Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne — 10 - Letters 46-50

_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 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 remainders 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, 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 conspired thus to have crossed them.

Since He has decreed it otherwise (at least as far as we are able to judge 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.

_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 consideration 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 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 diverting 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 that I have an humour will not suffer me to expose 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 repented 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 testimony 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 do me a great pleasure if you could forbear writing, 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 inconveniences 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 purpose?

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 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 concerned 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 remembered 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 sometimes, 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; 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 shipwrecked 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.

Methought 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 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 find 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 occasion (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 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 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, that with all my vanity I could be very well 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 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 do firmly believe we should be, as you say, _toujours les mesmes_; 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; but what do you think it is that gives him his encouragement?

He was told I had 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 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 discontent 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 discomposed; 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 otherwise; 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.

_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 mentioned 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 Cavendish, second Earl of Devonshire.

Her daughter Anne married Lord Rich, and died suddenly in 1638. Pomfret, 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 license 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 unknown.

_Parthenissa_ is only just out.

It is the latest thing in literary circles.

We find it advertised in _Mercurius Politicus_, 19th 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 _Cléopâtre_ and _Cyrus_, to enjoy which in the nineteenth century would require a curious and acquired taste.

_L'illustre Bassa_ was a romance of Scudéri; 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."