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[
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{
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"heading": "Letter 1",
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"body": "SIR,--There is nothing moves my charity like gratitude; and when a\nbeggar is thankful for a small relief, I always repent it was not more.\nBut seriously, this place will not afford much towards the enlarging of\na letter, and I am grown so dull with living in't (for I am not willing\nto confess yet I was always so) as to need all helps. Yet you shall see\nI will endeavour to satisfy you, upon condition you will tell me why you\nquarrelled so at your last letter. I cannot guess at it, unless it were\nthat you repented you told me so much of your story, which I am not apt\nto believe neither, because it would not become our friendship, a great\npart of it consisting (as I have been taught) in a mutual confidence.\nAnd to let you see that I believe it so, I will give you an account of\nmyself, and begin my story, as you did yours, from our parting at Goring\nHouse.\n\nI came down hither not half so well pleased as I went up, with an\nengagement upon me that I had little hope of shaking off, for I had made\nuse of all the liberty my friends would allow me to preserve my own, and\n'twould not do; he was so weary of his, that he would part with it upon\nany terms. As my last refuge I got my brother to go down with him to see\nhis house, who, when he came back, made the relation I wished. He said\nthe seat was as ill as so good a country would permit, and the house so\nruined for want of living in't, as it would ask a good proportion of\ntime and money to make it fit for a woman to confine herself to. This\n(though it were not much) I was willing to take hold of, and made it\nconsiderable enough to break the engagement. I had no quarrel to his\nperson or his fortune, but was in love with neither, and much out of\nlove with a thing called marriage; and have since thanked God I was so,\nfor 'tis not long since one of my brothers writ me word of him that he\nwas killed in a duel, though since I have heard that 'twas the other\nthat was killed, and he is fled upon 't, which does not mend the matter\nmuch. Both made me glad I had 'scaped him, and sorry for his misfortune,\nwhich in earnest was the least return his many civilities to me could\ndeserve.\n\nPresently, after this was at an end, my mother died, and I was left at\nliberty to mourn her loss awhile. At length my aunt (with whom I was\nwhen you last saw me) commanded me to wait on her at London; and when I\ncame, she told me how much I was in her care, how well she loved me for\nmy mother's sake, and something for my own, and drew out a long set\nspeech which ended in a good motion (as she call'd it); and truly I saw\nno harm in't, for by what I had heard of the gentleman I guessed he\nexpected a better fortune than mine. And it proved so. Yet he protested\nhe liked me so well, that he was very angry my father would not be\npersuaded to give £1000 more with me; and I him so ill, that I vowed if\nI had £1000 less I should have thought it too much for him. And so we\nparted. Since, he has made a story with a new mistress that is worth\nyour knowing, but too long for a letter. I'll keep it for you.\n\nAfter this, some friends that had observed a gravity in my face which\nmight become an elderly man's wife (as they term'd it) and a\nmother-in-law, proposed a widower to me, that had four daughters, all\nold enough to be my sisters; but he had a great estate, was as fine a\ngentleman as ever England bred, and the very pattern of wisdom. I that\nknew how much I wanted it, thought this the safest place for me to\nengage in, and was mightily pleased to think I had met with one at last\nthat had wit enough for himself and me too. But shall I tell you what I\nthought when I knew him (you will say nothing on't): 'twas the vainest,\nimpertinent, self-conceited, learned coxcomb that ever yet I saw; to say\nmore were to spoil his marriage, which I hear is towards with a daughter\nof my Lord Coleraine's; but for his sake I shall take care of a fine\ngentleman as long as I live.\n\nBefore I have quite ended with him, coming to town about that and some\nother occasions of my own, I fell in Sir Thomas's way; and what humour\ntook I cannot imagine, but he made very formal addresses to me, and\nengaged his mother and my brother to appear in't. This bred a story\npleasanter than any I have told you yet, but so long a one that I must\nreserve it till we meet, or make it a letter of itself.\n\nThe next thing I designed to be rid on was a scurvy spleen that I have\nbeen subject to, and to that purpose was advised to drink the waters.\nThere I spent the latter end of the summer, and at my coming home found\nthat a gentleman (who has some estate in this country) had been treating\nwith my brother, and it yet goes on fair and softly. I do not know him\nso much as to give you much of his character: 'tis a modest, melancholy,\nreserved man, whose head is so taken up with little philosophic studies,\nthat I admire how I found a room there. 'Twas sure by chance; and unless\nhe is pleased with that part of my humour which other people think the\nworst, 'tis very possible the next new experiment may crowd me out\nagain. Thus you have all my late adventures, and almost as much as this\npaper will hold. The rest shall be employed in telling you how sorry I\nam you have got such a cold. I am the more sensible of your trouble by\nmy own, for I have newly got one myself. But I will send you that which\nwas to cure me. 'Tis like the rest of my medicines: if it do no good,\n'twill be sure to do no harm, and 'twill be no great trouble to take a\nlittle on't now and then; for the taste on't, as it is not excellent, so\n'tis not very ill. One thing more I must tell you, which is that you are\nnot to take it ill that I mistook your age by my computation of your\njourney through this country; for I was persuaded t'other day that I\ncould not be less than thirty years old by one that believed it himself,\nbecause he was sure it was a great while since he had heard of such a\none as\n\nYour humble servant.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 2",
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"body": "SIR,--Since you are so easy to please, sure I shall not miss it, and if\nmy idle dreams and thoughts will satisfy you, I am to blame if you want\nlong letters. To begin this, let me tell you I had not forgot you in\nyour absence. I always meant you one of my daughters. You should have\nhad your choice, and, trust me, they say some of them are handsome; but\nsince things did not succeed, I thought to have said nothing on't, lest\nyou should imagine I expected thanks for my good intention, or rather\nlest you should be too much affected with the thought of what you have\nlost by my imprudence. It would have been a good strengthening to my\nParty (as you say); but, in earnest, it was not that I aimed at, I only\ndesired to have it in my power to oblige you; and 'tis certain I had\nproved a most excellent mother-in-law. Oh, my conscience! we should all\nhave joined against him as the common enemy, for those poor young\nwenches are as weary of his government as I could have been. He gives\nthem such precepts, as they say my Lord of Dorchester gives his wife,\nand keeps them so much prisoners to a vile house he has in\nNorthamptonshire, that if but once I had let them loose, they and his\nlearning would have been sufficient to have made him mad without my\nhelp; but his good fortune would have it otherwise, to which I will\nleave him, and proceed to give you some reasons why the other motion was\nnot accepted on. The truth is, I had not that longing to ask a\nmother-in-law's blessing which you say you should have had, for I knew\nmine too well to think she could make a good one; besides, I was not so\ncertain of his nature as not to doubt whether she might not corrupt it,\nnor so confident of his kindness as to assure myself that it would last\nlonger than other people of his age and humour. I am sorry to hear he\nlooks ill, though I think there is no great danger of him. 'Tis but a\nfit of an ague he has got, that the next charm cures, yet he will be apt\nto fall into it again upon a new occasion, and one knows not how it may\nwork upon his thin body if it comes too often; it spoiled his beauty,\nsure, before I knew him, for I could never see it, or else (which is as\nlikely) I do not know it when I see it; besides that, I never look for\nit in men. It was nothing that I expected made me refuse these, but\nsomething that I feared; and, seriously, I find I want courage to marry\nwhere I do not like. If we should once come to disputes I know who would\nhave the worst on't, and I have not faith enough to believe a doctrine\nthat is often preach'd, which is, that though at first one has no\nkindness for _them_, yet it will grow strongly after marriage. Let them\ntrust to it that think good; for my part, I am clearly of opinion (and\nshall die in't), that, as the more one sees and knows a person that one\nlikes, one has still the more kindness for them, so, on the other side,\none is but the more weary of, and the more averse to, an unpleasant\nhumour for having it perpetually by one. And though I easily believe\nthat to marry one for whom we have already some affection will\ninfinitely increase that kindness, yet I shall never be persuaded that\nmarriage has a charm to raise love out of nothing, much less out of\ndislike.\n\nThis is next to telling you what I dreamed and when I rise, but you have\npromised to be content with it. I would now, if I could, tell you when I\nshall be in town, but I am engaged to my Lady Diana Rich, my Lord of\nHolland's daughter (who lies at a gentlewoman's hard by me for sore\neyes), that I will not leave the country till she does. She is so much a\nstranger here, and finds so little company, that she is glad of mine\ntill her eyes will give her leave to look out better. They are mending,\nand she hopes to be at London before the end of this next term; and so\ndo I, though I shall make but a short stay, for all my business there is\nat an end when I have seen you, and told you my stories. And, indeed, my\nbrother is so perpetually from home, that I can be very little, unless I\nwould leave my father altogether alone, which would not be well. We hear\nof great disorders at your masks, but no particulars, only they say the\nSpanish gravity was much discomposed. I shall expect the relation from\nyou at your best leisure, and pray give me an account how my medicine\nagrees with your cold. This if you can read it, for 'tis strangely\nscribbled, will be enough to answer yours, which is not very long this\nweek; and I am grown so provident that I will not lay out more than I\nreceive, but I am just withal, and therefore you know how to make mine\nlonger when you please; though, to speak truth, if I should make this\nso, you would hardly have it this week, for 'tis a good while since\n'twas call'd for.\n\nYour humble servant.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 3",
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"body": "SIR,--I know not how to oblige so civil a person as you are more than by\ngiving you the occasion of serving a fair lady. In sober earnest, I know\nyou will not think it a trouble to let your boy deliver these books and\nthis enclosed letter where it is directed for my lady, whom I would, the\nfainest in the world, have you acquainted with, that you might judge\nwhether I had not reason to say somebody was to blame. But had you\nreason to be displeased that I said a change in you would be much more\npardonable than in him? Certainly you had not. I spake it very\ninnocently, and out of a great sense how much she deserves more than\nanybody else. I shall take heed though hereafter what I write, since you\nare so good at raising doubts to persecute yourself withal, and shall\ncondemn my own easy faith no more; for me 'tis a better-natured and a\nless fault to believe too much than to distrust where there is no cause.\nIf you were not so apt to quarrel, I would tell you that I am glad to\nhear your journey goes forwarder, but you would presently imagine that\n'tis because I would be glad if you were gone; need I say that 'tis\nbecause I prefer your interest much before my own, because I would not\nhave you lose so good a diversion and so pleasing an entertainment (as\nin all likelihood this voyage will be to you), and because the sooner\nyou go, the sooner I may hope for your return. If it be necessary, I\nwill confess all this, and something more, which is, that\nnotwithstanding all my gallantry and resolution, 'tis much for my credit\nthat my courage is put to no greater a trial than parting with you at\nthis distance. But you are not going yet neither, and therefore we'll\nleave the discourse on't till then, if you please, for I find no great\nentertainment in't. And let me ask you whether it be possible that Mr.\nGrey makes love, they say he does, to my Lady Jane Seymour? If it were\nexpected that one should give a reason for their passions, what could he\nsay for himself? He would not offer, sure, to make us believe my Lady\nJane a lovelier person than my Lady Anne Percy. I did not think I should\nhave lived to have seen his frozen heart melted, 'tis the greatest\nconquest she will ever make; may it be happy to her, but in my opinion\nhe has not a good-natured look. The younger brother was a servant, a\ngreat while, to my fair neighbour, but could not be received; and in\nearnest I could not blame her. I was his confidante and heard him make\nhis addresses; not that I brag of the favour he did me, for anybody\nmight have been so that had been as often there, and he was less\nscrupulous in that point than one would have been that had had less\nreason. But in my life I never heard a man say more, nor less to the\npurpose; and if his brother have not a better gift in courtship, he will\nowe my lady's favour to his fortune rather than to his address. My Lady\nAnne Wentworth I hear is marrying, but I cannot learn to whom; nor is it\neasy to guess who is worthy of her. In my judgment she is, without\ndispute, the finest lady I know (one always excepted); not that she is\nat all handsome, but infinitely virtuous and discreet, of a sober and\nvery different humour from most of the young people of these times, but\nhas as much wit and is as good company as anybody that ever I saw. What\nwould you give that I had but the wit to know when to make an end of my\nletters? Never anybody was persecuted with such long epistles; but you\nwill pardon my unwillingness to leave you, and notwithstanding all your\nlittle doubts, believe that I am very much\n\nYour faithful friend\n\nand humble servant,\n\nD. OSBORNE.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 4",
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"body": "SIR,--I am so great a lover of my bed myself that I can easily apprehend\nthe trouble of rising at four o'clock these cold mornings. In earnest,\nI'm troubled that you should be put to it, and have chid the carrier for\ncoming out so soon; he swears to me he never comes out of town before\neleven o'clock, and that my Lady Paynter's footman (as he calls him)\nbrings her letters two hours sooner than he needs to do. I told him he\nwas gone one day before the letter came; he vows he was not, and that\nyour old friend Collins never brought letters of my Lady Paynter's in\nhis life; and, to speak truth, Collins did not bring me that letter. I\nhad it from this Harrold two hours before Collins came. Yet it is\npossible all that he says may not be so, for I have known better men\nthan he lie; therefore if Collins be more for your ease or conveniency,\nmake use of him hereafter. I know not whether my letter were kind or\nnot, but I'll swear yours was not, and am sure mine was meant to be so.\nIt is not kind in you to desire an increase of my friendship; that is to\ndoubt it is not as great already as it can be, than which you cannot do\nme a greater injury. 'Tis my misfortune indeed that it lies not in my\npower to give you better testimony on't than words, otherwise I should\nsoon convince you that 'tis the best quality I have, and that where I\nown a friendship, I mean so perfect a one, as time can neither lessen\nnor increase. If I said nothing of my coming to town, 'twas because I\nhad nothing to say that I thought you would like to hear. For I do not\nknow that ever I desired anything earnestly in my life, but 'twas denied\nme, and I am many times afraid to wish a thing merely lest my Fortune\nshould take that occasion to use me ill. She cannot see, and therefore I\nmay venture to write that I intend to be in London if it be possible on\nFriday or Saturday come sennight. Be sure you do not read it aloud, lest\nshe hear it, and prevent me, or drive you away before I come. It is so\nlike my luck, too, that you should be going I know not whither again;\nbut trust me, I have looked for it ever since I heard you were come\nhome. You will laugh, sure, when I shall tell you that hearing that my\nLord Lisle was to go ambassador into Sweden, I remember'd your father's\nacquaintance in that family with an apprehension that he might be in the\nhumour of sending you with him. But for God's sake whither is it that\nyou go? I would not willingly be at such a loss again as I was after\nyour Yorkshire journey. If it prove as long a one, I shall not forget\nyou; but in earnest I shall be so possessed with a strong splenetic\nfancy that I shall never see you more in this world, as all the waters\nin England will not cure. Well, this is a sad story; we'll have no more\non't.\n\nI humbly thank you for your offer of your head; but if you were an\nemperor, I should not be so bold with you as to claim your promise; you\nmight find twenty better employments for't. Only with your gracious\nleave, I think I should be a little exalted with remembering that you\nhad been once my friend; 'twould more endanger growing proud than being\nSir Justinian's mistress, and yet he thought me pretty well inclin'd\nto't then. Lord! what would I give that I had a Latin letter of his for\nyou, that he writ to a great friend at Oxford, where he gives him a long\nand learned character of me; 'twould serve you to laugh at this seven\nyears. If I remember what was told me on't, the worst of my faults was a\nheight (he would not call it pride) that was, as he had heard, the\nhumour of my family; and the best of my commendations was, that I was\ncapable of being company and conversation for him. But you do not tell\nme yet how you found him out. If I had gone about to conceal him, I had\nbeen sweetly serv'd. I shall take heed of you hereafter; because there\nis no very great likelihood of your being an emperor, or that, if you\nwere, I should have your head.\n\nI have sent into Italy for seals; 'tis to be hoped by that time mine\ncome over, they may be of fashion again, for 'tis an humour that your\nold acquaintance Mr. Smith and his lady have brought up; they say she\nwears twenty strung upon a ribbon, like the nuts boys play withal, and I\ndo not hear of anything else. Mr. Howard presented his mistress but a\ndozen such seals as are not to be valued as times now go. But _à propos_\nof Monsr. Smith, what a scape has he made of my Lady Barbury; and who\nwould e'er have dreamt he should have had my Lady Sunderland, though he\nbe a very fine gentleman, and does more than deserve her. I think I\nshall never forgive her one thing she said of him, which was that she\nmarried him out of pity; it was the pitifullest saying that ever I\nheard, and made him so contemptible that I should not have married him\nfor that reason. This is a strange letter, sure, I have not time to read\nit over, but I have said anything that came into my head to put you out\nof your dumps. For God's sake be in better humour, and assure yourself I\nam as much as you can wish,\n\nYour faithful friend and servant.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 5",
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"body": "SIR,--You have made me so rich as I am able to help my neighbours. There\nis a little head cut in an onyx that I take to be a very good one, and\nthe dolphin is (as you say) the better for being cut less; the oddness\nof the figures makes the beauty of these things. If you saw one that my\nbrother sent my Lady Diana last week, you would believe it were meant to\nfright people withal; 'twas brought out of the Indies, and cut there for\nan idol's head: they took the devil himself for their pattern that did\nit, for in my life I never saw so ugly a thing, and yet she is as fond\non't as if it were as lovely as she herself is. Her eyes have not the\nflames they have had, nor is she like (I am afraid) to recover them\nhere; but were they irrecoverably lost, the beauty of her mind were\nenough to make her outshine everybody else, and she would still be\ncourted by all that knew how to value her, like _la belle aveugle_ that\nwas Philip the 2nd of France his mistress. I am wholly ignorant of the\nstory you mention, and am confident you are not well inform'd, for 'tis\nimpossible she should ever have done anything that were unhandsome. If I\nknew who the person were that is concern'd in't, she allows me so much\nfreedom with her, that I could easily put her upon the discourse, and I\ndo not think she would use much of disguise in it towards me. I should\nhave guessed it Algernon Sydney, but that I cannot see in him that\nlikelihood of a fortune which you seem to imply by saying 'tis not\npresent. But if you should mean by that, that 'tis possible his wit and\ngood parts may raise him to one, you must pardon if I am not of your\nopinion, for I do not think these are times for anybody to expect\npreferment in that deserves it, and in the best 'twas ever too uncertain\nfor a wise body to trust to. But I am altogether of your mind, that my\nLady Sunderland is not to be followed in her marrying fashion, and that\nMr. Smith never appear'd less her servant than in desiring it; to speak\ntruth, it was convenient for neither of them, and in meaner people had\nbeen plain undoing one another, which I cannot understand to be kindness\nof either side. She has lost by it much of the repute she had gained by\nkeeping herself a widow; it was then believed that wit and discretion\nwere to be reconciled in her person that have so seldom been persuaded\nto meet in anybody else. But we are all mortal.\n\nI did not mean that Howard. 'Twas Arundel Howard. And the seals were\nsome remainders that showed his father's love to antiquities, and\ntherefore cost him dear enough if that would make them good. I am sorry\nI cannot follow your counsel in keeping fair with Fortune. I am not apt\nto suspect without just cause, but in earnest if I once find anybody\nfaulty towards me, they lose me for ever; I have forsworn being twice\ndeceived by the same person. For God's sake do not say she has the\nspleen, I shall hate it worse than ever I did, nor that it is a disease\nof the wits, I shall think you abuse me, for then I am sure it would not\nbe mine; but were it certain that they went together always, I dare\nswear there is nobody so proud of their wit as to keep it upon such\nterms, but would be glad after they had endured it a while to let them\nboth go as they came. I know nothing yet that is likely to alter my\nresolution of being in town on Saturday next; but I am uncertain where I\nshall be, and therefore it will be best that I send you word when I am\nthere. I should be glad to see you sooner, but that I do not know myself\nwhat company I may have with me. I meant this letter longer when I begun\nit, but an extreme cold that I have taken lies so in my head, and makes\nit ache so violently, that I hardly see what I do. I'll e'en to bed as\nsoon as I have told you that I am very much\n\nYour faithful friend\n\nand servant,\n\nD. OSBORNE.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nLIFE AT CHICKSANDS. 1653",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 6",
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"body": "SIR,--Your last letter came like a pardon to one upon the block. I had\ngiven over the hopes on't, having received my letters by the other\ncarrier, who was always [wont] to be last. The loss put me hugely out of\norder, and you would have both pitied and laughed at me if you could\nhave seen how woodenly I entertained the widow, who came hither the day\nbefore, and surprised me very much. Not being able to say anything, I\ngot her to cards, and there with a great deal of patience lost my money\nto her;--or rather I gave it as my ransom. In the midst of our play, in\ncomes my blessed boy with your letter, and, in earnest, I was not able\nto disguise the joy it gave me, though one was by that is not much your\nfriend, and took notice of a blush that for my life I could not keep\nback. I put up the letter in my pocket, and made what haste I could to\nlose the money I had left, that I might take occasion to go fetch some\nmore; but I did not make such haste back again, I can assure you. I took\ntime enough to have coined myself some money if I had had the art on't,\nand left my brother enough to make all his addresses to her if he were\nso disposed. I know not whether he was pleased or not, but I am sure I\nwas.\n\nYou make so reasonable demands that 'tis not fit you should be denied.\nYou ask my thoughts but at one hour; you will think me bountiful, I\nhope, when I shall tell you that I know no hour when you have them not.\nNo, in earnest, my very dreams are yours, and I have got such a habit of\nthinking of you that any other thought intrudes and proves uneasy to me.\nI drink your health every morning in a drench that would poison a horse\nI believe, and 'tis the only way I have to persuade myself to take it.\n'Tis the infusion of steel, and makes me so horridly sick, that every\nday at ten o'clock I am making my will and taking leave of all my\nfriends. You will believe you are not forgot then. They tell me I must\ntake this ugly drink a fortnight, and then begin another as bad; but\nunless you say so too, I do not think I shall. 'Tis worse than dying by\nthe half.\n\nI am glad your father is so kind to you. I shall not dispute it with\nhim, because it is much more in his power than in mine, but I shall\nnever yield that 'tis more in his desire, since he was much pleased with\nthat which was a truth when you told it him, but would have been none if\nhe had asked the question sooner. He thought there was no danger of you\nsince you were more ignorant and less concerned in my being in town than\nhe. If I were Mrs. Chambers, he would be more my friend; but, however, I\nam much his servant as he is your father. I have sent you your book. And\nsince you are at leisure to consider the moon, you may be enough to read\n_Cléopâtre_, therefore I have sent you three tomes; when you have done\nwith these you shall have the rest, and I believe they will please.\nThere is a story of Artemise that I will recommend to you; her\ndisposition I like extremely, it has a great deal of practical wit; and\nif you meet with one Brittomart, pray send me word how you like him. I\nam not displeased that my Lord [Lisle] makes no more haste, for though I\nam very willing you should go the journey for many reasons, yet two or\nthree months hence, sure, will be soon enough to visit so cold a\ncountry, and I would not have you endure two winters in one year.\nBesides, I look for my eldest brother and cousin Molle here shortly, and\nI should be glad to have nobody to entertain but you, whilst you are\nhere. Lord! that you had the invisible ring, or Fortunatus his wishing\nhat; now, at this instant, you should be here.\n\nMy brother has gone to wait upon the widow homewards,--she that was born\nto persecute you and I, I think. She has so tired me with being here but\ntwo days, that I do not think I shall accept of the offer she made me of\nliving with her in case my father dies before I have disposed of myself.\nYet we are very great friends, and for my comfort she says she will come\nagain about the latter end of June and stay longer with me. My aunt is\nstill in town, kept by her business, which I am afraid will not go well,\nthey do so delay it; and my precious uncle does so visit her, and is so\nkind, that without doubt some mischief will follow. Do you know his son,\nmy cousin Harry? 'Tis a handsome youth, and well-natured, but such a\ngoose; and she has bred him so strangely, that he needs all his ten\nthousand a year. I would fain have him marry my Lady Diana, she was his\nmistress when he was a boy. He had more wit then than he has now, I\nthink, and I have less wit than he, sure, for spending my paper upon him\nwhen I have so little. Here is hardly room for\n\nYour affectionate\nfriend and servant.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 7",
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"body": "SIR,--I am so far from thinking you ill-natured for wishing I might not\noutlive you, that I should not have thought you at all kind if you had\ndone otherwise; no, in earnest, I was never yet so in love with my life\nbut that I could have parted with it upon a much less occasion than your\ndeath, and 'twill be no compliment to you to say it would be very uneasy\nto me then, since 'tis not very pleasant to me now. Yet you will say I\ntake great pains to preserve it, as ill as I like it; but no, I'll swear\n'tis not that I intend in what I do; all that I aim at is but to keep\nmyself from proving a beast. They do so fright me with strange stories\nof what the spleen will bring me to in time, that I am kept in awe with\nthem like a child; they tell me 'twill not leave me common sense, that I\nshall hardly be fit company for my own dogs, and that it will end either\nin a stupidness that will make me incapable of anything, or fill my head\nwith such whims as will make me ridiculous. To prevent this, who would\nnot take steel or anything,--though I am partly of your opinion that\n'tis an ill kind of physic. Yet I am confident that I take it the safest\nway, for I do not take the powder, as many do, but only lay a piece of\nsteel in white wine over night and drink the infusion next morning,\nwhich one would think were nothing, and yet 'tis not to be imagined how\nsick it makes me for an hour or two, and, which is the misery, all that\ntime one must be using some kind of exercise. Your fellow-servant has a\nblessed time on't that ever you saw. I make her play at shuttlecock with\nme, and she is the veriest bungler at it ever you saw. Then am I ready\nto beat her with the battledore, and grow so peevish as I grow sick,\nthat I'll undertake she wishes there were no steel in England. But then\nto recompense the morning, I am in good humour all the day after for joy\nthat I am well again. I am told 'twill do me good, and am content to\nbelieve it; if it does not, I am but where I was.\n\nI do not use to forget my old acquaintances. Almanzor is as fresh in my\nmemory as if I had visited his tomb but yesterday, though it be at least\nseven year agone since. You will believe I had not been used to great\nafflictions when I made his story such a one to me, as I cried an hour\ntogether for him, and was so angry with Alcidiana that for my life I\ncould never love her after it. You do not tell me whether you received\nthe books I sent you, but I will hope you did, because you say nothing\nto the contrary. They are my dear Lady Diana's, and therefore I am much\nconcerned that they should be safe. And now I speak of her, she is\nacquainted with your aunt, my Lady B., and says all that you say of her.\nIf her niece has so much wit, will you not be persuaded to like her; or\nsay she has not quite so much, may not her fortune make it up? In\nearnest, I know not what to say, but if your father does not use all his\nkindness and all his power to make you consider your own advantage, he\nis not like other fathers. Can you imagine that he that demands £5000\nbesides the reversion of an estate will like bare £4000? Such miracles\nare seldom seen, and you must prepare to suffer a strange persecution\nunless you grow conformable; therefore consider what you do, 'tis the\npart of a friend to advise you. I could say a great deal to this\npurpose, and tell you that 'tis not discreet to refuse a good offer, nor\nsafe to trust wholly to your own judgment in your disposal. I was never\nbetter provided in my life for a grave admonishing discourse. Would you\nhad heard how I have been catechized for you, and seen how soberly I sit\nand answer to interrogatories. Would you think that upon examination it\nis found that you are not an indifferent person to me? But the mischief\nis, that what my intentions or resolutions are, is not to be discovered,\nthough much pains has been taken to collect all scattering\ncircumstances; and all the probable conjectures that can be raised from\nthence has been urged, to see if anything would be confessed. And all\nthis done with so much ceremony and compliment, so many pardons asked\nfor undertaking to counsel or inquire, and so great kindness and passion\nfor all my interests professed, that I cannot but take it well, though I\nam very weary on't. You are spoken of with the reverence due to a person\nthat I seem to like, and for as much as they know of you, you do deserve\na very good esteem; but your fortune and mine can never agree, and, in\nplain terms, we forfeit our discretions and run wilfully upon our own\nruins if there be such a thought. To all this I make no reply, but that\nif they will needs have it that I am not without kindness for you, they\nmust conclude withal that 'tis no part of my intention to ruin you, and\nso the conference breaks up for that time. All this is [from] my friend,\nthat is not yours; and the gentleman that came upstairs in a basket, I\ncould tell him that he spends his breath to very little purpose, and has\nbut his labour for his pains. Without his precepts my own judgment would\npreserve me from doing anything that might be prejudicial to you or\nunjustifiable to the world; but if these be secured, nothing can alter\nthe resolution I have taken of settling my whole stock of happiness upon\nthe affection of a person that is dear to me, whose kindness I shall\ninfinitely prefer before any other consideration whatsoever, and I shall\nnot blush to tell you that you have made the whole world beside so\nindifferent to me that, if I cannot be yours, they may dispose of me how\nthey please. Henry Cromwell will be as acceptable to me as any one else.\nIf I may undertake to counsel, I think you shall do well to comply with\nyour father as far as possible, and not to discover any aversion to what\nhe desires further than you can give reason for. What his disposition\nmay be I know not; but 'tis that of many parents to judge their\nchildren's dislikes to be an humour of approving nothing that is chosen\nfor them, which many times makes them take up another of denying their\nchildren all they choose for themselves. I find I am in the humour of\ntalking wisely if my paper would give me leave. 'Tis great pity here is\nroom for no more but--\n\nYour faithful friend and servant.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 12.",
