love letters of henry eighth to anne boleyn the love letters of henry viii to anne boleyn with notes john w. luce & company boston: london copyright, 1906, by john w. luce & company d. b. updike, the merrymount press, boston table of contents page letter first i letter second iv letter third v letter fourth vii letter fifth x letter sixth xiii letter seventh xvi letter eighth [anne boleyn to wolsey] xviii postscript [by henry viii] xx letter ninth xxii letter tenth xxv letter eleventh xxviii letter twelfth xxx letter thirteenth xxxiv letter fourteenth xxxvii letter fifteenth xxxix letter sixteenth xli letter seventeenth xliii letter eighteenth xlv notes li love letters of henry eighth to anne boleyn letter first to anne boleyn on turning over in my mind the contents of your last letters, i have put myself into great agony, not knowing how to interpret them, whether to my disadvantage, as you show in some places, or to my advantage, as i understand them in some others, beseeching you earnestly to let me know expressly your whole mind as to the love between us two. it is absolutely necessary for me to obtain this answer, having been for above a whole year stricken with the dart of love, and not yet sure whether i shall fail of finding a place in your heart and affection, which last point has prevented me for some time past from calling you my mistress; because, if you only love me with an ordinary love, that name is not suitable for you, because it denotes a singular love, which is far from common. but if you please to do the office of a true loyal mistress and friend, and to give up yourself body and heart to me, who will be, and have been, your most loyal servant, (if your rigour does not forbid me) i promise you that not only the name shall be given you, but also that i will take you for my only mistress, casting off all others besides you out of my thoughts and affections, and serve you only. i beseech you to give an entire answer to this my rude letter, that i may know on what and how far i may depend. and if it does not please you to answer me in writing, appoint some place where i may have it by word of mouth, and i will go thither with all my heart. no more, for fear of tiring you. written by the hand of him who would willingly remain yours, h. r. letter second to anne boleyn though it is not fitting for a gentleman to take his lady in the place of a servant, yet, complying with your desire, i willingly grant it you, if thereby you can find yourself less uncomfortable in the place chosen by yourself, than you have been in that which i gave you, thanking you cordially that you are pleased still to have some remembrance of me. 6. n. a. 1 de a. o. na. v. e. z. henry r. letter third to anne boleyn although, my mistress, it has not pleased you to remember the promise you made me when i was last with you--that is, to hear good news from you, and to have an answer to my last letter; yet it seems to me that it belongs to a true servant (seeing that otherwise he can know nothing) to inquire the health of his mistress, and to acquit myself of the duty of a true servant, i send you this letter, beseeching you to apprise me of your welfare, which i pray to god may continue as long as i desire mine own. and to cause you yet oftener to remember me, i send you, by the bearer of this, a buck killed late last night by my own hand, hoping that when you eat of it you may think of the hunter; and thus, for want of room, i must end my letter, written by the hand of your servant, who very often wishes for you instead of your brother. h. r. letter fourth to anne boleyn _my mistress & friend_, my heart and i surrender ourselves into your hands, beseeching you to hold us commended to your favour, and that by absence your affection to us may not be lessened: for it were a great pity to increase our pain, of which absence produces enough and more than i could ever have thought could be felt, reminding us of a point in astronomy which is this: the longer the days are, the more distant is the sun, and nevertheless the hotter; so is it with our love, for by absence we are kept a distance from one another, and yet it retains its fervour, at least on my side; i hope the like on yours, assuring you that on my part the pain of absence is already too great for me; and when i think of the increase of that which i am forced to suffer, it would be almost intolerable, but for the firm hope i have of your unchangeable affection for me: and to remind you of this sometimes, and seeing that i cannot be personally present with you, i now send you the nearest thing i can to that, namely, my picture set in a bracelet, with the whole of the device, which you already know, wishing myself in their place, if it should please you. this is from the hand of your loyal servant and friend, h. r. letter fifth to anne boleyn for a present so beautiful that nothing could be more so (considering the whole of it), i thank you most cordially, not only on account of the fine diamond and the ship in which the solitary damsel is tossed about, but chiefly for the fine interpretation and the too humble submission which your goodness hath used towards me in this case; for i think it would be very difficult for me to find an occasion to deserve it, if i were not assisted by your great humanity and favour, which i have always sought to seek, and will seek to preserve by all the kindness in my power, in which my hope has placed its unchangeable intention, which says, _aut illic, aut nullibi_. the demonstrations of your affection are such, the beautiful mottoes of the letter so cordially expressed, that they oblige me for ever to honour, love, and serve you sincerely, beseeching you to continue in the same firm and constant purpose, assuring you that, on my part, i will surpass it rather than make it reciprocal, if loyalty of heart and a desire to please you can accomplish this. i beg, also, if at any time before this i have in any way offended you, that you would give me the same absolution that you ask, assuring you, that henceforward my heart shall be dedicated to you alone. i wish my person was so too. god can do it, if he pleases, to whom i pray every day for that end, hoping that at length my prayers will be heard. i wish the time may be short, but i shall think it long till we see one another. written by the hand of that secretary, who in heart, body, and will, is, your loyal and most assured servant, h. sultre a.b. ne cherse r. letter sixth to anne boleyn _to my mistress._ because the time seems very long since i heard concerning your health and you, the great affection i have for you has induced me to send you this bearer, to be better informed of your health and pleasure, and because, since my parting from you, i have been told that the opinion in which i left you is totally changed, and that you would not come to court either with your mother, if you could, or in any other manner; which report, if true, i cannot sufficiently marvel at, because i am sure that i have since never done any thing to offend you, and it seems a very poor return for the great love which i bear you to keep me at a distance both from the speech and the person of the woman that i esteem most in the world: and if you love me with as much affection as i hope you do, i am sure that the distance of our two persons would be a little irksome to you, though this does not belong so much to the mistress as to the servant. consider well, my mistress, that absence from you grieves me sorely, hoping that it is not your will that it should be so; but if i knew for certain that you voluntarily desired it, i could do no other than mourn my ill-fortune, and by degrees abate my great folly. and so, for lack of time, i make an end of this rude letter, beseeching you to give credence to this bearer in all that he will tell you from me. written by the hand of your entire servant, h. r. letter seventh to anne boleyn _darling_, these shall be only to advertise you that this bearer and his fellow be despatched with as many things to compass our matter, and to bring it to pass as our wits could imagine or devise; which brought to pass, as i trust, by their diligence, it shall be shortly, you and i shall have our desired end, which should be more to my heart's ease, and more quietness to my mind, than any other thing in the world; as, with god's grace, shortly i trust shall be proved, but not so soon as i would it were; yet i will ensure you that there shall be no time lost that may be won, and further can not be done; for _ultra posse non est esse_. keep him not too long with you, but desire him, for your sake, to make the more speed; for the sooner we shall have word from him, the sooner shall our matter come to pass. and thus upon trust of your short repair to london, i make an end of my letter, my own sweet heart. written with the hand of him which desireth as much to be yours as you do to have him. h. r. letter eighth anne boleyn to wolsey _my lord_, in my most humblest wise that my heart can think, i desire you to pardon me that i am so bold to trouble you with my simple and rude writing, esteeming it to proceed from her that is much desirous to know that your grace does well, as i perceive by this bearer that you do, the which i pray god long to continue, as i am most bound to pray; for i do know the great pains and troubles that you have taken for me both day and night is never likely to be recompensed on my part, but alonely in loving you, next unto the king's grace, above all creatures living. and i do not doubt but the daily proofs of my deeds shall manifestly declare and affirm my writing to be true, and i do trust you do think the same. my lord, i do assure you, i do long to hear from you news of the legate; for i do hope, as they come from you, they shall be very good; and i am sure you desire it as much as i, and more, an it were possible; as i know it is not: and thus remaining in a steadfast hope, i make an end of my letter. written with the hand of her that is most bound to be your humble servant, anne boleyn. postscript by henry viii the writer of this letter would not cease, till she had caused me likewise to set my hand, desiring you, though it be short, to take it in good part. i ensure you that there is neither of us but greatly desireth to see you, and are joyous to hear that you have escaped this plague so well, trusting the fury thereof to be passed, especially with them that keepeth good diet, as i trust you do. the not hearing of the legate's arrival in france causeth us somewhat to muse; notwithstanding, we trust, by your diligence and vigilancy (with the assistance of almighty god), shortly to be eased out of that trouble. no more to you at this time, but that i pray god send you as good health and prosperity as the writer would. by your loving sovereign and friend, h. r. letter ninth to anne boleyn there came to me suddenly in the night the most afflicting news that could have arrived. the first, to hear of the sickness of my mistress, whom i esteem more than all the world, and whose health i desire as i do my own, so that i would gladly bear half your illness to make you well. the second, from the fear that i have of being still longer harassed by my enemy, absence, much longer, who has hitherto given me all possible uneasiness, and as far as i can judge is determined to spite me more because i pray god to rid me of this troublesome tormentor. the third, because the physician in whom i have most confidence, is absent at the very time when he might do me the greatest pleasure; for i should hope, by him and his means, to obtain one of my chief joys on earth--that is the care of my mistress--yet for want of him i send you my second, and hope that he will soon make you well. i shall then love him more than ever. i beseech you to be guided by his advice in your illness. in so doing i hope soon to see you again, which will be to me a greater comfort than all the precious jewels in the world. written by that secretary, who is, and for ever will be, your loyal and most assured servant, h. (a b) r. letter tenth to anne boleyn the uneasiness my doubts about your health gave me, disturbed and alarmed me exceedingly, and i should not have had any quiet without hearing certain tidings. but now, since you have as yet felt nothing, i hope, and am assured that it will spare you, as i hope it is doing with us. for when we were at walton, two ushers, two valets de chambres and your brother, master-treasurer, fell ill, but are now quite well; and since we have returned to our house at hunsdon, we have been perfectly well, and have not, at present, one sick person, god be praised; and i think, if you would retire from surrey, as we did, you would escape all danger. there is another thing that may comfort you, which is, that, in truth in this distemper few or no women have been taken ill, and what is more, no person of our court, and few elsewhere, have died of it. for which reason i beg you, my entirely beloved, not to frighten yourself nor be too uneasy at our absence; for wherever i am, i am yours, and yet we must sometimes submit to our misfortunes, for whoever will struggle against fate is generally but so much the farther from gaining his end: wherefore comfort yourself, and take courage and avoid the pestilence as much as you can, for i hope shortly to make you sing, _la renvoyé_. no more at present, from lack of time, but that i wish you in my arms, that i might a little dispel your unreasonable thoughts. written by the hand of him who is and alway will be yours, imh. r. -mutable. letter eleventh to anne boleyn the cause of my writing at this time, good sweetheart, is only to understand of your good health and prosperity; whereof to know i would be as glad as in manner mine own, praying god that (an it be his pleasure) to send us shortly together, for i promise you i long for it. how be it, i trust it shall not be long to; and seeing my darling is absent, i can do no less than to send her some flesh, representing my name, which is hart flesh for henry, prognosticating that hereafter, god willing, you may enjoy some of mine, which he pleased, i would were now. as touching your sister's matter, i have caused walter welze to write to my lord my mind therein, whereby i trust that eve shall not have power to deceive adam; for surely, whatsoever is said, it cannot so stand with his honour but that he must needs take her, his natural daughter, now in her extreme necessity. no more to you at this time, mine own darling, but that with a wish i would we were together an evening. with the hand of yours, h. r. letter twelfth to anne boleyn since your last letters, mine own darling, walter welshe, master browne, thos. care, grion of brearton, and john coke, the apothecary, be fallen of the sweat in this house, and, thanked be god, all well recovered, so that as yet the plague is not fully ceased here, but i trust shortly it shall. by the mercy of god, the rest of us yet be well, and i trust shall pass it, either not to have it, or, at the least, as easily as the rest have done. as touching the matter of wilton, my lord cardinal hath had the nuns before him, and examined them, mr. bell being present; which hath certified me that, for a truth, she had confessed herself (which we would have had abbess) to have had two children by two sundry priests; and, further, since hath been kept by a servant of the lord broke that was, and that not long ago. wherefore i would not, for all the gold in the world, clog your conscience nor mine to make her ruler of a house which is of so ungodly demeanour; nor, i trust, you would not that neither for brother nor sister, i should so destain mine honour or conscience. and, as touching the prioress, or dame eleanor's eldest sister, though there is not any evident case proved against them, and that the prioress is so old that for many years she could not be as she was named; yet notwithstanding, to do you pleasure, i have done that neither of them shall have it, but that some other good and well-disposed woman shall have it, whereby the house shall be the better reformed (whereof i ensure you it had much need), and god much the better served. as touching your abode at hever, do therein as best shall like you, for you best know what air doth best with you; but i would it were come thereto (if it pleased god), that neither of us need care for that, for i ensure you i think it long. suche is fallen sick of the sweat, and therefore i send you this bearer, because i think you long to hear tidings from us, as we do likewise from you. written with the hand _de votre seul_, h. r. letter thirteenth to anne boleyn the approach of the time for which i have so long waited rejoices me so much, that it seems almost to have come already. however, the entire accomplishment cannot be till the two persons meet, which meeting is more desired by me than anything in this world; for what joy can be greater upon earth than to have the company of her who is dearest to me, knowing likewise that she does the same on her part, the thought of which gives me the greatest pleasure. judge what an effect the presence of that person must have on me, whose absence has grieved my heart more than either words or writing can express, and which nothing can cure, but that begging you, my mistress, to tell your father from me, that i desire him to hasten the time appointed by two days, that he may be at court before the old term, or, at farthest, on the day prefixed; for otherwise i shall think he will not do the lover's turn, as he said he would, nor answer my expectation. no more at present for lack of time, hoping shortly that by word of mouth i shall tell you the rest of the sufferings endured by me from your absence. written by the hand of the secretary, who wishes himself at this moment privately with you, and who is, and always will be, your loyal and most assured servant, h. no other a b seek r. letter fourteenth to anne boleyn _darling_, i heartily recommend me to you, ascertaining you that i am not a little perplexed with such things as your brother shall on my part declare unto you, to whom i pray you give full credence, for it were too long to write. in my last letters i writ to you that i trusted shortly to see you, which is better known at london than with any that is about me, whereof i not a little marvel; but lack of discreet handling must needs be the cause thereof. no more to you at this time, but that i trust shortly our meetings shall not depend upon other men's light handlings, but upon our own. written with the hand of him that longeth to be yours. h. r. letter fifteenth to anne boleyn _mine own sweetheart_, this shall be to advertise you of the great elengeness that i find here since your departing; for, i ensure you methinketh the time longer since your departing now last, than i was wont to do a whole fortnight. i think your kindness and my fervency of love causeth it; for, otherwise, i would not have thought it possible that for so little a while it should have grieved me. but now that i am coming towards you, methinketh my pains be half removed; and also i am right well comforted in so much that my book maketh substantially for my matter; in looking whereof i have spent above four hours this day, which causeth me now to write the shorter letter to you at this time, because of some pain in my head; wishing myself (especially an evening) in my sweetheart's arms, whose pretty dukkys i trust shortly to kiss. written by the hand of him that was, is, and shall be yours by his own will, h. r. letter sixteenth to anne boleyn _darling_, though i have scant leisure, yet, remembering my promise, i thought it convenient to certify you briefly in what case our affairs stand. as touching a lodging for you, we have got one by my lord cardinal's means, the like whereof could not have been found hereabouts for all causes, as this bearer shall more show you. as touching our other affairs, i assure you there can be no more done, nor more diligence used, nor all manner of dangers better both foreseen and provided for, so that i trust it shall be hereafter to both our comforts, the specialities whereof were both too long to be written, and hardly by messenger to be declared. wherefore, till you repair hither, i keep something in store, trusting it shall not be long to; for i have caused my lord, your father, to make his provisions with speed; and thus for lack of time, darling, i make an end of my letter, written with the hand of him which i would were yours. h. r. letter seventeenth to anne boleyn the reasonable request of your last letter, with the pleasure also that i take to know them true, causeth me to send you these news. the legate which we most desire arrived at paris on sunday or monday last past, so that i trust by the next monday to hear of his arrival at calais: and then i trust within a while after to enjoy that which i have so long longed for, to god's pleasure and our both comforts. no more to you at this present, mine own darling, for lack of time, but that i would you were in mine arms, or i in yours, for i think it long since i kissed you. written after the killing of a hart, at eleven of the clock, minding, with god's grace, to-morrow, mightily timely, to kill another, by the hand which, i trust, shortly shall be yours. henry r. letter eighteenth to anne boleyn to inform you what joy it is to me to understand of your conformableness with reason, and of the suppressing of your inutile and vain thoughts with the bridle of reason. i assure you all the good in this world could not counterpoise for my satisfaction the knowledge and certainty thereof, wherefore, good sweetheart, continue the same, not only in this, but in all your doings hereafter; for thereby shall come, both to you and me, the greatest quietness that may be in this world. the cause why the bearer stays so long, is the business i have had to dress up gear for you; and which i trust, ere long to cause you occupy: then i trust to occupy yours, which shall be recompense enough to me for all my pains and labour. the unfeigned sickness of this well-willing legate doth somewhat retard his access to your person; but i trust verily, when god shall send him health, he will with diligence recompense his demur. for i know well where he hath said (touching the saying and bruit that he is thought imperial) that it shall be well known in this matter that he is not imperial; and thus, for lack of time, sweetheart, farewell. written with the hand which fain would be yours, and so is the heart. r. h. finis notes love letters of henry viii to anne boleyn by j. o. halliwell phillips the letters of henry viii to anne boleyn, perhaps the most remarkable documents of the kind known to exist, were published at oxford in 1720 by hearne, in a volume entitled _roberti de avesbury historia de mirabilibus gestis edwardi iii_, and inserted in the third volume of the harleian miscellany, 1745. these two editions differ considerably from each other, and still more so from the transcripts here given, which are taken from the edition printed at paris by m. meon, who held a situation in the manuscript department of the bibliothèque de roi. the fifth and thirteenth, however, which are not comprehended in the vatican collection, are supplied from hearne's work. of the seventeen letters of which the series consists, eight are written in english and nine in french. they appear to have been written after anne boleyn had been sent away from court, in consequence of reports injurious to her reputation, which had begun to be publicly circulated. her removal indeed was so abrupt that she had resolved never to return. the king soon repented his harshness, and strove to persuade her to come back; but it was a long time, and not without great trouble, before he could induce her to comply. her retirement did not take place before the month of may, 1528; this is proved by a letter from fox, bishop of hereford, to gardiner, bishop of winchester, dated the 4th of may, in that year, in which the writer, who had just returned from rome, whither he had been sent to negotiate the king's divorce, gives an account of his landing at sandwich on the 2nd, of his arrival on the same night at greenwich, where the king then was, and of the order he received from him to go to the apartments of anne boleyn, which were in the tiltyard, and inform her how anxious he had been to hasten the arrival of the legate, and how much he was rejoiced by it. this letter, formerly in the collection of harley, earl of oxford, is now at rome. it must have been very soon afterwards that anne boleyn left the court. in fact, in the first letter (4 of this series) the king excuses himself for being under the necessity of parting from her. in the second (6) he complains of the dislike which she shows to return to court; but in neither of them does he allude to the pestilential disease which in that year committed such ravages in england. in the third (10), however, he does advert to it as a disorder which has prevailed for some time, and on which he makes some observations. between this letter, probably written in the month of july, and the sixth (17), in which the king speaks of the arrival of the legate in paris, and which must have been written about the end of september, there are two letters (1 and 5) certainly written within a few days of each other. in the second of these two, _viz._, the fifth of this series, the king expresses his extreme satisfaction which he has received from the lady's answer to his request. in the effusion of his gratitude, he pays a visit to his mistress, and both address a letter (8) to cardinal wolsey, in which henry manifests his astonishment at not having yet heard of the arrival of campeggio, the legate, in paris. the date of this letter may thus be fixed in the month of september. the fourth (1), apparently written in august, is the most interesting of the whole collection, inasmuch as it fixes the period of the commencement of the king's affection for anne boleyn. he complains of "having been above a whole year struck with the dart of love," and that he is not yet certain whether he shall succeed in finding a place in the heart and affections of her whom he loves. the last letter (18), which makes mention of the illness of the legate as the cause of the delay in the affair of the divorce, shows that this correspondence ended in may, 1529, at which time the court of legates was open for the final decision of that point. anne, daughter of sir thomas boleyn, subsequently created earl of wiltshire, after passing many years at the court of claude, queen of francis i of france, returned to england about the end of the year 1525, at the age of eighteen. here she was soon appointed maid of honour to queen katherine, and attracted the particular attentions of henry viii, who was then engaged in soliciting a divorce from the pope. the marked preference shown by the king for anne boleyn raised so much jealousy and slander that it was thought advisable by her family to remove the new favourite from the court; and it was during this retirement at hever, a seat of her father's in kent, that these letters were addressed to her by her royal lover. it was no doubt to render them the more agreeable that he wrote some of them in french. they breathe a fondness and an ardour which could scarcely leave room to doubt the sincerity of his love. ¶ we have reprinted mr. halliwell phillips to call attention to the change in order in this edition. a very little study of the letters themselves showed that the old order was impossible. the first six fall into a group by themselves, the 6th being the first to which we gave a nearly approximate date (july, 1527), before anne's return to court. henry's passion must date therefore from 1526. the 7th is fixed by references in other correspondence to february, 1528, and the 8th to june before she left the court. the 9th, 10th and 11th relate to the sweating sickness (end of june, order fixed by incidental references), and the 12th is after july 5th; the 13th and 14th are before her return. the reference to his book in no. 15 fixes the date as august, and no. 16 is fixed for august 20th, by wolsey's finding a lodging for anne. no. 17 is fixed for september (16th?) by campeggio's arrival at paris (september 14, 1528), and no. 18 by his illness as towards the end of october. the scheme had been partly worked out when the editor observed that mr. brewer had already arranged them in his calendar of state papers, and to him therefore this order is due. the old arrangement was 4, 6, 10, 1, 5, 17, 16, 2, 11, 3, 13, 9, 12, 7, 14, 15, 18, 8. _page_ x. _henry viii to anne boleyn._ written july, 1527. "aut illic, aut nullibi." either there, or nowhere. the signature means "h. seeks no other (heart). r." xiii. _henry viii to anne boleyn._ this letter was written in july, 1527. xvi. _henry viii to anne boleyn._ written february, 1528. "ultra posse non est esse." one can't do more than the possible. xviii. _anne boleyn to cardinal wolsey._ ms. _cott. vitellius_, b. xii. f. 4. written june 11, 1528. printed by ellis as from katherine of arragon. there is another letter from anne to wolsey, thanking him for a present. it is very similar to this, and is found in ms. _cott. otho._ c. x. f. 218 (printed in _burnet_, i, 104, and in _ellis_, original letters, vol. i). xxii. _henry viii to anne boleyn._ written june 16, 1528. xxv. _henry viii to anne boleyn._ this letter was written june 20. "it." the sweating sickness. this is the 1528 epidemic. "your brother." george boleyn, afterwards viscount rochford, executed 1536 on a charge of incest. xxviii. _henry viii to anne boleyn._ written about june 22, 1528. "welze" is the same person as "welshe" on p. xxx. xxx. _henry viii to anne boleyn._ written july 6 (?), 1528. "suche" is probably zouch. "destain." stain. xxxiv. _henry viii to anne boleyn._ written july 20, 1528. xxxvii. _henry viii to anne boleyn._ written july 21, 1528. xxxix. _henry viii to anne boleyn._ written august, 1528. "elengeness." loneliness, misery. "my book." on the unlawfulness of his marriage with katherine. xli. _henry viii to anne boleyn._ written august 20, 1528. xliii. _henry viii to anne boleyn._ written september 16, 1528. campeggio actually arrived at calais on monday, september 14. xlv. _henry viii to anne boleyn._ written at the end of october, 1528. transcriber's note: the original text contains decorative illustrations that are not represented in this text file. liber amoris, or, the new pygmalion by william hazlitt advertisement the circumstances, an outline of which is given in these pages, happened a very short time ago to a native of north britain, who left his own country early in life, in consequence of political animosities and an ill-advised connection in marriage. it was some years after that he formed the fatal attachment which is the subject of the following narrative. the whole was transcribed very carefully with his own hand, a little before he set out for the continent in hopes of benefiting by a change of scene, but he died soon after in the netherlands--it is supposed, of disappointment preying on a sickly frame and morbid state of mind. it was his wish that what had been his strongest feeling while living, should be preserved in this shape when he was no more.--it has been suggested to the friend, into whose hands the manuscript was entrusted, that many things (particularly in the conversations in the first part) either childish or redundant, might have been omitted; but a promise was given that not a word should be altered, and the pledge was held sacred. the names and circumstances are so far disguised, it is presumed, as to prevent any consequences resulting from the publication, farther than the amusement or sympathy of the reader. contents part i the picture the invitation the message the flageolet the confession the quarrel the reconciliation letters to the same to the same written in a blank leaf of endymion a proposal of love part ii letters to c. p.----, esq. letter ii letter iii letter iv letter v letter vi letter vii letter viii to edinburgh a thought another another letter ix letter x letter xi to s. l. letter xii. unaltered love perfect love from c. p., esq. letter xiii letter the last part iii addressed to j. s. k.---to the same (in continuation) to the same (in conclusion) part i the picture h. oh! is it you? i had something to shew you--i have got a picture here. do you know any one it's like? s. no, sir. h. don't you think it like yourself? s. no: it's much handsomer than i can pretend to be. h. that's because you don't see yourself with the same eyes that others do. i don't think it handsomer, and the expression is hardly so fine as yours sometimes is. s. now you flatter me. besides, the complexion is fair, and mine is dark. h. thine is pale and beautiful, my love, not dark! but if your colour were a little heightened, and you wore the same dress, and your hair were let down over your shoulders, as it is here, it might be taken for a picture of you. look here, only see how like it is. the forehead is like, with that little obstinate protrusion in the middle; the eyebrows are like, and the eyes are just like yours, when you look up and say--"no--never!" s. what then, do i always say--"no--never!" when i look up? h. i don't know about that--i never heard you say so but once; but that was once too often for my peace. it was when you told me, "you could never be mine." ah! if you are never to be mine, i shall not long be myself. i cannot go on as i am. my faculties leave me: i think of nothing, i have no feeling about any thing but thee: thy sweet image has taken possession of me, haunts me, and will drive me to distraction. yet i could almost wish to go mad for thy sake: for then i might fancy that i had thy love in return, which i cannot live without! s. do not, i beg, talk in that manner, but tell me what this is a picture of. h. i hardly know; but it is a very small and delicate copy (painted in oil on a gold ground) of some fine old italian picture, guido's or raphael's, but i think raphael's. some say it is a madonna; others call it a magdalen, and say you may distinguish the tear upon the cheek, though no tear is there. but it seems to me more like raphael's st. cecilia, "with looks commercing with the skies," than anything else.--see, sarah, how beautiful it is! ah! dear girl, these are the ideas i have cherished in my heart, and in my brain; and i never found any thing to realise them on earth till i met with thee, my love! while thou didst seem sensible of my kindness, i was but too happy: but now thou hast cruelly cast me off. s. you have no reason to say so: you are the same to me as ever. h. that is, nothing. you are to me everything, and i am nothing to you. is it not too true? s. no. h. then kiss me, my sweetest. oh! could you see your face now--your mouth full of suppressed sensibility, your downcast eyes, the soft blush upon that cheek, you would not say the picture is not like because it is too handsome, or because you want complexion. thou art heavenly-fair, my love--like her from whom the picture was taken--the idol of the painter's heart, as thou art of mine! shall i make a drawing of it, altering the dress a little, to shew you how like it is? s. as you please.-the invitation h. but i am afraid i tire you with this prosing description of the french character and abuse of the english? you know there is but one subject on which i should ever wish to talk, if you would let me. s. i must say, you don't seem to have a very high opinion of this country. h. yes, it is the place that gave you birth. s. do you like the french women better than the english? h. no: though they have finer eyes, talk better, and are better made. but they none of them look like you. i like the italian women i have seen, much better than the french: they have darker eyes, darker hair, and the accents of their native tongue are much richer and more melodious. but i will give you a better account of them when i come back from italy, if you would like to hear it. s. i should much. it is for that i have sometimes had a wish for travelling abroad, to understand something of the manners and characters of different people. h. my sweet girl! i will give you the best account i can--unless you would rather go and judge for yourself. s. i cannot. h. yes, you shall go with me, and you shall go with honour--you know what i mean. s. you know it is not in your power to take me so. h. but it soon may: and if you would consent to bear me company, i would swear never to think of an italian woman while i am abroad, nor of an english one after i return home. thou art to me more than thy whole sex. s. i require no such sacrifices. h. is that what you thought i meant by sacrifices last night? but sacrifices are no sacrifices when they are repaid a thousand fold. s. i have no way of doing it. h. you have not the will.-s. i must go now. h. stay, and hear me a little. i shall soon be where i can no more hear thy voice, far distant from her i love, to see what change of climate and bright skies will do for a sad heart. i shall perhaps see thee no more, but i shall still think of thee the same as ever--i shall say to myself, "where is she now?--what is she doing?" but i shall hardly wish you to think of me, unless you could do so more favourably than i am afraid you will. ah! dearest creature, i shall be "far distant from you," as you once said of another, but you will not think of me as of him, "with the sincerest affection." the smallest share of thy tenderness would make me blest; but couldst thou ever love me as thou didst him, i should feel like a god! my face would change to a different expression: my whole form would undergo alteration. i was getting well, i was growing young in the sweet proofs of your friendship: you see how i droop and wither under your displeasure! thou art divine, my love, and canst make me either more or less than mortal. indeed i am thy creature, thy slave--i only wish to live for your sake--i would gladly die for you-s. that would give me no pleasure. but indeed you greatly overrate my power. h. your power over me is that of sovereign grace and beauty. when i am near thee, nothing can harm me. thou art an angel of light, shadowing me with thy softness. but when i let go thy hand, i stagger on a precipice: out of thy sight the world is dark to me and comfortless. there is no breathing out of this house: the air of italy will stifle me. go with me and lighten it. i can know no pleasure away from thee-"but i will come again, my love, an' it were ten thousand mile!" the message s. mrs. e---has called for the book, sir. h. oh! it is there. let her wait a minute or two. i see this is a busy-day with you. how beautiful your arms look in those short sleeves! s. i do not like to wear them. h. then that is because you are merciful, and would spare frail mortals who might die with gazing. s. i have no power to kill. h. you have, you have--your charms are irresistible as your will is inexorable. i wish i could see you always thus. but i would have no one else see you so. i am jealous of all eyes but my own. i should almost like you to wear a veil, and to be muffled up from head to foot; but even if you were, and not a glimpse of you could be seen, it would be to no purpose--you would only have to move, and you would be admired as the most graceful creature in the world. you smile--well, if you were to be won by fine speeches-s. you could supply them! h. it is however no laughing matter with me; thy beauty kills me daily, and i shall think of nothing but thy charms, till the last word trembles on my tongue, and that will be thy name, my love--the name of my infelice! you will live by that name, you rogue, fifty years after you are dead. don't you thank me for that? s. i have no such ambition, sir. but mrs. e---is waiting. h. she is not in love, like me. you look so handsome to-day, i cannot let you go. you have got a colour. s. but you say i look best when i am pale. h. when you are pale, i think so; but when you have a colour, i then think you still more beautiful. it is you that i admire; and whatever you are, i like best. i like you as miss l----, i should like you still more as mrs. ----. i once thought you were half inclined to be a prude, and i admired you as a "pensive nun, devout and pure." i now think you are more than half a coquet, and i like you for your roguery. the truth is, i am in love with you, my angel; and whatever you are, is to me the perfection of thy sex. i care not what thou art, while thou art still thyself. smile but so, and turn my heart to what shape you please! s. i am afraid, sir, mrs. e---will think you have forgotten her. h. i had, my charmer. but go, and make her a sweet apology, all graceful as thou art. one kiss! ah! ought i not to think myself the happiest of men? the flageolet h. where have you been, my love? s. i have been down to see my aunt, sir. h. and i hope she has been giving you good advice. s. i did not go to ask her opinion about any thing. h. and yet you seem anxious and agitated. you appear pale and dejected, as if your refusal of me had touched your own breast with pity. cruel girl! you look at this moment heavenly-soft, saint-like, or resemble some graceful marble statue, in the moon's pale ray! sadness only heightens the elegance of your features. how can i escape from you, when every new occasion, even your cruelty and scorn, brings out some new charm. nay, your rejection of me, by the way in which you do it, is only a new link added to my chain. raise those downcast eyes, bend as if an angel stooped, and kiss me. . . . ah! enchanting little trembler! if such is thy sweetness where thou dost not love, what must thy love have been? i cannot think how any man, having the heart of one, could go and leave it. s. no one did, that i know of. h. yes, you told me yourself he left you (though he liked you, and though he knew--oh! gracious god! that you loved him) he left you because "the pride of birth would not permit a union."--for myself, i would leave a throne to ascend to the heaven of thy charms. i live but for thee, here--i only wish to live again to pass all eternity with thee. but even in another world, i suppose you would turn from me to seek him out who scorned you here. s. if the proud scorn us here, in that place we shall all be equal. h. do not look so--do not talk so--unless you would drive me mad. i could worship you at this moment. can i witness such perfection, and bear to think i have lost you for ever? oh! let me hope! you see you can mould me as you like. you can lead me by the hand, like a little child; and with you my way would be like a little child's:--you could strew flowers in my path, and pour new life and hope into me. i should then indeed hail the return of spring with joy, could i indulge the faintest hope--would you but let me try to please you! s. nothing can alter my resolution, sir. h. will you go and leave me so? s. it is late, and my father will be getting impatient at my stopping so long. h. you know he has nothing to fear for you--it is poor i that am alone in danger. but i wanted to ask about buying you a flageolet. could i see that which you have? if it is a pretty one, it would hardly be worth while; but if it isn't, i thought of bespeaking an ivory one for you. can't you bring up your own to shew me? s. not to-night, sir. h. i wish you could. s. i cannot--but i will in the morning. h. whatever you determine, i must submit to. good night, and bless thee! [the next morning, s. brought up the tea-kettle as usual; and looking towards the tea-tray, she said, "oh! i see my sister has forgot the tea-pot." it was not there, sure enough; and tripping down stairs, she came up in a minute, with the tea-pot in one hand, and the flageolet in the other, balanced so sweetly and gracefully. it would have been awkward to have brought up the flageolet in the tea-tray and she could not have well gone down again on purpose to fetch it. something, therefore, was to be omitted as an excuse. exquisite witch! but do i love her the less dearly for it? i cannot.] the confession h. you say you cannot love. is there not a prior attachment in the case? was there any one else that you did like? s. yes, there was another. h. ah! i thought as much. is it long ago then? s. it is two years, sir. h. and has time made no alteration? or do you still see him sometimes? s. no, sir! but he is one to whom i feel the sincerest affection, and ever shall, though he is far distant. h. and did he return your regard? s. i had every reason to think so. h. what then broke off your intimacy? s. it was the pride of birth, sir, that would not permit him to think of a union. h. was he a young man of rank, then? s. his connections were high. h. and did he never attempt to persuade you to any other step? s. no--he had too great a regard for me. h. tell me, my angel, how was it? was he so very handsome? or was it the fineness of his manners? s. it was more his manner: but i can't tell how it was. it was chiefly my own fault. i was foolish to suppose he could ever think seriously of me. but he used to make me read with him--and i used to be with him a good deal, though not much neither--and i found my affections entangled before i was aware of it. h. and did your mother and family know of it? s. no--i have never told any one but you; nor i should not have mentioned it now, but i thought it might give you some satisfaction. h. why did he go at last? s. we thought it better to part. h. and do you correspond? s. no, sir. but perhaps i may see him again some time or other, though it will be only in the way of friendship. h. my god! what a heart is thine, to live for years upon that bare hope! s. i did not wish to live always, sir--i wished to die for a long time after, till i thought it not right; and since then i have endeavoured to be as resigned as i can. h. and do you think the impression will never wear out? s. not if i can judge from my feelings hitherto. it is now sometime since,--and i find no difference. h. may god for ever bless you! how can i thank you for your condescension in letting me know your sweet sentiments? you have changed my esteem into adoration.--never can i harbour a thought of ill in thee again. s. indeed, sir, i wish for your good opinion and your friendship. h. and can you return them? s. yes. h. and nothing more? s. no, sir. h. you are an angel, and i will spend my life, if you will let me, in paying you the homage that my heart feels towards you. the quarrel h. you are angry with me? s. have i not reason? h. i hope you have; for i would give the world to believe my suspicions unjust. but, oh! my god! after what i have thought of you and felt towards you, as little less than an angel, to have but a doubt cross my mind for an instant that you were what i dare not name--a common lodging-house decoy, a kissing convenience, that your lips were as common as the stairs-s. let me go, sir! h. nay--prove to me that you are not so, and i will fall down and worship you. you were the only creature that ever seemed to love me; and to have my hopes, and all my fondness for you, thus turned to a mockery--it is too much! tell me why you have deceived me, and singled me out as your victim? s. i never have, sir. i always said i could not love. h. there is a difference between love and making me a laughing-stock. yet what else could be the meaning of your little sister's running out to you, and saying "he thought i did not see him!" when i had followed you into the other room? is it a joke upon me that i make free with you? or is not the joke against her sister, unless you make my courtship of you a jest to the whole house? indeed i do not well see how you can come and stay with me as you do, by the hour together, and day after day, as openly as you do, unless you give it some such turn with your family. or do you deceive them as well as me? s. i deceive no one, sir. but my sister betsey was always watching and listening when mr. m---was courting my eldest sister, till he was obliged to complain of it. h. that i can understand, but not the other. you may remember, when your servant maria looked in and found you sitting in my lap one day, and i was afraid she might tell your mother, you said "you did not care, for you had no secrets from your mother." this seemed to me odd at the time, but i thought no more of it, till other things brought it to my mind. am i to suppose, then, that you are acting a part, a vile part, all this time, and that you come up here, and stay as long as i like, that you sit on my knee and put your arms round my neck, and feed me with kisses, and let me take other liberties with you, and that for a year together; and that you do all this not out of love, or liking, or regard, but go through your regular task, like some young witch, without one natural feeling, to shew your cleverness, and get a few presents out of me, and go down into the kitchen to make a fine laugh of it? there is something monstrous in it, that i cannot believe of you. s. sir, you have no right to harass my feelings in the manner you do. i have never made a jest of you to anyone, but always felt and expressed the greatest esteem for you. you have no ground for complaint in my conduct; and i cannot help what betsey or others do. i have always been consistent from the first. i told you my regard could amount to no more than friendship. h. nay, sarah, it was more than half a year before i knew that there was an insurmountable obstacle in the way. you say your regard is merely friendship, and that you are sorry i have ever felt anything more for you. yet the first time i ever asked you, you let me kiss you; the first time i ever saw you, as you went out of the room, you turned full round at the door, with that inimitable grace with which you do everything, and fixed your eyes full upon me, as much as to say, "is he caught?"