I could tell you without writing 
 how much I am 
 
 Yours. 
 
 Letter 33. Sir Thomas Peyton, we must remember, 
 had married Dorothy's eldest sister; she died many 
 years ago, and Sir Thomas married again, in 1648, one 
 Dame Cicely Swan, a widow, whose character Dorothy 
 gives us. 
 
 Lord Monmouth was the eldest son of the Earl of 
 Monmouth, and was born in 1596. He was educated 
 at Exeter College, Oxford. His literary work was, at 
 least, copious, and included some historical writing, as 
 well as the translations mentioned by Dorothy. He 
 published, among other things, An Historical Relation 
 of the United Provinces, a History of the Wars in 
 Flanders, and a History of Venice.
 
 158 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 Sir John Suckling, in the following doggerel, hails our 
 noble author with a flunkey's enthusiasm, 
 
 It is so rare and new a thing to see 
 Aught that belongs to young nobility 
 In print, but their own clothes, that we must praise 
 You, as we would do those first show the ways 
 To arts or to new worlds. 
 
 In such strain writes the author of Why so pale and 
 wan, fond lover? and both the circumstance and the 
 doggerel should be very instructive to the snobologist. 
 
 The literary work of Lord Broghill is not unknown to 
 fame, and Mr. Waller's verse is still read by us ; but I 
 have never seen a history of the Civil Wars from his pen, 
 and cannot find that he ever published one. 
 
 Prasinicne and Polexander are two romances trans- 
 lated from the French, the former, a neat little 
 duodecimo ; the latter, a huge folio of more than three 
 hundred and fifty closely-printed pages. The title-page 
 of Prazimene, a very good example of its kind, runs 
 as follows: "Two delightful Novels, or the Unlucky 
 Fair One ; being the Amours of Milistrate and Prazi- 
 mene, Illustrated with variety of Chance and Fortune. 
 Translated from the French by a Person of Quality. 
 London. Sold by Eben Tracy, at the Three Bibles, 
 on London Bridge." Polexander was "done into 
 English by William Browne, Gent," for the benefit 
 and behoof of the Earl of Pembroke. 
 
 William Fiennes, Lord Say and Sele, was one of the 
 chiefs of the Independent party, a Republican, and one 
 of the first to bear arms against the King. He had, for 
 that day, extravagant notions of civil liberty, and on the 
 disappointment of his hopes, he appears to have retired 
 to the Isle of Lundy, on the coast of Devon, and con- 
 tinued a voluntary prisoner there until Cromwell's death.
 
 Life at Chicksands. 159 
 
 After the Restoration he was made Lord Chamberlain 
 of the Household, and Lord Privy Seal. He published 
 some political tracts, none of which are now in existence ; 
 and Anthony Wood mentions having seen other things 
 of his, among which, maybe, was the romance that 
 Dorothy had heard of, but which is lost to us. 
 
 SIR, Pray, let not the apprehension that others 
 say fine things to me make your letters at all the 
 shorter ; for, if it were so, I should not think they 
 did, and so long you are safe. My brother 
 Peyton does, indeed, sometimes send me letters 
 that may be excellent for aught I know, and the 
 more likely because I do not understand them ; 
 but I may say to you (as to a friend) I do not 
 like them, and have wondered that my sister 
 (who, I may tell you too, and you will not think 
 it vanity in me, had a great deal of wit, and 
 was thought to write as well as most women in 
 England) never persuaded him to alter his style, 
 and make it a little more intelligible. He is an 
 honest gentleman, in earnest, has understanding 
 enough, and was an excellent husband to two 
 very different wives, as two good ones could be. 
 My sister was a melancholy, retired woman, and, 
 besides the company of her husband and her 
 books, never sought any, but could have spent a 
 life much longer than hers was in looking to her 
 house and her children. This lady is of a free, 
 jolly humour, loves cards and company, and is 
 never more pleased than when she sees a great
 
 160 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 many others that are so too. Now, with both 
 
 these he so perfectly complied that 'tis hard to 
 
 judge which humour he is more inclined to in 
 
 himself; perhaps to neither, which makes it so 
 
 much the more strange. His kindness to his 
 
 first wife may give him an esteem for her sister ; 
 
 but he was too much smitten with this lady to 
 
 think of marrying anybody else, and, seriously, I 
 
 could not blame him, for she had, and has yet, 
 
 great loveliness in her ; she was very handsome, 
 
 and is very good (one may read it in her face at 
 
 first sight). A woman that is hugely civil to all 
 
 people, and takes as generally as anybody that 
 
 I know, but not more than my cousin Molle's 
 
 letters do, but which, yet, you do not like, you 
 
 say, nor I neither, I'll swear; and if it be 
 
 ignorance in us both we'll forgive it one another. 
 
 In my opinion these great scholars are not the 
 
 best writers (of letters, I mean) ; of books, perhaps 
 
 they are. I never had, I think, but one letter 
 
 from Sir Justinian, but 'twas worth twenty of 
 
 anybody's else to make me sport. It was the 
 
 most sublime nonsense that in my life I ever 
 
 read ; and yet, I believe, he descended as low as 
 
 he could to come near my weak understanding. 
 
 'Twill be no compliment after this to say I like 
 
 your letters in themselves ; not as they come from 
 
 one that is not indifferent to me, but, seriously, I 
 
 do. All letters, methinks, should be free and 
 
 easy as one's discourse ; not studied as an oration,
 
 Life at Chicksands. 161 
 
 nor made up of hard words like a charm. 'Tis 
 an admirable thing to see how some people will 
 labour to find out terms that may obscure a plain 
 sense. Like a gentleman I know, who would 
 never say "the weather grew cold," but that 
 " winter began to salute us." I have no patience 
 for such coxcombs, and cannot blame an old uncle 
 of mine that threw the standish at his man's head 
 because he writ a letter for him where, instead of 
 saying (as his master bid him), "that he would 
 have writ himself, but he had the gout in his 
 hand," he said, " that the gout in his hand would 
 not permit him to put pen to paper." The fellow 
 thought he had mended it mightily, and that putting 
 pen to paper was much better than plain writing. 
 
 I have no patience neither for these trans- 
 lations of romances. I met with Polexander and 
 L'illustre Bassa both so disguised that I, who am 
 their old acquaintance, hardly know them; besides 
 that, they were still so much French in words and 
 phrases that 'twas impossible for one that under- 
 stands not French to make anything of them. 
 If poor Prazimene be in the same dress, I would 
 not see her for the world. She has suffered 
 enough besides. I never saw but four tomes of 
 her, and was told the gentleman that writ her 
 story died when those were finished. I was very 
 sorry for it, I remember, for I liked so far as I 
 had seen of it extremely. Is it not my good 
 Lord of Monmouth, or some such honourable 
 
 L
 
 1 62 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 personage, that presents her to the English 
 ladies ? I have heard many people wonder how 
 he spends his estate. I believe he undoes him- 
 self with printing his translations. Nobody else 
 will undergo the charge, because they never hope 
 to sell enough of them to pay themselves withal. 
 I was looking t'other day in a book of his where 
 he translates Pipero as piper, and twenty words 
 more that are as false as this. 
 
 My Lord Broghill, sure, will give us something 
 worth the reading. My Lord Saye, I am told, 
 has writ a romance since his retirement in the 
 Isle of Lundy, and Mr. Waller, they say, is 
 making one of our wars, which, if he does not 
 mingle with a great deal of pleasing fiction, cannot 
 be very diverting, sure, the subject is so sad. 
 
 But all this is nothing to my coming to town, 
 you'll say. 'Tis confest; and that I was willing 
 as long as I could to avoid saying anything when 
 I had nothing to say worth your knowing. I am 
 still obliged to wait my brother Peyton and his 
 lady coming. I had a letter from him this week, 
 which I will send you, that you may see what 
 hopes he gives. As little room as I have left, 
 too, I must tell you what a present I had made 
 me to-day. Two of the finest young Irish grey- 
 hounds that ere I saw ; a gentleman that serves 
 the General sent them me. They are newly 
 come over, and sent for by Henry Cromwell, he 
 tells me, but not how he got them for me.
 
 Life at Chicksands. 163 
 
 However, I am glad I have them, and much the 
 more becauses it dispenses with a very unfit 
 employment that your father, out of his kindness 
 to you and his civility to me, was content to take 
 upon him. 
 
 Letter 34. 
 
 SIR, Jane was so unlucky as to come out of 
 town before your return, but she tells me she left 
 my letter with Nan Stacy for you. I was in hope 
 she would have brought me one from you ; and 
 because she did not I was resolv'd to punish her, 
 and kept her up till one o'clock telling me all her 
 stories. Sure, if there be any truth in the old 
 observation, your cheeks glowed notably ; and 'tis 
 most certain that if I were with you, I should 
 chide notably. What do you mean to be so melan- 
 choly ? By her report your humour is grown 
 insupportable. I can allow it not to be altogether 
 what she says, and yet it may be very ill too ; but 
 if you loved me you would not give yourself over 
 to that which will infallibly kill you, if it continue. 
 I know too well that our fortunes have given us 
 occasion enough to complain and to be weary of 
 her tyranny ; but, alas ! would it be better if I had 
 lost you or you me ; unless we were sure to die 
 both together, 'twould but increase our misery, 
 and add to that which is more already than we 
 can well tell how to bear. You are more cruel 
 than she regarding a life that's dearer to me than
 
 164 Letters from Dorothy Osbome. 
 
 that of the whole world besides, and which makes 
 all the happiness I have or ever shall be capable 
 of. Therefore, by all our friendship I conjure 
 you and, by the power you have given me, com- 
 mand you, to preserve yourself with the same 
 care that you would have me live. 'Tis all the 
 obedience I require of you, and will be the 
 greatest testimony you can give me of your faith. 
 When you have promised me this, 'tis not im- 
 possible that I may promise you shall see me 
 shortly ; though my brother Peyton (who says he 
 will come down to fetch his daughter) hinders me 
 from making the journey in compliment to her. 
 Yet I shall perhaps find business enough to carry 
 me up to town. 'Tis all the service I expect from 
 two girls whose friends have given me leave to 
 provide for, that some order I must take for the 
 disposal of them may serve for my pretence to 
 see you ; but then I must find you pleased and in 
 good humour, merry as you were wont to be when 
 we first met, if you will not have me show that 
 I am nothing akin to my cousin Osborne's lady. 
 
 But what an age 'tis since we first met, and how 
 great a change it has wrought in both of us ; if 
 there had been as great a one in my face, it could 
 be either very handsome or very ugly. For 
 God's sake, when we meet, let us design one day 
 to remember old stories in, to ask one another by 
 what degrees our friendship grew to this height 
 'tis at. In earnest, I am lost sometimes with
 
 Life at Chicksands. 165 
 
 thinking on't ; and though I can never repent the 
 share you have in my heart, I know not whether 
 I gave it you willingly or not at first. No, to 
 speak ingenuously, I think you got an interest 
 there a good while before I thought you had any, 
 and it grew so insensibly, and yet so fast, that all 
 the traverses it has met with since has served 
 rather to discover it to me than at all to hinder 
 it. By this confession you will see I am past all 
 disguise with you, and that you have reason to be 
 satisfied with knowing as much of my heart as I 
 do myself. Will the kindness of this letter excuse 
 the shortness on't ? For I have twenty more, I 
 think, to write, and the hopes I had of receiving 
 one from you last night kept me from writing this 
 when I had more time ; or if all this will not 
 satisfy, make your own conditions, so you do not 
 return it me by the shortness of yours. Your 
 servant kisses your hands, and I am 
 
 Your faithful. 
 
 Letter 35. This is written on the back of a letter 
 of Sir Thomas Peyton to Dorothy, and is probably 
 a postscript to Letter 34. Sir Thomas's letter is a good 
 example of the stilted letter -writing in vogue at that 
 time, which Dorothy tells us was so much admired. 
 The affairs that are troubling him are legal matters in 
 connection with his brother-in-law Henry Oxenden's 
 estate. There is a multitude of letters in the MSS. in 
 the British Museum referring to this business ; but we 
 are not greatly concerned with Oxenden's financial
 
 1 66 Letters from Dorothy Osbor. 
 
 difficulties. Sir Edward Hales was a gentleman of noble 
 family in Kent. There is one of the same name who in 
 1688 declares himself openly to be a Papist, and is tried 
 under the Test Act. He is concerned in the same year 
 in the escape of King James, providing him with a 
 fishing- boat to carry him into France. This is in all 
 probability the Sir Edward Hales referred to by Sir 
 Thomas Peyton, unless it be a son of the same name. 
 Here is the letter : 
 
 " GOOD SISTER, I am very sorry to hear the 
 loss of our good brother, whose short time gives 
 us a sad example of our frail condition. But I 
 will not say the loss, knowing whom I write to, 
 whose religion and wisdom is a present stay to 
 support in all worldly accidents. 
 
 "'Tis long since we resolved to have given you 
 a visit, and have relieved you of my daughter. 
 But I have had the following of a most laborious 
 affair, which hath cost me the travelling, though 
 in our own country style, fifty ...; and I have 
 been less at home than elsewhere ever since I 
 came from London ; which hath vext me the more 
 in regard I have been detained from the desire I 
 had of being with you before this time. Such 
 entertainment, however, must all those have that 
 have to do with such a purse-proud and wilful per- 
 son as Sir Edward Hales. This next week being 
 Michaelmas week, we shall end all and I be at 
 liberty, I hope, to consider my own contentments. 
 In the meantime I know not what excuses to
 
 Life at Chicksands. 167 
 
 make for the trouble I have put you to already, 
 of which I grow to be ashamed ; and I should 
 much more be so if I did not know you to be as 
 good as you are fair. In both which regards I 
 have a great honour to be esteemed, 
 " My good sister, 
 
 "Your faithful brother and servant, 
 " THOMAS PEYTON. 
 
 "KNOWLTON, Sept. 22, 1653." 
 
 On the other side of Sir T. Peytons Letter. 
 
 NOTHING that is paper can 'scape me when I 
 have time to write, and 'tis to you. But that I 
 am not willing to excite your envy, I would tell 
 you how many letters I have despatched since I 
 ended yours ; and if I could show them you 'twould 
 be a certain cure for it, for they are all very short 
 ones, and most of them merely compliments, 
 which I am sure you care not for. 
 
 I had forgot in my other to tell you what Jane 
 requires for the satisfaction of what you confess 
 you owe her. You must promise her to be merry, 
 and not to take cold when you are at the tennis 
 court, for there she hears you are found. 
 
 Because you mention my Lord Broghill and 
 his wit, I have sent you some of his verses. 
 My brother urged them against me one day in 
 a dispute, where he would needs make me confess 
 that no passion could be long lived, and that such 
 as were most in love forgot that ever they had
 
 168 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 been so within a twelvemonth after they were 
 married ; and, in earnest, the want of examples to 
 bring for the contrary puzzled me a little, so that 
 I was fain to bring out those pitiful verses of my 
 Lord Biron to his wife, which was so poor an argu- 
 ment that I was e'en ashamed on't myself, and 
 he quickly laughed me out of countenance with 
 saying they were just such as a married man's 
 flame would produce and a wife inspire. I send 
 you a love letter, too; which, simple as you see, it 
 was sent me in very good earnest, and by a person 
 of quality, as I was told. If you read it when you 
 go to bed, 'twill certainly make your sleep approved. 
 
 I am yours. 
 
 Letter 36. My Lady Carlisle was, as Dorothy says, 
 'an extraordinary person." She was the daughter of 
 Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, and at the age 
 of eighteen, against her father's will and under somewhat 
 romantic circumstances, married James Hay, Earl of 
 Carlisle. Her sister married the Earl of Leicester, and 
 she is therefore aunt to Lady Sunderland and Algernon 
 Sydney. She was a favourite attendant of Queen 
 Henrietta, and there are evil rumours connecting her 
 name with that of Strafford. On Strafford's death, it 
 is asserted that she transferred her affections to Pym, 
 to whom she is said to have betrayed the secrets of the 
 Court. There seems little doubt that it was she who 
 gave notice to Pym of the King's coming to the House 
 to seize the five members. In 1648 she appears, how- 
 ever, to have assisted the Royalists with money for the 
 purpose of raising a fleet to attack England, and at the
 
 Life at Chicksands. 1 69 
 
 Restoration she was received at Court, and employed 
 herself in intriguing for the return of Queen Henrietta 
 to England, which was opposed at the time by Clarendon 
 and others. Soon after this, and in the year of the 
 Restoration, she died suddenly. Poets of all grades, 
 from Waller downwards, have sung of her beauty, viva- 
 city, and wit ; and Sir Toby Matthew speaks of her as 
 "too lofty and dignified to be capable of friendship, and 
 having too great a heart to be susceptible of love," 
 an extravagance of compliment hardly satisfactory in 
 this plain age. 
 
 My Lord Paget, at whose house at Marlow Mr. Lely 
 was staying, was a prominent loyalist both in camp and 
 council chamber. He married Frances, the eldest 
 daughter of the Earl of Holland, my Lady Diana's sister. 
 
 Whether or not Dorothy really assisted young 
 Sir Harry Yelverton in his suit for the hand of fair 
 Lady Ruthin we cannot say, but they were undoubtedly 
 married. Sir Harry Yelverton seems to have been a 
 man of superior accomplishments and serious learning. 
 He was at this time twenty years of age, and had been 
 educated at St. Paul's School, London, and afterwards 
 at Wadham College, Oxford, under the tutorship of 
 Dr. Wilkins, Cromwell's brother-in-law, a learned and 
 philosophical mathematician. He was admitted gentle- 
 man commoner in 1650, and it is said "made great 
 proficiency in several branches of learning, being as 
 exact a Latin and Grecian as any in the university of 
 his age or time." He succeeded to his father's title 
 soon after coming of age, and took a leading part in the 
 politics of the day, becoming Knight of the Shire of 
 Northampton in the Restoration Parliament. He was 
 a high Tory, and a great defender of the Church and its 
 ejected ministers, one of whom, Dr. Thomas Morton,
 
 1 70 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 the learned theologian, Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield, 
 died in his house in 1659. He wrote a discourse on the 
 " Truth and Reasonableness of the Religion delivered 
 by Jesus Christ," a Preface to Dr. Morton's work on 
 Episcopacy, and a vindication of the Church of England 
 against the attacks of the famous Edward Bagshawe. 
 
 In this letter Dorothy describes some husbands whom 
 she could not marry. See what she expects in a lover ! 
 Have we not here some local squires hit off to the life ? 
 Could George Eliot herself have done more for us in 
 like space ? 
 
 SIR, Why are you so sullen, and why am I ' 
 the cause ? Can you believe that I do willingly 
 defer my journey ? I know you do not. Why, 
 then, should my absence now be less supportable 
 to you than heretofore ? Nay, it shall not be 
 long (if I can help it), and I shall break through 
 all inconveniences rather than deny you anything 
 that lies in my power to grant. But by your own 
 rules, then, may I not expect the same from you ? 
 Is it possible that all I have said cannot oblige 
 you to a care of yourself? What a pleasant 
 distinction you make when you say that 'tis not 
 melancholy makes you do these things, but a 
 careless forgetfulness. Did ever anybody forget 
 themselves to that degree that was not melan- 
 choly in extremity ? Good God ! how you are 
 altered ; and what is it that has done it ? I have 
 known you when of all the things in the world 
 you would not have been taken for a discontent ; 
 you were, as I thought, perfectly pleased with
 
 Life at Chicksands. 171 
 
 your condition ; what has made it so much worse 
 since ? I know nothing you have lost, and am 
 sure you have gained a friend that is capable of 
 the highest degree of friendship you can pro- 
 pound, that has already given an entire heart for 
 that which she received, and 'tis no more in her 
 will than in her power ever to recall it or divide 
 it ; if this be not enough to satisfy you, tell me 
 what I can do more ? 
 
 There are a great many ingredients must go 
 to the making me happy in a husband. First, as 
 my cousin Franklin says, our humours must 
 agree ; and to do that he must have that kind of 
 breeding that I have had, and used that kind of 
 company. That is, he must not be so much a 
 country gentleman as to understand nothing but 
 hawks and do^s, and be fonder of either than his 
 
 O ' 
 
 wife; nor of the next sort of them whose aim 
 reaches no further than to be Justice of the Peace, 
 and once in his life High Sheriff, who reads no 
 book but statutes, and studies nothing but how 
 to make a speech interlarded with Latin that may 
 amaze his disagreeing poor neighbours, and fright 
 them rather than persuade them into quietness. 
 He must not be a thing that began the world in 
 a free school, was sent from thence to the univer- 
 sity, and is at his furthest when he reaches the 
 Inns of Court, has no acquaintance but those of 
 his form in these places, speaks the French he 
 has picked out of old laws, and admires nothing
 
 172 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 but the stories he has heard of the revels that 
 were kept there before his time. He must not 
 be a town gallant neither, that lives in a tavern 
 and an ordinary, that cannot imagine how an hour 
 should be spent without company unless it be 
 in sleeping, that makes court to all the women he 
 sees, thinks they believe him, and laughs and is 
 laughed at equally. Nor a travelled Monsieur 
 whose head is all feather inside and outside, that 
 can talk of nothing but dances and duets, and has 
 courage enough to wear slashes when every one 
 else dies with cold to see him. He must not be 
 a fool of no sort, nor peevish, nor ill-natured, nor 
 proud, nor covetous; and to all this must be added, 
 that he must love me and I him as much as we 
 are capable of loving. Without all this, his 
 fortune, though never so great, would not satisfy 
 me ; and with it, a very moderate one would keep 
 me from ever repenting my disposal. 
 
 I have been as large and as particular in my 
 descriptions as my cousin Molle is in his of 
 Moor Park, but that you know the place so 
 well I would send it you, nothing can come near 
 his patience in writing it, but my reading on't. 
 Would you had sent me your father's letter, it 
 would not have been less welcome to me than to 
 you ; and you may safely believe that I am equally 
 concerned with you in anything. I should be 
 pleased to see something of my Lady Carlisle's 
 writing, because she is so extraordinary a person.
 
 Life at Chicksands. 173 
 
 I have been thinking of sending you my picture 
 till I could come myself; but a picture is but dull 
 company, and that you need not; besides, I 
 cannot tell whether it be very like me or not, 
 though 'tis the best I ever had drawn for me, and 
 Mr. Lilly [Lely] will have it that he never took 
 more pains to make a good one in his life, and 
 that was it I think that spoiled it. He was con- 
 demned for making the first he drew for me a 
 little worse than I, and in making this better he 
 has made it as unlike as t'other. He is now, 
 I think, at my Lord Pagett's at Marloe [Mario w], 
 where I am promised he shall draw a picture of 
 my Lady for me, she gives it me, she says, as 
 the greatest testimony of her friendship to me, 
 for by her own rule she is past the time of having 
 pictures taken of her. After eighteen, she says, 
 there is no face but decays apparently ; I would 
 fain have had her excepted such as had never 
 been beauties, for my comfort, but she would 
 not. 
 
 When you see your friend Mr. Heningham, 
 you may tell him in his ear there is a willow 
 garland coming towards him. He might have 
 sped better in his suit if he had made court to 
 me, as well as to my Lady Ruthin. She has 
 been my wife this seven years, and whosoever 
 pretends there must ask my leave. I have now 
 given my consent that she shall marry a very 
 pretty little gentleman, Sir Christopher Yelverton's
 
 1 74 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 son, and I think we shall have a wedding ere it 
 be long. My Lady her mother, in great kindness, 
 would have recommended Heningham to me, and 
 told me in a compliment that I was fitter for him 
 than her daughter, who was younger, and there- 
 fore did not understand the world so well ; that 
 she was certain if he knew me he would be 
 extremely taken, for I would make just that kind 
 of wife he looked for. I humbly thanked her, 
 but said I was certain he would not make that 
 kind of husband I looked for, and so it went no 
 further. 
 
 I expect my eldest brother here shortly, whose 
 fortune is well mended by my other brother's 
 death, so as if he were satisfied himself with what 
 he has done, I know no reason why he might not 
 be very happy ; but I am afraid he is not. I have 
 not seen my sister since I knew she was so ; but, 
 sure, she can have lost no beauty, for I never saw 
 any that she had, but good black eyes, which 
 cannot alter. He loves her, I think, at the 
 ordinary rate of husbands, but not enough, I 
 believe, to marry her so much to his disadvantage 
 if it were to do again ; and that would kill me 
 were I as she, for I could be infinitely better 
 satisfied with a husband that had never loved me 
 in hopes he might, than with one that began to 
 love me less than he had done. 
 
 I am yours.
 
 Life at Chicksands. 1 75 
 
 Letter 37. 
 
 SIR, You say I abuse you ; and Jane says you 
 
 abuse me when you say you are not melancholy : 
 
 which is to be believed ? Neither, I think ; for I 
 
 could not have said so positively (as it seems she 
 
 did) that I should not be in town till my brother 
 
 came back : he was not gone when she writ, nor 
 
 is not yet ; and if my brother Peyton had come 
 
 before his going, I had spoiled her prediction. 
 
 But now it cannot be ; he goes on Monday or 
 
 Tuesday at farthest. I hope you did truly with 
 
 me, too, in saying that you are not melancholy 
 
 (though she does not believe it). I am thought 
 
 so, many times, when I am not at all guilty on't. 
 
 How often do I sit in company a whole day, and 
 
 when they are gone am not able to give an 
 
 account of six words that was said, and many 
 
 times could be so much better pleased with the 
 
 entertainment my own thoughts give me, that 
 
 'tis all I can do to be so civil as not to let them 
 
 see they trouble me. This may be your disease. 
 
 However, remember you have promised me to 
 
 be careful of yourself, and that if I secure what 
 
 you have entrusted me with, you will answer for 
 
 the rest. Be this our bargain then ; and look 
 
 that you give me as good an account of one as I 
 
 shall give you of t'other. In earnest, I was 
 
 strangely vexed to see myself forced to disappoint 
 
 you so, and felt your trouble and my own too.
 
 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 How often I have wished myself with you, though 
 but for a day, for an hour : I would have given all 
 the time I am to spend here for it with all my heart. 
 You could not but have laughed if you had 
 seen me last night. My brother and Mr. Gibson 
 were talking by the fire ; and I sat by, but as no 
 part of the company. Amongst other things 
 (which I did not at all mind), they fell into a 
 discourse of flying ; and both agreed it was very 
 possible to find out a way that people might fly 
 like birds, and despatch their journeys : so I, that 
 had not said a word all night, started up at that, 
 and desired they would say a little more on't, for 
 I had not marked the beginning ; but instead of 
 that, they both fell into so violent a laughing, that 
 I should appear so much concerned in such an 
 art ; but they little knew of what use it might 
 have been to me. Yet I saw you last night, but 
 'twas in a dream ; and before I could say a word 
 to you, or you to me, the disorder my joy to see 
 you had put me into awakened me. Just now I 
 was interrupted, too, and called away to entertain 
 two dumb gentlemen ; you may imagine whether 
 I was pleased to leave my writing to you for their 
 company ; they have made such a tedious visit, 
 too ; and I am so tired with making of signs and 
 tokens for everything I had to say. Good God ! 
 how do those that live with them always ? They 
 are brothers ; and the eldest is a baronet, has 
 a good estate, a wife and three or four children.
 
 Life at Chicksands. 177 
 
 He was my servant heretofore, and comes to see 
 me still for old love's sake ; but if he could have 
 made me mistress of the world I could not have 
 had him ; and yet I'll swear he has nothing to be 
 disliked in him but his want of tongue, which in a 
 woman might have been a virtue. 
 
 I sent you a part of Cyrus last week, where 
 you will meet with one Doralise in the story of 
 Abradah and Panthee. The whole story is very 
 good ; but the humour makes the best part of it. 
 I am of her opinion in most things that she says 
 in her character of " Uhonnest homme " that she 
 is in search of, and her resolution of receiving 
 no heart that had been offered to anybody else. 
 Pray, tell me how you like her, and what fault 
 you find in my Lady Carlisle's letter ? Methinks 
 the hand and the style both show her a great 
 person, and 'tis writ in the way that's now 
 affected by all that pretend to wit and good 
 breeding ; only, I am a little scandalized to con- 
 fess that she uses that word faithful, she that 
 never knew how to be so in her life. 
 
 I have sent you my picture because you wished 
 for it ; but, pray, let it not presume to disturb my 
 Lady Sunderland's. Put it in some corner where 
 no eyes may find it out but yours, to whom it is 
 only intended. 'Tis not a very good one, but the 
 best I shall ever have drawn of me ; for, as my 
 Lady says, my time for pictures is past, and there- 
 fore I have always refused to part with this, 
 
 M
 
 178 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 because I was sure the next would be a worse. 
 There is a beauty in youth that every one has 
 once in their lives ; and I remember my mother 
 used to say there was never anybody (that was 
 not deformed) but were handsome, to some 
 reasonable degree, once between fourteen and 
 twenty. It must hang with the light on the left 
 hand of it ; and you may keep it if you please 
 till I bring you the original. But then I must 
 borrow it (for 'tis no more mine, if you like it), 
 because my brother is often bringing people into 
 my closet where it hangs, to show them other 
 pictures that are there ; and if he miss this long 
 thence, 'twould trouble his jealous head. 
 
 You are not the first that has told me I knew 
 better what quality I would not have in a husband 
 than what I would ; but it was more pardonable 
 in them. I thought you had understood better 
 what kind of person I liked than anybody else 
 could possibly have done, and therefore did not 
 think it necessary to make you that description 
 too. Those that I reckoned up were only such as 
 I could not be persuaded to have upon no terms, 
 though I had never seen such a person in my 
 life as Mr. Temple : not but that all those may 
 make very good husbands to some women ; but 
 they are so different from my humour that 'tis not 
 possible we should ever agree ; for though it 
 might be reasonably enough expected that I 
 should conform mine to theirs (to my shame be
 
 Life at Chicksands. 179 
 
 it spoken), I could never do it. And I have lived 
 so long in the world, and so much at my own 
 liberty, that whosoever has me must be content 
 to take me as they find me, without hope of ever 
 making me other than I am. I cannot so much 
 as disguise my humour. When it was designed 
 that I should have had Sir Jus., my brother 
 used to tell me he was confident that, with all his 
 wisdom, any woman that had wit and discretion 
 might make an ass of him, and govern him as she 
 pleased. I could not deny that possibly it might 
 be so, but 'twas that I was sure I could never 
 do ; and though 'tis likely I should have forced 
 myself to so much compliance as was necessary 
 for a reasonable wife, yet farther than that no 
 design could ever have carried me ; and I could 
 not have flattered him into a belief that I admired 
 him, to gain more than he and all his generation 
 are worth. 
 
 'Tis such an ease (as you say) not to be 
 solicitous to please others : in earnest, I am no 
 more concerned whether people think me hand- 
 some or ill-favoured, whether they think I have 
 wit or that I have none, than I am whether they 
 think my name Elizabeth or Dorothy. I would 
 do nobody no injury ; but I should never design 
 to please above one ; and that one I must love 
 too, or else I should think it a trouble, and con- 
 sequently not do it. I have made a general 
 confession to you ; will you give me absolution ?
 
 I So Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 Methinks you should ; for you are not much 
 better by your own relation ; therefore 'tis easiest 
 to forgive one another. When you hear any- 
 thing from your father, remember that I am 
 his humble servant, and much concerned in his 
 good health. 
 
 I am yours. 
 
 Letter 38. Lady Isabella is Lady Isabella Rich, my 
 Lady Diana's eldest sister. She married Sir James 
 Thynne. Many years ago she had an intrigue with the 
 Duke of Ormond, by whom she had a son, but Dorothy 
 speaks, I think, of some later scandal than this. 
 
 My Lady Pembroke was the daughter of the Earl of 
 Cumberland. She first married Richard Earl of Dorset, 
 and afterwards the Earl of Pembroke. She is described 
 as a woman whose mind was endowed by nature with 
 very extraordinary attributes. Lord Pembroke, on the 
 other hand, according to Clarendon, pretended to no other 
 qualification " than to understand horses and dogs very 
 well, and to be believed honest and generous." His 
 stables vied with palaces, and his falconry was furnished 
 at immense expense; but in his private life he was 
 characterized by gross ignorance and vice, and his 
 public character was marked by ingratitude and insta- 
 bility. The life of Lady Pembroke was embittered by 
 this man for near twenty years, and she was at length 
 compelled to separate from him. She lived alone, until 
 her husband's death, which took place in January 1650. 
 One can understand that they were entirely unsuitcd 
 to each other, when Lady Pembroke in her Memorials is 
 found to write thus of her husband : " He was no scholar, 
 having passed but three or four months at Oxford, when
 
 Life at Chicksands. 18 1 
 
 he was taken thence after his father's death. He was 
 of quick apprehension, sharp understanding, very crafty 
 withal ; of a discerning spirit, but a choleric nature, 
 increased by the office he held of Chamberlain to the 
 King." Why, then, did the accomplished Lady Anne 
 Clifford unite herself to so worthless a person ? Does 
 she not answer this question for us when she writes that 
 he was " the greatest nobleman in England " ? 
 
 It is of some interest to us to remember that Francis 
 Osborne, Dorothy's uncle (her father's youngest brother), 
 was Master of the Horse to this great nobleman. 
 
 Whether Lord and Lady Leicester were, as Dorothy 
 says, " in great disorder " at this time, it is impossible to 
 say. Lady Leicester is said to have been of a warm 
 and irritable temper, and Lord Leicester is described 
 by Clarendon as "staggering and irresolute in his 
 nature." However, nothing is said of their quarrels ; 
 but, on the other hand, there is a very pathetic account 
 in Lord Leicester's journal of his wife's death in 1659, 
 which shows that, whatever this " disorder " may have 
 been, a complete reconciliation was afterwards effected. 
 
 SIR, You would have me say something of 
 my coming. Alas ! how fain I would have some- 
 thing to say, but I know no more than you saw in 
 that letter I sent you. How willingly would I 
 tell you anything that I thought would please 
 you ; but I confess I do not like to give uncertain 
 hopes, because I do not care to receive them. 
 And I thought there was no need of saying I 
 would be sure to take the first occasion, and that 
 I waited with impatience for it, because I hoped 
 you had believed all that already ; and so you do,
 
 1 82 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 I am sure. Say what you will, you cannot but 
 know my heart enough to be assured that I wish 
 myself with you, for my own sake as well as 
 yours. 'Tis rather that you love to hear me say 
 it often, than that you doubt it ; for I am no 
 dissembler. I could not cry for a husband that 
 were indifferent to me (like your cousin) ; no, nor 
 for a husband that I loved neither. I think 
 'twould break my heart sooner than make me 
 shed a tear. 'Tis ordinary griefs that make me 
 weep. In earnest, you cannot imagine how often 
 I have been told that I had too much franchise 
 in my humour, and that 'twas a point of good 
 breeding to disguise handsomely ; but I answered 
 still for myself, that 'twas not to be expected I 
 should be exactly bred, that had never seen a 
 Court since I was capable of anything. Yet I 
 know so much, that my Lady Carlisle would take 
 it very ill if you should not let her get the point 
 of honour; 'tis all she aims at, to go beyond 
 everybody in compliment. But are you not afraid 
 of giving me a strong vanity with telling me I 
 write better than the most extraordinary person 
 in the world ? If I had not the sense to under- 
 stand that the reason why you like my letters 
 better is only because they are kinder than hers, 
 such a word might have undone me. 
 
 Hut my Lady Isabella, that speaks, and looks, 
 and sings, and plays, and all so prettily, why can- 
 not I say that she is free from faults as her sister
 
 Life at Chicksands. 183 
 
 believes her ? No ; I am afraid she is not, and 
 sorry that those she has are so generally known. 
 My brother did not bring them for an example ; 
 but I did, and made him confess she had better 
 have married a beggar than that beast with all 
 his estate. She cannot be excused ; but certainly 
 they run a strange hazard that have such hus- 
 bands as makes them think they cannot be more 
 undone, whatever course they take. Oh, 'tis ten 
 thousand pities ! I remember she was the first 
 woman that ever I took notice of for extremely 
 handsome ; and, in earnest, she was then the 
 loveliest lady that could be looked on, I think. 
 But what should she do with beauty now ? Were 
 I as she, I should hide myself from all the world ; 
 I should think all people that looked on me read 
 it in my face and despised me in their hearts ; and 
 at the same time they made me a leg, or spoke 
 civilly to me, I should believe they did not think 
 I deserved their respect. I'll tell you who he 
 urged for an example though, my Lord Pem- 
 broke and my Lady, who, they say, are upon 
 parting after all his passion for her, and his 
 marrying her against the consent of all his 
 friends ; but to that I answered, that though he 
 pretended great kindness he had for her, I never 
 heard of much she had for him, and knew she 
 married him merely for advantage. Nor is she a 
 woman of that discretion as to do all that might 
 become her, when she must do it rather as things
 
 184 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 fit to be done than as things she inclined to. 
 Besides that, what with a spleenatick side and a 
 chemical head, he is but an odd body himself. 
 
 But is it possible what they say, that my Lord 
 Leicester and my Lady are in great disorder, and 
 that after forty years' patience he has now taken 
 up the cudgels and resolved to venture for the 
 mastery ? Methinks he wakes out of his loivjf 
 sleep like a froward child, that wrangles and 
 fights with all that comes near it. They say he 
 has turned away almost every servant in the 
 house, and left her at Penshurst to digest it as 
 she can. 
 
 What an age do we live in, where 'tis a miracle 
 if in ten couples that are married, two of them 
 live so as not to publish to the world that they 
 cannot agree. I begin to be of your opinion of 
 him that (when the Roman Church first pro- 
 pounded whether it were not convenient for 
 priests not to marry) said that it might be con- 
 venient enough, but sure it was not our Saviour's 
 intention, for He commanded that all should take 
 up their cross and follow Him ; and for his part, 
 he was confident there was no such cross as a 
 wife. This is an ill doctrine for me to preach ; 
 but to my friends I cannot but confess that I am 
 afraid much of the fault lies in us ; for I have 
 observed that formerly, in great families, the men 
 seldom disagree, but the women are always scold- 
 ing; and 'tis most certain, that let the husband be
 
 Life at Chicksands. 185 
 
 what he will, if the wife have but patience (which, 
 sure, becomes her best), the disorder cannot be 
 great enough to make a noise ; his anger alone, 
 when it meets with nothing that resists it, cannot 
 be loud enough to disturb the neighbours. And 
 such a wife may be said to do as a kinswoman of 
 ours that had a husband who was not always 
 himself; and when he was otherwise, his humour 
 was to rise in the night, and with two bedstaves 
 labour on the table an hour together. She took 
 care every night to lay a great cushion upon the 
 table for him to strike on, that nobody might hear 
 him, and so discover his madness. But 'tis a sad 
 thing when all one's happiness is only that the 
 world does not know you are miserable. 
 
 For my part, I think it were very convenient 
 that all such as intend to marry should live 
 together in the same house some years of pro- 
 bation ; and if, in all that time, they never dis- 
 agreed, they should then be permitted to marry 
 if they please ; but how few would do it then ! I 
 do not remember that I ever saw or heard of any 
 couple that were bred up so together (as many 
 you know are, that are designed for one another 
 from children), but they always disliked one 
 another extremely ; parted, if it were left in their 
 choice. If people proceeded with this caution, 
 the world would end sooner than is expected, I 
 believe ; and because, with all my wariness, 'tis 
 not impossible but I may be caught, nor likely
 
 1 86 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 that I should be wiser than anybody else, 'twere 
 best, I think, that I said no more on this point. 
 
 What would I give to know that sister of 
 yours that is so good at discovering ; sure she is 
 excellent company ; she has reason to laugh at you 
 when you would have persuaded her the " moss 
 was sweet." I remember Jane brought some of it 
 to me, to ask me if I thought it had no ill smell, 
 and whether she might venture to put it in the 
 box or not. I told her as I thought, she could 
 not put a more innocent thing there, for I did not 
 find it had any smell at all ; besides, I was willing 
 it should do me some service in requital for 
 the pains I had taken for it. My niece and I 
 wandered through some eight hundred acres of 
 wood in search of it, to make rocks and strange 
 things that her head is full of, and she admires it 
 more than you did. If she had known I had 
 consented it should have been used to fill up a 
 box, she would have condemned me extremely. 
 I told Jane that you liked her present, and she, I 
 find, is resolved to spoil your compliment, and 
 make you confess at last that they are not worth 
 the eating ; she threatens to send you more, but 
 you would forgive her if you saw how she baits 
 me every day to go to London ; all that I can say 
 will not satisfy her. When I urge (as 'tis true) 
 that there is a necessity of my stay here, she 
 grows furious, cries you will die with melancholy, 
 and confounds me so with stories of your ill-
 
 Life at Chicksands. 187 
 
 humour, that I'll swear I think I should go merely 
 to be at quiet, if it were possible, though there 
 were no other reason for it. But I hope 'tis not 
 so ill as she would have me believe it, though I 
 know your humour is strangely altered from what 
 it was, and am sorry to see it. Melancholy must 
 needs do you more hurt than to another to whom 
 it may be natural, as I think it is to me ; therefore 
 if you loved me you would take heed on't. Can 
 you believe that you are dearer to me than the 
 whole world beside, and yet neglect yourself? 
 If you do not, you wrong a perfect friendship ; 
 and if you do, you must consider my interest in 
 you, and preserve yourself to make me happy. 
 Promise me this, or I shall haunt you worse than 
 she does me. Scribble how you please, so you make 
 your letter long enough; you see I give you good 
 example; besides, I can assure you we do perfectly 
 agree if you receive not satisfaction but from my 
 letters, I have none but what yours give me. 
 
 Letter 39. Dorothy has been in London since her last 
 letter, but unfortunately she has either not met with 
 Temple, or he has left town suddenly whilst she was 
 there, on some unexplained errand. This would there- 
 fore seem a natural place to begin a new chapter ; but 
 as we have very shortly to come to a series of unhappy 
 letters, quite distinct in their character from these, I 
 have thought fit to place in this long chapter yet a few 
 more letters after Dorothy's autumn visit to London. 
 
 Stephen Marshall was, like Hugh Peters, one of those
 
 1 88 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 preachers who was able to exchange the obscurity of a 
 country parish for the public fame of a London pulpit, 
 by reason of a certain gift of rhetorical power, the value 
 of which it is impossible to estimate to-day. Such of 
 his sermons as are still extant are prosy, long-winded, 
 dogmatic absurdities, overloaded with periphrastic illus- 
 trations in scriptural language. They are meaningless 
 to a degree, which would make one wonder at the 
 docility and patience of a seventeenth century congre- 
 gation, if one had not witnessed a similar spirit in 
 congregations of to-day. 
 
 There is no honest biography of Stephen Marshall. 
 In the news-books and tracts of the day we find refer- 
 ences to sermons preached by him, by command, before 
 the Army of the Parliament, and we have reprints of 
 some of these. I have searched in vain to find the 
 sermon which Dorothy heard, but it was probably not a 
 sermon given on any great occasion, and we may believe 
 it was never printed. There is an amusing scandalous 
 tract, called the Life and Death of Stephen Marshall, 
 which is so full of "evil speaking, lying, and slandering," 
 as to be quite unworthy of quotation. From this we 
 may take it, however, that he was born at Gorman- 
 chester, in Cromwell's county, was educated at 
 Emmanuel College, Cambridge, and that before he 
 came to London his chief cure of souls was at Finching- 
 field in Essex. These, and the records of his London 
 preaching, are the only facts in his life's history which 
 have come to my notice. 
 
 My Lord Whitclocke did go to Sweden, as Dorothy 
 surmises ; setting sail from Plymouth with one hundred 
 honest men, on October 26, 1653, or very soon after- 
 wards, as one may read in his journal of the progress of 
 the Embassy. That he should fill this ofike, appears to
 
 Life at Chicksands. 189 
 
 have been proposed to him by Cromwell in September 
 of this year. 
 
 An Act of Parliament to abolish the Chancery was 
 indeed passed in the August of this year. Well may 
 Lord Keble sore lament, and the rest of the world 
 rejoice, at such news. Joseph Keble was a well- 
 known law reporter, a son of Serjeant Richard Keble. 
 He was a Fellow of All Souls, and a Bencher of 
 Gray's Inn ; and, furthermore, was one of the Lords 
 Commissioners of the Great Seal from 1648-1654. 
 There was "some debate," says Whitelocke, "whether 
 they should be styled ' Commissioners ' or ' Lords Com- 
 missioners,' " and though the word Lords was far less 
 acceptable at this time than formerly, yet that they 
 might not seem to lessen their own authority, nor the 
 honour of their office constituted by them, they voted 
 the title to be " Lords Commissioners." 
 
 SIR, If want of kindness were the only crime 
 I exempted from pardon, 'twas not that I had the 
 least apprehension you could be guilty of it ; but 
 to show you (by excepting only an impossible 
 thing) that I excepted nothing. No, in earnest, 
 I can fancy no such thing of you, or if I could, 
 the quarrel would be to myself ; I should never 
 forgive my own folly that let me to choose a 
 friend that could be false. But I'll leave this 
 (which is not much to the purpose) and tell you 
 how, with my usual impatience, I expected your 
 letter, and how cold it went to my heart to see it 
 so short a one. 'Twas so great a pain to me that 
 I am resolv'd you shall not feel it ; nor can I in
 
 190 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 justice punish you for a fault unwillingly com- 
 mitted. If I were your enemy, I could not use 
 you ill when I saw Fortune do it too, and in 
 gallantry and good nature both, I should think 
 myself rather obliged to protect you from her 
 injury (if it lay in my power) than double them 
 upon you. These things considered, I believe 
 this letter will be longer than ordinary, kinder I 
 think it cannot be. I always speak my heart to 
 you ; and that is so much your friend, it never 
 furnishes me with anything to your disadvantage. 
 I am glad you are an admirer of Telesile as well 
 as I ; in my opinion 'tis a fine Lady, but I know 
 you will pity poor Amestris strongly when you 
 have read her story. I'll swear I cried for her 
 when I read it first, though she were but an 
 imaginary person ; and, sure, if anything of that 
 kind can deserve it, her misfortunes may. 
 
 God forgive me, I was as near laughing 
 yesterday where I should not. Would you 
 believe that I had the grace to go hear a 
 sermon upon a week day ? In earnest, 'tis true ; 
 a Mr. Marshall was the man that preached, but 
 never anybody was so defeated. He is so famed 
 that I expected rare things of him, and seriously 
 I listened to him as if he had been St. Paul ; and 
 what do you think he told us ? Why, that if there 
 were no kings, no queens, no lords, no ladies, nor 
 gentlemen, nor gentlewomen, in the world, 'twould 
 be no loss to God Almighty at all. This we had
 
 Life at Chicksands. 191 
 
 over some forty times, which made me remember 
 it whether I would or not. The rest was much 
 at this rate, interlarded with the prettiest odd 
 phrases, that I had the most ado to look soberly 
 enough for the place I was in that ever I had in 
 my life. He does not preach so always, sure ? 
 If he does, I cannot believe his sermons will do 
 much towards bringing anybody to heaven more 
 than by exercising their patience. Yet, I'll say 
 that for him, he stood stoutly for tithes, though, 
 in my opinion, few deserve them less than he ; 
 and it may be he would be better without them. 
 
 Yet you are not convinced, you say, that to be 
 miserable is the way to be good ; to some natures 
 I think it is not, but there are many of so 
 careless and vain a temper, that the least breath 
 of good fortune swells them with so much pride, 
 that if they were not put in mind sometimes by a 
 sound cross or two that they are mortal, they 
 would hardly think it possible ; and though 'tis a 
 sign of a servile nature when fear produces more 
 of reverence in us than love, yet there is more 
 danger of forgetting oneself in a prosperous 
 fortune than in the contrary, and affliction may be 
 the surest (though not the pleasantest) guide to 
 heaven. What think you, might not I preach 
 with Mr. Marshall for a wager ? But you could 
 fancy a perfect happiness here, you say ; that is 
 not much, many people do so ; but I never heard 
 of anybody that ever had it more than in fancy,
 
 192 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 so that will not be strange if you should miss on't. 
 One may be happy to a good degree, I think, in 
 a faithful friend, a moderate fortune, and a retired 
 life ; further than this I know nothing to wish ; 
 but if there be anything beyond it, I wish it you. 
 
 You did not tell me what carried you out of 
 town in such haste. I hope the occasion was 
 good, you must account to me for all that I lost 
 by it. I shall expect a whole packet next week. 
 Oh, me ! I have forgot this once or twice to tell 
 you, that if it be no inconvenience to you, I could 
 wish you would change the place of direction for 
 my letters. Certainly that Jones knows my name, I 
 bespoke a saddle of him once, and though it be a 
 good while agone, yet I was so often with him 
 about it, having much ado to make him under- 
 stand how I would have it, it being of a fashion 
 he had never seen, though, sure, it be common, 
 that I am confident he has not forgot me. Besides 
 that, upon it he got my brother's custom ; and I 
 cannot tell whether he does not use the shop still. 
 Jane presents her humble service to you, and has 
 sent you something in a box ; 'tis hard to imagine 
 what she can find here to present you withal, 
 and I am much in doubt whether you will not 
 pay too dear for it if you discharge the carriage. 
 'Tis a pretty freedom she takes, but you may 
 thank yourself; she thinks because you call her 
 fellow-servant, she may use you accordingly. I 
 bred her better, but you have spoiled her.
 
 Life at Chicksands. 193 
 
 Is it true that my Lord Whitlocke goes 
 Ambassador where my Lord Lisle should have 
 gone ? I know not how he may appear in a 
 Swedish Court, but he was never meant for a 
 courtier at home, I believe. Yet 'tis a gracious 
 Prince ; he is often in this country, and always 
 does us the favour to send for his fruit hither. 
 He was making a purchase of one of the best 
 houses in the county. I know not whether he 
 goes on with it ; but 'tis such a one as will not 
 become anything less than a lord. And there is 
 a talk as if the Chancery were going down ; if so, 
 his title goes with it, I think. 'Twill be sad news 
 for my Lord Keble's son ; he will have nothing 
 left to say when " my Lord, my father," is taken 
 from him. Were it not better that I had nothing 
 to say neither, than that I should entertain you 
 with such senseless things. I hope I am half 
 asleep, nothing else can excuse me ; if I were 
 quite asleep, I should say fine things to you ; 
 I often dream I do ; but perhaps if I could 
 remember them they are no wiser than my 
 wakening discourses. Good-night. 
 
 Letter 40. A letter has been lost : whether Harrold 
 or Collins, the two carriers, were either or both of them 
 guilty of carelessness in the delivery of these letters, it is 
 quite impossible to say now. Dorothy seems to think 
 Harrold delivered the letter, and it was mislaid in 
 London. Perhaps it was this letter, and what was 
 written about it, that caused all those latent feelings of 
 
 N
 
 194 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 despair and discontent to awaken in the breasts of the 
 two lovers. Was this the spark that loneliness and 
 absence fanned into flame ? You shall judge for your- 
 self, reader, in the next chapter. 
 
 SIR, That you may be at more certainty here- 
 after what to think, let me tell you that nothing 
 could hinder me from writing to you (as well for 
 my own satisfaction as yours) but an impossi- 
 bility of doing it ; nothing but death or a dead 
 palsy in my hands, or something that had the 
 same effect I did write it, and gave it Harrold, 
 but by an accident his horse fell lame, so that he 
 could not set out on Monday ; but on Tuesday 
 he did come to town ; on Wednesday, carried the 
 letter himself (as he tells me) where 'twas directed, 
 which was to Mr. Copyn in Fleet Street. 'Twas 
 the first time I made use of that direction ; no 
 matter and I had not done it then, since it proves 
 no better. Harrold came late home on Thursday 
 night with such an account as your boy gave you : 
 that coming out of town the same day he came 
 in, he had been at Fleet Street again, but there 
 was no letter for him. I was sorry, but I did not 
 much wonder at it because he gave so little time, 
 and resolved to make my best of that I had by 
 Collins. I read it over often enough to make it 
 equal with the longest letter that ever was writ, 
 and pleased myself, in earnest (as much as it was 
 possible for me in the humour I was in), to think 
 how by that time you had asked me pardon for the
 
 Life at Chicksands. 195 
 
 little reproaches you had made me, and that the 
 kindness and length of my letter had made you 
 amends for the trouble it had given you in expect- 
 ing it. But I am not a little annoyed to find you 
 had it not. I am very confident it was delivered, 
 and therefore you must search where the fault lies. 
 Were it not that you had suffered too much 
 already, I would complain a little of you. Why 
 should you think me so careless of anything that 
 you were concerned in, as to doubt that I had 
 writ ? Though I had received none from you, I 
 should not have taken that occasion to revenge 
 myself. Nay, I should have concluded you 
 innocent, and have imagined a thousand ways 
 how it might happen, rather than have suspected 
 your want of kindness. Why should not you be 
 as just to me ? But I will not chide, it may be 
 (as long as we have been friends) you do not 
 know me so well yet as to make an absolute judg- 
 ment of me ; but if I know myself at all, if I am 
 capable of being anything, 'tis a perfect friend. 
 Yet I must chide too. Why did you get such a 
 cold ? Good God ! how careless you are of a life 
 that (by your own confession) I have told you 
 makes all the happiness of mine. 'Tis unkindly 
 done. What is left for me to say, when that will 
 not prevail with you ; or how can you persuade 
 me to a cure of myself, when you refuse to give 
 me the example ? I have nothing in the world 
 that gives me the least desire of preserving my-
 
 196 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 self, but the opinion I have you would not be 
 willing to lose me ; and yet, if you saw with what 
 caution I live (at least to what I did before), you 
 would reproach it to yourself sometimes, and might 
 grant, perhaps, that you have not got the advan- 
 tage of me in friendship so much as you imagine. 
 What (besides your consideration) could oblige 
 me to live and lose all the rest of my friends 
 thus one after another ? Sure I am not insensible 
 nor very ill-natured, and yet I'll swear I think I 
 do not afflict myself half so much as another 
 would do that had my losses. I pay nothing of 
 sadness to the memory of my poor brother, but 
 I presently disperse it with thinking what I owe 
 in thankfulness that 'tis not you I mourn for. 
 
 Well, give me no more occasions to complain of 
 you, you know not what may follow. Here was 
 Mr. Freeman yesterday that made me a very kind 
 visit, and said so many fine things to me, that I 
 was confounded with his civilities, and had nothing 
 to say for myself. I could have wished then that 
 he had considered me less and my niece more; but 
 if you continue to use me thus, in earnest, I'll not 
 be so much her friend hereafter. Methinks I see 
 you laugh at all my threatenings ; and not without 
 reason. Mr. Freeman, you believe, is designed for 
 somebody that deserves him better. I think so 
 too, and am not sorry for it ; and you have reason 
 to believe I never can be other than 
 
 Your faithful friend.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 DESPONDENCY. CHRISTMAS 1653. 
 
 THIS chapter of letters is a sad note, sounding out from 
 among its fellows with mournful clearness. There had 
 seemed a doubt whether all these letters must be 
 regarded as of one series, or whether, more correctly, it 
 was to be assumed that Dorothy and Temple had their 
 lovers' quarrels, for the well -understood pleasure of 
 kissing friends again. But you will agree that these 
 lovers were not altogether as other lovers are, that their 
 troubles were too real and too many for their love to 
 need the stimulus of constant April shower quarrels ; 
 and these letters are very serious in their sadness, im- 
 printing themselves in the mind after constant reading 
 as landmarks clearly defining the course and progress 
 of an unusual event in these lovers' history a misunder- 
 standing. 
 
 The letters are written at Christmastide, 1653. Dorothy 
 had returned from London to Chicksands, and either 
 had not seen Temple or he had left London hurriedly 
 whilst she was there. There is a letter lost. Dorothy's 
 youngest brother is lately dead ; her niece has left her ; 
 her companion Jane is sick ; her father, growing daily 
 weaker and weaker, was sinking into his grave before 
 her eyes. No bright chance seemed to open before her, 
 and their marriage seemed an impossibility. Tor a 
 
 197
 
 198 Letters from Dorothy Osbor, 
 
 moment she loses faith, not in Temple, but in fortune ; 
 faith once gone, hope, missing her comrade, flies away 
 in search of her. She is alone in the old house with her 
 dying father, and with her brother pouring his unkind 
 gossip into her unwilling ear, whilst the sad long year 
 draws slowly to its close, and there is no sign of better 
 fortune for the lovers ; can we wonder, then, that 
 Dorothy, lonely and unaided, pacing in the damp 
 garden beneath the bare trees, with all the bright 
 summer changed into decay, lost faith and hope ? 
 
 Temple, when Dorothy's thoughts reach him, must 
 have replied with some impatience. There are stories, 
 too, set about concerning her good name by one Mr. B., 
 to disturb Temple. Temple can hardly have given 
 credence to these, but he may have complained of them 
 to Dorothy, who is led to declare, " I am the most 
 unfortunate woman breathing, but I was never false," 
 though she forgives her lover " all those strange thoughts 
 he has had " of her. Whatever were the causes of the 
 quarrel, or rather the despondency, we shall never know 
 accurately. Dorothy was not the woman to vapour for 
 months about "an early and a quiet grave." When she 
 writes this it is written in the deepest earnest of despair ; 
 when this mood is over it is over for ever, and we emerge 
 into a clear atmosphere of hope and content. The 
 despondency has been agonizing, but the agony is sharp 
 and rapid, and gives place to the wisdom of hope. 
 
 Temple now comes to Chicksands at an early date. 
 There is a new interchange of vows. Never again will 
 their faith be shaken by fretting and despair ; and these 
 vows are never broken, but remain with the lovers until 
 they are set aside by others, taken under the solemn 
 sanction of the law, and the old troubles vanish in new 
 responsibilities and a new life.
 
 Despondency. 1 99 
 
 Letter 41. Lady Anne Blunt was a daughter of the 
 Earl of Newport. Her mother had turned Catholic in 
 ^37, which had led to an estrangement between her and 
 her husband, and we may conclude poor Lady Anne had 
 by no means a happy home. There are two scandals 
 connected with her name. She appears to have run 
 away with one William Blunt, the " Mr. Blunt " 
 mentioned by Dorothy in her next letter ; and on 
 April 1 8, 1654, she petitioned the Protector to issue a 
 special commission upon her whole case. Mr. Blunt 
 pretended that she was contracted to him for the sake, 
 it is said, of gaining money thereby. There being no 
 Bishop's Court at this time, there are legal difficulties 
 in the way, and we never hear the result of the petition. 
 Again, in February 1655, one Mr. Porter finds him- 
 self committed to Lambeth House for carrying away 
 the Lady Anne Blunt, and endeavouring to marry her 
 without her father's consent. 
 
 SIR, Having tired myself with thinking, I 
 mean to weary you with reading, and revenge 
 myself that way for all the unquiet thoughts you 
 have given me. But I intended this a sober 
 letter, and therefore, sans raillerie, let me tell 
 you, I have seriously considered all our mis- 
 fortunes, and can see no end of them but by sub- 
 mitting to that which we cannot avoid, and by 
 yielding to it break the force of a blow which if 
 resisted brings a certain ruin. I think I need not 
 tell you how dear you have been to me, nor that 
 in your kindness I placed all the satisfaction of 
 my life ; 'twas the only happiness I proposed to
 
 2OO Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 myself, and had set my heart so much upon it 
 that it was therefore made my punishment, to let 
 me see that, how innocent soever I thought my 
 affection, it was guilty in being greater than is 
 allowable for things of this world. 'Tis not a 
 melancholy humour gives me these apprehensions 
 and inclinations, nor the persuasions of others ; 
 'tis the result of a long strife with myself, before 
 my reason could overcome my passion, or bring 
 me to a perfect resignation to whatsoever is 
 allotted for me. 'Tis now done, I hope, and I 
 have nothing left but to persuade you to that, 
 which I assure myself your own judgment will 
 approve in the end, and your reason has often 
 prevailed with you to offer ; that which you would 
 have done then out of kindness to me and point 
 of honour, I would have you do now out of 
 wisdom and kindness to yourself. Not that I 
 would disclaim my part in it or lessen my obliga- 
 tion to you, no, I am your friend as much as 
 ever I was in my life, I think more, and I am 
 sure I shall never be less. I have known you 
 long enough to discern that you have all the 
 qualities that make an excellent friend, and I shall 
 endeavour to deserve that you may be so to me ; 
 but I would have you do this upon the justest 
 grounds, and such as may conduce most to your 
 quiet and future satisfaction. When we have 
 tried all ways to happiness, there is no such thing 
 to be found but in a mind conformed to one's
 
 Despondency. 201 
 
 condition, whatever it be, and in not aimin^ at 
 
 o 
 
 anything that is either impossible or improbable ; 
 all the rest is but vanity and vexation of spirit, 
 and I durst pronounce it so from that little know- 
 ledge I have had of the world, though I had not 
 Scripture for my warrant. The shepherd that 
 bragged to the traveller, who asked him, " What 
 weather it was like to be ? " that it should be 
 what weather pleased him, and made it good by 
 saying it should be what weather pleased God, 
 and what pleased God should please him, said 
 an excellent thing in such language, and knew 
 enough to make him the happiest person in the 
 world if he made a right use on'L There can 
 be no pleasure in a struggling life, and that folly 
 which we condemn in an ambitious man, that's 
 ever labouring for that which is hardly got and 
 more uncertainly kept, is seen in all according to 
 their several humours ; in some 'tis covetousness, 
 in others pride, in some stubbornness of nature 
 that chooses always to go against the tide, and in 
 others an unfortunate fancy to things that are in 
 themselves innocent till we make them otherwise 
 by desiring them too much. Of this sort you and 
 I are, I think ; we have lived hitherto upon hopes 
 so airy that I have often wondered how they 
 could support the weight of our misfortunes ; but 
 passion gives a strength above nature, we see it in 
 most people ; and, not to flatter ourselves, ours is 
 but a refined degree of madness. What can it
 
 2O2 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 be else to be lost to all things in the world but 
 that single object that takes up one's fancy, to 
 lose all the quiet and repose of one's life in 
 hunting after it, when there is so little likelihood 
 of ever gaining it, and so many more probable 
 accidents that will infallibly make us miss on't ? 
 And which is more than all, 'tis being mastered 
 by that which reason and religion teaches us to 
 govern, and in that only gives us a pre-eminence 
 over beasts. This, soberly consider'd, is enough 
 to let us see our error, and consequently to per- 
 suade us to redeem it. To another person, I 
 should justify myself that 'tis not a lightness in 
 my nature, nor any interest that is not common 
 to us both, that has wrought this change in me. 
 To you that know my heart, and from whom I 
 shall never hide it, to whom a thousand testi- 
 monies of my kindness can witness the reality of 
 it, and whose friendship is not built upon common 
 grounds, I have no more to say but that I impose 
 not my opinion upon you, and that I had rather 
 you took them up as your own choice than upon 
 my entreaty. But if, as we have not differed in 
 anything else, we could agree in this too, and 
 resolve upon a friendship that will be much the 
 perfecter for having nothing of passion in it, 
 how happy might we be without so much as a fear 
 of the change that any accident could bring. We 
 might defy all that fortune could do, and putting 
 off all disguise and constraint, with that which
 
 Despondency. 203 
 
 only made it necessary, make our lives as easy to 
 us as the condition of this world will permit. I 
 may own you as a person that I extremely value 
 and esteem, and for whom I have a particular 
 friendship, and you may consider me as one that 
 will always be 
 
 Your faithful. 
 