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"body": "SIR,--There shall be two posts this week, for my brother sends his groom\nup, and I am resolved to make some advantage of it. Pray, what the paper\ndenied me in your last, let me receive by him. Your fellow-servant is a\nsweet jewel to tell tales of me. The truth is, I cannot deny but that I\nhave been very careless of myself, but, alas! who would have been other?\nI never thought my life worth my care whilst nobody was concerned in't\nbut myself; now I shall look upon't as something that you would not\nlose, and therefore shall endeavour to keep it for you. But then you\nmust return my kindness with the same care of a life that's much dearer\nto me. I shall not be so unreasonable as to desire that, for my\nsatisfaction, you should deny yourself a recreation that is pleasing to\nyou, and very innocent, sure, when 'tis not used in excess, but I cannot\nconsent you should disorder yourself with it, and Jane was certainly in\nthe right when she told you I would have chid if I had seen you so\nendanger a health that I am so much concerned in. But for what she tell\nyou of my melancholy you must not believe; she thinks nobody in good\nhumour unless they laugh perpetually, as Nan and she does, which I was\nnever given to much, and now I have been so long accustomed to my own\nnatural dull humour that nothing can alter it. 'Tis not that I am sad\n(for as long as you and the rest of my friends are well), I thank God I\nhave no occasion to be so, but I never appear to be very merry, and if I\nhad all that I could wish for in the world, I do not think it would make\nany visible change in my humour. And yet with all my gravity I could not\nbut laugh at your encounter in the Park, though I was not pleased that\nyou should leave a fair lady and go lie upon the cold ground. That is\nfull as bad as overheating yourself at tennis, and therefore remember\n'tis one of the things you are forbidden. You have reason to think your\nfather kind, and I have reason to think him very civil; all his scruples\nare very just ones, but such as time and a little good fortune (if we\nwere either of us lucky to it) might satisfy. He may be confident I can\nnever think of disposing myself without my father's consent; and though\nhe has left it more in my power than almost anybody leaves a daughter,\nyet certainly I were the worst natured person in the world if his\nkindness were not a greater tie upon me than any advantage he could have\nreserved. Besides that, 'tis my duty, from which nothing can ever tempt\nme, nor could you like it in me if I should do otherwise, 'twould make\nme unworthy of your esteem; but if ever that may be obtained, or I left\nfree, and you in the same condition, all the advantages of fortune or\nperson imaginable met together in one man should not be preferred before\nyou. I think I cannot leave you better than with this assurance. 'Tis\nvery late, and having been abroad all this day, I knew not till e'en now\nof this messenger. Good-night to you. There need be no excuse for the\nconclusion of your letter. Nothing can please me better. Once more\ngood-night. I am half in a dream already.\n\nYour",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 9",
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"body": "SIR,--I am glad you 'scaped a beating, but, in earnest, would it had\nlighted on my brother's groom. I think I should have beaten him myself\nif I had been able. I have expected your letter all this day with the\ngreatest impatience that was possible, and at last resolved to go out\nand meet the fellow; and when I came down to the stables, I found him\ncome, had set up his horse, and was sweeping the stable in great order.\nI could not imagine him so very a beast as to think his horses were to\nbe serv'd before me, and therefore was presently struck with an\napprehension he had no letter for me: it went cold to my heart as ice,\nand hardly left me courage enough to ask him the question; but when he\nhad drawled it out that he thought there was a letter for me in his bag,\nI quickly made him leave his broom. 'Twas well 'tis a dull fellow, he\ncould not [but] have discern'd else that I was strangely overjoyed with\nit, and earnest to have it; for though the poor fellow made what haste\nhe could to untie his bag, I did nothing but chide him for being so\nslow. Last I had it, and, in earnest, I know not whether an entire\ndiamond of the bigness on't would have pleased me half so well; if it\nwould, it must be only out of this consideration, that such a jewel\nwould make me rich enough to dispute you with Mrs. Chambers, and perhaps\nmake your father like me as well. I like him, I'll swear, and extremely\ntoo, for being so calm in a business where his desires were so much\ncrossed. Either he has a great power over himself, or you have a great\ninterest in him, or both. If you are pleased it should end thus, I\ncannot dislike it; but if it would have been happy for you, I should\nthink myself strangely unfortunate in being the cause that it went not\nfurther. I cannot say that I prefer your interest before my own, because\nall yours are so much mine that 'tis impossible for me to be happy if\nyou are not so; but if they could be divided I am certain I should. And\nthough you reproached me with unkindness for advising you not to refuse\na good offer, yet I shall not be discouraged from doing it again when\nthere is occasion, for I am resolved to be your friend whether you will\nor no. And, for example, though I know you do not need my counsel, yet I\ncannot but tell you that I think 'twere very well that you took some\ncare to make my Lady B. your friend, and oblige her by your civilities\nto believe that you were sensible of the favour was offered you, though\nyou had not the grace to make good use on't. In very good earnest now,\nshe is a woman (by all that I have heard of her) that one would not\nlose; besides that, 'twill become you to make some satisfaction for\ndownright refusing a young lady--'twas unmercifully done.\n\nWould to God you would leave that trick of making excuses! Can you think\nit necessary to me, or believe that your letters can be so long as to\nmake them unpleasing to me? Are mine so to you? If they are not, yours\nnever will be so to me. You see I say anything to you, out of a belief\nthat, though my letters were more impertinent than they are, you would\nnot be without them nor wish them shorter. Why should you be less kind?\nIf your fellow-servant has been with you, she has told you I part with\nher but for her advantage. That I shall always be willing to do; but\nwhensoever she shall think fit to serve again, and is not provided of a\nbetter mistress, she knows where to find me.\n\nI have sent you the rest of _Cléopâtre_, pray keep them all in your\nhands, and the next week I will send you a letter and directions where\nyou shall deliver that and the books for my lady. Is it possible that\nshe can be indifferent to anybody? Take heed of telling me such stories;\nif all those excellences she is rich in cannot keep warm a passion\nwithout the sunshine of her eyes, what are poor people to expect; and\nwere it not a strange vanity in me to believe yours can be long-lived?\nIt would be very pardonable in you to change, but, sure, in him 'tis a\nmark of so great inconstancy as shows him of an humour that nothing can\nfix. When you go into the Exchange, pray call at the great shop above,\n\"The Flower Pott.\" I spoke to Heams, the man of the shop, when I was in\ntown, for a quart of orange-flower water; he had none that was good\nthen, but promised to get me some. Pray put him in mind of it, and let\nhim show it you before he sends it me, for I will not altogether trust\nto his honesty; you see I make no scruple of giving you little idle\ncommissions, 'tis a freedom you allow me, and that I should be glad you\nwould take. The Frenchman that set my seals lives between Salisbury\nHouse and the Exchange, at a house that was not finished when I was\nthere, and the master of the shop, his name is Walker, he made me pay\n50s. for three, but 'twas too dear. You will meet with a story in these\nparts of _Cléopâtre_ that pleased me more than any that ever I read in\nmy life; 'tis of one Délie, pray give me your opinion of her and her\nprince. This letter is writ in great haste, as you may see; 'tis my\nbrother's sick day, and I'm not willing to leave him long alone. I\nforgot to tell you in my last that he was come hither to try if he can\nlose an ague here that he got in Gloucestershire. He asked me for you\nvery kindly, and if he knew I writ to you I should have something to say\nfrom him besides what I should say for myself if I had room.\n\nYrs.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 10",
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"body": "SIR,--That you may be sure it was a dream that I writ that part of my\nletter in, I do not now remember what it was I writ, but seems it was\nvery kind, and possibly you owe the discovery on't to my being asleep.\nBut I do not repent it, for I should not love you if I did not think you\ndiscreet enough to be trusted with the knowledge of all my kindness.\nTherefore 'tis not that I desire to hide it from you, but that I do not\nlove to tell it; and perhaps if you could read my heart, I should make\nless scruple of your seeing on't there than in my letters.\n\nI can easily guess who the pretty young lady is, for there are but two\nin England of that fortune, and they are sisters, but I am to seek who\nthe gallant should be. If it be no secret, you may tell me. However, I\nshall wish him all good success if he be your friend, as I suppose he is\nby his confidence in you. If it be neither of the Spencers, I wish it\nwere; I have not seen two young men that looked as if they deserved\nbetter fortunes so much as those brothers.\n\nBut, bless me, what will become of us all now? Is not this a strange\nturn? What does my Lord Lisle? Sure this will at least defer your\njourney? Tell me what I must think on't; whether it be better or worse,\nor whether you are at all concern'd in't? For if you are not I am not,\nonly if I had been so wise as to have taken hold of the offer was made\nme by Henry Cromwell, I might have been in a fair way of preferment,\nfor, sure, they will be greater now than ever. Is it true that Algernon\nSydney was so unwilling to leave the House, that the General was fain to\ntake the pains to turn him out himself? Well, 'tis a pleasant world\nthis. If Mr. Pim were alive again, I wonder what he would think of these\nproceedings, and whether this would appear so great a breach of the\nPrivilege of Parliament as the demanding the 5 members? But I shall talk\ntreason by and by if I do not look to myself. 'Tis safer talking of the\norange-flower water you sent me. The carrier has given me a great charge\nto tell you that it came safe, and that I must do him right. As you say,\n'tis not the best I have seen, nor the worst.\n\nI shall expect your Diary next week, though this will be but a short\nletter: you may allow me to make excuses too sometimes; but, seriously,\nmy father is now so continuously ill, that I have hardly time for\nanything. 'Tis but an ague that he has, but yet I am much afraid that is\nmore than his age and weakness will be able to bear; he keeps his bed,\nand never rises but to have it made, and most times faints with that.\nYou ought in charity to write as much as you can, for, in earnest, my\nlife here since my father's sickness is so sad that, to another humour\nthan mine, it would be unsupportable; but I have been so used to\nmisfortunes, that I cannot be much surprised with them, though perhaps I\nam as sensible of them as another. I'll leave you, for I find these\nthoughts begin to put me in ill humour; farewell, may you be ever happy.\nIf I am so at all, it is in being\n\nYour",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 11",
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"body": "SIR,--You must pardon me, I could not burn your other letter for my\nlife; I was so pleased to see I had so much to read, and so sorry I had\ndone so soon, that I resolved to begin them again, and had like to have\nlost my dinner by it. I know not what humour you were in when you writ\nit; but Mr. Arbry's prophecy and the falling down of the form did a\nlittle discompose my gravity. But I quickly recovered myself with\nthinking that you deserved to be chid for going where you knew you must\nof necessity lose your time. In earnest, I had a little scruple when I\nwent with you thither, and but that I was assured it was too late to go\nany whither else, and believed it better to hear an ill sermon than\nnone, I think I should have missed his _Belles remarques_. You had\nrepented you, I hope, of that and all other your faults before you\nthought of dying.\n\nWhat a satisfaction you had found out to make me for the injuries you\nsay you have done me! And yet I cannot tell neither (though 'tis not the\nremedy I should choose) whether that were not a certain one for all my\nmisfortunes; for, sure, I should have nothing then to persuade me to\nstay longer where they grow, and I should quickly take a resolution of\nleaving them and the world at once. I agree with you, too, that I do not\nsee any great likelihood of the change of our fortunes, and that we have\nmuch more to wish than to hope for; but 'tis so common a calamity that I\ndare not murmur at it; better people have endured it, and I can give no\nreason why (almost) all are denied the satisfaction of disposing\nthemselves to their own desires, but that it is a happiness too great\nfor this world, and might endanger one's forgetting the next; whereas if\nwe are crossed in that which only can make the world pleasing to us, we\nare quickly tired with the length of our journey and the disquiet of our\ninns, and long to be at home. One would think it were I who had heard\nthe three sermons and were trying to make a fourth; these are truths\nthat might become a pulpit better than Mr. Arbry's predictions. But lest\nyou should think I have as many worms in my head as he, I'll give over\nin time, and tell you how far Mr. Luke and I are acquainted. He lives\nwithin three or four miles of me, and one day that I had been to visit a\nlady that is nearer him than me, as I came back I met a coach with some\ncompany in't that I knew, and thought myself obliged to salute. We all\nlighted and met, and I found more than I looked for by two damsels and\ntheir squires. I was afterwards told they were of the Lukes, and\npossibly this man might be there, or else I never saw him; for since\nthese times we have had no commerce with that family, but have kept at\ngreat distance, as having on several occasions been disobliged by them.\nBut of late, I know not how, Sir Sam has grown so kind as to send to me\nfor some things he desired out of this garden, and withal made the offer\nof what was in his, which I had reason to take for a high favour, for he\nis a nice florist; and since this we are insensibly come to as good\ndegrees of civility for one another as can be expected from people that\nnever meet.\n\nWho those demoiselles should be that were at Heamses I cannot imagine,\nand I know so few that are concerned in me or my name that I admire you\nshould meet with so many that seem to be acquainted with it. Sure, if\nyou had liked them you would not have been so sullen, and a less\noccasion would have served to make you entertain their discourse if they\nhad been handsome. And yet I know no reason I have to believe that\nbeauty is any argument to make you like people; unless I had more on't\nmyself. But be it what it will that displeased you, I am glad they did\nnot fright you away before you had the orange-flower water, for it is\nvery good, and I am so sweet with it a days that I despise roses. When I\nhave given you humble thanks for it, I mean to look over your other\nletter and take the heads, and to treat of them in order as my time and\nyour patience shall give me leave.\n\nAnd first for my Sheriff, let me desire you to believe he has more\ncourage than to die upon a denial. No (thanks be to God!), none of my\nservants are given to that; I hear of many every day that do marry, but\nof none that do worse. My brother sent me word this week that my\nfighting servant is married too, and with the news this ballad, which\nwas to be sung in the grave that you dreamt of, I think; but because you\ntell me I shall not want company then, you may dispose of this piece of\npoetry as you please when you have sufficiently admired with me where he\nfound it out, for 'tis much older than that of my \"Lord of Lorne.\" You\nare altogether in the right that my brother will never be at quiet till\nhe sees me disposed of, but he does not mean to lose me by it; he knows\nthat if I were married at this present, I should not be persuaded to\nleave my father as long as he lives; and when this house breaks up, he\nis resolved to follow me if he can, which he thinks he might better do\nto a house where I had some power than where I am but upon courtesy\nmyself. Besides that, he thinks it would be to my advantage to be well\nbestowed, and by that he understands richly. He is much of your sister's\nhumour, and many times wishes me a husband that loved me as well as he\ndoes (though he seems to doubt the possibility on't), but never desires\nthat I should love that husband with any passion, and plainly tells me\nso. He says it would not be so well for him, nor perhaps for me, that I\nshould; for he is of opinion that all passions have more of trouble than\nsatisfaction in them, and therefore they are happiest that have least of\nthem. You think him kind from a letter that you met with of his; sure,\nthere was very little of anything in that, or else I should not have\nemployed it to wrap a book up. But, seriously, I many times receive\nletters from him, that were they seen without an address to me or his\nname, nobody would believe they were from a brother; and I cannot but\ntell him sometimes that, sure, he mistakes and sends me letters that\nwere meant to his mistress, till he swears to me that he has none.\n\nNext week my persecution begins again; he comes down, and my cousin\nMolle is already cured of his imaginary dropsy, and means to meet here.\nI shall be baited most sweetly, but sure they will not easily make me\nconsent to make my life unhappy to satisfy their importunity. I was born\nto be very happy or very miserable, I know not which, but I am very\ncertain that you will never read half this letter 'tis so scribbled; but\n'tis no matter, 'tis not much worth it.\n\nYour most faithful friend and servant.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 12",
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"body": "SIR,--If it were the carrier's fault that you stayed so long for your\nletters, you are revenged, for I have chid him most unreasonably. But I\nmust confess 'twas not for that, for I did not know it then, but going\nto meet him (as I usually do), when he gave me your letter I found the\nupper seal broken open, and underneath where it uses to be only closed\nwith a little wax, there was a seal, which though it were an anchor and\na heart, methought it did not look like yours, but less, and much worse\ncut. This suspicion was so strong upon me, that I chid till the poor\nfellow was ready to cry, and swore to me that it had never been touched\nsince he had it, and that he was careful of it, as he never put it with\nhis other letters, but by itself, and that now it come amongst his\nmoney, which perhaps might break the seal; and lest I should think it\nwas his curiosity, he told me very ingenuously he could not read, and so\nwe parted for the present. But since, he has been with a neighbour of\nmine whom he sometimes delivers my letters to, and begged her that she\nwould go to me and desire my worship to write to your worship to know\nhow the letter was sealed, for it has so grieved him that he has neither\neat nor slept (to do him any good) since he came home, and in grace of\nGod this shall be a warning to him as long as he lives. He takes it so\nheavily that I think I must be friends with him again; but pray\nhereafter seal your letters, so that the difficulty of opening them may\ndishearten anybody from attempting it.\n\nIt was but my guess that the ladies at Heams' were unhandsome; but since\nyou tell me they were remarkably so, sure I know them by it; they are\ntwo sisters, and might have been mine if the Fates had so pleased. They\nhave a brother that is not like them, and is a baronet besides. 'Tis\nstrange that you tell me of my Lords Shandoys [Chandos] and Arundel; but\nwhat becomes of young Compton's estate? Sure my Lady Carey cannot\nneither in honour nor conscience keep it; besides that, she needs it\nless now than ever, her son (being, as I hear) dead.\n\nSir T., I suppose, avoids you as a friend of mine. My brother tells me\nthey meet sometimes, and have the most ado to pull off their hats to one\nanother that can be, and never speak. If I were in town I'll undertake\nhe would venture the being choked for want of air rather than stir out\nof doors for fear of meeting me. But did you not say in your last that\nyou took something very ill from me? If 'twas my humble thanks, well,\nyou shall have no more of them then, nor no more servants. I think that\nthey are not necessary among friends.\n\nI take it very kindly that your father asked for me, and that you were\nnot pleased with the question he made of the continuance of my\nfriendship. I can pardon it him, because he does not know me, but I\nshould never forgive you if you could doubt it. Were my face in no more\ndanger of changing than my mind, I should be worth the seeing at\nthreescore; and that which is but very ordinary now, would then be\ncounted handsome for an old woman; but, alas! I am more likely to look\nold before my time with grief. Never anybody had such luck with\nservants; what with marrying and what with dying, they all leave me.\nJust now I have news brought me of the death of an old rich knight that\nhas promised me this seven years to marry me whensoever his wife died,\nand now he's dead before her, and has left her such a widow, it makes me\nmad to think on't, £1200 a year jointure and £20,000 in money and\npersonal estate, and all this I might have had if Mr. Death had been\npleased to have taken her instead of him. Well, who can help these\nthings? But since I cannot have him, would you had her! What say you?\nShall I speak a good word for you? She will marry for certain, and\nperhaps, though my brother may expect I should serve him in it, yet if\nyou give me commission I'll say I was engaged beforehand for a friend,\nand leave him to shift for himself. You would be my neighbour if you had\nher, and I should see you often. Think on't, and let me know what you\nresolve? My lady has writ me word that she intends very shortly to sit\nat Lely's for her picture for me; I give you notice on't, that you may\nhave the pleasure of seeing it sometimes whilst 'tis there. I imagine\n'twill be so to you, for I am sure it would be a great one to me, and we\ndo not use to differ in our inclinations, though I cannot agree with you\nthat my brother's kindness to me has anything of trouble in't; no, sure,\nI may be just to you and him both, and to be a kind sister will take\nnothing from my being a perfect friend.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 13",
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"body": "SIR,--I received your letter to-day, when I thought it almost impossible\nthat I should be sensible of anything but my father's sickness and my\nown affliction in it. Indeed, he was then so dangerously ill that we\ncould not reasonably hope he should outlive this day; yet he is now, I\nthank God, much better, and I am come so much to myself with it, as to\nundertake a long letter to you whilst I watch by him. Towards the latter\nend it will be excellent stuff, I believe; but, alas! you may allow me\nto dream sometimes. I have had so little sleep since my father was sick\nthat I am never thoroughly awake. Lord, how I have wished for you! Here\ndo I sit all night by a poor moped fellow that serves my father, and\nhave much ado to keep him awake and myself too. If you heard the wise\ndiscourse that is between us, you would swear we wanted sleep; but I\nshall leave him to-night to entertain himself, and try if I can write as\nwisely as I talk. I am glad all is well again. In earnest, it would have\nlain upon my conscience if I had been the occasion of making your poor\nboy lose a service, that if he has the wit to know how to value it, he\nwould never have forgiven me while he had lived.\n\nBut while I remember it, let me ask you if you did not send my letter\nand _Cléopâtre_ where I directed you for my lady? I received one from\nher to-day full of the kindest reproaches, that she has not heard from\nme this three weeks. I have writ constantly to her, but I do not so much\nwonder that the rest are lost, as that she seems not to have received\nthat which I sent to you nor the books. I do not understand it, but I\nknow there is no fault of yours in't. But, mark you! if you think to\n'scape with sending me such bits of letters, you are mistaken. You say\nyou are often interrupted, and I believe it; but you must use then to\nbegin to write before you receive mine, and whensoever you have any\nspare time allow me some of it. Can you doubt that anything can make\nyour letters cheap? In earnest, 'twas unkindly said, and if I could be\nangry with you it should be for that. No, certainly they are, and ever\nwill be, dear to me as that which I receive a huge contentment by. How\nshall I long when you are gone your journey to hear from you! how shall\nI apprehend a thousand accidents that are not likely nor will ever\nhappen, I hope! Oh, if you do not send me long letters, then you are the\ncruellest person that can be! If you love me you will; and if you do\nnot, I shall never love myself. You need not fear such a command as you\nmention. Alas! I am too much concerned that you should love me ever to\nforbid it you; 'tis all that I propose of happiness to myself in the\nworld. The burning of my paper has waked me; all this while I was in a\ndream. But 'tis no matter, I am content you should know they are of you,\nand that when my thoughts are left most at liberty they are the kindest.\nI swear my eyes are so heavy that I hardly see what I write, nor do I\nthink you will be able to read it when I have done; the best on't is\n'twill be no great loss to you if you do not, for, sure, the greatest\npart on't is not sense, and yet on my conscience I shall go on with it.\n'Tis like people that talk in their sleep, nothing interrupts them but\ntalking to them again, and that you are not like to do at this distance;\nbesides that, at this instant you are, I believe, more asleep than I,\nand do not so much as dream that I am writing to you. My fellow-watchers\nhave been asleep too, till just now they begin to stretch and yawn; they\nare going to try if eating and drinking can keep them awake, and I am\nkindly invited to be of their company; and my father's man has got one\nof the maids to talk nonsense to to-night, and they have got between\nthem a bottle of ale. I shall lose my share if I do not take them at\ntheir first offer. Your patience till I have drunk, and then I'll for\nyou again.\n\nAnd now on the strength of this ale, I believe I shall be able to fill\nup this paper that's left with something or other; and first let me ask\nyou if you have seen a book of poems newly come out, made by my Lady\nNewcastle? For God's sake if you meet with it send it to me; they say\n'tis ten times more extravagant than her dress. Sure, the poor woman is\na little distracted, she could never be so ridiculous else as to venture\nat writing books, and in verse too. If I should not sleep this fortnight\nI should not come to that. My eyes grow a little dim though, for all the\nale, and I believe if I could see it this is most strangely scribbled.\nSure, I shall not find fault with your writing in haste, for anything\nbut the shortness of your letter; and 'twould be very unjust in me to\ntie you to a ceremony that I do not observe myself. No, for God's sake\nlet there be no such thing between us; a real kindness is so far beyond\nall compliment, that it never appears more than when there is least of\nt'other mingled with it. If, then, you would have me believe yours to be\nperfect, confirm it to me by a kind freedom. Tell me if there be\nanything that I can serve you in, employ me as you would do that sister\nthat you say you love so well. Chide me when I do anything that is not\nwell, but then make haste to tell me that you have forgiven me, and that\nyou are what I shall ever be, a faithful friend.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 14",
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"body": "SIR,--I have been reckoning up how many faults you lay to my charge in\nyour last letter, and I find I am severe, unjust, unmerciful, and\nunkind. Oh me, how should one do to mend all these! 'Tis work for an\nage, and 'tis to be feared I shall be so old before I am good, that\n'twill not be considerable to anybody but myself whether I am so or not.\nI say nothing of the pretty humour you fancied me in, in your dream,\nbecause 'twas but a dream. Sure, if it had been anything else, I should\nhave remembered that my Lord L. loves to have his chamber and his bed to\nhimself. But seriously, now, I wonder at your patience. How could you\nhear me talk so senselessly, though 'twere but in your sleep, and not be\nready to beat me? What nice mistaken points of honour I pretended to,\nand yet could allow him room in the same bed with me! Well, dreams are\npleasant things to people whose humours are so; but to have the spleen,\nand to dream upon't, is a punishment I would not wish my greatest enemy.\nI seldom dream, or never remember them, unless they have been so sad as\nto put me into such disorder as I can hardly recover when I am awake,\nand some of those I am confident I shall never forget.\n\nYou ask me how I pass my time here. I can give you a perfect account not\nonly of what I do for the present, but of what I am likely to do this\nseven years if I stay here so long. I rise in the morning reasonably\nearly, and before I am ready I go round the house till I am weary of\nthat, and then into the garden till it grows too hot for me. About ten\no'clock I think of making me ready, and when that's done I go into my\nfather's chamber, from whence to dinner, where my cousin Molle and I sit\nin great state in a room, and at a table that would hold a great many\nmore. After dinner we sit and talk till Mr. B. comes in question, and\nthen I am gone. The heat of the day is spent in reading or working, and\nabout six or seven o'clock I walk out into a common that lies hard by\nthe house, where a great many young wenches keep sheep and cows, and sit\nin the shade singing of ballads. I go to them and compare their voices\nand beauties to some ancient shepherdesses that I have read of, and find\na vast difference there; but, trust me, I think these are as innocent as\nthose could be. I talk to them, and find they want nothing to make them\nthe happiest people in the world but the knowledge that they are so.\nMost commonly, when we are in the midst of our discourse, one looks\nabout her, and spies her cows going into the corn, and then away they\nall run as if they had wings at their heels. I, that am not so nimble,\nstay behind; and when I see them driving home their cattle, I think 'tis\ntime for me to return too. When I have supped, I go into the garden, and\nso to the side of a small river that runs by it, when I sit down and\nwish you were with me (you had best say this is not kind neither). In\nearnest, 'tis a pleasant place, and would be much more so to me if I had\nyour company. I sit there sometimes till I am lost with thinking; and\nwere it not for some cruel thoughts of the crossness of our fortunes\nthat will not let me sleep there, I should forget that there were such a\nthing to be done as going to bed.\n\nSince I writ this my company is increased by two, my brother Harry and a\nfair niece, the eldest of my brother Peyton's children. She is so much a\nwoman that I am almost ashamed to say I am her aunt; and so pretty,\nthat, if I had any design to gain of servants, I should not like her\ncompany; but I have none, and therefore shall endeavour to keep her here\nas long as I can persuade her father to spare her, for she will easily\nconsent to it, having so much of my humour (though it be the worst thing\nin her) as to like a melancholy place and little company. My brother\nJohn is not come down again, nor am I certain when he will be here. He\nwent from London into Gloucestershire to my sister who was very ill, and\nhis youngest girl, of which he was very fond, is since dead. But I\nbelieve by that time his wife has a little recovered her sickness and\nloss of her child, he will be coming this way. My father is reasonably\nwell, but keeps his chamber still, and will hardly, I am afraid, ever be\nso perfectly recovered as to come abroad again.\n\nI am sorry for poor Walker, but you need not doubt of what he has of\nyours in his hands, for it seems he does not use to do his work himself.\nI speak seriously, he keeps a Frenchman that sets all his seals and\nrings. If what you say of my Lady Leppington be of your own knowledge, I\nshall believe you, but otherwise I can assure you I have heard from\npeople that pretend to know her very well, that her kindness to Compton\nwas very moderate, and that she never liked him so well as when he died\nand gave her his estate. But they might be deceived, and 'tis not so\nstrange as that you should imagine a coldness and an indifference in my\nletters when I so little meant it; but I am not displeased you should\ndesire my kindness enough to apprehend the loss of it when it is safest.\nOnly I would not have you apprehend it so far as to believe it\npossible,--that were an injury to all the assurances I have given you,\nand if you love me you cannot think me unworthy. I should think myself\nso, if I found you grew indifferent to me, that I have had so long and\nso particular a friendship for; but, sure, this is more than I need to\nsay. You are enough in my heart to know all my thoughts, and if so, you\nknow better than I can tell you how much I am\n\nYours.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 15",