--that very week you sat upon my knee, twined your arms round me, caressed me with every mark of tenderness consistent with modesty; and i have not got much farther since. now if you did all this with me, a perfect stranger to you, and without any particular liking to me, must i not conclude you do so as a matter of course with everyone?--or, if you do not do so with others, it was because you took a liking to me for some reason or other. s. it was gratitude, sir, for different obligations. h. if you mean by obligations the presents i made you, i had given you none the first day i came. you do not consider yourself obliged to everyone who asks you for a kiss? s. no, sir. h. i should not have thought anything of it in anyone but you. but you seemed so reserved and modest, so soft, so timid, you spoke so low, you looked so innocent--i thought it impossible you could deceive me. whatever favors you granted must proceed from pure regard. no betrothed virgin ever gave the object of her choice kisses, caresses more modest or more bewitching than those you have given me a thousand and a thousand times. could i have thought i should ever live to believe them an inhuman mockery of one who had the sincerest regard for you? do you think they will not now turn to rank poison in my veins, and kill me, soul and body? you say it is friendship--but if this is friendship, i'll forswear love. ah! sarah! it must be something more or less than friendship. if your caresses are sincere, they shew fondness--if they are not, i must be more than indifferent to you. indeed you once let some words drop, as if i were out of the question in such matters, and you could trifle with me with impunity. yet you complain at other times that no one ever took such liberties with you as i have done. i remember once in particular your saying, as you went out at the door in anger--"i had an attachment before, but that person never attempted anything of the kind." good god! how did i dwell on that word before, thinking it implied an attachment to me also; but you have since disclaimed any such meaning. you say you have never professed more than esteem. yet once, when you were sitting in your old place, on my knee, embracing and fondly embraced, and i asked you if you could not love, you made answer, "i could easily say so, whether i did or not--you should judge by my actions!" and another time, when you were in the same posture, and i reproached you with indifference, you replied in these words, "do i seem indifferent?" was i to blame after this to indulge my passion for the loveliest of her sex? or what can i think? s. i am no prude, sir. h. yet you might be taken for one. so your mother said, "it was hard if you might not indulge in a little levity." she has strange notions of levity. but levity, my dear, is quite out of character in you. your ordinary walk is as if you were performing some religious ceremony: you come up to my table of a morning, when you merely bring in the tea-things, as if you were advancing to the altar. you move in minuet-time: you measure every step, as if you were afraid of offending in the smallest things. i never hear your approach on the stairs, but by a sort of hushed silence. when you enter the room, the graces wait on you, and love waves round your person in gentle undulations, breathing balm into the soul! by heaven, you are an angel! you look like one at this instant! do i not adore you--and have i merited this return? s. i have repeatedly answered that question. you sit and fancy things out of your own head, and then lay them to my charge. there is not a word of truth in your suspicions. h. did i not overhear the conversation down-stairs last night, to which you were a party? shall i repeat it? s. i had rather not hear it! h. or what am i to think of this story of the footman? s. it is false, sir, i never did anything of the sort. h. nay, when i told your mother i wished she wouldn't * * * * * * * * * (as i heard she did) she said "oh, there's nothing in that, for sarah very often * * * * * *," and your doing so before company, is only a trifling addition to the sport. s. i'll call my mother, sir, and she shall contradict you. h. then she'll contradict herself. but did not you boast you were "very persevering in your resistance to gay young men," and had been "several times obliged to ring the bell?" did you always ring it? or did you get into these dilemmas that made it necessary, merely by the demureness of your looks and ways? or had nothing else passed? or have you two characters, one that you palm off upon me, and another, your natural one, that you resume when you get out of the room, like an actress who throws aside her artificial part behind the scenes? did you not, when i was courting you on the staircase the first night mr. c---came, beg me to desist, for if the new lodger heard us, he'd take you for a light character? was that all? were you only afraid of being taken for a light character? oh! sarah! s. i'll stay and hear this no longer. h. yes, one word more. did you not love another? s. yes, and ever shall most sincerely. h. then, that is my only hope. if you could feel this sentiment for him, you cannot be what you seem to me of late. but there is another thing i had to say--be what you will, i love you to distraction! you are the only woman that ever made me think she loved me, and that feeling was so new to me, and so delicious, that it "will never from my heart." thou wert to me a little tender flower, blooming in the wilderness of my life; and though thou should'st turn out a weed, i'll not fling thee from me, while i can help it. wert thou all that i dread to think--wert thou a wretched wanderer in the street, covered with rags, disease, and infamy, i'd clasp thee to my bosom, and live and die with thee, my love. kiss me, thou little sorceress! s. never. h. then go: but remember i cannot live without you--nor i will not. the reconciliation h. i have then lost your friendship? s. nothing tends more to alienate friendship than insult. h. the words i uttered hurt me more than they did you. s. it was not words merely, but actions as well. h. nothing i can say or do can ever alter my fondness for you--ah, sarah! i am unworthy of your love: i hardly dare ask for your pity; but oh! save me--save me from your scorn: i cannot bear it--it withers me like lightning. s. i bear no malice, sir; but my brother, who would scorn to tell a lie for his sister, can bear witness for me that there was no truth in what you were told. h. i believe it; or there is no truth in woman. it is enough for me to know that you do not return my regard; it would be too much for me to think that you did not deserve it. but cannot you forgive the agony of the moment? s. i can forgive; but it is not easy to forget some things! h. nay, my sweet sarah (frown if you will, i can bear your resentment for my ill behaviour, it is only your scorn and indifference that harrow up my soul)--but i was going to ask, if you had been engaged to be married to any one, and the day was fixed, and he had heard what i did, whether he could have felt any true regard for the character of his bride, his wife, if he had not been hurt and alarmed as i was? s. i believe, actual contracts of marriage have sometimes been broken off by unjust suspicions. h. or had it been your old friend, what do you think he would have said in my case? s. he would never have listened to anything of the sort. h. he had greater reasons for confidence than i have. but it is your repeated cruel rejection of me that drives me almost to madness. tell me, love, is there not, besides your attachment to him, a repugnance to me? s. no, none whatever. h. i fear there is an original dislike, which no efforts of mine can overcome. s. it is not you--it is my feelings with respect to another, which are unalterable. h. and yet you have no hope of ever being his? and yet you accuse me of being romantic in my sentiments. s. i have indeed long ceased to hope; but yet i sometimes hope against hope. h. my love! were it in my power, thy hopes should be fulfilled to-morrow. next to my own, there is nothing that could give me so much satisfaction as to see thine realized! do i not love thee, when i can feel such an interest in thy love for another? it was that which first wedded my very soul to you. i would give worlds for a share in a heart so rich in pure affection! s. and yet i did not tell you of the circumstance to raise myself in your opinion. h. you are a sublime little thing! and yet, as you have no prospects there, i cannot help thinking, the best thing would be to do as i have said. s. i would never marry a man i did not love beyond all the world. h. i should be satisfied with less than that--with the love, or regard, or whatever you call it, you have shown me before marriage, if that has only been sincere. you would hardly like me less afterwards. s. endearments would, i should think, increase regard, where there was love beforehand; but that is not exactly my case. h. but i think you would be happier than you are at present. you take pleasure in my conversation, and you say you have an esteem for me; and it is upon this, after the honeymoon, that marriage chiefly turns. s. do you think there is no pleasure in a single life? h. do you mean on account of its liberty? s. no, but i feel that forced duty is no duty. i have high ideas of the married state! h. higher than of the maiden state? s. i understand you, sir. h. i meant nothing; but you have sometimes spoken of any serious attachment as a tie upon you. it is not that you prefer flirting with "gay young men" to becoming a mere dull domestic wife? s. you have no right to throw out such insinuations: for though i am but a tradesman's daughter, i have as nice a sense of honour as anyone can have. h. talk of a tradesman's daughter! you would ennoble any family, thou glorious girl, by true nobility of mind. s. oh! sir, you flatter me. i know my own inferiority to most. h. to none; there is no one above thee, man nor woman either. you are above your situation, which is not fit for you. s. i am contented with my lot, and do my duty as cheerfully as i can. h. have you not told me your spirits grow worse every year? s. not on that account: but some disappointments are hard to bear up against. h. if you talk about that, you'll unman me. but tell me, my love,--i have thought of it as something that might account for some circumstances; that is, as a mere possibility. but tell me, there was not a likeness between me and your old lover that struck you at first sight? was there? s. no, sir, none. h. well, i didn't think it likely there should. s. but there was a likeness. h. to whom? s. to that little image! (looking intently on a small bronze figure of buonaparte on the mantelpiece). h. what, do you mean to buonaparte? s. yes, all but the nose was just like. h. and was his figure the same? s. he was taller! [i got up and gave her the image, and told her it was hers by every right that was sacred. she refused at first to take so valuable a curiosity, and said she would keep it for me. but i pressed it eagerly, and she look it. she immediately came and sat down, and put her arm round my neck, and kissed me, and i said, "is it not plain we are the best friends in the world, since we are always so glad to make it up?" and then i added "how odd it was that the god of my idolatry should turn out to be like her idol, and said it was no wonder that the same face which awed the world should conquer the sweetest creature in it!" how i loved her at that moment! is it possible that the wretch who writes this could ever have been so blest! heavenly delicious creature! can i live without her? oh! no--never--never. "what is this world? what asken men to have, now with his love, now in the cold grave, alone, withouten any compagnie!" let me but see her again! she cannot hate the man who loves her as i do.] letters to the same feb., 1822. --you will scold me for this, and ask me if this is keeping my promise to mind my work. one half of it was to think of sarah: and besides, i do not neglect my work either, i assure you. i regularly do ten pages a day, which mounts up to thirty guineas' worth a week, so that you see i should grow rich at this rate, if i could keep on so; and i could keep on so, if i had you with me to encourage me with your sweet smiles, and share my lot. the berwick smacks sail twice a week, and the wind sits fair. when i think of the thousand endearing caresses that have passed between us, i do not wonder at the strong attachment that draws me to you; but i am sorry for my own want of power to please. i hear the wind sigh through the lattice, and keep repeating over and over to myself two lines of lord byron's tragedy-"so shalt thou find me ever at thy side here and hereafter, if the last may be."-applying them to thee, my love, and thinking whether i shall ever see thee again. perhaps not--for some years at least--till both thou and i are old--and then, when all else have forsaken thee, i will creep to thee, and die in thine arms. you once made me believe i was not hated by her i loved; and for that sensation, so delicious was it, though but a mockery and a dream, i owe you more than i can ever pay. i thought to have dried up my tears for ever, the day i left you; but as i write this, they stream again. if they did not, i think my heart would burst. i walk out here of an afternoon, and hear the notes of the thrush, that come up from a sheltered valley below, welcome in the spring; but they do not melt my heart as they used: it is grown cold and dead. as you say, it will one day be colder.--forgive what i have written above; i did not intend it: but you were once my little all, and i cannot bear the thought of having lost you for ever, i fear through my own fault. has any one called? do not send any letters that come. i should like you and your mother (if agreeable) to go and see mr. kean in othello, and miss stephens in love in a village. if you will, i will write to mr. t----, to send you tickets. has mr. p---called? i think i must send to him for the picture to kiss and talk to. kiss me, my best beloved. ah! if you can never be mine, still let me be your proud and happy slave. h. to the same march, 1822. --you will be glad to learn i have done my work--a volume in less than a month. this is one reason why i am better than when i came, and another is, i have had two letters from sarah. i am pleased i have got through this job, as i was afraid i might lose reputation by it (which i can little afford to lose)--and besides, i am more anxious to do well now, as i wish you to hear me well spoken of. i walk out of an afternoon, and hear the birds sing as i told you, and think, if i had you hanging on my arm, and that for life, how happy i should be--happier than i ever hoped to be, or had any conception of till i knew you. "but that can never be"--i hear you answer in a soft, low murmur. well, let me dream of it sometimes--i am not happy too often, except when that favourite note, the harbinger of spring, recalling the hopes of my youth, whispers thy name and peace together in my ear. i was reading something about mr. macready to-day, and this put me in mind of that delicious night, when i went with your mother and you to see romeo and juliet. can i forget it for a moment--your sweet modest looks, your infinite propriety of behaviour, all your sweet winning ways--your hesitating about taking my arm as we came out till your mother did--your laughing about nearly losing your cloak--your stepping into the coach without my being able to make the slightest discovery--and oh! my sitting down beside you there, you whom i had loved so long, so well, and your assuring me i had not lessened your pleasure at the play by being with you, and giving me your dear hand to press in mine! i thought i was in heaven--that slender exquisitely-turned form contained my all of heaven upon earth; and as i folded you--yes, you, my own best sarah, to my bosom, there was, as you say, a tie between us--you did seem to me, for those few short moments, to be mine in all truth and honour and sacredness--oh! that we could be always so--do not mock me, for i am a very child in love. i ought to beg pardon for behaving so ill afterwards, but i hope the little image made it up between us, &c. [to this letter i have received no answer, not a line. the rolling years of eternity will never fill up that blank. where shall i be? what am i? or where have i been?] written in a blank leaf of endymion i want a hand to guide me, an eye to cheer me, a bosom to repose on; all which i shall never have, but shall stagger into my grave, old before my time, unloved and unlovely, unless s. l. keeps her faith with me. * * * * * * * * * * * --but by her dove's eyes and serpent-shape, i think she does not hate me; by her smooth forehead and her crested hair, i own i love her; by her soft looks and queen-like grace (which men might fall down and worship) i swear to live and die for her! a proposal of love (given to her in our early acquaintance) "oh! if i thought it could be in a woman (as, if it can, i will presume in you) to feed for aye her lamp and flames of love, to keep her constancy in plight and youth, outliving beauties outward with a mind that doth renew swifter than blood decays: or that persuasion could but thus convince me, that my integrity and truth to you might be confronted with the match and weight of such a winnowed purity in love- how were i then uplifted! but, alas, i am as true as truth's simplicity, and simpler than the infancy of truth." troilus and cressida. part ii letters to c. p----, esq. bees-inn. my good friend, here i am in scotland (and shall have been here three weeks, next monday) as i may say, on my probation. this is a lone inn, but on a great scale, thirty miles from edinburgh. it is situated on a rising ground (a mark for all the winds, which blow here incessantly)--there is a woody hill opposite, with a winding valley below, and the london road stretches out on either side. you may guess which way i oftenest walk. i have written two letters to s. l. and got one cold, prudish answer, beginning sir, and ending from yours truly, with best respects from herself and relations. i was going to give in, but have returned an answer, which i think is a touch-stone. i send it you on the other side to keep as a curiosity, in case she kills me by her exquisite rejoinder. i am convinced from the profound contemplations i have had on the subject here and coming along, that i am on a wrong scent. we had a famous parting-scene, a complete quarrel and then a reconciliation, in which she did beguile me of my tears, but the deuce a one did she shed. what do you think? she cajoled me out of my little buonaparte as cleverly as possible, in manner and form following. she was shy the saturday and sunday (the day of my departure) so i got in dudgeon, and began to rip up grievances. i asked her how she came to admit me to such extreme familiarities, the first week i entered the house. "if she had no particular regard for me, she must do so (or more) with everyone: if she had a liking to me from the first, why refuse me with scorn and wilfulness?" if you had seen how she flounced, and looked, and went to the door, saying "she was obliged to me for letting her know the opinion i had always entertained of her"--then i said, "sarah!" and she came back and took my hand, and fixed her eyes on the mantelpiece--(she must have been invoking her idol then--if i thought so, i could devour her, the darling--but i doubt her)--so i said "there is one thing that has occurred to me sometimes as possible, to account for your conduct to me at first--there wasn't a likeness, was there, to your old friend?" she answered "no, none--but there was a likeness!" i asked, to what? she said "to that little image!" i said, "do you mean buonaparte?"--she said "yes, all but the nose."--"and the figure?"--"he was taller."--i could not stand this. so i got up and took it, and gave it her, and after some reluctance, she consented to "keep it for me." what will you bet me that it wasn't all a trick? i'll tell you why i suspect it, besides being fairly out of my wits about her. i had told her mother half an hour before, that i should take this image and leave it at mrs. b.'s, for that i didn't wish to leave anything behind me that must bring me back again. then up she comes and starts a likeness to her lover: she knew i should give it her on the spot--"no, she would keep it for me!" so i must come back for it. whether art or nature, it is sublime. i told her i should write and tell you so, and that i parted from her, confiding, adoring!--she is beyond me, that's certain. do go and see her, and desire her not to give my present address to a single soul, and learn if the lodging is let, and to whom. my letter to her is as follows. if she shews the least remorse at it, i'll be hanged, though it might move a stone, i modestly think. (see before, part i. first letter.) n.b.--i have begun a book of our conversations (i mean mine and the statue's) which i call liber amoris. i was detained at stamford and found myself dull, and could hit upon no other way of employing my time so agreeably. letter ii dear p----, here, without loss of time, in order that i may have your opinion upon it, is little yes and no's answer to my last. "sir, i should not have disregarded your injunction not to send you any more letters that might come to you, had i not promised the gentleman who left the enclosed to forward it the earliest opportunity, as he said it was of consequence. mr. p---called the day after you left town. my mother and myself are much obliged by your kind offer of tickets to the play, but must decline accepting it. my family send their best respects, in which they are joined by yours, truly, s. l. the deuce a bit more is there of it. if you can make anything out of it (or any body else) i'll be hanged. you are to understand, this comes in a frank, the second i have received from her, with a name i can't make out, and she won't tell me, though i asked her, where she got franks, as also whether the lodgings were let, to neither of which a word of answer. * * * * is the name on the frank: see if you can decypher it by a red-book. i suspect her grievously of being an arrant jilt, to say no more--yet i love her dearly. do you know i'm going to write to that sweet rogue presently, having a whole evening to myself in advance of my work? now mark, before you set about your exposition of the new apocalypse of the new calypso, the only thing to be endured in the above letter is the date. it was written the very day after she received mine. by this she seems willing to lose no time in receiving these letters "of such sweet breath composed." if i thought so--but i wait for your reply. after all, what is there in her but a pretty figure, and that you can't get a word out of her? hers is the fabian method of making love and conquests. what do you suppose she said the night before i left her? "h. could you not come and live with me as a friend? "s. i don't know: and yet it would be of no use if i did, you would always be hankering after what could never be!" i asked her if she would do so at once--the very next day? and what do you guess was her answer--"do you think it would be prudent?" as i didn't proceed to extremities on the spot, she began to look grave, and declare off. "would she live with me in her own house--to be with me all day as dear friends, if nothing more, to sit and read and talk with me?"--"she would make no promises, but i should find her the same."--"would she go to the play with me sometimes, and let it be understood that i was paying my addresses to her?"--"she could not, as a habit--her father was rather strict, and would object."--now what am i to think of all this? am i mad or a fool? answer me to that, master brook! you are a philosopher. letter iii dear friend, i ought to have written to you before; but since i received your letter, i have been in a sort of purgatory, and what is worse, i see no prospect of getting out of it. i would put an end to my torments at once; but i am as great a coward as i have been a dupe. do you know i have not had a word of answer from her since! what can be the reason? is she offended at my letting you know she wrote to me, or is it some new affair? i wrote to her in the tenderest, most respectful manner, poured my soul at her feet, and this is the return she makes me! can you account for it, except on the admission of my worst doubts concerning her? oh god! can i bear after all to think of her so, or that i am scorned and made a sport of by the creature to whom i had given my whole heart? thus has it been with me all my life; and so will it be to the end of it!--if you should learn anything, good or bad, tell me, i conjure you: i can bear anything but this cruel suspense. if i knew she was a mere abandoned creature, i should try to forget her; but till i do know this, nothing can tear me from her, i have drank in poison from her lips too long--alas! mine do not poison again. i sit and indulge my grief by the hour together; my weakness grows upon me; and i have no hope left, unless i could lose my senses quite. do you know i think i should like this? to forget, ah! to forget--there would be something in that--to change to an idiot for some few years, and then to wake up a poor wretched old man, to recollect my misery as past, and die! yet, oh! with her, only a little while ago, i had different hopes, forfeited for nothing that i know of! * * * * * * if you can give me any consolation on the subject of my tormentor, pray do. the pain i suffer wears me out daily. i write this on the supposition that mrs. ---may still come here, and that i may be detained some weeks longer. direct to me at the post-office; and if i return to town directly as i fear, i will leave word for them to forward the letter to me in london--not at my old lodgings. i will not go back there: yet how can i breathe away from her? her hatred of me must be great, since my love of her could not overcome it! i have finished the book of my conversations with her, which i told you of: if i am not mistaken, you will think it very nice reading. yours ever. have you read sardanapalus? how like the little greek slave, myrrha, is to her! letter iv (written in the winter) my good friend, i received your letter this morning, and i kiss the rod not only with submission, but gratitude. your reproofs of me and your defences of her are the only things that save my soul from perdition. she is my heart's idol; and believe me those words of yours applied to the dear saint--"to lip a chaste one and suppose her wanton"--were balm and rapture to me. i have lipped her, god knows how often, and oh! is it even possible that she is chaste, and that she has bestowed her loved "endearments" on me (her own sweet word) out of true regard? that thought, out of the lowest depths of despair, would at any time make me strike my forehead against the stars. could i but think the love "honest," i am proof against all hazards. she by her silence makes my dark hour; and you by your encouragements dissipate it for twenty-four hours. another thing has brought me to life. mrs. ---is actually on her way here about the divorce. should this unpleasant business (which has been so long talked of) succeed, and i should become free, do you think s. l. will agree to change her name to ----? if she will, she shall; and to call her so to you, or to hear her called so by others, would be music to my ears, such as they never drank in. do you think if she knew how i love her, my depressions and my altitudes, my wanderings and my constancy, it would not move her? she knows it all; and if she is not an incorrigible, she loves me, or regards me with a feeling next to love. i don't believe that any woman was ever courted more passionately than she has been by me. as rousseau said of madame d'houptot (forgive the allusion) my heart has found a tongue in speaking to her, and i have talked to her the divine language of love. yet she says, she is insensible to it. am i to believe her or you? you--for i wish it and wish it to madness, now that i am like to be free, and to have it in my power to say to her without a possibility of suspicion, "sarah, will you be mine?" when i sometimes think of the time i first saw the sweet apparition, august 16, 1820, and that possibly she may be my bride before that day two years, it makes me dizzy with incredible joy and love of her. write soon. letter v my dear friend, i read your answer this morning with gratitude. i have felt somewhat easier since. it shewed your interest in my vexations, and also that you know nothing worse than i do. i cannot describe the weakness of mind to which she has reduced me. this state of suspense is like hanging in the air by a single thread that exhausts all your strength to keep hold of it; and yet if that fails you, you have nothing in the world else left to trust to. i am come back to edinburgh about this cursed business, and mrs. ---is coming from montrose next week. how it will end, i can't say; and don't care, except as it regards the other affair. i should, i confess, like to have it in my power to make her the offer direct and unequivocal, to see how she'd receive it. it would be worth something at any rate to see her superfine airs upon the occasion; and if she should take it into her head to turn round her sweet neck, drop her eye-lids, and say--"yes, i will be yours!"--why then, "treason domestic, foreign levy, nothing could touch me further." by heaven! i doat on her. the truth is, i never had any pleasure, like love, with any one but her. then how can i bear to part with her? do you know i like to think of her best in her morning-gown and mob-cap--it is so she has oftenest come into my room and enchanted me! she was once ill, pale, and had lost all her freshness. i only adored her the more for it, and fell in love with the decay of her beauty. i could devour the little witch. if she had a plague-spot on her, i could touch the infection: if she was in a burning fever, i could kiss her, and drink death as i have drank life from her lips. when i press her hand, i enjoy perfect happiness and contentment of soul. it is not what she says or what she does--it is herself that i love. to be with her is to be at peace. i have no other wish or desire. the air about her is serene, blissful; and he who breathes it is like one of the gods! so that i can but have her with me always, i care for nothing more. i never could tire of her sweetness; i feel that i could grow to her, body and soul? my heart, my heart is hers. letter vi (written in may) dear p----, what have i suffered since i parted with you! a raging fire is in my heart and in my brain, that never quits me. the steam-boat (which i foolishly ventured on board) seems a prison-house, a sort of spectre-ship, moving on through an infernal lake, without wind or tide, by some necromantic power--the splashing of the waves, the noise of the engine gives me no rest, night or day--no tree, no natural object varies the scene--but the abyss is before me, and all my peace lies weltering in it! i feel the eternity of punishment in this life; for i see no end of my woes. the people about me are ill, uncomfortable, wretched enough, many of them--but to-morrow or next day, they reach the place of their destination, and all will be new and delightful. to me it will be the same. i can neither escape from her, nor from myself. all is endurable where there is a limit: but i have nothing but the blackness and the fiendishness of scorn around me--mocked by her (the false one) in whom i placed my hope, and who hardens herself against me!--i believe you thought me quite gay, vain, insolent, half mad, the night i left the house--no tongue can tell the heaviness of heart i felt at that moment. no footsteps ever fell more slow, more sad than mine; for every step bore me farther from her, with whom my soul and every thought lingered. i had parted with her in anger, and each had spoken words of high disdain, not soon to be forgiven. should i ever behold her again? where go to live and die far from her? in her sight there was elysium; her smile was heaven; her voice was enchantment; the air of love waved round her, breathing balm into my heart: for a little while i had sat with the gods at their golden tables, i had tasted of all earth's bliss, "both living and loving!" but now paradise barred its doors against me; i was driven from her presence, where rosy blushes and delicious sighs and all soft wishes dwelt, the outcast of nature and the scoff of love! i thought of the time when i was a little happy careless child, of my father's house, of my early lessons, of my brother's picture of me when a boy, of all that had since happened to me, and of the waste of years to come--i stopped, faultered, and was going to turn back once more to make a longer truce with wretchedness and patch up a hollow league with love, when the recollection of her words--"i always told you i had no affection for you"--steeled my resolution, and i determined to proceed. you see by this she always hated me, and only played with my credulity till she could find some one to supply the place of her unalterable attachment to the little image. * * * * * i am a little, a very little better to-day. would it were quietly over; and that this misshapen form (made to be mocked) were hid out of the sight of cold, sullen eyes! the people about me even take notice of my dumb despair, and pity me. what is to be done? i cannot forget her; and i can find no other like what she seemed. i should wish you to call, if you can make an excuse, and see whether or no she is quite marble--whether i may go back again at my return, and whether she will see me and talk to me sometimes as an old friend. suppose you were to call on m---from me, and ask him what his impression is that i ought to do. but do as you think best. pardon, pardon. p.s.--i send this from scarborough, where the vessel stops for a few minutes. i scarcely know what i should have done, but for this relief to my feelings. letter vii my dear friend, the important step is taken, and i am virtually a free man. * * * what had i better do in these circumstances? i dare not write to her, i dare not write to her father, or else i would. she has shot me through with poisoned arrows, and i think another "winged wound" would finish me. it is a pleasant sort of balm (as you express it) she has left in my heart! one thing i agree with you in, it will remain there for ever; but yet not very long. it festers, and consumes me. if it were not for my little boy, whose face i see struck blank at the news, looking through the world for pity and meeting with contempt instead, i should soon, i fear, settle the question by my death. that recollection is the only thought that brings my wandering reason to an anchor; that stirs the smallest interest in me; or gives me fortitude to bear up against what i am doomed to feel for the ungrateful. otherwise, i am dead to every thing but the sense of what i have lost. she was my life--it is gone from me, and i am grown spectral! if i find myself in a place i am acquainted with, it reminds me of her, of the way in which i thought of her, --"and carved on every tree the soft, the fair, the inexpressive she!" if it is a place that is new to me, it is desolate, barren of all interest; for nothing touches me but what has a reference to her. if the clock strikes, the sound jars me; a million of hours will not bring back peace to my breast. the light startles me; the darkness terrifies me. i seem falling into a pit, without a hand to help me. she has deceived me, and the earth fails from under my feet; no object in nature is substantial, real, but false and hollow, like her faith on which i built my trust. she came (i knew not how) and sat by my side and was folded in my arms, a vision of love and joy, as if she had dropped from the heavens to bless me by some especial dispensation of a favouring providence, and make me amends for all; and now without any fault of mine but too much fondness, she has vanished from me, and i am left to perish. my heart is torn out of me, with every feeling for which i wished to live. the whole is like a dream, an effect of enchantment; it torments me, and it drives me mad. i lie down with it; i rise up with it; and see no chance of repose. i grasp at a shadow, i try to undo the past, and weep with rage and pity over my own weakness and misery. i spared her again and again (fool that i was) thinking what she allowed from me was love, friendship, sweetness, not wantonness. how could i doubt it, looking in her face, and hearing her words, like sighs breathed from the gentlest of all bosoms? i had hopes, i had prospects to come, the flattery of something like fame, a pleasure in writing, health even would have come back with her smile--she has blighted all, turned all to poison and childish tears. yet the barbed arrow is in my heart--i can neither endure it, nor draw it out; for with it flows my life's-blood. i had conversed too long with abstracted truth to trust myself with the immortal thoughts of love. that s. l. might have been mine, and now never can--these are the two sole propositions that for ever stare me in the face, and look ghastly in at my poor brain. i am in some sense proud that i can feel this dreadful passion--it gives me a kind of rank in the kingdom of love--but i could have wished it had been for an object that at least could have understood its value and pitied its excess. you say her not coming to the door when you went is a proof--yes, that her complement is at present full! that is the reason she doesn't want me there, lest i should discover the new affair--wretch that i am! another has possession of her, oh hell! i'm satisfied of it from her manner, which had a wanton insolence in it. well might i run wild when i received no letters from her. i foresaw, i felt my fate. the gates of paradise were once open to me too, and i blushed to enter but with the golden keys of love! i would die; but her lover--my love of her--ought not to die. when i am dead, who will love her as i have done? if she should be in misfortune, who will comfort her? when she is old, who will look in her face, and bless her? would there be any harm in calling upon m----, to know confidentially if he thinks it worth my while to make her an offer the instant it is in my power? let me have an answer, and save me, if possible, for her and from myself. letter viii my dear friend, your letter raised me for a moment from the depths of despair; but not hearing from you yesterday or to-day (as i hoped) i have had a relapse. you say i want to get rid of her. i hope you are more right in your conjectures about her than in this about me. oh no! believe it, i love her as i do my own soul; my very heart is wedded to her (be she what she may) and i would not hesitate a moment between her and "an angel from heaven." i grant all you say about my self-tormenting folly: but has it been without cause? has she not refused me again and again with a mixture of scorn and resentment, after going the utmost lengths with a man for whom she now disclaims all affection; and what security can i have for her reserve with others, who will not be restrained by feelings of delicacy towards her, and whom she has probably preferred to me for their want of it. "she can make no more confidences"--these words ring for ever in my ears, and will be my death-watch. they can have but one meaning, be sure of it--she always expressed herself with the exactest propriety. that was one of the things for which i loved her--shall i live to hate her for it? my poor fond heart, that brooded over her and the remains of her affections as my only hope of comfort upon earth, cannot brook this new degradation. who is there so low as me? who is there besides (i ask) after the homage i have paid her and the caresses she has lavished on me, so vile, so abhorrent to love, to whom such an indignity could have happened? when i think of this (and i think of nothing else) it stifles me. i am pent up in burning, fruitless desires, which can find no vent or object. am i not hated, repulsed, derided by her whom alone i love or ever did love? i cannot stay in any place, and seek in vain for relief from the sense of her contempt and her ingratitude. i can settle to nothing: what is the use of all i have done? is it not that very circumstance (my thinking beyond my strength, my feeling more than i need about so many things) that has withered me up, and made me a thing for love to shrink from and wonder at? who could ever feel that peace from the touch of her dear hand that i have done; and is it not torn from me for ever? my state is this, that i shall never lie down again at night nor rise up in the morning in peace, nor ever behold my little boy's face with pleasure while i live--unless i am restored to her favour. instead of that delicious feeling i had when she was heavenly-kind to me, and my heart softened and melted in its own tenderness and her sweetness, i am now inclosed in a dungeon of despair. the sky is marble to my thoughts; nature is dead around me, as hope is within me; no object can give me one gleam of satisfaction now, nor the prospect of it in time to come. i wander by the sea-side; and the eternal ocean and lasting despair and her face are before me. slighted by her, on whom my heart by its last fibre hung, where shall i turn? i wake with her by my side, not as my sweet bedfellow, but as the corpse of my love, without a heart in her bosom, cold, insensible, or struggling from me; and the worm gnaws me, and the sting of unrequited love, and the canker of a hopeless, endless sorrow. i have lost the taste of my food by feverish anxiety; and my favourite beverage, which used to refresh me when i got up, has no moisture in it. oh! cold, solitary, sepulchral breakfasts, compared with those which i promised myself with her; or which i made when she had been standing an hour by my side, my guardian-angel, my wife, my sister, my sweet friend, my eve, my all; and had blest me with her seraph kisses! ah! what i suffer at present only shews what i have enjoyed. but "the girl is a good girl, if there is goodness in human nature." i thank you for those words; and i will fall down and worship you, if you can prove them true: and i would not do much less for him that proves her a demon. she is one or the other, that's certain; but i fear the worst. do let me know if anything has passed: suspense is my greatest punishment. i am going into the country to see if i can work a little in the three weeks i have yet to stay here. write on the receipt of this, and believe me ever your unspeakably obliged friend. to edinburgh --"stony-hearted" edinburgh! what art thou to me? the dust of thy streets mingles with my tears and blinds me. city of palaces, or of tombs--a quarry, rather than the habitation of men! art thou like london, that populous hive, with its sunburnt, well-baked, brick-built houses--its public edifices, its theatres, its bridges, its squares, its ladies, and its pomp, its throng of wealth, its outstretched magnitude, and its mighty heart that never lies still? thy cold grey walls reflect back the leaden melancholy of the soul. the square, hard-edged, unyielding faces of thy inhabitants have no sympathy to impart. what is it to me that i look along the level line of thy tenantless streets, and meet perhaps a lawyer like a grasshopper chirping and skipping, or the daughter of a highland laird, haughty, fair, and freckled? or why should i look down your boasted prince's street, with the beetle-browed castle on one side, and the calton hill with its proud monument at the further end, and the ridgy steep of salisbury crag, cut off abruptly by nature's boldest hand, and arthur's seat overlooking all, like a lioness watching her cubs? or shall i turn to the far-off pentland hills, with craig-crook nestling beneath them, where lives the prince of critics and the king of men? or cast my eye unsated over the frith of forth, that from my window of an evening (as i read of amy and her love) glitters like a broad golden mirror in the sun, and kisses the winding shores of kingly fife? oh no! but to thee, to thee i turn, north berwick-law, with thy blue cone rising out of summer seas; for thou art the beacon of my banished thoughts, and dost point my way to her, who is my heart's true home. the air is too thin for me, that has not the breath of love in it; that is not embalmed by her sighs! a thought i am not mad, but my heart is so; and raves within me, fierce and untameable, like a panther in its den, and tries to get loose to its lost mate, and fawn on her hand, and bend lowly at her feet. another oh! thou dumb heart, lonely, sad, shut up in the prison-house of this rude form, that hast never found a fellow but for an instant, and in very mockery of thy misery, speak, find bleeding words to express thy thoughts, break thy dungeon-gloom, or die pronouncing thy infelice's name! another within my heart is lurking suspicion, and base fear, and shame and hate; but above all, tyrannous love sits throned, crowned with her graces, silent and in tears. letter ix my dear p----, you have been very kind to me in this business; but i fear even your indulgence for my infirmities is beginning to fail. to what a state am i reduced, and for what? for fancying a little artful vixen to be an angel and a saint, because she affected to look like one, to hide her rank thoughts and deadly purposes. has she not murdered me under the mask of the tenderest friendship? and why? because i have loved her with unutterable love, and sought to make her my wife. you say it is my own "outrageous conduct" that has estranged her: nay, i have been too gentle with her. i ask you first in candour whether the ambiguity of her behaviour with respect to me, sitting and fondling a man (circumstanced as i was) sometimes for half a day together, and then declaring she had no love for him beyond common regard, and professing never to marry, was not enough to excite my suspicions, which the different exposures from the conversations below-stairs were not calculated to allay? i ask you what you yourself would have felt or done, if loving her as i did, you had heard what i did, time after time? did not her mother own to one of the grossest charges (which i shall not repeat)--and is such indelicacy to be reconciled with her pretended character (that character with which i fell in love, and to which i made love) without supposing her to be the greatest hypocrite in the world? my unpardonable offence has been that i took her at her word, and was willing to believe her the precise little puritanical person she set up for. after exciting her wayward desires by the fondest embraces and the purest kisses, as if she had been "made my wedded wife yestreen," or was to become so to-morrow (for that was always my feeling with respect to her)--i did not proceed to gratify them, or to follow up my advantage by any action which should declare, "i think you a common adventurer, and will see whether you are so or not!" yet any one but a credulous fool like me would have made the experiment, with whatever violence to himself, as a matter of life and death; for i had every reason to distrust appearances. her conduct has been of a piece from the beginning. in the midst of her closest and falsest endearments, she has always (with one or two exceptions) disclaimed the natural inference to be drawn from them, and made a verbal reservation, by which she might lead me on in a fool's paradise, and make me the tool of her levity, her avarice, and her love of intrigue as long as she liked, and dismiss me whenever it suited her. this, you see, she has done, because my intentions grew serious, and if complied with, would deprive her of the pleasures of a single life! offer marriage to this "tradesman's daughter, who has as nice a sense of honour as any one can have;" and like lady bellaston in tom jones, she cuts you immediately in a fit of abhorrence and alarm. yet she seemed to be of a different mind formerly, when struggling from me in the height of our first intimacy, she exclaimed--"however i might agree to my own ruin, i never will consent to bring disgrace upon my family!" that i should have spared the traitress after expressions like this, astonishes me when i look back upon it. yet if it were all to do over again, i know i should act just the same part. such is her power over me! i cannot run the least risk of offending her--i love her so. when i look in her face, i cannot doubt her truth! wretched being that i am! i have thrown away my heart and soul upon an unfeeling girl; and my life (that might have been so happy, had she been what i thought her) will soon follow either voluntarily, or by the force of grief, remorse, and disappointment. i cannot get rid of the reflection for an instant, nor even seek relief from its galling pressure. ah! what a heart she has lost! all the love and affection of my whole life were centred in her, who alone, i thought, of all women had found out my true character, and knew how to value my tenderness. alas! alas! that this, the only hope, joy, or comfort i ever had, should turn to a mockery, and hang like an ugly film over the remainder of my days!