 This was written when I expected a letter from 
 you, how came I to miss it ? I thought at first 
 it might be the carrier's fault in changing his time 
 without giving notice, but he assures me he did, 
 to Nan. My brother's groom came down to-day, 
 too, and saw her, he tells me, but brings me 
 nothing from her ; if nothing of ill be the cause, I 
 am contented. You hear the noise my Lady 
 Anne Blunt has made with her marrying ? I am 
 so weary with meeting it in all places where I 
 go ; from what is she fallen ! they talked but the 
 week before that she should have my Lord of 
 Strafford. Did you not intend to write to me 
 when you writ to Jane ? That bit of paper did 
 me great service ; without it I should have had 
 strange apprehension, and my sad dreams, and 
 the several frights I have waked in, would have 
 run so in my head that I should have concluded 
 something of very ill from your silence. Poor 
 Jane is sick, but she will write, she says, if she 
 can. Did you send the last part of Cyrus to Mr. 
 Hollingsworth ?
 
 2O4 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 Letter 42. 
 
 SIR, I am extremely sorry that your letter 
 miscarried, but I am confident my brother has it 
 not, as, cunning as he is, he could not hide from 
 me, but that I should discover it some way or 
 other. No; he was here, and both his men, 
 when this letter should have come, and not one 
 of them stirred out that day ; indeed, the next 
 day they went all to London. The note you writ 
 to Jane came in one of Nan's, by Collins, but 
 nothing else ; it must be lost by the porter that 
 was sent with it, and 'twas very unhappy that 
 there should be anything in it of more conse- 
 quence than ordinary ; it may be numbered 
 amongst the rest of our misfortunes, all which an 
 inconsiderate passion has occasioned. You must 
 pardon me I cannot be reconciled to it, it has 
 been the ruin of us both. 'Tis true that nobody 
 must imagine to themselves ever to be absolute 
 master on't, but there is great difference betwixt 
 that and yielding to it, between striving with it 
 and soothing it up till it grows too strong for one. 
 Can I remember how ignorantly and innocently 
 I suffered it to steal upon me by degrees ; how 
 under a mask of friendship I cozened myself 
 into that which, had it appeared to me at first in 
 its true shape, I had feared and shunned ? Can 
 I discern that it has made the trouble of your
 
 Despondency. 205 
 
 life, and cast a cloud upon mine, that will help to 
 cover me in my grave ? Can I know that it 
 wrought so upon us both as to make neither of 
 us friends to one another, but agree in running 
 wildly to our own destruction, and that perhaps of 
 some innocent persons who might live to curse 
 our folly that gave them so miserable a being ? 
 Ah ! if you love yourself or me, you must confess 
 that I have reason to condemn this senseless 
 passion ; that wheresoe'er it comes destroys all 
 that entertain it; nothing of judgment or discretion 
 can live with it, and it puts everything else out of 
 order before it can find a place for itself. What 
 has it brought my poor Lady Anne Blunt to ? 
 She is the talk of all the footmen and boys in the 
 street, and will be company for them shortly, and 
 yet is so blinded by her passion as not at all to 
 perceive the misery she has brought herself to ; 
 and this fond love of hers has so rooted all sense 
 of nature out of her heart, that, they say, she is 
 no more moved than a statue with the affliction 
 of a father and mother that doted on her, and had 
 placed the comfort of their lives in her prefer- 
 ment. With all this is it not manifest to the 
 whole world that Mr. Blunt could not consider 
 anything in this action but his own interest, and 
 that he makes her a very ill return for all her 
 kindness; if he had loved her truly he would 
 have died rather than have been the occasion of 
 this misfortune to her. My cousin Franklin (as
 
 2o6 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 you observe very well) may say fine things now 
 she is warm in Moor Park, but she is very much 
 altered in her opinions since her marriage, if these 
 be her own. She left a gentleman, that I could 
 name, whom she had much more of kindness for 
 than ever she had for Mr. Franklin, because his 
 estate was less ; and upon the discovery of some 
 letters that her mother intercepted, suffered her- 
 self to be persuaded that twenty-three hundred 
 pound a year was better than twelve hundred, 
 though with a person she loved ; and has 
 recovered it so well, that you see she confesses 
 there is nothing in her condition she desires to 
 alter at the charge of a wish. She's happier by 
 much than I shall ever be, but I do not envy 
 her ; may she long enjoy it, and I an early and 
 a quiet grave, free from the trouble of this busy 
 world, where all with passion pursue their own 
 interests at their neighbour's charges ; where 
 nobody is pleased but somebody complains on't ; 
 and where 'tis impossible to be without giving 
 and receiving injuries. 
 
 You would know what I would be at, and how 
 I intend to dispose of myself. Alas ! were I in 
 my own disposal, you should come to my grave 
 to be resolved ; but grief alone will not kill. All 
 that I can say, then, is that I resolve on nothing 
 but to arm myself with patience, to resist nothing 
 that is laid upon me, nor struggle for what I have 
 no hope to get. I have no ends nor no designs,
 
 Despondency. 207 
 
 nor will my heart ever be capable of any ; but like 
 a country wasted by a civil war, where two oppos- 
 ing parties have disputed their right so long till 
 they have made it worth neither of their con- 
 quests, 'tis ruined and desolated by the long 
 strife within it to that degree as 'twill be useful 
 to none, nobody that knows the condition 'tis 
 in will think it worth the gaining, and I shall not 
 trouble anybody with it. No, really, if I may be 
 permitted to desire anything, it shall be only that 
 I may injure nobody but myself, I can bear 
 anything that reflects only upon me ; or, if I 
 cannot, I can die ; but I would fain die innocent, 
 that I might hope to be happy in the next world, 
 though never in this. I take it a little ill that 
 you should conjure me by anything, with a belief 
 that 'tis more powerful with me than your kind- 
 ness. No, assure yourself what that alone cannot 
 gain will be denied to all the world. You would 
 see me, you say ? You may do so if you please, 
 though I know not to what end. You deceive 
 yourself if you think it would prevail upon me 
 to alter my intentions ; besides, I can make no 
 contrivances ; it must be here, and I must endure 
 the noise it will make, and undergo the censures 
 of a people that choose ever to give the worst 
 interpretation that anything will bear. Yet if 
 it can be any ease to you to make me more 
 miserable than I am, never spare me; consider 
 yourself only, and not me at all, 'tis no more
 
 208 Letters from Dorothy Osbor, 
 
 than I deserve for not accepting what you offered 
 me whilst 'twas in your power to make it good, 
 as you say it then was. You were prepared, it 
 seems, but I was surprised, I confess. 'Twas a 
 kind fault though ; and you may pardon it with 
 more reason than I have to forgive it myself. 
 And let me tell you this, too, as lost and as 
 wretched as I am, I have still some sense of my 
 reputation left in me, I find that to my cost, 
 I shall attempt to preserve it as clear as I can ; 
 and to do that, I must, if you see me thus, make 
 it the last of our interviews. What can excuse 
 me if I should entertain any person that is known 
 to pretend to me, when I can have no hope of 
 ever marrying him ? And what hope can I have 
 of that when the fortune that can only make it 
 possible to me depends upon a thousand accidents 
 and contingencies, the uncertainty of the place 'tis 
 in, and the government it may fall under, your 
 father's life or his success, his disposal of himself 
 and of his fortune, besides the time that must 
 necessarily be required to produce all this, and 
 the changes that may probably bring with it, 
 which 'tis impossible for us to foresee ? All this 
 considered, what have I to say for myself when 
 people shall ask, what 'tis I expect ? Can there 
 be anything vainer than such a hope upon such 
 grounds ? You must needs see the folly on't 
 yourself, and therefore examine your own heart 
 what 'tis fit for me to do, and what you can do
 
 Despondency. 209 
 
 for a person you love, and that deserves your com- 
 passion if nothing else, a person that will always 
 have an inviolable friendship for you, a friendship 
 that shall take up all the room my passion held 
 in my heart, and govern there as master, till death 
 come and take possession and turn it out. 
 
 Why should you make an impossibility where 
 there is none ? A thousand accidents might have 
 taken me from you, and you must have borne it. 
 Why would not your own resolution work as 
 much upon you as necessity and time does in- 
 fallibly upon people ? Your father would take it 
 very ill, I believe, if you should pretend to love 
 me better than he did my Lady, yet she is dead 
 and he lives, and perhaps may do to love again. 
 There is a gentlewoman in this country that loved 
 so passionately for six or seven years that her 
 friends, who kept her from marrying, fearing her 
 death, consented to it ; and within half a year 
 her husband died, which afflicted her so strongly 
 nobody thought she would have lived. She saw 
 no light but candles in three years, nor came 
 abroad in five ; and now that 'tis some nine years 
 past, she is passionately taken again with another, 
 and how long she has been so nobody knows but 
 herself. This is to let you see 'tis not impossible 
 what I ask, nor unreasonable. Think on't, and 
 attempt it at least ; but do it sincerely, and do not 
 help your passion to master you. As you have 
 ever loved me do this.
 
 2io Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 The carrier shall bring your letters to Suffolk 
 House to Jones. I shall long to hear from you ; 
 but if you should deny the only hope that's left 
 me, I must beg you will defer it till Christmas 
 Day be past ; for, to deal freely with you, I have 
 some devotions to perform then, which must not 
 be disturbed with anything, and nothing is like to 
 do it as so sensible an affliction. Adieu. 
 
 Letter 43. 
 
 SIR, I can say little more than I did, I am 
 convinced of the vileness of the world and all 
 that's in it, and that I deceived myself extremely 
 when I expected anything of comfort from it. 
 No, I have no more to do in't but to grow every 
 day more and more weary of it, if it be possible 
 that I have not yet reached the highest degree of 
 hatred for it. But I thank God I hate nothing 
 else but the base world, and the vices that make 
 a part of it. I am in perfect charity with my 
 enemies, and have compassion for all people's 
 misfortunes as well as for my own, especially for 
 those I may have caused ; and I may truly say I 
 bear my share of such. But as nothing obliges 
 me to relieve a person that is in extreme want 
 till I change conditions with him and come to be 
 where he began, and that I may be thought com- 
 passionate if I do all that I can without prejudic- 
 ing myself too much, so let me tell you, that if 
 I could help it, I would not love you, and that as
 
 Despondency. 2 1 1 
 
 long as I live I shall strive against it as against 
 that which had been my ruin, and was certainly 
 sent me as a punishment for my sin. But I 
 shall always have a sense of your misfortunes, 
 equal, if not above, my own. I shall pray that 
 you may obtain a quiet I never hope for but in 
 my grave, and I shall never change my condition 
 but with my life. Yet let not this give you a 
 hope. Nothing ever can persuade me to enter 
 the world again. I shall, in a short time, have 
 disengaged myself of all my little affairs in it, and 
 settled myself in a condition to apprehend nothing 
 but too long a life, therefore I wish you would 
 forget me ; and to induce you to it, let me tell 
 you freely that I deserve you should. If I re- 
 member anybody, 'tis against my will. I am 
 possessed with that strange insensibility that my 
 nearest relations have no tie upon me, and I find 
 myself no more concerned in those that I have 
 heretofore had great tenderness of affection for, 
 than in my kindred that died long before I was 
 born. Leave me to this, and seek a better 
 fortune. I beg it of you as heartily as I forgive 
 you all those strange thoughts you have had of 
 me. Think me so still if that will do anything 
 towards it. For God's sake do take any course 
 that may make you happy ; or, if that cannot be, 
 less unfortunate at least than 
 
 Your friend and humble servant, 
 
 D. OSBORNE.
 
 212 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 I can hear nothing of that letter, but I hear 
 from all people that I know, part of my unhappy 
 story, and from some that I do not know. A 
 lady, whose face I never saw, sent it me as news 
 she had out of Ireland. 
 
 Letter 44. 
 
 SIR, If you have ever loved me, do not refuse 
 the last request I shall ever make you ; 'tis to 
 preserve yourself from the violence of your 
 passion. Vent it all upon me ; call me and 
 think me what you please ; make me, if it be 
 possible, more wretched than I am. I'll bear it 
 all without the least murmur. Nay, I deserve it 
 all, for had you never seen me you had certainly 
 been happy. 'Tis my misfortunes only that have 
 that infectious quality as to strike at the same 
 time me and all that's dear to me. I am the 
 most unfortunate woman breathing, but I was 
 never false. No ; I call heaven to witness that 
 if my life could satisfy for the least injury my 
 fortune has done you (I cannot say 'twas I that 
 did them you), I would lay it down with greater 
 joy than any person ever received a crown ; and 
 if I ever forget what I owe you, or ever enter- 
 tained a thought of kindness for any person in 
 the world besides, may I live a long and miserable 
 life. 'Tis the greatest curse I can invent; if there 
 be a greater, may I feel it. This is all I can say.
 
 Despondency. 2 1 3 
 
 Tell me if it be possible I can do anything for 
 you, and tell me how I may deserve your pardon 
 for all the trouble I have given you. I would 
 not die without it. 
 
 [Directed.] For Mr. Temple. 
 
 Letter 45. 
 
 SIR, 'Tis most true what you say, that few 
 have what they merit ; if it were otherwise, you 
 would be happy, I think, but then I should be so 
 too, and that must not be, a false and an incon- 
 stant person cannot merit it, I am sure. You are 
 kind in your good wishes, but I aim at no friends 
 nor no princes, the honour would be lost upon me ; 
 I should become a crown so ill, there would be no 
 striving for it after me, and, sure, I should not wear 
 it long. Your letter was a much greater loss to 
 me than that of Henry Cromwell, and, therefore, 
 'tis that with all my care and diligence I can- 
 not inquire it out. You will not complain, I 
 believe, of the shortness of my last, whatever else 
 you dislike in it, and if I spare you at any time 
 'tis because I cannot but imagine, since I am so 
 wearisome to myself, that I must needs be so to 
 everybody else, though, at present, I have other 
 occasions that will not permit this to be a long 
 one. I am sorry it should be only in my power 
 to make a friend miserable, and that where I 
 have so orreat a kindness I should do so great
 
 214 Letters from Dorothy O shorn c. 
 
 injuries ; but 'tis my fortune, and I must bear it ; 
 'twill be none to you, I hope, to pray for you, nor 
 to desire that you would (all passion laid aside) 
 freely tell me my faults, that I may, at least, ask 
 your forgiveness where 'tis not in my power to 
 make you better satisfaction. I would fain make 
 even with all the world, and be out of danger of 
 dying in anybody's debt; then I have nothing 
 more to do in it but to expect when I shall be 
 so happy as to leave it, and always to remember 
 that my misfortune makes all my faults towards 
 you, and that my faults to God make all my 
 misfortunes. 
 
 Your unhappy. 
 
 Letter 46. 
 
 SIR, That which I writ by your boy was in 
 so much haste and distraction as I cannot be 
 satisfied with it, nor believe it has expressed my 
 thoughts as I meant them. No, I find it is not 
 easily done at more leisure, and I am yet to seek 
 what to say that is not too little nor too much. 
 I would fain let you see that I am extremely 
 sensible of your affliction, that I would lay down 
 my life to redeem you from it, but that's a mean 
 expression ; my life is of so little value that I will 
 not mention it. No, let it be rather what, in 
 earnest, if I can tell anything I have left that is 
 considerable enough to expose for it, it must be
 
 Despondency. 215 
 
 that small reputation I have amongst my friends, 
 that's all my wealth, and that I could part with 
 to restore you to that quiet you lived in when 
 I first knew you. But, on the other side, I would 
 not give you hopes of that I cannot do. If I 
 loved you less I would allow you to be the same 
 person to me, and I would be the same to you 
 as heretofore. But to deal freely with you, that 
 were to betray myself, and I find that my passion 
 would quickly be my master again if I gave it 
 any liberty. I am not secure that it would not 
 make me do the most extravagant things in the 
 world, and I shall be forced to keep a continual 
 war alive with it as long as there are any re- 
 mainders of it left ; I think I might as well have 
 said as long as I lived. Why should you give 
 yourself over so unreasonably to it ? Good God ! 
 no woman breathing can deserve half the trouble 
 you give yourself. If I were yours from this 
 minute I could not recompense what you have 
 suffered from the violence of your passion, though 
 I were all that you can imagine me, when, God 
 knows, I am an inconsiderable person, born to a 
 thousand misfortunes, which have taken away all 
 sense of anything else from me, and left me a 
 walking misery only. I do from my soul forgive 
 you all the injuries your passion has done me, 
 though, let me tell you, I was much more at 
 my ease whilst I was angry. Scorn and despite 
 would have cured me in some reasonable time,
 
 216 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 which I despair of now. However, I am not 
 displeased with it, and, if it may be of any 
 advantage to you, I shall not consider myself in 
 it ; but let me beg, then, that you will leave off 
 those dismal thoughts. I tremble at the desperate 
 things you say in your letter ; for the love of God, 
 consider seriously with yourself what can enter 
 into comparison with the safety of your soul. 
 Are a thousand women, or ten thousand worlds, 
 worth it ? No, you cannot have so little reason 
 left as you pretend, nor so little religion. For 
 God's sake let us not neglect what can only 
 make us happy for trifles. If God had seen it 
 fit to have satisfied our desires we should have 
 had them, and everything would not have con- 
 spired thus to have crossed them. Since He has 
 decreed it otherwise (at least as far as we are 
 able to jucjge by events), we must submit, and 
 not by striving make an innocent passion a sin, 
 and show a childish stubbornness. 
 
 I could say a thousand things more to this 
 purpose if I were not in haste to send this away, 
 that it may come to you, at least, as soon as 
 the other. Adieu. 
 
 I cannot imagine who this should be that Mr. 
 Dr. meant, and am inclined to believe 'twas a 
 story meant to disturb you, though perhaps not 
 by him.
 
 Despondency. 217 
 
 Letter 47. 
 
 SIR, 'Tis never my humour to do injuries, nor 
 was this meant as any to you. No, in earnest, if 
 I could have persuaded you to have quitted a 
 passion that injures you, I had done an act of 
 real friendship, and you might have lived to 
 thank me for it ; but since it cannot be, I will 
 attempt it no more. I have laid before you the 
 inconveniences it brings along, how certain the 
 trouble is, and how uncertain the reward ; how 
 many accidents may hinder us from ever being 
 happy, and how few there are (and those so 
 unlikely) to make up our desire. All this makes 
 no impression on you ; you are still resolved to 
 follow your blind guide, and I to pity where I 
 cannot help. It will not be amiss though to let 
 you see that what I did was merely in considera- 
 tion of your interest, and not at all of my own, 
 that you may judge of me accordingly ; and, to 
 do that, I must tell you that, unless it were after 
 the receipt of those letters that made me angry, 
 I never had the least hope of wearing out my 
 passion, nor, to say truth, much desire. For to 
 what purpose should I have strived against it? 
 'Twas innocent enough in me that resolved never 
 to marry, and would have kept me company in 
 this solitary place as long as I lived, without 
 being a trouble to myself or anybody else. Nay, 
 in earnest, if I could have hoped you would be so
 
 218 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 much your own friend as to seek out a happiness 
 in some other person, nothing under heaven could 
 have satisfied me like entertaining myself with 
 the thought of having done you service in divert- 
 ing you from a troublesome pursuit of what is so 
 uncertain, and by that giving you the occasion of 
 a better fortune. Otherwise, whether you loved 
 me still, or whether you did not, was equally the 
 same to me, your interest set aside. I will not 
 reproach you how ill an interpretation you made 
 of this, because we will have no more quarrels. 
 On the contrary, because I see 'tis in vain to think 
 of curing you, I'll study only to give you what 
 ease I can, and leave the rest to better physicians, 
 to time and fortune. Here, then, I declare that 
 you have still the same power in my heart that 
 I gave you at our last parting ; that I will never 
 marry any other ; and that if ever our fortunes 
 will allow us to marry, you shall dispose of me as 
 you please ; but this, to deal freely with you, I do 
 not hope for. No ; 'tis too great a happiness, and 
 I, that know myself best, must acknowledge I 
 deserve crosses and afflictions, but can never 
 merit such a blessing. You know 'tis not a fear 
 of want that frights me. I thank God I never 
 distrusted His providence, nor I hope never shall, 
 and without attributing anything to myself, I 
 may acknowledge He has given me a mind that 
 can be satisfied with as narrow a compass as that 
 of any person living of my rank. But I confess
 
 Despondency. 219 
 
 that I have an humour will not suffer me to ex- 
 pose myself to people's scorn. The name of love 
 is grown so contemptible by the folly of such as 
 have falsely pretended to it, and so many giddy 
 people have married upon that score and re- 
 pented so shamefully afterwards, that nobody can 
 do anything that tends towards it without being 
 esteemed a ridiculous person. Now, as my young 
 Lady Holland says, I never pretended to wit in 
 my life, but I cannot be satisfied that the world 
 should think me a fool, so that all I can do for 
 you will be to preserve a constant kindness for 
 you, which nothing shall ever alter or diminish ; 
 I'll never give you any more alarms, by going 
 about to persuade you against that you have for 
 me ; but from this hour we'll live quietly, no more 
 fears, no more jealousies ; the wealth of the whole 
 world, by the grace of God, shall not tempt me 
 to break my word with you, nor the importunity 
 of all my friends I have. Keep this as a testi- 
 mony against me if ever I do, and make me a 
 reproach to them by it ; therefore be secure, and 
 rest satisfied with what I can do for you. 
 
 You should come hither but that I expect my 
 brother every day; not but that he designed a longer 
 stay when he went, but since he keeps his horses 
 with him 'tis an infallible token that he is coming. 
 We cannot miss fitter times than this twenty in a 
 year, and I shall be as ready to give you notice of 
 such as you can be to desire it, only you would
 
 220 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 do me a great pleasure if you could forbear writ- 
 ing, unless it were sometimes on great occasions. 
 This is a strange request for me to make, that 
 have been fonder of your letters than my Lady 
 Protector is of her new honour, and, in earnest, 
 would be so still but there are a thousand incon- 
 veniences in't that I could tell you. Tell me 
 what you can do ; in the meantime think of some 
 employment for yourself this summer. Who 
 knows what a year may produce? If nothing, 
 we are but where we were, *and nothing can 
 hinder us from being, at least, perfect friends. 
 Adieu. There's nothing so terrible in my other 
 letter but you may venture to read it. Have not 
 you forgot my Lady's book ?
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE LAST OF CHICKSANDS. FEBRUARY AND 
 MARCH 1654. 
 
 THE quarrel is over, happily over, and Dorothy and 
 Temple are more than reconciled again. Temple has 
 been down to Chicksands to see her, and some more 
 definite arrangement has been come to between them. 
 Dorothy has urged Temple to go to Ireland and join 
 his father, who has once again taken possession of his 
 office of Master of the Rolls. As soon as an appointment 
 can be found for Temple they are to be married that 
 is, as far as one can gather, the state of affairs between 
 them ; but it would seem as if nothing of this was 
 as yet to be known to the outer world, not even to 
 Dorothy's brother. 
 
 Letter 48. 
 
 SIR, 'Tis but an hour since you went, and I am 
 writing to you already ; is not this kind ? How 
 do you after your journey; are you not weary; do 
 you not repent that you took it to so little pur- 
 pose ? Well, God forgive me, and you too, you 
 made me tell a great lie. I was fain to say you 
 came only to take your leave before you went 
 abroad ; and all this not only to keep quiet, but 
 
 221
 
 222 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 to keep him from playing the madman ; for when 
 he has the least suspicion, he carries it so strangely 
 that all the world takes notice on't, and so often 
 guess at the reason, or else he tells it. Now, do 
 but you judge whether if by mischance he should 
 discover the truth, whether he would not rail most 
 sweetly at me (and with some reason) for abusing 
 him. Yet you helped to do it ; a sadness that he 
 discovered at your going away inclined him to 
 believe you were ill satisfied, and made him credit 
 what I said. He is kind now in extremity, and I 
 would be glad to keep him so till a discovery is 
 absolutely necessary. Your going abroad will 
 confirm him much in his belief, and I shall 
 have nothing to torment me in this place but my 
 own doubts and fears. Here I shall find all the 
 repose I am capable of, and nothing will disturb 
 my prayers and wishes for your happiness which 
 only can make mine. Your journey cannot be 
 to your disadvantage neither; you must needs 
 be pleased to visit a place you are so much con- 
 cerned in, and to be a witness yourself of 
 your hopes, though I will believe you need no 
 other inducements to this voyage than my 
 desiring it. I know you love me, and you 
 have no reason to doubt my kindness. Let us 
 both have patience to wait what time and fortune 
 will do for us ; they cannot hinder our being 
 perfect friends. 
 
 Lord, there were a thousand things I remem-
 
 The Last of Chicksands. 223 
 
 bered after you were gone that I should have said, 
 and now I am to write not one of them will come 
 into my head. Sure as I live it is not settled yet ! 
 Good God ! the fears and surprises, the crosses 
 and disorders of that day, 'twas confused enough 
 to be a dream, and I am apt to think sometimes 
 it was no more. But no, I saw you ; when I 
 shall do it again, God only knows ! Can there be 
 a romancer story than ours would make if the 
 conclusion prove happy ? Ah ! I dare not hope 
 it; something that I cannot describe draws a 
 cloud over all the light my fancy discovers some- 
 times, and leaves me so in the dark with all my 
 fears about me that I tremble to think on't. But 
 no more of this sad talk. 
 
 Who was that, Mr. Dr. told you I should 
 marry ? I cannot imagine for my life ; tell me, or 
 I shall think you made it to excuse yourself. Did 
 not you say once you knew where good French 
 tweezers were to be had ? Pray send me a pair ; 
 they shall cut no love. Before you go I must 
 have a ring from you, too, a plain gold one ; if I 
 ever marry it shall be my wedding ring ; when I 
 die I'll give it you again. What a dismal story 
 this is you sent me ; but who could expect better 
 from a love begun upon such grounds ? I cannot 
 pity neither of them, they were both so guilty. 
 Yes, they are the more to be pitied for that. 
 
 Here is a note comes to me just now, will you 
 do this service for a fine lady that is my friend ;
 
 224 Letters from Dorothy Osdorne. 
 
 have not I taught her well, she writes better than 
 her mistress ? How merry and pleased she is 
 with her marrying because there is a plentiful 
 fortune ; otherwise she would not value the man 
 at all. This is the world ; would you and I were 
 out of it : for, sure, we were not made to live in 
 it. Do you remember Arme and the little house 
 there ? Shall we go thither ? that's next to being 
 out of the world. There we might live like 
 Baucis and Philemon, grow old together in our 
 little cottage, and for our charity to some ship- 
 wrecked strangers obtain the blessing of dying 
 both at the same time. How idly I talk ; 'tis 
 because the story pleases me none in Ovid so 
 much. I remember I cried when I read it. Me- 
 thought they were the perfectest characters of a 
 contented marriage, where piety and love were 
 all their wealth, and in their poverty feasted the 
 gods when rich men shut them out. I am called 
 away, farewell ! 
 
 Your faithful. 
 
 Letter 49. The beginning of this letter is lost, and 
 with it, perhaps, the name of Dorothy's lover who had 
 written some verses on her beauty. However, we have 
 the " tag " of them, with which we must rest content. 
 
 . . . 'Tis pity I cannot show you what his wit 
 could do upon so ill a subject, but my Lady 
 Ruthin keeps them to abuse me withal, and has
 
 The Last of Chicksands. 225 
 
 put a tune to them that I may hear them all 
 manner of ways ; and yet I do protest I remember 
 nothing more of them than this lame piece, 
 
 A stately and majestic brow, 
 
 Of force to make Protectors bow. 
 
 Indeed, if I have any stately looks I think he has 
 seen them, but yet it seems they could not keep 
 him from playing the fool. My Lady Grey told 
 me that one day talking of me to her (as he would 
 iind ways to bring in that discourse by the head 
 and shoulders, whatsoever anybody else could 
 interpose), he said he wondered I did not marry. 
 She (that understood him well enough, but would 
 not seem to do so) said she knew not, unless it 
 were that I liked my present condition so well 
 that I did not care to change it ; which she was 
 apt to believe, because to her knowledge I had 
 refused very good fortunes, and named some so 
 far beyond his reach, that she thought she had 
 dashed all his hopes. But he, confident still, said 
 'twas perhaps that I had no fancy to their persons 
 (as if his own were so taking), that I was to be 
 looked upon as one that had it in my power to 
 please myself, and that perhaps in a person I 
 liked would bate something of fortune. To this 
 my Lady answered again for me, that 'twas not 
 impossible but I might do so, but in that point 
 she thought me nice and curious enough. And 
 still to dishearten him the more, she took occa-
 
 226 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 sion (upon his naming some gentlemen of the 
 county that had been talked of heretofore as of 
 my servants, and are since disposed of) to say 
 (very plainly) that 'twas true they had some of 
 them pretended, but there was an end of my 
 Bedfordshire servants she was sure there were 
 no more that could be admitted into the number. 
 After all this (which would have satisfied an 
 ordinary young man) did I this last Thursday 
 receive a letter from him by Collins, which he 
 sent first to London that it might come from 
 thence to me. I threw it into the fire ; and do 
 you but keep my counsel, nobody shall ever know 
 that I had it ; and my gentleman shall be kept 
 at such a distance as I hope to hear no more of 
 him. Yet I'll swear of late I have used him so 
 near to rudely that there is little left for me to do. 
 Fye ! what a deal of paper I have spent upon this 
 idle fellow ; if I had thought his story would have 
 proved so long you should have missed on't, and 
 the loss would not have been great. 
 
