DESPONDENCY. CHRISTMAS 1653
This chapter of letters is a sad note, sounding out from among its
fellows with mournful clearness. There had seemed a doubt whether all
these letters must be regarded as of one series, or whether, more
correctly, it was to be assumed that Dorothy and Temple had their
lovers' quarrels, for the well-understood pleasure of kissing friends
again. But you will agree that these lovers were not altogether as other
lovers are, that their troubles were too real and too many for their
love to need the stimulus of constant April shower quarrels; and these
letters are very serious in their sadness, imprinting themselves in the
mind after constant reading as landmarks clearly defining the course and
progress of an unusual event in these lovers' history--a
misunderstanding.
The letters are written at Christmastide, 1653. Dorothy had returned
from London to Chicksands, and either had not seen Temple or he had left
London hurriedly whilst she was there. There is a letter lost. Dorothy's
youngest brother is lately dead; her niece has left her; her companion
Jane is sick; her father, growing daily weaker and weaker, was sinking
into his grave before her eyes. No bright chance seemed to open before
her, and their marriage seemed an impossibility. For a moment she loses
faith, not in Temple, but in fortune; faith once gone, hope, missing her
comrade, flies away in search of her. She is alone in the old house with
her dying father, and with her brother pouring his unkind gossip into
her unwilling ear, whilst the sad long year draws slowly to its close,
and there is no sign of better fortune for the lovers; can we wonder,
then, that Dorothy, lonely and unaided, pacing in the damp garden
beneath the bare trees, with all the bright summer changed into decay,
lost faith and hope?
Temple, when Dorothy's thoughts reach him, must have replied with some
impatience. There are stories, too, set about concerning her good name
by one Mr. B., to disturb Temple. Temple can hardly have given credence
to these, but he may have complained of them to Dorothy, who is led to
declare, "I am the most unfortunate woman breathing, but I was never
false," though she forgives her lover "all those strange thoughts he has
had" of her. Whatever were the causes of the quarrel, or rather the
despondency, we shall never know accurately. Dorothy was not the woman
to vapour for months about "an early and a quiet grave." When she writes
this it is written in the deepest earnest of despair; when this mood is
over it is over for ever, and we emerge into a clear atmosphere of hope
and content. The despondency has been agonizing, but the agony is sharp
and rapid, and gives place to the wisdom of hope.
Temple now comes to Chicksands at an early date. There is a new
interchange of vows. Never again will their faith be shaken by fretting
and despair; and these vows are never broken, but remain with the lovers
until they are set aside by others, taken under the solemn sanction of
the law, and the old troubles vanish in new responsibilities and a new
life.
_Letter 41._--Lady Anne Blunt was a daughter of the Earl of Newport. Her
mother had turned Catholic in 1637, which had led to an estrangement
between her and her husband, and we may conclude poor Lady Anne had by
no means a happy home. There are two scandals connected with her name.
She appears to have run away with one William Blunt,--the "Mr. Blunt"
mentioned by Dorothy in her next letter; and on April 18, 1654, she
petitioned the Protector to issue a special commission upon her whole
case. Mr. Blunt pretended that she was contracted to him for the sake,
it is said, of gaining money thereby. There being no Bishop's Court at
this time, there are legal difficulties in the way, and we never hear
the result of the petition. Again, in February 1655, one Mr. Porter
finds himself committed to Lambeth House for carrying away the Lady Anne
Blunt, and endeavouring to marry her without her father's consent.