--i was at roslin castle yesterday. it lies low in a rude, but sheltered valley, hid from the vulgar gaze, and powerfully reminds one of the old song. the straggling fragments of the russet ruins, suspended smiling and graceful in the air as if they would linger out another century to please the curious beholder, the green larch-trees trembling between with the blue sky and white silver clouds, the wild mountain plants starting out here and there, the date of the year on an old low door-way, but still more, the beds of flowers in orderly decay, that seem to have no hand to tend them, but keep up a sort of traditional remembrance of civilization in former ages, present altogether a delightful and amiable subject for contemplation. the exquisite beauty of the scene, with the thought of what i should feel, should i ever be restored to her, and have to lead her through such places as my adored, my angelwife, almost drove me beside myself. for this picture, this ecstatic vision, what have i of late instead as the image of the reality? demoniacal possessions. i see the young witch seated in another's lap, twining her serpent arms round him, her eye glancing and her cheeks on fire--why does not the hideous thought choke me? or why do i not go and find out the truth at once? the moonlight streams over the silver waters: the bark is in the bay that might waft me to her, almost with a wish. the mountain-breeze sighs out her name: old ocean with a world of tears murmurs back my woes! does not my heart yearn to be with her; and shall i not follow its bidding? no, i must wait till i am free; and then i will take my freedom (a glad prize) and lay it at her feet and tell her my proud love of her that would not brook a rival in her dishonour, and that would have her all or none, and gain her or lose myself for ever!-you see by this letter the way i am in, and i hope you will excuse it as the picture of a half-disordered mind. the least respite from my uneasiness (such as i had yesterday) only brings the contrary reflection back upon me, like a flood; and by letting me see the happiness i have lost, makes me feel, by contrast, more acutely what i am doomed to bear. letter x dear friend, here i am at st. bees once more, amid the scenes which i greeted in their barrenness in winter; but which have now put on their full green attire that shews luxuriant to the eye, but speaks a tale of sadness to this heart widowed of its last, its dearest, its only hope! oh! lovely bees-inn! here i composed a volume of law-cases, here i wrote my enamoured follies to her, thinking her human, and that "all below was not the fiend's"--here i got two cold, sullen answers from the little witch, and here i was ---and i was damned. i thought the revisiting the old haunts would have soothed me for a time, but it only brings back the sense of what i have suffered for her and of her unkindness the more strongly, till i cannot endure the recollection. i eye the heavens in dumb despair, or vent my sorrows in the desart air. "to the winds, to the waves, to the rocks i complain"--you may suppose with what effect! i fear i shall be obliged to return. i am tossed about (backwards and forwards) by my passion, so as to become ridiculous. i can now understand how it is that mad people never remain in the same place--they are moving on for ever, from themselves! do you know, you would have been delighted with the effect of the northern twilight on this romantic country as i rode along last night? the hills and groves and herds of cattle were seen reposing in the grey dawn of midnight, as in a moonlight without shadow. the whole wide canopy of heaven shed its reflex light upon them, like a pure crystal mirror. no sharp points, no petty details, no hard contrasts--every object was seen softened yet distinct, in its simple outline and natural tones, transparent with an inward light, breathing its own mild lustre. the landscape altogether was like an airy piece of mosaic-work, or like one of poussin's broad massy landscapes or titian's lovely pastoral scenes. is it not so, that poets see nature, veiled to the sight, but revealed to the soul in visionary grace and grandeur! i confess the sight touched me; and might have removed all sadness except mine. so (i thought) the light of her celestial face once shone into my soul, and wrapt me in a heavenly trance. the sense i have of beauty raises me for a moment above myself, but depresses me the more afterwards, when i recollect how it is thrown away in vain admiration, and that it only makes me more susceptible of pain from the mortifications i meet with. would i had never seen her! i might then not indeed have been happy, but at least i might have passed my life in peace, and have sunk into forgetfulness without a pang.--the noble scenery in this country mixes with my passion, and refines, but does not relieve it. i was at stirling castle not long ago. it gave me no pleasure. the declivity seemed to me abrupt, not sublime; for in truth i did not shrink back from it with terror. the weather-beaten towers were stiff and formal: the air was damp and chill: the river winded its dull, slimy way like a snake along the marshy grounds: and the dim misty tops of ben leddi, and the lovely highlands (woven fantastically of thin air) mocked my embraces and tempted my longing eyes like her, the sole queen and mistress of my thoughts! i never found my contemplations on this subject so subtilised and at the same time so desponding as on that occasion. i wept myself almost blind, and i gazed at the broad golden sunset through my tears that fell in showers. as i trod the green mountain turf, oh! how i wished to be laid beneath it--in one grave with her--that i might sleep with her in that cold bed, my hand in hers, and my heart for ever still--while worms should taste her sweet body, that i had never tasted! there was a time when i could bear solitude; but it is too much for me at present. now i am no sooner left to myself than i am lost in infinite space, and look round me in vain for suppose or comfort. she was my stay, my hope: without her hand to cling to, i stagger like an infant on the edge of a precipice. the universe without her is one wide, hollow abyss, in which my harassed thoughts can find no resting-place. i must break off here; for the hysterica passio comes upon me, and threatens to unhinge my reason. letter xi my dear and good friend, i am afraid i trouble you with my querulous epistles, but this is probably the last. to-morrow or the next day decides my fate with respect to the divorce, when i expect to be a free man. in vain! was it not for her and to lay my freedom at her feet, that i consented to this step which has cost me infinite perplexity, and now to be discarded for the first pretender that came in her way! if so, i hardly think i can survive it. you who have been a favourite with women, do not know what it is to be deprived of one's only hope, and to have it turned to shame and disappointment. there is nothing in the world left that can afford me one drop of comfort--this i feel more and more. everything is to me a mockery of pleasure, like her love. the breeze does not cool me: the blue sky does not cheer me. i gaze only on her face averted from me--alas! the only face that ever was turned fondly to me! and why am i thus treated? because i wanted her to be mine for ever in love or friendship, and did not push my gross familiarities as far as i might. "why can you not go on as we have done, and say nothing about the word, forever?" was it not plain from this that she even then meditated an escape from me to some less sentimental lover? "do you allow anyone else to do so?" i said to her once, as i was toying with her. "no, not now!" was her answer; that is, because there was nobody else in the house to take freedoms with her. i was very well as a stopgap, but i was to be nothing more. while the coast was clear, i had it all my own way: but the instant c---came, she flung herself at his head in the most barefaced way, ran breathless up stairs before him, blushed when his foot was heard, watched for him in the passage, and was sure to be in close conference with him when he went down again. it was then my mad proceedings commenced. no wonder. had i not reason to be jealous of every appearance of familiarity with others, knowing how easy she had been with me at first, and that she only grew shy when i did not take farther liberties? what has her character to rest upon but her attachment to me, which she now denies, not modestly, but impudently? will you yourself say that if she had all along no particular regard for me, she will not do as much or more with other more likely men? "she has had," she says, "enough of my conversation," so it could not be that! ah! my friend, it was not to be supposed i should ever meet even with the outward demonstrations of regard from any woman but a common trader in the endearments of love! i have tasted the sweets of the well practiced illusion, and now feel the bitterness of knowing what a bliss i am deprived of, and must ever be deprived of. intolerable conviction! yet i might, i believe, have won her by other methods; but some demon held my hand. how indeed could i offer her the least insult when i worshipped her very footsteps; and even now pay her divine honours from my inmost heart, whenever i think of her, abased and brutalised as i have been by that circean cup of kisses, of enchantments, of which i have drunk! i am choked, withered, dried up with chagrin, remorse, despair, from which i have not a moment's respite, day or night. i have always some horrid dream about her, and wake wondering what is the matter that "she is no longer the same to me as ever?" i thought at least we should always remain dear friends, if nothing more--did she not talk of coming to live with me only the day before i left her in the winter? but "she's gone, i am abused, and my revenge must be to love her!"--yet she knows that one line, one word would save me, the cruel, heartless destroyer! i see nothing for it but madness, unless friday brings a change, or unless she is willing to let me go back. you must know i wrote to her to that purpose, but it was a very quiet, sober letter, begging pardon, and professing reform for the future, and all that. what effect it will have, i know not. i was forced to get out of the way of her answer, till friday came. ever yours. to s. l. my dear miss l----, evil to them that evil think, is an old saying; and i have found it a true one. i have ruined myself by my unjust suspicions of you. your sweet friendship was the balm of my life; and i have lost it, i fear for ever, by one fault and folly after another. what would i give to be restored to the place in your esteem, which, you assured me, i held only a few months ago! yet i was not contented, but did all i could to torment myself and harass you by endless doubts and jealousy. can you not forget and forgive the past, and judge of me by my conduct in future? can you not take all my follies in the lump, and say like a good, generous girl, "well, i'll think no more of them?" in a word, may i come back, and try to behave better? a line to say so would be an additional favour to so many already received by your obliged friend, and sincere well-wisher. letter xii. to c. p---i have no answer from her. i'm mad. i wish you to call on m---in confidence, to say i intend to make her an offer of my hand, and that i will write to her father to that effect the instant i am free, and ask him whether he thinks it will be to any purpose, and what he would advise me to do. unaltered love "love is not love that alteration finds: oh no! it is an ever-fixed mark, that looks on tempests and is never shaken." shall i not love her for herself alone, in spite of fickleness and folly? to love her for her regard to me, is not to love her, but myself. she has robbed me of herself: shall she also rob me of my love of her? did i not live on her smile? is it less sweet because it is withdrawn from me? did i not adore her every grace? does she bend less enchantingly, because she has turned from me to another? is my love then in the power of fortune, or of her caprice? no, i will have it lasting as it is pure; and i will make a goddess of her, and build a temple to her in my heart, and worship her on indestructible altars, and raise statues to her: and my homage shall be unblemished as her unrivalled symmetry of form; and when that fails, the memory of it shall survive; and my bosom shall be proof to scorn, as hers has been to pity; and i will pursue her with an unrelenting love, and sue to be her slave, and tend her steps without notice and without reward; and serve her living, and mourn for her when dead. and thus my love will have shewn itself superior to her hate; and i shall triumph and then die. this is my idea of the only true and heroic love! such is mine for her. perfect love perfect love has this advantage in it, that it leaves the possessor of it nothing farther to desire. there is one object (at least) in which the soul finds absolute content, for which it seeks to live, or dares to die. the heart has as it were filled up the moulds of the imagination. the truth of passion keeps pace with and outvies the extravagance of mere language. there are no words so fine, no flattery so soft, that there is not a sentiment beyond them, that it is impossible to express, at the bottom of the heart where true love is. what idle sounds the common phrases, adorable creature, angel, divinity, are? what a proud reflection it is to have a feeling answering to all these, rooted in the breast, unalterable, unutterable, to which all other feelings are light and vain! perfect love reposes on the object of its choice, like the halcyon on the wave; and the air of heaven is around it. from c. p., esq. london, july 4th, 1822. i have seen m----! now, my dear h----, let me entreat and adjure you to take what i have to tell you, for what it is worth--neither for less, nor more. in the first place, i have learned nothing decisive from him. this, as you will at once see, is, as far as it goes, good. i am either to hear from him, or see him again in a day or two; but i thought you would like to know what passed inconclusive as it was--so i write without delay, and in great haste to save a post. i found him frank, and even friendly in his manner to me, and in his views respecting you. i think that he is sincerely sorry for your situation; and he feels that the person who has placed you in that situation is not much less awkwardly situated herself; and he professes that he would willingly do what he can for the good of both. but he sees great difficulties attending the affair--which he frankly professes to consider as an altogether unfortunate one. with respect to the marriage, he seems to see the most formidable objections to it, on both sides; but yet he by no means decidedly says that it cannot, or that it ought not to take place. these, mind you, are his own feelings on the subject: but the most important point i learn from him is this, that he is not prepared to use his influence either way--that the rest of the family are of the same way of feeling; and that, in fact, the thing must and does entirely rest with herself. to learn this was, as you see, gaining a great point.--when i then endeavoured to ascertain whether he knew anything decisive as to what are her views on the subject, i found that he did not. he has an opinion on the subject, and he didn't scruple to tell me what it was; but he has no positive knowledge. in short, he believes, from what he learns from herself (and he had purposely seen her on the subject, in consequence of my application to him) that she is at present indisposed to the marriage; but he is not prepared to say positively that she will not consent to it. now all this, coming from him in the most frank and unaffected manner, and without any appearance of cant, caution, or reserve, i take to be most important as it respects your views, whatever they may be; and certainly much more favourable to them (i confess it) than i was prepared to expect, supposing them to remain as they were. in fact as i said before, the affair rests entirely with herself. they are none of them disposed either to further the marriage, or throw any insurmountable obstacles in the way of it; and what is more important than all, they are evidently by no means certain that she may not, at some future period, consent to it; or they would, for her sake as well as their own, let you know as much flatly, and put an end to the affair at once. seeing in how frank and straitforward a manner he received what i had to say to him, and replied to it, i proceeded to ask him what were his views, and what were likely to be hers (in case she did not consent) as to whether you should return to live in the house;--but i added, without waiting for his answer, that if she intended to persist in treating you as she had done for some time past, it would be worse than madness for you to think of returning. i added that, in case you did return, all you would expect from her would be that she would treat you with civility and kindness--that she would continue to evince that friendly feeling towards you, that she had done for a great length of time, &c. to this, he said, he could really give no decisive reply, but that he should be most happy if, by any intervention of his, he could conduce to your comfort; but he seemed to think that for you to return on any express understanding that she should behave to you in any particular manner, would be to place her in a most awkward situation. he went somewhat at length into this point, and talked very reasonably about it; the result, however, was that he would not throw any obstacles in the way of your return, or of her treating you as a friend, &c., nor did it appear that he believed she would refuse to do so. and, finally, we parted on the understanding that he would see them on the subject, and ascertain what could be done for the comfort of all parties: though he was of opinion that if you could make up your mind to break off the acquaintance altogether, it would be the best plan of all. i am to hear from him again in a day or two.--well, what do you say to all this? can you turn it to any thing but good--comparative good? if you would know what _i_ say to it, it is this:--she is still to be won by wise and prudent conduct on your part; she was always to have been won by such;--and if she is lost, it has been not, as you sometimes suppose, because you have not carried that unwise, may i not say unworthy? conduct still farther, but because you gave way to it at all. of course i use the terms "wise" and "prudent" with reference to your object. whether the pursuit of that object is wise, only yourself can judge. i say she has all along been to be won, and she still is to be won; and all that stands in the way of your views at this moment is your past conduct. they are all of them, every soul, frightened at you; they have seen enough of you to make them so; and they have doubtless heard ten times more than they have seen, or than anyone else has seen. they are all of them including m---(and particularly she herself) frightened out of their wits, as to what might be your treatment of her if she were yours; and they dare not trust you--they will not trust you, at present. i do not say that they will trust you, or rather that she will, for it all depends on her, when you have gone through a probation, but i am sure that she will not trust you till you have. you will, i hope, not be angry with me when i say that she would be a fool if she did. if she were to accept you at present, and without knowing more of you, even i should begin to suspect that she had an unworthy motive for doing it. let me not forget to mention what is perhaps as important a point as any, as it regards the marriage. i of course stated to m---that when you are free, you are prepared to make her a formal offer of your hand; but i begged him, if he was certain that such an offer would be refused, to tell me so plainly at once, that i might endeavour, in that case, to dissuade you from subjecting yourself to the pain of such a refusal. he would not tell me that he was certain. he said his opinion was that she would not accept your offer, but still he seemed to think that there would be no harm in making it!---one word more, and a very important one. he once, and without my referring in the slightest manner to that part of the subject, spoke of her as a good girl, and likely to make any man an excellent wife! do you think if she were a bad girl (and if she were, he must know her to be so) he would have dared to do this, under these circumstances?--and once, in speaking of his not being a fit person to set his face against "marrying for love," he added "i did so myself, and out of that house; and i have had reason to rejoice at it ever since." and mind (for i anticipate your cursed suspicions) i'm certain, at least, if manner can entitle one to be certain of any thing, that he said all this spontaneously, and without any understood motive; and i'm certain, too, that he knows you to be a person that it would not do to play any tricks of this kind with. i believe--(and all this would never have entered my thoughts, but that i know it will enter yours) i believe that even if they thought (as you have sometimes supposed they do) that she needs whitewashing, or making an honest woman of, you would be the last person they would think of using for such a purpose, for they know (as well as i do) that you couldn't fail to find out the trick in a month, and would turn her into the street the next moment, though she were twenty times your wife--and that, as to the consequences of doing so, you would laugh at them, even if you couldn't escape from them.--i shall lose the post if i say more. believe me, ever truly your friend, c. p. letter xiii my dear p----, you have saved my life. if i do not keep friends with her now, i deserve to be hanged, drawn, and quartered. she is an angel from heaven, and you cannot pretend i ever said a word to the contrary! the little rogue must have liked me from the first, or she never could have stood all these hurricanes without slipping her cable. what could she find in me? "i have mistook my person all this while," &c. do you know i saw a picture, the very pattern of her, the other day, at dalkeith palace (hope finding fortune in the sea), just before this blessed news came, and the resemblance drove me almost out of my senses. such delicacy, such fulness, such perfect softness, such buoyancy, such grace! if it is not the very image of her, i am no judge.--you have the face to doubt my making the best husband in the world; you might as well doubt it if i was married to one of the houris of paradise. she is a saint, an angel, a love. if she deceives me again, she kills me. but i will have such a kiss when i get back, as shall last me twenty years. may god bless her for not utterly disowning and destroying me! what an exquisite little creature it is, and how she holds out to the last in her system of consistent contradictions! since i wrote to you about making a formal proposal, i have had her face constantly before me, looking so like some faultless marble statue, as cold, as fixed and graceful as ever statue did; the expression (nothing was ever like that!) seemed to say--"i wish i could love you better than i do, but still i will be yours." no, i'll never believe again that she will not be mine; for i think she was made on purpose for me. if there's anyone else that understands that turn of her head as i do, i'll give her up without scruple. i have made up my mind to this, never to dream of another woman, while she even thinks it worth her while to refuse to have me. you see i am not hard to please, after all. did m---know of the intimacy that had subsisted between us? or did you hint at it? i think it would be a clencher, if he did. how ought i to behave when i go back? advise a fool, who had nearly lost a goddess by his folly. the thing was, i could not think it possible she would ever like me. her taste is singular, but not the worse for that. i'd rather have her love, or liking (call it what you will) than empires. i deserve to call her mine; for nothing else can atone for what i've gone through for her. i hope your next letter will not reverse all, and then i shall be happy till i see her,--one of the blest when i do see her, if she looks like my own beautiful love. i may perhaps write a line when i come to my right wits.--farewel at present, and thank you a thousand times for what you have done for your poor friend. p. s.--i like what m---said about her sister, much. there are good people in the world: i begin to see it, and believe it. letter the last dear p----, to-morrow is the decisive day that makes me or mars me. i will let you know the result by a line added to this. yet what signifies it, since either way i have little hope there, "whence alone my hope cometh!" you must know i am strangely in the dumps at this present writing. my reception with her is doubtful, and my fate is then certain. the hearing of your happiness has, i own, made me thoughtful. it is just what i proposed to her to do--to have crossed the alps with me, to sail on sunny seas, to bask in italian skies, to have visited vevai and the rocks of meillerie, and to have repeated to her on the spot the story of julia and st. preux, and to have shewn her all that my heart had stored up for her--but on my forehead alone is written--rejected! yet i too could have adored as fervently, and loved as tenderly as others, had i been permitted. you are going abroad, you say, happy in making happy. where shall i be? in the grave, i hope, or else in her arms. to me, alas! there is no sweetness out of her sight, and that sweetness has turned to bitterness, i fear; that gentleness to sullen scorn! still i hope for the best. if she will but have me, i'll make her love me: and i think her not giving a positive answer looks like it, and also shews that there is no one else. her holding out to the last also, i think, proves that she was never to have been gained but with honour. she's a strange, almost an inscrutable girl: but if i once win her consent, i shall kill her with kindness.--will you let me have a sight of somebody before you go? i should be most proud. i was in hopes to have got away by the steam-boat to-morrow, but owing to the business not coming on till then, i cannot; and may not be in town for another week, unless i come by the mail, which i am strongly tempted to do. in the latter case i shall be there, and visible on saturday evening. will you look in and see, about eight o'clock? i wish much to see you and her and j. h. and my little boy once more; and then, if she is not what she once was to me, i care not if i die that instant. i will conclude here till to-morrow, as i am getting into my old melancholy.-it is all over, and i am my own man, and yours ever-part iii addressed to j. s. k.---my dear k----, it is all over, and i know my fate. i told you i would send you word, if anything decisive happened; but an impenetrable mystery hung over the affair till lately. it is at last (by the merest accident in the world) dissipated; and i keep my promise, both for your satisfaction, and for the ease of my own mind. you remember the morning when i said "i will go and repose my sorrows at the foot of ben lomond"--and when from dumbarton bridge its giant-shadow, clad in air and sunshine, appeared in view. we had a pleasant day's walk. we passed smollett's monument on the road (somehow these poets touch one in reflection more than most military heroes)--talked of old times; you repeated logan's beautiful verses to the cuckoo,* which i wanted to compare with wordsworth's, but my courage failed me; you then told me some passages of an early attachment which was suddenly broken off; we considered together which was the most to be pitied, a disappointment in love where the attachment was mutual or one where there has been no return, and we both agreed, i think, that the former was best to be endured, and that to have the consciousness of it a companion for life was the least evil of the two, as there was a secret sweetness that took off the bitterness and the sting of regret, and "the memory of what once had been" atoned, in some measure, and at intervals, for what "never more could be." in the other case, there was nothing to look back to with tender satisfaction, no redeeming trait, not even a possibility of turning it to good. it left behind it not cherished sighs, but stifled pangs. the galling sense of it did not bring moisture into the eyes, but dried up the heart ever after. one had been my fate, the other had been yours! [*--"sweet bird, thy bower is ever green, thy sky is ever clear; thou hast no sorrow in thy song, no winter in thy year." so they begin. it was the month of may; the cuckoo sang shrouded in some woody copse; the showers fell between whiles; my friend repeated the lines with native enthusiasm in a clear manly voice, still resonant of youth and hope. mr. wordsworth will excuse me, if in these circumstances i declined entering the field with his profounder metaphysical strain, and kept my preference to myself.] you startled me every now and then from my reverie by the robust voice, in which you asked the country people (by no means prodigal of their answers)--"if there was any trout fishing in those streams?"--and our dinner at luss set us up for the rest of our day's march. the sky now became overcast; but this, i think, added to the effect of the scene. the road to tarbet is superb. it is on the very verge of the lake--hard, level, rocky, with low stone bridges constantly flung across it, and fringed with birch trees, just then budding into spring, behind which, as through a slight veil, you saw the huge shadowy form of ben lomond. it lifts its enormous but graceful bulk direct from the edge of the water without any projecting lowlands, and has in this respect much the advantage of skiddaw. loch lomond comes upon you by degrees as you advance, unfolding and then withdrawing its conscious beauties like an accomplished coquet. you are struck with the point of a rock, the arch of a bridge, the highland huts (like the first rude habitations of men) dug out of the soil, built of turf, and covered with brown heather, a sheep-cote, some straggling cattle feeding half-way down a precipice; but as you advance farther on, the view expands into the perfection of lake scenery. it is nothing (or your eye is caught by nothing) but water, earth, and sky. ben lomond waves to the right, in its simple majesty, cloud-capt or bare, and descending to a point at the head of the lake, shews the trossacs beyond, tumbling about their blue ridges like woods waving; to the left is the cobler, whose top is like a castle shattered in pieces and nodding to its ruin; and at your side rise the shapes of round pastoral hills, green, fleeced with herds, and retiring into mountainous bays and upland valleys, where solitude and peace might make their lasting home, if peace were to be found in solitude! that it was not always so, i was a sufficient proof; for there was one image that alone haunted me in the midst of all this sublimity and beauty, and turned it to a mockery and a dream! the snow on the mountain would not let us ascend; and being weary of waiting and of being visited by the guide every two hours to let us know that the weather would not do, we returned, you homewards, and i to london-"italiam, italiam!" you know the anxious expectations with which i set out:--now hear the result-as the vessel sailed up the thames, the air thickened with the consciousness of being near her, and i "heaved her name pantingly forth." as i approached the house, i could not help thinking of the lines-"how near am i to a happiness, that earth exceeds not! not another like it. the treasures of the deep are not so precious as are the conceal'd comforts of a man lock'd up in woman's love. i scent the air of blessings when i come but near the house. what a delicious breath true love sends forth! the violet-beds not sweeter. now for a welcome able to draw men's envies upon man: a kiss now that will hang upon my lip, as sweet as morning dew upon a rose, and full as long!" i saw her, but i saw at the first glance that there was something amiss. it was with much difficulty and after several pressing intreaties that she was prevailed on to come up into the room; and when she did, she stood at the door, cold, distant, averse; and when at length she was persuaded by my repeated remonstrances to come and take my hand, and i offered to touch her lips, she turned her head and shrunk from my embraces, as if quite alienated or mortally offended. i asked what it could mean? what had i done in her absence to have incurred her displeasure? why had she not written to me? i could get only short, sullen, disconnected answers, as if there was something labouring in her mind which she either could not or would not impart. i hardly knew how to bear this first reception after so long an absence, and so different from the one my sentiments towards her merited; but i thought it possible it might be prudery (as i had returned without having actually accomplished what i went about) or that she had taken offence at something in my letters. she saw how much i was hurt. i asked her, "if she was altered since i went away?"--"no." "if there was any one else who had been so fortunate as to gain her favourable opinion?"--"no, there was no one else." "what was it then? was it any thing in my letters? or had i displeased her by letting mr. p---know she wrote to me?"--"no, not at all; but she did not apprehend my last letter required any answer, or she would have replied to it." all this appeared to me very unsatisfactory and evasive; but i could get no more from her, and was obliged to let her go with a heavy, foreboding heart. i however found that c---was gone, and no one else had been there, of whom i had cause to be jealous.--"should i see her on the morrow?"--"she believed so, but she could not promise." the next morning she did not appear with the breakfast as usual. at this i grew somewhat uneasy. the little buonaparte, however, was placed in its old position on the mantelpiece, which i considered as a sort of recognition of old times. i saw her once or twice casually; nothing particular happened till the next day, which was sunday. i took occasion to go into the parlour for the newspaper, which she gave me with a gracious smile, and seemed tolerably frank and cordial. this of course acted as a spell upon me. i walked out with my little boy, intending to go and dine out at one or two places, but i found that i still contrived to bend my steps towards her, and i went back to take tea at home. while we were out, i talked to william about sarah, saying that she too was unhappy, and asking him to make it up with her. he said, if she was unhappy, he would not bear her malice any more. when she came up with the tea-things, i said to her, "william has something to say to you--i believe he wants to be friends." on which he said in his abrupt, hearty manner, "sarah, i'm sorry if i've ever said anything to vex you"--so they shook hands, and she said, smiling affably--"then i'll think no more of it!" i added--"i see you've brought me back my little buonaparte"--she answered with tremulous softness--"i told you i'd keep it safe for you!"--as if her pride and pleasure in doing so had been equal, and she had, as it were, thought of nothing during my absence but how to greet me with this proof of her fidelity on my return. i cannot describe her manner. her words are few and simple; but you can have no idea of the exquisite, unstudied, irresistible graces with which she accompanies them, unless you can suppose a greek statue to smile, move, and speak. those lines in tibullus seem to have been written on purpose for her-quicquid agit quoquo vestigil vertit, componit furtim, subsequiturque decor. or what do you think of those in a modern play, which might actually have been composed with an eye to this little trifler---"see with what a waving air she goes along the corridor. how like a fawn! yet statelier. no sound (however soft) nor gentlest echo telleth when she treads, but every motion of her shape doth seem hallowed by silence. so did hebe grow among the gods a paragon! away, i'm grown the very fool of love!" the truth is, i never saw anything like her, nor i never shall again. how then do i console myself for the loss of her? shall i tell you, but you will not mention it again? i am foolish enough to believe that she and i, in spite of every thing, shall be sitting together over a sea-coal fire, a comfortable good old couple, twenty years hence! but to my narrative.-i was delighted with the alteration in her manner, and said, referring to the bust--"you know it is not mine, but yours; i gave it you; nay, i have given you all--my heart, and whatever i possess, is yours! she seemed good-humouredly to decline this carte blanche offer, and waved, like a thing of enchantment, out of the room. false calm!--deceitful smiles!--short interval of peace, followed by lasting woe! i sought an interview with her that same evening. i could not get her to come any farther than the door. "she was busy--she could hear what i had to say there." why do you seem to avoid me as you do? not one five minutes' conversation, for the sake of old acquaintance? well, then, for the sake of the little image!" the appeal seemed to have lost its efficacy; the charm was broken; she remained immoveable. "well, then i must come to you, if you will not run away." i went and sat down in a chair near the door, and took her hand, and talked to her for three quarters of an hour; and she listened patiently, thoughtfully, and seemed a good deal affected by what i said. i told her how much i had felt, how much i had suffered for her in my absence, and how much i had been hurt by her sudden silence, for which i knew not how to account. i could have done nothing to offend her while i was away; and my letters were, i hoped, tender and respectful. i had had but one thought ever present with me; her image never quitted my side, alone or in company, to delight or distract me. without her i could have no peace, nor ever should again, unless she would behave to me as she had done formerly. there was no abatement of my regard to her; why was she so changed? i said to her, "ah! sarah, when i think that it is only a year ago that you were everything to me i could wish, and that now you seem lost to me for ever, the month of may (the name of which ought to be a signal for joy and hope) strikes chill to my heart.--how different is this meeting from that delicious parting, when you seemed never weary of repeating the proofs of your regard and tenderness, and it was with difficulty we tore ourselves asunder at last! i am ten thousand times fonder of you than i was then, and ten thousand times more unhappy!" "you have no reason to be so; my feelings towards you are the same as they ever were." i told her "she was my all of hope or comfort: my passion for her grew stronger every time i saw her." she answered, "she was sorry for it; for that she never could return." i said something about looking ill: she said in her pretty, mincing, emphatic way, "i despise looks!" so, thought i, it is not that; and she says there's no one else: it must be some strange air she gives herself, in consequence of the approaching change in my circumstances. she has been probably advised not to give up till all is fairly over, and then she will be my own sweet girl again. all this time she was standing just outside the door, my hand in hers (would that they could have grown together!) she was dressed in a loose morning-gown, her hair curled beautifully; she stood with her profile to me, and looked down the whole time. no expression was ever more soft or perfect. her whole attitude, her whole form, was dignity and bewitching grace. i said to her, "you look like a queen, my love, adorned with your own graces!" i grew idolatrous, and would have kneeled to her. she made a movement, as if she was displeased. i tried to draw her towards me. she wouldn't. i then got up, and offered to kiss her at parting. i found she obstinately refused. this stung me to the quick. it was the first time in her life she had ever done so. there must be some new bar between us to produce these continued denials; and she had not even esteem enough left to tell me so. i followed her half-way down-stairs, but to no purpose, and returned into my room, confirmed in my most dreadful surmises. i could bear it no longer. i gave way to all the fury of disappointed hope and jealous passion. i was made the dupe of trick and cunning, killed with cold, sullen scorn; and, after all the agony i had suffered, could obtain no explanation why i was subjected to it. i was still to be tantalized, tortured, made the cruel sport of one, for whom i would have sacrificed all. i tore the locket which contained her hair (and which i used to wear continually in my bosom, as the precious token of her dear regard) from my neck, and trampled it in pieces. i then dashed the little buonaparte on the ground, and stamped upon it, as one of her instruments of mockery. i could not stay in the room; i could not leave it; my rage, my despair were uncontrollable. i shrieked curses on her name, and on her false love; and the scream i uttered (so pitiful and so piercing was it, that the sound of it terrified me) instantly brought the whole house, father, mother, lodgers and all, into the room. they thought i was destroying her and myself. i had gone into the bedroom, merely to hide away from myself, and as i came out of it, raging-mad with the new sense of present shame and lasting misery, mrs. f---said, "she's in there! he has got her in there!" thinking the cries had proceeded from her, and that i had been offering her violence. "oh! no," i said, "she's in no danger from me; i am not the person;" and tried to burst from this scene of degradation. the mother endeavoured to stop me, and said, "for god's sake, don't go out, mr. ----! for god's sake, don't!" her father, who was not, i believe, in the secret, and was therefore justly scandalised at such outrageous conduct, said angrily, "let him go! why should he stay?" i however sprang down stairs, and as they called out to me, "what is it?--what has she done to you?" i answered, "she has murdered me!--she has destroyed me for ever!--she has doomed my soul to perdition!" i rushed out of the house, thinking to quit it forever; but i was no sooner in the street, than the desolation and the darkness became greater, more intolerable; and the eddying violence of my passion drove me back to the source, from whence it sprung. this unexpected explosion, with the conjectures to which it would give rise, could not be very agreeable to the precieuse or her family; and when i went back, the father was waiting at the door, as if anticipating this sudden turn of my feelings, with no friendly aspect. i said, "i have to beg pardon, sir; but my mad fit is over, and i wish to say a few words to you in private." he seemed to hesitate, but some uneasy forebodings on his own account, probably, prevailed over his resentment; or, perhaps (as philosophers have a desire to know the cause of thunder) it was a natural curiosity to know what circumstances of provocation had given rise to such an extraordinary scene of confusion. when we reached my room, i requested him to be seated. i said, "it is true, sir, i have lost my peace of mind for ever, but at present i am quite calm and collected, and i wish to explain to you why i have behaved in so extravagant a way, and to ask for your advice and intercession." he appeared satisfied, and i went on. i had no chance either of exculpating myself, or of probing the question to the bottom, but by stating the naked truth, and therefore i said at once, "sarah told me, sir (and i never shall forget the way in which she told me, fixing her dove's eyes upon me, and looking a thousand tender reproaches for the loss of that good opinion, which she held dearer than all the world) she told me, sir, that as you one day passed the door, which stood a-jar, you saw her in an attitude which a good deal startled you; i mean sitting in my lap, with her arms round my neck, and mine twined round her in the fondest manner. what i wished to ask was, whether this was actually the case, or whether it was a mere invention of her own, to enhance the sense of my obligations to her; for i begin to doubt everything?"--"indeed, it was so; and very much surprised and hurt i was to see it." "well then, sir, i can only say, that as you saw her sitting then, so she had been sitting for the last year and a half, almost every day of her life, by the hour together; and you may judge yourself, knowing what a nice modest-looking girl she is, whether, after having been admitted to such intimacy with so sweet a creature, and for so long a time, it is not enough to make any one frantic to be received by her as i have been since my return, without any provocation given or cause assigned for it." the old man answered very seriously, and, as i think, sincerely, "what you now tell me, sir, mortifies and shocks me as much as it can do yourself. i had no idea such a thing was possible. i was much pained at what i saw; but i thought it an accident, and that it would never happen again."