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"body": "SIR,--If to know I wish you with me pleases you, 'tis a satisfaction you\nmay always have, for I do it perpetually; but were it really in my power\nto make you happy, I could not miss being so myself, for I know nothing\nelse I want towards it. You are admitted to all my entertainments; and\n'twould be a pleasing surprise to me to see you amongst my\nshepherdesses. I meet some there sometimes that look very like gentlemen\n(for 'tis a road), and when they are in good humour they give us a\ncompliment as they go by; but you would be so courteous as to stay, I\nhope, if we entreated you; 'tis in your way to this place, and just\nbefore the house. 'Tis our Hyde Park, and every fine evening, anybody\nthat wanted a mistress might be sure to find one there. I have wondered\noften to meet my fair Lady Ruthin there alone; methinks it should be\ndangerous for an heir. I could find in my heart to steal her away\nmyself, but it should be rather for her person than her fortune. My\nbrother says not a word of you, nor your service, nor do I expect he\nshould; if I could forget you, he would not help my memory. You would\nlaugh, sure, if I could tell you how many servants he has offered me\nsince he came down; but one above all the rest I think he is in love\nwith himself, and may marry him too if he pleases, I shall not hinder\nhim. 'Tis one Talbot, the finest gentleman he has seen this seven years;\nbut the mischief on't is he has not above fifteen or sixteen hundred\npound a year, though he swears he begins to think one might bate £500 a\nyear for such a husband. I tell him I am glad to hear it; and if I was\nas much taken (as he) with Mr. Talbot, I should not be less gallant; but\nI doubted the first extremely. I have spleen enough to carry me to Epsom\nthis summer; but yet I think I shall not go. If I make one journey, I\nmust make more, for then I have no excuse. Rather than be obliged to\nthat, I'll make none. You have so often reproached me with the loss of\nyour liberty, that to make you some amends I am contented to be your\nprisoner this summer; but you shall do one favour for me into the\nbargain. When your father goes into Ireland, lay your commands upon some\nof his servants to get you an Irish greyhound. I have one that was the\nGeneral's; but 'tis a bitch, and those are always much less than the\ndogs. I got it in the time of my favour there, and it was all they had.\nHenry Cromwell undertook to write to his brother Fleetwood for another\nfor me; but I have lost my hopes there. Whomsoever it is that you\nemploy, he will need no other instructions but to get the biggest he can\nmeet with; 'tis all the beauty of those dogs, or of any kind, I think. A\nmasty [mastif] is handsomer to me than the most exact little dog that\never lady played withal. You will not offer to take it ill that I employ\nyou in such a commission, since I have told you that the General's son\ndid not refuse it; but I shall take it ill if you do not take the same\nfreedom with me whensoever I am capable of serving you. The town must\nneeds be unpleasant now, and, methinks, you might contrive some way of\nhaving your letters sent to you without giving yourself the trouble of\ncoming to town for them when you have no other business; you must pardon\nme if I think they cannot be worth it.\n\nI am told that R. Spencer is a servant to a lady of my acquaintance, a\ndaughter of my Lady Lexington's. Is it true? And if it be, what is\nbecome of the £2500 lady? Would you think it, that I have an ambassador\nfrom the Emperor Justinian, that comes to renew the treaty? In earnest,\n'tis true, and I want your counsel extremely, what to do in it. You told\nme once that of all my servants you liked him the best. If I could do so\ntoo, there were no dispute in't. Well, I'll think on't, and if it\nsucceed I will be as good as my word; you shall take your choice of my\nfour daughters. Am not I beholding to him, think you? He says that he\nhas made addresses, 'tis true, in several places since we parted, but\ncould not fix anywhere; and, in his opinion, he sees nobody that would\nmake so fit a wife for him as I. He has often inquired after me to hear\nif I were marrying, and somebody told him I had an ague, and he\npresently fell sick of one too, so natural a sympathy there is between\nus; and yet for all this, on my conscience, we shall never marry. He\ndesires to know whether I am at liberty or not. What shall I tell him?\nOr shall I send him to you to know? I think that will be best. I'll say\nthat you are much my friend, and that I have resolved not to dispose of\nmyself but with your consent and approbation, and therefore he must make\nall his court to you; and when he can bring me a certificate under your\nhand, that you think him a fit husband for me, 'tis very likely I may\nhave him. Till then I am his humble servant and your faithful friend.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 16",
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"body": "SIR,--I am sorry my last letter frighted you so; 'twas no part of my\nintention it should; but I am more sorry to see by your first chapter\nthat your humour is not always so good as I could wish it. 'Twas the\nonly thing I ever desired we might differ in, and therefore I think it\nis denied me. Whilst I read the description on't, I could not believe\nbut that I had writ it myself, it was so much my own. I pity you in\nearnest much more than I do myself; and yet I may deserve yours when I\nshall have told you, that besides all that you speak of, I have gotten\nan ague that with two fits has made me so very weak, that I doubted\nextremely yesterday whether I should be able to sit up to-day to write\nto you. But you must not be troubled at this; that's the way to kill me\nindeed. Besides, it is impossible I should keep it long, for here is my\neldest brother, and my cousin Molle, and two or three more that have\ngreat understanding in agues, as people that have been long acquainted\nwith them, and they do so tutor and govern me, that I am neither to eat,\ndrink, nor sleep without their leave; and, sure, my obedience deserves\nthey should cure me, or else they are great tyrants to very little\npurpose. You cannot imagine how cruel they are to me, and yet will\npersuade me 'tis for my good. I know they mean it so, and therefore say\nnothing on't, I admit, and sigh to think those are not here that would\nbe kinder to me. But you were cruel yourself when you seemed to\napprehend I might oblige you to make good your last offer. Alack! if I\ncould purchase the empire of the world at that rate, I should think it\nmuch too dear; and though, perhaps, I am too unhappy myself ever to make\nanybody else happy, yet, sure, I shall take heed that my misfortunes may\nnot prove infectious to my friends. You ask counsel of a person that is\nvery little able to give it. I cannot imagine whither you should go,\nsince this journey is broke. You must e'en be content to stay at home, I\nthink, and see what will become of us, though I expect nothing of good;\nand, sure, you never made a truer remark in your life than that all\nchanges are for the worse. Will it not stay your father's journey too?\nMethinks it should. For God's sake write me all that you hear or can\nthink of, that I may have something to entertain myself withal. I have a\nscurvy head that will not let me write longer.\n\nI am your.\n\n[Directed]--\n\nFor Mrs. Paynter, at her house\n in Bedford Street, next ye Goate,\n In Covent Garden.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 17",
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"body": "SIR,--I do not know that anybody has frighted me, or beaten me, or put\nme into more passion than what I usually carry about me, but yesterday I\nmissed my fit, and am not without hope I shall hear no more on't. My\nfather has lost his too, and my eldest brother, but we all look like\npeople risen from the dead. Only my cousin Molle keeps his still; and,\nin earnest, I am not certain whether he would lose it or not, for it\ngives him a lawful occasion of being nice and cautious about himself, to\nwhich he in his own humour is so much inclined that 'twere not easy for\nhim to forbear it. You need not send me my Lady Newcastle's book at all,\nfor I have seen it, and am satisfied that there are many soberer people\nin Bedlam. I'll swear her friends are much to blame to let her go\nabroad.\n\nBut I am hugely pleased that you have seen my Lady. I knew you could not\nchoose but like her; but yet, let me tell you, you have seen but the\nworst of her. Her conversation has more charms than can be in mere\nbeauty, and her humour and disposition would make a deformed person\nappear lovely. You had strange luck to meet my brother so soon. He went\nup but last Tuesday. I heard from him on Thursday, but he did not tell\nme he had seen you; perhaps he did not think it convenient to put me in\nmind of you; besides, he thought he told me enough in telling me my\ncousin Osborne was married. Why did you not send me that news and a\ngarland? Well, the best on't is I have a squire now that is as good as a\nknight. He was coming as fast as a coach and six horses could carry him,\nbut I desired him to stay till my ague was gone, and give me a little\ntime to recover my good looks; for I protest if he saw me now he would\nnever deign to see me again. Oh, me! I can but think how I shall sit\nlike the lady of the lobster, and give audience at Babram. You have been\nthere, I am sure. Nobody that is at Cambridge 'scapes it. But you were\nnever so welcome thither as you shall be when I am mistress on't. In the\nmeantime, I have sent you the first tome of _Cyrus_ to read; when you\nhave done with it, leave it at Mr. Hollingsworth's, and I'll send you\nanother. I have had ladies with me all the afternoon that are for London\nto-morrow, and now I have as many letters to write as my Lord General's\nSecretary. Forgive me that this is no longer, for\n\nI am your.\n\nAddressed--\n\nFor Mrs. Paynter, at her house in\n Bedford Street, next ye Goate,\n In Covent Garden.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 18",
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"body": "SIR,--You are more in my debt than you imagine. I never deserved a long\nletter so much as now, when you sent me a short one. I could tell you\nsuch a story ('tis too long to be written) as would make you see (what I\nnever discover'd in myself before) that I am a valiant lady. In earnest,\nwe have had such a skirmish, and upon so foolish an occasion, as I\ncannot tell which is strangest. The Emperor and his proposals began it;\nI talked merrily on't till I saw my brother put on his sober face, and\ncould hardly then believe he was in earnest. It seems he was, for when I\nhad spoke freely my meaning, it wrought so with him as to fetch up all\nthat lay on his stomach. All the people that I had ever in my life\nrefused were brought again upon the stage, like Richard the III.'s\nghosts, to reproach me withal; and all the kindness his discoveries\ncould make I had for you was laid to my charge. My best qualities (if I\nhave any that are good) served but for aggravations of my fault, and I\nwas allowed to have wit and understanding and discretion in other\nthings, that it might appear I had none in this. Well, 'twas a pretty\nlecture, and I grew warm with it after a while; in short, we came so\nnear an absolute falling out, that 'twas time to give over, and we said\nso much then that we have hardly spoken a word together since. But 'tis\nwonderful to see what curtseys and legs pass between us; and as before\nwe were thought the kindest brother and sister, we are certainly the\nmost complimental couple in England. 'Tis a strange change, and I am\nvery sorry for it, but I'll swear I know not how to help it. I look\nupon't as one of my great misfortunes, and I must bear it, as that which\nis not my first nor likely to be my last. 'Tis but reasonable (as you\nsay) that you should see me, and yet I know not now how it can well be.\nI am not for disguises, it looks like guilt, and I would not do a thing\nI durst not own. I cannot tell whether (if there were a necessity of\nyour coming) I should not choose to have it when he is at home, and\nrather expose him to the trouble of entertaining a person whose company\n(here) would not be pleasing to him, and perhaps an opinion that I did\nit purposely to cross him, than that your coming in his absence should\nbe thought a concealment. 'Twas one reason more than I told you why I\nresolv'd not to go to Epsom this summer, because I knew he would imagine\nit an agreement between us, and that something besides my spleen carried\nme thither; but whether you see me or not you may be satisfied I am safe\nenough, and you are in no danger to lose your prisoner, since so great a\nviolence as this has not broke her chains. You will have nothing to\nthank me for after this; my whole life will not yield such another\noccasion to let you see at what rate I value your friendship, and I have\nbeen much better than my word in doing but what I promised you, since I\nhave found it a much harder thing not to yield to the power of a near\nrelation, and a greater kindness than I could then imagine it.\n\nTo let you see I did not repent me of the last commission, I'll give you\nanother. Here is a seal that Walker set for me, and 'tis dropt out; pray\ngive it him to mend. If anything could be wonder'd at in this age, I\nshould very much how you came by your informations. 'Tis more than I\nknow if Mr. Freeman be my servant. I saw him not long since, and he told\nme no such thing. Do you know him? In earnest, he's a pretty gentleman,\nand has a great deal of good nature, I think, which may oblige him\nperhaps to speak well of his acquaintances without design. Mr. Fish is\nthe Squire of Dames, and has so many mistresses that anybody may pretend\na share in him and be believed; but though I have the honour to be his\nnear neighbour, to speak freely, I cannot brag much that he makes any\ncourt to me; and I know no young woman in the country that he does not\nvisit often.\n\nI have sent you another tome of _Cyrus_, pray send the first to Mr.\nHollingsworth for my Lady. My cousin Molle went from hence to Cambridge\non Thursday, and there's an end of Mr. Bennet. I have no company now but\nmy niece Peyton, and my brother will be shortly for the term, but will\nmake no long stay in town. I think my youngest brother comes down with\nhim. Remember that you owe me a long letter and something for forgiving\nyour last. I have no room for more than\n\nYour.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 23.",
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"body": "SIR,--I will tell you no more of my servants. I can no sooner give you\nsome little hints whereabouts they live, but you know them presently,\nand I meant you should be beholding to me for your acquaintance. But it\nseems this gentleman is not so easy access, but you may acknowledge\nsomething due to me, if I incline him to look graciously upon you, and\ntherefore there is not much harm done. What has kept him from marrying\nall this time, or how the humour comes so furiously upon him now, I know\nnot; but if he may be believed, he is resolved to be a most romance\nsquire, and go in quest of some enchanted damsel, whom if he likes, as\nto her person (for fortune is a thing below him),--and we do not read in\nhistory that any knight or squire was ever so discourteous as to inquire\nwhat portions their ladies had,--then he comes with the power of the\ncounty to demand her, (which for the present he may dispose of, being\nSheriff), so I do not see who is able to resist him. All that is to be\nhoped is, that since he may reduce whomsoever he pleases to his\nobedience, he will be very curious in his choice, and then I am secure.\n\nIt may be I dreamt it that you had met my brother, or else it was one of\nthe reveries of my ague; if so, I hope I shall fall into no more of\nthem. I have missed four fits, and had but five, and have recovered so\nmuch strength as made me venture to meet your letter on Wednesday, a\nmile from home. Yet my recovery will be nothing towards my leaving this\nplace, where many reasons will oblige me to stay at least all this\nsummer, unless some great alteration should happen in this family; that\nwhich I most own is my father's ill-health, which, though it be not in\nthat extremity it has been, yet keeps him still a prisoner in his\nchamber, and for the most part to his bed, which is reason enough. But,\nbesides, I can give you others. I am here much more out of people's way\nthan in town, where my aunt and such as pretend an interest in me, and a\npower over me, do so persecute me with their good nature, and take it so\nill that they are not accepted, as I would live in a hollow tree to\navoid them. Here I have nobody but my brother to torment me, whom I can\ntake the liberty to dispute with, and whom I have prevailed with\nhitherto to bring none of his pretenders to this place, because of the\nnoise all such people make in a country, and the tittle-tattle it breeds\namong neighbours that have nothing to do but to inquire who marries and\nwho makes love. If I can but keep him still in that humour Mr. Bennet\nand I are likely to preserve our state and treat at distance like\nprinces; but we have not sent one another our pictures yet, though my\ncousin Molle, who was his agent here, begged mine very earnestly. But, I\nthank God, an imagination took him one morning that he was falling into\na dropsy, and made him in such haste to go back to Cambridge to his\ndoctor, that he never remembers anything he has to ask of me, but the\ncoach to carry him away. I lent it most willingly, and gone he is. My\neldest brother goes up to town on Monday too; perhaps you may see him,\nbut I cannot direct you where to find him, for he is not yet resolved\nhimself where to lie; only 'tis likely Nan may tell you when he is\nthere. He will make no stay, I believe. You will think him altered (and,\nif it be possible) more melancholy than he was. If marriage agrees no\nbetter with other people than it does with him, I shall pray that all my\nfriends may 'scape it. Yet if I were my cousin, H. Danvers, my Lady\nDiana should not, if I could help it, as well as I love her: I would try\nif ten thousand pound a year with a husband that doted on her, as I\nshould do, could not keep her from being unhappy. Well, in earnest, if I\nwere a prince, that lady should be my mistress, but I can give no rule\nto any one else, and perhaps those that are in no danger of losing their\nhearts to her may be infinitely taken with one I should not value at\nall; for (so says the Justinian) wise Providence has ordained it that by\ntheir different humours everybody might find something to please\nthemselves withal, without envying their neighbours. And now I have\nbegun to talk gravely and wisely, I'll try if I can go a little further\nwithout being out. No, I cannot, for I have forgot already what 'twas I\nwould have said; but 'tis no matter, for, as I remember, it was not much\nto the purpose, and, besides, I have paper little enough left to chide\nyou for asking so unkind a question as whether you were still the same\nin my thoughts. Have you deserved to be otherwise; that is, am I no more\nin yours? For till that be, it's impossible the other should; but that\nwill never be, and I shall always be the same I am. My heart tells me\nso, and I believe it; for were it otherwise, Fortune would not persecute\nme thus. Oh, me! she's cruel, and how far her power may reach I know\nnot, only I am sure, she cannot call back time that is past, and it is\nlong since we resolved to be for ever\n\nMost faithful friends.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 20",
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"body": "SIR,--You amaze me with your story of Tom Cheeke. I am certain he could\nnot have had it where you imagine, and 'tis a miracle to me that he\nremember that there is such a one in the world as his cousin D.O. I am\nsure he has not seen her this six year, and I think but once in his\nlife. If he has spread his opinion in that family, I shall quickly hear\non't, for my cousin Molle is now gone to Kimbolton to my Lord\nManchester, and from there he goes to Moor Park to my cousin Franklin's,\nand in one, or both, he will be sure to meet with it. The matter is not\ngreat, for I confess I do naturally hate the noise and talk of the\nworld, and should be best pleased never to be known in't upon any\noccasion whatsoever; yet, since it can never be wholly avoided, one must\nsatisfy oneself by doing nothing that one need care who knows. I do not\nthink _à propos_ to tell anybody that you and I are very good friends,\nand it were better, sure, if nobody knew it but we ourselves. But if, in\nspite of all our caution, it be discovered, 'tis no treason nor anything\nelse that's ill; and if anybody should tell me that I have had a greater\nkindness and esteem for you than for any one besides, I do not think I\nshould deny it; howsoever you do, oblige me by not owning any such\nthing, for as you say, I have no reason to take it ill that you\nendeavour to preserve me a liberty, though I'm never likely to make use\non't. Besides that, I agree with you too that certainly 'tis much better\nyou should owe my kindness to nothing but your own merit and my\ninclination, than that there should lie any other necessity upon me of\nmaking good my words to you.\n\nFor God's sake do not complain so that you do not see me; I believe I do\nnot suffer less in't than you, but 'tis not to be helped. If I had a\npicture that were fit for you, you should have it. I have but one that's\nanything like, and that's a great one, but I will send it some time or\nother to Cooper or Hoskins, and have a little one drawn by it, if I\ncannot be in town to sit myself. You undo me by but dreaming how happy\nwe might have been, when I consider how far we are from it in reality.\nAlas! how can you talk of defying fortune; nobody lives without it, and\ntherefore why should you imagine you could? I know not how my brother\ncomes to be so well informed as you say, but I am certain he knows the\nutmost of the injuries you have received from her. 'Tis not possible she\nshould have used you worse than he says. We have had another debate, but\nmuch more calmly. 'Twas just upon his going up to town, and perhaps he\nthought it not fit to part in anger. Not to wrong him, he never said to\nme (whate'er he thought) a word in prejudice of you in your own person,\nand I never heard him accuse any but your fortune and my indiscretion.\nAnd whereas I did expect that (at least in compliment to me) he should\nhave said we had been a couple of fools well met, he says by his troth\nhe does not blame you, but bids me not deceive myself to think you have\nany great passion for me.\n\nIf you have done with the first part of _Cyrus_, I should be glad Mr.\nHollingsworth had it, because I mentioned some such thing in my last to\nmy Lady; but there is no haste of restoring the other unless she should\nsend to me for it, which I believe she will not. I have a third tome\nhere against you have done with that second; and to encourage you, let\nme assure you that the more you read of them you will like them still\nbetter. Oh, me! whilst I think on't, let me ask you one question\nseriously, and pray resolve me truly;--do I look so stately as people\napprehend? I vow to you I made nothing on't when Sir Emperor said so,\nbecause I had no great opinion of his judgment, but Mr. Freeman makes me\nmistrust myself extremely, not that I am sorry I did appear so to him\n(since it kept me from the displeasure of refusing an offer which I do\nnot perhaps deserve), but that it is a scurvy quality in itself, and I\nam afraid I have it in great measure if I showed any of it to him, for\nwhom I have so much respect and esteem. If it be so you must needs know\nit; for though my kindness will not let me look so upon you, you can see\nwhat I do to other people. And, besides, there was a time when we\nourselves were indifferent to one another;--did I do so then, or have I\nlearned it since? For God's sake tell me, that I may try to mend it. I\ncould wish, too, that you would lay your commands on me to forbear\nfruit: here is enough to kill 1000 such as I am, and so extremely good,\nthat nothing but your power can secure me; therefore forbid it me, that\nI may live to be\n\nYour.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 21",
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"body": "SIR,--You have furnished me now with arguments to convince my brother,\nif he should ever enter on the dispute again. In earnest, I believed all\nthis before, but 'twas something an ignorant kind of faith in me. I was\nsatisfied myself, but could not tell how to persuade another of the\ntruth on't; and to speak indifferently, there are such multitudes that\nabuse the names of love and friendship, and so very few that either\nunderstand or practise it in reality, that it may raise great doubts\nwhether there is any such thing in the world or not, and such as do not\nfind it in themselves will hardly believe 'tis anywhere. But it will\neasily be granted, that most people make haste to be miserable; that\nthey put on their fetters as inconsiderately as a woodcock runs into a\nnoose, and are carried by the weakest considerations imaginable to do a\nthing of the greatest consequence of anything that concerns this world.\nI was told by one (who pretends to know him very well) that nothing\ntempted my cousin Osborne to marry his lady (so much) as that she was an\nEarl's daughter; which methought was the prettiest fancy, and had the\nleast of sense in it, of any I had heard on, considering that it was no\naddition to her person, that he had honour enough before for his\nfortune, and how little it is esteemed in this age,--if it be anything\nin a better,--which for my part I am not well satisfied in. Beside that,\nin this particular it does not sound handsomely. My Lady Bridget Osborne\nmakes a worse name a great deal, methinks, than plain my Lady Osborne\nwould do.\n\nI have been studying how Tom Cheeke might come by his intelligence, and\nI verily believe he has it from my cousin Peters. She lives near them in\nEssex, and in all likelihood, for want of other discourse to entertain\nhim withal, she has come out with all she knows. The last time I saw her\nshe asked me for you before she had spoke six words to me; and I, who of\nall things do not love to make secrets of trifles, told her I had seen\nyou that day. She said no more, nor I neither; but perhaps it worked in\nher little brain. The best on't is, the matter is not great, for though\nI confess I had rather nobody knew it, yet 'tis that I shall never be\nashamed to own.\n\nHow kindly do I take these civilities of your father's; in earnest, you\ncannot imagine how his letter pleased me. I used to respect him merely\nas he was your father, but I begin now to owe it to himself; all that he\nsays is so kind and so obliging, so natural and so easy, that one may\nsee 'tis perfectly his disposition, and has nothing to disguise in it.\n'Tis long since that I knew how well he writ, perhaps you have forgot\nthat you showed me a letter of his (to a French Marquis, I think, or\nsome such man of his acquaintance) when I first knew you; I remember it\nvery well, and that I thought it as handsome a letter as I had seen; but\nI have not skill it seems, for I like yours too.\n\nI can pardon all my cousin Franklin's little plots of discovery, if she\nbelieved herself when she said she was confident our humours would agree\nextremely well. In earnest, I think they do; for I mark that I am always\nof your opinion, unless it be when you will not allow that you write\nwell, for there I am too much concerned. Jane told me t'other day very\nsoberly that we write very much alike. I think she said it with an\nintent to please me, and did not fail in't; but if you write ill, 'twas\nno great compliment to me. _À propos de_ Jane, she bids me tell you\nthat, if you liked your marmalade of quince, she would send you more,\nand she thinks better, that has been made since.\n\n'Twas a strange caprice, as you say, of Mrs. Harrison, but there is fate\nas well as love in those things. The Queen took the greatest pains to\npersuade her from it that could be; and (as somebody says, I know not\nwho) \"Majesty is no ill orator;\" but all would not do. When she had\nnothing to say for herself, she told her she had rather beg with Mr.\nHoward than live in the greatest plenty that could be with either my\nLord Broghill, Charles Rich, or Mr. Nevile,--for all these were dying\nfor her then. I am afraid she has altered her opinion since 'twas too\nlate, for I do not take Mr. Howard to be a person that can deserve one\nshould neglect all the world for him. And where there is no reason to\nuphold a passion, it will sink of itself; but where there is, it may\nlast eternally.--I am yours.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 26.",