SIR,--Having tired myself with thinking, I mean to weary you with
reading, and revenge myself that way for all the unquiet thoughts you
have given me. But I intended this a sober letter, and therefore, _sans
raillerie_, let me tell you, I have seriously considered all our
misfortunes, and can see no end of them but by submitting to that which
we cannot avoid, and by yielding to it break the force of a blow which
if resisted brings a certain ruin. I think I need not tell you how dear
you have been to me, nor that in your kindness I placed all the
satisfaction of my life; 'twas the only happiness I proposed to myself,
and had set my heart so much upon it that it was therefore made my
punishment, to let me see that, how innocent soever I thought my
affection, it was guilty in being greater than is allowable for things
of this world. 'Tis not a melancholy humour gives me these apprehensions
and inclinations, nor the persuasions of others; 'tis the result of a
long strife with myself, before my reason could overcome my passion, or
bring me to a perfect resignation to whatsoever is allotted for me. 'Tis
now done, I hope, and I have nothing left but to persuade you to that,
which I assure myself your own judgment will approve in the end, and
your reason has often prevailed with you to offer; that which you would
have done then out of kindness to me and point of honour, I would have
you do now out of wisdom and kindness to yourself. Not that I would
disclaim my part in it or lessen my obligation to you, no, I am your
friend as much as ever I was in my life, I think more, and I am sure I
shall never be less. I have known you long enough to discern that you
have all the qualities that make an excellent friend, and I shall
endeavour to deserve that you may be so to me; but I would have you do
this upon the justest grounds, and such as may conduce most to your
quiet and future satisfaction. When we have tried all ways to happiness,
there is no such thing to be found but in a mind conformed to one's
condition, whatever it be, and in not aiming at anything that is either
impossible or improbable; all the rest is but vanity and vexation of
spirit, and I durst pronounce it so from that little knowledge I have
had of the world, though I had not Scripture for my warrant. The
shepherd that bragged to the traveller, who asked him, "What weather it
was like to be?" that it should be what weather pleased him, and made it
good by saying it should be what weather pleased God, and what pleased
God should please him, said an excellent thing in such language, and
knew enough to make him the happiest person in the world if he made a
right use on't. There can be no pleasure in a struggling life, and that
folly which we condemn in an ambitious man, that's ever labouring for
that which is hardly got and more uncertainly kept, is seen in all
according to their several humours; in some 'tis covetousness, in others
pride, in some stubbornness of nature that chooses always to go against
the tide, and in others an unfortunate fancy to things that are in
themselves innocent till we make them otherwise by desiring them too
much. Of this sort you and I are, I think; we have lived hitherto upon
hopes so airy that I have often wondered how they could support the
weight of our misfortunes; but passion gives a strength above nature, we
see it in mad people; and, not to flatter ourselves, ours is but a
refined degree of madness. What can it be else to be lost to all things
in the world but that single object that takes up one's fancy, to lose
all the quiet and repose of one's life in hunting after it, when there
is so little likelihood of ever gaining it, and so many more probable
accidents that will infallibly make us miss on't? And which is more than
all, 'tis being mastered by that which reason and religion teaches us to
govern, and in that only gives us a pre-eminence over beasts. This,
soberly consider'd, is enough to let us see our error, and consequently
to persuade us to redeem it. To another person, I should justify myself
that 'tis not a lightness in my nature, nor any interest that is not
common to us both, that has wrought this change in me. To you that know
my heart, and from whom I shall never hide it, to whom a thousand
testimonies of my kindness can witness the reality of it, and whose
friendship is not built upon common grounds, I have no more to say but
that I impose not my opinions upon you, and that I had rather you took
them up as your own choice than upon my entreaty. But if, as we have not
differed in anything else, we could agree in this too, and resolve upon
a friendship that will be much the perfecter for having nothing of
passion in it, how happy might we be without so much as a fear of the
change that any accident could bring. We might defy all that fortune
could do, and putting off all disguise and constraint, with that which
only made it necessary, make our lives as easy to us as the condition of
this world will permit. I may own you as a person that I extremely value
and esteem, and for whom I have a particular friendship, and you may
consider me as one that will always be
Your faithful.
This was written when I expected a letter from you, how came I to miss
it? I thought at first it might be the carrier's fault in changing his
time without giving notice, but he assures me he did, to Nan. My
brother's groom came down to-day, too, and saw her, he tells me, but
brings me nothing from her; if nothing of ill be the cause, I am
contented. You hear the noise my Lady Anne Blunt has made with her
marrying? I am so weary with meeting it in all places where I go; from
what is she fallen! they talked but the week before that she should have
my Lord of Strafford. Did you not intend to write to me when you writ to
Jane? That bit of paper did me great service; without it I should have
had strange apprehension, and my sad dreams, and the several frights I
have waked in, would have run so in my head that I should have concluded
something of very ill from your silence. Poor Jane is sick, but she will
write, she says, if she can. Did you send the last part of _Cyrus_ to
Mr. Hollingsworth?
_Letter 42._
SIR,--I am extremely sorry that your letter miscarried, but I am
confident my brother has it not. As cunning as he is, he could not hide
from me, but that I should discover it some way or other. No; he was
here, and both his men, when this letter should have come, and not one
of them stirred out that day; indeed, the next day they went all to
London. The note you writ to Jane came in one of Nan's, by Collins, but
nothing else; it must be lost by the porter that was sent with it, and
'twas very unhappy that there should be anything in it of more
consequence than ordinary; it may be numbered amongst the rest of our
misfortunes, all which an inconsiderate passion has occasioned. You must
pardon me I cannot be reconciled to it, it has been the ruin of us both.
