LIFE AT CHICKSANDS. 1653
_Letter 9._--Temple's sister here mentioned was his only sister Martha,
who married Sir Thomas Giffard in 1662, and was left a widow within two
months of her marriage. She afterwards lived with Temple and his wife,
was a great favourite with them, and their confidential friend. Lady
Giffard has left a manuscript life of her brother from which the
historian Courtenay deigned to extract some information, whereby we in
turn have benefited. She outlived both her brother and his wife, to
carry on a warlike encounter with her brother's amanuensis, Mr. Jonathan
Swift, over Temple's literary remains. Esther Johnson, the unfortunate
Stella, was Lady Giffard's maid.
_Cléopâtre_ and _Le Grand Cyrus_ appear to have been Dorothy's literary
companions at this date. She would read these in the original French;
and, as she tells us somewhere, had a scorn of translations. Both these
romances were much admired, even by people of taste; a thing difficult
to understand, until we remember that Fielding, the first and greatest
English novelist, was yet unborn, and novels, as we know them,
non-existing. Both the romances found translators; _Cyrus_, in one
mysterious F.G. _Gent_--the translation was published in this year;
_Cléopâtre_, in Richard Loveday, an elegant letter-writer of this time.
_Artamenes_, or _Le Grand Cyrus_, the masterpiece of Mademoiselle
Madeleine de Scudéri, is contained in no less than ten volumes, each of
which in its turn has many books; it is, in fact, more a collection of
romances than a single romance. _La Cléopâtre_, a similar work, was
originally published in twenty-three volumes of twelve parts, each part
containing three or four books. It is but a collection of short stories.
Its author rejoiced in the romantic title of Gauthier de Costes
Chevalier Seigneur de la Calprenède; he published _Cléopâtre_ in 1642;
he was the author of other romances, and some tragedies, noted only for
their worthlessness. Even Richelieu, "quoiqu' admirateur indulgent de la
médiocrité," could not stand Calprenède's tragedies. _Reine Marguerite_
is probably the translation by Robert Codrington of the Memorials of
Margaret of Valois, first wife of Henri IV. Bussy is a servant of the
Duke of Avenson, Margaret's brother, with whom Margaret is very
intimate.
Of Lady Sunderland and Mr. Smith we have already sufficient knowledge.
As for Sir Justinian, we are not to think he was already married; the
reference to his "new wife" is merely jocular, meaning his new wife when
he shall get one; for Sir Justinian is still wife-hunting, and comes
back to renew his suit with Dorothy after this date. "Your
fellow-servant," who is as often called Jane, appears to have been a
friend and companion of Dorothy, in a somewhat lower rank of life. Mrs.
Goldsmith, mentioned in a subsequent letter,--wife of Daniel Goldsmith,
the rector of Campton, in which parish Chicksands was situated,--acted
as chaperon or duenna companion to Dorothy, and Jane was, it seems to
me, in a similar position; only, being a younger woman than the rector's
wife, she was more the companion and less the duenna. The servants and
companions of ladies of that date were themselves gentlewomen of good
breeding. Waller writes verses to Mrs. Braughton, servant to Sacharissa,
commencing his lines, "Fair fellow-servant." Temple, had he written
verse to his mistress, would probably have left us some "Lines to Jane."
There is in Campton Church a tablet erected to Daniel Goldsmith,
"Ecclesiae de Campton Pastor idem et Patronus;" also to Maria Goldsmith,
"uxor dilectissima." This is erected by Maria's faithful sister, Jane
Wright; and if the astute reader shall think fit to agree with me in
believing Temple's "fellow-servant" to be this Jane Wright on such
slender evidence and slight thread of argument, he may well do so.
Failing this, all search after Jane will, I fear, prove futile at this
distant date. There are constant references to Jane in the letters. "Her
old woman," in the same passage, is, of course, a jocular allusion to
Dorothy herself; and "the old knight" is, I believe, Sir Robert Cook, a
Bedfordshire gentleman, of whom nothing is known except that he was
knighted at Ampthill, July 21st, 1621. We hear some little more of him
from Dorothy.
Note well the signature of this and following letters; it will help us
to discover what passed between the friends in London. For my own part,
I do not think Dorothy means that she has ceased to be _faithful_ in
that she has become "his _affectionate_ friend and servant."
SIR--I was so kind as to write to you by the coachman, and let me tell
you I think 'twas the greatest testimony of my friendship that I could
give you; for, trust me, I was so tired with my journey, so _dowd_ with
my cold, and so out of humour with our parting, that I should have done
it with great unwillingness to anybody else. I lay abed all next day to
recover myself, and rised a Thursday to receive your letter with the
more ceremony. I found no fault with the ill writing, 'twas but too easy
to read, methought, for I am sure I had done much sooner than I could
have wished. But, in earnest, I was heartily troubled to find you in so
much disorder. I would not have you so kind to me as to be cruel to
yourself, in whom I am more concerned. No; for God's sake, let us not
make afflictions of such things as these; I am afraid we shall meet with
too many real ones.
I am glad your journey holds, because I think 'twill be a good diversion
for you this summer; but I admire your father's patience, that lets you
rest with so much indifference when there is such a fortune offered.
I'll swear I have great scruples of conscience myself on the point, and
am much afraid I am not your friend if I am any part of the occasion
that hinders you from accepting it. Yet I am sure my intentions towards
you are very innocent and good, for you are one of those whose interests
I shall ever prefer much above my own; and you are not to thank me for
it, since, to speak truth, I secure my own by it; for I defy my ill
fortune to make me miserable, unless she does it in the persons of my
friends. I wonder how your father came to know I was in town, unless my
old friend, your cousin Hammond, should tell him. Pray, for my sake, be
a very obedient son; all your faults will be laid to my charge else,
and, alas! I have too many of my own.
You say nothing how your sister does, which makes me hope there is no
more of danger in her sickness. Pray, when it may be no trouble to her,
tell her how much I am her servant; and have a care of yourself this
cold weather. I have read your _Reine Marguerite_, and will return it
you when you please. If you will have my opinion of her, I think she had
a good deal of wit, and a great deal of patience for a woman of so high
a spirit. She speaks with too much indifference of her husband's several
amours, and commends Bussy as if she were a little concerned in him. I
think her a better sister than a wife, and believe she might have made a
better wife to a better husband. But the story of Mademoiselle de
Tournon is so sad, that when I had read it I was able to go no further,
and was fain to take up something else to divert myself withal. Have you
read _Cléopâtre_? I have six tomes on't here that I can lend you if you
have not; there are some stories in't you will like, I believe. But what
an ass am I to think you can be idle enough at London to read romance!
No, I'll keep them till you come hither; here they may be welcome to you
for want of better company. Yet, that you may not imagine we are quite
out of the world here, and so be frighted from coming, I can assure you
we are seldom without news, such as it is; and at this present we do
abound with stories of my Lady Sunderland and Mr. Smith; with what
reverence he approaches her, and how like a gracious princess she
receives him, that they say 'tis worth one's going twenty miles to see
it. All our ladies are mightily pleased with the example, but I do not
find that the men intend to follow it, and I'll undertake Sir Solomon
Justinian wishes her in the Indias, for fear she should pervert his new
wife.
Your fellow-servant kisses your hands, and says, "If you mean to make
love to her old woman this is the best time you can take, for she is
dying; this cold weather kills her, I think." It has undone me, I am
sure, in killing an old knight that I have been waiting for this seven
year, and now he dies and will leave me nothing, I believe, but leaves a
rich widow for somebody. I think you had best come a wooing to her; I
have a good interest in her, and it shall be all employed in your
service if you think fit to make any addresses there. But to be sober
now again, for God's sake send me word how your journey goes forward,
when you think you shall begin it, and how long it may last, when I may
expect your coming this way; and of all things, remember to provide a
safe address for your letters when you are abroad. This is a strange,
confused one, I believe; for I have been called away twenty times, since
I sat down to write it, to my father, who is not well; but you will
pardon it--we are past ceremony, and excuse me if I say no more now but
that I am _toujours le mesme_, that is, ever
Your affectionate
friend and servant.
_Letter 10._--Dorothy is suffering from _the spleen_, a disease as
common to-day as then, though we have lost the good name for it. This
and the ague plague her continually. My Lord Lisle's proposed embassy to
Sweden is, we see, still delayed; ultimately Bulstrode Whitelocke is
chosen ambassador.
Dorothy's cousin Molle, here mentioned, seems to have been an old
bachelor, who spent his time at one country house or another, visiting
his country friends; and playing the bore not a little, I should fear,
with his gossip and imaginary ailments.
Temple's father was at this time trying to arrange a match for him with
a certain Mrs. Ch. as Dorothy calls her. Courtenay thinks she may be one
Mistress Chambers, an heiress, who ultimately married Temple's brother
John, and this conjecture is here followed.
SIR,--Your last letter came like a pardon to one upon the block. I had
given over the hopes on't, having received my letters by the other
carrier, who was always [wont] to be last. The loss put me hugely out of
order, and you would have both pitied and laughed at me if you could
have seen how woodenly I entertained the widow, who came hither the day
before, and surprised me very much. Not being able to say anything, I
got her to cards, and there with a great deal of patience lost my money
to her;--or rather I gave it as my ransom. In the midst of our play, in
comes my blessed boy with your letter, and, in earnest, I was not able
to disguise the joy it gave me, though one was by that is not much your
friend, and took notice of a blush that for my life I could not keep
back. I put up the letter in my pocket, and made what haste I could to
lose the money I had left, that I might take occasion to go fetch some
more; but I did not make such haste back again, I can assure you. I took
time enough to have coined myself some money if I had had the art on't,
and left my brother enough to make all his addresses to her if he were
so disposed. I know not whether he was pleased or not, but I am sure I
was.
You make so reasonable demands that 'tis not fit you should be denied.
You ask my thoughts but at one hour; you will think me bountiful, I
hope, when I shall tell you that I know no hour when you have them not.
No, in earnest, my very dreams are yours, and I have got such a habit of
thinking of you that any other thought intrudes and proves uneasy to me.
I drink your health every morning in a drench that would poison a horse
I believe, and 'tis the only way I have to persuade myself to take it.
'Tis the infusion of steel, and makes me so horridly sick, that every
day at ten o'clock I am making my will and taking leave of all my
friends. You will believe you are not forgot then. They tell me I must
take this ugly drink a fortnight, and then begin another as bad; but
unless you say so too, I do not think I shall. 'Tis worse than dying by
the half.