--"it was a constant habit; it has happened a hundred times since, and a thousand before. i lived on her caresses as my daily food, nor can i live without them." so i told him the whole story, "what conjurations, and what mighty magic i won his daughter with," to be anything but mine for life. nothing could well exceed his astonishment and apparent mortification. "what i had said," he owned, "had left a weight upon his mind that he should not easily get rid of." i told him, "for myself, i never could recover the blow i had received. i thought, however, for her own sake, she ought to alter her present behaviour. her marked neglect and dislike, so far from justifying, left her former intimacies without excuse; for nothing could reconcile them to propriety, or even a pretence to common decency, but either love, or friendship so strong and pure that it could put on the guise of love. she was certainly a singular girl. did she think it right and becoming to be free with strangers, and strange to old friends?" i frankly declared, "i did not see how it was in human nature for any one who was not rendered callous to such familiarities by bestowing them indiscriminately on every one, to grant the extreme and continued indulgences she had done to me, without either liking the man at first, or coming to like him in the end, in spite of herself. when my addresses had nothing, and could have nothing honourable in them, she gave them every encouragement; when i wished to make them honourable, she treated them with the utmost contempt. the terms we had been all along on were such as if she had been to be my bride next day. it was only when i wished her actually to become so, to ensure her own character and my happiness, that she shrunk back with precipitation and panic-fear. there seemed to me something wrong in all this; a want both of common propriety, and i might say, of natural feeling; yet, with all her faults, i loved her, and ever should, beyond any other human being. i had drank in the poison of her sweetness too long ever to be cured of it; and though i might find it to be poison in the end, it was still in my veins. my only ambition was to be permitted to live with her, and to die in her arms. be she what she would, treat me how she would, i felt that my soul was wedded to hers; and were she a mere lost creature, i would try to snatch her from perdition, and marry her to-morrow if she would have me. that was the question--"would she have me, or would she not?" he said he could not tell; but should not attempt to put any constraint upon her inclinations, one way or other. i acquiesced, and added, that "i had brought all this upon myself, by acting contrary to the suggestions of my friend, mr. ----, who had desired me to take no notice whether she came near me or kept away, whether she smiled or frowned, was kind or contemptuous--all you have to do, is to wait patiently for a month till you are your own man, as you will be in all probability; then make her an offer of your hand, and if she refuses, there's an end of the matter." mr. l. said, "well, sir, and i don't think you can follow a better advice!" i took this as at least a sort of negative encouragement, and so we parted. to the same (in continuation) my dear friend, the next day i felt almost as sailors must do after a violent storm over-night, that has subsided towards daybreak. the morning was a dull and stupid calm, and i found she was unwell, in consequence of what had happened. in the evening i grew more uneasy, and determined on going into the country for a week or two. i gathered up the fragments of the locket of her hair, and the little bronze statue, which were strewed about the floor, kissed them, folded them up in a sheet of paper, and sent them to her, with these lines written in pencil on the outside--"pieces of a broken heart, to be kept in remembrance of the unhappy. farewell." no notice was taken; nor did i expect any. the following morning i requested betsey to pack up my box for me, as i should go out of town the next day, and at the same time wrote a note to her sister to say, i should take it as a favour if she would please to accept of the enclosed copies of the vicar of wakefield, the man of feeling and nature and art, in lieu of three volumes of my own writings, which i had given her on different occasions, in the course of our acquaintance. i was piqued, in fact, that she should have these to shew as proofs of my weakness, and as if i thought the way to win her was by plaguing her with my own performances. she sent me word back that the books i had sent were of no use to her, and that i should have those i wished for in the afternoon; but that she could not before, as she had lent them to her sister, mrs. m----. i said, "very well;" but observed (laughing) to betsey, "it's a bad rule to give and take; so, if sarah won't have these books, you must; they are very pretty ones, i assure you." she curtsied and took them, according to the family custom. in the afternoon, when i came back to tea, i found the little girl on her knees, busy in packing up my things, and a large paper parcel on the table, which i could not at first tell what to make of. on opening it, however, i soon found what it was. it contained a number of volumes which i had given her at different times (among others, a little prayer-book, bound in crimson velvet, with green silk linings; she kissed it twenty times when she received it, and said it was the prettiest present in the world, and that she would shew it to her aunt, who would be proud of it)--and all these she had returned together. her name in the title-page was cut out of them all. i doubted at the instant whether she had done this before or after i had sent for them back, and i have doubted of it since; but there is no occasion to suppose her ugly all over with hypocrisy. poor little thing! she has enough to answer for, as it is. i asked betsey if she could carry a message for me, and she said "yes." "will you tell your sister, then, that i did not want all these books; and give my love to her, and say that i shall be obliged if she will still keep these that i have sent back, and tell her that it is only those of my own writing that i think unworthy of her." what do you think the little imp made answer? she raised herself on the other side of the table where she stood, as if inspired by the genius of the place, and said--"and those are the ones that she prizes the most!" if there were ever words spoken that could revive the dead, those were the words. let me kiss them, and forget that my ears have heard aught else! i said, "are you sure of that?" and she said, "yes, quite sure." i told her, "if i could be, i should be very different from what i was." and i became so that instant, for these casual words carried assurance to my heart of her esteem--that once implied, i had proofs enough of her fondness. oh! how i felt at that moment! restored to love, hope, and joy, by a breath which i had caught by the merest accident, and which i might have pined in absence and mute despair for want of hearing! i did not know how to contain myself; i was childish, wanton, drunk with pleasure. i gave betsey a twenty-shilling note which i happened to have in my hand, and on her asking "what's this for, sir?" i said, "it's for you. don't you think it worth that to be made happy? you once made me very wretched by some words i heard you drop, and now you have made me as happy; and all i wish you is, when you grow up, that you may find some one to love you as well as i do your sister, and that you may love better than she does me!" i continued in this state of delirium or dotage all that day and the next, talked incessantly, laughed at every thing, and was so extravagant, nobody could tell what was the matter with me. i murmured her name; i blest her; i folded her to my heart in delicious fondness; i called her by my own name; i worshipped her: i was mad for her. i told p---i should laugh in her face, if ever she pretended not to like me again. her mother came in and said, she hoped i should excuse sarah's coming up. "oh, ma'am," i said, "i have no wish to see her; i feel her at my heart; she does not hate me after all, and i wish for nothing. let her come when she will, she is to me welcomer than light, than life; but let it be in her own sweet time, and at her own dear pleasure." betsey also told me she was "so glad to get the books back." i, however, sobered and wavered (by degrees) from seeing nothing of her, day after day; and in less than a week i was devoted to the infernal gods. i could hold out no longer than the monday evening following. i sent a message to her; she returned an ambiguous answer; but she came up. pity me, my friend, for the shame of this recital. pity me for the pain of having ever had to make it! if the spirits of mortal creatures, purified by faith and hope, can (according to the highest assurances) ever, during thousands of years of smooth-rolling eternity and balmy, sainted repose, forget the pain, the toil, the anguish, the helplessness, and the despair they have suffered here, in this frail being, then may i forget that withering hour, and her, that fair, pale form that entered, my inhuman betrayer, and my only earthly love! she said, "did you wish to speak to me, sir?" i said, "yes, may i not speak to you? i wanted to see you and be friends." i rose up, offered her an arm-chair which stood facing, bowed on it, and knelt to her adoring. she said (going) "if that's all, i have nothing to say." i replied, "why do you treat me thus? what have i done to become thus hateful to you?" answer, "i always told you i had no affection for you." you may suppose this was a blow, after the imaginary honey-moon in which i had passed the preceding week. i was stunned by it; my heart sunk within me. i contrived to say, "nay, my dear girl, not always neither; for did you not once (if i might presume to look back to those happy, happy times), when you were sitting on my knee as usual, embracing and embraced, and i asked if you could not love me at last, did you not make answer, in the softest tones that ever man heard, 'i could easily say so, whether i did or not; you should judge by my actions!' was i to blame in taking you at your word, when every hope i had depended on your sincerity? and did you not say since i came back, 'your feelings to me were the same as ever?' why then is your behaviour so different?" s. "is it nothing, your exposing me to the whole house in the way you did the other evening?" h. "nay, that was the consequence of your cruel reception of me, not the cause of it. i had better have gone away last year, as i proposed to do, unless you would give some pledge of your fidelity; but it was your own offer that i should remain. 'why should i go?' you said, 'why could we not go on the same as we had done, and say nothing about the word forever?'" s. "and how did you behave when you returned?" h. "that was all forgiven when we last parted, and your last words were, 'i should find you the same as ever' when i came home? did you not that very day enchant and madden me over again by the purest kisses and embraces, and did i not go from you (as i said) adoring, confiding, with every assurance of mutual esteem and friendship?" s. "yes, and in your absence i found that you had told my aunt what had passed between us." h. "it was to induce her to extort your real sentiments from you, that you might no longer make a secret of your true regard for me, which your actions (but not your words) confessed." s. "i own i have been guilty of improprieties, which you have gone and repeated, not only in the house, but out of it; so that it has come to my ears from various quarters, as if i was a light character. and i am determined in future to be guided by the advice of my relations, and particularly of my aunt, whom i consider as my best friend, and keep every lodger at a proper distance." you will find hereafter that her favourite lodger, whom she visits daily, had left the house; so that she might easily make and keep this vow of extraordinary self-denial. precious little dissembler! yet her aunt, her best friend, says, "no, sir, no; sarah's no hypocrite!" which i was fool enough to believe; and yet my great and unpardonable offence is to have entertained passing doubts on this delicate point. i said, whatever errors i had committed, arose from my anxiety to have everything explained to her honour: my conduct shewed that i had that at heart, and that i built on the purity of her character as on a rock. my esteem for her amounted to adoration. "she did not want adoration." it was only when any thing happened to imply that i had been mistaken, that i committed any extravagance, because i could not bear to think her short of perfection. "she was far from perfection," she replied, with an air and manner (oh, my god!) as near it as possible. "how could she accuse me of a want of regard to her? it was but the other day, sarah," i said to her, "when that little circumstance of the books happened, and i fancied the expressions your sister dropped proved the sincerity of all your kindness to me--you don't know how my heart melted within me at the thought, that after all, i might be dear to you. new hopes sprung up in my heart, and i felt as adam must have done when his eve was created for him!" "she had heard enough of that sort of conversation," (moving towards the door). this, i own, was the unkindest cut of all. i had, in that case, no hopes whatever. i felt that i had expended words in vain, and that the conversation below stairs (which i told you of when i saw you) had spoiled her taste for mine. if the allusion had been classical i should have been to blame; but it was scriptural, it was a sort of religious courtship, and miss l. is religious! at once he took his muse and dipt her right in the middle of the scripture. it would not do--the lady could make neither head nor tail of it. this is a poor attempt at levity. alas! i am sad enough. "would she go and leave me so? if it was only my own behaviour, i still did not doubt of success. i knew the sincerity of my love, and she would be convinced of it in time. if that was all, i did not care: but tell me true, is there not a new attachment that is the real cause of your estrangement? tell me, my sweet friend, and before you tell me, give me your hand (nay, both hands) that i may have something to support me under the dreadful conviction." she let me take her hands in mine, saying, "she supposed there could be no objection to that,"--as if she acted on the suggestions of others, instead of following her own will--but still avoided giving me any answer. i conjured her to tell me the worst, and kill me on the spot. any thing was better than my present state. i said, "is it mr. c----?" she smiled, and said with gay indifference, "mr. c---was here a very short time." "well, then, was it mr. ----?" she hesitated, and then replied faintly, "no." this was a mere trick to mislead; one of the profoundnesses of satan, in which she is an adept. "but," she added hastily, "she could make no more confidences." "then," said i, "you have something to communicate." "no; but she had once mentioned a thing of the sort, which i had hinted to her mother, though it signified little." all this while i was in tortures. every word, every half-denial, stabbed me. "had she any tie?" "no, i have no tie!" "you are not going to be married soon?" "i don't intend ever to marry at all!" "can't you be friends with me as of old?" "she could give no promises." "would she make her own terms?" "she would make none."--"i was sadly afraid the little image was dethroned from her heart, as i had dashed it to the ground the other night."--"she was neither desperate nor violent." i did not answer--"but deliberate and deadly,"--though i might; and so she vanished in this running fight of question and answer, in spite of my vain efforts to detain her. the cockatrice, i said, mocks me: so she has always done. the thought was a dagger to me. my head reeled, my heart recoiled within me. i was stung with scorpions; my flesh crawled; i was choked with rage; her scorn scorched me like flames; her air (her heavenly air) withdrawn from me, stifled me, and left me gasping for breath and being. it was a fable. she started up in her own likeness, a serpent in place of a woman. she had fascinated, she had stung me, and had returned to her proper shape, gliding from me after inflicting the mortal wound, and instilling deadly poison into every pore; but her form lost none of its original brightness by the change of character, but was all glittering, beauteous, voluptuous grace. seed of the serpent or of the woman, she was divine! i felt that she was a witch, and had bewitched me. fate had enclosed me round about. _i_ was transformed too, no longer human (any more than she, to whom i had knit myself) my feelings were marble; my blood was of molten lead; my thoughts on fire. i was taken out of myself, wrapt into another sphere, far from the light of day, of hope, of love. i had no natural affection left; she had slain me, but no other thing had power over me. her arms embraced another; but her mock-embrace, the phantom of her love, still bound me, and i had not a wish to escape. so i felt then, and so perhaps shall feel till i grow old and die, nor have any desire that my years should last longer than they are linked in the chain of those amorous folds, or than her enchantments steep my soul in oblivion of all other things! i started to find myself alone--for ever alone, without a creature to love me. i looked round the room for help; i saw the tables, the chairs, the places where she stood or sat, empty, deserted, dead. i could not stay where i was; i had no one to go to but to the parent-mischief, the preternatural hag, that had "drugged this posset" of her daughter's charms and falsehood for me, and i went down and (such was my weakness and helplessness) sat with her for an hour, and talked with her of her daughter, and the sweet days we had passed together, and said i thought her a good girl, and believed that if there was no rival, she still had a regard for me at the bottom of her heart; and how i liked her all the better for her coy, maiden airs: and i received the assurance over and over that there was no one else; and that sarah (they all knew) never staid five minutes with any other lodger, while with me she would stay by the hour together, in spite of all her father could say to her (what were her motives, was best known to herself!) and while we were talking of her, she came bounding into the room, smiling with smothered delight at the consummation of my folly and her own art; and i asked her mother whether she thought she looked as if she hated me, and i took her wrinkled, withered, cadaverous, clammy hand at parting, and kissed it. faugh!-i will make an end of this story; there is something in it discordant to honest ears. i left the house the next day, and returned to scotland in a state so near to phrenzy, that i take it the shades sometimes ran into one another. r---met me the day after i arrived, and will tell you the way i was in. i was like a person in a high fever; only mine was in the mind instead of the body. it had the same irritating, uncomfortable effect on the bye-standers. i was incapable of any application, and don't know what i should have done, had it not been for the kindness of ----. i came to see you, to "bestow some of my tediousness upon you," but you were gone from home. everything went on well as to the law business; and as it approached to a conclusion, i wrote to my good friend p---to go to m----, who had married her sister, and ask him if it would be worth my while to make her a formal offer, as soon as i was free, as, with the least encouragement, i was ready to throw myself at her feet; and to know, in case of refusal, whether i might go back there and be treated as an old friend. not a word of answer could be got from her on either point, notwithstanding every importunity and intreaty; but it was the opinion of m---that i might go and try my fortune. i did so with joy, with something like confidence. i thought her giving no positive answer implied a chance, at least, of the reversion of her favour, in case i behaved well. all was false, hollow, insidious. the first night after i got home, i slept on down. in scotland, the flint had been my pillow. but now i slept under the same roof with her. what softness, what balmy repose in the very thought! i saw her that same day and shook hands with her, and told her how glad i was to see her; and she was kind and comfortable, though still cold and distant. her manner was altered from what it was the last time. she still absented herself from the room, but was mild and affable when she did come. she was pale, dejected, evidently uneasy about something, and had been ill. i thought it was perhaps her reluctance to yield to my wishes, her pity for what i suffered; and that in the struggle between both, she did not know what to do. how i worshipped her at these moments! we had a long interview the third day, and i thought all was doing well. i found her sitting at work in the window-seat of the front parlour; and on my asking if i might come in, she made no objection. i sat down by her; she let me take her hand; i talked to her of indifferent things, and of old times. i asked her if she would put some new frills on my shirts?---"with the greatest pleasure." if she could get the little image mended? "it was broken in three pieces, and the sword was gone, but she would try." i then asked her to make up a plaid silk which i had given her in the winter, and which she said would make a pretty summer gown. i so longed to see her in it!--"she had little time to spare, but perhaps might!" think what i felt, talking peaceably, kindly, tenderly with my love,--not passionately, not violently. i tried to take pattern by her patient meekness, as i thought it, and to subdue my desires to her will. i then sued to her, but respectfully, to be admitted to her friendship--she must know i was as true a friend as ever woman had--or if there was a bar to our intimacy from a dearer attachment, to let me know it frankly, as i shewed her all my heart. she drew out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes "of tears which sacred pity had engendered there." was it so or not? i cannot tell. but so she stood (while i pleaded my cause to her with all the earnestness, and fondness in the world) with the tears trickling from her eye-lashes, her head stooping, her attitude fixed, with the finest expression that ever was seen of mixed regret, pity, and stubborn resolution; but without speaking a word, without altering a feature. it was like a petrifaction of a human face in the softest moment of passion. "ah!" i said, "how you look! i have prayed again and again while i was away from you, in the agony of my spirit, that i might but live to see you look so again, and then breathe my last!" i intreated her to give me some explanation. in vain! at length she said she must go, and disappeared like a spirit. that week she did all the little trifling favours i had asked of her. the frills were put on, and she sent up to know if i wanted any more done. she got the buonaparte mended. this was like healing old wounds indeed! how? as follows, for thereby hangs the conclusion of my tale. listen. i had sent a message one evening to speak to her about some special affairs of the house, and received no answer. i waited an hour expecting her, and then went out in great vexation at my disappointment. i complained to her mother a day or two after, saying i thought it so unlike sarah's usual propriety of behaviour, that she must mean it as a mark of disrespect. mrs. l---said, "la! sir, you're always fancying things. why, she was dressing to go out, and she was only going to get the little image you're both so fond of mended; and it's to be done this evening. she has been to two or three places to see about it, before she could get anyone to undertake it." my heart, my poor fond heart, almost melted within me at this news. i answered, "ah! madam, that's always the way with the dear creature. i am finding fault with her and thinking the hardest things of her; and at that very time she's doing something to shew the most delicate attention, and that she has no greater satisfaction than in gratifying my wishes!" on this we had some farther talk, and i took nearly the whole of the lodgings at a hundred guineas a year, that (as i said) she might have a little leisure to sit at her needle of an evening, or to read if she chose, or to walk out when it was fine. she was not in good health, and it would do her good to be less confined. i would be the drudge and she should no longer be the slave. i asked nothing in return. to see her happy, to make her so, was to be so myself.--this was agreed to. i went over to blackheath that evening, delighted as i could be after all i had suffered, and lay the whole of the next morning on the heath under the open sky, dreaming of my earthly goddess. this was sunday. that evening i returned, for i could hardly bear to be for a moment out of the house where she was, and the next morning she tapped at the door--it was opened--it was she--she hesitated and then came forward: she had got the little image in her hand, i took it, and blest her from my heart. she said "they had been obliged to put some new pieces to it." i said "i didn't care how it was done, so that i had it restored to me safe, and by her." i thanked her and begged to shake hands with her. she did so, and as i held the only hand in the world that i never wished to let go, i looked up in her face, and said "have pity on me, have pity on me, and save me if you can!" not a word of answer, but she looked full in my eyes, as much as to say, "well, i'll think of it; and if i can, i will save you!" we talked about the expense of repairing the figure. "was the man waiting?"--"no, she had fetched it on saturday evening." i said i'd give her the money in the course of the day, and then shook hands with her again in token of reconciliation; and she went waving out of the room, but at the door turned round and looked full at me, as she did the first time she beguiled me of my heart. this was the last.-all that day i longed to go down stairs to ask her and her mother to set out with me for scotland on wednesday, and on saturday i would make her my wife. something withheld me. in the evening, however, i could not rest without seeing her, and i said to her younger sister, "betsey, if sarah will come up now, i'll pay her what she laid out for me the other day."--"my sister's gone out, sir," was the answer. what again! thought i, that's somewhat sudden. i told p---her sitting in the window-seat of the front parlour boded me no good. it was not in her old character. she did not use to know there were doors or windows in the house--and now she goes out three times in a week. it is to meet some one, i'll lay my life on't. "where is she gone?"--"to my grandmother's, sir." "where does your grandmother live now?"--"at somers' town." i immediately set out to somers' town. i passed one or two streets, and at last turned up king street, thinking it most likely she would return that way home. i passed a house in king street where i had once lived, and had not proceeded many paces, ruminating on chance and change and old times, when i saw her coming towards me. i felt a strange pang at the sight, but i thought her alone. some people before me moved on, and i saw another person with her. the murder was out. it was a tall, rather well-looking young man, but i did not at first recollect him. we passed at the crossing of the street without speaking. will you believe it, after all that had past between us for two years, after what had passed in the last half-year, after what had passed that very morning, she went by me without even changing countenance, without expressing the slightest emotion, without betraying either shame or pity or remorse or any other feeling that any other human being but herself must have shewn in the same situation. she had no time to prepare for acting a part, to suppress her feelings--the truth is, she has not one natural feeling in her bosom to suppress. i turned and looked--they also turned and looked and as if by mutual consent, we both retrod our steps and passed again, in the same way. i went home. i was stifled. i could not stay in the house, walked into the street and met them coming towards home. as soon as he had left her at the door (i fancy she had prevailed with him to accompany her, dreading some violence) i returned, went up stairs, and requested an interview. tell her, i said, i'm in excellent temper and good spirits, but i must see her! she came smiling, and i said, "come in, my dear girl, and sit down, and tell me all about it, how it is and who it is."--" what," she said, "do you mean mr. c----?" "oh," said i, "then it is he! ah! you rogue, i always suspected there was something between you, but you know you denied it lustily: why did you not tell me all about it at the time, instead of letting me suffer as i have done? but, however, no reproaches. i only wish it may all end happily and honourably for you, and i am satisfied. but," i said, "you know you used to tell me, you despised looks."--"she didn't think mr. c---was so particularly handsome." "no, but he's very well to pass, and a well-grown youth into the bargain." pshaw! let me put an end to the fulsome detail. i found he had lived over the way, that he had been lured thence, no doubt, almost a year before, that they had first spoken in the street, and that he had never once hinted at marriage, and had gone away, because (as he said) they were too much together, and that it was better for her to meet him occasionally out of doors. "there could be no harm in them walking together." "no, but you may go some where afterwards."--" one must trust to one's principle for that." consummate hypocrite! * * * * * * i told her mr. m----, who had married her sister, did not wish to leave the house. i, who would have married her, did not wish to leave it. i told her i hoped i should not live to see her come to shame, after all my love of her; but put her on her guard as well as i could, and said, after the lengths she had permitted herself with me, i could not help being alarmed at the influence of one over her, whom she could hardly herself suppose to have a tenth part of my esteem for her!! she made no answer to this, but thanked me coldly for my good advice, and rose to go. i begged her to sit a few minutes, that i might try to recollect if there was anything else i wished to say to her, perhaps for the last time; and then, not finding anything, i bade her good night, and asked for a farewell kiss. do you know she refused; so little does she understand what is due to friendship, or love, or honour! we parted friends, however, and i felt deep grief, but no enmity against her. i thought c---had pressed his suit after i went, and had prevailed. there was no harm in that--a little fickleness or so, a little over-pretension to unalterable attachment--but that was all. she liked him better than me--it was my hard hap, but i must bear it. i went out to roam the desert streets, when, turning a corner, whom should i meet but her very lover? i went up to him and asked for a few minutes' conversation on a subject that was highly interesting to me and i believed not indifferent to him: and in the course of four hours' talk, it came out that for three months previous to my quitting london for scotland, she had been playing the same game with him as with me--that he breakfasted first, and enjoyed an hour of her society, and then i took my turn, so that we never jostled; and this explained why, when he came back sometimes and passed my door, as she was sitting in my lap, she coloured violently, thinking if her lover looked in, what a denouement there would be. he could not help again and again expressing his astonishment at finding that our intimacy had continued unimpaired up to so late a period after he came, and when they were on the most intimate footing. she used to deny positively to him that there was anything between us, just as she used to assure me with impenetrable effrontery that "mr. c---was nothing to her, but merely a lodger." all this while she kept up the farce of her romantic attachment to her old lover, vowed that she never could alter in that respect, let me go to scotland on the solemn and repeated assurance that there was no new flame, that there was no bar between us but this shadowy love--i leave her on this understanding, she becomes more fond or more intimate with her new lover; he quitting the house (whether tired out or not, i can't say)--in revenge she ceases to write to me, keeps me in wretched suspense, treats me like something loathsome to her when i return to enquire the cause, denies it with scorn and impudence, destroys me and shews no pity, no desire to soothe or shorten the pangs she has occasioned by her wantonness and hypocrisy, and wishes to linger the affair on to the last moment, going out to keep an appointment with another while she pretends to be obliging me in the tenderest point (which c---himself said was too much). . . .what do you think of all this? shall i tell you my opinion? but i must try to do it in another letter. to the same (in conclusion) i did not sleep a wink all that night; nor did i know till the next day the full meaning of what had happened to me. with the morning's light, conviction glared in upon me that i had not only lost her for ever--but every feeling i had ever had towards her--respect, tenderness, pity--all but my fatal passion, was gone. the whole was a mockery, a frightful illusion. i had embraced the false florimel instead of the true; or was like the man in the arabian nights who had married a goul. how different was the idea i once had of her? was this she, --"who had been beguiled--she who was made within a gentle bosom to be laid- to bless and to be blessed--to be heart-bare to one who found his bettered likeness there- to think for ever with him, like a bride- to haunt his eye, like taste personified- to double his delight, to share his sorrow, and like a morning beam, wake to him every morrow? i saw her pale, cold form glide silent by me, dead to shame as to pity. still i seemed to clasp this piece of witchcraft to my bosom; this lifeless image, which was all that was left of my love, was the only thing to which my sad heart clung. were she dead, should i not wish to gaze once more upon her pallid features? she is dead to me; but what she once was to me, can never die! the agony, the conflict of hope and fear, of adoration and jealousy is over; or it would, ere long, have ended with my life. i am no more lifted now to heaven, and then plunged in the abyss; but i seem to have been thrown from the top of a precipice, and to lie groveling, stunned, and stupefied. i am melancholy, lonesome, and weaker than a child. the worst is, i have no prospect of any alteration for the better: she has cut off all possibility of a reconcilement at any future period. were she even to return to her former pretended fondness and endearments, i could have no pleasure, no confidence in them. i can scarce make out the contradiction to myself. i strive to think she always was what i now know she is; but i have great difficulty in it, and can hardly believe but she still is what she so long seemed. poor thing! i am afraid she is little better off herself; nor do i see what is to become of her, unless she throws off the mask at once, and runs a-muck at infamy. she is exposed and laid bare to all those whose opinion she set a value upon. yet she held her head very high, and must feel (if she feels any thing) proportionably mortified.--a more complete experiment on character was never made. if i had not met her lover immediately after i parted with her, it would have been nothing. i might have supposed she had changed her mind in my absence, and had given him the preference as soon as she felt it, and even shewn her delicacy in declining any farther intimacy with me. but it comes out that she had gone on in the most forward and familiar way with both at once--(she could not change her mind in passing from one room to another)--told both the same barefaced and unblushing falsehoods, like the commonest creature; received presents from me to the very last, and wished to keep up the game still longer, either to gratify her humour, her avarice, or her vanity in playing with my passion, or to have me as a dernier resort, in case of accidents. again, it would have been nothing, if she had not come up with her demure, well-composed, wheedling looks that morning, and then met me in the evening in a situation, which (she believed) might kill me on the spot, with no more feeling than a common courtesan shews, who bilks a customer, and passes him, leering up at her bully, the moment after. if there had been the frailty of passion, it would have been excusable; but it is evident she is a practised, callous jilt, a regular lodging-house decoy, played off by her mother upon the lodgers, one after another, applying them to her different purposes, laughing at them in turns, and herself the probable dupe and victim of some favourite gallant in the end. i know all this; but what do i gain by it, unless i could find some one with her shape and air, to supply the place of the lovely apparition? that a professed wanton should come and sit on a man's knee, and put her arms round his neck, and caress him, and seem fond of him, means nothing, proves nothing, no one concludes anything from it; but that a pretty, reserved, modest, delicate-looking girl should do this, from the first hour to the last of your being in the house, without intending anything by it, is new, and, i think, worth explaining. it was, i confess, out of my calculation, and may be out of that of others. her unmoved indifference and self-possession all the while, shew that it is her constant practice. her look even, if closely examined, bears this interpretation. it is that of studied hypocrisy or startled guilt, rather than of refined sensibility or conscious innocence. "she defied anyone to read her thoughts?" she once told me. "do they then require concealing?" i imprudently asked her. the command over herself is surprising. she never once betrays herself by any momentary forgetfulness, by any appearance of triumph or superiority to the person who is her dupe, by any levity of manner in the plenitude of her success; it is one faultless, undeviating, consistent, consummate piece of acting. were she a saint on earth, she could not seem more like one. her hypocritical high-flown pretensions, indeed, make her the worse: but still the ascendancy of her will, her determined perseverance in what she undertakes to do, has something admirable in it, approaching to the heroic. she is certainly an extraordinary girl! her retired manner, and invariable propriety of behaviour made me think it next to impossible she could grant the same favours indiscriminately to every one that she did to me. yet this now appears to be the fact. she must have done the very same with c----, invited him into the house to carry on a closer intrigue with her, and then commenced the double game with both together. she always "despised looks." this was a favourite phrase with her, and one of the hooks which she baited for me. nothing could win her but a man's behaviour and sentiments. besides, she could never like another--she was a martyr to disappointed affection--and friendship was all she could even extend to any other man. all the time, she was making signals, playing off her pretty person, and having occasional interviews in the street with this very man, whom she could only have taken so sudden and violent a liking to him from his looks, his personal appearance, and what she probably conjectured of his circumstances. her sister had married a counsellor--the miss f----'s, who kept the house before, had done so too--and so would she. "there was a precedent for it." yet if she was so desperately enamoured of this new acquaintance, if he had displaced the little image from her breast, if he was become her second "unalterable attachment" (which i would have given my life to have been) why continue the same unwarrantable familiarities with me to the last, and promise that they should be renewed on my return (if i had not unfortunately stumbled upon the truth to her aunt) and yet keep up the same refined cant about her old attachment all the time, as if it was that which stood in the way of my pretensions, and not her faithlessness to it? "if one swerves from one, one shall swerve from another"--was her excuse for not returning my regard. yet that which i thought a prophecy, was i suspect a history. she had swerved twice from her avowed engagements, first to me, and then from me to another. if she made a fool of me, what did she make of her lover? i fancy he has put that question to himself. i said nothing to him about the amount of the presents; which is another damning circumstance, that might have opened my eyes long before; but they were shut by my fond affection, which "turned all to favour and to prettiness." she cannot be supposed to have kept up an appearance of old regard to me, from a fear of hurting my feelings by her desertion; for she not only shewed herself indifferent to, but evidently triumphed in my sufferings, and heaped every kind of insult and indignity upon them. i must have incurred her contempt and resentment by my mistaken delicacy at different times; and her manner, when i have hinted at becoming a reformed man in this respect, convinces me of it. "she hated it!" she always hated whatever she liked most. she "hated mr. c----'s red slippers," when he first came! one more count finishes the indictment. she not only discovered the most hardened indifference to the feelings of others; she has not shewn the least regard to her own character, or shame when she was detected. when found out, she seemed to say, "well, what if i am? i have played the game as long as i could; and if i could keep it up no longer, it was not for want of good will!" her colouring once or twice is the only sign of grace she has exhibited. such is the creature on whom i had thrown away my heart and soul-one who was incapable of feeling the commonest emotions of human nature, as they regarded herself or any one else. "she had no feelings with respect to herself," she often said. she in fact knows what she is, and recoils from the good opinion or sympathy of others, which she feels to be founded on a deception; so that my overweening opinion of her must have appeared like irony, or direct insult. my seeing her in the street has gone a good way to satisfy me. her manner there explains her manner in-doors to be conscious and overdone; and besides, she looks but indifferently. she is diminutive in stature, and her measured step and timid air do not suit these public airings. i am afraid she will soon grow common to my imagination, as well as worthless in herself. her image seems fast "going into the wastes of time," like a weed that the wave bears farther and farther from me. alas! thou poor hapless weed, when i entirely lose sight of thee, and for ever, no flower will ever bloom on earth to glad my heart again! generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) the love letters of mary wollstonecraft to gilbert imlay with a prefatory memoir by roger ingpen _illustrated with portraits_ philadelphia j. b. lippincott company london: hutchinson & co. 1908 printed in great britain mary wollstonecraft's letters edited by roger ingpen leigh hunt's autobiography. illustrated edition. 2 vols. a. constable & co. one thousand poems for children: a collection of verse old and new. hutchinson & co. forster's life of oliver goldsmith. _abridged._ (standard biographies.) hutchinson & co. boswell's life of samuel johnson. _abridged._ (standard biographies.) hutchinson & co. boswell's life of samuel johnson. complete. illustrated edition. 2 vols. pitman. [illustration: mary wollstonecraft _from an engraving, after the painting by john opie, r.a._] preface i of mary wollstonecraft's ancestors little is known, except that they were of irish descent. her father, edward john wollstonecraft, was the son of a prosperous spitalfields manufacturer of irish birth, from whom he inherited the sum of ten thousand pounds. he married towards the middle of the eighteenth century elizabeth dixon, the daughter of a gentleman in good position, of ballyshannon, by whom he had six children: edward, mary, everina, eliza, james, and charles. mary, the eldest daughter and second child, was born on april 27, 1759, the birth year of burns and schiller, and the last year of george ii.'s reign. she passed her childhood, until she was five years old, in the neighbourhood of epping forest, but it is doubtful whether she was born there or at hoxton. mr. wollstonecraft followed no profession in particular, although from time to time he dabbled in a variety of pursuits when seized with a desire to make money. he is described as of idle, dissipated habits, and possessed of an ungovernable temper and a restless spirit that urged him to perpetual changes of residence. from hoxton, where he squandered most of his fortune, he wandered to essex, and then, among other places, in 1768 to beverley, in yorkshire. later he took up farming at laugharne in pembrokeshire, but he at length grew tired of this experiment and returned once more to london. as his fortunes declined, his brutality and selfishness increased, and mary was frequently compelled to defend her mother from his acts of personal violence, sometimes by thrusting herself bodily between him and his victim. mrs. wollstonecraft herself was far from being an amiable woman; a petty tyrant and a stern but incompetent ruler of her household, she treated mary as the scapegoat of the family. mary's early years therefore were far from being happy; what little schooling she had was spasmodic, owing to her father's migratory habits. in her sixteenth year, when the wollstonecrafts were once more in london, mary formed a friendship with fanny blood, a young girl about her own age, which was destined to be one of the happiest events of her life. there was a strong bond of sympathy between the two friends, for fanny contrived by her work as an artist to be the chief support of her family, as her father, like mr. wollstonecraft, was a lazy, drunken fellow. mary's new friend was an intellectual and cultured girl. she loved music, sang agreeably, was well-read too, for her age, and wrote interesting letters. it was by comparing fanny blood's letters with her own, that mary first recognised how defective her education had been. she applied herself therefore to the task of increasing her slender stock of knowledge--hoping ultimately to become a governess. at length, at the age of nineteen, mary went to bath as companion to a tiresome and exacting old lady, a mrs. dawson, the widow of a wealthy london tradesman. in spite of many difficulties, she managed to retain her situation for some two years, leaving it only to attend the deathbed of her mother. mrs. wollstonecraft's death (in 1780) was followed by the break-up of the home. mary went to live temporarily with the bloods at walham green, and assisted mrs. blood, who took in needle-work; everina became for a short time housekeeper to her brother edward, a solicitor; and eliza married a mr. bishop. mr. kegan paul has pointed out that "all the wollstonecraft sisters were enthusiastic, excitable, and hasty tempered, apt to exaggerate trifles, sensitive to magnify inattention into slights, and slights into studied insults. all had bad health of a kind which is especially trying to the nerves, and eliza had in excess the family temperament and constitution." mrs. bishop's married life from the first was one of utter misery; they were an ill-matched pair, and her peculiar temperament evidently exasperated her husband's worst nature. his outbursts of fury and the scenes of violence of daily occurrence, for which he was responsible, were afterwards described with realistic fidelity by mary in her novel, "the wrongs of women." it was plainly impossible for mrs. bishop to continue to live with such a man, and when, in 1782, she became dangerously ill, mary, with her characteristic good nature, went to nurse her, and soon after assisted her in her flight from her husband. in the following year (1783) mary set up a school at islington with fanny blood, and she was thus in a position to offer a home to her sisters, mrs. bishop and everina. the school was afterwards moved to newington green, where mary soon had an establishment with some twenty day scholars. after a time, emboldened by her success, she took a larger house; but unfortunately the number of her pupils did not increase in proportion to her obligations, which were now heavier than she could well meet. while mary was living at newington green, she was introduced to dr. johnson, who, godwin says, treated her with particular kindness and attention, and with whom she had a long conversation. he desired her to repeat her visit, but she was prevented from seeing him again by his last illness and death. in the meantime fanny blood had impaired her health by overwork, and signs of consumption were already evident. a mr. hugh skeys, who was engaged in business at lisbon, though somewhat of a weak lover, had long admired fanny, and wanted to marry her. it was thought that the climate of portugal might help to restore her health, and she consented, perhaps more on that account than on any other, to become his wife. she left england in february 1785, but her health continued to grow worse. mary's anxiety for her friend's welfare was such that, on hearing of her grave condition, she at once went off to lisbon, and arrived after a stormy passage, only in time to comfort fanny in her dying moments. mary was almost broken-hearted at the loss of her friend, and she made her stay in lisbon as short as possible, remaining only as long as was necessary for mrs. skeys's funeral. she returned to england to find that the school had greatly suffered by neglect during her absence. in a letter to mrs. skeys's brother, george blood, she says: "the loss of fanny was sufficient to have thrown a cloud over my brightest days: what effect then must it have, when i am bereft of every other comfort? i have too many debts, the rent is so enormous, and where to go, without money or friends, who can point out?" she thus realised that to continue her school was useless. but her experience as a schoolmistress was to bear fruit in the future. she had observed some of the defects of the educational methods of her time, and her earliest published effort was a pamphlet entitled, "thoughts on the education of daughters," (1787). for this essay she received ten guineas, a sum that she gave to the parents of her friend, mr. and mrs. blood, who were desirous of going over to ireland. she soon went to ireland herself, for in the october of 1787 she became governess to the daughters of lord kingsborough at michaelstown, with a salary of forty pounds a year. lady kingsborough in mary's opinion was "a shrewd clever woman, a great talker.... she rouges, and in short is a fine lady without fancy or sensibility. i am almost tormented to death by dogs...." lady kingsborough was rather selfish and uncultured, and her chief object was the pursuit of pleasure. she pampered her dogs, much to the disgust of mary wollstonecraft, and neglected her children. what views she had on education were narrow. she had been accustomed to submission from her governess, but she learnt before long that mary was not of a tractable disposition. the children, at first unruly and defiant, "literally speaking, wild irish, unformed and not very pleasing," soon gave mary their confidence, and before long their affection. one of her pupils, margaret king, afterwards lady mountcashel, always retained the warmest regard for mary wollstonecraft. lady mountcashel continued her acquaintance with william godwin after mary's death, and later came across shelley and his wife in italy. mary won from the children the affection that they withheld from their mother, consequently, in the autumn of 1788, when she had been with lady kingsborough for about a year, she received her dismissal. she had completed by this time the novel to which she gave the name of "mary," which is a tribute to the memory of her friend fanny blood. ii and now, in her thirtieth year, mary wollstonecraft had concluded her career as a governess, and was resolved henceforth to devote herself to literature. her chances of success were slender indeed, for she had written nothing to encourage her for such a venture. it was her fortune, however, to make the acquaintance of joseph johnson, the humanitarian publisher and bookseller of st. paul's churchyard, who issued the works of priestley, horne tooke, gilbert wakefield, and other men of advanced thought, and she met at his table many of the authors for whom he published, and such eminent men of the day as william blake, fuseli, and tom paine. mr. johnson, who afterwards proved one of her best friends, encouraged her in her literary plans. he was the publisher of her "thoughts on the education of daughters," and had recognised in that little book so much promise, that when she sought his advice, he at once offered to assist her with employment. mary therefore settled at michaelmas 1788 in a house in george street, blackfriars. she had brought to london the manuscript of her novel "mary," and she set to work on a book for children entitled "original stories from real life." both of these books appeared before the year was out, the latter with quaint plates by william blake. mary also occupied some of her time with translations from the french, german, and even dutch, one of which was an abridged edition of saltzmann's "elements of morality," for which blake also supplied the illustrations. besides this work, johnson engaged mary as his literary adviser or "reader," and secured her services in connexion with _the analytical review_, a periodical that he had recently founded. while she was at george street she also wrote her "vindication of the rights of man" in a letter to edmund burke. her chief satisfaction in keeping up this house was to have a home where her brothers and sisters could always come when out of employment. she was never weary of assisting them either with money, or by exerting her influence to find them situations. one of her first acts when she settled in london was to send everina wollstonecraft to paris to improve her french accent. mr. johnson, who wrote a short account of mary's life in london at this time, says she often spent her afternoons and evenings at his house, and used to seek his advice, or unburden her troubles to him. among the many duties she imposed on herself was the charge of her father's affairs, which must indeed have been a profitless undertaking. the most important of mary wollstonecraft's labours while she was living at blackfriars was the writing of the book that is chiefly associated with her name, "a vindication of the rights of woman." this volume--now much better known by its title than its contents--was dedicated to the astute m. talleyrand de périgord, late bishop of autun, apparently on account of his authorship of a pamphlet on national education. it is unnecessary to attempt an analysis of this strikingly original but most unequal book--modern reprints of the work have appeared under the editorship both of mrs. fawcett and mrs. pennell. it is sufficient to say that it is really a plea for a more enlightened system of education, affecting not only her own sex, but also humanity in its widest sense. many of her suggestions have long since been put to practical use, such as that of a system of free national education, with equal advantages for boys and girls. the book contains too much theory and is therefore to a great extent obsolete. mary wollstonecraft protests against the custom that recognises woman as the plaything of man; she pleads rather for a friendly footing of equality between the sexes, besides claiming a new order of things for women, in terms which are unusually frank. such a book could not fail to create a sensation, and it speedily made her notorious, not only in this country, but on the continent, where it was translated into french. it was of course the outcome of the french revolution; the whole work is permeated with the ideas and ideals of that movement, but whereas the french patriots demanded rights for men, she made the same demands also for women. it is evident that the great historical drama then being enacted in france had made a deep impression on mary's mind--its influence is stamped on every page of her book, and it was her desire to visit france with mr. johnson and fuseli. her friends were, however, unable to accompany her, so she went alone in the december of 1792, chiefly with the object of perfecting her french. godwin states, though apparently in error, that fuseli was the cause of her going to france, the acquaintance with the painter having grown into something warmer than mere friendship. fuseli, however, had a wife and was happily married, so mary "prudently resolved to retire into another country, far remote from the object who had unintentionally excited the tender passion in her breast." she certainly arrived in paris at a dramatic moment; she wrote on december 24 to her sister everina: "the day after to-morrow i expect to see the king at the bar, and the consequences that will follow i am almost afraid to anticipate." on the day in question, the 26th, louis xvi. appeared in the hall of the convention to plead his cause through his advocate, desize, and on the same day she wrote that letter to mr. johnson which has so often been quoted: "about nine o'clock this morning," she says, "the king passed by my window, moving silently along (excepting now and then a few strokes on the drum, which rendered the stillness more awful) through empty streets, surrounded by the national guards, who, clustering round the carriage, seemed to deserve their name. the inhabitants flocked to their windows, but the casements were all shut, not a voice was heard, nor did i see anything like an insulting gesture. for the first time since i entered france i bowed to the majesty of the people, and respected the propriety of behaviour so perfectly in unison with my own feelings. i can scarcely tell you why, but an association of ideas made the tears flow insensibly from my eyes, when i saw louis sitting, with more dignity than i expected from his character, in a hackney coach, going to meet death, where so many of his race had triumphed. my fancy instantly brought louis xiv. before me, entering the capital with all his pomp, after one of his victories so flattering to his pride, only to see the sunshine of prosperity overshadowed by the sublime gloom of misery...." mary first went to stay at the house of madame filiettaz, the daughter of madame bregantz, in whose school at putney both mrs. bishop and everina wollstonecraft had been teachers. mary was now something of a celebrity--"authorship," she writes, "is a heavy weight for female shoulders, especially in the sunshine of prosperity"--and she carried with her letters of introduction to several influential people in paris. she renewed her acquaintance with tom paine, became intimate with helen maria williams (who is said to have once lived with imlay), and visited, among others, the house of mr. thomas christie. it was her intention to go to switzerland, but there was some trouble about her passport, so she settled at neuilly, then a village three miles from paris. "her habitation here," says godwin, "was a solitary house in the midst of a garden, with no other habitant than herself and the gardener, an old man who performed for her many offices of a domestic, and would sometimes contend for the honour of making her bed. the gardener had a great veneration for his guest, and would set before her, when alone, some grapes of a particularly fine sort, which she could not without the greatest difficulty obtain of him when she had any person with her as a visitor. here it was that she conceived, and for the most part executed, her historical and moral view of the french revolution, into which she incorporated most of the observations she had collected for her letters, and which was written with more sobriety and cheerfulness than the tone in which they had been commenced. in the evening she was accustomed to refresh herself by a walk in a neighbouring wood, from which her host in vain endeavoured to dissuade her, by recounting divers horrible robberies and murders that had been committed there." [illustration: from an engraving by ridley, dated 1796, after a painting by john opie, r.a. mary wollstonecraft. this picture was purchased for the national gallery at the sale of the late mr. william russell. the reason for supposing that it represents mary wollstonecraft rests solely on testimony of the engraving in the _monthly mirror_ (published during her lifetime), from which this reproduction was made. mrs. merritt made an etching of the picture for mr. kegan paul's edition of the "letters to imlay." _to face p. xvi_] it is probable that in march 1793 mary wollstonecraft first saw gilbert imlay. the meeting occurred at mr. christie's house, and her immediate impression was one of dislike, so that on subsequent occasions she avoided him. however, her regard for him rapidly changed into friendship, and later into love. gilbert imlay was born in new jersey about 1755. he served as a captain in the american army during the revolutionary war, and was the author of "a topographical description of the western territory of north america," 1792, and a novel entitled "the emigrants," 1793. in the latter work, as an american, he proposes to "place a mirror to the view of englishmen, that they may behold the decay of these features that were once so lovely," and further "to prevent the sacrilege which the present practice of matrimonial engagements necessarily produce." it is not known whether these views regarding marriage preceded, or were the result of, his connexion with mary wollstonecraft. in 1793 he was engaged in business, probably in the timber trade with sweden and norway. in deciding to devote herself to imlay, mary sought no advice and took no one into her confidence. she was evidently deeply in love with him, and felt that their mutual confidence shared by no one else gave a sacredness to their union. godwin, who is our chief authority on the imlay episode, states that "the origin of the connexion was about the middle of april 1793, and it was carried on in a private manner for about three months." imlay had no property whatever, and mary had objected to marry him, because she would not burden him with her own debts, or "involve him in certain family embarrassments," for which she believed herself responsible. she looked upon her connexion with imlay, however, "as of the most inviolable nature." then the french government passed a decree that all british subjects resident in france should go to prison until a general declaration of peace. it therefore became expedient, not that a marriage should take place, for that would necessitate mary declaring her nationality, but that she should take the name of imlay, "which," says godwin, "from the nature of their connexion (formed on her part at least, with no capricious or fickle design), she conceived herself entitled to do, and obtain a certificate from the american ambassador, as the wife of a native of that country. their engagement being thus avowed, they thought proper to reside under the same roof, and for that purpose removed to paris." in a letter from mary wollstonecraft to her sister everina, dated from havre, march 10, 1794, she describes the climate of france as "uncommonly fine," and praises the common people for their manners; but she is also saddened by the scenes that she had witnessed and adds that "death and misery, in every shape of terror, haunt this devoted country.... if any of the many letters i have written have come to your hands or eliza's, you know that i am safe, through the protection of an american, a most worthy man who joins to uncommon tenderness of heart and quickness of feeling, a soundness of understanding, and reasonableness of temper rarely to be met with. having been brought up in the interior parts of america, he is a most natural, unaffected creature." mary has expressed in the "rights of woman" her ideal of the relations between man and wife; she now looked forward to such a life of domestic happiness as she had cherished for some time. she had known much unhappiness in the past. godwin says: "she brought in the present instance, a wounded and sick heart, to take refuge in the attachment of a chosen friend. let it not, however, be imagined, that she brought a heart, querulous, and ruined in its taste for pleasure. no; her whole character seemed to change with a change of fortune. her sorrows, the depression of her spirits, were forgotten, and she assumed all the simplicity and the vivacity of a youthful mind. she was playful, full of confidence, kindness, and sympathy. her eyes assumed new lustre, and her cheeks new colour and smoothness. her voice became cheerful; her temper overflowing with universal kindness; and that smile of bewitching tenderness from day to day illuminated her countenance, which all who knew her will so well recollect, and which won, both heart and soul, the affections of almost every one that beheld it." she had now met the man to whom she earnestly believed she could surrender herself with entire devotion. naturally of an affectionate nature, for the first time in her life, with her impulsive irish spirit, as godwin says, "she gave way to all the sensibilities of her nature." the affair was nevertheless doomed to failure from the first. mary had taken her step without much forethought. she attributed to imlay "uncommon tenderness of heart," but she did not detect his instability of character. he certainly fascinated her, as he fascinated other women, both before and after his attachment to mary. he was not the man to be satisfied with one woman as his life-companion. a typical american, he was deeply immersed in business, but his affairs may not have claimed as much of his time as he represented. in the september after he set up house with mary, that is in '93, the year of the terror, he left her in paris while he went to havre, formerly known as havre de grace, but then altered to havre marat. it is awful to think what must have been the life of this lonely stranger in paris at such a time. yet her letters to imlay contain hardly a reference to the events of the revolution. mary, tired of waiting for imlay's return to paris, and sickened with the "growing cruelties of robespierre," joined him at havre in january 1794, and on may 14 she gave birth to a girl, whom she named frances in memory of fanny blood, the friend of her youth. there is every evidence throughout her letters to imlay of how tenderly she loved the little one. in a letter to everina, dated from paris on september 20, she speaks thus of little fanny: "i want you to see my little girl, who is more like a boy. she is ready to fly away with spirits, and has eloquent health in her cheeks and eyes. she does not promise to be a beauty, but appears wonderfully intelligent, and though i am sure she has her father's quick temper and feelings, her good humour runs away with all the credit of my good nursing." in september imlay left havre for london, and now that the terror had subsided mary returned to paris. this separation really meant the end of their camaraderie. they were to meet again, but never on the old footing. the journey proved the most fatiguing that she ever made, the carriage in which she travelled breaking down four times between havre and paris. imlay promised to come to paris in the course of two months, and she expected him till the end of the year with cheerfulness. with the press of business and other distractions his feelings for her and the child had cooled, as the tone of his letters betrayed. for three months longer imlay put her off with unsatisfactory explanations, but her suspense came to an end in april, when she went to london at his request. her gravest forebodings proved too true. imlay was already living with a young actress belonging to a company of strolling players; and it was evident, though at first he protested to the contrary, that mary was only a second consideration in his life. he provided her, however, with a furnished house, and she did not at once abandon hope of a reconciliation: but when she realised that hope was useless, in her despair she resolved to take her life. whether she actually attempted suicide, or whether imlay learnt of her intention in time to prevent her, is not actually known. imlay was at this time engaged in trade with norway, and requiring a trustworthy representative to transact some confidential business, it was thought that the journey would restore mary's health and spirits. she therefore consented to take the voyage, and set out early in april 1795, with a document drawn up by imlay appointing her as his representative, and describing her as "mary imlay, my best friend, and wife," and concluding: "thus, confiding in the talent, zeal, and earnestness of my dearly beloved friend and companion; i submit the management of these affairs entirely and implicitly to her discretion: remaining most sincerely and affectionately hers truly, g. imlay." the letters describing her travels, excluding any personal matters, were issued in 1796, as "letters from sweden and norway," one of her most readable books. the portions eliminated from these letters were printed by godwin in his wife's posthumous works, and are given in the present volume. she returned to england early in october with a heavy heart. imlay had promised to meet her on the homeward journey, possibly at hamburg, and to take her to switzerland, but she hastened to london to find her suspicions confirmed. he provided her with a lodging, but entirely neglected her for some woman with whom he was living. on first making the discovery of his fresh intrigue, and in her agony of mind, she sought imlay at the house he had furnished for his new companion. the conference resulted in her utter despair, and she decided to drown herself. she first went to battersea bridge, but found too many people there; and therefore walked on to putney. it was night and raining when she arrived there, and after wandering up and down the bridge for half-an-hour until her clothing was thoroughly drenched she threw herself into the river. she was, however, rescued from the water and, although unconscious, her life was saved. mary met imlay casually on two or three other occasions; probably her last sight of him was in the new road (now marylebone road), when "he alighted from his horse, and walked with her some time; and the re-encounter passed," she assured godwin, "without producing in her any oppressive emotion." mary refused to accept any pecuniary assistance for herself from imlay, but he gave a bond for a sum to be settled on her, the interest to be devoted to the maintenance of their child; neither principal nor interest, however, was ever paid. what ultimately became of imlay is not known. mary at length resigned herself to the inevitable. her old friend and publisher, mr. johnson, came to her aid, and she resolved to resume her literary work for the support of herself and her child. she was once more seen in literary society. among the people whom she met at this time was william godwin. three years her senior, he was one of the most advanced republicans of the time, the author of "political justice" and the novel "caleb williams." they had met before, for the first time in november 1791, but she displeased godwin, because her vivacious gossip silenced the naturally quiet thomas paine, whom he was anxious to hear talk. although they met occasionally afterwards, it was not until 1796 that they became friendly. there must have been something about godwin that made him extremely attractive to his friends, for he numbered among them some of the most charming women of the day, and such men as wordsworth, lamb, hazlitt, and shelley were proud to be of his circle. to the members of his family he was of a kind, even affectionate, disposition. unfortunately, he appears to the worst advantage--a kind of early pecksniff--in his later correspondence and relations with shelley, and it is by this correspondence at the present day that he is best known. the fine side-face portrait of godwin by northcote, in the national portrait gallery, preserves for us all the beauty of his intellectual brow and eyes. another portrait of godwin, full-face, with a long sad nose, by pickersgill, once to be seen in the national portrait gallery, is not so pleasing. in a letter to cottle, southey gives an unflattering portrait of godwin at the time of his marriage, which seems to suggest the full-face portrait of the philosopher--"he has large noble eyes, and a _nose_--oh, most abominable nose! language is not vituperatious enough to describe the effect of its downward elongation." godwin describes his courtship with mary as "friendship melting into love." they agreed to live together, but godwin took rooms about twenty doors from their home in the polygon, somers town, as it was one of his theories that living together under the same roof is destructive of family happiness. godwin went to his rooms as soon as he rose in the morning, generally without taking breakfast with mary, and he sometimes slept at his lodgings. they rarely met again until dinner-time, unless to take a walk together. during the day this extraordinary couple would communicate with each other by means of short letters or notes. mr. kegan paul prints some of these; such as godwin's: "i will have the honour to dine with you. you ask me whether i can get you four orders. i do not know, but i do not think the thing impossible. how do you do?" and mary's: "fanny is delighted with the thought of dining with you. but i wish you to eat your meat first, and let her come up with the pudding. i shall probably knock at your door on my way to opie's; but should i not find you, let me request you not to be too late this evening. do not give fanny butter with her pudding." this note is dated april 20, 1797, and probably fixes the time when mary was sitting for her portrait to opie. on the whole, godwin and mary lived happily together, with very occasional clouds, mainly due to her over-sensitive nature, and his confirmed bachelor habits. although both were opposed to matrimony on principle, they were married at old st. pancras church on march 29, 1797, the clerk of the church being witness. godwin does not mention the event in his carefully registered diary. the reason for the marriage was that mary was about to become a mother, and it was for the sake of the child that they deemed it prudent to go through the ceremony. but it was not made public at once, chiefly for fear that johnson should cease to help mary. mrs. inchbald and mrs. reveley, two of godwin's admirers, were so upset at the announcement of his marriage that they shed tears. an interesting description of mary at this time is given in southey's letter to cottle, quoted above, dated march 13, 1797. he says, "of all the lions or _literati_ i have seen here, mary imlay's countenance is the best, infinitely the best: the only fault in it is an expression somewhat similar to what the prints of horne tooke display--an expression indicating superiority; not haughtiness, not sarcasm, in mary imlay, but still it is unpleasant. her eyes are light brown, and although the lid of one of them is affected by a little paralysis, they are the most meaning i ever saw." mary busied herself with literary work; otherwise her short married life was uneventful. godwin made a journey with his friend basil montagu to staffordshire from june 3 to 20, and the correspondence between husband and wife during this time, which mr. paul prints, is most delightful reading, and shows how entirely in sympathy they were. [illustration: from a photo by emery, walker after the picture by opie (probably painted in april, 1797) in the national portrait gallery. mary wollstonecraft. this picture passed from godwin's hands on his death to his grandson, sir percy florence shelley. it was afterwards bequeathed to the nation by his widow, lady shelley. it was engraved by heath (jan. 1, 1798) for godwin's memoir of his wife. an engraving of it also appeared in the _lady's magazine_, from which the frontispiece to this book was made, and a mezzotint by w. t. annis was published in 1802. mrs. merritt also made an etching of the picture for mr. paul's edition of the "letters to imlay." _to face p. xxvi_] on august 30, mary's child was born, not the william so much desired by them both but mary, who afterwards became mrs. shelley. all seemed well with the mother until september 3, when alarming symptoms appeared. the best medical advice was obtained, but after a week's illness, on sunday morning, the 10th, at twenty minutes to eight, she sank and died. during her illness, when in great agony, an anodyne was administered, which gave mary some relief, when she exclaimed, "oh, godwin, i am in heaven." but, as mr. kegan paul says, "even at that moment godwin declined to be entrapped into the admission that heaven existed," and his instant reply was: "you mean, my dear, that your physical sensations are somewhat easier." mary godwin, however, did not share her husband's religious doubts. her sufferings had been great, but her death was a peaceful one. godwin's grief was very deep, as the letters that he wrote immediately after her death, and his tribute to her memory in the "memoirs" testify. mary godwin was buried in old st. pancras churchyard on september 15, in the presence of most of her friends. godwin lived till 1836, when he was laid beside her. many years afterwards, at the same graveside, shelley is said to have plighted his troth to mary godwin's daughter. in 1851, when the metropolitan and midland railways were constructed at st. pancras, the graveyard was destroyed, but the bodies of mary and william godwin were removed by their grandson, sir percy shelley, to bournemouth, where they now rest with his remains, and those of his mother, mrs. shelley. in the year following mary's death (1798) godwin edited his wife's "posthumous works," in four volumes, in which appeared the letters to imlay, and her incomplete novel "the wrongs of woman." his tribute to mary godwin's memory was also published in 1798, under the title of "memoirs of the author of _a vindication of the rights of woman_." godwin's novel, "st. leon" came out in 1799; his tragedy "antonio" was produced only to fail, in 1800, and in 1801, he was wooed and won by mrs. clairmont, a widow. the godwin household was a somewhat mixed one, consisting, as it did, of fanny imlay, mary godwin, mrs. godwin's two children, charles and claire clairmont, and also of william, the only child born of her marriage with godwin. in 1812 shelley began a correspondence with godwin, which ultimately led to mary godwin's elopement with the poet. poor fanny imlay, or godwin, as she was called after her mother's death, died at the age of nineteen by her own hand, in october 1816. her life had been far from happy in this strange household. she had grown to love shelley, but his choice had fallen on her half-sister, so she bravely kept her secret to herself. one day she suddenly left home and travelled to swansea, where she was found lying dead the morning after her arrival, in the inn where she had taken a room, "her long brown hair about her face; a bottle of laudanum upon the table, and a note which ran thus: 'i have long determined that the best thing i could do was to put an end to the existence of a being whose birth was unfortunate, and whose life has only been a series of pain to those persons who have hurt their health in endeavouring to promote her welfare.' she had with her the little genevan watch, a gift of travel from mary and shelley: and in her purse were a few shillings."[1] shelley, afterwards recalling his last interview with fanny in london, wrote this stanza: "her voice did quiver as we parted; yet knew i not that heart was broken from whence it came, and i departed heeding not the words then spoken. misery--o misery, this world is all too wide for thee!" iii the vicissitudes to which mary wollstonecraft was so largely a prey during her lifetime seem to have pursued her after death. in her own day recognised as a public character, reviled by most of her contemporaries in terms not less ungentle than horace walpole's epithets, "a hyena in petticoats" or "a philosophising serpent," posterity has proved hardly more lenient to her. but the vigorous work of this "female patriot" has saved her name from that descent into obscurity which is the reward of many men and women more talented than mary wollstonecraft. reputed chiefly as an unsexed being, who had written "a vindication of the rights of women," she was not the first woman to hold views on the emancipation of her sex; but her chief crimes were in expressing them for the instruction of the public, and having the courage to live up to her opinions. whether right or wrong, she paid the penalty of violating custom by discussing forbidden subjects. it is true that she detected many social evils, and suggested some excellent remedies for their amelioration, but the time was not ripe for her book, and she suffered the usual fate of the pioneer. moreover, her memoir by william godwin, beautiful as it is in many respects, exercised a distinctly harmful influence in regard to her memory. the very fact that she became the wife of so notorious a man, was sufficient reason to condemn her in the eyes of her countrymen. for two generations after her death practically no attempt was made to remove the stigma from her name. but at length the late mr. kegan paul, a man of wide and generous sympathies, made a serious effort to obtain something like justice for mary wollstonecraft. in his book on william godwin, published in 1876, the true story of mary's life was told for the first time. it was somewhat of a revelation, for it recorded the history of an unhappy but brave and loyal woman, whose faults proceeded from excessive sensibility and from a heart that was over-susceptible. mary wollstonecraft was an idealist in a very matter-of-fact age, and her outlook on life, like that of most idealists, was strongly affected by her imagination. she saw people and events in brilliant lights or sombre shadows--it was a power akin to enthusiasm which enabled her to produce some of her best writing, but it also prevented her from seeing the defects of her worst work. since mr. kegan paul's memoir, mary wollstonecraft has been viewed from an entirely different aspect, and many there are who have come under the spell of her fascinating personality. it is not, however, her message alone that now interests us, but the woman herself, her desires, her aspirations, her struggles, and her love. pathetic and lonely, she stands out in the faint mists of the past, a woman that will continue to evoke sympathy when her books are no longer read. but it is safe to predict that the pages reprinted in this volume are not destined to share the fate of the rest of her work. other writers have been unhappy and have known the pains of unrequited love, but mary wollstonecraft addressed these letters with a breaking heart to the man whom she adored, the most passionate love letters in our literature. it is true that she was a votary of rousseau, and that she had probably assimilated from the study of his work not only many of his views, but something of his style; it does not, however, appear that she had any motive in writing these letters other than to plead her cause with imlay. she was far too sensitive to have intended them for publication, and it was only by a mere chance that they were rescued from oblivion. _december 1907._ portraits mary wollstonecraft (photogravure) _frontispiece_ mary wollstonecraft, by opie. from an engraving by ridley _facing p._ xvi mary wollstonecraft, from the picture by opie _facing p._ xxvi letters to gilbert imlay letter i _two o'clock [paris, june 1793]._ my dear love, after making my arrangements for our snug dinner to-day, i have been taken by storm, and obliged to promise to dine, at an early hour, with the miss ----s, the _only_ day they intend to pass here. i shall however leave the key in the door, and hope to find you at my fire-side when i return, about eight o'clock. will you not wait for poor joan?--whom you will find better, and till then think very affectionately of her. yours, truly, mary. i am sitting down to dinner; so do not send an answer. letter ii _past twelve o'clock, monday night [paris, aug. 1793]._ i obey an emotion of my heart, which made me think of wishing thee, my love, good-night! before i go to rest, with more tenderness than i can to-morrow, when writing a hasty line or two under colonel ----'s eye. you can scarcely imagine with what pleasure i anticipate the day, when we are to begin almost to live together; and you would smile to hear how many plans of employment i have in my head, now that i am confident my heart has found peace in your bosom.--cherish me with that dignified tenderness, which i have only found in you; and your own dear girl will try to keep under a quickness of feeling, that has sometimes given you pain.--yes, i will be _good_, that i may deserve to be happy; and whilst you love me, i cannot again fall into the miserable state, which rendered life a burthen almost too heavy to be borne. but, good-night!--god bless you! sterne says, that is equal to a kiss--yet i would rather give you the kiss into the bargain, glowing with gratitude to heaven, and affection to you. i like the word affection, because it signifies something habitual; and we are soon to meet, to try whether we have mind enough to keep our hearts warm. mary. i will be at the barrier a little after ten o'clock to-morrow.[2]--yours-letter iii _wednesday morning [paris, aug. 1793]._ you have often called me, dear girl, but you would now say good, did you know how very attentive i have been to the ---ever since i came to paris. i am not however going to trouble you with the account, because i like to see your eyes praise me; and milton insinuates, that, during such recitals, there are interruptions, not ungrateful to the heart, when the honey that drops from the lips is not merely words. yet, i shall not (let me tell you before these people enter, to force me to huddle away my letter) be content with only a kiss of duty--you _must_ be glad to see me--because you are glad--or i will make love to the _shade_ of mirabeau, to whom my heart continually turned, whilst i was talking with madame ----, forcibly telling me, that it will ever have sufficient warmth to love, whether i will or not, sentiment, though i so highly respect principle.---not that i think mirabeau utterly devoid of principles--far from it--and, if i had not begun to form a new theory respecting men, i should, in the vanity of my heart, have _imagined_ that _i_ could have made something of his----it was composed of such materials--hush! here they come--and love flies away in the twinkling of an eye, leaving a little brush of his wing on my pale cheeks. i hope to see dr. ---this morning; i am going to mr. ----'s to meet him. ----, and some others, are invited to dine with us to-day; and to-morrow i am to spend the day with ----. i shall probably not be able to return to ---to-morrow; but it is no matter, because i must take a carriage, i have so many books, that i immediately want, to take with me.--on friday then i shall expect you to dine with me--and, if you come a little before dinner, it is so long since i have seen you, you will not be scolded by yours affectionately, mary. letter iv[3] _friday morning [paris, sept. 1793]._ a man, whom a letter from mr. ---previously announced, called here yesterday for the payment of a draft; and, as he seemed disappointed at not finding you at home, i sent him to mr. ----. i have since seen him, and he tells me that he has settled the business. so much for business!--may i venture to talk a little longer about less weighty affairs?--how are you?--i have been following you all along the road this comfortless weather; for, when i am absent from those i love, my imagination is as lively, as if my senses had never been gratified by their presence--i was going to say caresses--and why should i not? i have found out that i have more mind than you, in one respect; because i can, without any violent effort of reason, find food for love in the same object, much longer than you can.--the way to my senses is through my heart; but, forgive me! i think there is sometimes a shorter cut to yours. with ninety-nine men out of a hundred, a very sufficient dash of folly is necessary to render a woman _piquante_, a soft word for desirable; and, beyond these casual ebullitions of sympathy, few look for enjoyment by fostering a passion in their hearts. one reason, in short, why i wish my whole sex to become wiser, is, that the foolish ones may not, by their pretty folly, rob those whose sensibility keeps down their vanity, of the few roses that afford them some solace in the thorny road of life. i do not know how i fell into these reflections, excepting one thought produced it--that these continual separations were necessary to warm your affection.--of late, we are always separating.--crack!--crack!--and away you go.--this joke wears the sallow cast of thought; for, though i began to write cheerfully, some melancholy tears have found their way into my eyes, that linger there, whilst a glow of tenderness at my heart whispers that you are one of the best creatures in the world.--pardon then the vagaries of a mind, that has been almost "crazed by care," as well as "crossed in hapless love," and bear with me a _little_ longer!--when we are settled in the country together, more duties will open before me, and my heart, which now, trembling into peace, is agitated by every emotion that awakens the remembrance of old griefs, will learn to rest on yours, with that dignity your character, not to talk of my own, demands. take care of yourself--and write soon to your own girl (you may add dear, if you please) who sincerely loves you, and will try to convince you of it, by becoming happier. mary. letter v _sunday night [paris, 1793]._ i have just received your letter, and feel as if i could not go to bed tranquilly without saying a few words in reply--merely to tell you, that my mind is serene and my heart affectionate. ever since you last saw me inclined to faint, i have felt some gentle twitches, which make me begin to think, that i am nourishing a creature who will soon be sensible of my care.--this thought has not only produced an overflowing of tenderness to you, but made me very attentive to calm my mind and take exercise, lest i should destroy an object, in whom we are to have a mutual interest, you know. yesterday--do not smile!--finding that i had hurt myself by lifting precipitately a large log of wood, i sat down in an agony, till i felt those said twitches again. are you very busy? * * * * * so you may reckon on its being finished soon, though not before you come home, unless you are detained longer than i now allow myself to believe you will.-be that as it may, write to me, my best love, and bid me be patient--kindly--and the expressions of kindness will again beguile the time, as sweetly as they have done to-night.--tell me also over and over again, that your happiness (and you deserve to be happy!) is closely connected with mine, and i will try to dissipate, as they rise, the fumes of former discontent, that have too often clouded the sunshine, which you have endeavoured to diffuse through my mind. god bless you! take care of yourself, and remember with tenderness your affectionate mary. i am going to rest very happy, and you have made me so.--this is the kindest good-night i can utter. letter vi _friday morning [paris, dec. 1793]._ i am glad to find that other people can be unreasonable, as well as myself--for be it known to thee, that i answered thy _first_ letter, the very night it reached me (sunday), though thou couldst not receive it before wednesday, because it was not sent off till the next day.--there is a full, true, and particular account.-yet i am not angry with thee, my love, for i think that it is a proof of stupidity, and likewise of a milk-and-water affection, which comes to the same thing, when the temper is governed by a square and compass.--there is nothing picturesque in this straight-lined equality, and the passions always give grace to the actions. recollection now makes my heart bound to thee; but, it is not to thy money-getting face, though i cannot be seriously displeased with the exertion which increases my esteem, or rather is what i should have expected from thy character.--no; i have thy honest countenance before me--pop--relaxed by tenderness; a little--little wounded by my whims; and thy eyes glistening with sympathy.--thy lips then feel softer than soft--and i rest my cheek on thine, forgetting all the world.--i have not left the hue of love out of the picture--the rosy glow; and fancy has spread it over my own cheeks, i believe, for i feel them burning, whilst a delicious tear trembles in my eye, that would be all your own, if a grateful emotion directed to the father of nature, who has made me thus alive to happiness, did not give more warmth to the sentiment it divides--i must pause a moment. need i tell you that i am tranquil after writing thus?--i do not know why, but i have more confidence in your affection, when absent, than present; nay, i think that you must love me, for, in the sincerity of my heart let me say it, i believe i deserve your tenderness, because i am true, and have a degree of sensibility that you can see and relish. yours sincerely, mary. letter vii. _sunday morning [paris, dec. 29, 1793]._ you seem to have taken up your abode at havre. pray sir! when do you think of coming home? or, to write very considerately, when will business permit you? i shall expect (as the country people say in england) that you will make a _power_ of money to indemnify me for your absence. * * * * * well! but, my love, to the old story--am i to see you this week, or this month?--i do not know what you are about--for, as you did not tell me, i would not ask mr. ----, who is generally pretty communicative. i long to see mrs. ----; not to hear from you, so do not give yourself airs, but to get a letter from mr. ----. and i am half angry with you for not informing me whether she had brought one with her or not.--on this score i will cork up some of the kind things that were ready to drop from my pen, which has never been dipt in gall when addressing you; or, will only suffer an exclamation--"the creature!" or a kind look to escape me, when i pass the slippers--which i could not remove from my _falle_ door, though they are not the handsomest of their kind. _be not too anxious to get money!--for nothing worth having is to be purchased._ god bless you. yours affectionately, mary. letter viii _monday night [paris, dec. 30, 1793]._ my best love, your letter to-night was particularly grateful to my heart, depressed by the letters i received by ----, for he brought me several, and the parcel of books directed to mr. ---was for me. mr. ----'s letter was long and very affectionate; but the account he gives me of his own affairs, though he obviously makes the best of them, has vexed me. a melancholy letter from my sister ---has also harrassed my mind--that from my brother would have given me sincere pleasure; but for * * * * * there is a spirit of independence in his letter, that will please you; and you shall see it, when we are once more over the fire together.--i think that you would hail him as a brother, with one of your tender looks, when your heart not only gives a lustre to your eye, but a dance of playfulness, that he would meet with a glow half made up of bashfulness, and a desire to please the----where shall i find a word to express the relationship which subsists between us?--shall i ask the little twitcher?--but i have dropt half the sentence that was to tell you how much he would be inclined to love the man loved by his sister. i have been fancying myself sitting between you, ever since i began to write, and my heart has leaped at the thought! you see how i chat to you. i did not receive your letter till i came home; and i did not expect it, for the post came in much later than usual. it was a cordial to me--and i wanted one. mr. ---tells me that he has written again and again.--love him a little!--it would be a kind of separation, if you did not love those i love. there was so much considerate tenderness in your epistle to-night, that, if it has not made you dearer to me, it has made me forcibly feel how very dear you are to me, by charming away half my cares. yours affectionately. mary. letter ix _tuesday morning [paris, dec. 31, 1793]._ though i have just sent a letter off, yet, as captain ---offers to take one, i am not willing to let him go without a kind greeting, because trifles of this sort, without having any effect on my mind, damp my spirits:--and you, with all your struggles to be manly, have some of his same sensibility.--do not bid it begone, for i love to see it striving to master your features; besides, these kind of sympathies are the life of affection: and why, in cultivating our understandings, should we try to dry up these springs of pleasure, which gush out to give a freshness to days browned by care! the books sent to me are such as we may read together; so i shall not look into them till you return; when you shall read, whilst i mend my stockings. yours truly, mary. letter x _wednesday night [paris, jan. 1, 1794]._ as i have been, you tell me, three days without writing, i ought not to complain of two: yet, as i expected to receive a letter this afternoon, i am hurt; and why should i, by concealing it, affect the heroism i do not feel? i hate commerce. how differently must ----'s head and heart be organized from mine! you will tell me, that exertions are necessary: i am weary of them! the face of things, public and private, vexes me. the "peace" and clemency which seemed to be dawning a few days ago, disappear again. "i am fallen," as milton said, "on evil days;" for i really believe that europe will be in a state of convulsion, during half a century at least. life is but a labour of patience: it is always rolling a great stone up a hill; for, before a person can find a resting-place, imagining it is lodged, down it comes again, and all the work is to be done over anew! should i attempt to write any more, i could not change the strain. my head aches, and my heart is heavy. the world appears an "unweeded garden," where "things rank and vile" flourish best. if you do not return soon--or, which is no such mighty matter, talk of it--i will throw your slippers out at window, and be off--nobody knows where. mary. finding that i was observed, i told the good women, the two mrs. ----s, simply that i was with child: and let them stare! and ----, and ----, nay, all the world, may know it for aught i care!--yet i wish to avoid ----'s coarse jokes. considering the care and anxiety a woman must have about a child before it comes into the world, it seems to me, by a _natural right_, to belong to her. when men get immersed in the world, they seem to lose all sensations, excepting those necessary to continue or produce life!--are these the privileges of reason? amongst the feathered race, whilst the hen keeps the young warm, her mate stays by to cheer her; but it is sufficient for man to condescend to get a child, in order to claim it.--a man is a tyrant! you may now tell me, that, if it were not for me, you would be laughing away with some honest fellows in london. the casual exercise of social sympathy would not be sufficient for me--i should not think such an heartless life worth preserving.--it is necessary to be in good-humour with you, to be pleased with the world. _thursday morning [paris, jan. 2, 1794]._ i was very low-spirited last night, ready to quarrel with your cheerful temper, which makes absence easy to you.