'Tis true that nobody must imagine to themselves ever to be absolute
master on't, but there is great difference betwixt that and yielding to
it, between striving with it and soothing it up till it grows too strong
for one. Can I remember how ignorantly and innocently I suffered it to
steal upon me by degrees; how under a mask of friendship I cozened
myself into that which, had it appeared to me at first in its true
shape, I had feared and shunned? Can I discern that it has made the
trouble of your life, and cast a cloud upon mine, that will help to
cover me in my grave? Can I know that it wrought so upon us both as to
make neither of us friends to one another, but agree in running wildly
to our own destruction, and that perhaps of some innocent persons who
might live to curse our folly that gave them so miserable a being? Ah!
if you love yourself or me, you must confess that I have reason to
condemn this senseless passion; that wheresoe'er it comes destroys all
that entertain it; nothing of judgment or discretion can live with it,
and it puts everything else out of order before it can find a place for
itself. What has it brought my poor Lady Anne Blunt to? She is the talk
of all the footmen and boys in the street, and will be company for them
shortly, and yet is so blinded by her passion as not at all to perceive
the misery she has brought herself to; and this fond love of hers has so
rooted all sense of nature out of her heart, that, they say, she is no
more moved than a statue with the affliction of a father and mother that
doted on her, and had placed the comfort of their lives in her
preferment. With all this is it not manifest to the whole world that Mr.
Blunt could not consider anything in this action but his own interest,
and that he makes her a very ill return for all her kindness; if he had
loved her truly he would have died rather than have been the occasion of
this misfortune to her. My cousin Franklin (as you observe very well)
may say fine things now she is warm in Moor Park, but she is very much
altered in her opinions since her marriage, if these be her own. She
left a gentleman, that I could name, whom she had much more of kindness
for than ever she had for Mr. Franklin, because his estate was less; and
upon the discovery of some letters that her mother intercepted, suffered
herself to be persuaded that twenty-three hundred pound a year was
better than twelve hundred, though with a person she loved; and has
recovered it so well, that you see she confesses there is nothing in her
condition she desires to alter at the charge of a wish. She's happier by
much than I shall ever be, but I do not envy her; may she long enjoy it,
and I an early and a quiet grave, free from the trouble of this busy
world, where all with passion pursue their own interests at their
neighbour's charges; where nobody is pleased but somebody complains
on't; and where 'tis impossible to be without giving and receiving
injuries.
You would know what I would be at, and how I intend to dispose of
myself. Alas! were I in my own disposal, you should come to my grave to
be resolved; but grief alone will not kill. All that I can say, then, is
that I resolve on nothing but to arm myself with patience, to resist
nothing that is laid upon me, nor struggle for what I have no hope to
get. I have no ends nor no designs, nor will my heart ever be capable of
any; but like a country wasted by a civil war, where two opposing
parties have disputed their right so long till they have made it worth
neither of their conquests, 'tis ruined and desolated by the long strife
within it to that degree as 'twill be useful to none,--nobody that knows
the condition 'tis in will think it worth the gaining, and I shall not
trouble anybody with it. No, really, if I may be permitted to desire
anything, it shall be only that I may injure nobody but myself,--I can
bear anything that reflects only upon me; or, if I cannot, I can die;
but I would fain die innocent, that I might hope to be happy in the next
world, though never in this. I take it a little ill that you should
conjure me by anything, with a belief that 'tis more powerful with me
than your kindness. No, assure yourself what that alone cannot gain will
be denied to all the world. You would see me, you say? You may do so if
you please, though I know not to what end. You deceive yourself if you
think it would prevail upon me to alter my intentions; besides, I can
make no contrivances; it must be here, and I must endure the noise it
will make, and undergo the censures of a people that choose ever to give
the worst interpretation that anything will bear. Yet if it can be any
ease to you to make me more miserable than I am, never spare me;
consider yourself only, and not me at all,--'tis no more than I deserve
for not accepting what you offered me whilst 'twas in your power to make
it good, as you say it then was. You were prepared, it seems, but I was
surprised, I confess. 'Twas a kind fault though; and you may pardon it
with more reason than I have to forgive it myself. And let me tell you
this, too, as lost and as wretched as I am, I have still some sense of
my reputation left in me,--I find that to my cost,--I shall attempt to
preserve it as clear as I can; and to do that, I must, if you see me
thus, make it the last of our interviews. What can excuse me if I should
entertain any person that is known to pretend to me, when I can have no
hope of ever marrying him? And what hope can I have of that when the
fortune that can only make it possible to me depends upon a thousand
accidents and contingencies, the uncertainty of the place 'tis in, and
the government it may fall under, your father's life or his success, his
disposal of himself and of his fortune, besides the time that must
necessarily be required to produce all this, and the changes that may
probably bring with it, which 'tis impossible for us to foresee? All
this considered, what have I to say for myself when people shall ask,
what 'tis I expect? Can there be anything vainer than such a hope upon
such grounds? You must needs see the folly on't yourself, and therefore
examine your own heart what 'tis fit for me to do, and what you can do
for a person you love, and that deserves your compassion if nothing
else,--a person that will always have an inviolable friendship for you,
a friendship that shall take up all the room my passion held in my
heart, and govern there as master, till death come and take possession
and turn it out.
Why should you make an impossibility where there is none? A thousand
accidents might have taken me from you, and you must have borne it. Why
would not your own resolution work as much upon you as necessity and
time does infallibly upon people? Your father would take it very ill, I
believe, if you should pretend to love me better than he did my Lady,
yet she is dead and he lives, and perhaps may do to love again. There is
a gentlewoman in this country that loved so passionately for six or
seven years that her friends, who kept her from marrying, fearing her
death, consented to it; and within half a year her husband died, which
afflicted her so strongly nobody thought she would have lived. She saw
no light but candles in three years, nor came abroad in five; and now
that 'tis some nine years past, she is passionately taken again with
another, and how long she has been so nobody knows but herself. This is
to let you see 'tis not impossible what I ask, nor unreasonable. Think
on't, and attempt it at least; but do it sincerely, and do not help your
passion to master you. As you have ever loved me do this.
The carrier shall bring your letters to Suffolk House to Jones. I shall
long to hear from you; but if you should deny the only hope that's left
me, I must beg you will defer it till Christmas Day be past; for, to
deal freely with you, I have some devotions to perform then, which must
not be disturbed with anything, and nothing is like to do it as so
sensible an affliction. Adieu.
_Letter 43._
SIR,--I can say little more than I did,--I am convinced of the vileness
of the world and all that's in it, and that I deceived myself extremely
when I expected anything of comfort from it. No, I have no more to do
in't but to grow every day more and more weary of it, if it be possible
that I have not yet reached the highest degree of hatred for it. But I
thank God I hate nothing else but the base world, and the vices that
make a part of it. I am in perfect charity with my enemies, and have
compassion for all people's misfortunes as well as for my own,
especially for those I may have caused; and I may truly say I bear my
share of such. But as nothing obliges me to relieve a person that is in
extreme want till I change conditions with him and come to be where he
began, and that I may be thought compassionate if I do all that I can
without prejudicing myself too much, so let me tell you, that if I could
help it, I would not love you, and that as long as I live I shall strive
against it as against that which had been my ruin, and was certainly
sent me as a punishment for my sin. But I shall always have a sense of
your misfortunes, equal, if not above, my own. I shall pray that you may
obtain a quiet I never hope for but in my grave, and I shall never
change my condition but with my life. Yet let not this give you a hope.
Nothing ever can persuade me to enter the world again. I shall, in a
short time, have disengaged myself of all my little affairs in it, and
settled myself in a condition to apprehend nothing but too long a life,
therefore I wish you would forget me; and to induce you to it, let me
tell you freely that I deserve you should. If I remember anybody, 'tis
against my will. I am possessed with that strange insensibility that my
nearest relations have no tie upon me, and I find myself no more
concerned in those that I have heretofore had great tenderness of
affection for, than in my kindred that died long before I was born.
Leave me to this, and seek a better fortune. I beg it of you as heartily
as I forgive you all those strange thoughts you have had of me. Think me
so still if that will do anything towards it. For God's sake do take any
course that may make you happy; or, if that cannot be, less unfortunate
at least than
Your friend and humble servant,
D. OSBORNE.
I can hear nothing of that letter, but I hear from all people that I
know, part of my unhappy story, and from some that I do not know. A
lady, whose face I never saw, sent it me as news she had out of Ireland.
_Letter 44._
SIR,--If you have ever loved me, do not refuse the last request I shall
ever make you; 'tis to preserve yourself from the violence of your
passion. Vent it all upon me; call me and think me what you please; make
me, if it be possible, more wretched than I am. I'll bear it all without
the least murmur. Nay, I deserve it all, for had you never seen me you
had certainly been happy. 'Tis my misfortunes only that have that
infectious quality as to strike at the same time me and all that's dear
to me. I am the most unfortunate woman breathing, but I was never false.
No; I call heaven to witness that if my life could satisfy for the least
injury my fortune has done you (I cannot say 'twas I that did them you),
I would lay it down with greater joy than any person ever received a
crown; and if I ever forget what I owe you, or ever entertained a
thought of kindness for any person in the world besides, may I live a
long and miserable life. 'Tis the greatest curse I can invent; if there
be a greater, may I feel it. This is all I can say. Tell me if it be
possible I can do anything for you, and tell me how I may deserve your
pardon for all the trouble I have given you. I would not die without it.
[Directed.] For Mr. Temple.
_Letter 45._
SIR,--'Tis most true what you say, that few have what they merit; if it
were otherwise, you would be happy, I think, but then I should be so
too, and that must not be,--a false and an inconstant person cannot
merit it, I am sure. You are kind in your good wishes, but I aim at no
friends nor no princes, the honour would be lost upon me; I should
become a crown so ill, there would be no striving for it after me, and,
sure, I should not wear it long. Your letter was a much greater loss to
me than that of Henry Cromwell, and, therefore, 'tis that with all my
care and diligence I cannot inquire it out. You will not complain, I
believe, of the shortness of my last, whatever else you dislike in it,
and if I spare you at any time 'tis because I cannot but imagine, since
I am so wearisome to myself, that I must needs be so to everybody else,
though, at present, I have other occasions that will not permit this to
be a long one. I am sorry it should be only in my power to make a friend
miserable, and that where I have so great a kindness I should do so
great injuries; but 'tis my fortune, and I must bear it; 'twill be none
to you, I hope, to pray for you, nor to desire that you would (all
passion laid aside) freely tell me my faults, that I may, at least, ask
your forgiveness where 'tis not in my power to make you better
satisfaction. I would fain make even with all the world, and be out of
danger of dying in anybody's debt; then I have nothing more to do in it
but to expect when I shall be so happy as to leave it, and always to
remember that my misfortune makes all my faults towards you, and that my
faults to God make all my misfortunes.
Your unhappy.
_Letter 46._
SIR,--That which I writ by your boy was in so much haste and distraction
as I cannot be satisfied with it, nor believe it has expressed my
thoughts as I meant them. No, I find it is not easily done at more
leisure, and I am yet to seek what to say that is not too little nor too
much. I would fain let you see that I am extremely sensible of your
affliction, that I would lay down my life to redeem you from it, but
that's a mean expression; my life is of so little value that I will not
mention it. No, let it be rather what, in earnest, if I can tell
anything I have left that is considerable enough to expose for it, it
must be that small reputation I have amongst my friends, that's all my
wealth, and that I could part with to restore you to that quiet you
lived in when I first knew you. But, on the other side, I would not give
you hopes of that I cannot do. If I loved you less I would allow you to
be the same person to me, and I would be the same to you as heretofore.
But to deal freely with you, that were to betray myself, and I find that
my passion would quickly be my master again if I gave it any liberty. I
am not secure that it would not make me do the most extravagant things
in the world, and I shall be forced to keep a continual war alive with
it as long as there are any remainders of it left;--I think I might as
well have said as long as I lived. Why should you give yourself over so
unreasonably to it? Good God! no woman breathing can deserve half the
trouble you give yourself. If I were yours from this minute I could not
recompense what you have suffered from the violence of your passion,
though I were all that you can imagine me, when, God knows, I am an
inconsiderable person, born to a thousand misfortunes, which have taken
away all sense of anything else from me, and left me a walking misery
only. I do from my soul forgive you all the injuries your passion has
done me, though, let me tell you, I was much more at my ease whilst I
was angry. Scorn and despite would have cured me in some reasonable
time, which I despair of now. However, I am not displeased with it, and,
if it may be of any advantage to you, I shall not consider myself in it;
but let me beg, then, that you will leave off those dismal thoughts. I
tremble at the desperate things you say in your letter; for the love of
God, consider seriously with yourself what can enter into comparison
with the safety of your soul. Are a thousand women, or ten thousand
worlds, worth it? No, you cannot have so little reason left as you
pretend, nor so little religion. For God's sake let us not neglect what
can only make us happy for trifles. If God had seen it fit to have
satisfied our desires we should have had them, and everything would not
have conspired thus to have crossed them. Since He has decreed it
otherwise (at least as far as we are able to judge by events), we must
submit, and not by striving make an innocent passion a sin, and show a
childish stubbornness.