I am glad your father is so kind to you. I shall not dispute it with
him, because it is much more in his power than in mine, but I shall
never yield that 'tis more in his desire, since he was much pleased with
that which was a truth when you told it him, but would have been none if
he had asked the question sooner. He thought there was no danger of you
since you were more ignorant and less concerned in my being in town than
he. If I were Mrs. Chambers, he would be more my friend; but, however, I
am much his servant as he is your father. I have sent you your book. And
since you are at leisure to consider the moon, you may be enough to read
_Cléopâtre_, therefore I have sent you three tomes; when you have done
with these you shall have the rest, and I believe they will please.
There is a story of Artemise that I will recommend to you; her
disposition I like extremely, it has a great deal of practical wit; and
if you meet with one Brittomart, pray send me word how you like him. I
am not displeased that my Lord [Lisle] makes no more haste, for though I
am very willing you should go the journey for many reasons, yet two or
three months hence, sure, will be soon enough to visit so cold a
country, and I would not have you endure two winters in one year.
Besides, I look for my eldest brother and cousin Molle here shortly, and
I should be glad to have nobody to entertain but you, whilst you are
here. Lord! that you had the invisible ring, or Fortunatus his wishing
hat; now, at this instant, you should be here.
My brother has gone to wait upon the widow homewards,--she that was born
to persecute you and I, I think. She has so tired me with being here but
two days, that I do not think I shall accept of the offer she made me of
living with her in case my father dies before I have disposed of myself.
Yet we are very great friends, and for my comfort she says she will come
again about the latter end of June and stay longer with me. My aunt is
still in town, kept by her business, which I am afraid will not go well,
they do so delay it; and my precious uncle does so visit her, and is so
kind, that without doubt some mischief will follow. Do you know his son,
my cousin Harry? 'Tis a handsome youth, and well-natured, but such a
goose; and she has bred him so strangely, that he needs all his ten
thousand a year. I would fain have him marry my Lady Diana, she was his
mistress when he was a boy. He had more wit then than he has now, I
think, and I have less wit than he, sure, for spending my paper upon him
when I have so little. Here is hardly room for
Your affectionate
friend and servant.
_Letter 11._--It is a curious thing to find the Lord General's son among
our loyal Dorothy's servants; and to find, moreover, that he will be as
acceptable to Dorothy as any other, if she may not marry Temple. Henry
Cromwell was Oliver Cromwell's second son. How Dorothy became acquainted
with him it is impossible to say. Perhaps they met in France. He seems
to have been entirely unlike his father. Good Mrs. Hutchinson calls him
"a debauched ungodly Cavalier," with other similar expressions of
Presbyterian abhorrence; from which we need not draw any unkinder
conclusion than that he was no solemn puritanical soldier, but a man of
the world, brighter and more courteous than the frequenters of his
father's Council, and therefore more acceptable to Dorothy. He was born
at Huntingdon in 1627, the year of Dorothy's birth. He was captain under
Harrison in 1647; colonel in Ireland with his father in 1649; and
married at Kensington Church, on May 10th, 1653, to Elizabeth, daughter
of Sir Francis Russell of Chippenham, Cambridgeshire. He was made
Lord-Deputy in Ireland in 1657, but he wearied of the work of
transplanting the Irish and planting the new settlers, which, he writes,
only brought him disquiet of body and mind. This led to his retirement
from public life in 1658. Two years afterwards, at the Restoration, he
came to live at Spinney Abbey, near Isham, Cambridgeshire, and died on
the 23rd of March 1673. These are shortly the facts which remain to us
of the life of Henry Cromwell, Dorothy's favoured servant.
SIR,--I am so far from thinking you ill-natured for wishing I might not
outlive you, that I should not have thought you at all kind if you had
done otherwise; no, in earnest, I was never yet so in love with my life
but that I could have parted with it upon a much less occasion than your
death, and 'twill be no compliment to you to say it would be very uneasy
to me then, since 'tis not very pleasant to me now. Yet you will say I
take great pains to preserve it, as ill as I like it; but no, I'll swear
'tis not that I intend in what I do; all that I aim at is but to keep
myself from proving a beast. They do so fright me with strange stories
of what the spleen will bring me to in time, that I am kept in awe with
them like a child; they tell me 'twill not leave me common sense, that I
shall hardly be fit company for my own dogs, and that it will end either
in a stupidness that will make me incapable of anything, or fill my head
with such whims as will make me ridiculous. To prevent this, who would
not take steel or anything,--though I am partly of your opinion that
'tis an ill kind of physic. Yet I am confident that I take it the safest
way, for I do not take the powder, as many do, but only lay a piece of
steel in white wine over night and drink the infusion next morning,
which one would think were nothing, and yet 'tis not to be imagined how
sick it makes me for an hour or two, and, which is the misery, all that
time one must be using some kind of exercise. Your fellow-servant has a
blessed time on't that ever you saw. I make her play at shuttlecock with
me, and she is the veriest bungler at it ever you saw. Then am I ready
to beat her with the battledore, and grow so peevish as I grow sick,
that I'll undertake she wishes there were no steel in England. But then
to recompense the morning, I am in good humour all the day after for joy
that I am well again. I am told 'twill do me good, and am content to
believe it; if it does not, I am but where I was.
I do not use to forget my old acquaintances. Almanzor is as fresh in my
memory as if I had visited his tomb but yesterday, though it be at least
seven year agone since. You will believe I had not been used to great
afflictions when I made his story such a one to me, as I cried an hour
together for him, and was so angry with Alcidiana that for my life I
could never love her after it. You do not tell me whether you received
the books I sent you, but I will hope you did, because you say nothing
to the contrary. They are my dear Lady Diana's, and therefore I am much
concerned that they should be safe. And now I speak of her, she is
acquainted with your aunt, my Lady B., and says all that you say of her.
If her niece has so much wit, will you not be persuaded to like her; or
say she has not quite so much, may not her fortune make it up? In
earnest, I know not what to say, but if your father does not use all his
kindness and all his power to make you consider your own advantage, he
is not like other fathers. Can you imagine that he that demands £5000
besides the reversion of an estate will like bare £4000? Such miracles
are seldom seen, and you must prepare to suffer a strange persecution
unless you grow conformable; therefore consider what you do, 'tis the
part of a friend to advise you. I could say a great deal to this
purpose, and tell you that 'tis not discreet to refuse a good offer, nor
safe to trust wholly to your own judgment in your disposal. I was never
better provided in my life for a grave admonishing discourse. Would you
had heard how I have been catechized for you, and seen how soberly I sit
and answer to interrogatories. Would you think that upon examination it
is found that you are not an indifferent person to me? But the mischief
is, that what my intentions or resolutions are, is not to be discovered,
though much pains has been taken to collect all scattering
circumstances; and all the probable conjectures that can be raised from
thence has been urged, to see if anything would be confessed. And all
this done with so much ceremony and compliment, so many pardons asked
for undertaking to counsel or inquire, and so great kindness and passion
for all my interests professed, that I cannot but take it well, though I
am very weary on't. You are spoken of with the reverence due to a person
that I seem to like, and for as much as they know of you, you do deserve
a very good esteem; but your fortune and mine can never agree, and, in
plain terms, we forfeit our discretions and run wilfully upon our own
ruins if there be such a thought. To all this I make no reply, but that
if they will needs have it that I am not without kindness for you, they
must conclude withal that 'tis no part of my intention to ruin you, and
so the conference breaks up for that time. All this is [from] my friend,
that is not yours; and the gentleman that came upstairs in a basket, I
could tell him that he spends his breath to very little purpose, and has
but his labour for his pains. Without his precepts my own judgment would
preserve me from doing anything that might be prejudicial to you or
unjustifiable to the world; but if these be secured, nothing can alter
the resolution I have taken of settling my whole stock of happiness upon
the affection of a person that is dear to me, whose kindness I shall
infinitely prefer before any other consideration whatsoever, and I shall
not blush to tell you that you have made the whole world beside so
indifferent to me that, if I cannot be yours, they may dispose of me how
they please. Henry Cromwell will be as acceptable to me as any one else.
If I may undertake to counsel, I think you shall do well to comply with
your father as far as possible, and not to discover any aversion to what
he desires further than you can give reason for. What his disposition
may be I know not; but 'tis that of many parents to judge their
children's dislikes to be an humour of approving nothing that is chosen
for them, which many times makes them take up another of denying their
children all they choose for themselves. I find I am in the humour of
talking wisely if my paper would give me leave. 'Tis great pity here is
room for no more but--
Your faithful friend and servant.
_Letter 12._
SIR,--There shall be two posts this week, for my brother sends his groom
up, and I am resolved to make some advantage of it. Pray, what the paper
denied me in your last, let me receive by him. Your fellow-servant is a
sweet jewel to tell tales of me. The truth is, I cannot deny but that I
have been very careless of myself, but, alas! who would have been other?
I never thought my life worth my care whilst nobody was concerned in't
but myself; now I shall look upon't as something that you would not
lose, and therefore shall endeavour to keep it for you. But then you
must return my kindness with the same care of a life that's much dearer
to me. I shall not be so unreasonable as to desire that, for my
satisfaction, you should deny yourself a recreation that is pleasing to
you, and very innocent, sure, when 'tis not used in excess, but I cannot
consent you should disorder yourself with it, and Jane was certainly in
the right when she told you I would have chid if I had seen you so
endanger a health that I am so much concerned in. But for what she tell
you of my melancholy you must not believe; she thinks nobody in good
humour unless they laugh perpetually, as Nan and she does, which I was
never given to much, and now I have been so long accustomed to my own
natural dull humour that nothing can alter it. 'Tis not that I am sad
(for as long as you and the rest of my friends are well), I thank God I
have no occasion to be so, but I never appear to be very merry, and if I
had all that I could wish for in the world, I do not think it would make
any visible change in my humour. And yet with all my gravity I could not
but laugh at your encounter in the Park, though I was not pleased that
you should leave a fair lady and go lie upon the cold ground. That is
full as bad as overheating yourself at tennis, and therefore remember
'tis one of the things you are forbidden. You have reason to think your
father kind, and I have reason to think him very civil; all his scruples
are very just ones, but such as time and a little good fortune (if we
were either of us lucky to it) might satisfy. He may be confident I can
never think of disposing myself without my father's consent; and though
he has left it more in my power than almost anybody leaves a daughter,
yet certainly I were the worst natured person in the world if his
kindness were not a greater tie upon me than any advantage he could have
reserved. Besides that, 'tis my duty, from which nothing can ever tempt
me, nor could you like it in me if I should do otherwise, 'twould make
me unworthy of your esteem; but if ever that may be obtained, or I left
free, and you in the same condition, all the advantages of fortune or
person imaginable met together in one man should not be preferred before
you. I think I cannot leave you better than with this assurance. 'Tis
very late, and having been abroad all this day, I knew not till e'en now
of this messenger. Good-night to you. There need be no excuse for the
conclusion of your letter. Nothing can please me better. Once more
good-night. I am half in a dream already.
Your
_Letter 13._--There is some allusion here to an inconstant lover of my
Lady Diana Rich, who seems to have deserted his mistress on account of
the sore eyes with which, Dorothy told us in a former letter, her
friend was afflicted.
I cannot find any account of the great shop above the Exchange, "The
Flower Pott." There were two or three "Flower Pots" in London at this
time, one in Leadenhall Street and another in St. James' Market. An
interesting account of the old sign is given in a work on London
tradesmen's tokens, in which it is said to be "derived from the earlier
representations of the salutations of the angel Gabriel to the Virgin
Mary, in which either lilies were placed in his hand, or they were set
as an accessory in a vase. As Popery declined, the angel disappeared,
and the lily-pot became a vase of flowers; subsequently the Virgin was
omitted, and there remained only the vase of flowers. Since, to make
things more unmistakeable, two debonair gentlemen, with hat in hand,
have superseded the floral elegancies of the olden time, and the poetry
of the art seems lost."
SIR,--I am glad you 'scaped a beating, but, in earnest, would it had
lighted on my brother's groom. I think I should have beaten him myself
if I had been able. I have expected your letter all this day with the
greatest impatience that was possible, and at last resolved to go out
and meet the fellow; and when I came down to the stables, I found him
come, had set up his horse, and was sweeping the stable in great order.
I could not imagine him so very a beast as to think his horses were to
be serv'd before me, and therefore was presently struck with an
apprehension he had no letter for me: it went cold to my heart as ice,
and hardly left me courage enough to ask him the question; but when he
had drawled it out that he thought there was a letter for me in his bag,
I quickly made him leave his broom. 'Twas well 'tis a dull fellow, he
could not [but] have discern'd else that I was strangely overjoyed with
it, and earnest to have it; for though the poor fellow made what haste
he could to untie his bag, I did nothing but chide him for being so
slow. Last I had it, and, in earnest, I know not whether an entire
diamond of the bigness on't would have pleased me half so well; if it
would, it must be only out of this consideration, that such a jewel
would make me rich enough to dispute you with Mrs. Chambers, and perhaps
make your father like me as well. I like him, I'll swear, and extremely
too, for being so calm in a business where his desires were so much
crossed. Either he has a great power over himself, or you have a great
interest in him, or both. If you are pleased it should end thus, I
cannot dislike it; but if it would have been happy for you, I should
think myself strangely unfortunate in being the cause that it went not
further. I cannot say that I prefer your interest before my own, because
all yours are so much mine that 'tis impossible for me to be happy if
you are not so; but if they could be divided I am certain I should. And
though you reproached me with unkindness for advising you not to refuse
a good offer, yet I shall not be discouraged from doing it again when
there is occasion, for I am resolved to be your friend whether you will
or no. And, for example, though I know you do not need my counsel, yet I
cannot but tell you that I think 'twere very well that you took some
care to make my Lady B. your friend, and oblige her by your civilities
to believe that you were sensible of the favour was offered you, though
you had not the grace to make good use on't. In very good earnest now,
she is a woman (by all that I have heard of her) that one would not
lose; besides that, 'twill become you to make some satisfaction for
downright refusing a young lady--'twas unmercifully done.
Would to God you would leave that trick of making excuses! Can you think
it necessary to me, or believe that your letters can be so long as to
make them unpleasing to me? Are mine so to you? If they are not, yours
never will be so to me. You see I say anything to you, out of a belief
that, though my letters were more impertinent than they are, you would
not be without them nor wish them shorter. Why should you be less kind?
If your fellow-servant has been with you, she has told you I part with
her but for her advantage. That I shall always be willing to do; but
whensoever she shall think fit to serve again, and is not provided of a
better mistress, she knows where to find me.
I have sent you the rest of _Cléopâtre_, pray keep them all in your
hands, and the next week I will send you a letter and directions where
you shall deliver that and the books for my lady. Is it possible that
she can be indifferent to anybody? Take heed of telling me such stories;
if all those excellences she is rich in cannot keep warm a passion
without the sunshine of her eyes, what are poor people to expect; and
were it not a strange vanity in me to believe yours can be long-lived?
It would be very pardonable in you to change, but, sure, in him 'tis a
mark of so great inconstancy as shows him of an humour that nothing can
fix. When you go into the Exchange, pray call at the great shop above,
"The Flower Pott." I spoke to Heams, the man of the shop, when I was in
town, for a quart of orange-flower water; he had none that was good
then, but promised to get me some. Pray put him in mind of it, and let
him show it you before he sends it me, for I will not altogether trust
to his honesty; you see I make no scruple of giving you little idle
commissions, 'tis a freedom you allow me, and that I should be glad you
would take. The Frenchman that set my seals lives between Salisbury
House and the Exchange, at a house that was not finished when I was
there, and the master of the shop, his name is Walker, he made me pay
50s. for three, but 'twas too dear. You will meet with a story in these
parts of _Cléopâtre_ that pleased me more than any that ever I read in
my life; 'tis of one Délie, pray give me your opinion of her and her
prince. This letter is writ in great haste, as you may see; 'tis my
brother's sick day, and I'm not willing to leave him long alone. I
forgot to tell you in my last that he was come hither to try if he can
lose an ague here that he got in Gloucestershire. He asked me for you
very kindly, and if he knew I writ to you I should have something to say
from him besides what I should say for myself if I had room.
Yrs.
_Letter 14._--This letter contains the most interesting political
reference of the whole series. Either Temple has written Dorothy an
account of Cromwell's dissolving the Long Parliament, or perhaps some
news-letter has found its way to Chicksands with the astounding news.
All England is filled with intense excitement over Cromwell's _coup
d'état_; and it cannot be uninteresting to quote a short contemporary
account of the business. Algernon Sydney's father, the Earl of
Leicester, whose journal has already been quoted, under date Wednesday,
April 20th, 1653, writes as follows:--"My Lord General came into the
House clad in plain black clothes with grey worsted stockings, and sat
down, as he used to do, in an ordinary place." Then he began to speak,
and presently "he put on his hat, went out of his place, and walked up
and down the stage or floor in the midst of the House, with his hat on
his head, and chid them soundly." After this had gone on for some time,
Colonel Harrison was called in to remove the Speaker, which he did; "and
it happened that Algernon Sydney sat next to the Speaker on the right
hand. The General said to Harrison, 'Put him out!'
"Harrison spake to Sydney to go out, but he said he would not go out and
waited still.
"The General said again, 'Put him out!' Then Harrison and Wortley
[Worsley] put their hands upon Sydney's shoulders as if they would force
him to go out. Then he rose and went towards the door."
Such is the story which reaches Dorothy, and startles all England at
this date.
SIR,--That you may be sure it was a dream that I writ that part of my
letter in, I do not now remember what it was I writ, but seems it was
very kind, and possibly you owe the discovery on't to my being asleep.
But I do not repent it, for I should not love you if I did not think you
discreet enough to be trusted with the knowledge of all my kindness.
Therefore 'tis not that I desire to hide it from you, but that I do not
love to tell it; and perhaps if you could read my heart, I should make
less scruple of your seeing on't there than in my letters.
I can easily guess who the pretty young lady is, for there are but two
in England of that fortune, and they are sisters, but I am to seek who
the gallant should be. If it be no secret, you may tell me. However, I
shall wish him all good success if he be your friend, as I suppose he is
by his confidence in you. If it be neither of the Spencers, I wish it
were; I have not seen two young men that looked as if they deserved
better fortunes so much as those brothers.
But, bless me, what will become of us all now? Is not this a strange
turn? What does my Lord Lisle? Sure this will at least defer your
journey? Tell me what I must think on't; whether it be better or worse,
or whether you are at all concern'd in't? For if you are not I am not,
only if I had been so wise as to have taken hold of the offer was made
me by Henry Cromwell, I might have been in a fair way of preferment,
for, sure, they will be greater now than ever. Is it true that Algernon
Sydney was so unwilling to leave the House, that the General was fain to
take the pains to turn him out himself? Well, 'tis a pleasant world
this. If Mr. Pim were alive again, I wonder what he would think of these
proceedings, and whether this would appear so great a breach of the
Privilege of Parliament as the demanding the 5 members? But I shall talk
treason by and by if I do not look to myself. 'Tis safer talking of the
orange-flower water you sent me. The carrier has given me a great charge
to tell you that it came safe, and that I must do him right. As you say,
'tis not the best I have seen, nor the worst.
I shall expect your Diary next week, though this will be but a short
letter: you may allow me to make excuses too sometimes; but, seriously,
my father is now so continuously ill, that I have hardly time for
anything. 'Tis but an ague that he has, but yet I am much afraid that is
more than his age and weakness will be able to bear; he keeps his bed,
and never rises but to have it made, and most times faints with that.
You ought in charity to write as much as you can, for, in earnest, my
life here since my father's sickness is so sad that, to another humour
than mine, it would be unsupportable; but I have been so used to
misfortunes, that I cannot be much surprised with them, though perhaps I
am as sensible of them as another. I'll leave you, for I find these
thoughts begin to put me in ill humour; farewell, may you be ever happy.
If I am so at all, it is in being
Your
_Letter 15._--What Temple had written about Mr. Arbry's prophecy and
"the falling down of the form," we cannot know. Mr. Arbry was probably
William Erbury, vicar of St. Mary's, Cardiff, a noted schismatic. He is
said to have been a "holy, harmless man," but incurred both the hate and
ridicule of his opponents. Many of his tracts are still extant, and they
contain extravagant prophecies couched in the peculiar phraseology of
the day.
The celebrated Sir Samuel Luke was a near neighbour of the Osbornes, and
Mr. Luke was one of his numerous family. Sir Samuel was Lord of the
Manor of Hawnes, and in the Hawnes parish register there are notices of
the christenings of his sons and daughters. Sir Samuel was not only a
colonel in the Parliament Army, but Scout-Master-General in the counties
of Bedford and Surrey. Samuel Butler, the author of _Hudibras_, lived
with Sir Samuel Luke as his secretary, at some date prior to the
Restoration; and Dr. Grey, his learned editor, believes that he wrote
_Hudibras_ about that time, "because he had then the opportunity to
converse with those living characters of rebellion, nonsense, and
hypocrisy which he so lively and pathetically exposes throughout the
whole work." Sir Samuel is said himself to be the original "Hudibras;"
and if Dr. Grey's conjecture on this matter is a right one, we have
already in our minds a very complete portrait of Dorothy's neighbour.
The old ballad that Dorothy encloses to her lover has not been preserved
with her letter. If it is older than the ballad of "The Lord of Lorne,"
it must have been composed before Henry VIII.'s reign; for Edward
Guilpin, in his _Skialethia_ [1598], speaks of
Th' olde ballad of the Lord of Lorne,
Whose last line in King Harrie's day was borne.
"The Lord of Learne" (this was the old spelling) may be found in Bishop
Percy's well-known collection of Ballads and Romances.
SIR,--You must pardon me, I could not burn your other letter for my
life; I was so pleased to see I had so much to read, and so sorry I had
done so soon, that I resolved to begin them again, and had like to have
lost my dinner by it. I know not what humour you were in when you writ
it; but Mr. Arbry's prophecy and the falling down of the form did a
little discompose my gravity. But I quickly recovered myself with
thinking that you deserved to be chid for going where you knew you must
of necessity lose your time. In earnest, I had a little scruple when I
went with you thither, and but that I was assured it was too late to go
any whither else, and believed it better to hear an ill sermon than
none, I think I should have missed his _Belles remarques_. You had
repented you, I hope, of that and all other your faults before you
thought of dying.
What a satisfaction you had found out to make me for the injuries you
say you have done me! And yet I cannot tell neither (though 'tis not the
remedy I should choose) whether that were not a certain one for all my
misfortunes; for, sure, I should have nothing then to persuade me to
stay longer where they grow, and I should quickly take a resolution of
leaving them and the world at once. I agree with you, too, that I do not
see any great likelihood of the change of our fortunes, and that we have
much more to wish than to hope for; but 'tis so common a calamity that I
dare not murmur at it; better people have endured it, and I can give no
reason why (almost) all are denied the satisfaction of disposing
themselves to their own desires, but that it is a happiness too great
for this world, and might endanger one's forgetting the next; whereas if
we are crossed in that which only can make the world pleasing to us, we
are quickly tired with the length of our journey and the disquiet of our
inns, and long to be at home. One would think it were I who had heard
the three sermons and were trying to make a fourth; these are truths
that might become a pulpit better than Mr. Arbry's predictions. But lest
you should think I have as many worms in my head as he, I'll give over
in time, and tell you how far Mr. Luke and I are acquainted. He lives
within three or four miles of me, and one day that I had been to visit a
lady that is nearer him than me, as I came back I met a coach with some
company in't that I knew, and thought myself obliged to salute. We all
lighted and met, and I found more than I looked for by two damsels and
their squires. I was afterwards told they were of the Lukes, and
possibly this man might be there, or else I never saw him; for since
these times we have had no commerce with that family, but have kept at
great distance, as having on several occasions been disobliged by them.
But of late, I know not how, Sir Sam has grown so kind as to send to me
for some things he desired out of this garden, and withal made the offer
of what was in his, which I had reason to take for a high favour, for he
is a nice florist; and since this we are insensibly come to as good
degrees of civility for one another as can be expected from people that
never meet.
Who those demoiselles should be that were at Heamses I cannot imagine,
and I know so few that are concerned in me or my name that I admire you
should meet with so many that seem to be acquainted with it. Sure, if
you had liked them you would not have been so sullen, and a less
occasion would have served to make you entertain their discourse if they
had been handsome. And yet I know no reason I have to believe that
beauty is any argument to make you like people; unless I had more on't
myself. But be it what it will that displeased you, I am glad they did
not fright you away before you had the orange-flower water, for it is
very good, and I am so sweet with it a days that I despise roses. When I
have given you humble thanks for it, I mean to look over your other
letter and take the heads, and to treat of them in order as my time and
your patience shall give me leave.
And first for my Sheriff, let me desire you to believe he has more
courage than to die upon a denial. No (thanks be to God!), none of my
servants are given to that; I hear of many every day that do marry, but
of none that do worse. My brother sent me word this week that my
fighting servant is married too, and with the news this ballad, which
was to be sung in the grave that you dreamt of, I think; but because you
tell me I shall not want company then, you may dispose of this piece of
poetry as you please when you have sufficiently admired with me where he
found it out, for 'tis much older than that of my "Lord of Lorne." You
are altogether in the right that my brother will never be at quiet till
he sees me disposed of, but he does not mean to lose me by it; he knows
that if I were married at this present, I should not be persuaded to
leave my father as long as he lives; and when this house breaks up, he
is resolved to follow me if he can, which he thinks he might better do
to a house where I had some power than where I am but upon courtesy
myself. Besides that, he thinks it would be to my advantage to be well
bestowed, and by that he understands richly. He is much of your sister's
humour, and many times wishes me a husband that loved me as well as he
does (though he seems to doubt the possibility on't), but never desires
that I should love that husband with any passion, and plainly tells me
so. He says it would not be so well for him, nor perhaps for me, that I
should; for he is of opinion that all passions have more of trouble than
satisfaction in them, and therefore they are happiest that have least of
them. You think him kind from a letter that you met with of his; sure,
there was very little of anything in that, or else I should not have
employed it to wrap a book up. But, seriously, I many times receive
letters from him, that were they seen without an address to me or his
name, nobody would believe they were from a brother; and I cannot but
tell him sometimes that, sure, he mistakes and sends me letters that
were meant to his mistress, till he swears to me that he has none.
Next week my persecution begins again; he comes down, and my cousin
Molle is already cured of his imaginary dropsy, and means to meet here.
I shall be baited most sweetly, but sure they will not easily make me
consent to make my life unhappy to satisfy their importunity. I was born
to be very happy or very miserable, I know not which, but I am very
certain that you will never read half this letter 'tis so scribbled; but
'tis no matter, 'tis not much worth it.
Your most faithful friend and servant.
_Letter 16._--The trial of Lord Chandos for killing Mr. Compton in a
duel was, just at this moment, exciting the fickle attention of the
town, which had probably said its say on the subject of Cromwell's _coup
d'état_, and was only too ready for another subject of conversation. The
trial is not reported among the State Trials, but our observant friend
the Earl of Leicester has again taken note of the matter in his journal,
and can give us at least his own ideas of the trial and its political
and social importance. Under date May 1653, he writes:--"Towards the end
of Easter Term, the Lord Chandos, for killing in duel Mr. Compton the
year before," that is to say, in March; the new year begins on March
25th, "and the Lord Arundel of Wardour, one of his seconds, were brought
to their trial for their lives at the Upper Bench in Westminster
Hall, when it was found manslaughter only, as by a jury at
Kingston-upon-Thames it had been found formerly. The Lords might have
had the privilege of peerage (Justice Rolles being Lord Chief Justice),
but they declined it by the advice of Mr. Maynard and the rest of their
counsel, least by that means the matter might have been brought about
again, therefore they went upon the former verdict of manslaughter, and
so were acquitted; yet to be burned in the hand, which was done to them
both a day or two after, but very favourably." These were the first
peers that had been burned in the hand, and the democratic Earl of
Leicester expresses at the event some satisfaction, and derives from the
whole circumstances of the trial comfortable assurance of the power and
stability of the Government. The Earl, however, misleads us in one
particular. Lord Arundel was Henry Compton's second. He had married
Cecily Compton, and naturally enough acted as his brother-in-law's
second. It is also interesting to remember that Lord Chandos was known
to the world as something other than a duelist. He was an eminent
loyalist, among the first of those nobles who left Westminster, and at
Newbury fight had his three horses killed under him. Lady Carey was
Mary, natural daughter of Lord Scrope, who married Henry Carey, commonly
called Lord Leppington. Lady Leppington (or Carey) lost her husband in
1649, and her son died May 24, 1653. This helps us to date the letter.
Of her "kindness to Compton," of which Dorothy writes in her next
letter, nothing is known, but she married Charles Paulet, Lord St. John,
afterwards the Duke of Bolton, early in 1654.
The jealous Sir T---- here mentioned may be Sir Thomas Osborne, who, we
may suppose, was not well pleased at the refusal of his offer.
Sir Peter Lely did paint a portrait of Lady Diana Rich some months
after this date. It is somewhat curious that he should remain in England
during the Civil Wars; but his business was to paint all men's
portraits. He had painted Charles I.; now he was painting Cromwell. It
was to him Cromwell is said to have shouted: "Paint the warts! paint the
warts!" when the courtly Sir Peter would have made a presentable picture
even of the Lord General himself. Cromwell was a sound critic in this,
and had detected the main fault of Sir Peter's portraits, whose value to
us is greatly lessened by the artist's constant habit of flattery.
SIR,--If it were the carrier's fault that you stayed so long for your
letters, you are revenged, for I have chid him most unreasonably. But I
must confess 'twas not for that, for I did not know it then, but going
to meet him (as I usually do), when he gave me your letter I found the
upper seal broken open, and underneath where it uses to be only closed
with a little wax, there was a seal, which though it were an anchor and
a heart, methought it did not look like yours, but less, and much worse
cut. This suspicion was so strong upon me, that I chid till the poor
fellow was ready to cry, and swore to me that it had never been touched
since he had it, and that he was careful of it, as he never put it with
his other letters, but by itself, and that now it come amongst his
money, which perhaps might break the seal; and lest I should think it
was his curiosity, he told me very ingenuously he could not read, and so
we parted for the present. But since, he has been with a neighbour of
mine whom he sometimes delivers my letters to, and begged her that she
would go to me and desire my worship to write to your worship to know
how the letter was sealed, for it has so grieved him that he has neither
eat nor slept (to do him any good) since he came home, and in grace of
God this shall be a warning to him as long as he lives. He takes it so
heavily that I think I must be friends with him again; but pray
hereafter seal your letters, so that the difficulty of opening them may
dishearten anybody from attempting it.
It was but my guess that the ladies at Heams' were unhandsome; but since
you tell me they were remarkably so, sure I know them by it; they are
two sisters, and might have been mine if the Fates had so pleased. They
have a brother that is not like them, and is a baronet besides. 'Tis
strange that you tell me of my Lords Shandoys [Chandos] and Arundel; but
what becomes of young Compton's estate? Sure my Lady Carey cannot
neither in honour nor conscience keep it; besides that, she needs it
less now than ever, her son (being, as I hear) dead.
Sir T., I suppose, avoids you as a friend of mine. My brother tells me
they meet sometimes, and have the most ado to pull off their hats to one
another that can be, and never speak. If I were in town I'll undertake
he would venture the being choked for want of air rather than stir out
of doors for fear of meeting me. But did you not say in your last that
you took something very ill from me? If 'twas my humble thanks, well,
you shall have no more of them then, nor no more servants. I think that
they are not necessary among friends.
I take it very kindly that your father asked for me, and that you were
not pleased with the question he made of the continuance of my
friendship. I can pardon it him, because he does not know me, but I
should never forgive you if you could doubt it. Were my face in no more
danger of changing than my mind, I should be worth the seeing at
threescore; and that which is but very ordinary now, would then be
counted handsome for an old woman; but, alas! I am more likely to look
old before my time with grief. Never anybody had such luck with
servants; what with marrying and what with dying, they all leave me.
Just now I have news brought me of the death of an old rich knight that
has promised me this seven years to marry me whensoever his wife died,
and now he's dead before her, and has left her such a widow, it makes me
mad to think on't, £1200 a year jointure and £20,000 in money and
personal estate, and all this I might have had if Mr. Death had been
pleased to have taken her instead of him. Well, who can help these
things? But since I cannot have him, would you had her! What say you?
Shall I speak a good word for you? She will marry for certain, and
perhaps, though my brother may expect I should serve him in it, yet if
you give me commission I'll say I was engaged beforehand for a friend,
and leave him to shift for himself. You would be my neighbour if you had
her, and I should see you often. Think on't, and let me know what you
resolve? My lady has writ me word that she intends very shortly to sit
at Lely's for her picture for me; I give you notice on't, that you may
have the pleasure of seeing it sometimes whilst 'tis there. I imagine
'twill be so to you, for I am sure it would be a great one to me, and we
do not use to differ in our inclinations, though I cannot agree with you
that my brother's kindness to me has anything of trouble in't; no, sure,
I may be just to you and him both, and to be a kind sister will take
nothing from my being a perfect friend.
_Letter 17._--Lady Newcastle was Margaret Duchess of Newcastle. "The
thrice noble, chaste, and virtuous, but again somewhat fantastical and
original-brained, generous Margaret Newcastle," as Elia describes her.
She was the youngest daughter of Sir Charles Lucas, and was born at
Colchester towards the end of the reign of James I. Her mother appears
to have been remarkably careful of her education in all such lighter
matters as dancing, music, and the learning of the French tongue; but
she does not seem to have made any deep study of the classics. In 1643
she joined the Court at Oxford, and was made one of the Maids of Honour
to Henrietta Maria, whom she afterwards attended in exile. At Paris she
met the Marquis of Newcastle, who married her in that city in 1645. From
Paris they went to Rotterdam, she leaving the Queen to follow her
husband's fortunes; and after stopping at Rotterdam and Brabant for
short periods, they settled at Antwerp.
At the Restoration she returned to England with her husband, and
employed her time in writing letters, plays, poems, philosophical
discourses, and orations. There is a long catalogue of her works in
Ballard's _Memoirs_, but all published at a date subsequent to 1653.
However, from Anthony Wood and other sources one gathers somewhat
different details of her life and writings; and the book to which
Dorothy refers here and in Letter 21, is probably the _Poems and
Fancies_, an edition of which was published, I believe, in this year
[1653]. Many of her verses are more strangely incomprehensible than
anything even in the poetry of to-day. Take, for instance, a poem of
four lines, from the _Poems and Fancies_, entitled--
THE JOINING OF SEVERAL FIGUR'D ATOMS MAKES
OTHER FIGURES.
Several figur'd Atoms well agreeing
When joined, do give another figure being.
For as those figures joined several ways
The fabrick of each several creature raise.
This seems to be a rhyming statement of the Atomic theory, but whether
it is a poem or a fancy we should find it hard to decide. It is not,
however, an unfair example of Lady Newcastle's fantastic style. Lady
Newcastle died in 1673, and was buried in Westminster Abbey,--"A wise,
witty, and learned Lady, which her many books do well testify."
SIR,--I received your letter to-day, when I thought it almost impossible
that I should be sensible of anything but my father's sickness and my
own affliction in it. Indeed, he was then so dangerously ill that we
could not reasonably hope he should outlive this day; yet he is now, I
thank God, much better, and I am come so much to myself with it, as to
undertake a long letter to you whilst I watch by him. Towards the latter
end it will be excellent stuff, I believe; but, alas! you may allow me
to dream sometimes. I have had so little sleep since my father was sick
that I am never thoroughly awake. Lord, how I have wished for you! Here
do I sit all night by a poor moped fellow that serves my father, and
have much ado to keep him awake and myself too. If you heard the wise
discourse that is between us, you would swear we wanted sleep; but I
shall leave him to-night to entertain himself, and try if I can write as
wisely as I talk. I am glad all is well again. In earnest, it would have
lain upon my conscience if I had been the occasion of making your poor
boy lose a service, that if he has the wit to know how to value it, he
would never have forgiven me while he had lived.
But while I remember it, let me ask you if you did not send my letter
and _Cléopâtre_ where I directed you for my lady? I received one from
her to-day full of the kindest reproaches, that she has not heard from
me this three weeks. I have writ constantly to her, but I do not so much
wonder that the rest are lost, as that she seems not to have received
that which I sent to you nor the books. I do not understand it, but I
know there is no fault of yours in't. But, mark you! if you think to
'scape with sending me such bits of letters, you are mistaken. You say
you are often interrupted, and I believe it; but you must use then to
begin to write before you receive mine, and whensoever you have any
spare time allow me some of it. Can you doubt that anything can make
your letters cheap? In earnest, 'twas unkindly said, and if I could be
angry with you it should be for that. No, certainly they are, and ever
will be, dear to me as that which I receive a huge contentment by. How
shall I long when you are gone your journey to hear from you! how shall
I apprehend a thousand accidents that are not likely nor will ever
happen, I hope! Oh, if you do not send me long letters, then you are the
cruellest person that can be! If you love me you will; and if you do
not, I shall never love myself. You need not fear such a command as you
mention. Alas! I am too much concerned that you should love me ever to
forbid it you; 'tis all that I propose of happiness to myself in the
world. The burning of my paper has waked me; all this while I was in a
dream. But 'tis no matter, I am content you should know they are of you,
and that when my thoughts are left most at liberty they are the kindest.
I swear my eyes are so heavy that I hardly see what I write, nor do I
think you will be able to read it when I have done; the best on't is
'twill be no great loss to you if you do not, for, sure, the greatest
part on't is not sense, and yet on my conscience I shall go on with it.
'Tis like people that talk in their sleep, nothing interrupts them but
talking to them again, and that you are not like to do at this distance;
besides that, at this instant you are, I believe, more asleep than I,
and do not so much as dream that I am writing to you. My fellow-watchers
have been asleep too, till just now they begin to stretch and yawn; they
are going to try if eating and drinking can keep them awake, and I am
kindly invited to be of their company; and my father's man has got one
of the maids to talk nonsense to to-night, and they have got between
them a bottle of ale. I shall lose my share if I do not take them at
their first offer. Your patience till I have drunk, and then I'll for
you again.
And now on the strength of this ale, I believe I shall be able to fill
up this paper that's left with something or other; and first let me ask
you if you have seen a book of poems newly come out, made by my Lady
Newcastle? For God's sake if you meet with it send it to me; they say
'tis ten times more extravagant than her dress. Sure, the poor woman is
a little distracted, she could never be so ridiculous else as to venture
at writing books, and in verse too. If I should not sleep this fortnight
I should not come to that. My eyes grow a little dim though, for all the
ale, and I believe if I could see it this is most strangely scribbled.
Sure, I shall not find fault with your writing in haste, for anything
but the shortness of your letter; and 'twould be very unjust in me to
tie you to a ceremony that I do not observe myself. No, for God's sake
let there be no such thing between us; a real kindness is so far beyond
all compliment, that it never appears more than when there is least of
t'other mingled with it. If, then, you would have me believe yours to be
perfect, confirm it to me by a kind freedom. Tell me if there be
anything that I can serve you in, employ me as you would do that sister
that you say you love so well. Chide me when I do anything that is not
well, but then make haste to tell me that you have forgiven me, and that
you are what I shall ever be, a faithful friend.
_Letter 18._--I cannot pass by this letter without saying that the first
part of it is, to my thinking, the most dainty and pleasing piece of
writing that Dorothy has left us. The account of her life, one day and
every day, is like a gust of fresh country air clearing away the mist of
time and enabling one to see Dorothy at Chicksands quite clearly. It is
fashionable to deny Macaulay everything but memory; but he had the good
taste and discernment to admire this letter, and quote from it in his
Essay on Sir William Temple,--a quotation for which I shall always
remain very grateful to him.
Sir Thomas Peyton, "Brother Peyton," was born in 1619, being, I believe,
the second baronet of that name; his seat was at Knowlton, in the county
of Kent. Early in the reign of Charles I. we find him as Member of
Parliament for Sandwich, figuring in a Committee side by side with the
two Sir Harry Vanes; the Committee having been sent into Kent to prevent
the dispersal of rumours to the scandal of Parliament,--no light task,
one would think. In 1643 he is in prison, charged among other things
with being a malignant. An unjust charge, as he thinks; for he writes to
his brother, "If to wish on earth peace, goodwill towards men, be a
malignant, none is greater than your affectionate brother, Thomas
Peyton." But in spite of these peaceful thoughts in prison, in May 1648
he is heading a loyalist rising in Kent. The other counties not joining
in at the right moment, in accordance with the general procedure at
Royalist risings, it is defeated by Fairfax. Sir Thomas's house is
ransacked, he himself is taken prisoner near Bury St. Edmunds, brought
to the House of Commons, and committed to the Tower. A right worthy
son-in-law of good Sir Peter. We are glad to find him at large again in
1653, his head safe on his shoulders, and do not grudge him his grant of
duties on sea-coal, dated 1660; nor are we sorry that he should once
again grace the House of Commons with his presence as one of the members
for loyal Kent in the good days when the King enjoyed his own again.
SIR,--I have been reckoning up how many faults you lay to my charge in
your last letter, and I find I am severe, unjust, unmerciful, and
unkind. Oh me, how should one do to mend all these! 'Tis work for an
age, and 'tis to be feared I shall be so old before I am good, that
'twill not be considerable to anybody but myself whether I am so or not.
I say nothing of the pretty humour you fancied me in, in your dream,
because 'twas but a dream. Sure, if it had been anything else, I should
have remembered that my Lord L. loves to have his chamber and his bed to
himself. But seriously, now, I wonder at your patience. How could you
hear me talk so senselessly, though 'twere but in your sleep, and not be
ready to beat me? What nice mistaken points of honour I pretended to,
and yet could allow him room in the same bed with me! Well, dreams are
pleasant things to people whose humours are so; but to have the spleen,
and to dream upon't, is a punishment I would not wish my greatest enemy.
I seldom dream, or never remember them, unless they have been so sad as
to put me into such disorder as I can hardly recover when I am awake,
and some of those I am confident I shall never forget.
You ask me how I pass my time here. I can give you a perfect account not
only of what I do for the present, but of what I am likely to do this
seven years if I stay here so long. I rise in the morning reasonably
early, and before I am ready I go round the house till I am weary of
that, and then into the garden till it grows too hot for me. About ten
o'clock I think of making me ready, and when that's done I go into my
father's chamber, from whence to dinner, where my cousin Molle and I sit
in great state in a room, and at a table that would hold a great many
more. After dinner we sit and talk till Mr. B. comes in question, and
then I am gone. The heat of the day is spent in reading or working, and
about six or seven o'clock I walk out into a common that lies hard by
the house, where a great many young wenches keep sheep and cows, and sit
in the shade singing of ballads. I go to them and compare their voices
and beauties to some ancient shepherdesses that I have read of, and find
a vast difference there; but, trust me, I think these are as innocent as
those could be. I talk to them, and find they want nothing to make them
the happiest people in the world but the knowledge that they are so.
Most commonly, when we are in the midst of our discourse, one looks
about her, and spies her cows going into the corn, and then away they
all run as if they had wings at their heels. I, that am not so nimble,
stay behind; and when I see them driving home their cattle, I think 'tis
time for me to return too. When I have supped, I go into the garden, and
so to the side of a small river that runs by it, when I sit down and
wish you were with me (you had best say this is not kind neither). In
earnest, 'tis a pleasant place, and would be much more so to me if I had
your company. I sit there sometimes till I am lost with thinking; and
were it not for some cruel thoughts of the crossness of our fortunes
that will not let me sleep there, I should forget that there were such a
thing to be done as going to bed.
Since I writ this my company is increased by two, my brother Harry and a
fair niece, the eldest of my brother Peyton's children. She is so much a
woman that I am almost ashamed to say I am her aunt; and so pretty,
that, if I had any design to gain of servants, I should not like her
company; but I have none, and therefore shall endeavour to keep her here
as long as I can persuade her father to spare her, for she will easily
consent to it, having so much of my humour (though it be the worst thing
in her) as to like a melancholy place and little company. My brother
John is not come down again, nor am I certain when he will be here. He
went from London into Gloucestershire to my sister who was very ill, and
his youngest girl, of which he was very fond, is since dead. But I
believe by that time his wife has a little recovered her sickness and
loss of her child, he will be coming this way. My father is reasonably
well, but keeps his chamber still, and will hardly, I am afraid, ever be
so perfectly recovered as to come abroad again.
I am sorry for poor Walker, but you need not doubt of what he has of
yours in his hands, for it seems he does not use to do his work himself.
I speak seriously, he keeps a Frenchman that sets all his seals and
rings. If what you say of my Lady Leppington be of your own knowledge, I
shall believe you, but otherwise I can assure you I have heard from
people that pretend to know her very well, that her kindness to Compton
was very moderate, and that she never liked him so well as when he died
and gave her his estate. But they might be deceived, and 'tis not so
strange as that you should imagine a coldness and an indifference in my
letters when I so little meant it; but I am not displeased you should
desire my kindness enough to apprehend the loss of it when it is safest.
Only I would not have you apprehend it so far as to believe it
possible,--that were an injury to all the assurances I have given you,
and if you love me you cannot think me unworthy. I should think myself
so, if I found you grew indifferent to me, that I have had so long and
so particular a friendship for; but, sure, this is more than I need to
say. You are enough in my heart to know all my thoughts, and if so, you
know better than I can tell you how much I am
Yours.
_Letter 19._--Lady Ruthin is Susan, daughter and heiress of Charles
Longueville Lord Grey de Ruthin. She married Sir Harry Yelverton, a
match of which Dorothy thoroughly approved. We hear more of Dorothy's
beautiful friend at the time when the treaty with Sir Harry Yelverton
is going forward. Of Mr. Talbot I find nothing; we must rest contented
in knowing him to be a fellow-servant.
R. Spencer is Robert Spencer, Earl of Sunderland, Lady Sunderland's
brother-in-law. He was afterwards one of the inner council of four in
Temple's Scheme of Government. "In him," says Macaulay, in a somewhat
highly-coloured character-sketch, "the political immortality of his age
was personified in the most lively manner. Nature had given him a keen
understanding, a restless and mischievous temper, a cold heart, and an
abject spirit. His mind had undergone a training by which all his vices
had been nursed up to the rankest maturity."
Lady Lexington was Mary, daughter of Sir Anthony Leger; she was the
third wife of Robert Sutton, Earl of Lexington. I cannot find that her
daughter married one of the Spencers.
SIR,--If to know I wish you with me pleases you, 'tis a satisfaction you
may always have, for I do it perpetually; but were it really in my power
to make you happy, I could not miss being so myself, for I know nothing
else I want towards it. You are admitted to all my entertainments; and
'twould be a pleasing surprise to me to see you amongst my
shepherdesses. I meet some there sometimes that look very like gentlemen
(for 'tis a road), and when they are in good humour they give us a
compliment as they go by; but you would be so courteous as to stay, I
hope, if we entreated you; 'tis in your way to this place, and just
before the house. 'Tis our Hyde Park, and every fine evening, anybody
that wanted a mistress might be sure to find one there. I have wondered
often to meet my fair Lady Ruthin there alone; methinks it should be
dangerous for an heir. I could find in my heart to steal her away
myself, but it should be rather for her person than her fortune. My
brother says not a word of you, nor your service, nor do I expect he
should; if I could forget you, he would not help my memory. You would
laugh, sure, if I could tell you how many servants he has offered me
since he came down; but one above all the rest I think he is in love
with himself, and may marry him too if he pleases, I shall not hinder
him. 'Tis one Talbot, the finest gentleman he has seen this seven years;
but the mischief on't is he has not above fifteen or sixteen hundred
pound a year, though he swears he begins to think one might bate £500 a
year for such a husband. I tell him I am glad to hear it; and if I was
as much taken (as he) with Mr. Talbot, I should not be less gallant; but
I doubted the first extremely. I have spleen enough to carry me to Epsom
this summer; but yet I think I shall not go. If I make one journey, I
must make more, for then I have no excuse. Rather than be obliged to
that, I'll make none. You have so often reproached me with the loss of
your liberty, that to make you some amends I am contented to be your
prisoner this summer; but you shall do one favour for me into the
bargain. When your father goes into Ireland, lay your commands upon some
of his servants to get you an Irish greyhound. I have one that was the
General's; but 'tis a bitch, and those are always much less than the
dogs. I got it in the time of my favour there, and it was all they had.
Henry Cromwell undertook to write to his brother Fleetwood for another
for me; but I have lost my hopes there. Whomsoever it is that you
employ, he will need no other instructions but to get the biggest he can
meet with; 'tis all the beauty of those dogs, or of any kind, I think. A
masty [mastif] is handsomer to me than the most exact little dog that
ever lady played withal. You will not offer to take it ill that I employ
you in such a commission, since I have told you that the General's son
did not refuse it; but I shall take it ill if you do not take the same
freedom with me whensoever I am capable of serving you. The town must
needs be unpleasant now, and, methinks, you might contrive some way of
having your letters sent to you without giving yourself the trouble of
coming to town for them when you have no other business; you must pardon
me if I think they cannot be worth it.
I am told that R. Spencer is a servant to a lady of my acquaintance, a
daughter of my Lady Lexington's. Is it true? And if it be, what is
become of the £2500 lady? Would you think it, that I have an ambassador
from the Emperor Justinian, that comes to renew the treaty? In earnest,
'tis true, and I want your counsel extremely, what to do in it. You told
me once that of all my servants you liked him the best. If I could do so
too, there were no dispute in't. Well, I'll think on't, and if it
succeed I will be as good as my word; you shall take your choice of my
four daughters. Am not I beholding to him, think you? He says that he
has made addresses, 'tis true, in several places since we parted, but
could not fix anywhere; and, in his opinion, he sees nobody that would
make so fit a wife for him as I. He has often inquired after me to hear
if I were marrying, and somebody told him I had an ague, and he
presently fell sick of one too, so natural a sympathy there is between
us; and yet for all this, on my conscience, we shall never marry. He
desires to know whether I am at liberty or not. What shall I tell him?
Or shall I send him to you to know? I think that will be best. I'll say
that you are much my friend, and that I have resolved not to dispose of
myself but with your consent and approbation, and therefore he must make
all his court to you; and when he can bring me a certificate under your
hand, that you think him a fit husband for me, 'tis very likely I may
have him. Till then I am his humble servant and your faithful friend.
_Letter 20._--In this letter the journey into Sweden is given up
finally, and Temple is once more without employment or the hope of
employment. This was probably brought about by the alteration of the
Government plans; and as Lord Lisle was not to go to Sweden, there was
no chance of Temple's being attached to the Embassy.
SIR,--I am sorry my last letter frighted you so; 'twas no part of my
intention it should; but I am more sorry to see by your first chapter
that your humour is not always so good as I could wish it. 'Twas the
only thing I ever desired we might differ in, and therefore I think it
is denied me. Whilst I read the description on't, I could not believe
but that I had writ it myself, it was so much my own. I pity you in
earnest much more than I do myself; and yet I may deserve yours when I
shall have told you, that besides all that you speak of, I have gotten
an ague that with two fits has made me so very weak, that I doubted
extremely yesterday whether I should be able to sit up to-day to write
to you. But you must not be troubled at this; that's the way to kill me
indeed. Besides, it is impossible I should keep it long, for here is my
eldest brother, and my cousin Molle, and two or three more that have
great understanding in agues, as people that have been long acquainted
with them, and they do so tutor and govern me, that I am neither to eat,
drink, nor sleep without their leave; and, sure, my obedience deserves
they should cure me, or else they are great tyrants to very little
purpose. You cannot imagine how cruel they are to me, and yet will
persuade me 'tis for my good. I know they mean it so, and therefore say
nothing on't, I admit, and sigh to think those are not here that would
be kinder to me. But you were cruel yourself when you seemed to
apprehend I might oblige you to make good your last offer. Alack! if I
could purchase the empire of the world at that rate, I should think it
much too dear; and though, perhaps, I am too unhappy myself ever to make
anybody else happy, yet, sure, I shall take heed that my misfortunes may
not prove infectious to my friends. You ask counsel of a person that is
very little able to give it. I cannot imagine whither you should go,
since this journey is broke. You must e'en be content to stay at home, I
think, and see what will become of us, though I expect nothing of good;
and, sure, you never made a truer remark in your life than that all
changes are for the worse. Will it not stay your father's journey too?
Methinks it should. For God's sake write me all that you hear or can
think of, that I may have something to entertain myself withal. I have a
scurvy head that will not let me write longer.
I am your.
[Directed]--
For Mrs. Paynter, at her house
in Bedford Street, next ye Goate,
In Covent Garden.
_Letter 21._--Sir Thomas Osborne is Dorothy's "Cousin Osborne" here
mentioned. He was, you remember, a suitor for Dorothy's hand, but has
now married Lady Bridget Lindsay.
The "squire that is as good as a knight," is, in all probability,
Richard Bennet. Thomas Bennet, his father, an alderman of the city of
London, had bought a seat near Cambridge, called Babraham or Babram,
that had belonged to Sir Toby Palavicini. The alderman appears to have
been a loyal citizen, as he was created baronet in 1660. His two sons,
Sir Richard and Sir Thomas, married daughters of Sir Lavinius Munck;--so
we need not accuse Dorothy of irretrievably breaking hearts by her
various refusals.
When Dorothy says she will "sit like the lady of the lobster, and give
audience at Babram," she simply means that she will sit among
magnificent surroundings unsuited to her modest disposition. The "lady"
of a lobster is a curious-shaped substance in the head of that fish,
bearing some distant resemblance to the figure of a woman. The
expression is still known to fishmongers and others, who also refer to
the "Adam and Eve" in a shrimp, a kindred formation. Curiously enough,
this very phrase has completely puzzled Dr. Grosart, the learned editor
of Herrick, who confesses that he can make nothing of the allusion in
the following passage from _The Fairie Temple_:--
"The saint to which the most he prayes,
And offers Incense Nights and Dayes,
The Lady of the Lobster is
Whose foot-pace he doth stroak and kiss."
Swift, too, uses the phrase in his _Battle of the Books_ in describing
the encounter between Virgil and Dryden, where he says, "The helmet was
nine times too large for the head, which appeared situate far in the
hinder part, even like the lady in a lobster, or a mouse under a canopy
of state, or like a shrivelled beau from within the penthouse of a
modern periwig."
SIR,--I do not know that anybody has frighted me, or beaten me, or put
me into more passion than what I usually carry about me, but yesterday I
missed my fit, and am not without hope I shall hear no more on't. My
father has lost his too, and my eldest brother, but we all look like
people risen from the dead. Only my cousin Molle keeps his still; and,
in earnest, I am not certain whether he would lose it or not, for it
gives him a lawful occasion of being nice and cautious about himself, to
which he in his own humour is so much inclined that 'twere not easy for
him to forbear it. You need not send me my Lady Newcastle's book at all,
for I have seen it, and am satisfied that there are many soberer people
in Bedlam. I'll swear her friends are much to blame to let her go
abroad.
But I am hugely pleased that you have seen my Lady. I knew you could not
choose but like her; but yet, let me tell you, you have seen but the
worst of her. Her conversation has more charms than can be in mere
beauty, and her humour and disposition would make a deformed person
appear lovely. You had strange luck to meet my brother so soon. He went
up but last Tuesday. I heard from him on Thursday, but he did not tell
me he had seen you; perhaps he did not think it convenient to put me in
mind of you; besides, he thought he told me enough in telling me my
cousin Osborne was married. Why did you not send me that news and a
garland? Well, the best on't is I have a squire now that is as good as a
knight. He was coming as fast as a coach and six horses could carry him,
but I desired him to stay till my ague was gone, and give me a little
time to recover my good looks; for I protest if he saw me now he would
never deign to see me again. Oh, me! I can but think how I shall sit
like the lady of the lobster, and give audience at Babram. You have been
there, I am sure. Nobody that is at Cambridge 'scapes it. But you were
never so welcome thither as you shall be when I am mistress on't. In the
meantime, I have sent you the first tome of _Cyrus_ to read; when you
have done with it, leave it at Mr. Hollingsworth's, and I'll send you
another. I have had ladies with me all the afternoon that are for London
to-morrow, and now I have as many letters to write as my Lord General's
Secretary. Forgive me that this is no longer, for
I am your.
Addressed--
For Mrs. Paynter, at her house in
Bedford Street, next ye Goate,
In Covent Garden.
_Letter 22._--Mr. Fish and Mr. Freeman were probably neighbours of
Dorothy. There is a Mr. Ralph Freeman of Aspedon Hall, in Hertfordshire,
mentioned in contemporary chronicles; he died in 1714, aged 88, and was
therefore about 37 years of age at this time. His father seems to have
been an ideal country gentleman, "who," says Sir Henry Chauncy, "made
his house neat, his gardens pleasant, his groves delicious, his children
cheerful, his servants easy, and kept excellent order in his family."
SIR,--You are more in my debt than you imagine. I never deserved a long
letter so much as now, when you sent me a short one. I could tell you
such a story ('tis too long to be written) as would make you see (what I
never discover'd in myself before) that I am a valiant lady. In earnest,
we have had such a skirmish, and upon so foolish an occasion, as I
cannot tell which is strangest. The Emperor and his proposals began it;
I talked merrily on't till I saw my brother put on his sober face, and
could hardly then believe he was in earnest. It seems he was, for when I
had spoke freely my meaning, it wrought so with him as to fetch up all
that lay on his stomach. All the people that I had ever in my life
refused were brought again upon the stage, like Richard the III.'s
ghosts, to reproach me withal; and all the kindness his discoveries
could make I had for you was laid to my charge. My best qualities (if I
have any that are good) served but for aggravations of my fault, and I
was allowed to have wit and understanding and discretion in other
things, that it might appear I had none in this. Well, 'twas a pretty
lecture, and I grew warm with it after a while; in short, we came so
near an absolute falling out, that 'twas time to give over, and we said
so much then that we have hardly spoken a word together since. But 'tis
wonderful to see what curtseys and legs pass between us; and as before
we were thought the kindest brother and sister, we are certainly the
most complimental couple in England. 'Tis a strange change, and I am
very sorry for it, but I'll swear I know not how to help it. I look
upon't as one of my great misfortunes, and I must bear it, as that which
is not my first nor likely to be my last. 'Tis but reasonable (as you
say) that you should see me, and yet I know not now how it can well be.
I am not for disguises, it looks like guilt, and I would not do a thing
I durst not own. I cannot tell whether (if there were a necessity of
your coming) I should not choose to have it when he is at home, and
rather expose him to the trouble of entertaining a person whose company
(here) would not be pleasing to him, and perhaps an opinion that I did
it purposely to cross him, than that your coming in his absence should
be thought a concealment. 'Twas one reason more than I told you why I
resolv'd not to go to Epsom this summer, because I knew he would imagine
it an agreement between us, and that something besides my spleen carried
me thither; but whether you see me or not you may be satisfied I am safe
enough, and you are in no danger to lose your prisoner, since so great a
violence as this has not broke her chains. You will have nothing to
thank me for after this; my whole life will not yield such another
occasion to let you see at what rate I value your friendship, and I have
been much better than my word in doing but what I promised you, since I
have found it a much harder thing not to yield to the power of a near
relation, and a greater kindness than I could then imagine it.
To let you see I did not repent me of the last commission, I'll give you
another. Here is a seal that Walker set for me, and 'tis dropt out; pray
give it him to mend. If anything could be wonder'd at in this age, I
should very much how you came by your informations. 'Tis more than I
know if Mr. Freeman be my servant. I saw him not long since, and he told
me no such thing. Do you know him? In earnest, he's a pretty gentleman,
and has a great deal of good nature, I think, which may oblige him
perhaps to speak well of his acquaintances without design. Mr. Fish is
the Squire of Dames, and has so many mistresses that anybody may pretend
a share in him and be believed; but though I have the honour to be his
near neighbour, to speak freely, I cannot brag much that he makes any
court to me; and I know no young woman in the country that he does not
visit often.
I have sent you another tome of _Cyrus_, pray send the first to Mr.
Hollingsworth for my Lady. My cousin Molle went from hence to Cambridge
on Thursday, and there's an end of Mr. Bennet. I have no company now but
my niece Peyton, and my brother will be shortly for the term, but will
make no long stay in town. I think my youngest brother comes down with
him. Remember that you owe me a long letter and something for forgiving
your last. I have no room for more than
Your.
_Letter 23._
SIR,--I will tell you no more of my servants. I can no sooner give you
some little hints whereabouts they live, but you know them presently,
and I meant you should be beholding to me for your acquaintance. But it
seems this gentleman is not so easy access, but you may acknowledge
something due to me, if I incline him to look graciously upon you, and
therefore there is not much harm done. What has kept him from marrying
all this time, or how the humour comes so furiously upon him now, I know
not; but if he may be believed, he is resolved to be a most romance
squire, and go in quest of some enchanted damsel, whom if he likes, as
to her person (for fortune is a thing below him),--and we do not read in
history that any knight or squire was ever so discourteous as to inquire
what portions their ladies had,--then he comes with the power of the
county to demand her, (which for the present he may dispose of, being
Sheriff), so I do not see who is able to resist him. All that is to be
hoped is, that since he may reduce whomsoever he pleases to his
obedience, he will be very curious in his choice, and then I am secure.
It may be I dreamt it that you had met my brother, or else it was one of
the reveries of my ague; if so, I hope I shall fall into no more of
them. I have missed four fits, and had but five, and have recovered so
much strength as made me venture to meet your letter on Wednesday, a
mile from home. Yet my recovery will be nothing towards my leaving this
place, where many reasons will oblige me to stay at least all this
summer, unless some great alteration should happen in this family; that
which I most own is my father's ill-health, which, though it be not in
that extremity it has been, yet keeps him still a prisoner in his
chamber, and for the most part to his bed, which is reason enough. But,
besides, I can give you others. I am here much more out of people's way
than in town, where my aunt and such as pretend an interest in me, and a
power over me, do so persecute me with their good nature, and take it so
ill that they are not accepted, as I would live in a hollow tree to
avoid them. Here I have nobody but my brother to torment me, whom I can
take the liberty to dispute with, and whom I have prevailed with
hitherto to bring none of his pretenders to this place, because of the
noise all such people make in a country, and the tittle-tattle it breeds
among neighbours that have nothing to do but to inquire who marries and
who makes love. If I can but keep him still in that humour Mr. Bennet
and I are likely to preserve our state and treat at distance like
princes; but we have not sent one another our pictures yet, though my
cousin Molle, who was his agent here, begged mine very earnestly. But, I
thank God, an imagination took him one morning that he was falling into
a dropsy, and made him in such haste to go back to Cambridge to his
doctor, that he never remembers anything he has to ask of me, but the
coach to carry him away. I lent it most willingly, and gone he is. My
eldest brother goes up to town on Monday too; perhaps you may see him,
but I cannot direct you where to find him, for he is not yet resolved
himself where to lie; only 'tis likely Nan may tell you when he is
there. He will make no stay, I believe. You will think him altered (and,
if it be possible) more melancholy than he was. If marriage agrees no
better with other people than it does with him, I shall pray that all my
friends may 'scape it. Yet if I were my cousin, H. Danvers, my Lady
Diana should not, if I could help it, as well as I love her: I would try
if ten thousand pound a year with a husband that doted on her, as I
should do, could not keep her from being unhappy. Well, in earnest, if I
were a prince, that lady should be my mistress, but I can give no rule
to any one else, and perhaps those that are in no danger of losing their
hearts to her may be infinitely taken with one I should not value at
all; for (so says the Justinian) wise Providence has ordained it that by
their different humours everybody might find something to please
themselves withal, without envying their neighbours. And now I have
begun to talk gravely and wisely, I'll try if I can go a little further
without being out. No, I cannot, for I have forgot already what 'twas I
would have said; but 'tis no matter, for, as I remember, it was not much
to the purpose, and, besides, I have paper little enough left to chide
you for asking so unkind a question as whether you were still the same
in my thoughts. Have you deserved to be otherwise; that is, am I no more
in yours? For till that be, it's impossible the other should; but that
will never be, and I shall always be the same I am. My heart tells me
so, and I believe it; for were it otherwise, Fortune would not persecute
me thus. Oh, me! she's cruel, and how far her power may reach I know
not, only I am sure, she cannot call back time that is past, and it is
long since we resolved to be for ever
Most faithful friends.
