Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne — 12 - Letters 56-60

_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 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 comfortable?

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 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 sickness, grief, and death.

And now the only home on earth for Dorothy lies in the future; it is not a particular 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 18, 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 reference 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 18th, 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 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 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 condition.

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 delays.

They kill me; but patience,--would anybody 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 probably 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 suspicion of being concerned in it.

I cannot find anything 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 Motesfont or Mottisfont Priory, in Hampshire, "which the King had given him in exchange for Chelsea, in Westminster."

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 Nottinghamshire.

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 25th_ [1654].

This world is composed of nothing but contrarieties and sudden accidents, only the proportions 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 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 Greenland, 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 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 without 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 kindness 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 disorder 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 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 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. Gerherd 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 conditions 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.

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 innocent 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 discovering 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 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 something 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 of houses which still bears its name is supposed to indicate its position with tolerable exactness.

Evelyn tells us that Cromwell shut up the Spring Gardens in 1600, 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 Restoration, 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 Spring Gardens so called, in order to the Park as our _Thuilleries_ is to the _Course_;

the inclosure not disagreeable 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 throughout 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 the 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 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 disorder, 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.

_Letter 60. _ _June 13th_ [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 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 satisfaction 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 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 shall 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 conversation.

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 correspondence 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 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 imprisoned 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 Summerset 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 of a few mean persons might deter wiser and more considerable persons."

This seems not improbable.

On June 6th the official _Mercurius Politicus_ speaks of this plot as follows:--"The traitorous conspiracy mentioned heretofore 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 Government 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 concerning 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: