Such letters are, happily, not numerous. Here is another, of a quite
different nature, in which you can read the practical English sense of
our Dorothy, and her thoughts about love in a cottage:—
“I have not lived thus long in the world, and in this age of changes,
but certainly I know what an estate is; I have seen my father’s reduced
better than £4,000 to not £400 a year, and I thank God I never felt the
change in anything that I thought necessary. I never wanted, and am
confident I never shall. But yet I would not be thought so inconsiderate
a person as not to remember that it is expected from all people that
have sense that they should act with reason; that to all persons some
proportion of fortune is necessary, according to their several qualities,
and though it is not required that one should tie oneself to just so
much, and something is left for one’s inclination, and the difference
in the persons to make, yet still within such a compass; (a little
incoherent this, meaning, I think, that Dorothy does not believe that
even the world would have you choose by money and goods alone), and
such as lay more upon these considerations than they will bear, shall
infallibly be condemned by all sober persons. If any accident out of my
power should bring me to necessity though never so great, I should not
doubt with God’s assistance, but to bear it as well as anybody, and I
should never be ashamed on’t if He pleased to send it me; but if by my
own folly I had put it upon myself, the case would be extremely altered.”
But this is Dorothy in her serious strain; often (how often?) she plays
the lover, and though I disapprove of peeping into such letters,
doubting if Cupid recognises any statute of limitations in these affairs,
yet to complete the fabric we must play eavesdropper for once.
“It will be pleasinger to you, I am sure, to tell you how fond I am of
your lock. Well, in earnest now, and setting aside all compliment I never
saw finer hair, nor of a better colour; but cut no more of it. I would
not have it spoiled for the world; if you love me be careful of it; I am
combing and curling and kissing this lock all day, and dreaming of it all
night. The ring, too, is very well, only a little of the biggest. Send
me a tortoiseshell one to keep it on, that is a little less than that I
sent for a pattern. I would not have the rule absolutely true without
exception, that hard hairs are ill-natured, for then I should be so;
but I can allow that all soft hairs are good, and so are you, or I am
deceived as much as you are, if you think I do not love you enough. Tell
me, my dearest, am I? You will not be if you think I am not yours.”
Space! space! how narrow, how harsh, and ungallant thou art; not ready to
give place, even to Dorothy herself. We must hasten to the end. Dorothy,
it appears, unlike some of her sex, does not like playing the Mrs. Bride
in a public wedding. “I never yet,” she writes, “saw anyone that did not
look simply and out of countenance, nor ever knew a wedding well designed
but one, and that was of two persons who had time enough I confess to
contrive it, and nobody to please in’t but themselves. He came down into
the country where she was upon a visit, and one morning married her. As
soon as they came out of the church, they took coach and came for the
town, dined at an inn by the way, and at night came into lodgings that
were provided for them, where nobody knew them, and where they passed for
married people of seven years’ standing. The truth is I could not endure
to be Mrs. Bride in a public wedding, to be made the happiest person on
earth; do not take it ill, for I would endure it if I could, rather than
fail, but in earnest I do not think it were possible for me.”
But her father is now dead. Her brother, Peyton, is to make the treaty
for her. Here is the letter, dated for once (Oct. 2, 1654), inviting
Temple to come, and she will name the day; at least, Courtenay tells
us, that in this interview the preliminaries were settled. “After a
long debate with myself how to satisfy you, and remove that rock (as
you call it) which in your apprehensions is of no great danger, I am at
last resolved to let you see that I value your affection for me at as
high a rate as you yourself can set it, and that you cannot have more
of tenderness for me and my interests than I shall ever have for yours.
The particulars how I intend to make this good, you shall know when I
see you, which, since I find them here more irresolute in point of time
(though not as to the journey itself) than I hoped they would have been,
notwithstanding your quarrel to me, and the apprehensions you would make
me believe you have that I do not care to see you—pray come hither, and
try whether you shall be welcome or not.”
And now one moment of suspense. A last trial to the lover’s constancy.
The bride is taken dangerously ill. So seriously ill that the doctors
rejoice when the disease pronounces itself to be small-pox. Alas! who
shall now say what are the inmost thoughts of our Dorothy? Does she not
now need all her faith in her lover, in herself, ay, and in God, to
uphold her in this new affliction. She rises from her bed, her beauty
of face destroyed; her fair looks living only on the painter’s canvas,
unless we may believe that they were etched in deeply bitten lines on
Temple’s heart. But this skin beauty is not the firmest hold she has
on Temple’s affections; this was not the beauty that had attracted her
lover, and held him enchained in her service for seven years of waiting
and suspense; this was not the only light leading him through dark days
of doubt, almost of despair, constant, unwavering in his troth to her.
Other beauty, not outward, of which I may not write, having seen it but
darkly, only through these letters; knowing it indeed to be there, but
quite unable to visualise it fully, or to paint it clearly on these
pages; other beauty it is, than that of face and form, that made Dorothy
to Temple and to all men, in fact, as she was in name—the gift of God.
They are wedded, says Courtenay, at the end of 1654; and thus my task
ends. Of Lady Temple there is little to know, and this is not the
place to set it down. She lies on the north side of the west aisle at
Westminster, with her husband and children.
“Her body sleeps in Capel’s monument,
And her immortal past with angels lives.”
You, reading for yourself, will perhaps gaze upon the darkened tablet,
with new interest; and may, perhaps, thank him who has shown you this
picture. Yes, thank him, not as author or historian, but as a servant
holding a lamp, but ill-trimmed may be, before a glowing picture, careful
that what light he holds, may not glisten on its shining surface,
and hide the painting from sight; or as a menial, drawing aside with
difficulty the heavy, dusty curtain of intervening ages which has veiled
from human eyes the beautiful figure of Dorothy Osborne. She herself is
the picture, and the painter of it; the historian of her own history. But
not even to her are the real thanks due; these must be humbly offered to
Him from whom she came to represent
“A holy woman and the perfect wife.”