 I have not thanked you yet for my tweezers 
 and essences ; they are both very good. I kept 
 one of the little glasses myself; remember my 
 ring, and in return, if I go to London whilst you 
 are in Ireland, I'll have my picture taken in little 
 and send it you. The sooner you despatch away 
 will be the better, I think, since I have no hopes 
 of seeing you before you go ; there lies all your 
 business, your father and fortune must do all the
 
 Tkc Last of Chicksands. 227 
 
 rest. I cannot be more yours than I am. You 
 are mistaken if you think I stand in awe of my 
 brother. No, I fear nobody's anger. I am proof 
 against all violence; but when people haunt me 
 with reasoning and entreaties, when they look sadly 
 and pretend kindness, when they beg upon that 
 score, 'tis a strange pain to me to deny. When 
 he rants and renounces me, I can despise him ; 
 but when he asks my pardon, with tears pleads 
 to me the long and constant friendship between 
 us, and calls heaven to witness that nothing 
 upon earth is dear to him in comparison of me, 
 then, I confess, I feel a stronger unquietness 
 within me, and I would do anything to evade his 
 importunity. Nothing is so great a violence to 
 me as that which moves my compassion. I can 
 resist with ease any sort of people but beggars. 
 If this be a fault in me, 'tis at least a well-natured 
 one; and therefore I hope you will forgive it 
 me, you that can forgive me anything, you say, 
 and be displeased with nothing whilst I love 
 you ; may I never be pleased with anything when 
 I do not. Yet I could beat you for writing this 
 last strange letter ; was there ever anything said 
 like? If I had but a vanity that the world 
 should admire me, I would not care what they 
 talked of me. In earnest, I believe there is 
 nobody displeased that people speak well of them, 
 and reputation is esteemed by all of much greater 
 value than life itself. Yet let me tell you soberly,
 
 228 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 that with all my vanity I could be very wdl 
 contented nobody should blame me or any action 
 of mine, to quit all my part of the praises and 
 admiration of the world ; and if I might be 
 allowed to choose, my happiest part of it should 
 consist in concealment, there should not be above 
 two persons in the world know that there was 
 such a one in it as your faithful. 
 
 Stay! I have not done yet. Here's another 
 good side, I find; here, then, I'll tell you that 
 I am not angry for all this. No, I allow it to 
 your ill-humour, and that to the crosses that have 
 been common to us ; but now that is cleared up, 
 I should expect you should say finer things to me. 
 Yet take heed of being like my neighbour's 
 servant, he is so transported to find no rubs in 
 his way that he knows not whether he stands on 
 his head or his feet. 'Tis the most troublesome, 
 busy talking little thing that ever was born ; his 
 tongue goes like the clack of a mill, but to much 
 less purpose, though if it were all oracle, my 
 head would ache to hear that perpetual noise. I 
 admire at her patience and her resolution that can 
 laugh at his fooleries and love his fortune. You 
 would wonder to see how tired she is with his 
 impertinences, and yet how pleased to think she 
 shall have a great estate with him. But this is 
 the world, and she makes a part of it betimes. 
 Two or three great glistening jewels have bribed 
 her to wink at all his faults, and she hears him
 
 The Last of Chicksands. 229 
 
 as unmoved and unconcerned as if another were 
 to marry him. 
 
 What think you, have I not done fair for once, 
 would you wish a longer letter ? See how kind 
 I grow at parting ; who would not go into Ireland 
 to have such another? In earnest now, go as 
 soon as you can, 'twill be the better, I think, who 
 am your faithful friend. 
 
 Letter 50. Wrest, in Bedfordshire, where Dorothy 
 met her importunate lover, was the seat of Anthony 
 Grey, Earl of Kent. There is said to be a picture there 
 of Sir William Temple, a copy of Lely's picture. 
 Wrest Park is only a few miles from Chicksands. 
 
 SIR, Who would be kind to one that 
 reproaches one so cruelly ? Do you think, in 
 earnest, I could be satisfied the world should 
 think me a dissembler, full of avarice or ambition ? 
 No, you are mistaken ; but I'll tell you what I 
 could suffer, that they should say I married where 
 I had no inclination, because my friends thought 
 it fit, rather than that I had run wilfully to my 
 own ruin in pursuit of a fond passion of my own. 
 To marry for love were no reproachful thing if 
 we did not see that of the thousand couples that 
 do it, hardly one can be brought for an example 
 that it may be done and not repented afterwards. 
 Is there anything thought so indiscreet, or that 
 makes one more contemptible ? 'Tis true that I
 
 230 Letters from Dorothy Osbonic. 
 
 do firmly believe we should be, as you say, 
 toujours les mesntes ; but if (as you confess) 'tis 
 that which hardly happens once in two ages, 
 we are not to expect the world should discern 
 we were not like the rest. I'll tell you stories 
 another time, you return them so handsomely upon 
 me. Well, the next servant I tell you of shall 
 not be called a whelp, if 'twere not to give you a 
 stick to beat myself with. I would confess that 
 I looked upon the impudence of this fellow as a 
 punishment upon me for my over care in avoiding 
 the talk of the world ; yet the case is very 
 different, and no woman shall ever be blamed 
 that an inconsolable person pretends to her when 
 she gives no allowance to it, whereas none shall 
 'scape that owns a passion, though in return of a 
 person much above her. The little tailor that 
 loved Queen Elizabeth was suffered to talk out, 
 and none of her Council thought it necessary to 
 stop his mouth ; but the Queen of Sweden's kind 
 letter to the King of Scots was intercepted by her 
 own ambassador, because he thought it was not 
 for his mistress's honour (at least that was his 
 pretended reason), and thought justifiable enough. 
 But to come to my Beagle again. I have heard 
 no more of him, though I have seen him since ; 
 we met at Wrest again. I do not doubt but I shall 
 be better able to resist his importunity than his 
 tutor was j but what do you think it is that gives 
 him his encouragement ? He was told I had
 
 The Last of Chicksands. 231 
 
 thought of marrying a gentleman that had not 
 above two hundred pound a year, only out of my 
 liking to his person. And upon that score his 
 vanity allows him to think he may pretend as far 
 as another. Thus you see 'tis not altogether 
 without reason that I apprehend the noise of the 
 world, since 'tis so much to my disadvantage. 
 
 Is it in earnest that you say your being there 
 keeps me from the town ? If so, 'tis very unkind. 
 No, if I had gone, it had been to have waited on 
 my neighbour, who has now altered her resolution 
 and goes not herself. I have no business there, 
 and am so little taken with the place that I could 
 sit here seven years without so much as thinking 
 once of going to it. 'Tis not likely, as you say, 
 that you should much persuade your father to 
 what you do not desire he should do ; but it is 
 hard if all the testimonies of my kindness are not 
 enough to satisfy without my publishing to the 
 world that I can forget my friends and all my 
 interest to follow my passion ; though, perhaps, 
 it will admit of a good sense, 'tis that which 
 nobody but you or I will give it, and we that are 
 concerned in't can only say 'twas an act of great 
 kindness and something romance, but must confess 
 it had nothing of prudence, discretion, nor sober 
 counsel in't. Tis not that I expect, by all your 
 father's offers, to bring my friends to approve it. 
 I don't deceive myself thus far, but I would not 
 give them occasion to say that I hid myself from
 
 23 2 Lc tiers from Dorothy Os borne. 
 
 them in the doing it ; nor of making my action 
 appear more indiscreet than it is. It will concern 
 me that all the world should know what fortune 
 you have, and upon what terms I marry you, that 
 both may not be made to appear ten times worse 
 than they are. 'Tis the general custom of all 
 people to make those that are rich to have more 
 mines of gold than are in the Indies, and such as 
 have small fortunes to be beggars. If an action 
 take a little in the world, it shall be magnified 
 and brought into comparison with what the heroes 
 or senators of Rome performed ; but, on the 
 contrary, if it be once condemned, nothing can be 
 found ill enough to compare it with ; and people 
 are in pain till they find out some extravagant 
 expression to represent the folly on't. Only there 
 is this difference, that as all are more forcibly 
 inclined to ill than good, they are much apter to 
 exceed in detraction than in praises. Have I 
 not reason then to desire this from you ; and may 
 not my friendship have deserved it ? I know 
 not; 'tis as you think; but if I be denied it, you 
 will teach me to consider myself. Tis well the 
 side ended here. If I had not had occasion to 
 stop there, I might have gone too far, and showed 
 that I had more passions than one. Yet 'tis fit 
 you should know all my faults, lest you should 
 repent your bargain when 'twill not be in your 
 power to release yourself; besides, I may own 
 my ill-humour to you that cause it ; 'tis the dis-
 
 The Last of Chicksands. 233 
 
 content my crosses in this business have given 
 me makes me thus peevish. Though I say it 
 myself, before I knew you I was thought as well 
 an humoured young person as most in England ; 
 nothing displeased, nothing troubled me. When 
 I came out of France, nobody knew me again. 
 I was so altered, from a cheerful humour that was 
 always alike, never over merry but always pleased, 
 I was grown heavy and sullen, froward and dis- 
 composed ; and that country which usually gives 
 people a jolliness and gaiety that is natural to the 
 climate, had wrought in me so contrary effects 
 that I was as new a thing to them as my clothes. 
 If you find all this to be sad truth hereafter, 
 remember that I gave you fair warning. 
 
 Here is a ring : it must not be at all wider than 
 this, which is rather too big for me than other- 
 wise ; but that is a good fault, and counted lucky 
 by superstitious people. I am not so, though : 
 'tis indifferent whether there be any word in't or 
 not ; only 'tis as well without, and will make my 
 wearing it the less observed. You must give 
 Nan leave to cut a lock of your hair for me, too. 
 Oh, my heart ! what a sigh was there ! I will 
 not tell you how many this journey causes ; nor 
 the fear and apprehensions I have for you. No, 
 I long to be rid of you, am afraid you will not go 
 soon enough : do not you believe this ? No, my 
 dearest, I know you do not, whate'er you say, 
 you cannot doubt that I am yours.
 
 234 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 Letter 51. Lady Newport was the wife of the Earl of 
 Newport, and mother of Lady Anne Blunt of whom 
 we heard something in former letters. She is men- 
 tioned as a prominent leader of London society. In 
 March 1652 she is granted a pass to leave the country, 
 on condition that she gives security to do nothing 
 prejudicial to the State ; from which we may draw the 
 inference that she was a political notability. 
 
 My Lady Devonshire was Christian, daughter of 
 Lord Bruce of Kinloss. She married William Caven- 
 dish, second Earl of Devonshire. Her daughter Anne 
 married Lord Rich, and died suddenly in 1638. Pomfrct, 
 Godolphin, and Falkland celebrated her virtues in verse, 
 and Waller wrote her funeral hymn, which is still known 
 to some of us, 
 
 The Lady Rich is dead. 
 
 Heartrending news! and dreadful to those few 
 Who her resemble and her steps pursue, 
 That Death should licence have to range among 
 The fair, the wise, the virtuous, and the young. 
 
 It was the only son of Lady Rich who married 
 Frances Cromwell. 
 
 Lord Warwick was the father of Robert, Lord Rich, 
 and we may gather from this letter that, at Lady 
 Devonshire's instigation, he had interfered in a proposed 
 second marriage between his son and some fair un- 
 known. 
 
 Parthenissa is only just out. It is the latest thing 
 in literary circles. We find it advertised in Mercurius 
 Politicus, i Qth January 1654: "Parthenissa, that most 
 famous romance, composed by the Lord Broghill, and 
 dedicated to the Lady Northumberland." It is a 
 romance of the style of Ctiopdtre and Cyrus, to enjoy 
 which in the nineteenth century would require a curious
 
 The Last of Chicksands. 235 
 
 and acquired taste. L'illustre Bassa was a romance of 
 Scuderi ; and the passage in the epistle to which Dorothy 
 refers, we quote it from a translation by one Henry 
 Cogan, 1652, runs as follows : "And if you see not my 
 hero persecuted with love by women, it is not because 
 he was not amiable, and that he could not be loved, but 
 because it would clash with civility in the persons of 
 ladies, and with true resemblance in that of men, who 
 rarely show themselves cruel unto them, nor in doing it 
 could have any good grace." 
 
 SIR, The lady was in the right. You are a 
 very pretty gentleman and a modest ; were there 
 ever such stones as these you tell ? The best 
 on't is, I believe none of them unless it be that 
 of my Lady Newport, which I must confess is so 
 like her that if it be not true 'twas at least 
 excellently well fancied. But my Lord Rich was 
 not caught, tho' he was near it. My Lady 
 Devonshire, whose daughter his first wife was, 
 has engaged my Lord Warwick to put a stop to 
 the business. Otherwise, I think his present 
 want of fortune, and the little sense of honour 
 he has, might have been prevailed on to marry 
 her. 
 
 'Tis strange to see the folly that possesses the 
 young people of this age, and the liberty they 
 take to themselves. I have the charity to believe 
 they appear very much worse than they are, and 
 that the want of a Court to govern themselves by 
 is in great part the cause of their ruin ; though
 
 236 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 that was no perfect school of virtue, yet Vice 
 there wore her mask, and appeared so unlike 
 herself that she gave no scandal. Such as were 
 
 o 
 
 really discreet as they seemed to be gave good 
 example, and the eminency of their condition 
 made others strive to imitate them, or at least 
 they durst not own a contrary course. All who 
 had good principles and inclinations were en- 
 couraged in them, and such as had neither were 
 forced to put on a handsome disguise that they 
 might not be out of countenance at themselves. 
 'Tis certain (what you say) that where divine or 
 human laws are not positive we may be our own 
 judges ; nobody can hinder us, nor is it in itself 
 to be blamed. But, sure, it is not safe to take 
 all liberty that is allowed us, there are not many 
 that are sober enough to be trusted with the 
 government of themselves ; and because others 
 judge us with more severity than our indulgence 
 to ourselves will permit, it must necessarily follow 
 that 'tis safer being ruled by their opinions than 
 by our own. I am disputing again, though you 
 told me my fault so plainly. 
 
 I'll give it over, and tell you that Parthenissa 
 is now my company. My brother sent it down, 
 and I have almost read it. 'Tis handsome 
 language ; you would know it to be writ by a 
 person of good quality though you were not told 
 it ; but, on the whole, I am not very much taken 
 with it. All the stories have too near a resem-
 
 The Last of Chicksands. 237 
 
 blance with those of other romances, there is 
 nothing new or surprenant in them ; the ladies 
 are all so kind they make no sport, and I meet 
 only with one that took me by doing a handsome 
 thing of the kind. She was in a besieged town, 
 and persuaded all those of her sex to go out with 
 her to the enemy (which were a barbarous people) 
 and die by their swords, that the provisions of the 
 town might last the longer for such as were able 
 to do service in defending it. But how angry 
 was I to see him spoil this again by bringing out 
 a letter this woman left behind her for the 
 governor of the town, where she discovers a 
 passion for him, and makes that the reason why 
 she did it. I confess I have no patience for our 
 faiseurs de Romance when they make a woman 
 court. It will never enter into my head that 'tis 
 possible any woman can love where she is not 
 first loved, and much less that if they should do 
 that, they could have the face to own it. Me- 
 thinks he that writes Uillustre Bassa says well 
 in his epistle that we are not to imagine his hero 
 to be less taking than those of other romances 
 because the ladies do not fall in love with him 
 whether he will or not. 'Twould be an injury to 
 the ladies to suppose they could do so," and a 
 greater to his hero's civility if he should put him 
 upon being cruel to them, since he was to love 
 but one. Another fault I find, too, in the style 
 'tis affected. Ambitioned is a great word with
 
 238 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 him, and ignore ; my concern, or of great concern, 
 is, it seems, properer than concernment : and 
 though he makes his people say fine handsome 
 things to one another, yet they are not easy and 
 naive like the French, and there is a little harsh- 
 ness in most of the discourse that one would take 
 to be the fault of a translator rather than of an 
 author. But perhaps I like it the worse for 
 having a piece of Cyrus by me that I am hugely 
 pleased with, and that I would fain have you 
 read : I'll send it you. At least read one story 
 that I'll mark you down, if you have time for no 
 more. I am glad you stay to wait on your sister. 
 I would have my gallant civil to all, much more 
 when it is so due, and kindness too. 
 
 I have the cabinet, and 'tis in earnest a pretty 
 one ; though you will not own it for a present, 
 I'll keep it as one, and 'tis like to be yours no 
 more but as 'tis mine. I'll warrant you would 
 ne'er have thought of making me a present of 
 charcoal as my servant James would have done, 
 to warm my heart I think he meant it. But the 
 truth is, I had been inquiring for some (as 'tis a 
 commodity scarce enough in this country), and he 
 hearing it, told the baily [bailiff ?] he would give 
 him some if 'twere for me. But this is not all. 
 I cannot forbear telling you the other day he 
 made me a visit, and I, to prevent his making 
 discourse to me, made Mrs. Goldsmith and Jane 
 sit by all the while. But he came better provided
 
 The Last of Chicksands. 239 
 
 than I could have imagined. He brought a letter 
 with him, and gave it me as one he had met with 
 directed to me, he thought it came out of North- 
 amptonshire. I was upon my guard, and suspect- 
 ing all he said, examined him so strictly where he 
 had it before I would open it, that he was hugely 
 confounded, and I confirmed that 'twas his. I 
 laid it by and wished that they would have left us, 
 that I might have taken notice on't to him. But 
 I had forbid it them so strictly before, that they 
 offered not to stir farther than to look out of 
 window, as not thinking there was any necessity 
 of giving us their eyes as well as their ears ; but 
 he that saw himself discovered took that time to 
 confess to me (in a whispering voice that I could 
 hardly hear myself) that the letter (as my Lord 
 Broghill says) was of great concern to him, and 
 begged I would read it, and give him my answer. 
 I took it up presently, as if I had meant it, but 
 threw it, sealed as it was, into the fire, and told 
 him (as softly as he had spoke to me) I thought 
 that the quickest and best way of answering it. 
 He sat awhile in great disorder, without speaking 
 a word, and so ris and took his leave. Now 
 what think you, shall I ever hear of him more ? 
 
 You do not thank me for using your rival so 
 scurvily nor are not jealous of him, though your 
 father thinks my intentions were not handsome 
 towards you, which methinks is another argument 
 that one is not to be one's own judge ; for I am
 
 240 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 very confident they were, and with his favour 
 shall never believe otherwise. I am sure I have 
 no ends to serve of my own in what I did, it 
 could be no advantage to me that had firmly 
 resolved not to marry ; but I thought it might be 
 an injury to you to keep you in expectation of 
 what was never likely to be, as I apprehended. 
 Why do I enter into this wrangling discourse ? 
 Let your father think me what he pleases, if he 
 ever comes to know me, the rest of my actions 
 shall justify me in this; if he does not, I'll begin 
 to practise on him (what you so often preached to 
 me) to neglect the report of the world, and satisfy 
 myself in my own innocency. 
 
 'Twill be pleasinger to you, I am sure, to tell 
 you how fond I am of your lock. Well, in 
 earnest now, and setting aside all compliments, 
 I never saw finer hair, nor of a better colour ; but 
 cut no more on't, I would not have it spoiled for 
 the world. If you love me, be careful on't. I am 
 combing, and curling, and kissing this lock all 
 day, and dreaming on't all night. The ring, too, 
 is very well, only a little of the biggest. Send 
 me a tortoise one that is a little less than that 
 I sent for a pattern. I would not have the rule 
 so absolutely true without exception that hard 
 hairs be ill-natured, for then I should be so. But 
 I can allow that all soft hairs are good, and so 
 are you, or I am deceived as much as you are 
 if you think I do not love you enough. Tell me,
 
 The Last of Chicksands. 241 
 
 my dearest, am I ? You will not be if you think 
 I am 
 
 Yours. 
 
 Letter 52. It is interesting to find Dorothy reading 
 the good Jeremy Taylor's Holy Living, a book too little 
 known in this day. For amidst its old-fashioned piety 
 there are many sentiments of practical goodness, ex- 
 pressed with clear insistence, combined with a quaint 
 grace of literary style which we have long ago cast 
 aside in the pursuit of other things. Dorothy loved 
 this book, and knew it well. Compare the following 
 extract from the chapter on Christian Justice with what 
 Dorothy has written in this letter. Has she been 
 recently reading this passage ? Perhaps she has ; but 
 more probably it is the recollection of what is well 
 known that she is reproducing from a memory not 
 unstored with such learning. Thus writes Dr. Taylor : 
 " There is very great peace and immunity from sin in 
 resigning our wills up to the command of others : for, 
 provided our duty to God be secured, their commands 
 are warrants to us in all things else ; and the case of 
 conscience is determined, if the command be evident 
 and pressing : and it is certain, the action that is but 
 indifferent and without reward, if done only upon our 
 own choice, is an action of duty and of religion, and 
 rewardable by the grace and favour of God, if done in 
 obedience to the command of our superiors." 
 
 Little and Great Brickhill, where Temple is to receive 
 a letter from Dorothy, kindly favoured by Mr. Gibson, 
 stand due west of Chicksands some seventeen miles, and 
 about forty -six miles along the high-road from London 
 to Chester. Temple would probably arrange to stay 
 there, receive Dorothy's letter, and send one in return. 
 
 Q
 
 242 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 Dorothy has apparently tired of Clarapede and 
 ScudeVi, of CltopAtre and Cyrus, and has turned to 
 travels to amuse her. Fernando Mendez Pinto did, I 
 believe, actually visit China, and is said to have landed 
 in the Gulf of Pekin. What he writes of China seems 
 to bear some resemblance to what later writers have 
 said. It is hard to say how and where his conversations 
 with the Chinese were carried on, as he himself admits 
 that he did not understand one word of the language. 
 
 Lady Grey's sister, Mrs. Pooley, is unknown to history. 
 Of Mr. Fish we know, as has already been said, nothing 
 more than that he was Dorothy's lover, and a native 
 of Bedfordshire, probably her near neighbour. James 
 
 B must be another lover, and he is altogether 
 
 untraceable. Mrs. Goldsmith is, as you will remember, 
 wife of the Vicar of Campton. The Valentine stories 
 will date this letter for us as written in the latter half of 
 February. 
 
 SIR, They say you gave order for this waste- 
 paper; how do you think I could ever fill it, or 
 with what ? I am not always in the humour to 
 wrangle and dispute. For example now, I had 
 rather agree to what you say, than tell you that 
 Dr. Taylor (whose devote you must know I am) 
 says there is a great advantage to be gained in 
 resigning up one's will to the command of another, 
 because the same action which in itself is wholly 
 indifferent, if done upon our own choice, becomes 
 an act of duty and religion if done in obedience to 
 the command of any person whom nature, the 
 laws, or ourselves have given a power over us ;
 
 The Last of Chicksands. 243 
 
 so that though in an action already done we can 
 only be our own judges, because we only know 
 with what intentions it was done, yet in any we 
 intend, 'tis safest, sure, to take the advice of 
 another. Let me practise this towards you as 
 well as preach it to you, and I'll lay a wager you 
 will approve on't. But I am chiefly of your 
 opinion that contentment (which the Spanish 
 proverb says is the best paint) gives the lustre 
 to all one's enjoyment, puts a beauty upon things 
 which without it would have none, increases it 
 extremely where 'tis already in some degree, and 
 without it, all that we call happiness besides loses 
 its property. What is contentment, must be left 
 to every particular person to judge for themselves, 
 since they only know what is so to them which 
 differs in all according to their several humours. 
 Only you and I agree 'tis to be found by us in 
 a true friend, a moderate fortune, and a retired 
 life ; the last I thank God I have in perfection. 
 My cell is almost finished, and when you come 
 back you'll find me in it, and bring me both the 
 rest I hope. 
 
 I find it much easier to talk of your coming 
 back than your going. You shall never persuade 
 me I send you this journey. No, pray let it be 
 your father's commands, or a necessity your 
 fortune puts upon you. 'Twas unkindly said to 
 tell me I banish you ; your heart never told it 
 you, I dare swear ; nor mine ne'er thought it.
 
 244 Letters from Dorothy Os borne. 
 
 No, my dear, this is our last misfortune, let's bear 
 it nobly. Nothing shows we deserve a punish- 
 ment so much as our murmuring at it ; and the 
 way to lessen those we feel, and to 'scape those 
 we fear, is to suffer patiently what is imposed, 
 making a virtue of necessity. Tis not that I 
 have less kindness or more courage than you, but 
 that mistrusting myself more (as I have more 
 reason), I have armed myself all that is possible 
 against this occasion. I have thought that there is 
 not much difference between your being at Dublin 
 or at London, as our affairs stand. You can write 
 and hear from the first, and I should not see you 
 sooner if you continued still at the last. 
 
 Besides, I hope this journey will be of advan- 
 tage to us ; when your father pressed your coming 
 over he told you, you needed not doubt either his 
 power or his will. Have I done anything since 
 that deserves he should alter his intentions towards 
 us ? Or has any accident lessened his power ? 
 If neither, we may hope to be happy, and the 
 sooner for this journey. I dare not send my boy 
 to meet you at Brickhill nor any other of the 
 servants, they are all too talkative. But I can 
 get Mr. Gibson, if you will, to bring you a letter. 
 'Tis a civil, well-natured man as can be, of ex- 
 cellent principles and exact honesty. I durst 
 make him my confessor, though he is not obliged 
 by his orders to conceal anything that is told him. 
 But you must tell me then which Brickhill it is
 
 77ie Last of Chicksands. 245 
 
 you stop at, Little or Great ; they are neither of 
 them far from us. If you stay there you will 
 write back by him, will you not, a long letter ? I 
 shall need it ; besides that, you owe it me for the 
 last being so short. Would you saw what letters 
 my brother writes me ; you are not half so kind. 
 Well, he is always in the extremes ; since our last 
 quarrel he has courted me more than ever he did 
 in his life, and made me more presents, which, 
 considering his humour, is as great a testimony of 
 his kindness as 'twas of Mr. Smith's to my Lady 
 Sunderland when he presented Mrs. Camilla. 
 He sent me one this week which, in earnest, is as 
 pretty a thing as I have seen, a China trunk, and 
 the finest of the kind that e'er I saw. By the 
 way (this puts me in mind on't), have you read 
 the story of China written by a Portuguese, 
 Fernando Mendez Pinto, I think his name is ? 
 If you have not, take it with you, 'tis as diverting 
 a book of the kind as ever I read, and is as 
 handsomely written. You must allow him the 
 privilege of a traveller, and he does not abuse it. 
 His lies are as pleasant harmless ones, as lies can 
 be, and in no great number considering the scope 
 he has for them. There is one in Dublin now, 
 that ne'er saw much farther, has told me twice 
 as many (I dare swear) of Ireland. If I should 
 ever live to see that country and be in't, I should 
 make excellent sport with them. Tis a sister 
 of my Lady Grey's, her name is Pooley ; her
 
 246 Letters from Dorothy Osbor, 
 
 husband lives there too, but I am afraid in no 
 very good condition. They were but poor, and 
 she lived here with her sisters when I knew her ; 
 'tis not half a year since she went, I think. If 
 you hear of her, send me word how she makes a 
 shift there. 
 
 And hark you, can you tell me whether the 
 gentleman that lost a crystal box the ist of 
 February in St. James' Park or Old Spring 
 Gardens has found it again or not, I have strong 
 curiosity to know ? Tell me, and I'll tell you 
 something that you don't know, which is, that I 
 am your Valentine and you are mine. I did not 
 think of drawing any, but Mrs. Goldsmith and 
 Jane would need make me some for them and 
 myself; so I writ down our three names, and 
 for men Mr. Fish, James B., and you. I cut 
 them all equal and made them up myself before 
 them, and because I would owe it wholly to my 
 good fortune if I were pleased. I made both 
 them choose first that had never seen what was 
 in them, and they left me you. Then I made 
 them choose again for theirs, and my name was 
 left. You cannot imagine how I was delighted 
 with this little accident, but by taking notice that 
 I cannot forbear telling you it. I was not half so 
 pleased with my encounter next morning. I was 
 up early, but with no design of getting another 
 Valentine, and going out to walk in my night- 
 cloak and night-gown, I met Mr. Fish going a
 
 The Last of Chicksands. 247 
 
 hunting, I think he was ; but he stayed to tell me 
 I was his Valentine ; and I should not have been 
 rid on him quickly, if he had not thought himself 
 a little too negligee; his hair was not powdered, 
 and his clothes were but ordinary ; to say truth, 
 he looked then methought like other mortal 
 people. Yet he was as handsome as your 
 Valentine. I'll swear you wanted one when 
 you took her, and had very ill fortune that 
 nobody met you before her. Oh, if I had not 
 terrified my little gentleman when he brought 
 me his own letter, now sure I had had him for 
 my Valentine ! 
 
 On my conscience, I shall follow your counsel 
 if be he comes again, but I am persuaded he will 
 not. I writ my brother that story for want of 
 something else, and he says I did very well, 
 there was no other way to be rid on him; and 
 he makes a remark upon't that I can be severe 
 enough when I please, and wishes I would 
 practise it somewhere else as well as there. 
 Can you tell where that is ? \ never under- 
 stand anybody that does not speak plain English, 
 and he never uses that to me of late, but tells 
 me the finest stories (I may apply them how I 
 please) of people that have married when they 
 thought there was great kindness, and how miser- 
 ably they have found themselves deceived ; how 
 despicable they have made themselves by it, 
 and how sadly they have repented on't. He
 
 248 Letters front Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 reckons more inconveniency than you do that 
 follows good nature, says it makes one credulous, 
 apt to be abused, betrays one to the cunning of 
 people that make advantage on't, and a thousand 
 such things which I hear half asleep and half 
 awake, and take little notice of, unless it be 
 sometimes to say that with all these faults I 
 would not be without it. No, in earnest, nor I 
 could not love any person that I thought had it 
 not to a good degree. 'Twas the first thing I 
 liked in you, and without it I should never have 
 liked anything. I know 'tis counted simple, but 
 I cannot imagine why. 'Tis true some people 
 have it that have not wit, but there are at least 
 as many foolish people I have ever observed to 
 be fullest of tricks, little ugly plots and designs, 
 unnecessary disguises, and mean cunnings, which 
 are the basest qualities in the world, and makes 
 one the most contemptible, I think ; when I once 
 discover them they lose their credit with me for 
 ever. Some will say they are cunning only in their 
 own defence, and that there is no living in this 
 world without it ; but I cannot understand how 
 anything more is necessary to one's own safety 
 besides a prudent caution ; that I now think is, 
 though I can remember when nobody could have 
 persuaded me that anybody meant ill when it did 
 not appear by their words and actions. I remem- 
 ber my mother (who, if it may be allowed me to 
 say it) was counted as wise a woman as most
 
 The Last of Chicksands. 249 
 
 in England, when she seemed to distrust any- 
 body, and saw I took notice on't, would ask if I 
 did not think her too jealous and a little ill- 
 natured. " Come, I know you do," says she, " if 
 you would confess it, and I cannot blame you. 
 When I was young as you are, I thought my 
 father-in-law (who was a wise man) the most 
 unreasonably suspicious man that ever was, and 
 disliked him for it hugely ; but I have lived to see 
 it is almost impossible to think people worse than 
 they are, and so will you." I did not believe 
 her, and less, that I should have more to say to 
 you than this paper would hold. It shall never 
 be said I began another at this time of night, 
 though I have spent this idly, that should have 
 told you with a little more circumstance how 
 perfectly 
 
 I am yours. 
 