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"body": "SIR,--The day I should have received your letter I was invited to dine\nat a rich widow's (whom I think I once told you of, and offered my\nservice in case you thought fit to make addresses there); and she was so\nkind, and in so good humour, that if I had had any commission I should\nhave thought it a very fit time to speak. We had a huge dinner, though\nthe company was only of her own kindred that are in the house with her\nand what I brought; but she is broke loose from an old miserable husband\nthat lived so long, she thinks if she does not make haste she shall not\nhave time to spend what he left. She is old and was never handsome, and\nyet is courted a thousand times more than the greatest beauty in the\nworld would be that had not a fortune. We could not eat in quiet for the\nletters and presents that came in from people that would not have looked\nupon her when they had met her if she had been left poor. I could not\nbut laugh to myself at the meanness of their humour, and was merry\nenough all day, for the company was very good; and besides, I expected\nto find when I came home a letter from you that would be more a feast\nand company to me than all that was there. But never anybody was so\ndefeated as I was to find none. I could not imagine the reason, only I\nassured myself it was no fault of yours, but perhaps a just punishment\nupon me for having been too much pleased in a company where you were\nnot.\n\nAfter supper my brother and I fell into dispute about riches, and the\ngreat advantages of it; he instanced in the widow that it made one\nrespected in the world. I said 'twas true, but that was a respect I\nshould not at all value when I owed it only to my fortune. And we\ndebated it so long till we had both talked ourselves weary enough to go\nto bed. Yet I did not sleep so well but that I chid my maid for waking\nme in the morning, till she stopped my mouth with saying she had letters\nfor me. I had not patience to stay till I could rise, but made her tie\nup all the curtains to let in light; and among some others I found my\ndear letter that was first to be read, and which made all the rest not\nworth the reading. I could not but wonder to find in it that my cousin\nFranklin should want a true friend when 'tis thought she has the best\nhusband in the world; he was so passionate for her before he had her,\nand so pleased with her since, that, in earnest, I did not think it\npossible she could have anything left to wish for that she had not\nalready in such a husband with such a fortune. But she can best tell\nwhether she is happy or not; only if she be not, I do not see how\nanybody else can hope it. I know her the least of all the sisters, and\nperhaps 'tis to my advantage that she knows me no more, since she speaks\nso obligingly of me. But do you think it was altogether without design\nshe spoke it to you? When I remember she is Tom Cheeke's sister, I am\napt to think she might have heard his news, and meant to try whether\nthere was anything of truth in't. My cousin Molle, I think, means to end\nthe summer there. They say, indeed, 'tis a very fine seat, but if I did\nnot mistake Sir Thomas Cheeke, he told me there was never a good room in\nthe house. I was wondering how you came by an acquaintance there,\nbecause I had never heard you speak that you knew them. I never saw him\nin my life, but he is famous for a kind husband. Only 'twas found fault\nwith that he could not forbear kissing his wife before company, a\nfoolish trick that young married men are apt to; he has left it long\nsince, I suppose. But, seriously, 'tis as ill a sight as one would wish\nto see, and appears very rude, methinks, to the company.\n\nWhat a strange fellow this goldsmith is, he has a head fit for nothing\nbut horns. I chid him once for a seal he set me just of this fashion and\nthe same colours. If he were to make twenty they should be all so, his\ninvention can stretch no further than blue and red. It makes me think of\nthe fellow that could paint nothing but a flower-de-luce, who, when he\nmet with one that was so firmly resolved to have a lion for his sign\nthat there was no persuading him out on't, \"Well,\" says the painter,\n\"let it be a lion then, but it shall be as like a flower-de-luce as e'er\nyou saw.\" So, because you would have it a dolphin, he consented to it,\nbut it is like an ill-favoured knot of ribbon. I did not say anything of\nmy father's being ill of late; I think I told you before, he kept his\nchamber ever since his last sickness, and so he does still. Yet I cannot\nsay that he is at all sick, but has so general a weakness upon him that\nI am much afraid their opinion of him has too much of truth in it, and\ndo extremely apprehend how the winter may work upon him. Will you pardon\nthis strange scribbled letter, and the disorderliness on't? I know you\nwould, though I should not tell you that I am not so much at leisure as\nI used to be. You can forgive your friends anything, and when I am not\nthe faithfullest of those, never forgive me. You may direct your letters\nhow you please, here will be nobody to receive it but\n\nYour.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 23",
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"body": "SIR,--Your last came safe, and I shall follow your direction for the\naddress of this, though, as you say, I cannot imagine what should tempt\nanybody to so severe a search for them, unless it be that he is not yet\nfully satisfied to what degree our friendship is grown, and thinks he\nmay best inform himself from them. In earnest, 'twould not be unpleasant\nto hear our discourse. He forms his with so much art and design, and is\nso pleased with the hopes of making some discovery, and I [who] know him\nas well as he does himself, cannot but give myself the recreation\nsometimes of confounding him and destroying all that his busy head had\nbeen working on since the last conference. He gives me some trouble with\nhis suspicions; yet, on my conscience, he is a greater to himself, and I\ndeal with so much _franchise_ as to tell him so; and yet he has no more\nthe heart to ask me directly what he would so fain know, than a jealous\nman has to ask (one that might tell him) whether he were a cuckold or\nnot, for fear of being resolved of that which is yet a doubt to him. My\neldest brother is not so inquisitive; he satisfies himself with\npersuading me earnestly to marry, and takes no notice of anything that\nmay hinder me, but a carelessness of my fortune, or perhaps an aversion\nto a kind of life that appears to have less of freedom in't than that\nwhich at present I enjoy. But, sure, he gives himself another reason,\nfor 'tis not very long since he took occasion to inquire for you very\nkindly of me; and though I could then give but little account of you, he\nsmiled as if he did not altogether believe me, and afterwards\nmaliciously said he wondered you did not marry. And I seemed to do so\ntoo, and said, if I knew any woman that had a great fortune, and were a\nperson worthy of you, I should wish her you with all my heart. \"But,\nsister,\" says he, \"would you have him love her?\" \"Do you doubt it?\" did\nI say; \"he were not happy in't else.\" He laughed, and said my humour was\npleasant; but he made some question whether it was natural or not. He\ncannot be so unjust as to let me lose him, sure, I was kind to him\nthough I had some reason not to take it very well when he made that a\nsecret to me which was known to so many that did not know him; but we\nshall never fall out, I believe, we are not apt to it, neither of us.\n\nIf you are come back from Epsom, I may ask you how you like drinking\nwater? I have wished it might agree as well with you as it did with me;\nand if it were as certain that the same thing would do us good as 'tis\nthat the same thing would please us, I should not need to doubt it.\nOtherwise my wishes do not signify much, but I am forbid complaints, or\nto express my fears. And be it so, only you must pardon me if I cannot\nagree to give you false hopes; I must be deceived myself before I can\ndeceive you, and I have so accustomed myself to tell you all that I\nthink, that I must either say nothing, or that which I believe to be\ntrue.\n\nI cannot say but that I have wanted Jane; but it has been rather to have\nsomebody to talk with of you, than that I needed anybody to put me in\nmind of you, and with all her diligence I should have often prevented\nher in that discourse. Were you at Althorp when you saw my Lady\nSunderland and Mr. Smith, or are they in town? I have heard, indeed,\nthat they are very happy; but withal that, as she is a very\nextraordinary person herself, so she aimed at doing extraordinary\nthings, and when she had married Mr. Smith (because some people were so\nbold as to think she did it because she loved him) she undertook to\nconvince the world that what she had done was in mere pity to his\nsufferings, and that she could not go a step lower to meet anybody than\nthat led her, though when she thought there were no eyes on her, she was\nmore gracious to him. But perhaps this might not be true, or it may be\nshe is now grown weary of that constraint she put upon herself. I should\nhave been sadder than you if I had been their neighbour to have seen\nthem so kind; as I must have been if I had married the Emperor. He used\nto brag to me always of a great acquaintance he had there, what an\nesteem my lady had for him, and had the vanity (not to call it\nimpudence) to talk sometimes as if he would have had me believe he might\nhave had her, and would not; I'll swear I blushed for him when I saw he\ndid not. He told me too, that though he had carried his addresses to me\nwith all the privacy that was possible, because he saw I liked it best,\nand that 'twas partly his own humour too, yet she had discovered it, and\ncould tell that there had been such a thing, and that it was broke off\nagain, she knew not why; which certainly was a lie, as well as the\nother, for I do not think she ever heard there was such a one in the\nworld as\n\nYour faithful friend.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 24",
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"body": "SIR,--I did not lay it as a fault to your charge that you were not good\nat disguise; if it be one, I am too guilty on't myself to accuse\nanother. And though I have been told it shows an unpractisedness in the\nworld, and betrays to all that understand it better, yet since it is a\nquality I was not born with, nor ever like to get, I have always thought\ngood to maintain that 'twas better not to need it than to have it.\n\nI give you many thanks for your care of my Irish dog, but I am extremely\nout of countenance your father should be troubled with it. Sure, he will\nthink I have a most extravagant fancy; but do me the right as to let him\nknow I am not so possessed with it as to consent he should be employed\nin such a commission.\n\nYour opinion of my eldest brother is, I think, very just, and when I\nsaid maliciously, I meant a French malice, which you know does not\nsignify the same with an English one. I know not whether I told it you\nor not, but I concluded (from what you said of your indisposition) that\nit was very like the spleen; but perhaps I foresaw you would not be\nwilling to own a disease that the severe part of the world holds to be\nmerely imaginary and affected, and therefore proper only to women.\nHowever, I cannot but wish you had stayed longer at Epsom and drunk the\nwaters with more order though in a less proportion. But did you drink\nthem immediately from the well? I remember I was forbid it, and\nmethought with a great deal of reason, for (especially at this time of\nyear) the well is so low, and there is such a multitude to be served out\non't, that you can hardly get any but what is thick and troubled; and I\nhave marked that when it stood all night (for that was my direction) the\nbottom of the vessel it stood in would be covered an inch thick with a\nwhite clay, which, sure, has no great virtue in't, and is not very\npleasant to drink.\n\nWhat a character of a young couple you give me! Would you would ask some\none who knew him, whether he be not much more of an ass since his\nmarriage than he was before. I have some reason to doubt that it alters\npeople strangely. I made a visit t'other day to welcome a lady into this\ncountry whom her husband had newly brought down, and because I knew him,\nthough not her, and she was a stranger here, 'twas a civility I owed\nthem. But you cannot imagine how I was surprised to see a man that I had\nknown so handsome, so capable of being made a pretty gentleman (for\nthough he was no proud philosopher, as the Frenchmen say, he was that\nwhich good company and a little knowledge of the world would have made\nequal to many that think themselves very well, and are thought so),\ntransformed into the direct shape of a great boy newly come from school.\nTo see him wholly taken up with running on errands for his wife, and\nteaching her little dog tricks! And this was the best of him; for when\nhe was at leisure to talk, he would suffer no one else to do it, and\nwhat he said, and the noise he made, if you had heard it, you would have\nconcluded him drunk with joy that he had a wife and a pack of hounds. I\nwas so weary on't that I made haste home, and could not but think of the\nchange all the way till my brother (who was with me) thought me sad, and\nso, to put me in better humour, said he believed I repented me I had not\nthis gentleman, now I saw how absolutely his wife governed him. But I\nassured him, that though I thought it very fit such as he should be\ngoverned, yet I should not like the employment by no means. It becomes\nno woman, and did so ill with this lady that in my opinion it spoiled a\ngood face and a very fine gown. Yet the woman you met upon the way\ngoverned her husband and did it handsomely. It was, as you say, a great\nexample of friendship, and much for the credit of our sex.\n\nYou are too severe to Walker. I'll undertake he would set me twenty\nseals for nothing rather than undergo your wrath. I am in no haste for\nit, and so he does it well we will not fall out; perhaps he is not in\nthe humour of keeping his word at present, and nobody can blame him if\nhe be often in an ill one. But though I am merciful to him, as to one\nthat has suffered enough already, I cannot excuse you that profess to be\nmy friend and yet are content to let me live in such ignorance, write to\nme every week, and yet never send me any of the new phrases of the town.\nI could tell you, without abandoning the truth, that it is part of your\n_devoyre_ to correct the imperfections you find under my hand, and that\nmy trouble resembles my wonder you can let me be dissatisfied. I should\nnever have learnt any of these fine things from you; and, to say truth,\nI know not whether I shall from anybody else, if to learn them be to\nunderstand them. Pray what is meant by _wellness_ and _unwellness_; and\nwhy is _to some extreme_ better than _to some extremity_? I believe I\nshall live here till there is quite a new language spoke where you are,\nand shall come out like one of the Seven Sleepers, a creature of another\nage. But 'tis no matter so you understand me, though nobody else do,\nwhen I say how much I am\n\nYour faithful.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 29.",
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"body": "SIR,--I can give you leave to doubt anything but my kindness, though I\ncan assure you I spake as I meant when I said I had not the vanity to\nbelieve I deserv'd yours, for I am not certain whether 'tis possible for\nanybody to deserve that another should love them above themselves,\nthough I am certain many may deserve it more than me. But not to dispute\nthis with you, let me tell you that I am thus far of your opinion, that\nupon some natures nothing is so powerful as kindness, and that I should\ngive that to yours which all the merit in the world besides would not\ndraw from me. I spake as if I had not done so already; but you may\nchoose whether you will believe me or not, for, to say truth, I do not\nmuch believe myself in that point. No, all the kindness I have or ever\nhad is yours; nor shall I ever repent it so, unless you shall ever\nrepent yours. Without telling you what the inconveniences of your coming\nhither are, you may believe they are considerable, or else I should not\ndeny you or myself the happiness of seeing one another; and if you dare\ntrust me where I am equally concerned with you, I shall take hold of the\nfirst opportunity that may either admit you here or bring me nearer you.\nSure you took somebody else for my cousin Peters? I can never believe\nher beauty able to smite anybody. I saw her when I was last in town, but\nshe appear'd wholly the same to me, she was at St. Malo, with all her\ninnocent good nature too, and asked for you so kindly, that I am sure\nshe cannot have forgot you; nor do I think she had so much address as to\ndo it merely in compliment to me. No, you are mistaken certainly; what\nshould she do amongst all that company, unless she be towards a wedding?\nShe has been kept at home, poor soul, and suffered so much of purgatory\nin this world that she needs not fear it in the next; and yet she is as\nmerry as ever she was, which perhaps might make her look young, but that\nshe laughs a little too much, and that will bring wrinkles, they say.\nOh, me! now I talk of laughing, it makes me think of poor Jane. I had a\nletter from her the other day; she desired me to present her humble\nservice to her master,--she did mean you, sure, for she named everybody\nelse that she owes any service to,--and bid me say that she would keep\nher word with him. God knows what you have agreed on together. She tells\nme she shall stay long enough there to hear from me once more, and then\nshe is resolved to come away.\n\nHere is a seal, which pray give Walker to set for me very handsomely,\nand not of any of those fashions he made my others, but of something\nthat may differ from the rest. 'Tis a plain head, but not ill cut, I\nthink. My eldest brother is now here, and we expect my youngest shortly,\nand then we shall be altogether, which I do not think we ever were twice\nin our lives. My niece is still with me, but her father threatens to\nfetch her away. If I can keep her to Michaelmas I may perhaps bring her\nup to town myself, and take that occasion of seeing you; but I have no\nother business that is worth my taking a journey, for I have had another\nsummons from my aunt, and I protest I am afraid I shall be in rebellion\nthere; but 'tis not to be helped. The widow writes me word, too, that I\nmust expect her here about a month hence; and I find that I shall want\nno company, but only that which I would have, and for which I could\nwillingly spare all the rest. Will it be ever thus? I am afraid it will.\nThere has been complaints made on me already to my eldest brother (only\nin general, or at least he takes notice of no more), what offers I\nrefuse, and what a strange humour has possessed me of being deaf to the\nadvice of all my friends. I find I am to be baited by them all by turns.\nThey weary themselves, and me too, to very little purpose, for to my\nthinking they talk the most impertinently that ever people did; and I\nbelieve they are not in my debt, but think the same of me. Sometimes I\ntell them I will not marry, and then they laugh at me; sometimes I say,\n\"Not yet,\" and they laugh more, and would make me believe I shall be old\nwithin this twelvemonth. I tell them I shall be wiser then. They say\n'twill be to no purpose. Sometimes we are in earnest and sometimes in\njest, but always saying something since my brother Henry found his\ntongue again. If you were with me I could make sport of all this; but\n\"patience is my penance\" is somebody's motto, and I think it must be\nmine.\n\nI am your.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 26",
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"body": "SIR,--You cannot imagine how I was surpris'd to find a letter that began\n\"Dear brother;\" I thought sure it could not belong at all to me, and was\nafraid I had lost one by it; that you intended me another, and in your\nhaste had mistook this for that. Therefore, till I found the permission\nyou gave me, I had laid it by with a resolution not to read it, but to\nsend it again. If I had done so, I had missed a great deal of\nsatisfaction which I received from it. In earnest, I cannot tell you how\nkindly I take all the obliging things you say in it of me; nor how\npleased I should be (for your sake) if I were able to make good the\ncharacter you give me to your brother, and that I did not owe a great\npart of it wholly to your friendship for me. I dare call nothing on't my\nown but faithfulness; that I may boast of with truth and modesty, since\n'tis but a simple virtue; and though some are without it, yet 'tis so\nabsolutely necessary, that nobody wanting it can be worthy of any\nesteem. I see you speak well of me to other people, though you complain\nalways to me. I know not how to believe I should misuse your heart as\nyou pretend; I never had any quarrel to it, and since our friendship it\nhas been dear to me as my own. 'Tis rather, sure, that you have a mind\nto try another, than that any dislike of yours makes you turn it over to\nme; but be it as it will, I am contented to stand to the loss, and\nperhaps when you have changed you will find so little difference that\nyou'll be calling for your own again. Do but assure me that I shall find\nyou almost as merry as my Lady Anne Wentworth is always, and nothing\nshall fright me from my purpose of seeing you as soon as I can with any\nconveniency. I would not have you insensible of our misfortunes, but I\nwould not either that you should revenge them on yourself; no, that\nshows a want of constancy (which you will hardly yield to be your\nfault); but 'tis certain that there was never anything more mistaken\nthan the Roman courage, when they killed themselves to avoid misfortunes\nthat were infinitely worse than death. You confess 'tis an age since our\nstory began, as is not fit for me to own. Is it not likely, then, that\nif my face had ever been good, it might be altered since then; or is it\nas unfit for me to own the change as the time that makes it? Be it as\nyou please, I am not enough concerned in't to dispute it with you; for,\ntrust me, if you would not have my face better, I am satisfied it should\nbe as it is; since if ever I wished it otherwise, 'twas for your sake.\n\nI know not how I stumbled upon a news-book this week, and, for want of\nsomething else to do read it; it mentions my Lord Lisle's embassage\nagain. Is there any such thing towards? I met with somebody else too\nin't that may concern anybody that has a mind to marry; 'tis a new form\nfor it, that, sure, will fright the country people extremely, for they\napprehend nothing like going before a Justice; they say no other\nmarriage shall stand good in law. In conscience, I believe the old one\nis the better; and for my part I am resolved to stay till that comes in\nfashion again.\n\nCan your father have so perfectly forgiven already the injury I did him\n(since you will not allow it to be any to you), in hindering you of Mrs.\nChambers, as to remember me with kindness? 'Tis most certain that I am\nobliged to him, and, in earnest, if I could hope it might ever be in my\npower to serve him I would promise something for myself. But is it not\ntrue, too, that you have represented me to him rather as you imagine me\nthan as I am; and have you not given him an expectation that I shall\nnever be able to satisfy? If you have, I can forgive you, because I know\nyou meant well in't; but I have known some women that have commended\nothers merely out of spite, and if I were malicious enough to envy\nanybody's beauty, I would cry it up to all that had not seen them;\nthere's no such way to make anybody appear less handsome than they are.\n\nYou must not forget that you are some letters in my debt, besides the\nanswer to this. If there were not conveniences of sending, I should\npersecute you strangely. And yet you cannot wonder at it; the constant\ndesire I have to hear from you, and the satisfaction your letters give\nme, would oblige one that has less time to write often. But yet I know\nwhat 'tis to be in the town. I could never write a letter from thence in\nmy life of above a dozen lines; and though I see as little company as\nanybody that comes there, yet I always met with something or other that\nkept me idle. Therefore I can excuse it, though you do not exactly pay\nall that you owe, upon condition you shall tell me when I see you all\nthat you should have writ if you had had time, and all that you can\nimagine to say to a person that is\n\nYour faithful friend.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 27",
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"body": "SIR,--It was, sure, a less fault in me to make a scruple of reading your\nletter to your brother, which in all likelihood I could not be concerned\nin, than for you to condemn the freedom you take of giving me directions\nin a thing where we are equally concerned. Therefore, if I forgive you\nthis, you may justly forgive me t'other; and upon these terms we are\nfriends again, are we not? No, stay! I have another fault to chide you\nfor. You doubted whether you had not writ too much, and whether I could\nhave the patience to read it or not. Why do you dissemble so abominably;\nyou cannot think these things? How I should love that plain-heartedness\nyou speak of, if you would use it; nothing is civil but that amongst\nfriends. Your kind sister ought to chide you, too, for not writing to\nher, unless you have been with her to excuse it. I hope you have; and\npray take some time to make her one visit from me, and carry my humble\nservice with you, and tell her that 'tis not my fault that you are no\nbetter. I do not think I shall see the town before Michaelmas, therefore\nyou may make what sallies you please. I am tied here to expect my\nbrother Peyton, and then possibly we may go up together, for I should be\nat home again before the term. Then I may show you my niece; and you may\nconfess that I am a kind aunt to desire her company, since the\ndisadvantage of our being together will lie wholly upon me. But I must\nmake it my bargain, that if I come you will not be frighted to see me;\nyou think, I'll warrant, you have courage enough to endure a worse\nsight. You may be deceived, you never saw me in mourning yet; nobody\nthat has will e'er desire to do it again, for their own sakes as well as\nmine. Oh, 'tis a most dismal dress,--I have not dared to look in the\nglass since I wore it; and certainly if it did so ill with other people\nas it does with me, it would never be worn.\n\nYou told me of writing to your father, but you did not say whether you\nhad heard from him, or how he did. May not I ask it? Is it possible that\nhe saw me? Where were my eyes that I did not see him, for I believe I\nshould have guessed at least that 'twas he if I had? They say you are\nvery like him; but 'tis no wonder neither that I did not see him, for I\nsaw not you when I met you there. 'Tis a place I look upon nobody in;\nand it was reproached to me by a kinsman, but a little before you came\nto me, that he had followed me to half a dozen shops to see when I would\ntake notice of him, and was at last going away with a belief 'twas not\nI, because I did not seem to know him. Other people make it so much\ntheir business to gape, that I'll swear they put me so out of\ncountenance I dare not look up for my life.\n\nI am sorry for General Monk's misfortunes, because you say he is your\nfriend; but otherwise she will suit well enough with the rest of the\ngreat ladies of the times, and become Greenwich as well as some others\ndo the rest of the King's houses. If I am not mistaken, that Monk has a\nbrother lives in Cornwall; an honest gentleman, I have heard, and one\nthat was a great acquaintance of a brother of mine who was killed there\nduring the war, and so much his friend that upon his death he put\nhimself and his family into mourning for him, which is not usual, I\nthink, where there is no relation of kindred.\n\nI will take order that my letters shall be left with Jones, and yours\ncalled for there. As long as your last was, I read it over thrice in\nless than an hour, though, to say truth, I had skipped some on't the\nlast time. I could not read my own confession so often. Love is a\nterrible word, and I should blush to death if anything but a letter\naccused me on't. Pray be merciful, and let it run friendship in my next\ncharge. My Lady sends me word she has received those parts of _Cyrus_ I\nlent you. Here is another for you which, when you have read, you know\nhow to dispose. There are four pretty stories in it, \"_L'Amant Absente_,\"\n\"_L'Amant non Aimé_,\" \"_L'Amant Jaloux_,\" _et_ \"_L'Amant dont La Maitresse\nest mort_.\" Tell me which you have most compassion for when you have\nread what every one says for himself. Perhaps you will not think it so\neasy to decide which is the most unhappy, as you may think by the titles\ntheir stories bear. Only let me desire you not to pity the jealous one,\nfor I remember I could do nothing but laugh at him as one that sought\nhis own vexation. This, and the little journeys (you say) you are to\nmake, will entertain you till I come; which, sure, will be as soon as\npossible I can, since 'tis equally desired by you and your faithful.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 28",
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"body": "SIR,--All my quarrels to you are kind ones, for, sure, 'tis alike\nimpossible for me to be angry as for you to give me the occasion;\ntherefore, when I chide (unless it be that you are not careful enough of\nyourself, and hazard too much a health that I am more concerned in than\nmy own), you need not study much for excuses, I can easily forgive you\nanything but want of kindness. The judgment you have made of the four\nlovers I recommended to you does so perfectly agree with what I think of\nthem, that I hope it will not alter when you have read their stories.\n_L'Amant Absente_ has (in my opinion) a mistress so much beyond any of\nthe rest, that to be in danger of losing her is more than to have lost\nthe others; _L'Amant non Aimé_ was an ass, under favour (notwithstanding\nthe _Princesse Cleobuline's_ letter); his mistress had caprices that\nwould have suited better with our _Amant Jaloux_ than with anybody else;\nand the _Prince Artibie_ was much to blame that he outlived his _belle\nLeontine_. But if you have met with the beginning of the story of\n_Amestris and Aglatides_, you will find the rest of it in this part I\nsend you now; and 'tis, to me, one of the prettiest I have read, and the\nmost natural. They say the gentleman that writes this romance has a\nsister that lives with him, a maid, and she furnishes him with all the\nlittle stories that come between, so that he only contrives the main\ndesign; and when he wants something to entertain his company withal, he\ncalls to her for it. She has an excellent fancy, sure, and a great wit;\nbut, I am sorry to tell it you, they say 'tis the most ill-favoured\ncreature that ever was born. And 'tis often so; how seldom do we see a\nperson excellent in anything but they have some great defect with it\nthat pulls them low enough to make them equal with other people; and\nthere is justice in't. Those that have fortunes have nothing else, and\nthose that want it deserve to have it. That's but small comfort, though,\nyou'll say; 'tis confessed, but there is no such thing as perfect\nhappiness in this world, those that have come the nearest it had many\nthings to wish; and,--bless me, whither am I going? Sure, 'tis the\ndeath's head I see stand before me puts me into this grave discourse\n(pray do not think I meant that for a conceit neither); how idly have I\nspent two sides of my paper, and am afraid, besides, I shall not have\ntime to write two more. Therefore I'll make haste to tell you that my\nfriendship for you makes me concerned in all your relations; that I have\na great respect for Sir John, merely as he is your father, and that 'tis\nmuch increased by his kindness to you; that he has all my prayers and\nwishes for his safety; and that you will oblige me in letting me know\nwhen you hear any good news from him. He has met with a great deal of\ngood company, I believe. My Lady Ormond, I am told, is waiting for a\npassage, and divers others; but this wind (if I am not mistaken) is not\ngood for them. In earnest, 'tis a most sad thing that a person of her\nquality should be reduced to such a fortune as she has lived upon these\nlate years, and that she should lose that which she brought, as well as\nthat which was her husband's. Yet, I hear, she has now got some of her\nown land in Ireland granted her; but whether she will get it when she\ncomes there is, I think, a question.\n\nWe have a lady new come into this country that I pity, too, extremely.\nShe is one of my Lord of Valentia's daughters, and has married an old\nfellow that is some threescore and ten, who has a house that is fitter\nfor the hogs than for her, and a fortune that will not at all recompense\nthe least of these inconveniences. Ah! 'tis most certain I should have\nchosen a handsome chain to lead my apes in before such a husband; but\nmarrying and hanging go by destiny, they say. It was not mine, it seems,\nto have an emperor; the spiteful man, merely to vex me, has gone and\nmarried my countrywoman, my Lord Lee's daughter. What a multitude of\nwillow garlands I shall weave before I die; I think I had best make them\ninto faggots this cold weather, the flame they would make in a chimney\nwould be of more use to me than that which was in the hearts of all\nthose that gave them me, and would last as long. I did not think I\nshould have got thus far. I have been so persecuted with visits all this\nweek I have had no time to despatch anything of business, so that now I\nhave done this I have forty letters more to write; how much rather would\nI have them all to you than to anybody else; or, rather, how much better\nwould it be if there needed none to you, and that I could tell you\nwithout writing how much I am\n\nYours.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 29",
