Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne — 01 - Letters 1-5

SIR,--There is nothing moves my charity 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 will 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 consisting (as I have been taught) in a mutual confidence.

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 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 herself 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 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 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 gentleman 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, melancholy, 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 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. _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 kindness 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.

) _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 myself 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 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 Ryer, 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 excellent 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 7th 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 temperament, 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."

This, with Dorothy's praise, gives us a cheerful opinion of Lady Diana, of whom we must always wish to know more.

_January 22nd_ [1653].

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 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 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 Holland (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 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 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 Northamptonshire, 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 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 something 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 infinitely 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 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 discomposed.

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.

_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 Lonesborough, 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 Carlisle of whom we read in these letters, was already married at this date to Lord Stanhope, Lord Chesterfield'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 Strafford.

She married Lord Rockingham.

The reader will remember that "my lady" is Lady Diana Rich.