--and, why should i mince the matter? i was offended at your not even mentioning it--i do not want to be loved like a goddess but i wish to be necessary to you. god bless you![4] letter xi _monday night [paris, jan. 1794]._ i have just received your kind and rational letter, and would fain hide my face, glowing with shame for my folly.--i would hide it in your bosom, if you would again open it to me, and nestle closely till you bade my fluttering heart be still, by saying that you forgave me. with eyes overflowing with tears, and in the humblest attitude, i entreat you.--do not turn from me, for indeed i love you fondly, and have been very wretched, since the night i was so cruelly hurt by thinking that you had no confidence in me---it is time for me to grow more reasonable, a few more of these caprices of sensibility would destroy me. i have, in fact, been very much indisposed for a few days past, and the notion that i was tormenting, or perhaps killing, a poor little animal, about whom i am grown anxious and tender, now i feel it alive, made me worse. my bowels have been dreadfully disordered, and every thing i ate or drank disagreed with my stomach; still i feel intimations of its existence, though they have been fainter. do you think that the creature goes regularly to sleep? i am ready to ask as many questions as voltaire's man of forty crowns. ah! do not continue to be angry with me! you perceive that i am already smiling through my tears--you have lightened my heart, and my frozen spirits are melting into playfulness. write the moment you receive this. i shall count the minutes. but drop not an angry word--i cannot now bear it. yet, if you think i deserve a scolding (it does not admit of a question, i grant), wait till you come back--and then, if you are angry one day, i shall be sure of seeing you the next. ---did not write to you, i suppose, because he talked of going to havre. hearing that i was ill, he called very kindly on me, not dreaming that it was some words that he incautiously let fall, which rendered me so. god bless you, my love; do not shut your heart against a return of tenderness; and, as i now in fancy cling to you, be more than ever my support.--feel but as affectionate when you read this letter, as i did writing it, and you will make happy your mary. letter xii _wednesday morning [paris, jan. 1794]._ i will never, if i am not entirely cured of quarrelling, begin to encourage "quick-coming fancies," when we are separated. yesterday, my love, i could not open your letter for some time; and, though it was not half as severe as i merited, it threw me into such a fit of trembling, as seriously alarmed me. i did not, as you may suppose, care for a little pain on my own account; but all the fears which i have had for a few days past, returned with fresh force. this morning i am better; will you not be glad to hear it? you perceive that sorrow has almost made a child of me, and that i want to be soothed to peace. one thing you mistake in my character, and imagine that to be coldness which is just the contrary. for, when i am hurt by the person most dear to me, i must let out a whole torrent of emotions, in which tenderness would be uppermost, or stifle them altogether; and it appears to me almost a duty to stifle them, when i imagine _that i am treated with coldness_. i am afraid that i have vexed you, my own [imlay]. i know the quickness of your feelings--and let me, in the sincerity of my heart, assure you, there is nothing i would not suffer to make you happy. my own happiness wholly depends on you--and, knowing you, when my reason is not clouded, i look forward to a rational prospect of as much felicity as the earth affords--with a little dash of rapture into the bargain, if you will look at me, when we work again, as you have sometimes greeted, your humbled, yet most affectionate mary. letter xiii _thursday night [paris, jan. 1794]._ i have been wishing the time away, my kind love, unable to rest till i knew that my penitential letter had reached your hand--and this afternoon, when your tender epistle of tuesday gave such exquisite pleasure to your poor sick girl, her heart smote her to think that you were still to receive another cold one.--burn it also, my [imlay]; yet do not forget that even those letters were full of love; and i shall ever recollect, that you did not wait to be mollified by my penitence, before you took me again to your heart. i have been unwell, and would not, now i am recovering, take a journey, because i have been seriously alarmed and angry with myself, dreading continually the fatal consequence of my folly.--but, should you think it right to remain at havre, i shall find some opportunity, in the course of a fortnight, or less perhaps, to come to you, and before then i shall be strong again.--yet do not be uneasy! i am really better, and never took such care of myself, as i have done since you restored my peace of mind. the girl is come to warm my bed--so i will tenderly say, good-night! and write a line or two in the morning. _morning._ i wish you were here to walk with me this fine morning! yet your absence shall not prevent me. i have stayed at home too much; though, when i was so dreadfully out of spirits, i was careless of every thing. i will now sally forth (you will go with me in my heart) and try whether this fine bracing air will not give the vigour to the poor babe, it had, before i so inconsiderately gave way to the grief that deranged my bowels, and gave a turn to my whole system. yours truly mary imlay. letter xiv _saturday morning [paris, feb. 1794]._ the two or three letters, which i have written to you lately, my love, will serve as an answer to your explanatory one. i cannot but respect your motives and conduct. i always respected them; and was only hurt, by what seemed to me a want of confidence, and consequently affection.--i thought also, that if you were obliged to stay three months at havre, i might as well have been with you.--well! well, what signifies what i brooded over--let us now be friends! i shall probably receive a letter from you to-day, sealing my pardon--and i will be careful not to torment you with my querulous humours, at least, till i see you again. act as circumstances direct, and i will not enquire when they will permit you to return, convinced that you will hasten to your mary, when you have attained (or lost sight of) the object of your journey. what a picture have you sketched of our fire-side! yes, my love, my fancy was instantly at work, and i found my head on your shoulder, whilst my eyes were fixed on the little creatures that were clinging about your knees. i did not absolutely determine that there should be six--if you have not set your heart on this round number. i am going to dine with mrs. ----. i have not been to visit her since the first day she came to paris. i wish indeed to be out in the air as much as i can; for the exercise i have taken these two or three days past, has been of such service to me, that i hope shortly to tell you, that i am quite well. i have scarcely slept before last night, and then not much.--the two mrs. ----s have been very anxious and tender. yours truly mary. i need not desire you to give the colonel a good bottle of wine. letter xv _sunday morning [paris, feb. 1794]._ i wrote to you yesterday, my [imlay]; but, finding that the colonel is still detained (for his passport was forgotten at the office yesterday) i am not willing to let so many days elapse without your hearing from me, after having talked of illness and apprehensions. i cannot boast of being quite recovered, yet i am (i must use my yorkshire phrase; for, when my heart is warm, pop come the expressions of childhood into my head) so _lightsome_, that i think it will not _go badly with me_.--and nothing shall be wanting on my part, i assure you; for i am urged on, not only by an enlivened affection for you, but by a new-born tenderness that plays cheerly round my dilating heart. i was therefore, in defiance of cold and dirt, out in the air the greater part of yesterday; and, if i get over this evening without a return of the fever that has tormented me, i shall talk no more of illness. i have promised the little creature, that its mother, who ought to cherish it, will not again plague it, and begged it to pardon me; and, since i could not hug either it or you to my breast, i have to my heart.--i am afraid to read over this prattle--but it is only for your eye. i have been seriously vexed, to find that, whilst you were harrassed by impediments in your undertakings, i was giving you additional uneasiness.--if you can make any of your plans answer--it is well, i do not think a _little_ money inconvenient; but, should they fail, we will struggle cheerfully together--drawn closer by the pinching blasts of poverty. adieu, my love! write often to your poor girl, and write long letters; for i not only like them for being longer, but because more heart steals into them; and i am happy to catch your heart whenever i can. yours sincerely mary. letter xvi _tuesday morning [paris, feb. 1794]._ i seize this opportunity to inform you, that i am to set out on thursday with mr. ----, and hope to tell you soon (on your lips) how glad i shall be to see you. i have just got my passport, for i do not foresee any impediment to my reaching havre, to bid you good-night next friday in my new apartment--where i am to meet you and love, in spite of care, to smile me to sleep--for i have not caught much rest since we parted. you have, by your tenderness and worth, twisted yourself more artfully round my heart, than i supposed possible.--let me indulge the thought, that i have thrown out some tendrils to cling to the elm by which i wish to be supported.--this is talking a new language for me!--but, knowing that i am not a parasite-plant, i am willing to receive the proofs of affection, that every pulse replies to, when i think of being once more in the same house with you. god bless you! yours truly mary. letter xvii _wednesday morning [paris, feb. 1794]._ i only send this as an _avant-coureur_, without jack-boots, to tell you, that i am again on the wing, and hope to be with you a few hours after you receive it. i shall find you well, and composed, i am sure; or, more properly speaking, cheerful.--what is the reason that my spirits are not as manageable as yours? yet, now i think of it, i will not allow that your temper is even, though i have promised myself, in order to obtain my own forgiveness, that i will not ruffle it for a long, long time--i am afraid to say never. farewell for a moment!--do not forget that i am driving towards you in person! my mind, unfettered, has flown to you long since, or rather has never left you. i am well, and have no apprehension that i shall find the journey too fatiguing, when i follow the lead of my heart.--with my face turned to havre my spirits will not sink--and my mind has always hitherto enabled my body to do whatever i wished. yours affectionately, mary. letter xviii _thursday morning, havre, march 12 [1794]._ we are such creatures of habit, my love, that, though i cannot say i was sorry, childishly so, for your going,[5] when i knew that you were to stay such a short time, and i had a plan of employment; yet i could not sleep.--i turned to your side of the bed, and tried to make the most of the comfort of the pillow, which you used to tell me i was churlish about; but all would not do.--i took nevertheless my walk before breakfast, though the weather was not very inviting--and here i am, wishing you a finer day, and seeing you peep over my shoulder, as i write, with one of your kindest looks--when your eyes glisten, and a suffusion creeps over your relaxing features. but i do not mean to dally with you this morning--so god bless you! take care of yourself--and sometimes fold to your heart your affectionate mary. letter xix _[havre, march, 1794]._ do not call me stupid, for leaving on the table the little bit of paper i was to inclose.--this comes of being in love at the fag-end of a letter of business.--you know, you say, they will not chime together.--i had got you by the fire-side, with the _gigot_ smoking on the board, to lard your poor bare ribs--and behold, i closed my letter without taking the paper up, that was directly under my eyes! what had i got in them to render me so blind?--i give you leave to answer the question, if you will not scold; for i am, yours most affectionately, mary. letter xx _[havre] sunday, august 17 [1794]._ * * * * * i have promised ---to go with him to his country-house, where he is now permitted to dine--i, and the little darling, to be sure[6]--whom i cannot help kissing with more fondness, since you left us. i think i shall enjoy the fine prospect, and that it will rather enliven, than satiate my imagination. i have called on mrs. ----. she has the manners of a gentlewoman, with a dash of the easy french coquetry, which renders her _piquante_.--but _monsieur_ her husband, whom nature never dreamed of casting in either the mould of a gentleman or lover, makes but an aukward figure in the foreground of the picture. the h----s are very ugly, without doubt--and the house smelt of commerce from top to toe--so that his abortive attempt to display taste, only proved it to be one of the things not to be bought with gold. i was in a room a moment alone, and my attention was attracted by the _pendule_--a nymph was offering up her vows before a smoking altar, to a fat-bottomed cupid (saving your presence), who was kicking his heels in the air.--ah! kick on, thought i; for the demon of traffic will ever fright away the loves and graces, that streak with the rosy beams of infant fancy the _sombre_ day of life--whilst the imagination, not allowing us to see things as they are, enables us to catch a hasty draught of the running stream of delight, the thirst for which seems to be given only to tantalize us. but i am philosophizing; nay, perhaps you will call me severe, and bid me let the square-headed money-getters alone.--peace to them! though none of the social sprites (and there are not a few of different descriptions, who sport about the various inlets to my heart) gave me a twitch to restrain my pen. i have been writing on, expecting poor ---to come; for, when i began, i merely thought of business; and, as this is the idea that most naturally associates with your image, i wonder i stumbled on any other. yet, as common life, in my opinion, is scarcely worth having, even with a _gigot_ every day, and a pudding added thereunto, i will allow you to cultivate my judgment, if you will permit me to keep alive the sentiments in your heart, which may be termed romantic, because, the offspring of the senses and the imagination, they resemble the mother more than the father,[7] when they produce the suffusion i admire.--in spite of icy age, i hope still to see it, if you have not determined only to eat and drink, and be stupidly useful to the stupid- yours, mary. letter xxi _havre, august 19 [1794] tuesday._ i received both your letters to-day--i had reckoned on hearing from you yesterday, therefore was disappointed, though i imputed your silence to the right cause. i intended answering your kind letter immediately, that you might have felt the pleasure it gave me; but ---came in, and some other things interrupted me; so that the fine vapour has evaporated--yet, leaving a sweet scent behind, i have only to tell you, what is sufficiently obvious, that the earnest desire i have shown to keep my place, or gain more ground in your heart, is a sure proof how necessary your affection is to my happiness.--still i do not think it false delicacy, or foolish pride, to wish that your attention to my happiness should arise _as much_ from love, which is always rather a selfish passion, as reason--that is, i want you to promote my felicity, by seeking your own.--for, whatever pleasure it may give me to discover your generosity of soul, i would not be dependent for your affection on the very quality i most admire. no; there are qualities in your heart, which demand my affection; but, unless the attachment appears to me clearly mutual, i shall labour only to esteem your character, instead of cherishing a tenderness for your person. i write in a hurry, because the little one, who has been sleeping a long time, begins to call for me. poor thing! when i am sad, i lament that all my affections grow on me, till they become too strong for my peace, though they all afford me snatches of exquisite enjoyment--this for our little girl was at first very reasonable--more the effect of reason, a sense of duty, than feeling--now, she has got into my heart and imagination, and when i walk out without her, her little figure is ever dancing before me. you too have somehow clung round my heart--i found i could not eat my dinner in the great room--and, when i took up the large knife to carve for myself, tears rushed into my eyes.--do not however suppose that i am melancholy--for, when you are from me, i not only wonder how i can find fault with you--but how i can doubt your affection. i will not mix any comments on the inclosed (it roused my indignation) with the effusion of tenderness, with which i assure you, that you are the friend of my bosom, and the prop of my heart. mary. letter xxii _havre, august 20 [1794]._ i want to know what steps you have taken respecting ----. knavery always rouses my indignation--i should be gratified to hear that the law had chastised ---severely; but i do not wish you to see him, because the business does not now admit of peaceful discussion, and i do not exactly know how you would express your contempt. pray ask some questions about tallien--i am still pleased with the dignity of his conduct.--the other day, in the cause of humanity, he made use of a degree of address, which i admire--and mean to point out to you, as one of the few instances of address which do credit to the abilities of the man, without taking away from that confidence in his openness of heart, which is the true basis of both public and private friendship. do not suppose that i mean to allude to a little reserve of temper in you, of which i have sometimes complained! you have been used to a cunning woman, and you almost look for cunning--nay, in _managing_ my happiness, you now and then wounded my sensibility, concealing yourself, till honest sympathy, giving you to me without disguise, lets me look into a heart, which my half-broken one wishes to creep into, to be revived and cherished.--you have frankness of heart, but not often exactly that overflowing (_épanchement de coeur_), which becoming almost childish, appears a weakness only to the weak. but i have left poor tallien. i wanted you to enquire likewise whether, as a member declared in the convention, robespierre really maintained a _number_ of mistresses.--should it prove so, i suspect that they rather flattered his vanity than his senses. here is a chatting, desultory epistle! but do not suppose that i mean to close it without mentioning the little damsel--who has been almost springing out of my arm--she certainly looks very like you--but i do not love her the less for that, whether i am angry or pleased with you. yours affectionately, mary. letter xxiii[8] _[paris] september 22 [1794]._ i have just written two letters, that are going by other conveyances, and which i reckon on your receiving long before this. i therefore merely write, because i know i should be disappointed at seeing any one who had left you, if you did not send a letter, were it ever so short, to tell me why you did not write a longer--and you will want to be told, over and over again, that our little hercules is quite recovered. besides looking at me, there are three other things, which delight her--to ride in a coach, to look at a scarlet waistcoat, and hear loud music--yesterday, at the _fête_, she enjoyed the two latter; but, to honour j. j. rousseau, i intend to give her a sash, the first she has ever had round her--and why not?--for i have always been half in love with him. well, this you will say is trifling--shall i talk about alum or soap? there is nothing picturesque in your present pursuits; my imagination then rather chuses to ramble back to the barrier with you, or to see you coming to meet me, and my basket of grapes.--with what pleasure do i recollect your looks and words, when i have been sitting on the window, regarding the waving corn! believe me, sage sir, you have not sufficient respect for the imagination--i could prove to you in a trice that it is the mother of sentiment, the great distinction of our nature, the only purifier of the passions--animals have a portion of reason, and equal, if not more exquisite, senses; but no trace of imagination, or her offspring taste, appears in any of their actions. the impulse of the senses, passions, if you will, and the conclusions of reason, draw men together; but the imagination is the true fire, stolen from heaven, to animate this cold creature of clay, producing all those fine sympathies that lead to rapture, rendering men social by expanding their hearts, instead of leaving them leisure to calculate how many comforts society affords. if you call these observations romantic, a phrase in this place which would be tantamount to nonsensical, i shall be apt to retort, that you are embruted by trade, and the vulgar enjoyments of life--bring me then back your barrier-face, or you shall have nothing to say to my barrier-girl; and i shall fly from you, to cherish the remembrances that will ever be dear to me; for i am yours truly, mary. letter xxiv _[paris] evening, sept. 23, [1794]._ i have been playing and laughing with the little girl so long, that i cannot take up my pen to address you without emotion. pressing her to my bosom, she looked so like you (_entre nous_, your best looks, for i do not admire your commercial face) every nerve seemed to vibrate to the touch, and i began to think that there was something in the assertion of man and wife being one--for you seemed to pervade my whole frame, quickening the beat of my heart, and lending me the sympathetic tears you excited. have i any thing more to say to you? no; not for the present--the rest is all flown away; and, indulging tenderness for you, i cannot now complain of some people here, who have ruffled my temper for two or three days past. _[paris, 1794] morning._ yesterday b---sent to me for my packet of letters. he called on me before; and i like him better than i did--that is, i have the same opinion of his understanding, but i think with you, he has more tenderness and real delicacy of feeling with respect to women, than are commonly to be met with. his manner too of speaking of his little girl, about the age of mine, interested me. i gave him a letter for my sister, and requested him to see her. i have been interrupted. mr. ---i suppose will write about business. public affairs i do not descant on, except to tell you that they write now with great freedom and truth; and this liberty of the press will overthrow the jacobins, i plainly perceive. i hope you take care of your health. i have got a habit of restlessness at night, which arises, i believe, from activity of mind; for, when i am alone, that is, not near one to whom i can open my heart, i sink into reveries and trains of thinking, which agitate and fatigue me. this is my third letter; when am i to hear from you? i need not tell you, i suppose, that i am now writing with somebody in the room with me, and ---is waiting to carry this to mr. ----'s. i will then kiss the girl for you, and bid you adieu. i desired you, in one of my other letters, to bring back to me your barrier-face--or that you should not be loved by my barrier-girl. i know that you will love her more and more, for she is a little affectionate, intelligent creature, with as much vivacity, i should think, as you could wish for. i was going to tell you of two or three things which displease me here; but they are not of sufficient consequence to interrupt pleasing sensations. i have received a letter from mr. ----. i want you to bring ---with you. madame s---is by me, reading a german translation of your letters--she desires me to give her love to you, on account of what you say of the negroes. yours most affectionately, mary. letter xxv _paris, sept. 28 [1794]._ i have written to you three or four letters; but different causes have prevented my sending them by the persons who promised to take or forward them. the inclosed is one i wrote to go by b----; yet, finding that he will not arrive, before i hope, and believe, you will have set out on your return, i inclose it to you, and shall give it in charge to ----, as mr. ---is detained, to whom i also gave a letter. i cannot help being anxious to hear from you; but i shall not harrass you with accounts of inquietudes, or of cares that arise from peculiar circumstances.--i have had so many little plagues here, that i have almost lamented that i left havre. ----, who is at best a most helpless creature, is now, on account of her pregnancy, more trouble than use to me, so that i still continue to be almost a slave to the child.--she indeed rewards me, for she is a sweet little creature; for, setting aside a mother's fondness (which, by the bye, is growing on me, her little intelligent smiles sinking into my heart), she has an astonishing degree of sensibility and observation. the other day by b----'s child, a fine one, she looked like a little sprite.--she is all life and motion, and her eyes are not the eyes of a fool--i will swear. i slept at st. germain's, in the very room (if you have not forgot) in which you pressed me very tenderly to your heart.--i did not forget to fold my darling to mine, with sensations that are almost too sacred to be alluded to. adieu, my love! take care of yourself, if you wish to be the protector of your child, and the comfort of her mother. i have received, for you, letters from ----. i want to hear how that affair finishes, though i do not know whether i have most contempt for his folly or knavery. your own mary. letter xxvi _[paris] october 1 [1794]._ it is a heartless task to write letters, without knowing whether they will ever reach you.--i have given two to ----, who has been a-going, a-going, every day, for a week past; and three others, which were written in a low-spirited strain, a little querulous or so, i have not been able to forward by the opportunities that were mentioned to me. _tant mieux!_ you will say, and i will not say nay; for i should be sorry that the contents of a letter, when you are so far away, should damp the pleasure that the sight of it would afford--judging of your feelings by my own. i just now stumbled on one of the kind letters, which you wrote during your last absence. you are then a dear affectionate creature, and i will not plague you. the letter which you chance to receive, when the absence is so long, ought to bring only tears of tenderness, without any bitter alloy, into your eyes. after your return i hope indeed, that you will not be so immersed in business, as during the last three or four months past--for even money, taking into the account all the future comforts it is to procure, may be gained at too dear a rate, if painful impressions are left on the mind.--these impressions were much more lively, soon after you went away, than at present--for a thousand tender recollections efface the melancholy traces they left on my mind--and every emotion is on the same side as my reason, which always was on yours.--separated, it would be almost impious to dwell on real or imaginary imperfections of character.--i feel that i love you; and, if i cannot be happy with you, i will seek it no where else. my little darling grows every day more dear to me--and she often has a kiss, when we are alone together, which i give her for you, with all my heart. i have been interrupted--and must send off my letter. the liberty of the press will produce a great effect here--the _cry of blood will not be vain_!--some more monsters will perish--and the jacobins are conquered.--yet i almost fear the last flap of the tail of the beast. i have had several trifling teazing inconveniences here, which i shall not now trouble you with a detail of.--i am sending ---back; her pregnancy rendered her useless. the girl i have got has more vivacity, which is better for the child. i long to hear from you.--bring a copy of ---and ---with you. ---is still here: he is a lost man.--he really loves his wife, and is anxious about his children; but his indiscriminate hospitality and social feelings have given him an inveterate habit of drinking, that destroys his health, as well as renders his person disgusting.--if his wife had more sense, or delicacy, she might restrain him: as it is, nothing will save him. yours most truly and affectionately mary. letter xxvii _[paris] october 26 [1794]._ my dear love, i began to wish so earnestly to hear from you, that the sight of your letters occasioned such pleasurable emotions, i was obliged to throw them aside till the little girl and i were alone together; and this said little girl, our darling, is become a most intelligent little creature, and as gay as a lark, and that in the morning too, which i do not find quite so convenient. i once told you, that the sensations before she was born, and when she is sucking, were pleasant; but they do not deserve to be compared to the emotions i feel, when she stops to smile upon me, or laughs outright on meeting me unexpectedly in the street, or after a short absence. she has now the advantage of having two good nurses, and i am at present able to discharge my duty to her, without being the slave of it. i have therefore employed and amused myself since i got rid of ----, and am making a progress in the language amongst other things. i have also made some new acquaintance. i have almost _charmed_ a judge of the tribunal, r----, who, though i should not have thought it possible, has humanity, if not _beaucoup d'esprit_. but let me tell you, if you do not make haste back, i shall be half in love with the author of the _marseillaise_, who is a handsome man, a little too broad-faced or so, and plays sweetly on the violin. what do you say to this threat?--why, _entre nous_, i like to give way to a sprightly vein, when writing to you, that is, when i am pleased with you. "the devil," you know, is proverbially said to be "in a good humour, when he is pleased." will you not then be a good boy, and come back quickly to play with your girls? but i shall not allow you to love the new-comer best. * * * * * my heart longs for your return, my love, and only looks for, and seeks happiness with you; yet do not imagine that i childishly wish you to come back, before you have arranged things in such a manner, that it will not be necessary for you to leave us soon again, or to make exertions which injure your constitution. yours most truly and tenderly, mary. p.s. you would oblige me by delivering the inclosed to mr. ----, and pray call for an answer.--it is for a person uncomfortably situated. letter xxviii _[paris] dec. 26 [1794]._ i have been, my love, for some days tormented by fears, that i would not allow to assume a form--i had been expecting you daily--and i heard that many vessels had been driven on shore during the late gale.--well, i now see your letter--and find that you are safe; i will not regret then that your exertions have hitherto been so unavailing. * * * * * be that as it may, return to me when you have arranged the other matters, which ---has been crowding on you. i want to be sure that you are safe--and not separated from me by a sea that must be passed. for, feeling that i am happier than i ever was, do you wonder at my sometimes dreading that fate has not done persecuting me? come to me, my dearest friend, husband, father of my child!--all these fond ties glow at my heart at this moment, and dim my eyes.--with you an independence is desirable; and it is always within our reach, if affluence escapes us--without you the world again appears empty to me. but i am recurring to some of the melancholy thoughts that have flitted across my mind for some days past, and haunted my dreams. my little darling is indeed a sweet child; and i am sorry that you are not here, to see her little mind unfold itself. you talk of "dalliance;" but certainly no lover was ever more attached to his mistress, than she is to me. her eyes follow me every where, and by affection i have the most despotic power over her. she is all vivacity or softness--yes; i love her more than i thought i should. when i have been hurt at your stay, i have embraced her as my only comfort--when pleased with you, for looking and laughing like you; nay, i cannot, i find, long be angry with you, whilst i am kissing her for resembling you. but there would be no end to these details. fold us both to your heart; for i am truly and affectionately yours, mary. letter xxix _[paris] december 28 [1794]._ * * * * * i do, my love, indeed sincerely sympathize with you in all your disappointments.--yet, knowing that you are well, and think of me with affection, i only lament other disappointments, because i am sorry that you should thus exert yourself in vain, and that you are kept from me. ----, i know, urges you to stay, and is continually branching out into new projects, because he has the idle desire to amass a large fortune, rather an immense one, merely to have the credit of having made it. but we who are governed by other motives, ought not to be led on by him. when we meet, we will discuss this subject--you will listen to reason, and it has probably occurred to you, that it will be better, in future, to pursue some sober plan, which may demand more time, and still enable you to arrive at the same end. it appears to me absurd to waste life in preparing to live. would it not now be possible to arrange your business in such a manner as to avoid the inquietudes, of which i have had my share since your departure? is it not possible to enter into business, as an employment necessary to keep the faculties awake, and (to sink a little in the expressions) the pot boiling, without suffering what must ever be considered as a secondary object, to engross the mind, and drive sentiment and affection out of the heart? i am in a hurry to give this letter to the person who has promised to forward it with ----'s. i wish then to counteract, in some measure, what he has doubtless recommended most warmly. stay, my friend, whilst it is _absolutely_ necessary.--i will give you no tenderer name, though it glows at my heart, unless you come the moment the settling the _present_ objects permit.--_i do not consent_ to your taking any other journey--or the little woman and i will be off, the lord knows where. but, as i had rather owe every thing to your affection, and, i may add, to your reason, (for this immoderate desire of wealth, which makes ---so eager to have you remain, is contrary to your principles of action), i will not importune you.--i will only tell you, that i long to see you--and, being at peace with you, i shall be hurt, rather than made angry, by delays.--having suffered so much in life, do not be surprised if i sometimes, when left to myself, grow gloomy, and suppose that it was all a dream, and that my happiness is not to last. i say happiness, because remembrance retrenches all the dark shades of the picture. my little one begins to show her teeth, and use her legs--she wants you to bear your part in the nursing business, for i am fatigued with dancing her, and yet she is not satisfied--she wants you to thank her mother for taking such care of her, as you only can. yours truly, mary. letter xxx _[paris] december 29 [1794]._ though i suppose you have later intelligence, yet, as ---has just informed me that he has an opportunity of sending immediately to you, i take advantage of it to inclose you * * * * * how i hate this crooked business! this intercourse with the world, which obliges one to see the worst side of human nature! why cannot you be content with the object you had first in view, when you entered into this wearisome labyrinth?--i know very well that you have imperceptibly been drawn on; yet why does one project, successful or abortive, only give place to two others? is it not sufficient to avoid poverty?--i am contented to do my part; and, even here, sufficient to escape from wretchedness is not difficult to obtain. and, let me tell you, i have my project also--and, if you do not soon return, the little girl and i will take care of ourselves; we will not accept any of your cold kindness--your distant civilities--no; not we. this is but half jesting, for i am really tormented by the desire which ---manifests to have you remain where you are.--yet why do i talk to you?--if he can persuade you--let him!--for, if you are not happier with me, and your own wishes do not make you throw aside these eternal projects, i am above using any arguments, though reason as well as affection seems to offer them--if our affection be mutual, they will occur to you--and you will act accordingly. since my arrival here, i have found the german lady, of whom you have heard me speak. her first child died in the month; but she has another, about the age of my fanny, a fine little creature. they are still but contriving to live--earning their daily bread--yet, though they are but just above poverty, i envy them.--she is a tender, affectionate mother--fatigued even by her attention.--however she has an affectionate husband in her turn, to render her care light, and to share her pleasure. i will own to you that, feeling extreme tenderness for my little girl, i grow sad very often when i am playing with her, that you are not here, to observe with me how her mind unfolds, and her little heart becomes attached!--these appear to me to be true pleasures--and still you suffer them to escape you, in search of what we may never enjoy.--it is your own maxim to "live in the present moment."--_if you do_--stay, for god's sake; but tell me the truth--if not, tell me when i may expect to see you, and let me not be always vainly looking for you, till i grow sick at heart. adieu! i am a little hurt.--i must take my darling to my bosom to comfort me. mary. letter xxxi _[paris] december 30 [1794]._ should you receive three or four of the letters at once which i have written lately, do not think of sir john brute, for i do not mean to wife you. i only take advantage of every occasion, that one out of three of my epistles may reach your hands, and inform you that i am not of ----'s opinion, who talks till he makes me angry, of the necessity of your staying two or three months longer. i do not like this life of continual inquietude--and, _entre nous_, i am determined to try to earn some money here myself, in order to convince you that, if you chuse to run about the world to get a fortune, it is for yourself--for the little girl and i will live without your assistance, unless you are with us. i may be termed proud--be it so--but i will never abandon certain principles of action. the common run of men have such an ignoble way of thinking, that, if they debauch their hearts, and prostitute their persons, following perhaps a gust of inebriation, they suppose the wife, slave rather, whom they maintain, has no right to complain, and ought to receive the sultan, whenever he deigns to return, with open arms, though his have been polluted by half an hundred promiscuous amours during his absence. i consider fidelity and constancy as two distinct things; yet the former is necessary, to give life to the other--and such a degree of respect do i think due to myself, that, if only probity, which is a good thing in its place, brings you back, never return!--for, if a wandering of the heart, or even a caprice of the imagination detains you--there is an end of all my hopes of happiness--i could not forgive it, if i would. i have gotten into a melancholy mood, you perceive. you know my opinion of men in general; you know that i think them systematic tyrants, and that it is the rarest thing in the world, to meet with a man with sufficient delicacy of feeling to govern desire. when i am thus sad, i lament that my little darling, fondly as i doat on her, is a girl.--i am sorry to have a tie to a world that for me is ever sown with thorns. you will call this an ill-humoured letter, when, in fact, it is the strongest proof of affection i can give, to dread to lose you. ---has taken such pains to convince me that you must and ought to stay, that it has inconceivably depressed my spirits--you have always known my opinion--i have ever declared, that two people, who mean to live together, ought not to be long separated.--if certain things are more necessary to you than me--search for them--say but one word, and you shall never hear of me more.--if not--for god's sake, let us struggle with poverty--with any evil, but these continual inquietudes of business, which i have been told were to last but a few months, though every day the end appears more distant! this is the first letter in this strain that i have determined to forward to you; the rest lie by, because i was unwilling to give you pain, and i should not now write, if i did not think that there would be no conclusion to the schemes, which demand, as i am told, your presence. mary.[9] letter xxxii _[paris] january 9 [1795]._ i just now received one of your hasty _notes_; for business so entirely occupies you, that you have not time, or sufficient command of thought, to write letters. beware! you seem to be got into a whirl of projects and schemes, which are drawing you into a gulph, that, if it do not absorb your happiness, will infallibly destroy mine. fatigued during my youth by the most arduous struggles, not only to obtain independence, but to render myself useful, not merely pleasure, for which i had the most lively taste, i mean the simple pleasures that flow from passion and affection, escaped me, but the most melancholy views of life were impressed by a disappointed heart on my mind. since i knew you, i have been endeavouring to go back to my former nature, and have allowed some time to glide away, winged with the delight which only spontaneous enjoyment can give.--why have you so soon dissolved the charm. i am really unable to bear the continual inquietude which your and ----'s never-ending plans produce. this you may term want of firmness--but you are mistaken--i have still sufficient firmness to pursue my principle of action. the present misery, i cannot find a softer word to do justice to my feelings, appears to me unnecessary--and therefore i have not firmness to support it as you may think i ought. i should have been content, and still wish, to retire with you to a farm--my god! any thing, but these continual anxieties--any thing but commerce, which debases the mind, and roots out affection from the heart. i do not mean to complain of subordinate inconveniences----yet i will simply observe, that, led to expect you every week, i did not make the arrangements required by the present circumstances, to procure the necessaries of life. in order to have them, a servant, for that purpose only, is indispensible--the want of wood, has made me catch the most violent cold i ever had; and my head is so disturbed by continual coughing, that i am unable to write without stopping frequently to recollect myself.--this however is one of the common evils which must be borne with----bodily pain does not touch the heart, though it fatigues the spirits. still as you talk of your return, even in february, doubtingly, i have determined, the moment the weather changes, to wean my child.--it is too soon for her to begin to divide sorrow!--and as one has well said, "despair is a freeman," we will go and seek our fortune together. this is not a caprice of the moment--for your absence has given new weight to some conclusions, that i was very reluctantly forming before you left me.--i do not chuse to be a secondary object.--if your feelings were in unison with mine, you would not sacrifice so much to visionary prospects of future advantage. mary. letter xxxiii _[paris] jan. 15 [1795]._ i was just going to begin my letter with the fag end of a song, which would only have told you, what i may as well say simply, that it is pleasant to forgive those we love. i have received your two letters, dated the 26th and 28th of december, and my anger died away. you can scarcely conceive the effect some of your letters have produced on me. after longing to hear from you during a tedious interval of suspense, i have seen a superscription written by you.--promising myself pleasure, and feeling emotion, i have laid it by me, till the person who brought it, left the room--when, behold! on opening it, i have found only half a dozen hasty lines, that have damped all the rising affection of my soul. well, now for business- * * * * * my animal is well; i have not yet taught her to eat, but nature is doing the business. i gave her a crust to assist the cutting of her teeth; and now she has two, she makes good use of them to gnaw a crust, biscuit, &c. you would laugh to see her; she is just like a little squirrel; she will guard a crust for two hours; and, after fixing her eye on an object for some time, dart on it with an aim as sure as a bird of prey--nothing can equal her life and spirits. i suffer from a cold; but it does not affect her. adieu! do not forget to love us--and come soon to tell us that you do. mary. letter xxxiv _[paris] jan. 30 [1795]._ from the purport of your last letters, i should suppose that this will scarcely reach you; and i have already written so many letters, that you have either not received, or neglected to acknowledge, i do not find it pleasant, or rather i have no inclination, to go over the same ground again. if you have received them, and are still detained by new projects, it is useless for me to say any more on the subject. i have done with it for ever; yet i ought to remind you that your pecuniary interest suffers by your absence. * * * * * for my part, my head is turned giddy, by only hearing of plans to make money, and my contemptuous feelings have sometimes burst out. i therefore was glad that a violent cold gave me a pretext to stay at home, lest i should have uttered unseasonable truths. my child is well, and the spring will perhaps restore me to myself.--i have endured many inconveniences this winter, which should i be ashamed to mention, if they had been unavoidable. "the secondary pleasures of life," you say, "are very necessary to my comfort:" it may be so; but i have ever considered them as secondary. if therefore you accuse me of wanting the resolution necessary to bear the _common_[10] evils of life; i should answer, that i have not fashioned my mind to sustain them, because i would avoid them, cost what it would---adieu! mary. letter xxxv _[paris] february 9 [1795]._ the melancholy presentiment has for some time hung on my spirits, that we were parted for ever; and the letters i received this day, by mr. ----, convince me that it was not without foundation. you allude to some other letters, which i suppose have miscarried; for most of those i have got, were only a few hasty lines, calculated to wound the tenderness the sight of the superscriptions excited. i mean not however to complain; yet so many feelings are struggling for utterance, and agitating a heart almost bursting with anguish, that i find it very difficult to write with any degree of coherence. you left me indisposed, though you have taken no notice of it; and the most fatiguing journey i ever had, contributed to continue it. however, i recovered my health; but a neglected cold, and continual inquietude during the last two months, have reduced me to a state of weakness i never before experienced. those who did not know that the canker-worm was at work at the core, cautioned me about suckling my child too long.--god preserve this poor child, and render her happier than her mother! but i am wandering from my subject: indeed my head turns giddy, when i think that all the confidence i have had in the affection of others is come to this.--i did not expect this blow from you. i have done my duty to you and my child; and if i am not to have any return of affection to reward me, i have the sad consolation of knowing that i deserved a better fate. my soul is weary--i am sick at heart; and, but for this little darling, i would cease to care about a life, which is now stripped of every charm. you see how stupid i am, uttering declamation, when i meant simply to tell you, that i consider your requesting me to come to you, as merely dictated by honour.--indeed, i scarcely understand you.--you request me to come, and then tell me, that you have not given up all thoughts of returning to this place. when i determined to live with you, i was only governed by affection.--i would share poverty with you, but i turn with affright from the sea of trouble on which you are entering.--i have certain principles of action: i know what i look for to found my happiness on.--it is not money.--with you i wished for sufficient to procure the comforts of life--as it is, less will do.