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"body": "SIR,--Pray, let not the apprehension that others say fine things to me\nmake your letters at all the shorter; for, if it were so, I should not\nthink they did, and so long you are safe. My brother Peyton does,\nindeed, sometimes send me letters that may be excellent for aught I\nknow, and the more likely because I do not understand them; but I may\nsay to you (as to a friend) I do not like them, and have wondered that\nmy sister (who, I may tell you too, and you will not think it vanity in\nme, had a great deal of wit, and was thought to write as well as most\nwomen in England) never persuaded him to alter his style, and make it a\nlittle more intelligible. He is an honest gentleman, in earnest, has\nunderstanding enough, and was an excellent husband to two very different\nwives, as two good ones could be. My sister was a melancholy, retired\nwoman, and, besides the company of her husband and her books, never\nsought any, but could have spent a life much longer than hers was in\nlooking to her house and her children. This lady is of a free, jolly\nhumour, loves cards and company, and is never more pleased than when she\nsees a great many others that are so too. Now, with both these he so\nperfectly complied that 'tis hard to judge which humour he is more\ninclined to in himself; perhaps to neither, which makes it so much the\nmore strange. His kindness to his first wife may give him an esteem for\nher sister; but he was too much smitten with this lady to think of\nmarrying anybody else, and, seriously, I could not blame him, for she\nhad, and has yet, great loveliness in her; she was very handsome, and is\nvery good (one may read it in her face at first sight). A woman that is\nhugely civil to all people, and takes as generally as anybody that I\nknow, but not more than my cousin Molle's letters do, but which, yet,\nyou do not like, you say, nor I neither, I'll swear; and if it be\nignorance in us both we'll forgive it one another. In my opinion these\ngreat scholars are not the best writers (of letters, I mean); of books,\nperhaps they are. I never had, I think, but one letter from Sir\nJustinian, but 'twas worth twenty of anybody's else to make me sport. It\nwas the most sublime nonsense that in my life I ever read; and yet, I\nbelieve, he descended as low as he could to come near my weak\nunderstanding. 'Twill be no compliment after this to say I like your\nletters in themselves; not as they come from one that is not indifferent\nto me, but, seriously, I do. All letters, methinks, should be free and\neasy as one's discourse; not studied as an oration, nor made up of hard\nwords like a charm. 'Tis an admirable thing to see how some people will\nlabour to find out terms that may obscure a plain sense. Like a\ngentleman I know, who would never say \"the weather grew cold,\" but that\n\"winter began to salute us.\" I have no patience for such coxcombs, and\ncannot blame an old uncle of mine that threw the standish at his man's\nhead because he writ a letter for him where, instead of saying (as his\nmaster bid him), \"that he would have writ himself, but he had the gout\nin his hand,\" he said, \"that the gout in his hand would not permit him\nto put pen to paper.\" The fellow thought he had mended it mightily, and\nthat putting pen to paper was much better than plain writing.\n\nI have no patience neither for these translations of romances. I met\nwith _Polexander_ and _L'illustre Bassa_ both so disguised that I, who\nam their old acquaintance, hardly know them; besides that, they were\nstill so much French in words and phrases that 'twas impossible for one\nthat understands not French to make anything of them. If poor\n_Prazimene_ be in the same dress, I would not see her for the world. She\nhas suffered enough besides. I never saw but four tomes of her, and was\ntold the gentleman that writ her story died when those were finished. I\nwas very sorry for it, I remember, for I liked so far as I had seen of\nit extremely. Is it not my good Lord of Monmouth, or some such\nhonourable personage, that presents her to the English ladies? I have\nheard many people wonder how he spends his estate. I believe he undoes\nhimself with printing his translations. Nobody else will undergo the\ncharge, because they never hope to sell enough of them to pay themselves\nwithal. I was looking t'other day in a book of his where he translates\n_Pipero_ as piper, and twenty words more that are as false as this.\n\nMy Lord Broghill, sure, will give us something worth the reading. My\nLord Saye, I am told, has writ a romance since his retirement in the\nIsle of Lundy, and Mr. Waller, they say, is making one of our wars,\nwhich, if he does not mingle with a great deal of pleasing fiction,\ncannot be very diverting, sure, the subject is so sad.\n\nBut all this is nothing to my coming to town, you'll say. 'Tis confest;\nand that I was willing as long as I could to avoid saying anything when\nI had nothing to say worth your knowing. I am still obliged to wait my\nbrother Peyton and his lady coming. I had a letter from him this week,\nwhich I will send you, that you may see what hopes he gives. As little\nroom as I have left, too, I must tell you what a present I had made me\nto-day. Two of the finest young Irish greyhounds that e'er I saw; a\ngentleman that serves the General sent them me. They are newly come\nover, and sent for by Henry Cromwell, he tells me, but not how he got\nthem for me. However, I am glad I have them, and much the more because\nit dispenses with a very unfit employment that your father, out of his\nkindness to you and his civility to me, was content to take upon him.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 34.",
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"body": "SIR,--Jane was so unlucky as to come out of town before your return, but\nshe tells me she left my letter with Nan Stacy for you. I was in hope\nshe would have brought me one from you; and because she did not I was\nresolv'd to punish her, and kept her up till one o'clock telling me all\nher stories. Sure, if there be any truth in the old observation, your\ncheeks glowed notably; and 'tis most certain that if I were with you, I\nshould chide notably. What do you mean to be so melancholy? By her\nreport your humour is grown insupportable. I can allow it not to be\naltogether what she says, and yet it may be very ill too; but if you\nloved me you would not give yourself over to that which will infallibly\nkill you, if it continue. I know too well that our fortunes have given\nus occasion enough to complain and to be weary of her tyranny; but,\nalas! would it be better if I had lost you or you me; unless we were\nsure to die both together, 'twould but increase our misery, and add to\nthat which is more already than we can well tell how to bear. You are\nmore cruel than she regarding a life that's dearer to me than that of\nthe whole world besides, and which makes all the happiness I have or\never shall be capable of. Therefore, by all our friendship I conjure you\nand, by the power you have given me, command you, to preserve yourself\nwith the same care that you would have me live. 'Tis all the obedience I\nrequire of you, and will be the greatest testimony you can give me of\nyour faith. When you have promised me this, 'tis not impossible that I\nmay promise you shall see me shortly; though my brother Peyton (who says\nhe will come down to fetch his daughter) hinders me from making the\njourney in compliment to her. Yet I shall perhaps find business enough\nto carry me up to town. 'Tis all the service I expect from two girls\nwhose friends have given me leave to provide for, that some order I must\ntake for the disposal of them may serve for my pretence to see you; but\nthen I must find you pleased and in good humour, merry as you were wont\nto be when we first met, if you will not have me show that I am nothing\nakin to my cousin Osborne's lady.\n\nBut what an age 'tis since we first met, and how great a change it has\nwrought in both of us; if there had been as great a one in my face, it\ncould be either very handsome or very ugly. For God's sake, when we\nmeet, let us design one day to remember old stories in, to ask one\nanother by what degrees our friendship grew to this height 'tis at. In\nearnest, I am lost sometimes with thinking on't; and though I can never\nrepent the share you have in my heart, I know not whether I gave it you\nwillingly or not at first. No, to speak ingenuously, I think you got an\ninterest there a good while before I thought you had any, and it grew so\ninsensibly, and yet so fast, that all the traverses it has met with\nsince has served rather to discover it to me than at all to hinder it.\nBy this confession you will see I am past all disguise with you, and\nthat you have reason to be satisfied with knowing as much of my heart as\nI do myself. Will the kindness of this letter excuse the shortness on't?\nFor I have twenty more, I think, to write, and the hopes I had of\nreceiving one from you last night kept me writing this when I had more\ntime; or if all this will not satisfy, make your own conditions, so you\ndo not return it me by the shortness of yours. Your servant kisses your\nhands, and I am\n\nYour faithful.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 31",
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"body": "SIR,--Why are you so sullen, and why am I the cause? Can you believe\nthat I do willingly defer my journey? I know you do not. Why, then,\nshould my absence now be less supportable to you than heretofore? Nay,\nit shall not be long (if I can help it), and I shall break through all\ninconveniences rather than deny you anything that lies in my power to\ngrant. But by your own rules, then, may I not expect the same from you?\nIs it possible that all I have said cannot oblige you to a care of\nyourself? What a pleasant distinction you make when you say that 'tis\nnot melancholy makes you do these things, but a careless forgetfulness.\nDid ever anybody forget themselves to that degree that was not\nmelancholy in extremity? Good God! how you are altered; and what is it\nthat has done it? I have known you when of all the things in the world\nyou would not have been taken for a discontent; you were, as I thought,\nperfectly pleased with your condition; what has made it so much worse\nsince? I know nothing you have lost, and am sure you have gained a\nfriend that is capable of the highest degree of friendship you can\npropound, that has already given an entire heart for that which she\nreceived, and 'tis no more in her will than in her power ever to recall\nit or divide it; if this be not enough to satisfy you, tell me what I\ncan do more?\n\nThere are a great many ingredients must go to the making me happy in a\nhusband. First, as my cousin Franklin says, our humours must agree; and\nto do that he must have that kind of breeding that I have had, and used\nthat kind of company. That is, he must not be so much a country\ngentleman as to understand nothing but hawks and dogs, and be fonder of\neither than his wife; nor of the next sort of them whose aim reaches no\nfurther than to be Justice of the Peace, and once in his life High\nSheriff, who reads no book but statutes, and studies nothing but how to\nmake a speech interlarded with Latin that may amaze his disagreeing poor\nneighbours, and fright them rather than persuade them into quietness. He\nmust not be a thing that began the world in a free school, was sent from\nthence to the university, and is at his furthest when he reaches the\nInns of Court, has no acquaintance but those of his form in these\nplaces, speaks the French he has picked out of old laws, and admires\nnothing but the stories he has heard of the revels that were kept there\nbefore his time. He must not be a town gallant neither, that lives in a\ntavern and an ordinary, that cannot imagine how an hour should be spent\nwithout company unless it be in sleeping, that makes court to all the\nwomen he sees, thinks they believe him, and laughs and is laughed at\nequally. Nor a travelled Monsieur whose head is all feather inside and\noutside, that can talk of nothing but dances and duets, and has courage\nenough to wear slashes when every one else dies with cold to see him. He\nmust not be a fool of no sort, nor peevish, nor ill-natured, nor proud,\nnor covetous; and to all this must be added, that he must love me and I\nhim as much as we are capable of loving. Without all this, his fortune,\nthough never so great, would not satisfy me; and with it, a very\nmoderate one would keep me from ever repenting my disposal.\n\nI have been as large and as particular in my descriptions as my cousin\nMolle is in his of Moor Park,--but that you know the place so well I\nwould send it you,--nothing can come near his patience in writing it,\nbut my reading on't. Would you had sent me your father's letter, it\nwould not have been less welcome to me than to you; and you may safely\nbelieve that I am equally concerned with you in anything. I should be\npleased to see something of my Lady Carlisle's writing, because she is\nso extraordinary a person. I have been thinking of sending you my\npicture till I could come myself; but a picture is but dull company, and\nthat you need not; besides, I cannot tell whether it be very like me or\nnot, though 'tis the best I ever had drawn for me, and Mr. Lilly [Lely]\nwill have it that he never took more pains to make a good one in his\nlife, and that was it I think that spoiled it. He was condemned for\nmaking the first he drew for me a little worse than I, and in making\nthis better he has made it as unlike as t'other. He is now, I think, at\nmy Lord Pagett's at Marloe [Marlow], where I am promised he shall draw a\npicture of my Lady for me,--she gives it me, she says, as the greatest\ntestimony of her friendship to me, for by her own rule she is past the\ntime of having pictures taken of her. After eighteen, she says, there is\nno face but decays apparently; I would fain have had her excepted such\nas had never been beauties, for my comfort, but she would not.\n\nWhen you see your friend Mr. Heningham, you may tell him in his ear\nthere is a willow garland coming towards him. He might have sped better\nin his suit if he had made court to me, as well as to my Lady Ruthin.\nShe has been my wife this seven years, and whosoever pretends there must\nask my leave. I have now given my consent that she shall marry a very\npretty little gentleman, Sir Christopher Yelverton's son, and I think we\nshall have a wedding ere it be long. My Lady her mother, in great\nkindness, would have recommended Heningham to me, and told me in a\ncompliment that I was fitter for him than her daughter, who was younger,\nand therefore did not understand the world so well; that she was certain\nif he knew me he would be extremely taken, for I would make just that\nkind of wife he looked for. I humbly thanked her, but said I was certain\nhe would not make that kind of husband I looked for,--and so it went no\nfurther.\n\nI expect my eldest brother here shortly, whose fortune is well mended by\nmy other brother's death, so as if he were satisfied himself with what\nhe has done, I know no reason why he might not be very happy; but I am\nafraid he is not. I have not seen my sister since I knew she was so;\nbut, sure, she can have lost no beauty, for I never saw any that she\nhad, but good black eyes, which cannot alter. He loves her, I think, at\nthe ordinary rate of husbands, but not enough, I believe, to marry her\nso much to his disadvantage if it were to do again; and that would kill\nme were I as she, for I could be infinitely better satisfied with a\nhusband that had never loved me in hopes he might, than with one that\nbegan to love me less than he had done.\n\nI am yours.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 37.",
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"body": "SIR,--You say I abuse you; and Jane says you abuse me when you say you\nare not melancholy: which is to be believed? Neither, I think; for I\ncould not have said so positively (as it seems she did) that I should\nnot be in town till my brother came back: he was not gone when she writ,\nnor is not yet; and if my brother Peyton had come before his going, I\nhad spoiled her prediction. But now it cannot be; he goes on Monday or\nTuesday at farthest. I hope you did truly with me, too, in saying that\nyou are not melancholy (though she does not believe it). I am thought\nso, many times, when I am not at all guilty on't. How often do I sit in\ncompany a whole day, and when they are gone am not able to give an\naccount of six words that was said, and many times could be so much\nbetter pleased with the entertainment my own thoughts give me, that 'tis\nall I can do to be so civil as not to let them see they trouble me. This\nmay be your disease. However, remember you have promised me to be\ncareful of yourself, and that if I secure what you have entrusted me\nwith, you will answer for the rest. Be this our bargain then; and look\nthat you give me as good an account of one as I shall give you of\nt'other. In earnest, I was strangely vexed to see myself forced to\ndisappoint you so, and felt your trouble and my own too. How often I\nhave wished myself with you, though but for a day, for an hour: I would\nhave given all the time I am to spend here for it with all my heart.\n\nYou could not but have laughed if you had seen me last night. My brother\nand Mr. Gibson were talking by the fire; and I sat by, but as no part of\nthe company. Amongst other things (which I did not at all mind), they\nfell into a discourse of flying; and both agreed it was very possible to\nfind out a way that people might fly like birds, and despatch their\njourneys: so I, that had not said a word all night, started up at that,\nand desired they would say a little more on't, for I had not marked the\nbeginning; but instead of that, they both fell into so violent a\nlaughing, that I should appear so much concerned in such an art; but\nthey little knew of what use it might have been to me. Yet I saw you\nlast night, but 'twas in a dream; and before I could say a word to you,\nor you to me, the disorder my joy to see you had put me into awakened\nme. Just now I was interrupted, too, and called away to entertain two\ndumb gentlemen;--you may imagine whether I was pleased to leave my\nwriting to you for their company;--they have made such a tedious visit,\ntoo; and I am so tired with making of signs and tokens for everything I\nhad to say. Good God! how do those that live with them always? They are\nbrothers; and the eldest is a baronet, has a good estate, a wife and\nthree or four children. He was my servant heretofore, and comes to see\nme still for old love's sake; but if he could have made me mistress of\nthe world I could not have had him; and yet I'll swear he has nothing to\nbe disliked in him but his want of tongue, which in a woman might have\nbeen a virtue.\n\nI sent you a part of _Cyrus_ last week, where you will meet with one\nDoralise in the story of Abradah and Panthée. The whole story is very\ngood; but the humour makes the best part of it. I am of her opinion in\nmost things that she says in her character of \"_L'honnest homme_\" that\nshe is in search of, and her resolution of receiving no heart that had\nbeen offered to anybody else. Pray, tell me how you like her, and what\nfault you find in my Lady Carlisle's letter? Methinks the hand and the\nstyle both show her a great person, and 'tis writ in the way that's now\naffected by all that pretend to wit and good breeding; only, I am a\nlittle scandalized to confess that she uses that word faithful,--she\nthat never knew how to be so in her life.\n\nI have sent you my picture because you wished for it; but, pray, let it\nnot presume to disturb my Lady Sunderland's. Put it in some corner where\nno eyes may find it out but yours, to whom it is only intended. 'Tis not\na very good one, but the best I shall ever have drawn of me; for, as my\nLady says, my time for pictures is past, and therefore I have always\nrefused to part with this, because I was sure the next would be a worse.\nThere is a beauty in youth that every one has once in their lives; and I\nremember my mother used to say there was never anybody (that was not\ndeformed) but were handsome, to some reasonable degree, once between\nfourteen and twenty. It must hang with the light on the left hand of it;\nand you may keep it if you please till I bring you the original. But\nthen I must borrow it (for 'tis no more mine, if you like it), because\nmy brother is often bringing people into my closet where it hangs, to\nshow them other pictures that are there; and if he miss this long\nthence, 'twould trouble his jealous head.\n\nYou are not the first that has told me I knew better what quality I\nwould not have in a husband than what I would; but it was more\npardonable in them. I thought you had understood better what kind of\nperson I liked than anybody else could possibly have done, and therefore\ndid not think it necessary to make you that description too. Those that\nI reckoned up were only such as I could not be persuaded to have upon no\nterms, though I had never seen such a person in my life as Mr. Temple:\nnot but that all those may make very good husbands to some women; but\nthey are so different from my humour that 'tis not possible we should\never agree; for though it might be reasonably enough expected that I\nshould conform mine to theirs (to my shame be it spoken), I could never\ndo it. And I have lived so long in the world, and so much at my own\nliberty, that whosoever has me must be content to take me as they find\nme, without hope of ever making me other than I am. I cannot so much as\ndisguise my humour. When it was designed that I should have had Sir\nJus., my brother used to tell he was confident that, with all his\nwisdom, any woman that had wit and discretion might make an ass of him,\nand govern him as she pleased. I could not deny that possibly it might\nbe so, but 'twas that I was sure I could never do; and though 'tis\nlikely I should have forced myself to so much compliance as was\nnecessary for a reasonable wife, yet farther than that no design could\never have carried me; and I could not have flattered him into a belief\nthat I admired him, to gain more than he and all his generation are\nworth.\n\n'Tis such an ease (as you say) not to be solicitous to please others: in\nearnest, I am no more concerned whether people think me handsome or\nill-favoured, whether they think I have wit or that I have none, than I\nam whether they think my name Elizabeth or Dorothy. I would do nobody no\ninjury; but I should never design to please above one; and that one I\nmust love too, or else I should think it a trouble, and consequently not\ndo it. I have made a general confession to you; will you give me\nabsolution? Methinks you should; for you are not much better by your own\nrelation; therefore 'tis easiest to forgive one another. When you hear\nanything from your father, remember that I am his humble servant, and\nmuch concerned in his good health.\n\nI am yours.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 33",
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"body": "SIR,--You would have me say something of my coming. Alas! how fain I\nwould have something to say, but I know no more than you saw in that\nletter I sent you. How willingly would I tell you anything that I\nthought would please you; but I confess I do not like to give uncertain\nhopes, because I do not care to receive them. And I thought there was no\nneed of saying I would be sure to take the first occasion, and that I\nwaited with impatience for it, because I hoped you had believed all that\nalready; and so you do, I am sure. Say what you will, you cannot but\nknow my heart enough to be assured that I wish myself with you, for my\nown sake as well as yours. 'Tis rather that you love to hear me say it\noften, than that you doubt it; for I am no dissembler. I could not cry\nfor a husband that were indifferent to me (like your cousin); no, nor\nfor a husband that I loved neither. I think 'twould break my heart\nsooner than make me shed a tear. 'Tis ordinary griefs that make me weep.\nIn earnest, you cannot imagine how often I have been told that I had too\nmuch _franchise_ in my humour, and that 'twas a point of good breeding\nto disguise handsomely; but I answered still for myself, that 'twas not\nto be expected I should be exactly bred, that had never seen a Court\nsince I was capable of anything. Yet I know so much,--that my Lady\nCarlisle would take it very ill if you should not let her get the point\nof honour; 'tis all she aims at, to go beyond everybody in compliment.\nBut are you not afraid of giving me a strong vanity with telling me I\nwrite better than the most extraordinary person in the world? If I had\nnot the sense to understand that the reason why you like my letters\nbetter is only because they are kinder than hers, such a word might have\nundone me.\n\nBut my Lady Isabella, that speaks, and looks, and sings, and plays, and\nall so prettily, why cannot I say that she is free from faults as her\nsister believes her? No; I am afraid she is not, and sorry that those\nshe has are so generally known. My brother did not bring them for an\nexample; but I did, and made him confess she had better have married a\nbeggar than that beast with all his estate. She cannot be excused; but\ncertainly they run a strange hazard that have such husbands as makes\nthem think they cannot be more undone, whatever course they take. Oh,\n'tis ten thousand pities! I remember she was the first woman that ever I\ntook notice of for extremely handsome; and, in earnest, she was then the\nloveliest lady that could be looked on, I think. But what should she do\nwith beauty now? Were I as she, I should hide myself from all the world;\nI should think all people that looked on me read it in my face and\ndespised me in their hearts; and at the same time they made me a leg, or\nspoke civilly to me, I should believe they did not think I deserved\ntheir respect. I'll tell you who he urged for an example though, my Lord\nPembroke and my Lady, who, they say, are upon parting after all his\npassion for her, and his marrying her against the consent of all his\nfriends; but to that I answered, that though he pretended great kindness\nhe had for her, I never heard of much she had for him, and knew she\nmarried him merely for advantage. Nor is she a woman of that discretion\nas to do all that might become her, when she must do it rather as things\nfit to be done than as things she inclined to. Besides that, what with a\nspleenatick side and a chemical head, he is but an odd body himself.\n\nBut is it possible what they say, that my Lord Leicester and my Lady are\nin great disorder, and that after forty years' patience he has now taken\nup the cudgels and resolved to venture for the mastery? Methinks he\nwakes out of his long sleep like a froward child, that wrangles and\nfights with all that comes near it. They say he has turned away almost\nevery servant in the house, and left her at Penshurst to digest it as\nshe can.\n\nWhat an age do we live in, where 'tis a miracle if in ten couples that\nare married, two of them live so as not to publish to the world that\nthey cannot agree. I begin to be of your opinion of him that (when the\nRoman Church first propounded whether it were not convenient for priests\nnot to marry) said that it might be convenient enough, but sure it was\nnot our Saviour's intention, for He commanded that all should take up\ntheir cross and follow Him; and for his part, he was confident there was\nno such cross as a wife. This is an ill doctrine for me to preach; but\nto my friends I cannot but confess that I am afraid much of the fault\nlies in us; for I have observed that formerly, in great families, the\nmen seldom disagree, but the women are always scolding; and 'tis most\ncertain, that let the husband be what he will, if the wife have but\npatience (which, sure, becomes her best), the disorder cannot be great\nenough to make a noise; his anger alone, when it meets with nothing that\nresists it, cannot be loud enough to disturb the neighbours. And such a\nwife may be said to do as a kinswoman of ours that had a husband who was\nnot always himself; and when he was otherwise, his humour was to rise in\nthe night, and with two bedstaves labour on the table an hour together.\nShe took care every night to lay a great cushion upon the table for him\nto strike on, that nobody might hear him, and so discover his madness.\nBut 'tis a sad thing when all one's happiness is only that the world\ndoes not know you are miserable.\n\nFor my part, I think it were very convenient that all such as intend to\nmarry should live together in the same house some years of probation;\nand if, in all that time, they never disagreed, they should then be\npermitted to marry if they please; but how few would do it then! I do\nnot remember that I ever saw or heard of any couple that were bred up so\ntogether (as many you know are, that are designed for one another from\nchildren), but they always disliked one another extremely; parted, if it\nwere left in their choice. If people proceeded with this caution, the\nworld would end sooner than is expected, I believe; and because, with\nall my wariness, 'tis not impossible but I may be caught, nor likely\nthat I should be wiser than anybody else, 'twere best, I think, that I\nsaid no more on this point.\n\nWhat would I give to know that sister of yours that is so good at\ndiscovering; sure she is excellent company; she has reason to laugh at\nyou when you would have persuaded her the \"moss was sweet.\" I remember\nJane brought some of it to me, to ask me if I thought it had no ill\nsmell, and whether she might venture to put it in the box or not. I told\nher as I thought, she could not put a more innocent thing there, for I\ndid not find it had any smell at all; besides, I was willing it should\ndo me some service in requital for the pains I had taken for it. My\nniece and I wandered through some eight hundred acres of wood in search\nof it, to make rocks and strange things that her head is full of, and\nshe admires it more than you did. If she had known I had consented it\nshould have been used to fill up a box, she would have condemned me\nextremely. I told Jane that you liked her present, and she, I find, is\nresolved to spoil your compliment, and make you confess at last that\nthey are not worth the eating; she threatens to send you more, but you\nwould forgive her if you saw how she baits me every day to go to London;\nall that I can say will not satisfy her. When I urge (as 'tis true) that\nthere is a necessity of my stay here, she grows furious, cries you will\ndie with melancholy, and confounds me so with stories of your\nill-humour, that I'll swear I think I should go merely to be at quiet,\nif it were possible, though there were no other reason for it. But I\nhope 'tis not so ill as she would have me believe it, though I know your\nhumour is strangely altered from what it was, and am sorry to see it.\nMelancholy must needs do you more hurt than to another to whom it may be\nnatural, as I think it is to me; therefore if you loved me you would\ntake heed on't. Can you believe that you are dearer to me than the whole\nworld beside, and yet neglect yourself? If you do not, you wrong a\nperfect friendship; and if you do, you must consider my interest in you,\nand preserve yourself to make me happy. Promise me this, or I shall\nhaunt you worse than she does me. Scribble how you please, so you make\nyour letter long enough; you see I give you good example; besides, I can\nassure you we do perfectly agree if you receive not satisfaction but\nfrom my letters, I have none but what yours give me.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 34",
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"body": "SIR,--If want of kindness were the only crime I exempted from pardon,\n'twas not that I had the least apprehension you could be guilty of it;\nbut to show you (by excepting only an impossible thing) that I excepted\nnothing. No, in earnest, I can fancy no such thing of you, or if I\ncould, the quarrel would be to myself; I should never forgive my own\nfolly that let me to choose a friend that could be false. But I'll leave\nthis (which is not much to the purpose) and tell you how, with my usual\nimpatience, I expected your letter, and how cold it went to my heart to\nsee it so short a one. 'Twas so great a pain to me that I am resolv'd\nyou shall not feel it; nor can I in justice punish you for a fault\nunwillingly committed. If I were your enemy, I could not use you ill\nwhen I saw Fortune do it too, and in gallantry and good nature both, I\nshould think myself rather obliged to protect you from her injury (if it\nlay in my power) than double them upon you. These things considered, I\nbelieve this letter will be longer than ordinary,--kinder I think it\ncannot be. I always speak my heart to you; and that is so much your\nfriend, it never furnishes me with anything to your disadvantage. I am\nglad you are an admirer of Telesile as well as I; in my opinion 'tis a\nfine Lady, but I know you will pity poor Amestris strongly when you have\nread her story. I'll swear I cried for her when I read it first, though\nshe were but an imaginary person; and, sure, if anything of that kind\ncan deserve it, her misfortunes may.\n\nGod forgive me, I was as near laughing yesterday where I should not.\nWould you believe that I had the grace to go hear a sermon upon a week\nday? In earnest, 'tis true; a Mr. Marshall was the man that preached,\nbut never anybody was so defeated. He is so famed that I expected rare\nthings of him, and seriously I listened to him as if he had been St.\nPaul; and what do you think he told us? Why, that if there were no\nkings, no queens, no lords, no ladies, nor gentlemen, nor gentlewomen,\nin the world, 'twould be no loss to God Almighty at all. This we had\nover some forty times, which made me remember it whether I would or not.\nThe rest was much at this rate, interlarded with the prettiest odd\nphrases, that I had the most ado to look soberly enough for the place I\nwas in that ever I had in my life. He does not preach so always, sure?\nIf he does, I cannot believe his sermons will do much towards bringing\nanybody to heaven more than by exercising their patience. Yet, I'll say\nthat for him, he stood stoutly for tithes, though, in my opinion, few\ndeserve them less than he; and it may be he would be better without\nthem.\n\nYet you are not convinced, you say, that to be miserable is the way to\nbe good; to some natures I think it is not, but there are many of so\ncareless and vain a temper, that the least breath of good fortune swells\nthem with so much pride, that if they were not put in mind sometimes by\na sound cross or two that they are mortal, they would hardly think it\npossible; and though 'tis a sign of a servile nature when fear produces\nmore of reverence in us than love, yet there is more danger of\nforgetting oneself in a prosperous fortune than in the contrary, and\naffliction may be the surest (though not the pleasantest) guide to\nheaven. What think you, might not I preach with Mr. Marshall for a\nwager? But you could fancy a perfect happiness here, you say; that is\nnot much, many people do so; but I never heard of anybody that ever had\nit more than in fancy, so that will not be strange if you should miss\non't. One may be happy to a good degree, I think, in a faithful friend,\na moderate fortune, and a retired life; further than this I know nothing\nto wish; but if there be anything beyond it, I wish it you.\n\nYou did not tell me what carried you out of town in such haste. I hope\nthe occasion was good, you must account to me for all that I lost by it.\nI shall expect a whole packet next week. Oh, me! I have forgot this once\nor twice to tell you, that if it be no inconvenience to you, I could\nwish you would change the place of direction for my letters. Certainly\nthat Jones knows my name, I bespoke a saddle of him once, and though it\nbe a good while agone, yet I was so often with him about it,--having\nmuch ado to make him understand how I would have it, it being of a\nfashion he had never seen, though, sure, it be common,--that I am\nconfident he has not forgot me. Besides that, upon it he got my\nbrother's custom; and I cannot tell whether he does not use the shop\nstill. Jane presents her humble service to you, and has sent you\nsomething in a box; 'tis hard to imagine what she can find here to\npresent you withal, and I am much in doubt whether you will not pay too\ndear for it if you discharge the carriage. 'Tis a pretty freedom she\ntakes, but you may thank yourself; she thinks because you call her\nfellow-servant, she may use you accordingly. I bred her better, but you\nhave spoiled her.\n\nIs it true that my Lord Whitlocke goes Ambassador where my Lord Lisle\nshould have gone? I know not how he may appear in a Swedish Court, but\nhe was never meant for a courtier at home, I believe. Yet 'tis a\ngracious Prince; he is often in this country, and always does us the\nfavour to send for his fruit hither. He was making a purchase of one of\nthe best houses in the county. I know not whether he goes on with it;\nbut 'tis such a one as will not become anything less than a lord. And\nthere is a talk as if the Chancery were going down; if so, his title\ngoes with it, I think. 'Twill be sad news for my Lord Keble's son; he\nwill have nothing left to say when \"my Lord, my father,\" is taken from\nhim. Were it not better that I had nothing to say neither, than that I\nshould entertain you with such senseless things. I hope I am half\nasleep, nothing else can excuse me; if I were quite asleep, I should say\nfine things to you; I often dream I do; but perhaps if I could remember\nthem they are no wiser than my wakening discourses. Good-night.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 35",
