Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne — 02 - Letters 6-10

_March 5th_ [1653].

SIR,--I know not how to oblige so civil a person as you are more than by giving you the 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 innocently, 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 yourself 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 resolution, '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 we'll leave the discourse on't till then, if you please, for I find no great entertainment 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 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 handsome, 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 in a Lincolnshire carrier's cart, have, I fancy, a more correct idea of Dorothy's postmen and their conveyances 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 Northamptonshire, until, wearied with the heavy load of housekeeping, 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 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; 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 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 friendship, 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 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 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 commendations 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 hereafter; because there is no very great likelihood of your being an emperor, or that, if you were, I should have your head.

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 _à 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 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 Earl of Arundel.

His father died July 12, 1652. Dorothy would call him Arundel Howard, to distinguish him from the Earl 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 himself 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 mind were enough to make her outshine everybody 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 impossible 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, and 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 understand to be kindness of either side.

She has lost by it much of the repute she had gained by 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 Arundel 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 company I may have with me.

I meant this letter 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 Giffard 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 confidential 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 Giffard's maid.

_Cléopâtre_ 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;

_Cléopâtre_, in Richard Loveday, an elegant letter-writer of this time.

_Artamenes_, or _Le Grand Cyrus_, the masterpiece of Mademoiselle Madeleine de Scudéri, 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 Cléopâtre_, 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 Calprenède; he published _Cléopâtre_ in 1642;

he was the author of other romances, and some tragedies, noted only for their worthlessness.

Even Richelieu, "quoiqu' admirateur indulgent de la médiocrité," could not stand Calprenède's tragedies.

_Reine 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 companion 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 the companion and less the duenna.

The servants and companions of ladies of that date were themselves gentlewomen of good breeding.

Waller writes verses 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 dilectissima."

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 21st, 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 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 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; and 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 indifference 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 _Cléopâtre_?

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 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 a wooing 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.

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 _toujours le mesme_, that is, ever Your affectionate friend and servant.

_Letter 10. _--Dorothy is suffering from _the 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 Bulstrode 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 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 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 by 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 _Cléopâtre_, 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 Brittomart, pray send me word how you like him.

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 days, 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 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 11. _--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 impossible 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 abhorrence; from which we need not draw any unkinder conclusion 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 therefore 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 10th, 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 retirement from public life in 1658. Two years afterwards, at 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.