 Letter 53. Dorothy's brother seems to have got hold 
 of a new weapon of attack in Temple's religious opinions, 
 which might have led to a strategic success in more 
 skilful hands. He only manages to exasperate Dorothy 
 with himself, not with Temple. As for Temple, he has 
 not altogether escaped the censure of the orthodox. 
 Gossiping Bishop Burnet, in one of his more ill-natured 
 passages, tells us that Temple was an Epicurean, thinking 
 religion to be fit only for the mob, and a corrupter of 
 all that came near him. Unkind words these, with just, 
 perhaps, those dregs of truth in them which make gossip 
 so hard to bear patiently. Was it true, as Courtenay 
 thinks, that jealousy of King William's attachment to
 
 250 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 Temple disturbed the episcopal equipoise of soul, render- 
 ing his Lordship slanderous, even a backbiter ? 
 
 Robin C. is probably one of the Cheeke family. 
 
 Bagshawe is Edward Bagshawe the Elder, B.A. of 
 Brascnose, Oxford, and of the Middle Temple, barrister- 
 at-law. In the early part of the century he had been 
 a Puritan among Puritans, and in the old hall of the 
 Middle Temple had delivered two lectures to show that 
 bishops may not meddle in civil affairs, and that a 
 Parliament may be held without bishops ; questions still 
 unsettled. Laud appears to have prohibited these 
 lectures. Bagshawe in after life joined the King at 
 Oxford, and suffered imprisonment at the hands of his 
 former friends in the King's Bench Prison from 1644 to 
 1646. Young Sir Harry Yelverton, Lady Ruthin's 
 husband, broke a theological lance with his son, the 
 younger Edward Bagshawe, to vindicate the cause of 
 the Church of England. The elder Bagshawe died in 
 1662, and was buried at Morton Pinckney, in North- 
 amptonshire. How and why he railed at love and 
 marriage it is impossible now to know. Edward 
 Bagshawe the younger published in 1671 an Antidote 
 against Mr. Baxters Treatise of Love and Marriage. 
 
 The preaching woman at Somerset House was, in all 
 probability, Mrs. Hannah Trupnel. She, that in April 
 of this year is spoken of, in an old news-book, as having 
 " lately acted her part in a trance so many days at 
 Whitehall." She appears to have been full of mystical, 
 anti-Puritan prophecies, and was indicted in Cornwall as 
 a rogue and vagabond, convicted and bound over in 
 recognizances to behave herself in future. After this 
 she abandoned her design of passing from county to 
 county disaffccting the people with her prophecies, and 
 we hear no more of her.
 
 The Last of Chicksands. 251 
 
 SIR, 'Tis well you have given over your 
 reproaches ; I can allow you to tell me of my 
 faults kindly and like a friend. Possibly it is a 
 weakness in me to aim at the world's esteem, as 
 if I could not be happy without it ; but there are 
 certain things that custom has made almost of 
 absolute necessity, and reputation I take to be 
 one of these. If one could be invisible I should 
 choose that ; but since all people are seen or 
 known, and shall be talked of in spite of their 
 teeth, who is it that does not desire, at least, that 
 nothing of ill may be said of them, whether justly 
 or otherwise ? I never knew any so satisfied 
 with their own innocence as to be content that 
 the world should think them guilty. Some out 
 of pride have seemed to contemn ill reports when 
 they have found they could not avoid them, but 
 none out of strength of reason, though many 
 have pretended to it. No, not my Lady New- 
 castle with all her philosophy, therefore you must 
 not expect it from me. I shall never be ashamed 
 to own that I have a particular value for you 
 above any other, but 'tis not the greatest merit 
 of person will excuse a want of fortune ; in some 
 degree I think it will, at least with the most 
 rational part of the world, and, as far as that will 
 read, I desire it should. I would not have the 
 world believe I married out of interest and to 
 please my friends ; I had much rather they should 
 know I chose the person, and took his fortune,
 
 252 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 because 'twas necessary, and that I prefer a 
 competency with one I esteem infinitely before 
 a vast estate in other hands. Tis much easier, 
 sure, to get a good fortune than a good husband ; 
 but whosoever marries without any consideration 
 of fortune shall never be allowed to do it, but of 
 so reasonable an apprehension the whole world 
 (without any reserve) shall pronounce they did it 
 merely to satisfy their giddy humour. 
 
 Besides, though you imagine 'twere a great 
 argument of my kindness to consider nothing 
 but you, in earnest I believe 'twould be an 
 injury to you. I do not see that it puts any 
 value upon men when women marry them for 
 love (as they term it) ; 'tis not their merit, but 
 our folly that is always presumed to cause it ; and 
 would it be any advantage to you to have your 
 wife thought an indiscreet person ? All this I 
 can say to you ; but when my brother disputes it 
 with me I have other arguments for him, and I 
 drove him up so close t'other night that for want 
 of a better gap to get out at he was fain to say 
 that he feared as much your having a fortune as 
 your having none, for he saw you held my Lord 
 L 1 -' 5 [? Lieutenant's] principles. That religion 
 and honour were things you did not consider at 
 all, and that he was confident you would take any 
 engagement, serve in employment, or do anything 
 to advance yourself. I had no patience for this. 
 To say you were a beggar, your father not worth
 
 The Last of Chicksands. 253 
 
 ^4000 in the whole world, was nothing in com- 
 parison of having no religion nor no honour. I 
 forgot all my disguise, and we talked ourselves 
 weary ; he renounced me, and I defied him, but 
 both in as civil language as it would permit, and 
 parted in great anger with the usual ceremony of 
 a leg and a courtesy, that you would have died 
 with laughing to have seen us. 
 
 The next day I, not being at dinner, saw him 
 not till night; then he came into my chamber, 
 where I supped but he did not. Afterwards Mr. 
 Gibson and he and I talked of indifferent things 
 till all but we two went to bed. Then he sat 
 half-an-hour and said not one word, nor I to him. 
 At last, in a pitiful tone, " Sister," says he, " I 
 have heard you say that when anything troubles 
 you, of all things you apprehend going to bed, 
 because there it increases upon you, and you lie 
 at the mercy of all your sad thought, which the 
 silence and darkness of the night adds a horror 
 to ; I am at that pass now. I vow to God I 
 would not endure another night like the last to 
 gain a crown." I, who resolved to take no notice 
 what ailed him, said 'twas a knowledge I had 
 raised from my spleen only, and so fell into a 
 discourse of melancholy and the causes, and from 
 that (I know not how) into religion ; and we talked 
 so long of it, and so devoutly, that it laid all our 
 anger. We grew to a calm and peace with all 
 the world. Two hermits conversing in a cell they
 
 254 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 equally inhabit, ne'er expressed more humble, 
 charitable kindness, one towards another, than 
 we. He asked my pardon and I his, and he has 
 promised me never to speak of it to me whilst he 
 lives, but leave the event to God Almighty ; until 
 he sees it done, he will always be the same to me 
 that he is ; then he shall leave me, he says, not 
 out of want of kindness to me, but because he 
 cannot see the ruin of a person that he loves so 
 passionately, and in whose happiness he has laid 
 up all his. These are the terms we are at, and I 
 am confident he will keep his word with me, so 
 that you have no reason to fear him in any 
 respect ; for though he should break his promise, 
 he should never make me break mine. No, let 
 me assure you this rival, nor any other, shall ever 
 alter me, therefore spare your jealousy, or turn it 
 all into kindness. 
 
 I will write every week, and no miss of letters 
 shall give us any doubts of one another. Time 
 nor accidents shall not prevail upon our hearts, 
 and, if God Almighty please to bless us, we will 
 meet the same we are, or happier. I will do all 
 you bid me. I will pray, and wish, and hope, but 
 you must do so too, then, and be so careful of 
 yourself that I may have nothing to reproach you 
 with when you come back. 
 
 That vile wench lets you see all my scribbles, 
 I believe ; how do you know I took care your 
 hair should not be spoiled ? 'Tis more than ere
 
 The L ast of Ch ick sands. 255 
 
 you did, I think, you are so negligent on't, and 
 keep it so ill, 'tis pity you should have it. May 
 you have better luck in the cutting it than I had 
 with mine. I cut it two or three years agone, and 
 it never grew since. Look to it ; if I keep the 
 lock you give me better than you do all the rest, 
 I shall not spare you ; expect to be soundly 
 chidden. What do you mean to do with all my 
 letters ? Leave them behind you ? If you do, 
 it must be in safe hands, some of them concern 
 you, and me, and other people besides us very 
 much, and they will almost load a horse to carry. 
 Does not my cousin at Moor Park mistrust us 
 a little ? I have a great belief they do. I am 
 
 sure Robin C told my brother of it since I 
 
 was last in town. Of all things, I admire my 
 cousin Molle has not got it by the end, he that 
 frequents that family so much, and is at this 
 instant at Kimbolton. If he has, and conceals it, 
 he is very discreet; I could never discern by 
 anything that he knew it. I shall endeavour to 
 accustom myself to the noise on't, and make it as 
 easy to me as I can, though I had much rather it 
 were not talked of till there were an absolute 
 necessity of discovering it, and you can oblige me 
 in nothing more than in concealing it. I take it 
 very kindly that you promise to use all your 
 interest in your father to persuade him to endea- 
 vour our happiness, and he appears so confident 
 of his power that it gives me great hopes.
 
 256 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 Dear ! shall we ever be so happy, think you ? 
 Ah ! I dare not hope it Yet 'tis not want of 
 love gives me these fears. No, in earnest, I 
 think (nay, I'm sure) I love you more than ever, 
 and 'tis that only gives me these despairing 
 thoughts ; when I consider how small a propor- 
 tion of happiness is allowed in this world, and 
 how great mine would be in a person for whom 
 I have a passionate kindness, and who has the 
 same for me. As it is infinitely above what I can 
 deserve, and more than God Almighty usually 
 allots to the best people, I can find nothing in 
 reason but seems to be against me ; and, methinks, 
 'tis as vain in me to expect it as 'twould be to 
 hope I might be a queen (if that were really as 
 desirable a thing as 'tis thought to be) ; and it is 
 just it should be so. 
 
 We complain of this world, and the variety of 
 crosses and afflictions it abounds in, and yet for 
 all this who is weary on't (more than in discourse), 
 who thinks with pleasure of leaving it, or prepar- 
 ing for the next ? We see old folks, who have 
 outlived all the comforts of life, desire to continue 
 in it, and nothing can wean us from the folly of 
 preferring a mortal being, subject to great infirmity 
 and unavoidable decays, before an immortal one, 
 and all the glories that are promised with it. Is 
 this not very like preaching ? Well, 'tis too good 
 for you ; you shall have no more on't. I am afraid 
 you are not mortified enough for such discourse
 
 The Last of Chicksands. 257 
 
 to work upon (though I am not of my brother's 
 opinion, neither, that you have no religion in 
 you). In earnest, I never took anything he ever 
 said half so ill, as nothing, sure, is so great an 
 injury. It must suppose one to be a devil in 
 human shape. Oh, me ! now I am speaking of 
 religion, let me ask you is not his name Bagshawe 
 that you say rails on love and women ? Because 
 I heard one t'other day speaking of him, and 
 commending his wit, but withal, said he was a 
 perfect atheist. If so, I can allow him to hate us, 
 and love, which, sure, has something of divine in 
 it, since God requires it of us. I am coming into 
 my preaching vein again. What think you, were 
 it not a good way of preferment as the times are ? 
 If you'll advise me to it I'll venture. The woman 
 at Somerset House was cried up mightily. Think 
 on't. 
 
 Dear, I am yours. 
 
 Letter 54 Temple has really started on his journey, 
 and is now past Brickhill, far away in the north of 
 England. The journey to Ireland was made via 
 Holyhead in those days as it is now. It was a four 
 days' journey to Chester, and no good road after. The 
 great route through Wales to Holyhead was in such a 
 state that in 1685 the Viceroy going to Ireland was five 
 hours in travelling the fourteen miles from St. Asaph to 
 Conway ; between Conway and Beaumaris he walked ; 
 and his lady was carried in a litter. A carriage was 
 
 often taken to pieces at Conway, and carried to the 
 
 R
 
 258 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 Menai Straits on the peasants' shoulders round the 
 dangerous cliff of Penmaenmawr. Mr. B. and Mr. 
 D. remain mysterious symbolic initials of gossip and 
 scandal mongering. St Gregory's, near St Paul's, was 
 a church entirely destroyed by the great fire. 
 
 Sir John Tufton of "The Mote," near Maidstone, 
 married Mary, the third daughter and coheiress of 
 Thomas Lord Wotton. 
 
 For your Master [seal with coat-of-arms], 
 when your Mistress pleases. 
 
 SIR, You bid me write every week, and I am 
 doing it without considering how it will come to 
 you. Let Nan look to that, with whom, I 
 suppose, you have left the orders of conveyance. 
 I have your last letter ; but Jane, to whom you 
 refer me, is not yet come down. On Tuesday I 
 expect her ; and if she be not engaged, I shall 
 give her no cause hereafter to believe that she is 
 a burden to me, though I have no employment 
 for her but that of talking to me when I am in 
 the humour of saying nothing. Your dog is 
 come too, and I have received him with all the 
 kindness that is due to anything you send. I 
 have defended him from the envy and malice of 
 a troop of greyhounds that used to be in favour 
 with me ; and he is so sensible of my care over 
 him, that he is pleased with nobody else, and 
 follows me as if we had been of long acquaint- 
 ance. Tis well you are gone past my recovery.
 
 The Last of Chicksands. 259 
 
 My heart has failed me twenty times since you 
 went, and, had you been within my call, I had 
 brought you back as often, though I know thirty 
 miles' distance and three hundred are the same 
 thing. You will be so kind, I am sure, as to 
 write back by the coach and tell me what the 
 success of your journey so far has been. After 
 that, I expect no more (unless you stay for a 
 wind) till you arrive at Dublin. I pity your 
 sister in earnest ; a sea voyage is welcome to no 
 lady ; but you are beaten to it, and 'twill become 
 you, now you are a conductor, to show your valour 
 and keep your company in heart. When do you 
 think of coming back again ? I am asking that 
 before you are at your journey's end. You will 
 not take it ill that I desire it should be soon. 
 In the meantime, I'll practise all the rules you 
 give me. Who told you I go to bed late? In 
 earnest, they do me wrong : I have been faulty 
 in that point heretofore, I confess, but 'tis a good 
 while since I gave it over with my reading o' 
 nights ; but in the daytime I cannot live without 
 it, and 'tis all my diversion, and infinitely more 
 pleasing to me than any company but yours. 
 And yet I am not given to it in any excess now ; 
 I have been very much more. 'Tis Jane, I know, 
 tells all these tales of me. I shall be even with 
 her some time or other, but for the present I long 
 for her with some impatience, that she may tell me 
 all you have told her.
 
 260 Letters from Dorothy Osboruc. 
 
 Never trust me if I had not a suspicion from 
 the first that 'twas that ill-looked fellow B - who 
 made that story Mr. D - told you. That which 
 gave me the first inclination to that belief was the 
 circumstance you told me of their seeing me at 
 St. Gregory's. For I remembered to have seen 
 
 B there, and had occasion to look up into 
 
 the gallery where he sat, to answer a very civil 
 salute given me from thence by Mr. Freeman, and 
 
 saw B in a great whisper with another that 
 
 sat next him, and pointing to me. If Mr. D 
 
 had not been so nice in discovering his name, 
 you would quickly have been cured of your 
 jealousy. Never believe I have a servant that 
 I do not tell you of as soon as I know it myself. 
 As, for example, my brother Peyton has sent to 
 me, for a countryman of his, Sir John Tufton, 
 he married one of my Lady Wotton's heirs, who 
 is lately dead, and to invite me to think of it. 
 Besides his person and his fortune, without excep- 
 tion, he tells me what an excellent husband he 
 was to this lady that's dead, who was but a 
 crooked, ill-favoured woman, only she brought 
 him .1500 a year. I tell him I believe Sir John 
 Tufton could be content, I were so too upon the 
 same terms. But his loving his first wife can be 
 no argument to persuade me ; for if he had loved 
 her as he ought to do, I cannot hope he should 
 love another so well as I expect anybody should 
 that has me ; and if he did not love her, I have
 
 The Last of Chicksands. 26 1 
 
 less to expect he should me. I do not care for 
 a divided heart ; I must have all or none, at least 
 the first place in it. Poor James, I have broke 
 his. He says 'twould pity you to hear what sad 
 complaints he makes ; and, but that he has not 
 the heart to hang himself, he would be very well 
 contented to be out of the world. 
 
 That house of your cousin R is fatal to 
 
 physicians. Dr. Smith that took it is dead 
 already ; but maybe this was before you went, 
 and so is no news to you. I shall be sending 
 you all I hear ; which, though it cannot be much, 
 living as I do, yet it may be more than ventures 
 into Ireland. I would have you diverted, whilst 
 you are there, as much as possible ; but not 
 enough to tempt you to stay one minute longer 
 than your father and your business obliges you. 
 Alas ! I have already repented all my share in 
 your journey, and begin to find I am not half 
 so valiant as I sometimes take myself to be. The 
 knowledge that our interests are the same, and 
 that I shall be happy or unfortunate in your 
 person as much or more than in my own, does not 
 give me that confidence you speak of. It rather 
 increases my doubts, and I durst trust your 
 fortune alone, rather than now that mine is 
 joined with it. Yet I will hope yours may be so 
 good as to overcome the ill of mine, and shall 
 endeavour to mend my own all I can by striving 
 to deserve it, maybe, better. My dearest, will
 
 262 Letters from Dorothy Osbonu. 
 
 you pardon me that I am forced to leave you 
 so soon ? The next shall be longer, though I can 
 never be more than I am 
 
 Yours. 
 
 Letter 55. This sad letter, fully dated i8th March 
 1654, was written after Sir Peter Osborne was buried 
 in Campton Church. Even as Dorothy wrote this, the 
 stone-mason might be slowly carving words that may 
 be read to this day : " The maintainer of divine exercises, 
 the friend to the poor." Her father is no longer living, 
 and she is now even more lonely than before. To 
 depend upon kindred that are not friends, to be under 
 the protection of a brother who is her lover's avowed 
 enemy, this is her lot in life, unless Temple can release 
 her from it. Alas ! poor Dorothy, who will now forbear 
 to pity you ? 
 
 March tJte i8t/t, 1654. 
 
 How true it is that a misfortune never comes 
 single ; we live in expectation of some one happi- 
 ness that we propose to ourselves, an age almost, 
 and perhaps miss it at the last ; but sad accidents 
 have wings to overtake us, and come in flocks 
 like ill-boding ravens. You were no sooner gone 
 but (as if that had not been enough) I lost the 
 best father in the world ; and though, as to him- 
 self, it was an infinite mercy in God Almighty to 
 take him out of a world that can be pleasing to 
 none, and was made more uneasy to him by many 
 infirmities that were upon him, yet to me it is 
 an affliction much greater than people judge it.
 
 The Last of Chicksands. 263 
 
 Besides all that is due to nature and the memory 
 of many (more than ordinary) kindnesses received 
 from him, besides what he was to all that knew 
 him, and what he was to me in particular, I am 
 left by his death in the condition (which of all 
 others) is the most unsupportable to my nature, 
 to depend upon kindred that are not friends, and 
 that, though I pay as much as I should do to a 
 stranger, yet think they do me a courtesy. I 
 expect my eldest brother to-day; if he comes, 
 I shall be able to tell you before I seal this up 
 where you are likely to find me. If he offers me 
 to stay here, this hole will be more agreeable to 
 my humour than any place that is more in the 
 world. I take it kindly that you used art to 
 conceal our story and satisfy my nice apprehen- 
 sions, but I'll not impose that constraint upon 
 you any longer, for I find my kind brother 
 publishes it with more earnestness than ever I 
 strove to conceal it ; and with more disadvantage 
 than anybody else would. Now he has tried all 
 ways to do what he desires, and finds it is in vain, 
 he resolves to revenge himself upon me, by 
 representing this action in such colours as will 
 amaze all people that know me, and do not know 
 him enough to discern his malice to me; he 
 is not able to forbear showing it now, when 
 my condition deserves pity from all the world, 
 I think, and that he himself has newly lost 
 a father, as well as I ; but takes this time to
 
 264 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 torment me, which appears (at least to me) so 
 barbarous a cruelty, that though I thank God I 
 have charity enough perfectly to forgive all the 
 injury he can do me, yet I am afraid I shall never 
 look upon him as a brother more. And now do 
 you judge whether I am not very unhappy, and 
 whether that sadness in my face you used to 
 complain of was not suited to my fortune. You 
 must confess it ; and that my kindness for you is 
 beyond example, all these troubles are persecu- 
 tions that make me weary of the world before my 
 time, and lessen the concernment I have for you, 
 and instead of being persuaded as they would 
 have me by their malicious stories, methinks I 
 am obliged to love you more in recompense of all 
 the injuries they have done you upon my score. 
 I shall need nothing but my own heart to fortify 
 me in this resolution, and desire nothing in return 
 of it but that your care of yourself may answer 
 to that which I shall always have for your 
 interests. 
 
 I received your letter of the loth of this month ; 
 and I hope this will find you at your journey's 
 end. In earnest, I have pitied your sister 
 extremely, and can easily apprehend how trouble- 
 some this voyage must needs be to her, by know- 
 ing what others have been to me ; yet, pray 
 assure her I would not scruple at undertaking it 
 myself to gain such an acquaintance, and would 
 go much farther than where (I hope) she now is
 
 The Last of Ckicksands. 265 
 
 to serve her. I am afraid she will not think me 
 a fit person to choose for a friend, that cannot 
 agree with my own brother; but I must trust 
 you to tell my story for me, and will hope for a 
 better character from you than he gives me ; who, 
 lest I should complain, resolves to prevent me, 
 and possess my friends first that he is the injured 
 party. I never magnified my patience to you, 
 but I begin to have a good opinion on't since 
 this trial ; yet, perhaps, I have no reason, and 
 it may be as well a want of sense in me as of 
 passion ; however, you will not be displeased to 
 know that I can endure all that he or anybody 
 else can say, and that setting aside my father's 
 death and your absence, I make nothing an 
 affliction to me, though I am sorry, I confess, 
 to see myself forc'd to keep such distances with 
 one of his relations, because religion and nature 
 and the custom of the world teaches otherwise. 
 I see I shall not be able to satisfy you in this 
 how I shall dispose of myself, for my brother 
 is not come ; the next will certainly tell you. 
 In the meantime, I expect with great impatience 
 to hear of your safe arrival. 'Twas a disappoint- 
 ment that you missed those fair winds. I pleased 
 myself extremely with a belief that they had 
 made your voyage rather a diversion than a 
 trouble, either to you or your company, but I 
 hope your passag^was as happy, if not as sudden, 
 as you expected it ; let me hear often from you,
 
 266 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 and long letters. I do not count this so. Have 
 no apprehensions from me, but all the care of 
 yourself that you please. My melancholy has no 
 anger in it ; and I believe the accidents of my 
 life would work more upon any other than they 
 do upon me, whose humour is alway more 
 prepared for them than that of gayer persons. 
 I hear nothing that is worth your knowing ; when 
 I do, you shall know it. Tell me if there's any- 
 thing I can do for you, and assure yourself I am 
 perfectly 
 
 Yours. 
 
 Letter 56. Temple has reached Dublin at last, and 
 begins to write from there. This letter also is dated, 
 and from this time forth there is less trouble in arrang- 
 ing the letters in order of date, as many of them have, 
 at least, the day of the month, if nothing more. 
 
 The Marquis of Hertford was the Duke of Somerset's 
 great-grandson. He married Lady Arabella Stuart, 
 daughter of Charles Stuart, Earl of Lennox, uncle of 
 King James I., for which matrimonial adventure he was 
 imprisoned in the Tower. His second wife was Frances, 
 daughter of Robert, Earl of Essex, and sister to the 
 great general of the Parliamentary Army. She was the 
 mother of young Lord Beauchamp, whose death Dorothy 
 deplores. He was twenty-eight years of age when he 
 died. He married Mary, daughter of Lord Capel of 
 Hadham, who afterwards married the Duke of Beaufort. 
 
 Baptist Noel, Viscount Camden, was a noted loyalist. 
 After the Restoration we find him appointed Lord- 
 Lieutenant of Rutland. Of his duel with Mr. Stafford
 
 The Last of Ckicksands. 267 
 
 there seems to be no account. It did not carry him 
 into the King's Bench Court, like Lord Chandos' duel, 
 so history is silent about it. 
 
 April the 2nd, 1654. 
 
 SIR, There was never any lady more surprised 
 than I was with your last. I read it so coldly, 
 and was so troubled to find that you were so 
 forward on your journey ; but when I came to the 
 last, and saw Dublin at the date, I could scarce 
 believe my eyes. In earnest, it transported me 
 so that I could not forbear expressing my joy in 
 such a manner as had anybody been by to have 
 observed me they would have suspected me no 
 very sober person. 
 
 You are safe arrived, you say, and pleased with 
 the place already, only because you meet with a 
 letter of mine there. In your next I expect some 
 other commendation on't, or else I shall hardly 
 make such haste to it as people here believe I 
 will. 
 
 All the servants have been to take their leaves 
 on me, and say how sorry they are to hear I am 
 going out of the land ; some beggar at the door 
 has made so ill a report of Ireland to them that 
 they pity me extremely, but you are pleased, I 
 hope, to hear I am coming to you ; the next fair 
 wind expect me. 'Tis not to be imagined the 
 ridiculous stories they have made, nor how J. B. 
 cries out on me for refusing him and choosing
 
 268 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 his chamber-fellow ; yet he pities me too, and 
 swears I am condemned to be the miserablest 
 person upon earth. With all his quarrel to me, 
 he does not wish me so ill as to be married to the 
 proudest, imperious, insulting, ill-natured man that 
 ever was ; one that before he has had me a week 
 shall use me with contempt, and believe that the 
 favour was of his side. Is not this very comfort- 
 able ? But, pray, make it no quarrel ; I make it 
 none, I assure you. And though he knew you 
 before I did, I do not think he knows you so 
 well ; besides that, his testimony is not of much 
 value. 
 
 I am to spend this next week in taking leave 
 of this country, and all the company in't, perhaps 
 never to see it more. From hence I must go 
 into Northamptonshire to my Lady Ruthin, and 
 so to London, where I shall find my aunt and my 
 brother Peyton, betwixt whom I think to divide 
 this summer. 
 
 Nothing has happened since you went worth 
 your knowledge. My Lord Marquis Hertford 
 has lost his son, my Lord Beauchamp, who has 
 left a fine young widow. In earnest, 'tis great 
 pity ; at the rate of our young nobility he was 
 an extraordinary person, and remarkable for an 
 excellent husband. My Lord Cambden, too, has 
 fought with Mr. Stafford, but there's no harm 
 done. You may discern the haste I'm in by my 
 writing. There will come a time for a long letter
 
 The Last of Chicksands. 269 
 
 again, but there will never come any wherein I 
 shall not be 
 
 Yours. 
 
 [Sealed with black wax, and directed] 
 For Mr. William Temple, 
 
 at Sir John Temple's home 
 
 in Damask Street, 
 
 Dublin. 
 
 Thus Dorothy leaves Chicksands, her last words from 
 her old home to Temple breathing her love and affection 
 for him. It is no great sorrow at the moment to leave 
 Chicksands, for its latest memories are scenes of sick- 
 ness, grief, and death. And now the only home on 
 earth for Dorothy lies in the future ; it is not a par- 
 ticular spot on earth, but to be by his side, wherever 
 that may be.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 VISITING. SUMMER 1654. 
 
 THIS chapter opens with a portion of a letter written by 
 Sir William Temple to his mistress, dated Ireland, May 
 1 8, 1654. It is the only letter, or rather scrap of letter, 
 which we have of his, and by some good chance it has 
 survived with the rest of Dorothy's letters. It will, I 
 think, throw great light on his character as a lover, 
 showing him to have been ardent and ecstatic in his 
 suit, making quite clear Dorothy's wisdom in insisting, 
 as she often does, on the necessity of some more material 
 marriage portion than mere love and hope. His refer- 
 ence to the " unhappy differences " strengthens my view 
 that the letters of the former chapter belong all to one 
 date. 
 
 Letter 57. Letter of Sir William Temple. 
 
 May iSt/i, 1654. 
 
 ... I am called upon for my letter, but must 
 have leave first to remember you of yours. For 
 God's sake write constantly while I am here, or I 
 am undone past all recovery. I have lived upon 
 them ever since I came, but had thrived much
 
 Visiting. 271 
 
 better had they been longer. Unless you use to 
 give me better measure, I shall not be in case to 
 undertake a journey to England. The despair I 
 was in at not hearing from you last week, and the 
 belief that all my letters had miscarried (by some 
 treachery among my good friends who, I am 
 sorry, have the name of yours), made me press 
 my father by all means imaginable to give me 
 leave to go presently if I heard not from you 
 this post. But he would never yield to that, 
 because, he said, upon your silence he should 
 suspect all was not likely to be well between us, 
 and then he was sure I should not be in condition 
 to be alone. He remembered too well the letters 
 I writ upon our last unhappy differences, and 
 would not trust me from him in such another 
 occasion. But, withal, he told me he would never 
 give me occasion of any discontent which he could 
 remedy ; that if you desired my coming over, and 
 I could not be content without, he would not 
 hinder me, though he very much desired my 
 company a month or two longer, and that in 
 that time 'twas very likely I might have his as 
 well. 
 
 Now, in very good earnest, do you think 'tis 
 time for me to come or no ? Would you be very 
 glad to see me there, and could you do it in less 
 disorder, and with less surprise, than you did at 
 Chicksands ? 
 