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"body": "SIR,--That you may be at more certainty hereafter what to think, let me\ntell you that nothing could hinder me from writing to you (as well for\nmy own satisfaction as yours) but an impossibility of doing it; nothing\nbut death or a dead palsy in my hands, or something that had the same\neffect. I did write it, and gave it Harrold, but by an accident his\nhorse fell lame, so that he could not set out on Monday; but on Tuesday\nhe did come to town; on Wednesday, carried the letter himself (as he\ntells me) where 'twas directed, which was to Mr. Copyn in Fleet Street.\n'Twas the first time I made use of that direction; no matter and I had\nnot done it then, since it proves no better. Harrold came late home on\nThursday night with such an account as your boy gave you: that coming\nout of town the same day he came in, he had been at Fleet Street again,\nbut there was no letter for him. I was sorry, but I did not much wonder\nat it because he gave so little time, and resolved to make my best of\nthat I had by Collins. I read it over often enough to make it equal with\nthe longest letter that ever was writ, and pleased myself, in earnest\n(as much as it was possible for me in the humour I was in), to think how\nby that time you had asked me pardon for the little reproaches you had\nmade me, and that the kindness and length of my letter had made you\namends for the trouble it had given you in expecting it. But I am not a\nlittle annoyed to find you had it not. I am very confident it was\ndelivered, and therefore you must search where the fault lies.\n\nWere it not that you had suffered too much already, I would complain a\nlittle of you. Why should you think me so careless of anything that you\nwere concerned in, as to doubt that I had writ? Though I had received\nnone from you, I should not have taken that occasion to revenge myself.\nNay, I should have concluded you innocent, and have imagined a thousand\nways how it might happen, rather than have suspected your want of\nkindness. Why should not you be as just to me? But I will not chide, it\nmay be (as long as we have been friends) you do not know me so well yet\nas to make an absolute judgment of me; but if I know myself at all, if I\nam capable of being anything, 'tis a perfect friend. Yet I must chide\ntoo. Why did you get such a cold? Good God! how careless you are of a\nlife that (by your own confession) I have told you makes all the\nhappiness of mine. 'Tis unkindly done. What is left for me to say, when\nthat will not prevail with you; or how can you persuade me to a cure of\nmyself, when you refuse to give me the example? I have nothing in the\nworld that gives me the least desire of preserving myself, but the\nopinion I have you would not be willing to lose me; and yet, if you saw\nwith what caution I live (at least to what I did before), you would\nreproach it to yourself sometimes, and might grant, perhaps, that you\nhave not got the advantage of me in friendship so much as you imagine.\nWhat (besides your consideration) could oblige me to live and lose all\nthe rest of my friends thus one after another? Sure I am not insensible\nnor very ill-natured, and yet I'll swear I think I do not afflict myself\nhalf so much as another would do that had my losses. I pay nothing of\nsadness to the memory of my poor brother, but I presently disperse it\nwith thinking what I owe in thankfulness that 'tis not you I mourn for.\n\nWell, give me no more occasions to complain of you, you know not what\nmay follow. Here was Mr. Freeman yesterday that made me a very kind\nvisit, and said so many fine things to me, that I was confounded with\nhis civilities, and had nothing to say for myself. I could have wished\nthen that he had considered me less and my niece more; but if you\ncontinue to use me thus, in earnest, I'll not be so much her friend\nhereafter. Methinks I see you laugh at all my threatenings; and not\nwithout reason. Mr. Freeman, you believe, is designed for somebody that\ndeserves him better. I think so too, and am not sorry for it; and you\nhave reason to believe I never can be other than\n\nYour faithful friend.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nDESPONDENCY. CHRISTMAS 1653\n\n\nThis chapter of letters is a sad note, sounding out from among its\nfellows with mournful clearness. There had seemed a doubt whether all\nthese letters must be regarded as of one series, or whether, more\ncorrectly, it was to be assumed that Dorothy and Temple had their\nlovers' quarrels, for the well-understood pleasure of kissing friends\nagain. But you will agree that these lovers were not altogether as other\nlovers are, that their troubles were too real and too many for their\nlove to need the stimulus of constant April shower quarrels; and these\nletters are very serious in their sadness, imprinting themselves in the\nmind after constant reading as landmarks clearly defining the course and\nprogress of an unusual event in these lovers' history--a\nmisunderstanding.\n\nThe letters are written at Christmastide, 1653. Dorothy had returned\nfrom London to Chicksands, and either had not seen Temple or he had left\nLondon hurriedly whilst she was there. There is a letter lost. Dorothy's\nyoungest brother is lately dead; her niece has left her; her companion\nJane is sick; her father, growing daily weaker and weaker, was sinking\ninto his grave before her eyes. No bright chance seemed to open before\nher, and their marriage seemed an impossibility. For a moment she loses\nfaith, not in Temple, but in fortune; faith once gone, hope, missing her\ncomrade, flies away in search of her. She is alone in the old house with\nher dying father, and with her brother pouring his unkind gossip into\nher unwilling ear, whilst the sad long year draws slowly to its close,\nand there is no sign of better fortune for the lovers; can we wonder,\nthen, that Dorothy, lonely and unaided, pacing in the damp garden\nbeneath the bare trees, with all the bright summer changed into decay,\nlost faith and hope?\n\nTemple, when Dorothy's thoughts reach him, must have replied with some\nimpatience. There are stories, too, set about concerning her good name\nby one Mr. B., to disturb Temple. Temple can hardly have given credence\nto these, but he may have complained of them to Dorothy, who is led to\ndeclare, \"I am the most unfortunate woman breathing, but I was never\nfalse,\" though she forgives her lover \"all those strange thoughts he has\nhad\" of her. Whatever were the causes of the quarrel, or rather the\ndespondency, we shall never know accurately. Dorothy was not the woman\nto vapour for months about \"an early and a quiet grave.\" When she writes\nthis it is written in the deepest earnest of despair; when this mood is\nover it is over for ever, and we emerge into a clear atmosphere of hope\nand content. The despondency has been agonizing, but the agony is sharp\nand rapid, and gives place to the wisdom of hope.\n\nTemple now comes to Chicksands at an early date. There is a new\ninterchange of vows. Never again will their faith be shaken by fretting\nand despair; and these vows are never broken, but remain with the lovers\nuntil they are set aside by others, taken under the solemn sanction of\nthe law, and the old troubles vanish in new responsibilities and a new\nlife.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 36",
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"body": "SIR,--Having tired myself with thinking, I mean to weary you with\nreading, and revenge myself that way for all the unquiet thoughts you\nhave given me. But I intended this a sober letter, and therefore, _sans\nraillerie_, let me tell you, I have seriously considered all our\nmisfortunes, and can see no end of them but by submitting to that which\nwe cannot avoid, and by yielding to it break the force of a blow which\nif resisted brings a certain ruin. I think I need not tell you how dear\nyou have been to me, nor that in your kindness I placed all the\nsatisfaction of my life; 'twas the only happiness I proposed to myself,\nand had set my heart so much upon it that it was therefore made my\npunishment, to let me see that, how innocent soever I thought my\naffection, it was guilty in being greater than is allowable for things\nof this world. 'Tis not a melancholy humour gives me these apprehensions\nand inclinations, nor the persuasions of others; 'tis the result of a\nlong strife with myself, before my reason could overcome my passion, or\nbring me to a perfect resignation to whatsoever is allotted for me. 'Tis\nnow done, I hope, and I have nothing left but to persuade you to that,\nwhich I assure myself your own judgment will approve in the end, and\nyour reason has often prevailed with you to offer; that which you would\nhave done then out of kindness to me and point of honour, I would have\nyou do now out of wisdom and kindness to yourself. Not that I would\ndisclaim my part in it or lessen my obligation to you, no, I am your\nfriend as much as ever I was in my life, I think more, and I am sure I\nshall never be less. I have known you long enough to discern that you\nhave all the qualities that make an excellent friend, and I shall\nendeavour to deserve that you may be so to me; but I would have you do\nthis upon the justest grounds, and such as may conduce most to your\nquiet and future satisfaction. When we have tried all ways to happiness,\nthere is no such thing to be found but in a mind conformed to one's\ncondition, whatever it be, and in not aiming at anything that is either\nimpossible or improbable; all the rest is but vanity and vexation of\nspirit, and I durst pronounce it so from that little knowledge I have\nhad of the world, though I had not Scripture for my warrant. The\nshepherd that bragged to the traveller, who asked him, \"What weather it\nwas like to be?\" that it should be what weather pleased him, and made it\ngood by saying it should be what weather pleased God, and what pleased\nGod should please him, said an excellent thing in such language, and\nknew enough to make him the happiest person in the world if he made a\nright use on't. There can be no pleasure in a struggling life, and that\nfolly which we condemn in an ambitious man, that's ever labouring for\nthat which is hardly got and more uncertainly kept, is seen in all\naccording to their several humours; in some 'tis covetousness, in others\npride, in some stubbornness of nature that chooses always to go against\nthe tide, and in others an unfortunate fancy to things that are in\nthemselves innocent till we make them otherwise by desiring them too\nmuch. Of this sort you and I are, I think; we have lived hitherto upon\nhopes so airy that I have often wondered how they could support the\nweight of our misfortunes; but passion gives a strength above nature, we\nsee it in mad people; and, not to flatter ourselves, ours is but a\nrefined degree of madness. What can it be else to be lost to all things\nin the world but that single object that takes up one's fancy, to lose\nall the quiet and repose of one's life in hunting after it, when there\nis so little likelihood of ever gaining it, and so many more probable\naccidents that will infallibly make us miss on't? And which is more than\nall, 'tis being mastered by that which reason and religion teaches us to\ngovern, and in that only gives us a pre-eminence over beasts. This,\nsoberly consider'd, is enough to let us see our error, and consequently\nto persuade us to redeem it. To another person, I should justify myself\nthat 'tis not a lightness in my nature, nor any interest that is not\ncommon to us both, that has wrought this change in me. To you that know\nmy heart, and from whom I shall never hide it, to whom a thousand\ntestimonies of my kindness can witness the reality of it, and whose\nfriendship is not built upon common grounds, I have no more to say but\nthat I impose not my opinions upon you, and that I had rather you took\nthem up as your own choice than upon my entreaty. But if, as we have not\ndiffered in anything else, we could agree in this too, and resolve upon\na friendship that will be much the perfecter for having nothing of\npassion in it, how happy might we be without so much as a fear of the\nchange that any accident could bring. We might defy all that fortune\ncould do, and putting off all disguise and constraint, with that which\nonly made it necessary, make our lives as easy to us as the condition of\nthis world will permit. I may own you as a person that I extremely value\nand esteem, and for whom I have a particular friendship, and you may\nconsider me as one that will always be\n\nYour faithful.\n\n\nThis was written when I expected a letter from you, how came I to miss\nit? I thought at first it might be the carrier's fault in changing his\ntime without giving notice, but he assures me he did, to Nan. My\nbrother's groom came down to-day, too, and saw her, he tells me, but\nbrings me nothing from her; if nothing of ill be the cause, I am\ncontented. You hear the noise my Lady Anne Blunt has made with her\nmarrying? I am so weary with meeting it in all places where I go; from\nwhat is she fallen! they talked but the week before that she should have\nmy Lord of Strafford. Did you not intend to write to me when you writ to\nJane? That bit of paper did me great service; without it I should have\nhad strange apprehension, and my sad dreams, and the several frights I\nhave waked in, would have run so in my head that I should have concluded\nsomething of very ill from your silence. Poor Jane is sick, but she will\nwrite, she says, if she can. Did you send the last part of _Cyrus_ to\nMr. Hollingsworth?",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 42.",
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"body": "SIR,--I am extremely sorry that your letter miscarried, but I am\nconfident my brother has it not. As cunning as he is, he could not hide\nfrom me, but that I should discover it some way or other. No; he was\nhere, and both his men, when this letter should have come, and not one\nof them stirred out that day; indeed, the next day they went all to\nLondon. The note you writ to Jane came in one of Nan's, by Collins, but\nnothing else; it must be lost by the porter that was sent with it, and\n'twas very unhappy that there should be anything in it of more\nconsequence than ordinary; it may be numbered amongst the rest of our\nmisfortunes, all which an inconsiderate passion has occasioned. You must\npardon me I cannot be reconciled to it, it has been the ruin of us both.\n'Tis true that nobody must imagine to themselves ever to be absolute\nmaster on't, but there is great difference betwixt that and yielding to\nit, between striving with it and soothing it up till it grows too strong\nfor one. Can I remember how ignorantly and innocently I suffered it to\nsteal upon me by degrees; how under a mask of friendship I cozened\nmyself into that which, had it appeared to me at first in its true\nshape, I had feared and shunned? Can I discern that it has made the\ntrouble of your life, and cast a cloud upon mine, that will help to\ncover me in my grave? Can I know that it wrought so upon us both as to\nmake neither of us friends to one another, but agree in running wildly\nto our own destruction, and that perhaps of some innocent persons who\nmight live to curse our folly that gave them so miserable a being? Ah!\nif you love yourself or me, you must confess that I have reason to\ncondemn this senseless passion; that wheresoe'er it comes destroys all\nthat entertain it; nothing of judgment or discretion can live with it,\nand it puts everything else out of order before it can find a place for\nitself. What has it brought my poor Lady Anne Blunt to? She is the talk\nof all the footmen and boys in the street, and will be company for them\nshortly, and yet is so blinded by her passion as not at all to perceive\nthe misery she has brought herself to; and this fond love of hers has so\nrooted all sense of nature out of her heart, that, they say, she is no\nmore moved than a statue with the affliction of a father and mother that\ndoted on her, and had placed the comfort of their lives in her\npreferment. With all this is it not manifest to the whole world that Mr.\nBlunt could not consider anything in this action but his own interest,\nand that he makes her a very ill return for all her kindness; if he had\nloved her truly he would have died rather than have been the occasion of\nthis misfortune to her. My cousin Franklin (as you observe very well)\nmay say fine things now she is warm in Moor Park, but she is very much\naltered in her opinions since her marriage, if these be her own. She\nleft a gentleman, that I could name, whom she had much more of kindness\nfor than ever she had for Mr. Franklin, because his estate was less; and\nupon the discovery of some letters that her mother intercepted, suffered\nherself to be persuaded that twenty-three hundred pound a year was\nbetter than twelve hundred, though with a person she loved; and has\nrecovered it so well, that you see she confesses there is nothing in her\ncondition she desires to alter at the charge of a wish. She's happier by\nmuch than I shall ever be, but I do not envy her; may she long enjoy it,\nand I an early and a quiet grave, free from the trouble of this busy\nworld, where all with passion pursue their own interests at their\nneighbour's charges; where nobody is pleased but somebody complains\non't; and where 'tis impossible to be without giving and receiving\ninjuries.\n\nYou would know what I would be at, and how I intend to dispose of\nmyself. Alas! were I in my own disposal, you should come to my grave to\nbe resolved; but grief alone will not kill. All that I can say, then, is\nthat I resolve on nothing but to arm myself with patience, to resist\nnothing that is laid upon me, nor struggle for what I have no hope to\nget. I have no ends nor no designs, nor will my heart ever be capable of\nany; but like a country wasted by a civil war, where two opposing\nparties have disputed their right so long till they have made it worth\nneither of their conquests, 'tis ruined and desolated by the long strife\nwithin it to that degree as 'twill be useful to none,--nobody that knows\nthe condition 'tis in will think it worth the gaining, and I shall not\ntrouble anybody with it. No, really, if I may be permitted to desire\nanything, it shall be only that I may injure nobody but myself,--I can\nbear anything that reflects only upon me; or, if I cannot, I can die;\nbut I would fain die innocent, that I might hope to be happy in the next\nworld, though never in this. I take it a little ill that you should\nconjure me by anything, with a belief that 'tis more powerful with me\nthan your kindness. No, assure yourself what that alone cannot gain will\nbe denied to all the world. You would see me, you say? You may do so if\nyou please, though I know not to what end. You deceive yourself if you\nthink it would prevail upon me to alter my intentions; besides, I can\nmake no contrivances; it must be here, and I must endure the noise it\nwill make, and undergo the censures of a people that choose ever to give\nthe worst interpretation that anything will bear. Yet if it can be any\nease to you to make me more miserable than I am, never spare me;\nconsider yourself only, and not me at all,--'tis no more than I deserve\nfor not accepting what you offered me whilst 'twas in your power to make\nit good, as you say it then was. You were prepared, it seems, but I was\nsurprised, I confess. 'Twas a kind fault though; and you may pardon it\nwith more reason than I have to forgive it myself. And let me tell you\nthis, too, as lost and as wretched as I am, I have still some sense of\nmy reputation left in me,--I find that to my cost,--I shall attempt to\npreserve it as clear as I can; and to do that, I must, if you see me\nthus, make it the last of our interviews. What can excuse me if I should\nentertain any person that is known to pretend to me, when I can have no\nhope of ever marrying him? And what hope can I have of that when the\nfortune that can only make it possible to me depends upon a thousand\naccidents and contingencies, the uncertainty of the place 'tis in, and\nthe government it may fall under, your father's life or his success, his\ndisposal of himself and of his fortune, besides the time that must\nnecessarily be required to produce all this, and the changes that may\nprobably bring with it, which 'tis impossible for us to foresee? All\nthis considered, what have I to say for myself when people shall ask,\nwhat 'tis I expect? Can there be anything vainer than such a hope upon\nsuch grounds? You must needs see the folly on't yourself, and therefore\nexamine your own heart what 'tis fit for me to do, and what you can do\nfor a person you love, and that deserves your compassion if nothing\nelse,--a person that will always have an inviolable friendship for you,\na friendship that shall take up all the room my passion held in my\nheart, and govern there as master, till death come and take possession\nand turn it out.\n\nWhy should you make an impossibility where there is none? A thousand\naccidents might have taken me from you, and you must have borne it. Why\nwould not your own resolution work as much upon you as necessity and\ntime does infallibly upon people? Your father would take it very ill, I\nbelieve, if you should pretend to love me better than he did my Lady,\nyet she is dead and he lives, and perhaps may do to love again. There is\na gentlewoman in this country that loved so passionately for six or\nseven years that her friends, who kept her from marrying, fearing her\ndeath, consented to it; and within half a year her husband died, which\nafflicted her so strongly nobody thought she would have lived. She saw\nno light but candles in three years, nor came abroad in five; and now\nthat 'tis some nine years past, she is passionately taken again with\nanother, and how long she has been so nobody knows but herself. This is\nto let you see 'tis not impossible what I ask, nor unreasonable. Think\non't, and attempt it at least; but do it sincerely, and do not help your\npassion to master you. As you have ever loved me do this.\n\nThe carrier shall bring your letters to Suffolk House to Jones. I shall\nlong to hear from you; but if you should deny the only hope that's left\nme, I must beg you will defer it till Christmas Day be past; for, to\ndeal freely with you, I have some devotions to perform then, which must\nnot be disturbed with anything, and nothing is like to do it as so\nsensible an affliction. Adieu.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 43.",
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"body": "SIR,--I can say little more than I did,--I am convinced of the vileness\nof the world and all that's in it, and that I deceived myself extremely\nwhen I expected anything of comfort from it. No, I have no more to do\nin't but to grow every day more and more weary of it, if it be possible\nthat I have not yet reached the highest degree of hatred for it. But I\nthank God I hate nothing else but the base world, and the vices that\nmake a part of it. I am in perfect charity with my enemies, and have\ncompassion for all people's misfortunes as well as for my own,\nespecially for those I may have caused; and I may truly say I bear my\nshare of such. But as nothing obliges me to relieve a person that is in\nextreme want till I change conditions with him and come to be where he\nbegan, and that I may be thought compassionate if I do all that I can\nwithout prejudicing myself too much, so let me tell you, that if I could\nhelp it, I would not love you, and that as long as I live I shall strive\nagainst it as against that which had been my ruin, and was certainly\nsent me as a punishment for my sin. But I shall always have a sense of\nyour misfortunes, equal, if not above, my own. I shall pray that you may\nobtain a quiet I never hope for but in my grave, and I shall never\nchange my condition but with my life. Yet let not this give you a hope.\nNothing ever can persuade me to enter the world again. I shall, in a\nshort time, have disengaged myself of all my little affairs in it, and\nsettled myself in a condition to apprehend nothing but too long a life,\ntherefore I wish you would forget me; and to induce you to it, let me\ntell you freely that I deserve you should. If I remember anybody, 'tis\nagainst my will. I am possessed with that strange insensibility that my\nnearest relations have no tie upon me, and I find myself no more\nconcerned in those that I have heretofore had great tenderness of\naffection for, than in my kindred that died long before I was born.\nLeave me to this, and seek a better fortune. I beg it of you as heartily\nas I forgive you all those strange thoughts you have had of me. Think me\nso still if that will do anything towards it. For God's sake do take any\ncourse that may make you happy; or, if that cannot be, less unfortunate\nat least than\n\nYour friend and humble servant,\n\nD. OSBORNE.\n\nI can hear nothing of that letter, but I hear from all people that I\nknow, part of my unhappy story, and from some that I do not know. A\nlady, whose face I never saw, sent it me as news she had out of Ireland.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 44.",
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"body": "SIR,--If you have ever loved me, do not refuse the last request I shall\never make you; 'tis to preserve yourself from the violence of your\npassion. Vent it all upon me; call me and think me what you please; make\nme, if it be possible, more wretched than I am. I'll bear it all without\nthe least murmur. Nay, I deserve it all, for had you never seen me you\nhad certainly been happy. 'Tis my misfortunes only that have that\ninfectious quality as to strike at the same time me and all that's dear\nto me. I am the most unfortunate woman breathing, but I was never false.\nNo; I call heaven to witness that if my life could satisfy for the least\ninjury my fortune has done you (I cannot say 'twas I that did them you),\nI would lay it down with greater joy than any person ever received a\ncrown; and if I ever forget what I owe you, or ever entertained a\nthought of kindness for any person in the world besides, may I live a\nlong and miserable life. 'Tis the greatest curse I can invent; if there\nbe a greater, may I feel it. This is all I can say. Tell me if it be\npossible I can do anything for you, and tell me how I may deserve your\npardon for all the trouble I have given you. I would not die without it.\n\n[Directed.] For Mr. Temple.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 45.",
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"body": "SIR,--'Tis most true what you say, that few have what they merit; if it\nwere otherwise, you would be happy, I think, but then I should be so\ntoo, and that must not be,--a false and an inconstant person cannot\nmerit it, I am sure. You are kind in your good wishes, but I aim at no\nfriends nor no princes, the honour would be lost upon me; I should\nbecome a crown so ill, there would be no striving for it after me, and,\nsure, I should not wear it long. Your letter was a much greater loss to\nme than that of Henry Cromwell, and, therefore, 'tis that with all my\ncare and diligence I cannot inquire it out. You will not complain, I\nbelieve, of the shortness of my last, whatever else you dislike in it,\nand if I spare you at any time 'tis because I cannot but imagine, since\nI am so wearisome to myself, that I must needs be so to everybody else,\nthough, at present, I have other occasions that will not permit this to\nbe a long one. I am sorry it should be only in my power to make a friend\nmiserable, and that where I have so great a kindness I should do so\ngreat injuries; but 'tis my fortune, and I must bear it; 'twill be none\nto you, I hope, to pray for you, nor to desire that you would (all\npassion laid aside) freely tell me my faults, that I may, at least, ask\nyour forgiveness where 'tis not in my power to make you better\nsatisfaction. I would fain make even with all the world, and be out of\ndanger of dying in anybody's debt; then I have nothing more to do in it\nbut to expect when I shall be so happy as to leave it, and always to\nremember that my misfortune makes all my faults towards you, and that my\nfaults to God make all my misfortunes.\n\nYour unhappy.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 46.",
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"body": "SIR,--That which I writ by your boy was in so much haste and distraction\nas I cannot be satisfied with it, nor believe it has expressed my\nthoughts as I meant them. No, I find it is not easily done at more\nleisure, and I am yet to seek what to say that is not too little nor too\nmuch. I would fain let you see that I am extremely sensible of your\naffliction, that I would lay down my life to redeem you from it, but\nthat's a mean expression; my life is of so little value that I will not\nmention it. No, let it be rather what, in earnest, if I can tell\nanything I have left that is considerable enough to expose for it, it\nmust be that small reputation I have amongst my friends, that's all my\nwealth, and that I could part with to restore you to that quiet you\nlived in when I first knew you. But, on the other side, I would not give\nyou hopes of that I cannot do. If I loved you less I would allow you to\nbe the same person to me, and I would be the same to you as heretofore.\nBut to deal freely with you, that were to betray myself, and I find that\nmy passion would quickly be my master again if I gave it any liberty. I\nam not secure that it would not make me do the most extravagant things\nin the world, and I shall be forced to keep a continual war alive with\nit as long as there are any remainders of it left;--I think I might as\nwell have said as long as I lived. Why should you give yourself over so\nunreasonably to it? Good God! no woman breathing can deserve half the\ntrouble you give yourself. If I were yours from this minute I could not\nrecompense what you have suffered from the violence of your passion,\nthough I were all that you can imagine me, when, God knows, I am an\ninconsiderable person, born to a thousand misfortunes, which have taken\naway all sense of anything else from me, and left me a walking misery\nonly. I do from my soul forgive you all the injuries your passion has\ndone me, though, let me tell you, I was much more at my ease whilst I\nwas angry. Scorn and despite would have cured me in some reasonable\ntime, which I despair of now. However, I am not displeased with it, and,\nif it may be of any advantage to you, I shall not consider myself in it;\nbut let me beg, then, that you will leave off those dismal thoughts. I\ntremble at the desperate things you say in your letter; for the love of\nGod, consider seriously with yourself what can enter into comparison\nwith the safety of your soul. Are a thousand women, or ten thousand\nworlds, worth it? No, you cannot have so little reason left as you\npretend, nor so little religion. For God's sake let us not neglect what\ncan only make us happy for trifles. If God had seen it fit to have\nsatisfied our desires we should have had them, and everything would not\nhave conspired thus to have crossed them. Since He has decreed it\notherwise (at least as far as we are able to judge by events), we must\nsubmit, and not by striving make an innocent passion a sin, and show a\nchildish stubbornness.\n\nI could say a thousand things more to this purpose if I were not in\nhaste to send this away,--that it may come to you, at least, as soon as\nthe other. Adieu.\n\nI cannot imagine who this should be that Mr. Dr. meant, and am inclined\nto believe 'twas a story meant to disturb you, though perhaps not by\nhim.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 47.",