--i can still exert myself to obtain the necessaries of life for my child, and she does not want more at present.--i have two or three plans in my head to earn our subsistence; for do not suppose that, neglected by you, i will lie under obligations of a pecuniary kind to you!--no; i would sooner submit to menial service.--i wanted the support of your affection--that gone, all is over!--i did not think, when i complained of ----'s contemptible avidity to accumulate money, that he would have dragged you into his schemes. i cannot write.--i inclose a fragment of a letter, written soon after your departure, and another which tenderness made me keep back when it was written.--you will see then the sentiments of a calmer, though not a more determined, moment.--do not insult me by saying, that "our being together is paramount to every other consideration!" were it, you would not be running after a bubble, at the expence of my peace of mind. perhaps this is the last letter you will ever receive from me. mary. letter xxxvi _[paris] feb. 10 [1795]._ you talk of "permanent views and future comfort"--not for me, for i am dead to hope. the inquietudes of the last winter have finished the business, and my heart is not only broken, but my constitution destroyed. i conceive myself in a galloping consumption, and the continual anxiety i feel at the thought of leaving my child, feeds the fever that nightly devours me. it is on her account that i again write to you, to conjure you, by all that you hold sacred, to leave her here with the german lady you may have heard me mention! she has a child of the same age, and they may be brought up together, as i wish her to be brought up. i shall write more fully on the subject. to facilitate this, i shall give up my present lodgings, and go into the same house. i can live much cheaper there, which is now become an object. i have had 3000 livres from ----, and i shall take one more, to pay my servant's wages, &c. and then i shall endeavour to procure what i want by my own exertions. i shall entirely give up the acquaintance of the americans. ---and i have not been on good terms a long time. yesterday he very unmanlily exulted over me, on account of your determination to stay. i had provoked it, it is true, by some asperities against commerce, which have dropped from me, when we have argued about the propriety of your remaining where you are; and it is no matter, i have drunk too deep of the bitter cup to care about trifles. when you first entered into these plans, you bounded your views to the gaining of a thousand pounds. it was sufficient to have procured a farm in america, which would have been an independence. you find now that you did not know yourself, and that a certain situation in life is more necessary to you than you imagined--more necessary than an uncorrupted heart--for a year or two, you may procure yourself what you call pleasure; eating, drinking, and women; but in the solitude of declining life, i shall be remembered with regret--i was going to say with remorse, but checked my pen. as i have never concealed the nature of my connection with you, your reputation will not suffer. i shall never have a confident: i am content with the approbation of my own mind; and, if there be a searcher of hearts, mine will not be despised. reading what you have written relative to the desertion of women, i have often wondered how theory and practice could be so different, till i recollected, that the sentiments of passion, and the resolves of reason, are very distinct. as to my sisters, as you are so continually hurried with business, you need not write to them--i shall, when my mind is calmer. god bless you! adieu! mary. this has been such a period of barbarity and misery, i ought not to complain of having my share. i wish one moment that i had never heard of the cruelties that have been practised here, and the next envy the mothers who have been killed with their children. surely i had suffered enough in life, not to be cursed with a fondness, that burns up the vital stream i am imparting. you will think me mad: i would i were so, that i could forget my misery--so that my head or heart would be still.---letter xxxvii _[paris] feb. 19 [1795]._ when i first received your letter, putting off your return to an indefinite time, i felt so hurt, that i know not what i wrote. i am now calmer, though it was not the kind of wound over which time has the quickest effect; on the contrary, the more i think, the sadder i grow. society fatigues me inexpressibly--so much so, that finding fault with every one, i have only reason enough, to discover that the fault is in myself. my child alone interests me, and, but for her, i should not take any pains to recover my health. as it is, i shall wean her, and try if by that step (to which i feel a repugnance, for it is my only solace) i can get rid of my cough. physicians talk much of the danger attending any complaint on the lungs, after a woman has suckled for some months. they lay a stress also on the necessity of keeping the mind tranquil--and, my god! how has mine be harrassed! but whilst the caprices of other women are gratified, "the wind of heaven not suffered to visit them too rudely," i have not found a guardian angel, in heaven or on earth, to ward off sorrow or care from my bosom. what sacrifices have you not made for a woman you did not respect!--but i will not go over this ground--i want to tell you that i do not understand you. you say that you have not given up all thoughts of returning here--and i know that it will be necessary--nay, is. i cannot explain myself; but if you have not lost your memory, you will easily divine my meaning. what! is our life then only to be made up of separations? and am i only to return to a country, that has not merely lost all charms for me, but for which i feel a repugnance that almost amounts to horror, only to be left there a prey to it! why is it so necessary that i should return?--brought up here, my girl would be freer. indeed, expecting you to join us, i had formed some plans of usefulness that have now vanished with my hopes of happiness. in the bitterness of my heart, i could complain with reason, that i am left here dependent on a man, whose avidity to acquire a fortune has rendered him callous to every sentiment connected with social or affectionate emotions.--with a brutal insensibility, he cannot help displaying the pleasure your determination to stay gives him, in spite of the effect it is visible it has had on me. till i can earn money, i shall endeavour to borrow some, for i want to avoid asking him continually for the sum necessary to maintain me.--do not mistake me, i have never been refused.--yet i have gone half a dozen times to the house to ask for it, and come away without speaking--you must guess why--besides, i wish to avoid hearing of the eternal projects to which you have sacrificed my peace--not remembering--but i will be silent for ever.---letter xxxviii _[havre] april 7 [1795]._ here i am at havre, on the wing towards you, and i write now, only to tell you, that you may expect me in the course of three or four days; for i shall not attempt to give vent to the different emotions which agitate my heart--you may term a feeling, which appears to me to be a degree of delicacy that naturally arises from sensibility, pride--still i cannot indulge the very affectionate tenderness which glows in my bosom, without trembling, till i see, by your eyes, that it is mutual. i sit, lost in thought, looking at the sea--and tears rush into my eyes, when i find that i am cherishing any fond expectations.--i have indeed been so unhappy this winter, i find it as difficult to acquire fresh hopes, as to regain tranquillity.--enough of this--lie still, foolish heart!--but for the little girl, i could almost wish that it should cease to beat, to be no more alive to the anguish of disappointment. sweet little creature! i deprived myself of my only pleasure, when i weaned her, about ten days ago.--i am however glad i conquered my repugnance.--it was necessary it should be done soon, and i did not wish to embitter the renewal of your acquaintance with her, by putting it off till we met.--it was a painful exertion to me, and i thought it best to throw this inquietude with the rest, into the sack that i would fain throw over my shoulder.--i wished to endure it alone, in short--yet, after sending her to sleep in the next room for three or four nights, you cannot think with what joy i took her back again to sleep in my bosom! i suppose i shall find you, when i arrive, for i do not see any necessity for your coming to me.--pray inform mr. ----, that i have his little friend with me.--my wishing to oblige him, made me put myself to some inconvenience----and delay my departure; which was irksome to me, who have not quite as much philosophy, i would not for the world say indifference, as you. god bless you! yours truly mary. letter xxxix _brighthelmstone, saturday, april 11 [1795]._ here we are, my love, and mean to set out early in the morning; and, if i can find you, i hope to dine with you to-morrow.--i shall drive to ----'s hotel, where ---tells me you have been--and, if you have left it, i hope you will take care to be there to receive us. i have brought with me mr. ----'s little friend, and a girl whom i like to take care of our little darling--not on the way, for that fell to my share.--but why do i write about trifles?--or any thing?--are we not to meet soon?--what does your heart say? yours truly mary. i have weaned my fanny, and she is now eating away at the white bread. letter xl _[26 charlotte street, rathbone place] london, friday, may 22 [1795]._ i have just received your affectionate letter, and am distressed to think that i have added to your embarrassments at this troublesome juncture, when the exertion of all the faculties of your mind appears to be necessary, to extricate you out of your pecuniary difficulties. i suppose it was something relative to the circumstance you have mentioned, which made ---request to see me to-day, to _converse about a matter of great importance_. be that as it may, his letter (such is the state of my spirits) inconceivably alarmed me, and rendered the last night as distressing, as the two former had been. i have laboured to calm my mind since you left me--still i find that tranquillity is not to be obtained by exertion; it is a feeling so different from the resignation of despair!--i am however no longer angry with you--nor will i ever utter another complaint--there are arguments which convince the reason, whilst they carry death to the heart.--we have had too many cruel explanations, that not only cloud every future prospect; but embitter the remembrances which alone give life to affection.--let the subject never be revived! it seems to me that i have not only lost the hope, but the power of being happy.--every emotion is now sharpened by anguish.--my soul has been shook, and my tone of feelings destroyed.--i have gone out--and sought for dissipation, if not amusement, merely to fatigue still more, i find, my irritable nerves---my friend--my dear friend--examine yourself well--i am out of the question; for, alas! i am nothing--and discover what you wish to do--what will render you most comfortable--or, to be more explicit--whether you desire to live with me, or part for ever? when you can once ascertain it, tell me frankly, i conjure you!--for, believe me, i have very involuntarily interrupted your peace. i shall expect you to dinner on monday, and will endeavour to assume a cheerful face to greet you--at any rate i will avoid conversations, which only tend to harrass your feelings, because i am most affectionately yours, mary. letter xli _[may 27, 1795] wednesday._ i inclose you the letter, which you desired me to forward, and i am tempted very laconically to wish you a good morning--not because i am angry, or have nothing to say; but to keep down a wounded spirit.--i shall make every effort to calm my mind--yet a strong conviction seems to whirl round in the very centre of my brain, which, like the fiat of fate, emphatically assures me, that grief has a firm hold of my heart. god bless you! yours sincerely, mary. letter xlii _[hull] wednesday, two o'clock [may 27, 1795]._ we arrived here about an hour ago. i am extremely fatigued with the child, who would not rest quiet with any body but me, during the night--and now we are here in a comfortless, damp room, in a sort of a tomb-like house. this however i shall quickly remedy, for, when i have finished this letter, (which i must do immediately, because the post goes out early), i shall sally forth, and enquire about a vessel and an inn. i will not distress you by talking of the depression of my spirits, or the struggle i had to keep alive my dying heart.--it is even now too full to allow me to write with composure.--imlay,--dear imlay,--am i always to be tossed about thus?--shall i never find an asylum to rest _contented_ in? how can you love to fly about continually--dropping down, as it were, in a new world--cold and strange!--every other day? why do you not attach those tender emotions round the idea of home, which even now dim my eyes?--this alone is affection--every thing else is only humanity, electrified by sympathy. i will write to you again to-morrow, when i know how long i am to be detained--and hope to get a letter quickly from you, to cheer yours sincerely and affectionately mary. fanny is playing near me in high spirits. she was so pleased with the noise of the mail-horn, she has been continually imitating it.----adieu! letter xliii _[hull, may 28, 1795] thursday._ a lady has just sent to offer to take me to beverley. i have then only a moment to exclaim against the vague manner in which people give information * * * * * but why talk of inconveniences, which are in fact trifling, when compared with the sinking of the heart i have felt! i did not intend to touch this painful string--god bless you! yours truly, mary. letter xliv _[hull] friday, june 12 [1795]._ i have just received yours dated the 9th, which i suppose was a mistake, for it could scarcely have loitered so long on the road. the general observations which apply to the state of your own mind, appear to me just, as far as they go; and i shall always consider it as one of the most serious misfortunes of my life, that i did not meet you, before satiety had rendered your senses so fastidious, as almost to close up every tender avenue of sentiment and affection that leads to your sympathetic heart. you have a heart, my friend, yet, hurried away by the impetuosity of inferior feelings, you have sought in vulgar excesses, for that gratification which only the heart can bestow. the common run of men, i know, with strong health and gross appetites, must have variety to banish _ennui_, because the imagination never lends its magic wand, to convert appetite into love, cemented by according reason.--ah! my friend, you know not the ineffable delight, the exquisite pleasure, which arises from a unison of affection and desire, when the whole soul and senses are abandoned to a lively imagination, that renders every emotion delicate and rapturous. yes; these are emotions, over which satiety has no power, and the recollection of which, even disappointment cannot disenchant; but they do not exist without self-denial. these emotions, more or less strong, appear to me to be the distinctive characteristic of genius, the foundation of taste, and of that exquisite relish for the beauties of nature, of which the common herd of eaters and drinkers and _child-begeters_, certainly have no idea. you will smile at an observation that has just occurred to me:--i consider those minds as the most strong and original, whose imagination acts as the stimulus to their senses. well! you will ask, what is the result of all this reasoning? why i cannot help thinking that it is possible for you, having great strength of mind, to return to nature, and regain a sanity of constitution, and purity of feeling--which would open your heart to me.--i would fain rest there! yet, convinced more than ever of the sincerity and tenderness of my attachment to you, the involuntary hopes, which a determination to live has revived, are not sufficiently strong to dissipate the cloud, that despair has spread over futurity. i have looked at the sea, and at my child, hardly daring to own to myself the secret wish, that it might become our tomb; and that the heart, still so alive to anguish, might there be quieted by death. at this moment ten thousand complicated sentiments press for utterance, weigh on my heart, and obscure my sight. are we ever to meet again? and will you endeavour to render that meeting happier than the last? will you endeavour to restrain your caprices, in order to give vigour to affection, and to give play to the checked sentiments that nature intended should expand your heart? i cannot indeed, without agony, think of your bosom's being continually contaminated; and bitter are the tears which exhaust my eyes, when i recollect why my child and i are forced to stray from the asylum, in which, after so many storms, i had hoped to rest, smiling at angry fate.--these are not common sorrows; nor can you perhaps conceive, how much active fortitude it requires to labour perpetually to blunt the shafts of disappointment. examine now yourself, and ascertain whether you can live in something like a settled stile. let our confidence in future be unbounded; consider whether you find it necessary to sacrifice me to what you term "the zest of life;" and, when you have once a clear view of your own motives, of your own incentive to action, do not deceive me! the train of thoughts which the writing of this epistle awoke, makes me so wretched, that i must take a walk, to rouse and calm my mind. but first, let me tell you, that, if you really wish to promote my happiness, you will endeavour to give me as much as you can of yourself. you have great mental energy; and your judgment seems to me so just, that it is only the dupe of your inclination in discussing one subject. the post does not go out to-day. to-morrow i may write more tranquilly. i cannot yet say when the vessel will sail in which i have determined to depart. _[hull, june 13, 1795] saturday morning._ your second letter reached me about an hour ago. you were certainly wrong, in supposing that i did not mention you with respect; though, without my being conscious of it, some sparks of resentment may have animated the gloom of despair--yes; with less affection, i should have been more respectful. however the regard which i have for you, is so unequivocal to myself, i imagine that it must be sufficiently obvious to every body else. besides, the only letter i intended for the public eye was to ----, and that i destroyed from delicacy before you saw them, because it was only written (of course warmly in your praise) to prevent any odium being thrown on you.[11] i am harrassed by your embarrassments, and shall certainly use all my efforts, to make the business terminate to your satisfaction in which i am engaged. my friend--my dearest friend--i feel my fate united to yours by the most sacred principles of my soul, and the yearns of--yes, i will say it--a true, unsophisticated heart. yours most truly mary. if the wind be fair, the captain talks of sailing on monday; but i am afraid i shall be detained some days longer. at any rate, continue to write, (i want this support) till you are sure i am where i cannot expect a letter; and, if any should arrive after my departure, a gentleman (not mr. ----'s friend, i promise you) from whom i have received great civilities, will send them after me. do write by every occasion! i am anxious to hear how your affairs go on; and, still more, to be convinced that you are not separating yourself from us. for my little darling is calling papa, and adding her parrot word--come, come! and will you not come, and let us exert ourselves?--i shall recover all my energy, when i am convinced that my exertions will draw us more closely together. once more adieu! letter xlv _[hull] sunday, june 14 [1795]._ i rather expected to hear from you to-day--i wish you would not fail to write to me for a little time, because i am not quite well--whether i have any good sleep or not, i wake in the morning in violent fits of trembling--and, in spite of all my efforts, the child--every thing--fatigues me, in which i seek for solace or amusement. mr. ---forced on me a letter to a physician of this place; it was fortunate, for i should otherwise have had some difficulty to obtain the necessary information. his wife is a pretty woman (i can admire, you know, a pretty woman, when i am alone) and he an intelligent and rather interesting man.--they have behaved to me with great hospitality; and poor fanny was never so happy in her life, as amongst their young brood. they took me in their carriage to beverley, and i ran over my favourite walks, with a vivacity that would have astonished you.--the town did not please me quite so well as formerly--it appeared so diminutive; and, when i found that many of the inhabitants had lived in the same houses ever since i left it, i could not help wondering how they could thus have vegetated, whilst i was running over a world of sorrow, snatching at pleasure, and throwing off prejudices. the place where i at present am, is much improved; but it is astonishing what strides aristocracy and fanaticism have made, since i resided in this country. the wind does not appear inclined to change, so i am still forced to linger--when do you think that you shall be able to set out for france? i do not entirely like the aspect of your affairs, and still less your connections on either side of the water. often do i sigh, when i think of your entanglements in business, and your extreme restlessness of mind.--even now i am almost afraid to ask you, whether the pleasure of being free, does not overbalance the pain you felt at parting with me? sometimes i indulge the hope that you will feel me necessary to you--or why should we meet again?--but, the moment after, despair damps my rising spirits, aggravated by the emotions of tenderness, which ought to soften the cares of life.----god bless you! yours sincerely and affectionately mary. letter xlvi _[hull] june 15 [1795]._ i want to know how you have settled with respect to ----. in short, be very particular in your account of all your affairs--let our confidence, my dear, be unbounded.--the last time we were separated, was a separation indeed on your part--now you have acted more ingenuously, let the most affectionate interchange of sentiments fill up the aching void of disappointment. i almost dread that your plans will prove abortive--yet should the most unlucky turn send you home to us, convinced that a true friend is a treasure, i should not much mind having to struggle with the world again. accuse me not of pride--yet sometimes, when nature has opened my heart to its author, i have wondered that you did not set a higher value on my heart. receive a kiss from fanny, i was going to add, if you will not take one from me, and believe me yours sincerely mary. the wind still continues in the same quarter. letter xlvii _[hull, june, 1795] tuesday morning._ the captain has just sent to inform me, that i must be on board in the course of a few hours.--i wished to have stayed till to-morrow. it would have been a comfort to me to have received another letter from you--should one arrive, it will be sent after me. my spirits are agitated, i scarcely know why----the quitting england seems to be a fresh parting.--surely you will not forget me.--a thousand weak forebodings assault my soul, and the state of my health renders me sensible to every thing. it is surprising that in london, in a continual conflict of mind, i was still growing better--whilst here, bowed down by the despotic hand of fate, forced into resignation by despair, i seem to be fading away--perishing beneath a cruel blight, that withers up all my faculties. the child is perfectly well. my hand seems unwilling to add adieu! i know not why this inexpressible sadness has taken possession of me.--it is not a presentiment of ill. yet, having been so perpetually the sport of disappointment,--having a heart that has been as it were a mark for misery, i dread to meet wretchedness in some new shape.--well, let it come--i care not!--what have i to dread, who have so little to hope for! god bless you--i am most affectionately and sincerely yours mary. letter xlviii _[june 17, 1795] wednesday morning._ i was hurried on board yesterday about three o'clock, the wind having changed. but before evening it veered round to the old point; and here we are, in the midst of mists and water, only taking advantage of the tide to advance a few miles. you will scarcely suppose that i left the town with reluctance--yet it was even so--for i wished to receive another letter from you, and i felt pain at parting, for ever perhaps, from the amiable family, who had treated me with so much hospitality and kindness. they will probably send me your letter, if it arrives this morning; for here we are likely to remain, i am afraid to think how long. the vessel is very commodious, and the captain a civil, open-hearted kind of man. there being no other passengers, i have the cabin to myself, which is pleasant; and i have brought a few books with me to beguile weariness; but i seem inclined, rather to employ the dead moments of suspence in writing some effusions, than in reading. what are you about? how are your affairs going on? it may be a long time before you answer these questions. my dear friend, my heart sinks within me!--why am i forced thus to struggle continually with my affections and feelings?--ah! why are those affections and feelings the source of so much misery, when they seem to have been given to vivify my heart, and extend my usefulness! but i must not dwell on this subject.--will you not endeavour to cherish all the affection you can for me? what am i saying?--rather forget me, if you can--if other gratifications are dearer to you.--how is every remembrance of mine embittered by disappointment? what a world is this!--they only seem happy, who never look beyond sensual or artificial enjoyments.--adieu! fanny begins to play with the cabin-boy, and is as gay as a lark.--i will labour to be tranquil; and am in every mood, yours sincerely mary. letter xlix _[june 18, 1795] thursday._ here i am still--and i have just received your letter of monday by the pilot, who promised to bring it to me, if we were detained, as he expected, by the wind.--it is indeed wearisome to be thus tossed about without going forward.--i have a violent headache--yet i am obliged to take care of the child, who is a little tormented by her teeth, because ---is unable to do any thing, she is rendered so sick by the motion of the ship, as we ride at anchor. these are however trifling inconveniences, compared with anguish of mind--compared with the sinking of a broken heart.--to tell you the truth, i never suffered in my life so much from depression of spirits--from despair.--i do not sleep--or, if i close my eyes, it is to have the most terrifying dreams, in which i often meet you with different casts of countenance. i will not, my dear imlay, torment you by dwelling on my sufferings--and will use all my efforts to calm my mind, instead of deadening it--at present it is most painfully active. i find i am not equal to these continual struggles--yet your letter this morning has afforded me some comfort--and i will try to revive hope. one thing let me tell you--when we meet again--surely we are to meet!--it must be to part no more. i mean not to have seas between us--it is more than i can support. the pilot is hurrying me--god bless you. in spite of the commodiousness of the vessel, every thing here would disgust my senses, had i nothing else to think of--"when the mind's free, the body's delicate;"--mine has been too much hurt to regard trifles. yours most truly mary. letter l _[june 20, 1795] saturday._ this is the fifth dreary day i have been imprisoned by the wind, with every outward object to disgust the senses, and unable to banish the remembrances that sadden my heart. how am i altered by disappointment!--when going to lisbon, ten years ago, the elasticity of my mind was sufficient to ward off weariness--and the imagination still could dip her brush in the rainbow of fancy, and sketch futurity in smiling colours. now i am going towards the north in search of sunbeams!--will any ever warm this desolated heart? all nature seems to frown--or rather mourn with me.--every thing is cold--cold as my expectations! before i left the shore, tormented, as i now am, by these north east _chillers_, i could not help exclaiming--give me, gracious heaven! at least, genial weather, if i am never to meet the genial affection that still warms this agitated bosom--compelling life to linger there. i am now going on shore with the captain, though the weather be rough, to seek for milk, &c. at a little village, and to take a walk--after which i hope to sleep--for, confined here, surrounded by disagreeable smells, i have lost the little appetite i had; and i lie awake, till thinking almost drives me to the brink of madness--only to the brink, for i never forget, even in the feverish slumbers i sometimes fall into, the misery i am labouring to blunt the sense of, by every exertion in my power. poor ---still continues sick, and ---grows weary when the weather will not allow her to remain on deck. i hope this will be the last letter i shall write from england to you--are you not tired of this lingering adieu? yours truly mary. letter li _[hull, june 21, 1795] sunday morning._ the captain last night, after i had written my letter to you intended to be left at a little village, offered to go to ---to pass to-day. we had a troublesome sail--and now i must hurry on board again, for the wind has changed. i half expected to find a letter from you here. had you written one haphazard, it would have been kind and considerate--you might have known, had you thought, that the wind would not permit me to depart. these are attentions, more grateful to the heart than offers of service--but why do i foolishly continue to look for them? adieu! adieu! my friend--your friendship is very cold--you see i am hurt.--god bless you! i may perhaps be, some time or other, independent in every sense of the word--ah! there is but one sense of it of consequence. i will break or bend this weak heart--yet even now it is full. yours sincerely mary. the child is well; i did not leave her on board. letter lii _[gothenburg] june 27, saturday, [1795]._ i arrived in gothenburg this afternoon, after vainly attempting to land at arendall. i have now but a moment, before the post goes out, to inform you we have got here; though not without considerable difficulty, for we were set ashore in a boat above twenty miles below. what i suffered in the vessel i will not now descant upon--nor mention the pleasure i received from the sight of the rocky coast.--this morning however, walking to join the carriage that was to transport us to this place, i fell, without any previous warning, senseless on the rocks--and how i escaped with life i can scarcely guess. i was in a stupour for a quarter of an hour; the suffusion of blood at last restored me to my senses--the contusion is great, and my brain confused. the child is well. twenty miles ride in the rain, after my accident, has sufficiently deranged me--and here i could not get a fire to warm me, or any thing warm to eat; the inns are mere stables--i must nevertheless go to bed. for god's sake, let me hear from you immediately, my friend! i am not well, and yet you see i cannot die. yours sincerely mary. letter liii _[gothenburg] june 29 [1795]._ i wrote to you by the last post, to inform you of my arrival; and i believe i alluded to the extreme fatigue i endured on ship-board, owing to ----'s illness, and the roughness of the weather--i likewise mentioned to you my fall, the effects of which i still feel, though i do not think it will have any serious consequences. ---will go with me, if i find it necessary to go to ----. the inns here are so bad, i was forced to accept of an apartment in his house. i am overwhelmed with civilities on all sides, and fatigued with the endeavours to amuse me, from which i cannot escape. my friend--my friend, i am not well--a deadly weight of sorrow lies heavily on my heart. i am again tossed on the troubled billows of life; and obliged to cope with difficulties, without being buoyed up by the hopes that alone render them bearable. "how flat, dull, and unprofitable," appears to me all the bustle into which i see people here so eagerly enter! i long every night to go to bed, to hide my melancholy face in my pillow; but there is a canker-worm in my bosom that never sleeps. mary. letter liv _[sweden] july 1 [1795]._ i labour in vain to calm my mind--my soul has been overwhelmed by sorrow and disappointment. every thing fatigues me--this is a life that cannot last long. it is you who must determine with respect to futurity--and, when you have, i will act accordingly--i mean, we must either resolve to live together, or part for ever, i cannot bear these continual struggles.--but i wish you to examine carefully your own heart and mind; and, if you perceive the least chance of being happier without me than with me, or if your inclination leans capriciously to that side, do not dissemble; but tell me frankly that you will never see me more. i will then adopt the plan i mentioned to you--for we must either live together, or i will be entirely independent. my heart is so oppressed, i cannot write with precision--you know however that what i so imperfectly express, are not the crude sentiments of the moment--you can only contribute to my comfort (it is the consolation i am in need of) by being with me--and, if the tenderest friendship is of any value, why will you not look to me for a degree of satisfaction that heartless affections cannot bestow? tell me then, will you determine to meet me at basle?--i shall, i should imagine, be at ---before the close of august; and, after you settle your affairs at paris, could we not meet there? god bless you! yours truly mary. poor fanny has suffered during the journey with her teeth. letter lv _[sweden] july 3 [1795]._ there was a gloominess diffused through your last letter, the impression of which still rests on my mind--though, recollecting how quickly you throw off the forcible feelings of the moment, i flatter myself it has long since given place to your usual cheerfulness. believe me (and my eyes fill with tears of tenderness as i assure you) there is nothing i would not endure in the way of privation, rather than disturb your tranquillity.--if i am fated to be unhappy, i will labour to hide my sorrows in my own bosom; and you shall always find me a faithful, affectionate friend. i grow more and more attached to my little girl--and i cherish this affection without fear, because it must be a long time before it can become bitterness of soul.--she is an interesting creature.--on ship-board, how often as i gazed at the sea, have i longed to bury my troubled bosom in the less troubled deep; asserting with brutus, "that the virtue i had followed too far, was merely an empty name!" and nothing but the sight of her--her playful smiles, which seemed to cling and twine round my heart--could have stopped me. what peculiar misery has fallen to my share! to act up to my principles, i have laid the strictest restraint on my very thoughts--yes; not to sully the delicacy of my feelings, i have reined in my imagination; and started with affright from every sensation, (i allude to ----) that stealing with balmy sweetness into my soul, led me to scent from afar the fragrance of reviving nature. my friend, i have dearly paid for one conviction.--love, in some minds, is an affair of sentiment, arising from the same delicacy of perception (or taste) as renders them alive to the beauties of nature, poetry, &c., alive to the charms of those evanescent graces that are, as it were, impalpable--they must be felt, they cannot be described. love is a want of my heart. i have examined myself lately with more care than formerly, and find, that to deaden is not to calm the mind--aiming at tranquillity, i have almost destroyed all the energy of my soul--almost rooted out what renders it estimable--yes, i have damped that enthusiasm of character, which converts the grossest materials into a fuel, that imperceptibly feeds hopes, which aspire above common enjoyment. despair, since the birth of my child, has rendered me stupid--soul and body seemed to be fading away before the withering touch of disappointment. i am now endeavouring to recover myself--and such is the elasticity of my constitution, and the purity of the atmosphere here, that health unsought for, begins to reanimate my countenance. i have the sincerest esteem and affection for you--but the desire of regaining peace, (do you understand me?) has made me forget the respect due to my own emotions--sacred emotions, that are the sure harbingers of the delights i was formed to enjoy--and shall enjoy, for nothing can extinguish the heavenly spark. still, when we meet again, i will not torment you, i promise you. i blush when i recollect my former conduct--and will not in future confound myself with the beings whom i feel to be my inferiors.--i will listen to delicacy, or pride. letter lvi _[sweden] july 4 [1795]._ i hope to hear from you by to-morrow's mail. my dearest friend! i cannot tear my affections from you--and, though every remembrance stings me to the soul, i think of you, till i make allowance for the very defects of character, that have given such a cruel stab to my peace. still however i am more alive, than you have seen me for a long, long time. i have a degree of vivacity, even in my grief, which is preferable to the benumbing stupour that, for the last year, has frozen up all my faculties.--perhaps this change is more owing to returning health, than to the vigour of my reason--for, in spite of sadness (and surely i have had my share), the purity of this air, and the being continually out in it, for i sleep in the country every night, has made an alteration in my appearance that really surprises me.--the rosy fingers of health already streak my cheeks--and i have seen a _physical_ life in my eyes, after i have been climbing the rocks, that resembled the fond, credulous hopes of youth. with what a cruel sigh have i recollected that i had forgotten to hope!--reason, or rather experience, does not thus cruelly damp poor ----'s pleasures; she plays all day in the garden with ----'s children, and makes friends for herself. do not tell me, that you are happier without us--will you not come to us in switzerland? ah, why do not you love us with more sentiment?--why are you a creature of such sympathy, that the warmth of your feelings, or rather quickness of your senses, hardens your heart?--it is my misfortune, that my imagination is perpetually shading your defects, and lending you charms, whilst the grossness of your senses makes you (call me not vain) overlook graces in me, that only dignity of mind, and the sensibility of an expanded heart can give.--god bless you! adieu. letter lvii _[sweden] july 7 [1795]._ i could not help feeling extremely mortified last post, at not receiving a letter from you. my being at ---was but a chance, and you might have hazarded it; and would a year ago. i shall not however complain--there are misfortunes so great, as to silence the usual expressions of sorrow--believe me, there is such a thing as a broken heart! there are characters whose very energy preys upon them; and who, ever inclined to cherish by reflection some passion, cannot rest satisfied with the common comforts of life. i have endeavoured to fly from myself and launched into all the dissipation possible here, only to feel keener anguish, when alone with my child. still, could any thing please me--had not disappointment cut me off from life, this romantic country, these fine evenings, would interest me.--my god! can any thing? and am i ever to feel alive only to painful sensations?--but it cannot--it shall not last long. the post is again arrived; i have sent to seek for letters, only to be wounded to the soul by a negative.--my brain seems on fire. i must go into the air. mary. letter lviii _[laurvig, norway] july 14 [1795]._ i am now on my journey to tonsberg. i felt more at leaving my child, than i thought i should--and, whilst at night i imagined every instant that i heard the half-formed sounds of her voice,--i asked myself how i could think of parting with her for ever, of leaving her thus helpless? poor lamb! it may run very well in a tale, that "god will temper the winds to the shorn lamb!" but how can i expect that she will be shielded, when my naked bosom has had to brave continually the pitiless storm? yes; i could add, with poor lear--what is the war of elements to the pangs of disappointed affection, and the horror arising from a discovery of a breach of confidence, that snaps every social tie! all is not right somewhere!--when you first knew me, i was not thus lost. i could still confide--for i opened my heart to you--of this only comfort you have deprived me, whilst my happiness, you tell me, was your first object. strange want of judgment! i will not complain; but, from the soundness of your understanding, i am convinced, if you give yourself leave to reflect, you will also feel, that your conduct to me, so far from being generous, has not been just.--i mean not to allude to factitious principles of morality; but to the simple basis of all rectitude.--however i did not intend to argue--your not writing is cruel--and my reason is perhaps disturbed by constant wretchedness. poor ---would fain have accompanied me, out of tenderness; for my fainting, or rather convulsion, when i landed, and my sudden changes of countenance since, have alarmed her so much, that she is perpetually afraid of some accident.--but it would have injured the child this warm season, as she is cutting her teeth. i hear not of your having written to me at stromstad. very well! act as you please--there is nothing i fear or care for! when i see whether i can, or cannot obtain the money i am come here about, i will not trouble you with letters to which you do not reply. letter lix _[tonsberg] july 18 [1795]._ i am here in tonsberg, separated from my child--and here i must remain a month at least, or i might as well never have come. * * * * * i have begun ---which will, i hope, discharge all my obligations of a pecuniary kind.--i am lowered in my own eyes, on account of my not having done it sooner. i shall make no further comments on your silence. god bless you! mary. letter lx _[tonsberg] july 30 [1795]._ i have just received two of your letters, dated the 26th and 30th of june; and you must have received several from me, informing you of my detention, and how much i was hurt by your silence. * * * * * write to me then, my friend, and write explicitly. i have suffered, god knows, since i left you. ah! you have never felt this kind of sickness of heart!--my mind however is at present painfully active, and the sympathy i feel almost rises to agony. but this is not a subject of complaint, it has afforded me pleasure,--and reflected pleasure is all i have to hope for--if a spark of hope be yet alive in my forlorn bosom. i will try to write with a degree of composure. i wish for us to live together, because i want you to acquire an habitual tenderness for my poor girl. i cannot bear to think of leaving her alone in the world, or that she should only be protected by your sense of duty. next to preserving her, my most earnest wish is not to disturb your peace. i have nothing to expect, and little to fear, in life--there are wounds that can never be healed--but they may be allowed to fester in silence without wincing. when we meet again, you shall be convinced that i have more resolution than you give me credit for. i will not torment you. if i am destined always to be disappointed and unhappy, i will conceal the anguish i cannot dissipate; and the tightened cord of life or reason will at last snap, and set me free. yes; i shall be happy--this heart is worthy of the bliss its feelings anticipate--and i cannot even persuade myself, wretched as they have made me, that my principles and sentiments are not founded in nature and truth. but to have done with these subjects. * * * * * i have been seriously employed in this way since i came to tonsberg; yet i never was so much in the air.--i walk, i ride on horseback--row, bathe, and even sleep in the fields; my health is consequently improved. the child, ---informs me, is well, i long to be with her. write to me immediately--were i only to think of myself, i could wish you to return to me, poor, with the simplicity of character, part of which you seem lately to have lost, that first attached to you. yours most affectionately mary imlay i have been subscribing other letters--so i mechanically did the same to yours. letter lxi _[tonsberg] august 5 [1795]._ employment and exercise have been of great service to me; and i have entirely recovered the strength and activity i lost during the time of my nursing. i have seldom been in better health; and my mind, though trembling to the touch of anguish, is calmer--yet still the same.--i have, it is true, enjoyed some tranquillity, and more happiness here, than for a long--long time past.--(i say happiness, for i can give no other appellation to the exquisite delight this wild country and fine summer have afforded me.)--still, on examining my heart, i find that it is so constituted, i cannot live without some particular affection--i am afraid not without a passion--and i feel the want of it more in society, than in solitude. * * * * * writing to you, whenever an affectionate epithet occurs--my eyes fill with tears, and my trembling hand stops--you may then depend on my resolution, when with you. if i am doomed to be unhappy, i will confine my anguish in my own bosom--tenderness, rather than passion, has made me sometimes overlook delicacy--the same tenderness will in future restrain me. god bless you! letter lxii _[tonsberg] august 7 [1795]._ air, exercise, and bathing, have restored me to health, braced my muscles, and covered my ribs, even whilst i have recovered my former activity.--i cannot tell you that my mind is calm, though i have snatched some moments of exquisite delight, wandering through the woods, and resting on the rocks. this state of suspense, my friend, is intolerable; we must determine on something--and soon;--we must meet shortly, or part for ever. i am sensible that i acted foolishly--but i was wretched--when we were together--expecting too much, i let the pleasure i might have caught, slip from me. i cannot live with you--i ought not--if you form another attachment. but i promise you, mine shall not be intruded on you. little reason have i to expect a shadow of happiness, after the cruel disappointments that have rent my heart; but that of my child seems to depend on our being together. still i do not wish you to sacrifice a chance of enjoyment for an uncertain good. i feel a conviction, that i can provide for her, and it shall be my object--if we are indeed to part to meet no more. her affection must not be divided. she must be a comfort to me--if i am to have no other--and only know me as her support. i feel that i cannot endure the anguish of corresponding with you--if we are only to correspond.--no; if you seek for happiness elsewhere, my letters shall not interrupt your repose. i will be dead to you. i cannot express to you what pain it gives me to write about an eternal separation.--you must determine--examine yourself--but, for god's sake! spare me the anxiety of uncertainty!--i may sink under the trial; but i will not complain. adieu! if i had any thing more to say to you, it is all flown, and absorbed by the most tormenting apprehensions; yet i scarcely know what new form of misery i have to dread. i ought to beg your pardon for having sometimes written peevishly; but you will impute it to affection, if you understand anything of the heart of yours truly mary. letter lxiii _[tonsberg] august 9 [1795]._ five of your letters have been sent after me from ----. one, dated the 14th of july, was written in a style which i may have merited, but did not expect from you. however this is not a time to reply to it, except to assure you that you shall not be tormented with any more complaints. i am disgusted with myself for having so long importuned you with my affection.---my child is very well. we shall soon meet, to part no more, i hope--i mean, i and my girl.