I could say a thousand things more to this purpose if I were not in
haste to send this away,--that it may come to you, at least, as soon as
the other. Adieu.
I cannot imagine who this should be that Mr. Dr. meant, and am inclined
to believe 'twas a story meant to disturb you, though perhaps not by
him.
_Letter 47._
SIR,--'Tis never my humour to do injuries, nor was this meant as any to
you. No, in earnest, if I could have persuaded you to have quitted a
passion that injures you, I had done an act of real friendship, and you
might have lived to thank me for it; but since it cannot be, I will
attempt it no more. I have laid before you the inconveniences it brings
along, how certain the trouble is, and how uncertain the reward; how
many accidents may hinder us from ever being happy, and how few there
are (and those so unlikely) to make up our desire. All this makes no
impression on you; you are still resolved to follow your blind guide,
and I to pity where I cannot help. It will not be amiss though to let
you see that what I did was merely in consideration of your interest,
and not at all of my own, that you may judge of me accordingly; and, to
do that, I must tell you that, unless it were after the receipt of those
letters that made me angry, I never had the least hope of wearing out my
passion, nor, to say truth, much desire. For to what purpose should I
have strived against it? 'Twas innocent enough in me that resolved never
to marry, and would have kept me company in this solitary place as long
as I lived, without being a trouble to myself or anybody else. Nay, in
earnest, if I could have hoped you would be so much your own friend as
to seek out a happiness in some other person, nothing under heaven could
have satisfied me like entertaining myself with the thought of having
done you service in diverting you from a troublesome pursuit of what is
so uncertain, and by that giving you the occasion of a better fortune.
Otherwise, whether you loved me still, or whether you did not, was
equally the same to me, your interest set aside. I will not reproach you
how ill an interpretation you made of this, because we will have no more
quarrels. On the contrary, because I see 'tis in vain to think of curing
you, I'll study only to give you what ease I can, and leave the rest to
better physicians,--to time and fortune. Here, then, I declare that you
have still the same power in my heart that I gave you at our last
parting; that I will never marry any other; and that if ever our
fortunes will allow us to marry, you shall dispose of me as you please;
but this, to deal freely with you, I do not hope for. No; 'tis too great
a happiness, and I, that know myself best, must acknowledge I deserve
crosses and afflictions, but can never merit such a blessing. You know
'tis not a fear of want that frights me. I thank God I never distrusted
His providence, nor I hope never shall, and without attributing anything
to myself, I may acknowledge He has given me a mind that can be
satisfied with as narrow a compass as that of any person living of my
rank. But I confess that I have an humour will not suffer me to expose
myself to people's scorn. The name of love is grown so contemptible by
the folly of such as have falsely pretended to it, and so many giddy
people have married upon that score and repented so shamefully
afterwards, that nobody can do anything that tends towards it without
being esteemed a ridiculous person. Now, as my young Lady Holland says,
I never pretended to wit in my life, but I cannot be satisfied that the
world should think me a fool, so that all I can do for you will be to
preserve a constant kindness for you, which nothing shall ever alter or
diminish; I'll never give you any more alarms, by going about to
persuade you against that you have for me; but from this hour we'll live
quietly, no more fears, no more jealousies; the wealth of the whole
world, by the grace of God, shall not tempt me to break my word with
you, nor the importunity of all my friends I have. Keep this as a
testimony against me if ever I do, and make me a reproach to them by it;
therefore be secure, and rest satisfied with what I can do for you.
You should come hither but that I expect my brother every day; not but
that he designed a longer stay when he went, but since he keeps his
horses with him 'tis an infallible token that he is coming. We cannot
miss fitter times than this twenty in a year, and I shall be as ready to
give you notice of such as you can be to desire it, only you would do me
a great pleasure if you could forbear writing, unless it were sometimes
on great occasions. This is a strange request for me to make, that have
been fonder of your letters than my Lady Protector is of her new honour,
and, in earnest, would be so still but there are a thousand
inconveniences in't that I could tell you. Tell me what you can do; in
the meantime think of some employment for yourself this summer. Who
knows what a year may produce? If nothing, we are but where we were, and
nothing can hinder us from being, at least, perfect friends. Adieu.
There's nothing so terrible in my other letter but you may venture to
read it. Have not you forgot my Lady's book?