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"body": "SIR,--'Tis never my humour to do injuries, nor was this meant as any to\nyou. No, in earnest, if I could have persuaded you to have quitted a\npassion that injures you, I had done an act of real friendship, and you\nmight have lived to thank me for it; but since it cannot be, I will\nattempt it no more. I have laid before you the inconveniences it brings\nalong, how certain the trouble is, and how uncertain the reward; how\nmany accidents may hinder us from ever being happy, and how few there\nare (and those so unlikely) to make up our desire. All this makes no\nimpression on you; you are still resolved to follow your blind guide,\nand I to pity where I cannot help. It will not be amiss though to let\nyou see that what I did was merely in consideration of your interest,\nand not at all of my own, that you may judge of me accordingly; and, to\ndo that, I must tell you that, unless it were after the receipt of those\nletters that made me angry, I never had the least hope of wearing out my\npassion, nor, to say truth, much desire. For to what purpose should I\nhave strived against it? 'Twas innocent enough in me that resolved never\nto marry, and would have kept me company in this solitary place as long\nas I lived, without being a trouble to myself or anybody else. Nay, in\nearnest, if I could have hoped you would be so much your own friend as\nto seek out a happiness in some other person, nothing under heaven could\nhave satisfied me like entertaining myself with the thought of having\ndone you service in diverting you from a troublesome pursuit of what is\nso uncertain, and by that giving you the occasion of a better fortune.\nOtherwise, whether you loved me still, or whether you did not, was\nequally the same to me, your interest set aside. I will not reproach you\nhow ill an interpretation you made of this, because we will have no more\nquarrels. On the contrary, because I see 'tis in vain to think of curing\nyou, I'll study only to give you what ease I can, and leave the rest to\nbetter physicians,--to time and fortune. Here, then, I declare that you\nhave still the same power in my heart that I gave you at our last\nparting; that I will never marry any other; and that if ever our\nfortunes will allow us to marry, you shall dispose of me as you please;\nbut this, to deal freely with you, I do not hope for. No; 'tis too great\na happiness, and I, that know myself best, must acknowledge I deserve\ncrosses and afflictions, but can never merit such a blessing. You know\n'tis not a fear of want that frights me. I thank God I never distrusted\nHis providence, nor I hope never shall, and without attributing anything\nto myself, I may acknowledge He has given me a mind that can be\nsatisfied with as narrow a compass as that of any person living of my\nrank. But I confess that I have an humour will not suffer me to expose\nmyself to people's scorn. The name of love is grown so contemptible by\nthe folly of such as have falsely pretended to it, and so many giddy\npeople have married upon that score and repented so shamefully\nafterwards, that nobody can do anything that tends towards it without\nbeing esteemed a ridiculous person. Now, as my young Lady Holland says,\nI never pretended to wit in my life, but I cannot be satisfied that the\nworld should think me a fool, so that all I can do for you will be to\npreserve a constant kindness for you, which nothing shall ever alter or\ndiminish; I'll never give you any more alarms, by going about to\npersuade you against that you have for me; but from this hour we'll live\nquietly, no more fears, no more jealousies; the wealth of the whole\nworld, by the grace of God, shall not tempt me to break my word with\nyou, nor the importunity of all my friends I have. Keep this as a\ntestimony against me if ever I do, and make me a reproach to them by it;\ntherefore be secure, and rest satisfied with what I can do for you.\n\nYou should come hither but that I expect my brother every day; not but\nthat he designed a longer stay when he went, but since he keeps his\nhorses with him 'tis an infallible token that he is coming. We cannot\nmiss fitter times than this twenty in a year, and I shall be as ready to\ngive you notice of such as you can be to desire it, only you would do me\na great pleasure if you could forbear writing, unless it were sometimes\non great occasions. This is a strange request for me to make, that have\nbeen fonder of your letters than my Lady Protector is of her new honour,\nand, in earnest, would be so still but there are a thousand\ninconveniences in't that I could tell you. Tell me what you can do; in\nthe meantime think of some employment for yourself this summer. Who\nknows what a year may produce? If nothing, we are but where we were, and\nnothing can hinder us from being, at least, perfect friends. Adieu.\nThere's nothing so terrible in my other letter but you may venture to\nread it. Have not you forgot my Lady's book?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nTHE LAST OF CHICKSANDS. FEBRUARY AND MARCH 1654\n\n\nThe quarrel is over, happily over, and Dorothy and Temple are more than\nreconciled again. Temple has been down to Chicksands to see her, and\nsome more definite arrangement has been come to between them. Dorothy\nhas urged Temple to go to Ireland and join his father, who has once\nagain taken possession of his office of Master of the Rolls. As soon as\nan appointment can be found for Temple they are to be married--that is,\nas far as one can gather, the state of affairs between them; but it\nwould seem as if nothing of this was as yet to be known to the outer\nworld, not even to Dorothy's brother.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 48.",
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"body": "SIR,--'Tis but an hour since you went, and I am writing to you already;\nis not this kind? How do you after your journey; are you not weary; do\nyou not repent that you took it to so little purpose? Well, God forgive\nme, and you too, you made me tell a great lie. I was fain to say you\ncame only to take your leave before you went abroad; and all this not\nonly to keep quiet, but to keep him from playing the madman; for when he\nhas the least suspicion, he carries it so strangely that all the world\ntakes notice on't, and so often guess at the reason, or else he tells\nit. Now, do but you judge whether if by mischance he should discover the\ntruth, whether he would not rail most sweetly at me (and with some\nreason) for abusing him. Yet you helped to do it; a sadness that he\ndiscovered at your going away inclined him to believe you were ill\nsatisfied, and made him credit what I said. He is kind now in extremity,\nand I would be glad to keep him so till a discovery is absolutely\nnecessary. Your going abroad will confirm him much in his belief, and I\nshall have nothing to torment me in this place but my own doubts and\nfears. Here I shall find all the repose I am capable of, and nothing\nwill disturb my prayers and wishes for your happiness which only can\nmake mine. Your journey cannot be to your disadvantage neither; you must\nneeds be pleased to visit a place you are so much concerned in, and to\nbe a witness yourself of your hopes, though I will believe you need no\nother inducements to this voyage than my desiring it. I know you love\nme, and you have no reason to doubt my kindness. Let us both have\npatience to wait what time and fortune will do for us; they cannot\nhinder our being perfect friends.\n\nLord, there were a thousand things I remembered after you were gone that\nI should have said, and now I am to write not one of them will come into\nmy head. Sure as I live it is not settled yet! Good God! the fears and\nsurprises, the crosses and disorders of that day, 'twas confused enough\nto be a dream, and I am apt to think sometimes it was no more. But no, I\nsaw you; when I shall do it again, God only knows! Can there be a\nromancer story than ours would make if the conclusion prove happy? Ah! I\ndare not hope it; something that I cannot describe draws a cloud over\nall the light my fancy discovers sometimes, and leaves me so in the dark\nwith all my fears about me that I tremble to think on't. But no more of\nthis sad talk.\n\nWho was that, Mr. Dr. told you I should marry? I cannot imagine for my\nlife; tell me, or I shall think you made it to excuse yourself. Did not\nyou say once you knew where good French tweezers were to be had? Pray\nsend me a pair; they shall cut no love. Before you go I must have a ring\nfrom you, too, a plain gold one; if I ever marry it shall be my wedding\nring; when I die I'll give it you again. What a dismal story this is you\nsent me; but who could expect better from a love begun upon such\ngrounds? I cannot pity neither of them, they were both so guilty. Yes,\nthey are the more to be pitied for that.\n\nHere is a note comes to me just now, will you do this service for a fine\nlady that is my friend; have not I taught her well, she writes better\nthan her mistress? How merry and pleased she is with her marrying\nbecause there is a plentiful fortune; otherwise she would not value the\nman at all. This is the world; would you and I were out of it: for,\nsure, we were not made to live in it. Do you remember Arme and the\nlittle house there? Shall we go thither? that's next to being out of the\nworld. There we might live like Baucis and Philemon, grow old together\nin our little cottage, and for our charity to some shipwrecked strangers\nobtain the blessing of dying both at the same time. How idly I talk;\n'tis because the story pleases me--none in Ovid so much. I remember I\ncried when I read it. Methought they were the perfectest characters of a\ncontented marriage, where piety and love were all their wealth, and in\ntheir poverty feasted the gods when rich men shut them out. I am called\naway,--farewell!\n\nYour faithful.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 44",
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"body": "SIR,--Who would be kind to one that reproaches one so cruelly? Do you\nthink, in earnest, I could be satisfied the world should think me a\ndissembler, full of avarice or ambition? No, you are mistaken; but I'll\ntell you what I could suffer, that they should say I married where I had\nno inclination, because my friends thought it fit, rather than that I\nhad run wilfully to my own ruin in pursuit of a fond passion of my own.\nTo marry for love were no reproachful thing if we did not see that of\nthe thousand couples that do it, hardly one can be brought for an\nexample that it may be done and not repented afterwards. Is there\nanything thought so indiscreet, or that makes one more contemptible?\n'Tis true that I do firmly believe we should be, as you say, _toujours\nles mesmes_; but if (as you confess) 'tis that which hardly happens once\nin two ages, we are not to expect the world should discern we were not\nlike the rest. I'll tell you stories another time, you return them so\nhandsomely upon me. Well, the next servant I tell you of shall not be\ncalled a whelp, if 'twere not to give you a stick to beat myself with. I\nwould confess that I looked upon the impudence of this fellow as a\npunishment upon me for my over care in avoiding the talk of the world;\nyet the case is very different, and no woman shall ever be blamed that\nan inconsolable person pretends to her when she gives no allowance to\nit, whereas none shall 'scape that owns a passion, though in return of a\nperson much above her. The little tailor that loved Queen Elizabeth was\nsuffered to talk out, and none of her Council thought it necessary to\nstop his mouth; but the Queen of Sweden's kind letter to the King of\nScots was intercepted by her own ambassador, because he thought it was\nnot for his mistress's honour (at least that was his pretended reason),\nand thought justifiable enough. But to come to my Beagle again. I have\nheard no more of him, though I have seen him since; we met at Wrest\nagain. I do not doubt but I shall be better able to resist his\nimportunity than his tutor was; but what do you think it is that gives\nhim his encouragement? He was told I had thought of marrying a gentleman\nthat had not above two hundred pound a year, only out of my liking to\nhis person. And upon that score his vanity allows him to think he may\npretend as far as another. Thus you see 'tis not altogether without\nreason that I apprehend the noise of the world, since 'tis so much to my\ndisadvantage.\n\nIs it in earnest that you say your being there keeps me from the town?\nIf so, 'tis very unkind. No, if I had gone, it had been to have waited\non my neighbour, who has now altered her resolution and goes not\nherself. I have no business there, and am so little taken with the place\nthat I could sit here seven years without so much as thinking once of\ngoing to it. 'Tis not likely, as you say, that you should much persuade\nyour father to what you do not desire he should do; but it is hard if\nall the testimonies of my kindness are not enough to satisfy without my\npublishing to the world that I can forget my friends and all my interest\nto follow my passion; though, perhaps, it will admit of a good sense,\n'tis that which nobody but you or I will give it, and we that are\nconcerned in't can only say 'twas an act of great kindness and something\nromance, but must confess it had nothing of prudence, discretion, nor\nsober counsel in't. 'Tis not that I expect, by all your father's offers,\nto bring my friends to approve it. I don't deceive myself thus far, but\nI would not give them occasion to say that I hid myself from them in the\ndoing it; nor of making my action appear more indiscreet than it is. It\nwill concern me that all the world should know what fortune you have,\nand upon what terms I marry you, that both may not be made to appear ten\ntimes worse than they are. 'Tis the general custom of all people to make\nthose that are rich to have more mines of gold than are in the Indies,\nand such as have small fortunes to be beggars. If an action take a\nlittle in the world, it shall be magnified and brought into comparison\nwith what the heroes or senators of Rome performed; but, on the\ncontrary, if it be once condemned, nothing can be found ill enough to\ncompare it with; and people are in pain till they find out some\nextravagant expression to represent the folly on't. Only there is this\ndifference, that as all are more forcibly inclined to ill than good,\nthey are much apter to exceed in detraction than in praises. Have I not\nreason then to desire this from you; and may not my friendship have\ndeserved it? I know not; 'tis as you think; but if I be denied it, you\nwill teach me to consider myself. 'Tis well the side ended here. If I\nhad not had occasion to stop there, I might have gone too far, and\nshowed that I had more passions than one. Yet 'tis fit you should know\nall my faults, lest you should repent your bargain when 'twill not be in\nyour power to release yourself; besides, I may own my ill-humour to you\nthat cause it; 'tis the discontent my crosses in this business have\ngiven me makes me thus peevish. Though I say it myself, before I knew\nyou I was thought as well an humoured young person as most in England;\nnothing displeased, nothing troubled me. When I came out of France,\nnobody knew me again. I was so altered, from a cheerful humour that was\nalways alike, never over merry but always pleased, I was grown heavy and\nsullen, froward and discomposed; and that country which usually gives\npeople a jolliness and gaiety that is natural to the climate, had\nwrought in me so contrary effects that I was as new a thing to them as\nmy clothes. If you find all this to be sad truth hereafter, remember\nthat I gave you fair warning.\n\nHere is a ring: it must not be at all wider than this, which is rather\ntoo big for me than otherwise; but that is a good fault, and counted\nlucky by superstitious people. I am not so, though: 'tis indifferent\nwhether there be any word in't or not; only 'tis as well without, and\nwill make my wearing it the less observed. You must give Nan leave to\ncut a lock of your hair for me, too. Oh, my heart! what a sigh was\nthere! I will not tell you how many this journey causes; nor the fear\nand apprehensions I have for you. No, I long to be rid of you, am afraid\nyou will not go soon enough: do not you believe this? No, my dearest, I\nknow you do not, whate'er you say, you cannot doubt that I am yours.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 45",
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"body": "SIR,--The lady was in the right. You are a very pretty gentleman and a\nmodest; were there ever such stories as these you tell? The best on't\nis, I believe none of them unless it be that of my Lady Newport, which I\nmust confess is so like her that if it be not true 'twas at least\nexcellently well fancied. But my Lord Rich was not caught, tho' he was\nnear it. My Lady Devonshire, whose daughter his first wife was, has\nengaged my Lord Warwick to put a stop to the business. Otherwise, I\nthink his present want of fortune, and the little sense of honour he\nhas, might have been prevailed on to marry her.\n\n'Tis strange to see the folly that possesses the young people of this\nage, and the liberty they take to themselves. I have the charity to\nbelieve they appear very much worse than they are, and that the want of\na Court to govern themselves by is in great part the cause of their\nruin; though that was no perfect school of virtue, yet Vice there wore\nher mask, and appeared so unlike herself that she gave no scandal. Such\nas were really discreet as they seemed to be gave good example, and the\neminency of their condition made others strive to imitate them, or at\nleast they durst not own a contrary course. All who had good principles\nand inclinations were encouraged in them, and such as had neither were\nforced to put on a handsome disguise that they might not be out of\ncountenance at themselves. 'Tis certain (what you say) that where divine\nor human laws are not positive we may be our own judges; nobody can\nhinder us, nor is it in itself to be blamed. But, sure, it is not safe\nto take all liberty that is allowed us,--there are not many that are\nsober enough to be trusted with the government of themselves; and\nbecause others judge us with more severity than our indulgence to\nourselves will permit, it must necessarily follow that 'tis safer being\nruled by their opinions than by our own. I am disputing again, though\nyou told me my fault so plainly.\n\nI'll give it over, and tell you that _Parthenissa_ is now my company. My\nbrother sent it down, and I have almost read it. 'Tis handsome language;\nyou would know it to be writ by a person of good quality though you were\nnot told it; but, on the whole, I am not very much taken with it. All\nthe stories have too near a resemblance with those of other romances,\nthere is nothing new or _surprenant_ in them; the ladies are all so kind\nthey make no sport, and I meet only with one that took me by doing a\nhandsome thing of the kind. She was in a besieged town, and persuaded\nall those of her sex to go out with her to the enemy (which were a\nbarbarous people) and die by their swords, that the provisions of the\ntown might last the longer for such as were able to do service in\ndefending it. But how angry was I to see him spoil this again by\nbringing out a letter this woman left behind her for the governor of the\ntown, where she discovers a passion for him, and makes _that_ the reason\nwhy she did it. I confess I have no patience for our _faiseurs de\nRomance_ when they make a woman court. It will never enter into my head\nthat 'tis possible any woman can love where she is not first loved, and\nmuch less that if they should do that, they could have the face to own\nit. Methinks he that writes _L'illustre Bassa_ says well in his epistle\nthat we are not to imagine his hero to be less taking than those of\nother romances because the ladies do not fall in love with him whether\nhe will or not. 'Twould be an injury to the ladies to suppose they could\ndo so, and a greater to his hero's civility if he should put him upon\nbeing cruel to them, since he was to love but one. Another fault I find,\ntoo, in the style--'tis affected. _Ambitioned_ is a great word with him,\nand _ignore_; _my concern_, or of _great concern_, is, it seems, properer\nthan _concernment_: and though he makes his people say fine handsome\nthings to one another, yet they are not easy and _naïve_ like the\nFrench, and there is a little harshness in most of the discourse that\none would take to be the fault of a translator rather than of an author.\nBut perhaps I like it the worse for having a piece of _Cyrus_ by me that\nI am hugely pleased with, and that I would fain have you read: I'll send\nit you. At least read one story that I'll mark you down, if you have\ntime for no more. I am glad you stay to wait on your sister. I would\nhave my gallant civil to all, much more when it is so due, and kindness\ntoo.\n\nI have the cabinet, and 'tis in earnest a pretty one; though you will\nnot own it for a present, I'll keep it as one, and 'tis like to be yours\nno more but as 'tis mine. I'll warrant you would ne'er have thought of\nmaking me a present of charcoal as my servant James would have done, to\nwarm my heart I think he meant it. But the truth is, I had been\ninquiring for some (as 'tis a commodity scarce enough in this country),\nand he hearing it, told the baily [bailiff?] he would give him some if\n'twere for me. But this is not all. I cannot forbear telling you the\nother day he made me a visit, and I, to prevent his making discourse to\nme, made Mrs. Goldsmith and Jane sit by all the while. But he came\nbetter provided than I could have imagined. He brought a letter with\nhim, and gave it me as one he had met with directed to me, he thought it\ncame out of Northamptonshire. I was upon my guard, and suspecting all he\nsaid, examined him so strictly where he had it before I would open it,\nthat he was hugely confounded, and I confirmed that 'twas his. I laid it\nby and wished that they would have left us, that I might have taken\nnotice on't to him. But I had forbid it them so strictly before, that\nthey offered not to stir farther than to look out of window, as not\nthinking there was any necessity of giving us their eyes as well as\ntheir ears; but he that saw himself discovered took that time to confess\nto me (in a whispering voice that I could hardly hear myself) that the\nletter (as my Lord Broghill says) was of _great concern_ to him, and\nbegged I would read it, and give him my answer. I took it up presently,\nas if I had meant it, but threw it, sealed as it was, into the fire, and\ntold him (as softly as he had spoke to me) I thought that the quickest\nand best way of answering it. He sat awhile in great disorder, without\nspeaking a word, and so ris and took his leave. Now what think you,\nshall I ever hear of him more?\n\nYou do not thank me for using your rival so scurvily nor are not jealous\nof him, though your father thinks my intentions were not handsome\ntowards you, which methinks is another argument that one is not to be\none's own judge; for I am very confident they were, and with his favour\nshall never believe otherwise. I am sure I have no ends to serve of my\nown in what I did,--it could be no advantage to me that had firmly\nresolved not to marry; but I thought it might be an injury to you to\nkeep you in expectation of what was never likely to be, as I\napprehended. Why do I enter into this wrangling discourse? Let your\nfather think me what he pleases, if he ever comes to know me, the rest\nof my actions shall justify me in this; if he does not, I'll begin to\npractise on him (what you so often preached to me) to neglect the report\nof the world, and satisfy myself in my own innocency.\n\n'Twill be pleasinger to you, I am sure, to tell you how fond I am of\nyour lock. Well, in earnest now, and setting aside all compliments, I\nnever saw finer hair, nor of a better colour; but cut no more on't, I\nwould not have it spoiled for the world. If you love me, be careful\non't. I am combing, and curling, and kissing this lock all day, and\ndreaming on't all night. The ring, too, is very well, only a little of\nthe biggest. Send me a tortoise one that is a little less than that I\nsent for a pattern. I would not have the rule so absolutely true without\nexception that hard hairs be ill-natured, for then I should be so. But I\ncan allow that all soft hairs are good, and so are you, or I am deceived\nas much as you are if you think I do not love you enough. Tell me, my\ndearest, am I? You will not be if you think I am\n\nYours.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 46",
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"body": "SIR,--They say you gave order for this waste-paper; how do you think I\ncould ever fill it, or with what? I am not always in the humour to\nwrangle and dispute. For example now, I had rather agree to what you\nsay, than tell you that Dr. Taylor (whose devote you must know I am)\nsays there is a great advantage to be gained in resigning up one's will\nto the command of another, because the same action which in itself is\nwholly indifferent, if done upon our own choice, becomes an act of duty\nand religion if done in obedience to the command of any person whom\nnature, the laws, or ourselves have given a power over us; so that\nthough in an action already done we can only be our own judges, because\nwe only know with what intentions it was done, yet in any we intend,\n'tis safest, sure, to take the advice of another. Let me practise this\ntowards you as well as preach it to you, and I'll lay a wager you will\napprove on't. But I am chiefly of your opinion that contentment (which\nthe Spanish proverb says is the best paint) gives the lustre to all\none's enjoyment, puts a beauty upon things which without it would have\nnone, increases it extremely where 'tis already in some degree, and\nwithout it, all that we call happiness besides loses its property. What\nis contentment, must be left to every particular person to judge for\nthemselves, since they only know what is so to them which differs in all\naccording to their several humours. Only you and I agree 'tis to be\nfound by us in a true friend, a moderate fortune, and a retired life;\nthe last I thank God I have in perfection. My cell is almost finished,\nand when you come back you'll find me in it, and bring me both the rest\nI hope.\n\nI find it much easier to talk of your coming back than your going. You\nshall never persuade me I send you this journey. No, pray let it be your\nfather's commands, or a necessity your fortune puts upon you. 'Twas\nunkindly said to tell me I banish you; your heart never told it you, I\ndare swear; nor mine ne'er thought it. No, my dear, this is our last\nmisfortune, let's bear it nobly. Nothing shows we deserve a punishment\nso much as our murmuring at it; and the way to lessen those we feel, and\nto 'scape those we fear, is to suffer patiently what is imposed, making\na virtue of necessity. 'Tis not that I have less kindness or more\ncourage than you, but that mistrusting myself more (as I have more\nreason), I have armed myself all that is possible against this occasion.\nI have thought that there is not much difference between your being at\nDublin or at London, as our affairs stand. You can write and hear from\nthe first, and I should not see you sooner if you continued still at the\nlast.\n\nBesides, I hope this journey will be of advantage to us; when your\nfather pressed your coming over he told you, you needed not doubt either\nhis power or his will. Have I done anything since that deserves he\nshould alter his intentions towards us? Or has any accident lessened his\npower? If neither, we may hope to be happy, and the sooner for this\njourney. I dare not send my boy to meet you at Brickhill nor any other\nof the servants, they are all too talkative. But I can get Mr. Gibson,\nif you will, to bring you a letter. 'Tis a civil, well-natured man as\ncan be, of excellent principles and exact honesty. I durst make him my\nconfessor, though he is not obliged by his orders to conceal anything\nthat is told him. But you must tell me then which Brickhill it is you\nstop at, Little or Great; they are neither of them far from us. If you\nstay there you will write back by him, will you not, a long letter? I\nshall need it; besides that, you owe it me for the last being so short.\nWould you saw what letters my brother writes me; you are not half so\nkind. Well, he is always in the extremes; since our last quarrel he has\ncourted me more than ever he did in his life, and made me more presents,\nwhich, considering his humour, is as great a testimony of his kindness\nas 'twas of Mr. Smith's to my Lady Sunderland when he presented Mrs.\nCamilla. He sent me one this week which, in earnest, is as pretty a\nthing as I have seen, a China trunk, and the finest of the kind that\ne'er I saw. By the way (this puts me in mind on't), have you read the\nstory of China written by a Portuguese, Fernando Mendez Pinto, I think\nhis name is? If you have not, take it with you, 'tis as diverting a book\nof the kind as ever I read, and is as handsomely written. You must allow\nhim the privilege of a traveller, and he does not abuse it. His lies are\nas pleasant harmless ones, as lies can be, and in no great number\nconsidering the scope he has for them. There is one in Dublin now, that\nne'er saw much farther, has told me twice as many (I dare swear) of\nIreland. If I should ever live to see that country and be in't, I should\nmake excellent sport with them. 'Tis a sister of my Lady Grey's, her\nname is Pooley; her husband lives there too, but I am afraid in no very\ngood condition. They were but poor, and she lived here with her sisters\nwhen I knew her; 'tis not half a year since she went, I think. If you\nhear of her, send me word how she makes a shift there.\n\nAnd hark you, can you tell me whether the gentleman that lost a crystal\nbox the 1st of February in St. James' Park or Old Spring Gardens has\nfound it again or not, I have strong curiosity to know? Tell me, and\nI'll tell you something that you don't know, which is, that I am your\nValentine and you are mine. I did not think of drawing any, but Mrs.\nGoldsmith and Jane would need make me some for them and myself; so I\nwrit down our three names, and for men Mr. Fish, James B., and you. I\ncut them all equal and made them up myself before them, and because I\nwould owe it wholly to my good fortune if I were pleased. I made both\nthem choose first that had never seen what was in them, and they left me\nyou. Then I made them choose again for theirs, and my name was left. You\ncannot imagine how I was delighted with this little accident, but by\ntaking notice that I cannot forbear telling you it. I was not half so\npleased with my encounter next morning. I was up early, but with no\ndesign of getting another Valentine, and going out to walk in my\nnight-cloak and night-gown, I met Mr. Fish going a hunting, I think he\nwas; but he stayed to tell me I was his Valentine; and I should not have\nbeen rid on him quickly, if he had not thought himself a little too\n_negligée_; his hair was not powdered, and his clothes were but\nordinary; to say truth, he looked then methought like other mortal\npeople. Yet he was as handsome as your Valentine. I'll swear you wanted\none when you took her, and had very ill fortune that nobody met you\nbefore her. Oh, if I had not terrified my little gentleman when he\nbrought me his own letter, now sure I had had him for my Valentine!\n\nOn my conscience, I shall follow your counsel if e'er he comes again,\nbut I am persuaded he will not. I writ my brother that story for want of\nsomething else, and he says I did very well, there was no other way to\nbe rid on him; and he makes a remark upon't that I can be severe enough\nwhen I please, and wishes I would practise it somewhere else as well as\nthere. Can you tell where that is? I never understand anybody that does\nnot speak plain English, and he never uses that to me of late, but tells\nme the finest stories (I may apply them how I please) of people that\nhave married when they thought there was great kindness, and how\nmiserably they have found themselves deceived; how despicable they have\nmade themselves by it, and how sadly they have repented on't. He reckons\nmore inconveniency than you do that follows good nature, says it makes\none credulous, apt to be abused, betrays one to the cunning of people\nthat make advantage on't, and a thousand such things which I hear half\nasleep and half awake, and take little notice of, unless it be sometimes\nto say that with all these faults I would not be without it. No, in\nearnest, nor I could not love any person that I thought had it not to a\ngood degree. 'Twas the first thing I liked in you, and without it I\nshould never have liked anything. I know 'tis counted simple, but I\ncannot imagine why. 'Tis true some people have it that have not wit, but\nthere are at least as many foolish people I have ever observed to be\nfullest of tricks, little ugly plots and designs, unnecessary disguises,\nand mean cunnings, which are the basest qualities in the world, and\nmakes one the most contemptible, I think; when I once discover them they\nlose their credit with me for ever. Some will say they are cunning only\nin their own defence, and that there is no living in this world without\nit; but I cannot understand how anything more is necessary to one's own\nsafety besides a prudent caution; that I now think is, though I can\nremember when nobody could have persuaded me that anybody meant ill when\nit did not appear by their words and actions. I remember my mother (who,\nif it may be allowed me to say it) was counted as wise a woman as most\nin England,--when she seemed to distrust anybody, and saw I took notice\non't, would ask if I did not think her too jealous and a little\nill-natured. \"Come, I know you do,\" says she, \"if you would confess it,\nand I cannot blame you. When I was young as you are, I thought my\nfather-in-law (who was a wise man) the most unreasonably suspicious man\nthat ever was, and disliked him for it hugely; but I have lived to see\nit is almost impossible to think people worse than they are, and so will\nyou.\" I did not believe her, and less, that I should have more to say to\nyou than this paper would hold. It shall never be said I began another\nat this time of night, though I have spent this idly, that should have\ntold you with a little more circumstance how perfectly\n\nI am yours.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 47",