 I ask you these questions very seriously ; but
 
 272 Litters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 yet how willingly would I venture all to be with 
 you. I know you love me still ; you promised 
 me, and that's all the security I can have in this 
 world. Tis that which makes all things else 
 seem nothing to it, so high it sets me ; and so 
 high, indeed, that should I ever fall 'twould dash 
 me all to pieces. Methinks your very charity 
 should make you love me more now than ever, 
 by seeing me so much more unhappy than I used, 
 by being so much farther from you, for that is all 
 the measure can be taken of my good or ill con- 
 dition. Justice, I am sure, will oblige you to it, 
 since you have no other means left in the world 
 of rewarding such a passion as mine, which, sure, 
 is of a much richer value than anything in the 
 world besides. Should you save my life again, 
 should you make me absolute master of your 
 fortune and your person too, I should accept 
 none of all this in any part of payment, but look 
 upon you as one behindhand with me still. 'Tis 
 no vanity this, but a true sense of how pure and 
 how refined a nature my passion is, which none 
 can ever know except my own heart, unless you 
 find it out by being there. 
 
 How hard it is to think of ending when I am 
 writing to you ; but it must be so, and I must 
 ever be subject to other people's occasions, and 
 so never, I think, master of my own. This is too 
 true, both in respect of this fellow's post that is 
 bawling at me for my letter, and of my father's
 
 Visiting. 273 
 
 delays. They kill me ; but patience, would any- 
 body but I were here ! Yet you may command 
 me ever at one minute's warning. Had I not 
 heard from you by this last, in earnest I had 
 resolved to have gone with this, and given my 
 father the slip for all his caution. He tells me 
 still of a little time ; but, alas ! who knows not 
 what mischances and how great changes have 
 often happened in a little time ? 
 
 For God's sake let me hear of all your motions, 
 when and where I may hope to see you. Let us 
 but hope this cloud, this absence that has overcast 
 all my contentment, may pass away, and I am 
 confident there's a clear sky attends us. My 
 dearest dear, adieu. 
 
 Yours. 
 
 Pray, where is your lodging ? Have a care of 
 all the despatch and security that can be in our 
 intelligence. Remember my fellow-servant ; sure, 
 by the next I shall write some learned epistle to 
 her, I have been so long about it. 
 
 Letter 58. Dorothy is now in London, staying pro- 
 bably with that aunt whom she mentioned before as 
 one who was always ready to find her a husband other 
 than Temple. Of the plot against the Protector in 
 which my Lord of Dorchester is said to be engaged, an 
 account is given in connection with Letter 59 ; that is, 
 presuming it to be the same plot, and that Lord 
 Dorchester is one of the many persons arrested under
 
 274 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 suspicion of being concerned in it. I cannot find any- 
 thing which identifies him with a special plot. 
 
 Lady Sandis [Sandys], who seems so fond of race 
 meetings and other less harmless amusements, was the 
 wife of William Lord Sandys, and daughter of the Earl 
 of Salisbury. Lord Sandys' country house was Motes- 
 font or Mottisfont Priory, in Hampshire, " which the 
 King had given him in exchange for Chelsea, in West- 
 minster." So says Leland, the antiquary and scholar, in 
 his Itinerary; but it is a little puzzling to the modern 
 mind with preconceived notions of Chelsea, to hear it 
 spoken of as a seat or estate in Westminster. Colonel 
 Tom Paunton is to me merely a name ; and J. Morton 
 is nothing more, unless we may believe him to be Sir 
 John Morton, Bart, of Milbourne, St. Andrew, in Not- 
 tinghamshire. This addition of a local habitation and a 
 name gives us no further knowledge, however, of the 
 scandal to which Dorothy alludes. 
 
 Mistress Stanley and Mistress Witherington have left 
 no trace of their identity that I can find, but Mistress 
 Philadelphia Carey is not wholly unknown. She was 
 the second daughter of Thomas Carey, one of the Earl 
 of Monmouth's sons, and readers may be pleased to 
 know that she did marry Sir Henry Littleton. 
 
 Of the scandal concerning Lord Rich I am not sorry 
 to know nothing. 
 
 May 2$th [1654]. 
 
 THIS world is composed of nothing but con- 
 trarieties and sudden accidents, only the propor- 
 tions are not at all equal ; for to a great measure 
 of trouble it allows so small a quantity of joy, that 
 one may see 'tis merely intended to keep us alive
 
 Visiting. 275 
 
 withal. This is a formal preface, and looks as if 
 there were something of very useful to follow ; but 
 I would not wish you to expect it. I was only 
 considering my own ill-humour last night, I had 
 not heard from you in a week or more, my brother 
 had been with me and we had talked ourselves 
 both out of breath and patience too, I was not very 
 well, and rose this morning only because I was 
 weary of lying in bed. When I had dined I took 
 a coach and went to see whether there was ever 
 a letter for me, and was this once so lucky as to 
 find one. I am not partial to myself I know, and 
 am contented that the pleasure I have received 
 with this, shall serve to sweeten many sad thoughts 
 that have interposed since your last, and more 
 that I may reasonably expect before I have 
 another ; and I think I may (without vanity) say, 
 that nobody is more sensible of the least good 
 fortune nor murmurs less at an ill than I do, 
 since I owe it merely to custom and not to any 
 constancy in my humour, or something that is 
 better. No, in earnest, anything of good comes 
 to me like the sun to the inhabitants of Green- 
 land, it raises them to life when they see it, and 
 when they miss it, it is not strange they expect 
 a night of half a year long. 
 
 You cannot imagine how kindly I take it that 
 you forgive my brother, and let me assure you 
 I shall never press you to anything unreasonable. 
 I will not oblige you to court a person that has
 
 276 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 injured you. I only beg that whatsoever he does 
 in that kind may be excused by his relation to 
 me, and that whenever you are moved to think 
 he does you wrong, you will at the same time 
 remember that his sister loves you passionately 
 and nobly ; that if he values nothing but fortune, 
 she despises it, and could love you as much a 
 beggar as she could do a prince ; and shall with- 
 out question love you eternally, but whether with 
 any satisfaction to herself or you is a sad doubt. 
 I am not apt to hope, and whether it be the better 
 or the worse I know not. All sorts of differences 
 are natural to me, and that which (if your kind- 
 ness would give you leave) you would term a 
 weakness in me is nothing but a reasonable 
 distrust of my own judgment, which makes me 
 desire the approbation of my friends. I never 
 had the confidence in my life to presume anything 
 well done that I had nobody's opinion in but my 
 own ; and as you very well observe, there are so 
 many that think themselves wise when nothing 
 equals their folly but their pride, that I dread 
 nothing so much as discovering such a thought in 
 myself because of the consequences of it. 
 
 Whenever you come you must not doubt your 
 welcome, but I can promise you nothing for the 
 manner on't. I am afraid my surprise and dis- 
 order will be more than ever. I have good 
 reason to think so, and none that you can take ill. 
 But I would not have you attempt it till your
 
 Visiting. 277 
 
 father is ready for the journey too. No, really he 
 deserves that all your occasions should wait for his ; 
 and if you have not much more than an ordinary 
 obedience for him, I shall never believe you have 
 more than an ordinary kindness for me ; since (if 
 you will pardon me the comparison) I believe we 
 both merit it from you upon the same score, he as a 
 very indulgent father, and I as a very kind mistress. 
 Don't laugh at me for commending myself, you 
 will never do it for me, and so I am forced to it. 
 
 I am still here in town, but had no hand, I can 
 assure you, in the new discovered plot against the 
 Protector. But my Lord of Dorchester, they say, 
 has, and so might I have had if I were as rich as 
 he, and then you might have been sure of me at 
 the Tower ; now a worse lodging must serve my 
 turn. 'Tis over against Salisbury House where I 
 have the honour of seeing my Lady M. Sandis 
 every day unless some race or other carry her out 
 of town. The last week she went to one as far 
 as Winchester with Col. Paunton (if you know 
 such a one), and there her husband met her, and 
 because he did so (though it 'twere by accident) 
 thought himself obliged to invite her to his house 
 but seven miles off, and very modestly said no 
 more for it, but that he thought it better than an 
 Inn, or at least a crowded one as all in the town 
 were now because of the race. But she was so 
 good a companion that she would not forsake her 
 company. So he invited them too, but could
 
 278 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 prevail with neither. Only my Lady grew kind 
 at parting and said, indeed if Tom Paunton and 
 J. Morton and the rest would have gone she 
 could have been contented to have taken his 
 offer. Thus much for the married people, now 
 for those that are towards it. 
 
 There is Mr. Stanley and Mrs. Witherington ; 
 Sir H. Littleton and Mrs. Philadelphia Carey, 
 who in earnest is a fine woman, such a one as 
 will make an excellent wife ; and some say my 
 Lord Rich and my Lady Betty Howard, but 
 others that pretend to know more say his court 
 to her is but to countenance a more serious one to 
 Mrs. Howard, her sister-in-law, he not having 
 courage to pretend so openly (as some do) to 
 another's wife. Oh, but your old acquaintance, 
 poor Mr. Heningham, has no luck ! He was so 
 near (as he thought at least) marrying Mrs. Ger- 
 herd that anybody might have got his whole estate 
 in wagers upon't that would have ventured but a 
 reasonable proportion of their own. And now he 
 looks more like an ass than ever he did. She 
 has cast him off most unhandsomely, that's the 
 truth on't, and would have tied him to such con- 
 ditions as he might have been her slave withal, 
 but could never be her husband. Is not this a 
 great deal of news for me that never stir abroad ? 
 Nay, I had brought me to-day more than all this : 
 that I am marrying myself ! And the pleasantness 
 on't is that it should be to my Lord St. John.
 
 Visiting. 2 79 
 
 Would he look on me, think you, that had pretty 
 Mrs. Fretcheville ? My comfort is, I have not 
 seen him since he was a widower, and never 
 spoke to him in my life. I found myself so inno- 
 cent that I never blushed when they told it me. 
 What would I give I could avoid it when people 
 speak of you ? In earnest, I do prepare myself 
 all that is possible to hear it spoken of, yet for 
 my life I cannot hear your name without dis- 
 covering that I am more than ordinarily concerned 
 in't. A blush is the foolishest thing that can be, 
 and betrays one more than a red nose does a 
 drunkard ; and yet I would not so wholly have 
 lost them as some women that I know has, as 
 much injury as they do me. 
 
 I can assure you now that I shall be here a 
 fortnight longer (they tell me no lodger, upon 
 pain of his Highness's displeasure, must remove 
 sooner) ; but when I have his leave I go into 
 Suffolk for a month, and then come hither again 
 to go into Kent, where I intend to bury myself 
 alive again as I did in Bedfordshire, unless you 
 call me out and tell me I may be happy. Alas ! 
 how fain I would hope it, but I cannot, and should 
 it ever happen, 'twould be long before I should 
 believe 'twas meant for me in earnest, or that 
 'twas other than a dream. To say truth, I do 
 not love to think on't, I find so many things to 
 fear and so few to hope. 
 
 'Tis better telling you that I will send my
 
 280 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 letters where you direct, that they shall be as 
 long ones as possibly my time will permit, and 
 when at any time you miss of one, I give you 
 leave to imagine as many kind things as you 
 please, and to believe I mean them all to you. 
 Farewell. 
 
 Letter 59. It is a little astonishing to read, as one 
 does in this and the last letter, of race meetings, and 
 Dorothy, habited in a mask, disporting herself at New 
 Spring Gardens or in the Park. It opens one's eyes to the 
 exaggerated gloom that has been thrown over England 
 during the Puritan reign by those historians who have 
 derived their information solely from State papers and 
 proclamations. It is one thing to proclaim amusements, 
 another to abolish them. The first was undoubtedly 
 done, but we doubt if there was ever any long-continued 
 effort to do the last ; and in the latter part of Cromwell's 
 reign the gloom, and the strait-laced regulations that 
 caused it, must have almost entirely disappeared. 
 
 Spring Gardens seems at one time to have had no 
 very good reputation. Lady Alice Halkett, writing in 
 1644, tells us that "so scrupulous was I of giving any 
 occasion to speak of me as I know they did of others, 
 that though I loved well to see plays, and to walk in 
 the Spring Gardens sometimes (before it grew some- 
 thing scandalous by the abuses of some), yet I cannot 
 remember three times that ever I went with any man 
 besides my brother." However, fashions change in ten 
 years, and Spring Gardens is, doubtless, now quite 
 demure and respectable, or we should not find Dorothy 
 there. Spring Gardens was enclosed and laid out 
 towards the end of the reign of James I. The clump
 
 Visiting. 281 
 
 of houses \vhich still bears its name is supposed to 
 indicate its position with tolerable exactness. Evelyn 
 tells us that Cromwell shut up the Spring Gardens in 
 1649, and Knight thinks they were closed until the 
 Restoration, in which small matter we may allow 
 Dorothy to correct him. The fact of the old gardens 
 having been closed may account for Dorothy referring 
 to the place as " New Spring Gardens." Knight also 
 quotes at second hand from an account of Spring 
 Gardens, complaining that the author is unknown to 
 him. This quotation is, however, from one of Somers' 
 Tracts entitled "A Character of England as it was 
 lately represented in a Letter to a Nobleman of France, 
 1659." The Frenchman by whom the letter is written 
 probably an English satirist in disguise gives us 
 such a graphic account of the Parks before the Restora- 
 tion, that as the matter is fresh and bears upon the 
 subject, I have no hesitation in quoting it at length : 
 
 " I did frequently in the spring accompany my 
 Lord N. into a field near the town which they call 
 Hyde Park, the place not unpleasant, and which they 
 use as our ' Course] but with nothing that order, 
 equipage, and splendour; being such an assembly of 
 wretched jades and hackney coaches, as, next to a 
 regiment of car-men, there is nothing approaches the 
 resemblance. The Park was, it seems, used by the late 
 King and nobility for the freshness of the air and the 
 goodly prospect, but it is that which now (besides all 
 other exercises) they pay for here in England, though 
 it be free in all the world beside ; every coach and horse 
 which enters buying his mouthful and permission of 
 the publican who has purchased it, for which the 
 entrance is guarded with porters and long staves. 
 
 " The manner is, as the company returns, to stop at the
 
 282 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 Spring Gardens so called, in order to the Park as our 
 Thuilleries is to the Course ; the inclosure not disagree- 
 able for the solemnness of the groves, the warbling of 
 the birds, and as it opens into the spacious walks of 
 St. James. But the company walk in it at such a rate 
 as you would think all the ladies were so many Atalantas 
 contending with their wooers, and, my Lord, there was 
 no appearance that I should prove the Hippomenes, 
 who could with very much ado keep pace with them. 
 But, as fast as they run, they stay there so long, as if 
 they wanted not to finish the race, for it 'is usual here 
 to find some of the young company till midnight, and 
 the thickets of the garden seem to be contrived to all 
 the advantages of gallantry after they have refreshed 
 with the collation, which is here seldom omitted, at a 
 certain cabaret in the middle of this paradise, where the 
 forbidden fruits are certain trifling tarts, neats' tongues, 
 salacious meats, and bad Rhenish, for which the gallants 
 pay sauce, as indeed they do at all such houses through- 
 out England ; for they think it a piece of frugality 
 beneath them to bargain or account for what they eat 
 in any place, however unreasonably imposed upon." 
 
 Dorothy is quite right in her correction concerning 
 Will Spencer. He was the first Earl of Sunderland, 
 and married Elizabeth, daughter of Lord Gerard. 
 
 June t/ie 6th, 1654. 
 
 I SEE you know how to punish me. In earnest, 
 I was so frightened with your short letter as you 
 cannot imagine, and as much troubled at the 
 cause on't. What is it your father ails, and how 
 long has he been ill ? If my prayers are heard, 
 he will not be so long. Why do you say I failed
 
 Visiting. 283 
 
 you? Indeed, I did not. Jane is my witness. She 
 carried my letter to the White Hart, by St. James's, 
 and 'twas a very long one too. I carried one thither 
 since, myself, and the woman of the house was so 
 very angry, because I desired her to have a care 
 on't, that I made the coachman drive away with all 
 possible speed, lest she should have beaten me. To 
 say truth, I pressed her too much, considering how 
 little the letter deserved it. 'Twas writ in such dis- 
 order, the company prating about me, and some of 
 them so bent on doing me little mischiefs, that I 
 know not what I did, and believe it was the most 
 senseless, disjointed thing that ever was read. 
 
 I remember now that I writ Robin Spencer 
 instead of Will. Tis he that has married Mrs. 
 Gerherd, and I admire their courage. She will 
 have eight hundred pounds a year, 'tis true, after 
 her mother's death ; but how they will live till 
 then I cannot imagine. I shall be even with you 
 for your short letter. I'll swear they will not 
 allow me time for anything, and to show how 
 absolutely I am governed I need but tell you that 
 I am every night in the Park and at New Spring 
 Gardens, where, though I come with a mask, I 
 cannot escape being known, nor my conversion 
 being admired. Are you not in some fear what 
 will become on me? These are dangerous courses. 
 I do not find, though, that they have altered me 
 yet. I am much the same person at heart I was 
 in being Yours.
 
 284 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 Letter 60. 
 
 June \yh [1654]. 
 
 You have satisfied me very much with this last 
 long letter, and made some amends for the short 
 one I received before. I am convinced, too, 
 happiness is much such a kind of thing as you 
 describe, or rather such a nothing. For there is 
 no one thing can properly be called so, but every 
 one is left to create it to themselves in something 
 which they either have or would have ; and so far 
 it's well enough. But I do not like that one's 
 happiness should depend upon a persuasion that 
 this is happiness, because nobody knows how 
 long they shall continue in a belief built upon no 
 grounds, only to bring it to what you say, and to 
 make it absolutely of the same nature with faith. 
 We must conclude that nobody can either create 
 or continue such a belief in themselves ; but 
 where it is there is happiness. And for my part 
 at this present, I verily believe I could find it in 
 the long walk at Dublin. 
 
 You say nothing of your father's sickness, 
 therefore I hope he is well again ; for though I 
 have a quarrel to him, it does not extend so far 
 as to wish him ill. But he made no good return 
 for the counsel I gave you, to say that there 
 might come a time when my kindness might fail. 
 Do not believe him, I charge you, unless you 
 doubt yourself that you may give me occasion
 
 Visiting. 285 
 
 to change ; and when he tells you so again, 
 engage what you please upon't, and put it upon 
 my account. I shall go out of town this week, 
 and so cannot possibly get a picture drawn for 
 you till I come up again, which will be within 
 these six weeks, but not to make any stay at all. 
 I should be glad to find you here then. I would 
 have had one drawn since I came, and consulted 
 my glass every morning when to begin ; and to 
 speak freely to you that are my friend, I could 
 never find my face in a condition to admit on't, 
 and when I was not satisfied with it myself, I had 
 no reason to hope that anybody else should. But 
 I am afraid, as you say, that time will not mend 
 it, and therefore you shall have it as it is as soon 
 as Mr. Cooper will vouchsafe to take the pains 
 to draw it for you. 
 
 I am in great trouble to think how I shall write 
 out of Suffolk to you, or receive yours. However, 
 do not fail to write, though they lie awhile. I 
 shall have them at last, and they will not be the 
 less welcome ; and, though you should miss of 
 some of mine, let it not trouble you ; but if it be 
 by my fault, I'll give you leave to demand satis- 
 faction for it when you come. Jane kisses your 
 hands, and says she will be ready in all places 
 to do you service ; but I'll prevent her, now you 
 have put me into a jealous humour. I'll keep 
 her in chains before she shall quit scores with me. 
 Do not believe, sir, I beseech you, that the young
 
 286 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 heirs are for you ; content yourself with your old 
 mistress. You are not so handsome as Will 
 Spencer, nor I have not so much courage nor 
 wealth as his mistress, nor she has not so much 
 as her aunt says by all the money. I should not 
 have called her his mistress now they have been 
 married almost this fortnight. 
 
 I'll write again before I leave the town, and 
 should have writ more now, but company is come 
 in. Adieu, my dearest. 
 
 Letter 61. Lady Talmash was the eldest daughter of 
 Mr. Murray, Charles I.'s page and whipping boy. She 
 married Sir Lionel Talmash of Suffolk, a gentleman 
 of noble family. After her father's death, she took 
 the title of Countess of Dysart, although there was 
 some dispute about the right of her father to any title. 
 Bishop Burnet says : " She was a woman of great beauty, 
 but of far greater parts. She had a wonderful quickness 
 of apprehension, and an amazing vivacity in conversa- 
 tion. She had studied not only divinity and history, 
 but mathematics and philosophy. She was violent in 
 everything she set about, a violent friend, but a much 
 more violent enemy. She had a restless ambition, 
 lived at a vast expense, and was ravenously covetous ; 
 and would have stuck at nothing by which she might 
 compass her ends. She had been early in a correspond- 
 ence with Lord Lauderdale, that had given occasion to 
 censure. When he was a prisoner after Worcester 
 fight, she made him believe he was in great danger of 
 his life, and that she saved it by her intrigues with 
 Cromwell, which was not a little taken notice of. 
 Cromwell was certainly fond of her, and she took
 
 Visiting. 287 
 
 care to entertain him in it ; till he, finding what was 
 said upon it, broke it off. Upon the King's Restoration 
 she thought that Lord Lauderdale made not those 
 returns she expected. They lived for some years at a 
 distance. But upon her husband's death she made up 
 all quarrels ; so that Lord Lauderdale and she lived so 
 much together that his Lady was offended at it and 
 went to Paris, where she died about three years after." 
 This was in 1672, and soon afterwards Lady Dysart and 
 Lord Lauderdale were married. She had great power 
 over him, and employed it in trafficking with such State 
 patronage as was in Lord Lauderdale's power to bestow. 
 
 Cousin Hammond, who was going to take Ludlow's 
 place in Ireland, would be the Colonel Robert Hammond 
 who commanded Carisbrooke when the King was im- 
 prisoned there. He was one of a new council formed in 
 August and sent into Ireland about the end of that month. 
 
 Lady Vavasour was Ursula, daughter of Walter 
 Gifford of Chillington, Staffordshire. Her husband was 
 Sir Thomas Vavasour, Bart. The Vavasours were a 
 Roman Catholic family, and claimed descent from those 
 who held the ancient office of King's Valvasour ; and we 
 need not therefore be surprised to find Lady Vavasour 
 engaged in one of the numerous plots that surrounded 
 and endangered the Protector's power. The plot itself 
 seems to have created intense excitement in the capital, 
 and resulted in three persons being tried for high 
 treason, and two executed, John Gerard, gentleman, 
 Peter Vowel, schoolmaster of Islington, and one Sum- 
 merset Fox, who pleaded guilty, and whose life was 
 spared. " Some wise men," writes one Thomas Gower 
 in a contemporary letter (still unprinted) " believe that a 
 couple of coy-ducks drew in the rest, then revealed all, 
 and were employed to that purpose that the execution
 
 2$8 Letters Jrom Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 of a few mean persons might deter wiser and more con- 
 siderable persons." This seems not improbable. On June 
 6th the official Mercurius Politicus speaks of this plot as 
 follows : " The traitorous conspiracy mentioned hereto- 
 fore it appears every day more desperate and bloody. It 
 is discovered that their design was to have destroyed his 
 Highness's person, and all others at the helm of Govern- 
 ment that they could have laid hands on. Immediately 
 upon the villainous assassination, they intended to have 
 proclaimed Charles Stuart by the assistance of a tumult," 
 etc etc. This with constant accounts of further arrests 
 troubles the public mind at this time. 
 
 The passage of Cowley which Dorothy refers to is 
 in the second book of Cowley's Davideis. It opens 
 with a description of the friendship between David and 
 Jonathan, and, upon that occasion, a digression con- 
 cerning the nature of love. The poem was written by 
 Cowley when a young man at Cambridge. One can 
 picture Dorothy reading and musing over lines like 
 these with sympathy and admiration : 
 
 What art thou, love, thou great mysterious thing ? 
 From what hid stock does thy strange nature spring ? 
 'Tis thou that mov'st the world through ev'ry part, 
 And hold'st the vast frame close that nothing start 
 From the due place and office first ordained, 
 By thee were all things made and are sustained. 
 Sometimes we see thee fully and can say 
 From hence thou took'st thy rise and went'st that way, 
 But oft'ner the short beams of reason's eye 
 See only there thou art, not how, nor why. 
 
 His lines on love, though overcharged with quaint 
 conceits, are often noble and true, and end at least 
 with one fine couplet : 
 
 Thus dost thou sit (like men e'er sin had framed 
 A guilty blush), naked but not ashamed.
 
 Visiting. 289 
 
 I PROMISED in my last to write again before 
 I went out of town, and now I'll be as good 
 as my word. They are all gone this morn- 
 ing, and have left me much more at liberty 
 than I have been of late, therefore I believe this 
 will be a long letter ; perhaps too long, at least 
 if my letters are as little entertaining as my 
 company is. I was carried yesterday abroad to 
 a dinner that was designed for mirth, but it 
 seems one ill-humoured person in the company 
 is enough to put all the rest out of tune ; for I 
 never saw people perform what they intended 
 worse, and could not forbear telling them so : 
 but to excuse themselves and silence my re- 
 proaches, they all agreed to say that I spoiled 
 their jollity by wearing the most unreasonable 
 looks that could be put on for such an occasion. 
 I told them I knew no remedy but leaving me 
 behind next time, and could have told them that 
 my looks were suitable to my fortune, though not 
 to a feast. Fye ! I am got into my complaining 
 humour that tires myself as well as everybody 
 else, and which (as you observe) helps not at all. 
 Would it would leave me, and then I could 
 believe I shall not always have occasion for it. 
 But that's in nobody's power, and my Lady 
 Talmash, that says she can do whatsoever she 
 will, cannot believe whatsoever she pleases. 'Tis 
 not unpleasant, methinks, to hear her talk, how at 
 such a time she was sick and the physicians told 
 
 T
 
 290 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 her she would have the small-pox, and showed 
 her where they were coming out upon her ; but 
 she bethought herself that it was not at all con- 
 venient for her to have them at that time ; some 
 business she had that required her going abroad, 
 and so she resolved she would not be sick ; nor 
 was not. Twenty such stories as these she tells ; 
 and then falls into discoveries of strength of 
 reason and the power of philosophy, till she 
 confounds herself and all that hear her. You 
 have no such ladies in Ireland ? 
 
 Oh me, but I heard to-day your cousin 
 Hammond is going thither to be in Ludlow's 
 place. Is it true ? You tell me nothing what is 
 done there, but 'tis no matter. The less one 
 knows of State affairs I find it is the better. My 
 poor Lady Vavasour is carried to the Tower, 
 and her great belly could not excuse her, because 
 she was acquainted by somebody that there was a 
 plot against the Protector, and did not discover 
 it. She has told now all that was told her, but 
 vows she will never say from whence she had 
 it : we shall see whether her resolutions are as 
 unalterable as those of my Lady Talmash. I 
 wonder how she behaved herself when she was 
 married. I never saw any one yet that did not 
 look simply and out of countenance, nor ever 
 knew a wedding well designed but one ; and that 
 was of two persons who had time enough I con- 
 fess to contrive it, and nobody to please in't but
 
 Visiting. 291 
 
 themselves. He came down into the country 
 where she was upon a visit, and one morning 
 married her. As soon as they came out of the 
 church they took coach and came for the town, 
 dined at an inn by the way, and at night came 
 into lodgings that were provided for them where 
 nobody knew them, and where they passed for 
 married people of seven years' standing. 
 
 The truth is I could not endure to be Mrs. 
 Bride in a public wedding, to be made the happiest 
 person on earth. Do not take it ill, for I would 
 endure it if I could, rather than fail ; but in earnest 
 I do not think it were possible for me. You 
 cannot apprehend the formalities of a treaty more 
 than I do, nor so much the success on't. Yet in 
 earnest, your father will not find my brother 
 Peyton wanting in civility (though he is not a 
 man of much compliment, unless it be in his 
 letters to me), nor an unreasonable person in 
 anything, so he will allow him out of his kindness 
 to his wife to set a higher value upon her sister 
 than she deserves. I know not how he may be 
 prejudiced as to the business, but he is not deaf 
 to reason when 'tis civilly delivered, and is as 
 easily gained with compliance and good usage as 
 anybody I know, but by no other way. When he 
 is roughly dealt with, he is like me, ten times the 
 worse for't. 
 
 I make it a case of conscience to discover my 
 faults to you as fast as I know them, that you
 
 292 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 may consider what you have to do. My aunt 
 told me no longer agone than yesterday that I was 
 the most wilful woman that ever she knew, and 
 had an obstinacy of spirit nothing could overcome. 
 Take heed ! you see I give you fair warning. 
 
 I have missed a letter this Monday : What is 
 the reason ? By the next, I shall be gone into 
 Kent, and my other journey is laid aside, which 
 I am not displeased at, because it would have 
 broken our intercourse very much. 
 
 Here are some verses of Cowley's. Tell me how 
 you like them. 'Tis only a piece taken out of a 
 new thing of his ; the whole is very long, and is 
 a description of, or rather a paraphrase upon, the 
 friendship of David and Jonathan. 'Tis, I think, 
 the best I have seen of his, and I like the subject 
 because 'tis that I would be perfect in. Adieu. 
 
 Je suis vostre. 
 
 Letter 62. 
 
 June the 26th [1654]. 
 
 I TOLD you in my last that my Suffolk journey 
 was laid aside, and that into Kent hastened. I 
 am beginning it to-day ; and have chosen to go 
 as far as Gravesend by water, though it be very 
 gloomy weather. If I drown by the way, this 
 will be my last letter ; and, like a will, I bequeath 
 all my kindness to you in it, with a charge never 
 to bestow it all upon another mistress, lest my
 
 Visiting. 293 
 
 ghost rise again and haunt you. I am in such 
 haste that I can say little else to you now. When 
 you are come over, we'd think where to meet, for 
 at this distance I can design nothing; only I 
 should be as little pleased with the constraint of 
 my brother's house as you. Pray let me know 
 whether your man leaves you, and how you stand 
 inclined to him I offer you. Indeed, I like him 
 extremely, and he is commended to me, by people 
 that know him very well and are able to judge, 
 for a most excellent servant, and faithful as 
 possible. I'll keep him unengaged till I hear 
 from you. Adieu. 
 
 My next shall make amends for this short one. 
 
 > .5.] I received your last of June 22nd since 
 I sealed up my letter, and I durst not but make 
 an excuse for another short one, after you have 
 chid me so for those you have received already ; 
 indeed, I could not help it, nor cannot now, but if 
 that will satisfy I can assure you I shall make a 
 much better wife than I do a husband, if I ever 
 am one. Pardon, mon Cfter Cceur, on m attend. 
 Adieu, mon A me. Je vous sou/tail tout ce que 
 vous desire. 
 
 Letter 63. 
 
 July the tfh [1654]- 
 
 BECAUSE you find fault with my other letters, 
 this is like to be shorter than they; I did not
 
 294 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 intend it so though, I can assure you. But last 
 night my brother told me he did not send his till 
 ten o'clock this morning, and now he calls for 
 mine at seven, before I am up ; and I can only 
 be allowed time to tell you that I am in Kent, 
 and in a house so strangely crowded with 
 company that I am weary as a dog already, 
 though I have been here but three or four days ; 
 that all their mirth has not mended my humour, 
 and that I am here the same I was in other 
 places ; that I hope, merely because you bid me, 
 and lose that hope as often as I consider anything 
 but yours. Would I were easy of belief! they say 
 one is so to all that one desires. I do not find it, 
 though I am told I was so extremely when I 
 believed you loved me. That I would not find, 
 and you have only power to make me think it. 
 But I am called upon. How fain I would say 
 more ; yet 'tis all but the saying with more 
 circumstance that I am 
 
 Yours. 
 
 [Directed.] For your master. 
 
 Letter 64. 
 
 I SEE you can chide when you please, and with 
 authority ; but I deserve it, I confess, and all I 
 can say for myself is, that my fault proceeded 
 from a very good principle in me. I am apt
 
 Visiting. 295 
 
 to speak what I think ; and to you have so 
 accustomed myself to discover all my heart that 
 I do not believe it will ever be in my power to 
 conceal a thought from you. Therefore I am 
 afraid you must resolve to be vexed with all my 
 senseless apprehensions as my brother Peyton is 
 with some of his wife's, who is thought a very 
 good woman, but the most troublesome one in 
 a coach that ever was. We dare not let our 
 tongues lie more on one side of our mouths 
 than t'other for fear of overturning it. You are 
 satisfied, I hope, ere this that I 'scaped drowning. 
 However, 'tis not amiss that my will made you 
 know now how to dispose of all my wealth when- 
 soever I die. But I am troubled much you 
 should make so ill a journey to so little purpose ; 
 indeed, I writ by the first post after my arrival 
 here, and cannot imagine how you came to miss 
 of my letters. Is your father returned yet, and 
 do you think of coming over immediately ? How 
 welcome you will be. But, alas ! I cannot talk 
 on't at the rate that you do. I am sensible that 
 such an absence is misfortune enough, but I dare 
 not promise myself that it will conclude ours ; 
 and 'tis more my belief that you yourself speak 
 it rather to encourage me, and to your wishes 
 than your hopes. 
 
 My humour is so ill at present, that I dare say 
 no more lest you chide me again. I find myself 
 fit for nothing but to converse with a lady below,
 
 296 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 that is fallen out with all the world because 
 her husband and she cannot agree. 'Tis the 
 pleasantest thing that can be to hear us discourse. 
 She takes great pains to dissuade me from ever 
 marrying, and says I am the veriest fool that ever 
 lived if I do not take her counsel. Now we do 
 not absolutely agree in that point, but I promise 
 her never to marry unless I can find such a husband 
 as I describe to her, and she believes is never to 
 be found ; so that, upon the matter, we differ very 
 little. Whensoever she is accused of maintaining 
 opinions very destructive of society, and abso- 
 lutely prejudicial to all the young people of both 
 sexes that live in the house, she calls out me to 
 be her second, and by it has lost me the favour 
 of all our young gallants, who have got a custom 
 of expressing anything that is nowhere but in 
 
 fiction by the name of " Mrs. O f s husband." 
 
 For my life I cannot beat into their heads a 
 passion that must be subject to no decay, an even 
 perfect kindness that must last perpetually, with- 
 out the least intermission. They laugh to hear 
 me say that one unkind word would destroy all 
 the satisfaction of my life, and that I should 
 expect our kindness should increase every day, if 
 it were possible, but never lessen. All this is 
 perfect nonsense in their opinion ; but I should 
 not doubt the convincing them if I could hope to 
 be so happy as to be 
 
 Yours.
 
 Visiting. 297 
 
 Letter 65. Of William Lilly, a noted and extra- 
 ordinary character of that day, the following account is 
 taken from his own Life and Times, a lively book, 
 full of amusing lies and astrological gossip, in which 
 the author describes himself as a student of the Black- 
 Art. He was born in 1602 at Diseworth, an obscure 
 town in the north of Leicestershire. His family 
 appear to have been yeomen in this town for many 
 generations. Passing over the measles of his infancy, 
 and other trivial details of childhood, which he describes 
 minutely, we find him as a boy at Ashby-de-la-Zouche, 
 where he is the pupil of one Mr. John Brinsley. Here 
 he learned Latin and Greek, and began to study 
 Hebrew. In the sixteenth year of his age he was 
 greatly troubled with dreams concerning his damnation 
 or salvation ; and at the age of eighteen he returned to 
 his father's house, and there kept a school in great 
 penury. He then appears to have come up to London, 
 leaving his father in a debtor's prison, and proceeded 
 in pursuit of fortune with a new suit of clothes and 
 seven shillings and sixpence in his pocket. In London 
 he entered the service of one Gilbert Wright, an 
 independent citizen of small means and smaller edu- 
 cation. To him Lilly was both man - servant and 
 secretary. The second Mrs. Wright seems to have had 
 a taste for astrology, and consulted some of the quacks 
 who then preyed on the silly women of the city. She 
 was very fond of young Lilly, who attended her in her 
 last illness, and, in return for his care and attention, she 
 bequeathed to him several " sigils " or talismanic seals. 
 Probably it was the foolishness of this poor woman that 
 first suggested to Lilly the advantages to be gained 
 from the profession of astrology. Mr. Wright married a 
 third wife, and soon afterwards died, leaving his widow
 
 298 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 comfortably off. She fell in love with Lilly, who 
 married her in 1627, and for five years, until her death, 
 they lived happily together. Lilly was now a man of 
 means, and was enabled to study that science which he 
 aftenvards practised with so much success. There were 
 a good many professors of the black art at this date, 
 and Lilly studied under one Evans, a scoundrelly ex- 
 parson from Wales, until, according to Lilly's own 
 account, he discovered Evans to be the cheat he 
 undoubtedly was. Lilly, when he set up for himself, 
 wrote many astrological works, which seem to have 
 been very successful. He was known and visited by all 
 the great men of the day, and probably had brains 
 enough only to prophesy when he knew. His descrip- 
 tion of his political creed is beautifully characteristic of 
 the man : " I was more Cavalier than Roundhead, and 
 so taken notice of; but afterwards I engaged body and 
 soul in the cause of the Parliament, but still with much 
 affection to his Majesty's person and unto Monarchy, 
 which 1 1 ever loved and approved beyond any govern- 
 ment whatsoever." Lilly was, in a word, a self-seeking 
 but successful knave. People who had been robbed, 
 women in love, men in debt, all in trouble and doubt, 
 from the King downwards, sought his aid. He pretended 
 to be a man of science, not a man gifted with super- 
 natural powers. Whether he succeeded in believing in 
 astrology and deceiving himself, it is impossible to say; 
 he was probably too clever for that, but he deceived 
 others admirably, and was one of the noted and most 
 successful of the old astrologers. 
 
 How long this letter will be I cannot tell. 
 You shall have all the time that is allowed me, 
 but upon condition that you shall not examine
 
 Visiting. 299 
 
 the sense on't too strictly, for you must know 
 I want sleep extremely. The sun was up an 
 hour before I went to bed to-day, and this is not 
 the first time I have done this since I came 
 hither. 'Twill not be for your advantage that 
 I should stay here long ; for, in earnest, I shall 
 be good for nothing if I do. We go abroad all 
 day and play all night, and say our prayers when 
 we have time. Well, in sober earnest now, I 
 would not live thus a twelvemonth to gain all 
 that the King has lost, unless it were to give it 
 him again. 'Tis a miracle to me how my brother 
 endures it. 'Tis as contrary to his humour as 
 darkness is to light, and only shows the power 
 he lets his wife have over him. Will you be so 
 good-natured ? He has certainly as great a kind- 
 ness for her as can be, and, to say truth, not 
 without reason ; but of all the people that ever 
 I saw, I do not like his carriage towards her. 
 He is perpetually wrangling and finding fault, and 
 to a person that did not know him would appear 
 the worst husband and the most imperious in the 
 world. He is so amongst his children too, though 
 he loves them passionately. He has one son, 
 and 'tis the finest boy that e'er you saw, and has 
 a noble spirit, but yet stands in that awe of his 
 father that one word from him is as much as 
 twenty whippings. 
 
 You must give me leave to entertain you thus 
 with discourses of the family, for I can tell you
 
 3OO Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 nothing else from hence. Yet, now I remember, 
 I have another story for you. You little think 
 I have been with Lilly, and, in earnest, I was, the 
 day before I came out of town ; and what do you 
 think I went for ? Not to know when you would 
 come home, I can assure you, nor for any other 
 occasion of my own ; but with a cousin of mine 
 that had long designed to make herself sport with 
 him, and did not miss of her aim. I confess I 
 always thought him an impostor, but I could 
 never have imagined him so simple a one as we 
 found him. In my life I never heard so ridiculous 
 a discourse as he made us, and no old woman 
 who passes for a witch could have been more 
 puzzled to seek what to say to reasonable people 
 than he was. He asked us more questions than 
 we did him, and caught at everything we said 
 without discerning that we abused him and said 
 things purposely to confound him ; which we did 
 so perfectly that we made him contradict himself 
 the strongest that ever you saw. Ever since 
 this adventure, I have had so great a belief 
 in all things of this nature, that I could not 
 forbear laying a peas -cod with nine peas in't 
 under my door yesterday, and was informed by 
 it that my husband's name should be Thomas. 
 How do you like that? But what Thomas, 
 I cannot imagine, for of all the servants I 
 have got since I came hither I know none of 
 that name.
 
 Visiting. 30 1 
 
 Here is a new song, I do not send it to you 
 but to your sister ; the tune is not worth the 
 sending so far. If she pleases to put any to it, 
 I am sure it will be a better than it has here. 
 Adieu. 
 
 Letter 66. " The Lost Lady " is a tragi-comedy by 
 Sir William Berkely, and is advertised to be sold at the 
 shop of the Holy Lamb in the year 1639, which we may 
 take as the probable date of its publication. Dorothy 
 would play Hermione, the heroine. We can imagine 
 her speaking with sympathetic accent lines such as 
 these : 
 
 With what harsh fate does Heaven afflict me, 
 That all the blessings which make others happy, 
 Must be my ruin ? 
 
 The five Portugals to whom Dorothy refers as being 
 hanged were the Portuguese ambassador's brother, Don 
 Pantaleon Sa, and four of his men. The Mercurins 
 Politicus of November 1653 gives the following account 
 of the matters that led to the execution ; and as it is 
 illustrative of the manners of the day, the account is 
 here quoted at length : 
 
 " NEW EXCHANGE IN THE STRAND. November 21. 
 In the evening there happened a quarrel between the 
 Portugal ambassador's brother and two or three others 
 of that nation with one Mr. Gerard, an English gentle- 
 man, whom they all fell upon.; but he being rescued 
 out of their hands by one Mr. Anstruther, they retired 
 home, and within an hour after returned with about 
 twelve more of their nation, armed with breastplates and 
 headpieces ; but after two or three hours taken there,
 
 3O2 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 not finding Anstruther, they went home again for that 
 night. 
 
 "November 22. At night the ambassador's brother 
 and the rest returned again, and walking the upper 
 Exchange, they met with one Col. Mayo, who, being 
 a proper man, they supposed him to have been the 
 same Anstruther that repelled them the night before ; 
 and so shooting off a pistol (which was as the watch- 
 word), the rest of the Portugals (supposed about fifty) 
 came in with drawn swords, and leaving a sufficient 
 number to keep the stairs, the rest went up with the 
 ambassador's brother, and there they fell upon Col. 
 Mayo, who, very gallantly defending himself, received 
 seven dangerous wounds, and lies in a mortal condition. 
 They fell also upon one Mr. Greenway, of Lincoln's Inn, 
 as he was walking with his sister in one hand and his 
 mistress in the other (to whom, as I am informed, he 
 was to have been married on Tuesday next), and 
 pistoled him in the head, whereof he died immediately. 
 They brought with them several earthen jars stuffed 
 with gunpowder, stopped with wax, and fitted with 
 matches, intending, it seems, to have done some mis- 
 chief to the Exchange that they might complete their 
 revenge, but they were prevented." 
 
 There is an account of their trial in the State Trials, 
 of some interest to lawyers ; it resulted in the execution 
 of Don Pantaleon Sa and four of his servants. By one 
 of those curious fateful coincidences, with which fact 
 often outbids fiction, Mr. Gerard, who was the first 
 Englishman attacked by the Portuguese, suffers on the 
 same scaffold as his would-be murderers, his offence 
 being high treason. Vowel, the other plotter, is also 
 executed, but the third saves himself, as we know, by 
 confession.
 
 Visiting. 303 
 
 July 20f/i [1654 in pencil]. 
 
 I AM very sorry I spoke too late, for I am 
 confident this was an excellent servant. He was 
 in the same house where I lay, and I had taken 
 a great fancy to him, upon what was told me 
 of him and what I saw. The poor fellow, too, 
 was so pleased that I undertook to inquire out 
 a place for him. that, though mine was, as I told 
 him, uncertain, yet upon the bare hopes on't he 
 refused two or three good conditions ; but I shall 
 set him now at liberty, and not think at all the 
 worse of him for his good-nature. Sure you go 
 a little too far in your condemnation on't. I 
 know it may be abused, as the best things are 
 most subject to be, but in itself 'tis so absolutely 
 necessary that where it is wanting nothing can 
 recompense the miss on't. The most contemp- 
 tible person in the world, if he has that, cannot 
 be justly hated, and the most considerable without 
 it cannot deserve to be loved. Would to God 
 I had all that good-nature you complain you have 
 too much of, I could find ways enough to dispose 
 on't amongst myself and my friends ; but 'tis well 
 where it is, and I should sooner wish you more 
 on't than less. 
 
 I wonder with what confidence you can com- 
 plain of my short letters that are so guilty 
 yourself in the same kind. I have not seen a 
 letter this month which has been above half a 
 sheet. Never trust me if I write more than you
 
 304 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 that live in a desolated country where you might 
 finish a romance of ten tomes before anybody 
 interrupted you. I that live in a house the most 
 filled of any since the Ark, and where, I can assure 
 [you], one has hardly time for the most necessary 
 occasions. Well, there was never any one thing 
 so much desired and apprehended at the same 
 time as your return is by me ; it will certainly, 
 I think, conclude me a very happy or a most 
 unfortunate person. Sometimes, methinks, I 
 would fain know my doom whatever it be ; and 
 at others, I dread it so extremely, that I am 
 confident the five Portugals and the three 
 plotters which were t'other day condemned by 
 the High Court of Justice had not half my fears 
 upon them. I leave you to judge the constraint 
 I live in, what alarms my thoughts give me, and 
 yet how unconcerned this company requires I 
 should be ; they will have me at my part in a 
 play, " The Lost Lady " it is, and I am she. 
 Prav God it be not an ill omen ! 
 
 
 
 I shall lose my eyes and you this letter if I 
 make it longer. Farewell. 
 
 I am, yours. 
 
 Letter 67. Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia, was the 
 daughter of James I. She married the Elector Frederick, 
 who was driven from his throne owing to his own 
 misconduct and folly, when his wife was forced to return 
 and live as a pensioner in her native country. She is said 
 to have been gifted in a superlative degree with all that
 
 Visiting. 305 
 
 is considered most lovely in a woman's character. On 
 her husband's death in 1632 she went to live at the 
 Hague, where she remained until the Restoration. 
 There is a report that she married William, Earl of 
 Craven, but there is no proof of this. He was, however, 
 her friend and adviser through her years of widowhood, 
 and it was to his house in Drury Lane that she returned 
 to live in 1 66 1. She is said to have been a lover of 
 literature, and Francis Quarles and Sir Henry Wotton 
 were her intimate friends. The latter has written some 
 quaint and elegant verses to his mistress ; the last verse, 
 in which he apostrophizes her as the sun, is peculiarly 
 graceful. It runs thus : 
 
 You meaner beauties of the night, 
 That poorly satisfy our eyes, 
 
 More by your number than your light, 
 You common people of the skies, 
 What are you when the sun shall rise? 
 
 But the sun is set, and the beautiful Queen's sad, romantic 
 story almost forgotten. 
 
 Sir John Grenvile was a son of the valiant and loyal 
 cavalier, Sir Bevil Grenvile, of Kelkhampton, Cornwall. 
 He served the King successfully in the west of England, 
 and was dangerously wounded at Newbury. He was 
 entrusted by Charles II. to negotiate with General 
 Monk. Monk's brother was vicar of Kelkhampton, so 
 that Grenvile and. Monk would in all probability be 
 well acquainted before the time of the negotiation. We 
 may remember, too, that Dorothy's younger brother 
 was on intimate terms with General Monk's relations in 
 Cornwall. 
 
 There must be letters missing here, for we cannot 
 believe more than a month passed without Dorothy 
 
 writing a single letter. 
 
 u
 
 306 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 I WONDER you did not come before your last 
 letter. 'Twas dated the 24th of August, but I 
 received it not till the ist of September. Would 
 to God your journey were over ! Every little 
 storm of wind frights me so, that I pass here for 
 the greatest coward that ever was born, though, 
 in earnest, I think I am as little so as most 
 women, yet I may be deceived, too, for now I 
 remember me you have often told me I was one, 
 and, sure, you know what kind of heart mine is 
 better than anybody else. 
 
 I am glad you are pleased with that description 
 I made you of my humour, for, though you had 
 disliked it, I am afraid 'tis past my power to help. 
 You need not make excuses neither for yours ; no 
 other would please me half so well. That gaiety 
 which you say is only esteemed would be in- 
 supportable to me, and I can as little endure a 
 tongue that's always in motion as I could the 
 click of a mill. Of all the company this place is 
 stored with, there is but two persons whose con- 
 versation is at all easy ; one is my eldest niece, 
 who, sure, was sent into the world to show 'tis 
 possible for a woman to be silent ; the other, a 
 gentleman whose mistress died just when they 
 should have married ; and though 'tis many years 
 since, one may read it in his face still. His 
 humour was very good, I believe, before that 
 accident, for he will yet say things pleasant 
 enough, but 'tis so seldom that he speaks at all,
 
 Visiting. 307 
 
 and when he does 'tis with so sober a look, that 
 one may see he is not moved at all himself when 
 he diverts the company most. You will not be 
 jealous though I say I like him very much. If 
 you were not secure in me, you might be so in 
 him. He would expect his mistress should rise 
 again to reproach his inconstancy if he made 
 court to anything but her memory. Methinks 
 we three (that is, my niece, and he and I) do 
 become this house the worst that can be, unless 
 I should take into the number my brother Peyton 
 himself too ; for to say truth his, for another sort 
 of melancholy, is not less than ours. What can 
 you imagine we did this last week, when to our 
 constant company there was added a colonel and 
 his lady, a son of his and two daughters, a maid 
 of honour to the Queen of Bohemia, and another 
 colonel or a major, I know not which, besides all 
 the tongue they brought with them ; the men the 
 greatest drinkers that ever I saw, which did not 
 at all agree with my brother, who would not be 
 drawn to it to save a kingdom if it lay at stake 
 and no other way to redeem it ? But, in earnest, 
 there was one more to be pitied besides us, and 
 that was Colonel Thornhill's wife, as pretty a 
 young woman as I have seen. She is Sir John 
 Greenvil's sister, and has all his good -nature, 
 with a great deal of beauty and modesty, and 
 wit enough. This innocent creature is sacrificed 
 to the veriest beast that ever was. The first day
 
 308 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 she came hither he intended, it seems, to have 
 come with her, but by the way called in to see 
 an old acquaintance, and bid her go on, he would 
 overtake her, but did not come till next night, and 
 then so drunk he was led immediately to bed, 
 whither she was to follow him when she had 
 supped. I blest myself at her patience, as you 
 may do that I could find anything to fill up this 
 paper withal. Adieu. 
 
 Letter 68. In this scrap of writing we find that 
 Temple is again in England with certain proposals from 
 his father, and ready to discuss the " treaty," as Dorothy 
 calls it, with her brother Peyton. The few remaining 
 letters deal with the treaty. Temple would probably 
 return to London when he left Ireland, and letters 
 would pass frequently between them. There seems to 
 have been some hitch as to who should appear in the 
 treaty. Dorothy's brother had spoken of and behaved 
 to Temple with all disrespect, but, now that he is re- 
 conciled to the marriage, Dorothy would have him 
 appear, at least formally, in the negotiations. The last 
 letter of this chapter, which is dated October 2nd, calls 
 on Temple to come down to Kent, to Peyton's house ; 
 and it is reasonable to suppose that at this interview 
 all was practically settled to the satisfaction of those 
 two who were most deeply concerned in the negotiation. 
 
 I DID so promise myself a letter on Friday that 
 I am very angry I had it not, though I know you 
 were not come to town when it should have been
 
 Visiting. 309 
 
 writ. But did not you tell me you should not 
 stay above a day or two ? What is it that has 
 kept you longer ? I am pleased, though, that you 
 are out of the power of so uncertain things as the 
 winds and the sea, which I never feared for my- 
 self, but did extremely apprehend for you. You 
 will find a packet of letters to read, and maybe 
 have met with them already. If you have, you 
 are so tired that 'tis but reasonable I should spare 
 you in this. For, [to] say truth, I have not time 
 to make this longer ; besides that if I had, my pen 
 is so very good that it writes an invisible hand, I 
 think ; I am sure I cannot read it myself. If your 
 eyes are better, you will find that I intended to 
 assure you I am 
 
 Yours. 
 
 Letter 69. 
 
 I AM but newly waked out of an unquiet sleep, 
 and I find it so late that if I write at all it must 
 be now. Some company that was here last night 
 kept us up till three o'clock, and then we lay three 
 in a bed, which was all the same to me as if we 
 had not gone to bed at all. Since dinner they 
 are all gone, and our company with them part of 
 the way, and with much ado I got to be excused, 
 that I might recover a little sleep, but am so 
 moped yet that, sure, this letter will be nonsense. 
 
 I would fain tell you, though, that your father 
 is mistaken, and that you are not, if you believe
 
 3io Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 that I have all the kindness and tenderness for 
 you my heart is capable of. Let me assure you 
 (whate'er your father thinks) that had you ,20,000 
 a year I could love you no more than I do, and 
 should be far from showing it so much lest it 
 should look like a desire of your fortune, which, 
 as to myself, I value as little as anybody in the 
 world, and in this age of changes ; but certainly 
 I know what an estate is. I have seen my father's 
 reduced, better than ^4000, to not ^400 a year, 
 and I thank God I never felt the change in any-_ 
 thing that I thought necessary. I never wanted, 
 nor am confident I never shall. But yet, I would 
 not be thought so inconsiderate a person as not 
 to remember that it is expected from all people 
 that have sense that they should act with reason, 
 that to all persons some proportion of fortune is 
 necessary, according to their several qualities, and 
 though it is not required that one should tie one- 
 self to just so much, and something is left for 
 one's inclination, and the difference in the persons 
 to make, yet still within such a compass, and 
 such as lay more upon these considerations than 
 they will bear, shall infallibly be condemned by all 
 sober persons. If any accident out of my power 
 should bring me to necessity though never so 
 great, I should not doubt with God's assistance 
 but to bear it as well as anybody, and I should 
 never be ashamed on't if He pleased to send it 
 me ; but if by my own folly I had put it upon
 
 Visiting. 3 1 1 
 
 myself, the case would be extremely altered. If 
 ever this comes to a treaty, I shall declare that in 
 my own choice I prefer you much before any other 
 person in the world, and all that this inclination 
 in me (in the judgment of any persons of honour 
 and discretion) will bear, I shall desire may be 
 laid upon it to the uttermost of what they can 
 allow. And if your father please to make up the 
 rest, I know nothing that is like to hinder me 
 from being yours. But if your father, out of 
 humour, shall refuse to treat with such friends as 
 I have, let them be what they will, it must end 
 here ; for though I was content, for your sake, to 
 lose them, and all the respect they had for me, 
 yet, now I have done that, I'll never let them see 
 that I have so little interest in you and yours as 
 not to prevail that my brother may be admitted 
 to treat for me. Sure, when a thing of course 
 and so much reason as that (unless I did disclose 
 to all the world he were my enemy), it must be 
 expected whensoever I dispose of myself he should 
 be made no stranger to it. When that shall be 
 refused me, I may be justly reproached that I 
 deceived myself when I expected to be at all 
 valued in a family that I am a stranger to, or 
 that I should be considered with any respect 
 because I had a kindness for you, that made me 
 not value my own interests. 
 
 I doubt much whether all this be sense or not ; 
 I find my head so heavy. But that which I
 
 312 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 would say is, in short, this : if I did say once 
 that my brother should have nothing to do in't, 
 'twas when his carriage towards me gave me 
 such an occasion as could justify the keeping 
 that distance with him ; but now it would look 
 extremely unhandsome in me, and, sure, I hope 
 your father would not require it of me. If he 
 does, I must conclude he has no value for me, 
 and, sure, I never disobliged him to my know- 
 ledge, and should, with all the willingness imagin- 
 able, serve him if it lay in my power. 
 
 Good God! what an unhappy person am I. 
 All the world is so almost. Just now they are 
 telling me of a gentleman near us that is the most 
 wretched creature made (by the loss of a wife that 
 he passionately loved) that can be. If your father 
 would but in some measure satisfy my friends 
 that I might but do it in any justifiable manner, 
 you should dispose me as you pleased, carry me 
 whither you would, all places of the world would 
 be alike to me where you were, and I should not 
 despair of carrying myself so towards him as 
 might deserve a better opinion from him. 
 
 I am yours. 
 
 Letter 70. 
 
 MY doubts and fears were not at all increased 
 by that which gives you so many, nor did I 
 apprehend that your father might not have been 
 prevailed with to have allowed my brother's
 
 Visiting. 313 
 
 being seen in the treaty; for as to the thing itself, 
 whether he appears in't or not, 'twill be the same. 
 He cannot but conclude my brother Peyton would 
 not do anything in it without the others' consent. 
 I do not pretend to any share in your father's 
 kindness, as having nothing in me to merit it ; 
 but as much a stranger as I am to him, I 
 should have taken it very ill if I had desired it 
 of him, and he had refused it me. I do not 
 believe my brother has said anything to his 
 prejudice, unless it were in his persuasions to me, 
 and there it did not injure him at all. If he 
 takes it ill that my brother appears so very averse 
 to the match, I may do so too, that he was the 
 same ; and nothing less than my kindness for you 
 could have made me take so patiently as I did 
 his saying to some that knew me at York that 
 he was forced to bring you thither and afterwards 
 to send you over lest you should have married 
 me. This was not much to my advantage, nor 
 hardly civil, I think, to any woman ; yet I never 
 so much as took the least notice on't, nor had 
 not now, but for this occasion ; yet, sure, it con- 
 cerns me to be at least as nice as he in point of 
 honour. I think 'tis best for me to end here lest 
 my anger should make me lose that respect I 
 would always have for your father, and 'twere 
 not amiss, I think, that I devoted it all towards 
 you for being so idle as to run out of your bed to 
 catch such a cold.
 
 Letters front Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 If you come hither you must expect to be 
 chidden so much that you will wish that you had 
 stayed till we came up, when perhaps I might 
 have almost forgot half my quarrel to you. At 
 this present I can assure you I am pleased with 
 nobody but your sister, and her I love extremely, 
 and will call her pretty ; say what you will, I 
 know she must be so, though I never saw more 
 of her than what her letters show. She shall 
 have two "spots" [carriage dogs] if she please (for 
 I had just such another given me after you were 
 gone), or anything else that is in the power of 
 
 Yours. 
 
 Letter 71. 
 
 Monday, October the 2nd [1654]. 
 
 AFTER a long debate with myself how to 
 satisfy you and remove that rock (as you call it), 
 which in your apprehensions is of so great danger, 
 I am at last resolved to let you see that I value 
 your affections for me at as high a rate as you 
 yourself can set it, and that you cannot have 
 more of tenderness for me and my interests than I 
 shall ever have for yours. The particulars how 
 I intend to make this good you shall know when 
 I see you ; which since I find them here more 
 irresolute in point of time (though not as to 
 the journey itself) than I hoped they would have 
 been, notwithstanding your quarrel to me, and the 
 apprehension you would make me believe you
 
 Visiting. 3 1 5 
 
 had that I do not care to see you, pray come 
 hither and try whether you shall be welcome or 
 not ! In sober earnest now I must speak with you; 
 and to that end if your occasions will [serve] come 
 down to Canterbury. Send some one when you 
 are there, and you shall have further directions. 
 
 You must be contented not to stay here above 
 two or three hours. I shall tell you my reason 
 when you come. And pray inform yourself of 
 all that your father will do on this occasion, that 
 you may tell it me only ; therefore let it be 
 plainly and sincerely what he intends and all. 
 
 I will not hinder your coming away so much 
 as the making this letter a little longer might 
 take away from your time in reading it. 'Tis 
 enough to tell you I am ever 
 
 Yours.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE END OF THE THIRD VOLUME. 
 
 THIS short series of notes was written, I think, during a 
 visit to London after the formal betrothal and before 
 the marriage. These notes were evidently written upon 
 the trivial occasions of the day, more perhaps for the 
 sake of writing something than for any more serious 
 reason. The note in French is somewhat of a curiosity 
 on account of its quaint orthography, which is purposely 
 left unconnected. Was Dorothy in London to purchase 
 her trousseau f Where did she and Jane spend their 
 days, if that was the case, when Regent Street was 
 green fields ? These questions cannot be satisfactorily 
 answered ; but the notes themselves, without any history 
 or explanation, are so full of interest, so fresh and 
 vivacious, even for Dorothy, that they place themselves 
 from the freedom and joy of their style and manner at 
 the end of the third volume. 
 
 You are like to have an excellent housewife of 
 me ; I am abed still, and slept so soundly, nothing 
 but your letter could have waked me. You shall 
 hear from me as soon as we have dined. Fare- 
 well ; can you endure that word ? No, out upon't. 
 I'll see you anon. 
 
 810
 
 The End of the Third Volume. 317 
 
 FYE upon't I shall grow too good now, I am 
 taking care to know how your worship slept to- 
 night ; better I hope than you did the last. Send 
 me word how you do, and don't put me off with a 
 bit of a note now ; you could write me a fine long 
 letter when I did not deserve it half so well. 
 
 You are mistaken if you think I am in debt 
 for both these days. Saturday I confess was 
 devoted to my Lady ; but yesterday, though I ris 
 with good intentions of going to church, my cold 
 would not suffer me, but kept me prisoner all the 
 day. I went to your lodging to tell you that 
 visiting the sick was part of the work of the day, 
 but you were gone, and so I went to bed again, 
 where your letter found me this morning. But 
 now I will rise and despatch some visits that I 
 owe, that to-morrow may be entirely yours. 
 
 I FIND my conscience a little troubled till I have 
 asked your pardon for my ill-humour last night. 
 Will you forgive it me ; in earnest, I could not 
 help it, but I met with a cure for it ; my brother 
 kept me up to hear his learned lecture till after 
 two o'clock, and I spent all my ill-humour upon 
 him, and yet we parted very quietly, and look'd 
 as if a little good fortune might make us good 
 friends ; but your special friend, my elder brother, 
 I have a story to tell you of him. Will my cousin
 
 318 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 F. come, think you ? Send me word, it maybe 
 'twas a" compliment ; if I can see you this morning 
 I will, but I dare not promise it. 
 