_Letter 24._--Tom Cheeke is Sir Thomas Cheeke, Knight, of Purgo, in the
county of Essex, or more probably his son, from the way Dorothy speaks
of him; but it is difficult to discriminate among constant generations
of Toms after a lapse of two hundred years. We find Sir Thomas's
daughter was at this time the third wife of Lord Manchester; and it
appears that Dorothy's great-grandfather married Catherine Cheeke,
daughter of the then Sir Thomas. This will assist us to the connection
between Dorothy, Tom Cheeke, and Lord Manchester. Sir Richard Franklin,
Knight, married a daughter of Sir Thomas Cheeke. He purchased Moor Park,
Hertfordshire, about this time. The park and the mansion he bought in
1652 from the Earl of Monmouth, and the manor in 1655 from Sir Charles
Harbord. The gardens had been laid out by the Countess of Bedford, who
had sold the place in 1626 to the Earl of Pembroke. The house was well
known to Temple, who describes the gardens in his Essay on Gardening;
and when he retired in later years to an estate near Farnham in Surrey,
he gave to it the name of Moor Park.
Lord Manchester was Edward Montagu, second Earl of Manchester. He was
educated at Sidney Sussex College, Cambridge, and sat for
Huntingdonshire in the first two Parliaments of Charles I. He was called
to the Upper House as Lord Kimbolton in 1626, and succeeded his father
in 1642. His name is well known in history as that of the leader of the
Puritans in the House of Lords, and as the only peer joined with the
five members impeached by the King. He raised a regiment and fought
under Essex at Edgehill, reconquered Lincolnshire, and took part in the
battle of Marston Moor. At this time Cromwell was his subordinate, and
to his directions Lord Manchester's successes are in all probability
due. At the second battle of Newbury, Lord Manchester showed some
hesitation in following up his success, and Cromwell accused him of
lukewarmness in the cause from his place in the House of Commons. An
inquiry was instituted, but the Committee never carried out their
investigations, and in parliamentary language the matter then dropped.
He afterwards held, among other offices, that of Chancellor of the
University of Cambridge, and inducted a visitation and reform of that
University. He resisted the trial of the King and the foundation of the
Commonwealth, refused to sit in Cromwell's new House of Lords, and was
among those Presbyterians who helped to bring about the Restoration.
Cooper and Hoskins were famous miniature painters of the day. Samuel
Cooper was a nephew of John Hoskins, who instructed him in the art of
miniature painting, in which he soon out-rivalled his master. Cooper,
who is styled by contemporary eulogists the "prince of limners," gave a
strength and freedom to the art which it had not formerly possessed; but
where he attempted to express more of the figure than the head, his
drawing is defective. His painting was famous for the beauty of his
carnation tints, and the loose flowing lines in which he described the
hair of his model. He was a friend of the famous Samuel Butler. Hoskins,
though a painter of less merit, had had the honour of painting His
Majesty King Charles I., his Queen, and many members of the Court; and
had passed through the varying fortunes of a fashionable
portrait-painter, whose position, leaning as it does on the fickle
approbation of the connoisseurs, is always liable to be wrested from him
by a younger rival.
It is noticeable that this is the first letter in which we have
intimation of the world's gossip about Dorothy's love affairs. We may,
perhaps not unfairly, trace the growth of Dorothy's affection for Temple
by the actions of others. First her brother raises his objections, and
then her relations begin to gossip; meanwhile the letters do not grow
less kind.
SIR,--You amaze me with your story of Tom Cheeke. I am certain he could
not have had it where you imagine, and 'tis a miracle to me that he
remember that there is such a one in the world as his cousin D.O. I am
sure he has not seen her this six year, and I think but once in his
life. If he has spread his opinion in that family, I shall quickly hear
on't, for my cousin Molle is now gone to Kimbolton to my Lord
Manchester, and from there he goes to Moor Park to my cousin Franklin's,
and in one, or both, he will be sure to meet with it. The matter is not
great, for I confess I do naturally hate the noise and talk of the
world, and should be best pleased never to be known in't upon any
occasion whatsoever; yet, since it can never be wholly avoided, one must
satisfy oneself by doing nothing that one need care who knows. I do not
think _à propos_ to tell anybody that you and I are very good friends,
and it were better, sure, if nobody knew it but we ourselves. But if, in
spite of all our caution, it be discovered, 'tis no treason nor anything
else that's ill; and if anybody should tell me that I have had a greater
kindness and esteem for you than for any one besides, I do not think I
should deny it; howsoever you do, oblige me by not owning any such
thing, for as you say, I have no reason to take it ill that you
endeavour to preserve me a liberty, though I'm never likely to make use
on't. Besides that, I agree with you too that certainly 'tis much better
you should owe my kindness to nothing but your own merit and my
inclination, than that there should lie any other necessity upon me of
making good my words to you.
For God's sake do not complain so that you do not see me; I believe I do
not suffer less in't than you, but 'tis not to be helped. If I had a
picture that were fit for you, you should have it. I have but one that's
anything like, and that's a great one, but I will send it some time or
other to Cooper or Hoskins, and have a little one drawn by it, if I
cannot be in town to sit myself. You undo me by but dreaming how happy
we might have been, when I consider how far we are from it in reality.
Alas! how can you talk of defying fortune; nobody lives without it, and
therefore why should you imagine you could? I know not how my brother
comes to be so well informed as you say, but I am certain he knows the
utmost of the injuries you have received from her. 'Tis not possible she
should have used you worse than he says. We have had another debate, but
much more calmly. 'Twas just upon his going up to town, and perhaps he
thought it not fit to part in anger. Not to wrong him, he never said to
me (whate'er he thought) a word in prejudice of you in your own person,
and I never heard him accuse any but your fortune and my indiscretion.
And whereas I did expect that (at least in compliment to me) he should
have said we had been a couple of fools well met, he says by his troth
he does not blame you, but bids me not deceive myself to think you have
any great passion for me.
If you have done with the first part of _Cyrus_, I should be glad Mr.
Hollingsworth had it, because I mentioned some such thing in my last to
my Lady; but there is no haste of restoring the other unless she should
send to me for it, which I believe she will not. I have a third tome
here against you have done with that second; and to encourage you, let
me assure you that the more you read of them you will like them still
better. Oh, me! whilst I think on't, let me ask you one question
seriously, and pray resolve me truly;--do I look so stately as people
apprehend? I vow to you I made nothing on't when Sir Emperor said so,
because I had no great opinion of his judgment, but Mr. Freeman makes me
mistrust myself extremely, not that I am sorry I did appear so to him
(since it kept me from the displeasure of refusing an offer which I do
not perhaps deserve), but that it is a scurvy quality in itself, and I
am afraid I have it in great measure if I showed any of it to him, for
whom I have so much respect and esteem. If it be so you must needs know
it; for though my kindness will not let me look so upon you, you can see
what I do to other people. And, besides, there was a time when we
ourselves were indifferent to one another;--did I do so then, or have I
learned it since? For God's sake tell me, that I may try to mend it. I
could wish, too, that you would lay your commands on me to forbear
fruit: here is enough to kill 1000 such as I am, and so extremely good,
that nothing but your power can secure me; therefore forbid it me, that
I may live to be
Your.
_Letter 25._--Dorothy's dissertations on love and marriage are always
amusing in their demureness. Who Cousin Peters was we cannot now say,
but she was evidently a relation and a gossip. The episode concerning
Mistress Harrison and the Queen is explained by the following quotation
from the autobiography of the Countess of Warwick.
She is writing of Mr. Charles Rich, and says: "He was then in love with
a Maid of Honour to the Queen, one Mrs. Hareson, that had been
chamber-fellow to my sister-in-law whilst she lived at Court, and that
brought on the acquaintance between him and my sister. He continued to
be much with us for about five or six months, till my brother Broghill
then (afterwards Earl of Orrery) grew also to be passionately in love
with the same Mrs. Hareson. My brother then having a quarrel with Mr.
Thomas Howard, second son to the Earl of Berkshire, about Mrs. Hareson
(with whom he also was in love), Mr. Rich brought my brother a challenge
from Mr. Howard, and was second to him against my brother when they
fought, which they did without any great hurt of any side, being parted.
This action made Mr. Rich judge it not civil to come to our house, and
so for some time forbore doing it; but at last my brother's match with
Mrs. Hareson being unhandsomely (on her side) broken off, when they
were so near being married as the wedding clothes were to be made, and
she after married Mr. Thomas Howard (to my father's great satisfaction),
who always was averse to it, though, to comply with my brother's
passion, he consented to it." There is a reference to the duel in a
letter of Lord Cork, which fixes the date as 1639-40, but Mr. Nevile's
name is nowhere mentioned.
Lord Broghill is well known to the history of that time, both literary
and political. He was Roger Boyle, afterwards Earl of Orrery, the fifth
son of the "great Earl of Cork." He acted for the Parliament against the
Catholics in Ireland, but was still thought to retain some partiality
for the King's party. Cromwell, however, considered himself secure in
Lord Broghill's attachment; and, indeed, he continued to serve not only
Cromwell during his lifetime, but his son Richard, after his father's
death, with great fidelity. Lord Broghill was active in forwarding the
Restoration in Ireland, and in reward of his services was made Earl of
Orrery. He died in 1679.