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"body": "SIR,--'Tis well you have given over your reproaches; I can allow you to\ntell me of my faults kindly and like a friend. Possibly it is a weakness\nin me to aim at the world's esteem, as if I could not be happy without\nit; but there are certain things that custom has made almost of absolute\nnecessity, and reputation I take to be one of these. If one could be\ninvisible I should choose that; but since all people are seen or known,\nand shall be talked of in spite of their teeth, who is it that does not\ndesire, at least, that nothing of ill may be said of them, whether\njustly or otherwise? I never knew any so satisfied with their own\ninnocence as to be content that the world should think them guilty. Some\nout of pride have seemed to contemn ill reports when they have found\nthey could not avoid them, but none out of strength of reason, though\nmany have pretended to it. No, not my Lady Newcastle with all her\nphilosophy, therefore you must not expect it from me. I shall never be\nashamed to own that I have a particular value for you above any other,\nbut 'tis not the greatest merit of person will excuse a want of fortune;\nin some degree I think it will, at least with the most rational part of\nthe world, and, as far as that will read, I desire it should. I would\nnot have the world believe I married out of interest and to please my\nfriends; I had much rather they should know I chose the person, and took\nhis fortune, because 'twas necessary, and that I prefer a competency\nwith one I esteem infinitely before a vast estate in other hands. 'Tis\nmuch easier, sure, to get a good fortune than a good husband; but\nwhosoever marries without any consideration of fortune shall never be\nallowed to do it, but of so reasonable an apprehension the whole world\n(without any reserve) shall pronounce they did it merely to satisfy\ntheir giddy humour.\n\nBesides, though you imagine 'twere a great argument of my kindness to\nconsider nothing but you, in earnest I believe 'twould be an injury to\nyou. I do not see that it puts any value upon men when women marry them\nfor love (as they term it); 'tis not their merit, but our folly that is\nalways presumed to cause it; and would it be any advantage to you to\nhave your wife thought an indiscreet person? All this I can say to you;\nbut when my brother disputes it with me I have other arguments for him,\nand I drove him up so close t'other night that for want of a better gap\nto get out at he was fain to say that he feared as much your having a\nfortune as your having none, for he saw you held my Lord L't's [?\nLieutenant's] principles. That religion and honour were things you did\nnot consider at all, and that he was confident you would take any\nengagement, serve in employment, or do anything to advance yourself. I\nhad no patience for this. To say you were a beggar, your father not\nworth £4000 in the whole world, was nothing in comparison of having no\nreligion nor no honour. I forgot all my disguise, and we talked\nourselves weary; he renounced me, and I defied him, but both in as civil\nlanguage as it would permit, and parted in great anger with the usual\nceremony of a leg and a courtesy, that you would have died with laughing\nto have seen us.\n\nThe next day I, not being at dinner, saw him not till night; then he\ncame into my chamber, where I supped but he did not. Afterwards Mr.\nGibson and he and I talked of indifferent things till all but we two\nwent to bed. Then he sat half-an-hour and said not one word, nor I to\nhim. At last, in a pitiful tone, \"Sister,\" says he, \"I have heard you\nsay that when anything troubles you, of all things you apprehend going\nto bed, because there it increases upon you, and you lie at the mercy of\nall your sad thought, which the silence and darkness of the night adds a\nhorror to; I am at that pass now. I vow to God I would not endure\nanother night like the last to gain a crown.\" I, who resolved to take no\nnotice what ailed him, said 'twas a knowledge I had raised from my\nspleen only, and so fell into a discourse of melancholy and the causes,\nand from that (I know not how) into religion; and we talked so long of\nit, and so devoutly, that it laid all our anger. We grew to a calm and\npeace with all the world. Two hermits conversing in a cell they equally\ninhabit, ne'er expressed more humble, charitable kindness, one towards\nanother, than we. He asked my pardon and I his, and he has promised me\nnever to speak of it to me whilst he lives, but leave the event to God\nAlmighty; until he sees it done, he will always be the same to me that\nhe is; then he shall leave me, he says, not out of want of kindness to\nme, but because he cannot see the ruin of a person that he loves so\npassionately, and in whose happiness he has laid up all his. These are\nthe terms we are at, and I am confident he will keep his word with me,\nso that you have no reason to fear him in any respect; for though he\nshould break his promise, he should never make me break mine. No, let me\nassure you this rival, nor any other, shall ever alter me, therefore\nspare your jealousy, or turn it all into kindness.\n\nI will write every week, and no miss of letters shall give us any doubts\nof one another. Time nor accidents shall not prevail upon our hearts,\nand, if God Almighty please to bless us, we will meet the same we are,\nor happier. I will do all you bid me. I will pray, and wish, and hope,\nbut you must do so too, then, and be so careful of yourself that I may\nhave nothing to reproach you with when you come back.\n\nThat vile wench lets you see all my scribbles, I believe; how do you\nknow I took care your hair should not be spoiled? 'Tis more than e'er\nyou did, I think, you are so negligent on't, and keep it so ill, 'tis\npity you should have it. May you have better luck in the cutting it than\nI had with mine. I cut it two or three years agone, and it never grew\nsince. Look to it; if I keep the lock you give me better than you do all\nthe rest, I shall not spare you; expect to be soundly chidden. What do\nyou mean to do with all my letters? Leave them behind you? If you do, it\nmust be in safe hands, some of them concern you, and me, and other\npeople besides us very much, and they will almost load a horse to carry.\n\nDoes not my cousin at Moor Park mistrust us a little? I have a great\nbelief they do. I am sure Robin C---- told my brother of it since I was\nlast in town. Of all things, I admire my cousin Molle has not got it by\nthe end, he that frequents that family so much, and is at this instant\nat Kimbolton. If he has, and conceals it, he is very discreet; I could\nnever discern by anything that he knew it. I shall endeavour to accustom\nmyself to the noise on't, and make it as easy to me as I can, though I\nhad much rather it were not talked of till there were an absolute\nnecessity of discovering it, and you can oblige me in nothing more than\nin concealing it. I take it very kindly that you promise to use all your\ninterest in your father to persuade him to endeavour our happiness, and\nhe appears so confident of his power that it gives me great hopes.\n\nDear! shall we ever be so happy, think you? Ah! I dare not hope it. Yet\n'tis not want of love gives me these fears. No, in earnest, I think\n(nay, I'm sure) I love you more than ever, and 'tis that only gives me\nthese despairing thoughts; when I consider how small a proportion of\nhappiness is allowed in this world, and how great mine would be in a\nperson for whom I have a passionate kindness, and who has the same for\nme. As it is infinitely above what I can deserve, and more than God\nAlmighty usually allots to the best people, I can find nothing in reason\nbut seems to be against me; and, methinks, 'tis as vain in me to expect\nit as 'twould be to hope I might be a queen (if that were really as\ndesirable a thing as 'tis thought to be); and it is just it should be\nso.\n\nWe complain of this world, and the variety of crosses and afflictions it\nabounds in, and yet for all this who is weary on't (more than in\ndiscourse), who thinks with pleasure of leaving it, or preparing for the\nnext? We see old folks, who have outlived all the comforts of life,\ndesire to continue in it, and nothing can wean us from the folly of\npreferring a mortal being, subject to great infirmity and unavoidable\ndecays, before an immortal one, and all the glories that are promised\nwith it. Is this not very like preaching? Well, 'tis too good for you;\nyou shall have no more on't. I am afraid you are not mortified enough\nfor such discourse to work upon (though I am not of my brother's\nopinion, neither, that you have no religion in you). In earnest, I never\ntook anything he ever said half so ill, as nothing, sure, is so great an\ninjury. It must suppose one to be a devil in human shape. Oh, me! now I\nam speaking of religion, let me ask you is not his name Bagshawe that\nyou say rails on love and women? Because I heard one t'other day\nspeaking of him, and commending his wit, but withal, said he was a\nperfect atheist. If so, I can allow him to hate us, and love, which,\nsure, has something of divine in it, since God requires it of us. I am\ncoming into my preaching vein again. What think you, were it not a good\nway of preferment as the times are? If you'll advise me to it I'll\nventure. The woman at Somerset House was cried up mightily. Think on't.\n\nDear, I am yours.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 48",
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"body": "SIR,--You bid me write every week, and I am doing it without considering\nhow it will come to you. Let Nan look to that, with whom, I suppose, you\nhave left the orders of conveyance. I have your last letter; but Jane,\nto whom you refer me, is not yet come down. On Tuesday I expect her; and\nif she be not engaged, I shall give her no cause hereafter to believe\nthat she is a burden to me, though I have no employment for her but that\nof talking to me when I am in the humour of saying nothing. Your dog is\ncome too, and I have received him with all the kindness that is due to\nanything you send. I have defended him from the envy and malice of a\ntroop of greyhounds that used to be in favour with me; and he is so\nsensible of my care over him, that he is pleased with nobody else, and\nfollows me as if we had been of long acquaintance. 'Tis well you are\ngone past my recovery. My heart has failed me twenty times since you\nwent, and, had you been within my call, I had brought you back as often,\nthough I know thirty miles' distance and three hundred are the same\nthing. You will be so kind, I am sure, as to write back by the coach and\ntell me what the success of your journey so far has been. After that, I\nexpect no more (unless you stay for a wind) till you arrive at Dublin. I\npity your sister in earnest; a sea voyage is welcome to no lady; but you\nare beaten to it, and 'twill become you, now you are a conductor, to\nshow your valour and keep your company in heart. When do you think of\ncoming back again? I am asking that before you are at your journey's\nend. You will not take it ill that I desire it should be soon. In the\nmeantime, I'll practise all the rules you give me. Who told you I go to\nbed late? In earnest, they do me wrong: I have been faulty in that point\nheretofore, I confess, but 'tis a good while since I gave it over with\nmy reading o' nights; but in the daytime I cannot live without it, and\n'tis all my diversion, and infinitely more pleasing to me than any\ncompany but yours. And yet I am not given to it in any excess now; I\nhave been very much more. 'Tis Jane, I know, tells all these tales of\nme. I shall be even with her some time or other, but for the present I\nlong for her with some impatience, that she may tell me all you have\ntold her.\n\nNever trust me if I had not a suspicion from the first that 'twas that\nill-looked fellow B---- who made that story Mr. D---- told you. That\nwhich gave me the first inclination to that belief was the circumstance\nyou told me of their seeing me at St. Gregory's. For I remembered to\nhave seen B---- there, and had occasion to look up into the gallery\nwhere he sat, to answer a very civil salute given me from thence by Mr.\nFreeman, and saw B---- in a great whisper with another that sat next\nhim, and pointing to me. If Mr. D---- had not been so nice in\ndiscovering his name, you would quickly have been cured of your\njealousy. Never believe I have a servant that I do not tell you of as\nsoon as I know it myself. As, for example, my brother Peyton has sent to\nme, for a countryman of his, Sir John Tufton,--he married one of my Lady\nWotton's heirs, who is lately dead,--and to invite me to think of it.\nBesides his person and his fortune, without exception, he tells me what\nan excellent husband he was to this lady that's dead, who was but a\ncrooked, ill-favoured woman, only she brought him £1500 a year. I tell\nhim I believe, Sir John Tufton could be content, I were so too upon the\nsame terms. But his loving his first wife can be no argument to persuade\nme; for if he had loved her as he ought to do, I cannot hope he should\nlove another so well as I expect anybody should that has me; and if he\ndid not love her, I have less to expect he should me. I do not care for\na divided heart; I must have all or none, at least the first place in\nit. Poor James, I have broke his. He says 'twould pity you to hear what\nsad complaints he makes; and, but that he has not the heart to hang\nhimself, he would be very well contented to be out of the world.\n\nThat house of your cousin R---- is fatal to physicians. Dr. Smith that\ntook it is dead already; but maybe this was before you went, and so is\nno news to you. I shall be sending you all I hear; which, though it\ncannot be much, living as I do, yet it may be more than ventures into\nIreland. I would have you diverted, whilst you are there, as much as\npossible; but not enough to tempt you to stay one minute longer than\nyour father and your business obliges you. Alas! I have already repented\nall my share in your journey, and begin to find I am not half so valiant\nas I sometimes take myself to be. The knowledge that our interests are\nthe same, and that I shall be happy or unfortunate in your person as\nmuch or more than in my own, does not give me that confidence you speak\nof. It rather increases my doubts, and I durst trust your fortune alone,\nrather than now that mine is joined with it. Yet I will hope yours may\nbe so good as to overcome the ill of mine, and shall endeavour to mend\nmy own all I can by striving to deserve it, maybe, better. My dearest,\nwill you pardon me that I am forced to leave you so soon? The next shall\nbe longer, though I can never be more than I am\n\nYours.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "April the 2nd, 1654.",
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"body": "SIR,--There was never any lady more surprised than I was with your last.\nI read it so coldly, and was so troubled to find that you were so\nforward on your journey; but when I came to the last, and saw Dublin at\nthe date, I could scarce believe my eyes. In earnest, it transported me\nso that I could not forbear expressing my joy in such a manner as had\nanybody been by to have observed me they would have suspected me no very\nsober person.\n\nYou are safe arrived, you say, and pleased with the place already, only\nbecause you meet with a letter of mine there. In your next I expect some\nother commendation on't, or else I shall hardly make such haste to it as\npeople here believe I will.\n\nAll the servants have been to take their leaves on me, and say how sorry\nthey are to hear I am going out of the land; some beggar at the door has\nmade so ill a report of Ireland to them that they pity me extremely, but\nyou are pleased, I hope, to hear I am coming to you; the next fair wind\nexpect me. 'Tis not to be imagined the ridiculous stories they have\nmade, nor how J.B. cries out on me for refusing him and choosing his\nchamber-fellow; yet he pities me too, and swears I am condemned to be\nthe miserablest person upon earth. With all his quarrel to me, he does\nnot wish me so ill as to be married to the proudest, imperious,\ninsulting, ill-natured man that ever was; one that before he has had me\na week shall use me with contempt, and believe that the favour was of\nhis side. Is not this very comfortable? But, pray, make it no quarrel; I\nmake it none, I assure you. And though he knew you before I did, I do\nnot think he knows you so well; besides that, his testimony is not of\nmuch value.\n\nI am to spend this next week in taking leave of this country, and all\nthe company in't, perhaps never to see it more. From hence I must go\ninto Northamptonshire to my Lady Ruthin, and so to London, where I shall\nfind my aunt and my brother Peyton, betwixt whom I think to divide this\nsummer.\n\nNothing has happened since you went worth your knowledge. My Lord\nMarquis Hertford has lost his son, my Lord Beauchamp, who has left a\nfine young widow. In earnest, 'tis great pity; at the rate of our young\nnobility he was an extraordinary person, and remarkable for an excellent\nhusband. My Lord Cambden, too, has fought with Mr. Stafford, but there's\nno harm done. You may discern the haste I'm in by my writing. There will\ncome a time for a long letter again, but there will never come any\nwherein I shall not be\n\nYours.\n\n[Sealed with black wax, and directed]\n For Mr. William Temple,\n at Sir John Temple's home\n in Damask Street,\n Dublin.\n\n\nThus Dorothy leaves Chicksands, her last words from her old home to\nTemple breathing her love and affection for him. It is no great sorrow\nat the moment to leave Chicksands, for its latest memories are scenes\nof sickness, grief, and death. And now the only home on earth for\nDorothy lies in the future; it is not a particular spot on earth, but to\nbe by his side, wherever that may be.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nVISITING. SUMMER 1654\n\n\nThis chapter opens with a portion of a letter written by Sir William\nTemple to his mistress, dated Ireland, May 18, 1654. It is the only\nletter, or rather scrap of letter which we have of his, and by some good\nchance it has survived with the rest of Dorothy's letters. It will, I\nthink, throw great light on his character as a lover, showing him to\nhave been ardent and ecstatic in his suit, making quite clear Dorothy's\nwisdom in insisting, as she often does, on the necessity of some more\nmaterial marriage portion than mere love and hope. His reference to the\n\"unhappy differences\" strengthens my view that the letters of the former\nchapter belong all to one date.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 50",
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"body": "SIR,--This is to tell you that you will be expected to-morrow morning\nabout nine o'clock at a lodging over against the place where Charinge\nCrosse stood, and two doors above Ye Goate Taverne; if with these\ndirections you can find it out, you will there find one that is very\nmuch\n\nYour servant.\n\n\nNow I have got the trick of breaking my word, I shall do it every day. I\nmust go to Roehampton to-day, but 'tis all one, you do not care much for\nseeing me. Well, my master, remember last night you swaggered like a\nyoung lord. I'll make your stomach come down; rise quickly, you had\nbetter, and come hither that I may give you a lesson this morning before\nI go.\n\n\nJe n'ay guere plus dormie que vous et mes songes n'ont pas estres moins\nconfuse, au rest une bande de violons que sont venu jouer sous ma\nfennestre, m'out tourmentés de tel façon que je doubt fort si je\npourrois jamais les souffrire encore, je ne suis pourtant pas en fort\nmauvaise humeur et je m'en-voy ausi tost que je serai habillée voire ce\nqu'il est posible de faire pour vostre sattisfaction, après je viendre\nvous rendre conte de nos affairs et quoy qu'il en sera vous ne scaurois\njamais doubté que je ne vous ayme plus que toutes les choses du monde.\n\n\nI have slept as little as you, and may be allowed to talk as\nunreasonably, yet I find I am not quite senseless; I have a heart still\nthat cannot resolve to refuse you anything within its power to grant.\nBut, Lord, when shall I see you? People will think me mad if I go abroad\nthis morning after having seen me in the condition I was in last night,\nand they will think it strange to see you here. Could you not stay till\nthey are all gone to Roehampton? they go this morning. I do but ask,\nthough do what you please, only believe you do a great injustice if you\nthink me false. I never resolv'd to give you an eternal farewell, but I\nresolv'd at the same time to part with all the comfort of my life, and\nwhether I told it you or not I shall die yours.\n\nTell me what you will have me do.\n\n\nHere comes the note again to tell you I cannot call on you to-night; I\ncannot help it, and you must take it as patiently as you can, but I am\nengaged to-night at the Three Rings to sup and play. Poor man, I am\nsorry for you; in earnest, I shall be quite spoiled. I see no remedy;\nthink whether it were not best to leave me and begin a new adventure.\n\n\nAnd now we have finished. Dorothy Osborne is passing away, will soon be\ntranslated into Dorothy Temple; with the romance of her life all past\nhistory, and fast becoming as much a romance to herself, as it seems to\nus, looking back at it after more than two centuries. Something it is\nbecoming to her over which she can muse and dream and weave into tales\nfor the children who will gather round her. Something the reality of\nwhich will grow doubtful to her, if she find idle hours for dreaming and\ndoubting in her new name. Her last lover's letter is written. We are\nready for the marriage ceremony, and listen for the wedding march and\nhappy jingle of village bells; or if we may not have these in Puritan\ndays, at least we may hear the pompous magistrate pronounce the blessing\nof the State over its two happy subjects. But no! There is yet a moment\nof suspense, a last trial to the lover's constancy. The bride is taken\ndangerously ill, so dangerously ill that the doctors rejoice when the\ndisease pronounces itself to be small-pox. Alas! who shall now say what\nare the inmost thoughts of our Dorothy? Does she not need all her faith\nin her lover, in herself, ay, and in God, to uphold her in this new\naffliction? She rises from her bed, her beauty of face destroyed; her\nfair looks living only on the painter's canvas, unless we may believe\nthat they were etched in deeply bitten lines on Temple's heart. But the\nskin beauty is not the firmest hold she has on Temple's affections; this\nwas not the beauty that had attracted her lover and held him enchained\nin her service for seven years of waiting and suspense; this was not the\nonly light leading him through dark days of doubt, almost of despair,\nconstant, unwavering in his troth to her. Other beauty not outward, of\nwhich we, too, may have seen something, mirrowed darkly in these\nletters; which we, too, as well as Temple, may know existed in Dorothy.\nFor it is not beauty of face and form, but of what men call the soul,\nthat made Dorothy to Temple, in fact as she was in name,--the gift of\nGod.\n\n\n\n\nAppendix\n\nLADY TEMPLE\n\n\nOf Lady Temple there is very little to be known, and what there is can\nbe best understood by following the career of her husband, which has\nbeen written at some length, and with laboured care, by Mr. Courtenay.\nAfter her marriage, which took place in London, January 31st, 1655, they\nlived for a year at the home of a friend in the country. They then\nremoved to Ireland, where they lived for five years with Temple's\nfather; Lady Giffard, Temple's widowed sister, joining them. In 1663\nthey were living in England. Lady Giffard continued to live with them\nthrough the rest of their lives, and survived them both. In 1665 Temple\nwas sent to Brussels as English representative, and his family joined\nhim in the following year. In 1668 he was removed from Brussels to the\nHague, where the successful negotiations which led to the Triple\nAlliance took place, and these have given him an honourable place in\nhistory. There is a letter of Lady Temple's, written to her husband in\n1670, which shows how interested she was in the part he took in\npolitical life, and how he must have consulted her in all State\nmatters. It is taken from Courtenay's _Life of Sir William Temple_,\nvol. i. p. 345. He quotes it as the only letter written after Lady\nTemple's marriage which has come into his hands.\n\n\nTHE HAGUE, _October 31st, 1670_.\n\nMy Dearest Heart,--I received yours from Yarmouth, and was very glad you\nmade so happy a passage. 'Tis a comfortable thing, when one is on this\nside, to know that such a thing can be done in spite of contrary winds.\nI have a letter from P., who says in character that you may take it from\nhim that the Duke of Buckingham has begun a negotiation there, but what\nsuccess in England he may have he knows not; that it were to be wished\nour politicians at home would consider well that there is no trust to be\nput in alliances with ambitious kings, especially such as make it their\nfundamental maxim to be base. These are bold words, but they are his\nown. Besides this, there is nothing but that the French King grows very\nthrifty, that all his buildings, except fortifications, are ceased, and\nthat his payments are not so regular as they used to be. The people here\nare of another mind; they will not spare their money, but are\nresolved--at least the States of Holland--if the rest will consent, to\nraise fourteen regiments of foot and six of horse; that all the\ncompanies, both old and new, shall be of 120 men that used to be of 50,\nand every troop 80 that used to be of 45. Nothing is talked of but these\nnew levies, and the young men are much pleased. Downton says they have\nstrong suspicions here you will come back no more, and that they shall\nbe left in the lurch; that something is striking up with France, and\nthat you are sent away because you are too well inclined to these\ncountries; and my cousin Temple, he says, told him that a nephew of Sir\nRobert Long's, who is lately come to Utrecht, told my cousin Temple,\nthree weeks since, you were not to stay long here, because you were too\ngreat a friend to these people, and that he had it from Mr. Williamson,\nwho knew very well what he said. My cousin Temple says he told it to\nMajor Scott as soon as he heard it, and so 'tis like you knew it before;\nbut there is such a want of something to say that I catch at everything.\nI am my best dear's most affectionate\n\nD.T.\n\n\nIn the summer of 1671 there occurred an incident that reminds us\nconsiderably of the Dorothy Osborne of former days. The Triple Alliance\nhad lost some of its freshness, and was not so much in vogue as\nheretofore. Charles II. had been coquetting with the French King, and at\nlength the Government, throwing off its mask, formally displaced Temple\nfrom his post in Holland. \"The critical position of affairs,\" says\nCourtenay, \"induced the Dutch to keep a fleet at sea, and the English\nGovernment hoped to draw from that circumstance an occasion of quarrel.\nA yacht was sent for Lady Temple; the captain had orders to sail through\nthe Dutch fleet if he should meet it, and to fire into the nearest ships\nuntil they should either strike sail to the flag which he bore, or\nreturn his shot so as to make a quarrel!\n\n\"He saw nothing of the Dutch Fleet in going over, but on his return he\nfell in with it, and fired, without warning and ceremony, into the ships\nthat were next him.\n\n\"The Dutch admiral, Van Ghent, was puzzled; he seemed not to know, and\nprobably did not know, what the English captain meant; he therefore sent\na boat, thinking it possible that the yacht might be in distress; when\nthe captain told his orders, mentioning also that he had the\nambassadress on board. Van Ghent himself then came on board, with a\nhandsome compliment to Lady Temple, and, making his personal inquiries\nof the captain, received the same answer as before. The Dutchman said he\nhad no orders upon the point, which he rightly believed to be still\nunsettled, and could not believe that the fleet, commanded by an\nadmiral, was to strike to the King's pleasure-boat.\n\n\"When the Admiral returned to his ship, the captain also, 'perplexed\nenough,' applied to Lady Temple, who soon saw that he desired to get out\nof his difficulty by her help; but the wife of Sir William Temple called\nforth the spirit of Dorothy Osborne. 'He knew,' she told the captain,\n'his orders best, and what he was to do upon them, which she left to\nhim to follow as he thought fit, without any regard to her or her\nchildren.' The Dutch and English commanders then proceeded each upon his\nown course, and Lady Temple was safely landed in England.\"\n\nThere is an account of this incident in a letter of Sir Charles\nLyttelton to Viscount Hatton, in the Hatton Correspondence. He tells us\nthat the poor captain, Captain Crow of _The Monmouth_, \"found himself in\nthe Tower about it;\" but he does not add any further information as to\nthe part which Dorothy played in the matter.\n\nAfter their retirement to Sheen and Moor Park, Surrey, we know nothing\ndistinctively of Lady Temple, and little is known of their family life.\nThey had only two children living, having lost as many as seven in their\ninfancy. In 1684 one of these children, their only daughter, died of\nsmall-pox; she was buried in Westminster Abbey. There is a letter of\nhers written to her father which shows some signs of her mother's\naffectionate teaching, and which we cannot forbear to quote. It is\ncopied from Courtenay, vol. ii. p. 113.",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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},
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{
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"heading": "Letter 51",
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"body": "SIR,--I deferred writing to you till I could tell you that I had\nreceived all my fine things, which I have just now done; but I thought\nnever to have done giving you thanks for them. They have made me so very\nhappy in my new clothes, and everybody that comes does admire them above\nall things, but yet not so much as I think they deserve; and now, if\npapa was near, I should think myself a perfect pope, though I hope I\nshould not be burned as there was one at Nell Gwyn's door the 5th of\nNovember, who was set in a great chair, with a red nose half a yard\nlong, with some hundreds of boys throwing squibs at it. Monsieur Gore\nand I agree mighty well, and he makes me believe I shall come to\nsomething at last; that is if he stays, which I don't doubt but he will,\nbecause all the fine ladies will petition for him. We are got rid of the\nworkmen now, and our house is ready to entertain you. Come when you\nplease, and you will meet nobody more glad to see you than your most\nobedient and dutiful daughter,\n\nD. TEMPLE.\n\n\nTemple's son, John Temple, married in 1685 a rich heiress in France, the\ndaughter of Monsieur Duplessis Rambouillet, a French Protestant; he\nbrought his wife to live at his father's house at Sheen. After King\nWilliam and Queen Mary were actually placed on the throne, Sir William\nTemple, in 1689, permitted his son to accept the office of Secretary at\nWar. For reasons now obscure and unknowable, he drowned himself in the\nThames within a week of his acceptance of office, leaving this writing\nbehind him:--\n\n\"My folly in undertaking what I was not able to perform has done the\nKing and kingdom a great deal of prejudice. I wish him all happiness and\nabler servants than John Temple.\"\n\nThe following letter was written on that occasion by Lady Temple to\nher nephew, Sir John Osborne. The original of it is at Chicksands:--",
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"author": "Dorothy Osborne",
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"recipient": "Sir William Temple",
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"source": "The Love Letters of Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple",
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"period": "1652–1654"
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}
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] |