 SIR, This is to tell you that you will be ex- 
 pected to-morrow morning about nine o'clock at 
 a lodging over against the place where Charinge 
 Crosse stood, and two doors above Ye Goate 
 Taverne ; if with these directions you can find it 
 out, you will there find one that is very much 
 
 Your servant. 
 
 Now I have got the trick of breaking my 
 word, I shall do it every day. I must go to Roe- 
 hampton to-day, but 'tis all one, you do not care 
 much for seeing me. Well, my master, remember 
 last night you swaggered like a young lord. I'll 
 make your stomach come down ; rise quickly, you 
 had better, and come hither that I may give you a 
 lesson this morning before I go. 
 
 JE n'ay guere plus dormie que vous et mes 
 songes n'ont pas estres moins confuse, au rest 
 une bande de violons que sont venu jouer sous 
 ma fennestre, m'ont tourments de tel fa^on que 
 je doubt fort si je pourrois jamais les souffrire 
 encore, je ne suis pourtant pas en fort mauvaise 
 humeur et je m'en-voy ausi tost que je serai
 
 The End of the Third Volume. 319 
 
 habillee voire ce qu'il est posible de faire pour 
 vostre satisfaction, apres je viendre vous rendre 
 conte de nos affairs et quoy qu'il en sera vous ne 
 scaurois jamais doubte que je ne vous ayme plus 
 que toutes les choses du monde. 
 
 I HAVE slept as little as you, and may be allowed 
 to talk as unreasonably, yet I find I am not quite 
 senseless ; I have a heart still that cannot resolve 
 to refuse you anything within its power to grant. 
 But, Lord, when shall I see you ? People will 
 think me mad if I go abroad this morning after 
 having seen me in the condition I was in last 
 night, and they will think it strange to see you 
 here. Could you not stay till they are all gone 
 to Roehampton ? they go this morning. I do but 
 ask, though do what you please, only believe you 
 do a great injustice if you think me false. I 
 never resolv'd to give you an eternal farewell, but 
 I resolv'd at the same time to part with all the 
 comfort of my life, and whether I told it you or 
 not I shall die yours. 
 
 Tell me what you will have me do. 
 
 HERE comes the note again to tell you I cannot 
 call on you to-night ; I cannot help it, and you 
 must take it as patiently as you can, but I am 
 engaged to-night at the Three Rings to sup and 
 play. Poor man, I am sorry for you ; in earnest, I
 
 320 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 shall be quite spoiled. I see no remedy ; think 
 whether it were not best to leave me and begin 
 a new adventure. 
 
 And now we have finished. Dorothy Osborne is 
 passing away, will soon be translated into Dorothy 
 Temple ; with the romance of her life all past history, and 
 fast becoming as much a romance to herself, as it seems 
 to us, looking back at it after more than two centuries. 
 Something it is becoming to her over which she can 
 muse and dream and weave into tales for the children 
 who will gather round her. Something the reality of 
 which will grow doubtful to her, if she find idle hours 
 for dreaming and doubting in her new name. Her last 
 lover's letter is written. We are ready for the marriage 
 ceremony, and listen for the wedding march and happy 
 jingle of village bells; or if we may not have these in Puri- 
 tan days, at least we may hear the pompous magistrate 
 pronounce the blessing of the State over its two happy 
 subjects. But no ! There is yet a moment of suspense, 
 a last trial to the lover's constancy. The bride is taken 
 dangerously ill, so dangerously ill that the doctors 
 rejoice when the disease pronounces itself to be small- 
 pox. Alas ! who shall now say what are the inmost 
 thoughts of our Dorothy ? Docs she not need all her 
 faith in her lover, in herself, ay, and in God, to uphold 
 her in this new affliction ? She rises from her bed, her 
 beauty of face destroyed ; her fair looks living only on 
 the painter's canvas, unless we may believe that they 
 were etched in deeply bitten lines on Temple's heart. 
 But the skin beauty is not the firmest hold she has on 
 Temple's affections ; this was not the beauty that had 
 attracted her lover and held him enchained in her service
 
 The End of the Third Volume. 3 2 1 
 
 for seven years of waiting and suspense ; this was not 
 the only light leading him through dark days of doubt, 
 almost of despair, constant, unwavering in his troth 
 to her. Other beauty not outward, of which we, too, 
 may have seen something, mirrored darkly in these 
 letters ; which we, too, as well as Temple, may know 
 existed in Dorothy. For it is not beauty of face and 
 form, but of what men call the soul, that made Dorothy 
 to Temple, in fact as she was in name, the gift of 
 God.
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 LADY TEMPLE. 
 
 OF Lady Temple there is very little to be known, 
 and what there is can be best understood by following 
 the career of her husband, which has been written at 
 some length, and with laboured care, by Mr. Cour- 
 tenay. After her marriage, which took place in London, 
 January 3ist, 1655, they lived for a year at the home 
 of a friend in the country. They then removed to 
 Ireland, where they lived for five years with Temple's 
 father ; Lady Giffard, Temple's widowed sister, joining 
 them. In 1663 they were living in England. Lady 
 Giffard continued to live with them through the rest of 
 their lives, and survived them both. In 1665 Temple 
 was sent to Brussels as English representative, and his 
 family joined him in the following year. In 1668 he 
 was removed from Brussels to the Hague, where the 
 successful negotiations which led to the Triple Alliance 
 took place, and these have given him an honourable 
 place in history. There is a letter of Lady Temple's, 
 written to her husband in 1670, which shows how 
 interested she was in the part he took in political life, 
 and how he must have consulted her in all State matters. 
 It is taken from Courtcnay's Life of Sir William Temple, 
 
 32J
 
 Appendix. 323 
 
 vol. i. p. 345. He quotes it as the only letter written 
 after Lady Temple's death which has come into his 
 hands. 
 
 THE HAGUE, October 31^, 1670. 
 
 MY DEAREST HEART, I received yours from 
 Yarmouth, and was very glad you made so happy 
 a passage. 'Tis a comfortable thing, when one is 
 on this side, to know that such a thing can be 
 done in spite of contrary winds. I have a letter 
 from P., who says in character that you may take 
 it from him that the Duke of Buckingham has 
 begun a negotiation there, but what success in 
 England he may have he knows not ; that it 
 were to be wished our politicians at home would 
 consider well that there is no trust to be put in 
 alliances with ambitious kings, especially such as 
 make it their fundamental maxim to be base. 
 These are bold words, but they are his own. 
 Besides this, there is nothing but that the French 
 King grows very thrifty, that all his buildings, 
 except fortifications, are ceased, and that his 
 payments are not so regular as they used to be. 
 The people here are of another mind ; they will 
 not spare their money, but are resolved at least 
 the States of Holland if the rest will consent, 
 to raise fourteen regiments of foot and six of 
 horse ; that all the companies, both old and new, 
 shall be of 1 20 men that used to be of 50, and 
 every troop 80 that used to be of 45. Nothing 
 is talked of but these new levies, and the young
 
 324 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 
 
 men are much pleased. Downton says they have 
 strong suspicions here you will come back no 
 more, and that they shall be left in the lurch ; 
 that something is striking up with France, and 
 that you are sent away because you are too 
 well inclined to these countries ; and my cousin 
 Temple, he says, told him that a nephew of Sir 
 Robert Long's, who is lately come to Utrecht, 
 told my cousin Temple, three weeks since, you 
 were not to stay long here, because you were too 
 great a friend to these people, and that he had it 
 from Mr. Williamson, who knew very well what 
 he said. My cousin Temple says he told it to 
 Major Scott as soon as he heard it, and so 'tis 
 like you knew it before ; but there is such a want 
 of something to say that I catch at everything. 
 I am my best dear's most affectionate 
 
 D. T. 
 
 In the summer of 1671 there occurred an incident 
 that reminds us considerably of the Dorothy Osborne 
 of former days. The Triple Alliance had lost some of 
 its freshness, and was not so much in vogue as heretofore. 
 Charles II. had been coquetting with the French King, 
 and at length the Government, throwing off its mask, 
 formally displaced Temple from his post in Holland. 
 "The critical position of affairs," says Courtenay, "in- 
 duced the Dutch to keep a fleet at sea, and the English 
 Government hoped to draw from that circumstance an 
 occasion of quarrel. A yacht was sent for Lady Temple ; 
 the captain had orders to sail through the Dutch fleet if 
 he should meet it, and to fire into the nearest ships until
 
 Appendix. 325 
 
 they should either strike sail to the flag which he bore, 
 or return his shot so as to make a quarrel ! 
 
 " He saw nothing of the Dutch Fleet in going over, but 
 on his return he fell in with it, and fired, without warn- 
 ing and ceremony, into the ships that were next him. 
 
 " The Dutch admiral, Van Ghent, was puzzled ; he 
 seemed not to know, and probably did not know, what 
 the English captain meant ; he therefore sent a boat, 
 thinking it possible that the yacht might be in distress ; 
 when the captain told his orders, mentioning also that 
 he had the ambassadress on board. Van Ghent himself 
 then came on board, with a handsome compliment to 
 Lady Temple, and, making his personal inquiries of 
 the captain, received the same answer as before. The 
 Dutchman said he had no orders upon the point, which 
 he rightly believed to be still unsettled, and could not 
 believe that the fleet, commanded by an admiral, was to 
 strike to the King's pleasure-boat. 
 
 " When the Admiral returned to his ship, the captain 
 also, ' perplexed enough,' applied to Lady Temple, who 
 soon saw that he desired to get out of his difficulty by 
 her help ; but the wife of Sir William Temple called 
 forth the spirit of Dorothy Osborne. ' He knew,' she 
 told the captain, 'his orders best, and what he was to do 
 upon them, which she left to him to follow as he thought 
 fit, without any regard to her or her children.' The 
 Dutch and English commanders then proceeded each 
 upon his own course, and Lady Temple was safely 
 landed in England." 
 
 There is an account of this incident in a letter of 
 Sir Charles Lyttelton to Viscount Hatton, in the Hatton 
 Correspondence. He tells us that the poor captain, 
 Captain Crow of The Monmouth, "found himself in 
 the Tower about it ; " but he does not add any further
 
 326 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 information as to the part which Dorothy played in the 
 matter. 
 
 After their retirement to Sheen and Moor Park, 
 Surrey, we know nothing distinctively of Lady Temple, 
 and little is known of their family life. They had only 
 two children living, having lost as many as seven in 
 their infancy. In 1684 one of these children, their only 
 daughter, died of small-pox ; she was buried in West- 
 minster Abbey. There is a letter of hers written to her 
 father which shows some signs of her mother's affec- 
 tionate teaching, and which we cannot forbear to quote. 
 It is copied from Courtenay, vol. ii. p. 113. 
 
 SIR, I deferred writing to you till I could tell 
 you that I had received all my fine things, which 
 I have just now done ; but I thought never to 
 have done giving you thanks for them. They 
 have made me so very happy in my new clothes, 
 and everybody that comes does admire them 
 above all things, but yet not so much as I think 
 they deserve ; and now, if papa was near, I should 
 think myself a perfect pope, though I hope I 
 should not be burned as there was one at Nell 
 Gwyn's door the 5th of November, who was set 
 in a great chair, with a red nose half a yard long, 
 with some hundreds of boys throwing squibs at it. 
 Monsieur Gore and I agree mighty well, and he 
 makes me believe I shall come to something 
 at last ; that is if he stays, which I don't doubt 
 but he will, because all the fine ladies will petition 
 for him. We are got rid of the workmen now, 
 and our house is ready to entertain you. Come
 
 Appendix. 327 
 
 when you please, and you will meet nobody more 
 glad to see you than your most obedient and 
 dutiful daughter, 
 
 D. TEMPLE. 
 
 Temple's son, John Temple, married in 1685 a rich 
 heiress in France, the daughter of Monsieur Duplessis 
 Rambouillet, a French Protestant ; he brought his wife 
 to live at his father's house at Sheen. After King 
 William and Queen Mary were actually placed on the 
 throne, Sir William Temple, in 1689, permitted his son 
 to accept the office of Secretary at War. For reasons 
 now obscure and unknowable, he drowned himself in 
 the Thames within a week of his acceptance of office, 
 leaving this writing behind him : 
 
 " My folly in undertaking what I was not able to 
 perform has done the King and kingdom a great 
 deal of prejudice. I wish him all happiness and abler 
 servants than John Temple." 
 
 The following letter was written on that occasion by 
 Lady Temple to her nephew, Sir John Osborne. The 
 original of it is at Chicksands : 
 
 To Sir John Osborne, thanking him for his 
 consolation on the death of her son. 
 
 SHEEN, May 6th, 1689. 
 
 DEAR NEPHEW, I give you many thanks for 
 your kind letter and the sense you have of my 
 affliction, which truly is very great. But since it 
 is laid upon me by the hand of an Almighty and 
 Gracious God, that always proportions His punish-
 
 328 Letters from Dorothy Osbornc. 
 
 ments to the support He gives with them, I may 
 hope to bear it as a Christian ought to do, and 
 more especially one that is conscious to herself 
 of having many ways deserved it. The strange 
 revolution we have seen might well have taught 
 me what this world is, yet it seems it was 
 necessary that I should have a near example of 
 the uncertainty of all human blessings, that so 
 having no tie to the world I may the better pre- 
 pare myself to leave it ; and that this correction 
 may suffice to teach me my duty must be the 
 prayer of your affectionate aunt and humble 
 servant, 
 
 D. TEMPLK. 
 
 During the remaining years of her life, Lady Temple 
 was honoured, to use the conventional phrase, by the 
 friendship of Queen Mary, and there is said to have 
 been a continuous correspondence between them, though 
 I can find on inquiry no trace of its existence at the 
 present day. 
 
 Early in the year 1695, a f ter forty years of married 
 life, and in the sixty-seventh year of her age, she died. 
 She lies, with her husband and children, on the north 
 side of the nave of Westminster Abbey, close to the 
 little door that leads to the organ gallery. 
 
 Her body sleeps in Capel's monument, 
 And her immortal part with angels lives.
 
 INDEX. 
 
 THE Index contains every name mentioned in the Letters, and every refer- 
 ence to that name. The figures in italics refer to the page on which thsre 
 is a biographical or explanatory note. 
 
 AGUE, 41. 
 
 Alcidiana, 68. 
 
 Almanzor, 68. 
 
 Althorp, 135. 
 
 Apes, a chain to lead, 153, 156. 
 
 Arhry, see Erbury. 
 
 Arme, 224. 
 
 Artamanes, see Cyrus. 
 
 Artemise, story of, 64. 
 
 Arundel, Lord, SS, 90. 
 
 B., James, 246, 267. 
 
 15. , Lady, 69, 76. 
 
 B., Mr., 100, 260. 
 
 Babram, 1 12. 
 
 Bagshawe, Edward, X-JO, 257. 
 
 Barbury, Lady, 51. 
 
 Barnet, 2Jf. 
 
 Basso. L'illustre, 161, ^35, 237. 
 
 Battledore and shuttlecock, 68. 
 
 Beauchamp, Lord, 268. 
 
 Bedford, 33. 
 
 Bennet, Richard, of Babram, 100, 
 
 115, 117. 
 Biron, Lord, his verses to his wife, 
 
 1 68. 
 
 Blunt, Lady Anne, 109, 203, 205. 
 Blunt, Mr., 205. 
 Bohemia, Elizabeth, Queen of, 304, 
 
 307. 
 
 Breda, 34. 
 Brickhill, 244. 
 Brittomart, 64. 
 Broghill, Lord, 125, 12G, 129, 162, 
 
 167, 239. 
 
 Buckingham, Duke of, 323. 
 Bussy, 60. 
 
 C., Robin, 255. 
 
 Camden, Viscount, 2CG ; duel with 
 Mr. Stafford, 268. 
 
 Camilla, Mrs., 245. 
 
 Carey, Lady, 88, 90. 
 
 Carey, Mrs., Philadelphia, 278. 
 
 Carlisle, Lady, 1CS, 172, 177, 182. 
 
 Carriers, 46. 
 
 Chambers, Mrs., 62, 64, 75, 147. 
 
 Chancery, abolition of, IS'J, 193. 
 
 Chandos, Lord, duel with Mr. 
 
 Compton, 87, 90. 
 Charing-Cross, 318. 
 Cheeke, Tom, 119, 121, 127, 131 
 Cheeke, Sir Thomas, 132. 
 Chicksands, 1 8, 19, 33. 
 CUopdtre, La, romance by Cal- 
 
 prenede, 56, 60, 64, 76, 77, 95. 
 Coleraine, Lord, daughter of, 30. 
 Collins, a carrier, 48, 194, 204, 
 
 226. 
 
 Compton, Mr., 87, 90, 102. 
 Cook, Sir Robert, 58. 
 Cooper, Samuel, miniature painter, 
 
 1^1, 123, 285. 
 
 Copyn, Mr., of Fleet Street, 194. 
 Courtenay, Thomas Peregrine, his 
 
 Life of Temple, I. 
 Cowley s Davidcis, 2S8, 292. 
 Cromwell, Henry, U6, 71, 80, 105, 
 
 162, 213. 
 Cromwell, Oliver, 80, 105, 162 ; 
 
 and see Protector. 
 Cyrus, Le Grand, romance by Scu- 
 
 deri, 57, 1 12, 115, 124, 152, 177, 
 
 203, 238. 
 
 D., Mr., 260. 
 
 Danvers, Cousin H., liS. 
 
 Delie, 78. 
 
 Devonshire, I.ady, 234, 2 35- 
 
 Dorchester, Lord, 40, 277. 
 
 Downton, 324. 
 
 Dr., Mr., 216, 223.
 
 Index. 
 
 KLIZABEIH, Queen, the little tailor 
 that loved, 230. 
 
 Emperor, the, see Isham, Sir 
 Justinian. 
 
 Epsom, S4, 105, 114, 135; descrip- 
 tion of Epsom waters, 138. 
 
 F.rbury, William, 81, 83, 84. 
 
 I-'IKNNES, William, Lord Say and 
 
 Sele, 158, 162. 
 Fish, Mr., 115, 246. 
 Fleetwood, 105. 
 Flower Pot, the, shop above the 
 
 Exchange, 74, 77- 
 Flying machines, discourse on, 176. 
 Franklins of Moor Park, cousins of 
 
 Dorothy, ISO, 122, 128, 131, 171, 
 
 205, 206, 318. 
 Freeman, Ralph, of Aspedon Hall, 
 
 Herts, IIS, 115, 124, 196, 260. 
 Fretcheville, Mrs., 279. 
 
 GENERAL, the, see Cromwell, 
 
 Oliver. 
 
 Gerherd, Mrs., 278, 283. 
 Gibson, Mr., 176, 244, 253. 
 Gifiard, Lady, Temple's sister, 5G, 
 
 60. 
 
 Goat Tavern, the, 318. 
 Goldsmith, Mrs., 57, 238, 246. 
 (lore, Monsieur, 326. 
 Goring House, 4, 27. 
 ('renvile, Sir John, 305, 307. 
 Grey, Lady, 225, 245. 
 Grey, Mr., 4$, 45- 
 Gwyn, Nell, 326. 
 
 Hales, Sir Edward, 166. 
 Hammond, Cousin, 60, 290. 
 Harrison, Mrs., maid of honour to 
 
 the Queen, 125, 129. 
 Harrold, carrier, 48, 194. 
 Harry, Cousin, 65. 
 Harry, Brother, 101, 143. 
 Heamsof the Flower Pot, 77, 85,90. 
 Heningham, Mr., 173, 174, 278. 
 Hertford, Marquis of, 266, 268. 
 Holland, Lady, 219. 
 Hollingsworth, Mr., 112, 115, 124, 
 
 203. 
 Hoskins, John, miniature painter, 
 
 121, 123. 
 
 Howard, Arundel, 5.?, 54. 
 Howard, Lady Betty, 278. 
 Howard, Mr., 51, 54. 
 Howard, Mrs., 278. 
 I loward,Thomas,and Mrs. Harrison, 
 
 125, 129. 
 
 ISHAM, Sir Justinian, I'.art., >f 
 Lamport, 2~>, 50, 106, 113, nS, 
 124, 136, 153, 157, 1 60, 179. 
 
 JAMES, 238, 261. 
 
 Jane, 57, 61, 72, 128, 129, 135, 
 
 142, 163, 167, 175, 186, 192, 
 
 203, 204, 238, 246, 258, 259, 
 
 283, 285. 
 Jones, of Suffolk House, 151, 192, 
 
 210. 
 
 KEBLE, Lord, ISO, 193. 
 Kimbolton, 122, 255. 
 
 L., Lord, 99. 
 
 Lee [Leigh], Lord Stoneleigh, 
 marriage of his daughter to Sir 
 Justinian Isham, 157. 
 
 Leicester, Lord and Lady, 1S1, 
 184. 
 
 Lely, Sir Peter, 173. 
 
 Leppington, Lady, 102, and see 
 Carey. 
 
 Lexington, Lady, 103, 106. 
 
 Lilly, William, the astrologer, 5.97, 
 300. 
 
 Lisle, Lord, 47, proposed as ambas- 
 sador to Sweden, 49, 65 ; tlic 
 journey deferred, 80, 146 ; and 
 abandoned, 193. 
 
 Littleton, Sir H., 278. 
 
 Lobster, lady of a, 1U9, 112. 
 
 Long, Sir Robert, 324. 
 
 Lost Lady, The, tragi-comedy by Sir 
 W. Berkely, 301, 304. 
 
 Ludlow, 290. 
 
 Luke, Mr., 84. 
 
 Luke, Sir Samuel, 81, 84. 
 
 Lundy, Isle of, 162. 
 
 MACAULAY, quotation from liis 
 
 essay on Sir William Temple, 
 
 2-9. 
 
 Manchester, Earl of, 120, 122. 
 Marlow, 173. 
 
 Marriage Act, 1653, 14.',, 147. 
 Marshall, Stephen, /.S7, 190, 191. 
 Masques, disorders at, 42. 
 Molle, Cousin, 65, 87, 100, 108, 
 
 no, 118, 122, 131, 160, 172, 255. 
 Monk, General, his marriage, L'/s, 
 
 151. 
 
 Mor.k, Nicholas, 148, 151. 
 Montnouth, Lord, 157, 161. 
 Moor Park, Hertfordshire, ISO, 
 
 122, 172, 206, 255. 
 Morton, J., 278.
 
 Index. 
 
 NAN, see Stacy. 
 
 Nevile, Mr., 129. 
 
 Newcastle, Margaret, Duchess of, 
 
 .''.'. 251 ; her poems, 97, in. 
 Newport, Lady, 234, 235. 
 
 OUMOND, Lady, 152, 156. 
 
 Os'iorne, Dorothy, first meets 
 Temple, 3 ; Macaulay's descrip- 
 tion of her life and letters, 2-9 ; 
 death of her mother, 28 ; pro- 
 posals of Sir Justinian Isham to, 
 29, 40, 41 ; proposal of Sir 
 Thomas Osborne to, 30 ; her 
 thoughts on marriage, 37, 127, 
 134, 139, 143, 185 ; her friend- 
 ship for Lady Diana Rich, 38, 
 42 ; goes to London, spring of 
 '653. 56 ; her opinions of dis- 
 solution of Long Parliament, 80 ; 
 persecution of, by her brother, 
 86 ; how she spends her days, 
 100 ; her niece, 101, 306 ; pro- 
 posal of Mr. Talbot to, 104 ; her 
 love of dogs, 105 ; her opinion 
 of Lady Newcastle's book, III ; 
 her quarrels with her brother, 113, 
 252 ; on riches, 130 ; on trans- 
 lations from the French, 161 ; on 
 the qualities of a husband, 171 ; 
 death of her brother, 174; goes 
 to London, autumn 1653, 187 ; 
 hears Stephen Marshall preach, 
 190 ; her quarrel with Temple, 
 and despondency, 197-220 ; on 
 courts, 235 ; death of her father, 
 262 ; leaves Chicksands and goes 
 to London, 269, 273 ; on wed- 
 dings, 291 ; on Cowley's verses,. 
 292 ; visits her brother Peyton 
 in Kent, 292 ; interviews Lilly 
 the astrologer, 300 ; acts in The 
 Lost Lady, 304 ; the treaty of 
 marriage, 310, 311, 313; after 
 marriage, 320-328. 
 
 Osborne, Sir Peter, short account 
 of his life and family, 14-18 ; ill- 
 health of, 34, 81, 94, 117 ; death 
 of, 262. 
 
 Osborne, Sir Thomas, 26, 30, 90, 
 in, 127 ; Lady Bridget his wife, 
 127, 164. 
 
 PAGET, Lord, 169, 173. 
 Parliament, dissolution of, 78. 
 Parthemssa, romance by Lord 
 Broghill, 234, 236. 
 
 Paunton, Colonel, 277, 278. 
 
 Paynter, Mrs., of Covent Garden, 
 32, 48, 109, no. 
 
 Pembroke, Lady, ISO, 183. 
 
 Pembroke, Lord, 183. 
 
 Penshurst, 184. 
 
 Percy, Lady Anne, 43, 45- 
 
 Peters, Cousin, 127, 141. 
 
 Peyton, Sir Thomas, brother-in- 
 law of Dorothy, 98, 101, 150, 
 157, 162, 164, 175, 260, 291, 
 2 95 37> 3'35 his wives, 159; 
 letter of, to Dorothy, 166. 
 
 Philip II. of France, la belle aveugle, 
 his mistress, 53. 
 
 Pirn, Mr., 80. 
 
 Pinto, Fernando Mendez, Portu- 
 guese traveller, 242, 245. 
 
 Polexander, a French romance, 15S 
 161. 
 
 Pooley, Mrs., Lady Grey's sister, 
 245. 
 
 Portuguese, riots in London by, 
 SOI, 304. 
 
 Prazimene, a French romance, 158, 
 161. 
 
 Protector, plot against, 277, 287, 
 290. 
 
 QUEEN, the (Henrietta Maria), 
 129. 
 
 R., Cousin, 261. 
 
 Race meeting, 277. 
 
 Rcine Margitfrite, 57, 60. 
 
 Rich, Mr. Charles, and Mrs. Har- 
 rison, 125, 129. 
 
 Rich, Lady Diana, S4, 38, 42, 52, 
 66, 68, in, 115, 118, 124. 
 
 Rich, Lady Isabella, 1SU, 182. 
 
 Rich, Lord, 235, 278. 
 
 Ruthin, Lady, 103, 104, 173, 224, 
 268. 
 
 ST. GREGORY'S, 260. 
 
 St. James's Park, 246, 283. 
 
 St. John, Lord, 278. 
 
 St. Malo, 141. 
 
 Salisbury House, 277. 
 
 Sandys, Lady, 274' 277. 
 
 Say and Sele, Lord, see Fienncs. 
 
 Scott, Major, 324. 
 
 Seals, fashion of collecting, 38, 39, 
 
 5L 52, 132- 
 
 Seymour, Lady Jane, ?, 45. 
 Smith, Mr., and Lady Sumlerland, 
 
 47, 51. 53.61, 135, 136, 245. 
 Smith, Dr., 261.
 
 oo- 
 
 Jndcx. 
 
 Somerset House, preaching woman 
 
 at ; see Trupnel. 
 
 Spencers, the (two brothers^, 79. 
 Spencer, Robert, Earl of Sun-lcr- 
 
 land, JOJ, 106. 
 Spencer, Robin, 283. 
 Spencer, Will, 283, 286. 
 Spring C. -minis, 246, .'.M, 283. 
 Stacy, Nan, 72, 118, 163,203,204, 
 
 233. 258. 
 Stafford, Mr., duel with Lord 
 
 Chandos, 268. 
 Stanley, Mr., 278. 
 Stratford, Lord, 203. 
 Suffolk House, 210. 
 Sunderland, Lady, 177 ; and set 
 
 Smith, Mr. 
 Sweden, Queen of, her kind letter 
 
 to King of Scots, 230. 
 Sydney, Algernon, 51, 53, 80. 
 
 TALBOT Mr., 104, 105. 
 Talmash, Lady, M6, 289, 290. 
 Taylor, Jeremy, Holy Living, ',//, 
 
 242. 
 Temple, Dorothy, Sir William's 
 
 daughter, letter to her father, 
 
 326. 
 
 Temple, Cousin, 324. 
 Tenrtple family, the, 20. 
 Temple, John, Sir William's son, 
 
 death of, 327. 
 Temple, Lady, 322. 
 Temple, Sir John, Sir William's 
 
 father, 156. 
 Temple, Sir William, early life, 
 
 2-9 ; account of his family, 19, 
 
 20 ; journey into Yorkshire, 31 ; 
 
 projected journey with Swedish 
 
 Embassy, 43, 65 ; the project 
 
 abandoned, 107 ; goes to Chick - 
 sands, February 1654, 221 ; his 
 religious opinions, 249 ; 
 Ireland to join his lather, 257 ; 
 letter of, to Dorothy, 270; returns 
 from Ireland. 308. 
 
 Theatricals al Sir Thomas Peyton's, 
 304- 
 
 Thornhill, Colonel, wife of, 307. 
 
 Three Rings, Tlie, 319. 
 
 Tournon, Mdlle. de, sad story of, 
 60. 
 
 Trupncl, Mrs. Hannah, preaching 
 woman, JSO. 
 
 Tufton, Sir John, 260. 
 
 Tunbridge, .';. 
 
 VAI.KNTIA, Lord, daughter of, 156. 
 Valentine customs, 246, 247. 
 Vavasour, Lady, 2S7 ; carried to 
 the Tower, 290. 
 
 WALKER, a jeweller, 77, 102, 115, 
 
 139, 142. 
 ; Waller, Mr. Kdmtind, 162. 
 
 Warwick, Lord, 235. 
 I Wentworth, Lady Anne, 43, 45, 
 
 146. 
 White Hart, the, by St. James's, 
 
 283. 
 Whitclocke, Lord, his embassy to 
 
 Sweden, 188, 193. 
 Williamson, Mr., 3.24. 
 Witlierington, Mrs., 278. 
 Wotton, Lady, 260. 
 
 YELVERTON, Sir Christopher, 173. 
 Yelvcrton, Sir Harry, 103, IG'J ; 
 bis marriage, 174. 
 
 MORBI'ON AND (,Il.r>, KlHsni HOH, 
 rCINTEKS TO HP.K MAJKSTv'* STATIONERY OFFICE.
 
 HFC 7 ^79 
 utb DATE DUE 
 
 DEC 9 138 
 
 j 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 CATLOKD 
 
 
 
 ruiNTCO IN U.S A
 
 Temple, Dorothy (Osborne) 
 Letters from Dorothy Osborne 
 to Sir William Temple 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGKXAi. UBflAflY 
 
 3 1210 00273 6724