--i shall wait with some degree of anxiety till i am informed how your affairs terminate. yours sincerely mary. letter lxiv _[gothenburg] august 26 [1795]._ i arrived here last night, and with the most exquisite delight, once more pressed my babe to my heart. we shall part no more. you perhaps cannot conceive the pleasure it gave me, to see her run about, and play alone. her increasing intelligence attaches me more and more to her. i have promised her that i will fulfil my duty to her; and nothing in future shall make me forget it. i will also exert myself to obtain an independence for her; but i will not be too anxious on this head. i have already told you, that i have recovered my health. vigour, and even vivacity of mind, have returned with a renovated constitution. as for peace, we will not talk of it. i was not made, perhaps, to enjoy the calm contentment so termed.- * * * * * you tell me that my letters torture you; i will not describe the effect yours have on me. i received three this morning, the last dated the 7th of this month. i mean not to give vent to the emotions they produced.--certainly you are right; our minds are not congenial. i have lived in an ideal world, and fostered sentiments that you do not comprehend--or you would not treat me thus. i am not, i will not be, merely an object of compassion--a clog, however light, to teize you. forget that i exist: i will never remind you. something emphatical whispers me to put an end to these struggles. be free--i will not torment, when i cannot please. i can take care of my child; you need not continually tell me that our fortune is inseparable, _that you will try to cherish tenderness_ for me. do no violence to yourself! when we are separated, our interest, since you give so much weight to pecuniary considerations, will be entirely divided. i want not protection without affection; and support i need not, whilst my faculties are undisturbed. i had a dislike to living in england; but painful feelings must give way to superior considerations. i may not be able to acquire the sum necessary to maintain my child and self elsewhere. it is too late to go to switzerland. i shall not remain at ----, living expensively. but be not alarmed! i shall not force myself on you any more. adieu! i am agitated--my whole frame is convulsed--my lips tremble, as if shook by cold, though fire seems to be circulating in my veins. god bless you. mary. letter lxv _[copenhagen] september 6 [1795]._ i received just now your letter of the 20th. i had written you a letter last night, into which imperceptibly slipt some of my bitterness of soul. i will copy the part relative to business. i am not sufficiently vain to imagine that i can, for more than a moment, cloud your enjoyment of life--to prevent even that, you had better never hear from me--and repose on the idea that i am happy. gracious god! it is impossible for me to stifle something like resentment, when i receive fresh proofs of your indifference. what i have suffered this last year, is not to be forgotten! i have not that happy substitute for wisdom, insensibility--and the lively sympathies which bind me to my fellow-creatures, are all of a painful kind.--they are the agonies of a broken heart--pleasure and i have shaken hands. i see here nothing but heaps of ruins, and only converse with people immersed in trade and sensuality. i am weary of travelling--yet seem to have no home--no resting-place to look to.--i am strangely cast off.--how often, passing through the rocks, i have thought, "but for this child, i would lay my head on one of them, and never open my eyes again!" with a heart feelingly alive to all the affections of my nature--i have never met with one, softer than the stone that i would fain take for my last pillow. i once thought i had, but it was all a delusion. i meet with families continually, who are bound together by affection or principle--and, when i am conscious that i have fulfilled the duties of my station, almost to a forgetfulness of myself, i am ready to demand, in a murmuring tone, of heaven, "why am i thus abandoned?" you say now * * * * * i do not understand you. it is necessary for you to write more explicitly--and determine on some mode of conduct.--i cannot endure this suspense--decide--do you fear to strike another blow? we live together, or eternally part!--i shall not write to you again, till i receive an answer to this. i must compose my tortured soul, before i write on indifferent subjects. * * * * * i do not know whether i write intelligibly, for my head is disturbed. but this you ought to pardon--for it is with difficulty frequently that i make out what you mean to say--you write, i suppose, at mr. ----'s after dinner, when your head is not the clearest--and as for your heart, if you have one, i see nothing like the dictates of affection, unless a glimpse when you mention the child--adieu! letter lxvi _[hamburg] september 25 [1795]._ i have just finished a letter, to be given in charge to captain ----. in that i complained of your silence, and expressed my surprise that three mails should have arrived without bringing a line for me. since i closed it, i hear of another, and still no letter.--i am labouring to write calmly--this silence is a refinement on cruelty. had captain ---remained a few days longer, i would have returned with him to england. what have i to do here? i have repeatedly written to you fully. do you do the same--and quickly. do not leave me in suspense. i have not deserved this of you. i cannot write, my mind is so distressed. adieu! mary. letter lxvii _[hamburg] september 27 [1795]._ when you receive this, i shall either have landed, or be hovering on the british coast--your letter of the 18th decided me. by what criterion of principle or affection, you term my questions extraordinary and unnecessary, i cannot determine.--you desire me to decide--i had decided. you must have had long ago two letters of mine, from ----, to the same purport, to consider.--in these, god knows! there was but too much affection, and the agonies of a distracted mind were but too faithfully pourtrayed!--what more then had i to say?--the negative was to come from you.--you had perpetually recurred to your promise of meeting me in the autumn--was it extraordinary that i should demand a yes, or no?--your letter is written with extreme harshness, coldness i am accustomed to, in it i find not a trace of the tenderness of humanity, much less of friendship.--i only see a desire to heave a load off your shoulders. i am above disputing about words.--it matters not in what terms you decide. the tremendous power who formed this heart, must have foreseen that, in a world in which self-interest, in various shapes, is the principal mobile, i had little chance of escaping misery.--to the fiat of fate i submit.--i am content to be wretched; but i will not be contemptible.--of me you have no cause to complain, but for having had too much regard for you--for having expected a degree of permanent happiness, when you only sought for a momentary gratification. i am strangely deficient in sagacity.--uniting myself to you, your tenderness seemed to make me amends for all my former misfortunes.--on this tenderness and affection with what confidence did i rest!--but i leaned on a spear, that has pierced me to the heart.--you have thrown off a faithful friend, to pursue the caprices of the moment.--we certainly are differently organized; for even now, when conviction has been stamped on my soul by sorrow, i can scarcely believe it possible. it depends at present on you, whether you will see me or not.--i shall take no step, till i see or hear from you. preparing myself for the worst--i have determined, if your next letter be like the last, to write to mr. ---to procure me an obscure lodging, and not to inform any body of my arrival.--there i will endeavour in a few months to obtain the sum necessary to take me to france--from you i will not receive any more.--i am not yet sufficiently humbled to depend on your beneficence. some people, whom my unhappiness has interested, though they know not the extent of it, will assist me to attain the object i have in view, the independence of my child. should a peace take place, ready money will go a great way in france--and i will borrow a sum, which my industry _shall_ enable me to pay at my leisure, to purchase a small estate for my girl.--the assistance i shall find necessary to complete her education, i can get at an easy rate at paris--i can introduce her to such society as she will like--and thus, securing for her all the chance for happiness, which depends on me, i shall die in peace, persuaded that the felicity which has hitherto cheated my expectation, will not always elude my grasp. no poor temptest-tossed mariner ever more earnestly longed to arrive at his port. mary. i shall not come up in the vessel all the way, because i have no place to go to. captain ---will inform you where i am. it is needless to add, that i am not in a state of mind to bear suspense--and that i wish to see you, though it be for the last time. letter lxviii _[dover] sunday, october 4 [1795]._ i wrote to you by the packet, to inform you, that your letter of the 18th of last month, had determined me to set out with captain ----; but, as we sailed very quick, i take it for granted, that you have not yet received it. you say, i must decide for myself.--i had decided, that it was most for the interest of my little girl, and for my own comfort, little as i expect, for us to live together; and i even thought that you would be glad, some years hence, when the tumult of business was over, to repose in the society of an affectionate friend, and mark the progress of our interesting child, whilst endeavouring to be of use in the circle you at last resolved to rest in: for you cannot run about for ever. from the tenour of your last letter however, i am led to imagine, that you have formed some new attachment.--if it be so, let me earnestly request you to see me once more, and immediately. this is the only proof i require of the friendship you profess for me. i will then decide, since you boggle about a mere form. i am labouring to write with calmness--but the extreme anguish i feel, at landing without having any friend to receive me, and even to be conscious that the friend whom i most wish to see, will feel a disagreeable sensation at being informed of my arrival, does not come under the description of common misery. every emotion yields to an overwhelming flood of sorrow--and the playfulness of my child distresses me.--on her account, i wished to remain a few days here, comfortless as is my situation.--besides, i did not wish to surprise you. you have told me, that you would make any sacrifice to promote my happiness--and, even in your last unkind letter, you talk of the ties which bind you to me and my child.--tell me, that you wish it, and i will cut this gordian knot. i now most earnestly intreat you to write to me, without fail, by the return of the post. direct your letter to be left at the post-office, and tell me whether you will come to me here, or where you will meet me. i can receive your letter on wednesday morning. do not keep me in suspense.--i expect nothing from you, or any human being: my die is cast!--i have fortitude enough to determine to do my duty; yet i cannot raise my depressed spirits, or calm my trembling heart.--that being who moulded it thus, knows that i am unable to tear up by the roots the propensity to affection which has been the torment of my life--but life will have an end! should you come here (a few months ago i could not have doubted it) you will find me at ----. if you prefer meeting me on the road, tell me where. yours affectionately, mary. letter lxix _[london, nov. 1795]._ i write to you now on my knees; imploring you to send my child and the maid with ----, to paris, to be consigned to the care of madame ----, rue ----, section de ----. should they be removed, ---can give their direction. let the maid have all my clothes, without distinction. pray pay the cook her wages, and do not mention the confession which i forced from her--a little sooner or later is of no consequence. nothing but my extreme stupidity could have rendered me blind so long. yet, whilst you assured me that you had no attachment, i thought we might still have lived together. i shall make no comments on your conduct; or any appeal to the world. let my wrongs sleep with me! soon, very soon shall i be at peace. when you receive this, my burning head will be cold. i would encounter a thousand deaths, rather than a night like the last. your treatment has thrown my mind into a state of chaos; yet i am serene. i go to find comfort, and my only fear is, that my poor body will be insulted by an endeavour to recal my hated existence. but i shall plunge into the thames where there is the least chance of my being snatched from the death i seek. god bless you! may you never know by experience what you have made me endure. should your sensibility ever awake, remorse will find its way to your heart; and, in the midst of business and sensual pleasure, i shall appear before you, the victim of your deviation from rectitude. mary. letter lxx _[london, nov. 1795] sunday morning._ i have only to lament, that, when the bitterness of death was past, i was inhumanly brought back to life and misery. but a fixed determination is not to be baffled by disappointment; nor will i allow that to be a frantic attempt, which was one of the calmest acts of reason. in this respect, i am only accountable to myself. did i care for what is termed reputation, it is by other circumstances that i should be dishonoured. you say, "that you know not how to extricate ourselves out of the wretchedness into which we have been plunged." you are extricated long since.--but i forbear to comment.--if i am condemned to live longer, it is a living death. it appears to me, that you lay much more stress on delicacy, than on principle; for i am unable to discover what sentiment of delicacy would have been violated, by your visiting a wretched friend--if indeed you have any friendship for me.--but since your new attachment is the only thing sacred in your eyes, i am silent--be happy! my complaints shall never more damp your enjoyment--perhaps i am mistaken in supposing that even my death could, for more than a moment.--this is what you call magnanimity.--it is happy for yourself, that you possess this quality in the highest degree. your continually asserting, that you will do all in your power to contribute to my comfort (when you only allude to pecuniary assistance), appears to me a flagrant breach of delicacy.--i want not such vulgar comfort, nor will i accept it. i never wanted but your heart--that gone, you have nothing more to give. had i only poverty to fear, i should not shrink from life.--forgive me then, if i say, that i shall consider any direct or indirect attempt to supply my necessities, as an insult which i have not merited--and as rather done out of tenderness for your own reputation, than for me. do not mistake me; i do not think that you value money (therefore i will not accept what you do not care for) though i do much less, because certain privations are not painful to me. when i am dead, respect for yourself will make you take care of the child. i write with difficulty--probably i shall never write to you again.--adieu! god bless you! mary. letter lxxi _[london, nov. 1795] monday morning._ i am compelled at last to say that you treat me ungenerously. i agree with you, that * * * * * but let the obliquity now fall on me.--i fear neither poverty nor infamy. i am unequal to the task of writing--and explanations are not necessary. * * * * * my child may have to blush for her mother's want of prudence--and may lament that the rectitude of my heart made me above vulgar precautions; but she shall not despise me for meanness.--you are now perfectly free.--god bless you. mary. letter lxxii _[london, nov. 1795] saturday night._ i have been hurt by indirect enquiries, which appear to me not to be dictated by any tenderness to me.--you ask "if i am well or tranquil?"--they who think me so, must want a heart to estimate my feelings by.--i chuse then to be the organ of my own sentiments. i must tell you, that i am very much mortified by your continually offering me pecuniary assistance--and, considering your going to the new house, as an open avowal that you abandon me, let me tell you that i will sooner perish than receive any thing from you--and i say this at the moment when i am disappointed in my first attempt to obtain a temporary supply. but this even pleases me; an accumulation of disappointments and misfortunes seems to suit the habit of my mind.-have but a little patience, and i will remove myself where it will not be necessary for you to talk--of course, not to think of me. but let me see, written by yourself--for i will not receive it through any other medium--that the affair is finished.--it is an insult to me to suppose, that i can be reconciled, or recover my spirits; but, if you hear nothing of me, it will be the same thing to you. mary. even your seeing me, has been to oblige other people, and not to sooth my distracted mind. letter lxxiii _[london, nov. 1795] thursday afternoon._ mr. ---having forgot to desire you to send the things of mine which were left at the house, i have to request you to let ---bring them to ---i shall go this evening to the lodging; so you need not be restrained from coming here to transact your business.--and, whatever i may think, and feel--you need not fear that i shall publicly complain--no! if i have any criterion to judge of right and wrong, i have been most ungenerously treated: but, wishing now only to hide myself, i shall be silent as the grave in which i long to forget myself. i shall protect and provide for my child.--i only mean by this to say, that you have nothing to fear from my desperation. farewel. mary. letter lxxiv _london, november 27 [1795]._ the letter, without an address, which you put up with the letters you returned, did not meet my eyes till just now.--i had thrown the letters aside--i did not wish to look over a register of sorrow. my not having seen it, will account for my having written to you with anger--under the impression your departure, without even a line left for me, made on me, even after your late conduct, which could not lead me to expect much attention to my sufferings. in fact, "the decided conduct, which appeared to me so unfeeling," has almost overturned my reason; my mind is injured--i scarcely know where i am, or what i do.--the grief i cannot conquer (for some cruel recollections never quit me, banishing almost every other) i labour to conceal in total solitude.--my life therefore is but an exercise of fortitude, continually on the stretch--and hope never gleams in this tomb, where i am buried alive. but i meant to reason with you, and not to complain.--you tell me, that i shall judge more coolly of your mode of acting, some time hence." but is it not possible that _passion_ clouds your reason, as much as it does mine?--and ought you not to doubt, whether those principles are so "exalted," as you term them, which only lead to your own gratification? in other words, whether it be just to have no principle of action, but that of following your inclination, trampling on the affection you have fostered, and the expectations you have excited? my affection for you is rooted in my heart.--i know you are not what you now seem--nor will you always act, or feel, as you now do, though i may never be comforted by the change.--even at paris, my image will haunt you.--you will see my pale face--and sometimes the tears of anguish will drop on your heart; which you have forced from mine. i cannot write. i thought i could quickly have refuted all your _ingenious_ arguments; but my head is confused.--right or wrong, i am miserable! it seems to me, that my conduct has always been governed by the strictest principles of justice and truth.--yet, how wretched have my social feelings, and delicacy of sentiment rendered me!--i have loved with my whole soul, only to discover that i had no chance of a return--and that existence is a burthen without it. i do not perfectly understand you.--if, by the offer of your friendship, you still only mean pecuniary support--i must again reject it.--trifling are the ills of poverty in the scale of my misfortunes.--god bless you! mary. i have been treated ungenerously--if i understand what is generosity.--you seem to me only to have been anxious to shake me off--regardless whether you dashed me to atoms by the fall.--in truth i have been rudely handled. _do you judge coolly_, and i trust you will not continue to call those capricious feelings "the most refined," which would undermine not only the most sacred principles, but the affections which unite mankind.--you would render mothers unnatural--and there would be no such thing as a father!--if your theory of morals is the most "exalted," it is certainly the most easy.--it does not require much magnanimity, to determine to please ourselves for the moment, let others suffer what they will! excuse me for again tormenting you, my heart thirsts for justice from you--and whilst i recollect that you approved miss ----'s conduct--i am convinced you will not always justify your own. beware of the deceptions of passion! it will not always banish from your mind, that you have acted ignobly--and condescended to subterfuge to gloss over the conduct you could not excuse.--do truth and principle require such sacrifices? letter lxxv _london, december 8 [1795]._ having just been informed that ---is to return immediately to paris, i would not miss a sure opportunity of writing, because i am not certain that my last, by dover has reached you. resentment, and even anger, are momentary emotions with me--and i wished to tell you so, that if you ever think of me, it may not be in the light of an enemy. that i have not been used _well_ i must ever feel; perhaps, not always with the keen anguish i do at present--for i began even now to write calmly, and i cannot restrain my tears. i am stunned!--your late conduct still appears to me a frightful dream.--ah! ask yourself if you have not condescended to employ a little address, i could almost say cunning, unworthy of you?--principles are sacred things--and we never play with truth, with impunity. the expectation (i have too fondly nourished it) of regaining your affection, every day grows fainter and fainter.--indeed, it seems to me, when i am more sad than usual, that i shall never see you more.--yet you will not always forget me.--you will feel something like remorse, for having lived only for yourself--and sacrificed my peace to inferior gratifications. in a comfortless old age, you will remember that you had one disinterested friend, whose heart you wounded to the quick. the hour of recollection will come--and you will not be satisfied to act the part of a boy, till you fall into that of a dotard. i know that your mind, your heart, and your principles of action, are all superior to your present conduct. you do, you must, respect me--and you will be sorry to forfeit my esteem. you know best whether i am still preserving the remembrance of an imaginary being.--i once thought that i knew you thoroughly--but now i am obliged to leave some doubts that involuntarily press on me, to be cleared up by time. you may render me unhappy; but cannot make me contemptible in my own eyes.--i shall still be able to support my child, though i am disappointed in some other plans of usefulness, which i once believed would have afforded you equal pleasure. whilst i was with you, i restrained my natural generosity, because i thought your property in jeopardy.--when i went to [sweden], i requested you, _if you could conveniently_, not to forget my father, sisters, and some other people, whom i was interested about.--money was lavished away, yet not only my requests were neglected, but some trifling debts were not discharged, that now come on me.--was this friendship--or generosity? will you not grant you have forgotten yourself? still i have an affection for you.--god bless you. mary. letter lxxvi _[london, dec. 1795.]_ as the parting from you for ever is the most serious event of my life, i will once expostulate with you, and call not the language of truth and feeling ingenuity! i know the soundness of your understanding--and know that it is impossible for you always to confound the caprices of every wayward inclination with the manly dictates of principle. you tell me "that i torment you."--why do i?----because you cannot estrange your heart entirely from me--and you feel that justice is on my side. you urge, "that your conduct was unequivocal."--it was not.--when your coolness has hurt me, with what tenderness have you endeavoured to remove the impression!--and even before i returned to england, you took great pains to convince me, that all my uneasiness was occasioned by the effect of a worn-out constitution--and you concluded your letter with these words, "business alone has kept me from you.--come to any port, and i will fly down to my two dear girls with a heart all their own." with these assurances, is it extraordinary that i should believe what i wished? i might--and did think that you had a struggle with old propensities; but i still thought that i and virtue should at last prevail. i still thought that you had a magnanimity of character, which would enable you to conquer yourself. imlay, believe me, it is not romance, you have acknowledged to me feelings of this kind.--you could restore me to life and hope, and the satisfaction you would feel, would amply repay you. in tearing myself from you, it is my own heart i pierce--and the time will come, when you will lament that you have thrown away a heart, that, even in the moment of passion, you cannot despise.--i would owe every thing to your generosity--but, for god's sake, keep me no longer in suspense!--let me see you once more!-letter lxxvii _[london, dec. 1795.]_ you must do as you please with respect to the child.--i could wish that it might be done soon, that my name may be no more mentioned to you. it is now finished.--convinced that you have neither regard nor friendship, i disdain to utter a reproach, though i have had reason to think, that the "forbearance" talked of, has not been very delicate.--it is however of no consequence.--i am glad you are satisfied with your own conduct. i now solemnly assure you, that this is an eternal farewel.--yet i flinch not from the duties which tie me to life. that there is "sophistry" on one side or other, is certain; but now it matters not on which. on my part it has not been a question of words. yet your understanding or mine must be strangely warped--for what you term "delicacy," appears to me to be exactly the contrary. i have no criterion for morality, and have thought in vain, if the sensations which lead you to follow an ancle or step, be the sacred foundation of principle and affection. mine has been of a very different nature, or it would not have stood the brunt of your sarcasms. the sentiment in me is still sacred. if there be any part of me that will survive the sense of my misfortunes, it is the purity of my affections. the impetuosity of your senses, may have led you to term mere animal desire, the source of principle; and it may give zest to some years to come.--whether you will always think so, i shall never know. it is strange that, in spite of all you do, something like conviction forces me to believe, that you are not what you appear to be. i part with you in peace. _printed by hazell, watson & viney, ld., london and aylesbury._ footnotes: [1] dowden's "life of shelley." [2] the child is in a subsequent letter called the "barrier girl," probably from a supposition that she owed her existence to this interview.--w. g. [3] this and the thirteen following letters appear to have been written during a separation of several months; the date, paris.--w. g. [4] some further letters, written during the remainder of the week, in a similar strain to the preceding, appear to have been destroyed by the person to whom they were addressed.--w. g. [5] imlay went to paris on march 11, after spending a fortnight at havre, but he returned to mary soon after the date of letter xix. in august he went to paris, where he was followed by mary. in september imlay visited london on business. [6] the child spoken of in some preceding letters, had now been born a considerable time. she was born, may 14, 1794, and was named fanny.--w. g. [7] she means, "the latter more than the former."--w. g. [8] this is the first of a series of letters written during a separation of many months, to which no cordial meeting ever succeeded. they were sent from paris, and bear the address of london.--w. g. [9] the person to whom the letters are addressed [imlay], was about this time at ramsgate, on his return, as he professed, to paris, when he was recalled, as it should seem, to london, by the further pressure of business now accumulated upon him.--w. g. [10] this probably alludes to some expression of [imlay] the person to whom the letters are addressed, in which he treated as common evils, things upon which the letter-writer was disposed to bestow a different appellation.--w. g. [11] this passage refers to letters written under a purpose of suicide, and not intended to be opened till after the catastrophe.--w. g. transcriber's notes: passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. the word "an" was corrected to "am" on page 151. the unmatched closing quotation mark on page 167 is presented as in the original text. transcriber's note: inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. obvious typographical errors have been corrected. italic text is denoted by _underscores_. on page 130, "we sate long" should possibly be "we sat long". love letters of nathaniel hawthorne love letters of nathaniel hawthorne privately printed the society of the dofobs chicago 1907 copyright, 1907, by william k. bixby letters to miss peabody _oak hill_, april 13th, 1841 _ownest love_, here is thy poor husband in a polar paradise! i know not how to interpret this aspect of nature--whether it be of good or evil omen to our enterprise. but i reflect that the plymouth pilgrims arrived in the midst of storm and stept ashore upon mountain snow-drifts; and nevertheless they prospered, and became a great people--and doubtless it will be the same with us. i laud my stars, however, that thou wilt not have thy first impressions of our future home from such a day as this. thou wouldst shiver all thy life afterwards, and never realise that there could be bright skies, and green hills and meadows, and trees heavy with foliage, when now the whole scene is a great snow-bank, and the sky full of snow likewise. through faith, i persist in believing that spring and summer will come in their due season; but the unregenerated man shivers within me, and suggests a doubt whether i may not have wandered within the precincts of the arctic circle, and chosen my heritage among everlasting snows. dearest, provide thyself with a good stock of furs; and if thou canst obtain the skin of a polar bear, thou wilt find it a very suitable summer dress for this region. thou must not hope ever to walk abroad, except upon snow-shoes, nor to find any warmth, save in thy husband's heart. belovedest, i have not yet taken my first lesson in agriculture, as thou mayst well suppose--except that i went to see our cows foddered, yesterday afternoon. we have eight of our own; and the number is now increased by a transcendental heifer, belonging to miss margaret fuller. she is very fractious, i believe, and apt to kick over the milk pail. thou knowest best, whether in these traits of character, she resembles her mistress. thy husband intends to convert himself into a milk-maid, this evening; but i pray heaven that mr. ripley may be moved to assign him the kindliest cow in the herd--otherwise he will perform his duty with fear and trembling. ownest wife, i like my brethren in affliction very well; and couldst thou see us sitting round our table, at meal-times, before the great kitchen-fire, thou wouldst call it a cheerful sight. mrs. parker is a most comfortable woman to behold; she looks as if her ample person were stuffed full of tenderness--indeed, as if she were all one great, kind heart. wert thou here, i should ask for nothing more--not even for sunshine and summer weather; for thou wouldst be both, to thy husband. and how is that cough of thine, my belovedest? hast thou thought of me, in my perils and wanderings? i trust that thou dost muse upon me with hope and joy; not with repining. think that i am gone before, to prepare a home for my dove, and will return for her, all in good time. thy husband has the best chamber in the house, i believe; and though not quite so good as the apartment i have left, it will do very well. i have hung up thy two pictures; and they give me a glimpse of summer and of thee. the vase i intended to have brought in my arms, but could not very conveniently do it yesterday; so that it still remains at mrs. hillards's, together with my carpet. i shall bring them [at] the next opportunity. now farewell, for the present, most beloved. i have been writing this in my chamber; but the fire is getting low, and the house is old and cold; so that the warmth of my whole person has retreated to my heart, which burns with love for thee. i must run down to the kitchen or parlor hearth, when thy image shall sit beside me--yea, be pressed to my breast. at bed-time, thou shalt have a few lines more. now i think of it, dearest, wilt thou give mrs. ripley a copy of grandfather's chair and liberty tree; she wants them for some boys here. i have several copies of famous old people. april 14th. 10 a.m. sweetest, i did not milk the cows last night, because mr. ripley was afraid to trust them to my hands, or me to their horns--i know not which. but this morning, i have done wonders. before breakfast, i went out to the barn, and began to chop hay for the cattle; and with such "righteous vehemence" (as mr. ripley says) did i labor, that in the space of ten minutes, i broke the machine. then i brought wood and replenished the fires; and finally sat down to breakfast and ate up a huge mound of buckwheat cakes. after breakfast, mr. ripley put a four-pronged instrument into my hands, which he gave me to understand was called a pitch-fork; and he and mr. farley being armed with similar weapons, we all then commenced a gallant attack upon a heap of manure. this office being concluded, and thy husband having purified himself, he sits down to finish this letter to his most beloved wife. dearest, i will never consent that thou come within half a mile of me, after such an encounter as that of this morning. pray heaven that his letter retain none of the fragrance with which the writer was imbued. as for thy husband himself, he is peculiarly partial to the odor; but that whimsical little nose of thine might chance to quarrel with it. belovedest, miss fuller's cow hooks the other cows, and has made herself ruler of the herd, and behaves in a very tyrannical manner. sweetest, i know not when i shall see thee; but i trust it will not be longer than the end of next week. i love thee! i love thee! i wouldst thou wert with me; for then would my labor be joyful--and even now it is not sorrowful. dearest, i shall make an excellent husbandman. i feel the original adam reviving within me. miss sophia a. peabody, 13 west street, boston. to miss peabody _oak hill_, april 16th, ½ past 6 a.m. [1841] most beloved, i have a few moments to spare before breakfast; and perhaps thou wilt let me spend them in talking to thee. thy two letters blessed me yesterday, having been brought by some private messenger of mrs. ripley's. very joyful was i to hear from my dove, and my heart gave a mighty heave and swell. that cough of thine--i do wish it would take its departure, for i cannot bear to think of thy tender little frame being shaken with it all night long. dearest, since i last wrote thee, there has been an addition to our community of four gentlemen in sables, who promise to be among our most useful and respectable members. they arrived yesterday, about noon. mr. ripley had proposed to them to join us, no longer ago than that very morning. i had some conversation with them in the afternoon, and was glad to hear them express much satisfaction with their new abode, and all the arrangements. they do not appear to be very communicative, however--or perhaps it may be merely an external reserve, like that of thy husband, to shield their delicacy. several of their prominent characteristics, as well as their black attire, lead me to believe that they are members of the clerical profession; but i have not yet ascertained from their own lips, what has been the nature of their past lives. i trust to have much pleasure in their society, and, sooner or later, that we shall all of us derive great strength from our intercourse with them. i cannot too highly applaud the readiness with which these four gentlemen in black have thrown aside all the fopperies and flummeries, which have their origin in a false state of society. when i last saw them, they looked as heroically regardless of the stains and soils incident to our profession, as thy husband did when he emerged from the gold mine. ownest wife, thy husband has milked a cow!!! belovedest, the herd have rebelled against the usurpation of miss fuller's cow; and whenever they are turned out of the barn, she is compelled to take refuge under our protection. so much did she impede thy husband's labors, by keeping close to him, that he found it necessary to give her two or three gentle pats with a shovel; but still she preferred to trust herself to my tender mercies, rather than venture among the horns of the herd. she is not an amiable cow; but she has a very intelligent face, and seems to be of a reflective cast of character. i doubt not that she will soon perceive the expediency of being on good terms with the rest of the sisterhood. i have not been twenty yards from our house and barn; but i begin to perceive that this is a beautiful place. the scenery is of a mild and placid character, with nothing bold in its character; but i think its beauties will grow upon us, and make us love it the more, the longer we live here. there is a brook, so near the house that we shall [be] able to hear it ripple, in the summer evenings; but, for agricultural purposes, it has been made to flow in a straight and rectangular fashion, which does it infinite damage, as a picturesque object. naughtiest, it was a moment or two before i could think whom thou didst mean by mr. dismal view. why, he is one of the best of the brotherhood, so far as cheerfulness goes; for, if he do not laugh himself, he makes the rest of us laugh continually. he is the quaintest and queerest personage thou didst ever see--full of dry jokes, the humor of which is so incorporated with the strange twistifications of his physiognomy, that his sayings ought to be written down, accompanied with illustrations by cruikshank. then he keeps quoting innumerable scraps of latin, and makes classical allusions, while we are turning over the gold mine; and the contrast between the nature of his employment and the character of his thoughts is irresistibly ludicrous. sweetest, i have written this epistle in the parlor, while farmer ripley, and farmer farley, and farmer dismal view, are talking about their agricultural concerns, around the fire. so thou wilt not wonder if it is not a classical piece of composition, either in point of thought or expression. i shall have just time before breakfast is ready--the boy has just come to call us now--but still i will tell thee that i love thee infinitely; and that i long for thee unspeakably, but yet with a happy longing. the rest of them have gone into the breakfast room;... (portion of letter missing) miss sophia a. peabody, 13 west street, boston. to miss peabody _brook farm_, april 28th, 1841--7 a.m. mine ownest, what a beautiful bright morning is this! i do trust that thou hast not suffered so much from the late tremendous weather, as to be unable now to go abroad in the sunshine. i tremble, almost, to think how thy tender frame has been shaken by that continual cough, which cannot but have grown more inveterate throughout these interminable ages of east wind. at times, dearest, it has seemed an absolute necessity for me to see thee and find out for a certain truth whether thou wert well or ill. even hadst thou been here, thou wouldst have been penetrated to the core with the chill blast. then how must thou have been afflicted, where it comes directly from the sea. belovedest, thy husband was caught by a cold, during his visit to boston. it has not affected his whole frame, but took entire possession of his head, as being the weakest and most vulnerable part. never didst thou hear anybody sneeze with such vehemence and frequency; and his poor brain has been in a thick fog--or rather, it seemed as if his head were stuffed with coarse wool. i know not when i have been so pestered before; and sometimes i wanted to wrench off my head, and give it a great kick, like a foot-ball. this annoyance has made me endure the bad weather with even less than ordinary patience; and my faith was so far exhausted, that, when they told me yesterday that the sun was setting clear, i would not even turn my eyes towards the west. but, this morning, i am made all over anew; and have no greater remnant of my cold, than will serve as an excuse for doing no work to-day. dearest, do not let mrs. ripley frighten thee with apocryphal accounts of my indisposition. i have told thee the whole truth. i do believe that she delights to disquiet people with doubts and fears about their closest friends; for, once or twice, she has made thy cough a bugbear to thy husband. nevertheless, i will not judge too harshly of the good lady, because i like her very well, in many respects. the family has been dismal and dolorous, throughout the storm. the night before last, william allen was stung by a wasp, on the eyelid; whereupon, the whole side of his face swelled to an enormous magnitude; so that, at the breakfast table, one half of him looked like a blind giant (the eye being closed) and the other half had such a sorrowful and ludicrous aspect, that thy husband was constrained to laugh, out of sheer pity. the same day, a colony of wasps was discovered in thy husband's chamber, where they had remained throughout the winter, and were now just bestirring themselves, doubtless with the intention of stinging me from head to foot. thou wilt readily believe, that not one of the accursed crew escaped my righteous vengeance. a similar discovery was made in mr. farley's room. in short, we seem to have taken up our abode in a wasps' nest. thus thou seest, belovedest, that a rural life is not one of unbroken quiet and serenity. if the middle of the day prove warm and pleasant, thy husband promises himself to take a walk, in every step of which thou shalt be his companion. oh, how i long for thee to stay with me; in reality, among the hills, and dales, and woods, of our home. i have taken one walk, with mr. farley; and i could not have believed that there was such seclusion, at so short a distance from a great city. many spots seem hardly to have been visited for ages--not since john eliot preached to the indians here. if we were to travel a thousand miles, we could not escape the world more completely than we can here. sweetest, i long unspeakably to see thee--it is only the thought of thee that draws my spirit out of this solitude. otherwise, i care nothing for the world nor its affairs. i read no newspapers, and hardly remember who is president; and feel as if i had no more concern with what other people trouble themselves about, than if i dwelt in another planet. but, still, thou drawest me to thee continually; and so i can realise how a departed spirit feels, while looking back from another world to the beloved ones of this. all other interests appear like shadows and trifles; but love is a reality, which makes the spirit still an inhabitant of the world which it has quitted. ownest wife, if mr. ripley comes into boston on sunday, it is my purpose to accompany him. otherwise, thou mayst look for me some time during the ensuing week. be happy, dearest; and above all, do shake off that tremendous cough. take great care of thyself, and never venture out when there is the least breath of east-wind; but spread thy wings in the sunshine, and be joyous as itself. god bless thee. thine ownest. will thy father have the goodness to leave the letter for colonel hall at the post office? miss sophia a. peabody, 13 west street, boston. to miss peabody _brook farm_, may 4th, 1841. ½ past 1 p.m. belovedest, as mr. ripley is going to the city this afternoon, i cannot but write a letter to thee, though i have but little time; for the corn field will need me very soon. my cold no longer troubles me; and all this morning, i have been at work under the clear blue sky, on a hill side. sometimes it almost seemed as if i were at work in the sky itself; though the material in which i wrought was the ore from our gold mine. nevertheless, there is nothing so unseemly and disagreeable in this sort of toil, as thou wouldst think. it defiles the hands, indeed, but not the soul. this gold ore is a pure and wholesome substance; else our mother nature would not devour it so readily, and derive so much nourishment from it, and return such a rich abundance of good grain and roots in requital of it. the farm is growing very beautiful now--not that we yet see anything of the pease or potatoes, which we have planted; but the grass blushes green on the slopes and hollows. i wrote that word blush almost unconsciously; so we will let it go as an inspired utterance. when i go forth afield, i think of my dove, and look beneath the stone walls, where the verdure is richest, in hopes that a little company of violets, or some solitary bud, prophetic of the summer, may be there; to which i should award the blissful fate of being treasured for a time in thy bosom; for i doubt not, dearest, that thou wouldst admit any flowers of thy husband's gathering into that sweetest place. but not a wild flower have i yet found. one of the boys gathered some yellow cowslips, last sunday; but i am well content not to have found them; for they are not precisely what i should like to send my dove, though they deserve honor and praise, because they come to us when no others will. we have our parlor here dressed in evergreen, as at christmas. that beautifullest little flower vase of thine stands on mr. ripley's study table, at which i am now writing. it contains some daffodils and some willow blossoms. i brought it here, rather than kept it in my chamber, because i never sit there, and it gives me many pleasant emotions to look round and be surprised (for it is often a surprise, though i well know that it is there) by something which is connected with the idea of thee. most dear wife, i cannot hope that thou art yet entirely recovered from that terrible influenza; but if thou art not almost well, i know not how thy husband will endure it. and that cough too. it is the only one of thy utterances, so far as i have heard them, which i do not love. wilt thou not be very well, and very lightsome, at our next meeting. i promise myself to be with thee next thursday, the day after tomorrow. it is an eternity since we met; and i can nowise account for my enduring this lengthened absence so well. i do not believe that i could suffer it, if i were not engaged in a righteous and heaven-blessed way of life. when i was in the custom-house, and then at salem, i was not half so patient; though my love of thee has grown infinitely since then. we had some tableaux last evening, the principal characters being sustained by mr. farley and miss ellen slade. they went off very well. i would like to see a tableaux arranged by my dove. dearest, i fear it is time for thy clod-compelling husband to take the field again. good bye. miss sophia a. peabody, 13 west street, boston. to miss peabody _brook farm_, june 1st, 1841--nearly 6 a.m. _very dearest_, i have been too busy to write thee a long letter by this opportunity; for i think this present life of mine gives me an antipathy to pen and ink, even more than my custom-house experience did. i could not live without the idea of thee, nor without spiritual communion with thee; but, in the midst of toil, or after a hard day's work in the gold mine, my soul obstinately refuses to be poured out on paper. that abominable gold mine! thank god, we anticipate getting rid of its treasures, in the course of two or three days. of all hateful places, that is the worst; and i shall never comfort myself for having spent so many days of blessed sunshine there. it is my opinion, dearest, that a man's soul may be buried and perish under a dung-heap or in a furrow of the field, just as well as under a pile of money. well; that giant, mr. george bradford, will probably be here to-day; so there will be no danger of thy husband being under the necessity of laboring more than he likes, hereafter. meantime, my health is perfect, and my spirits buoyant, even in the gold mine. and how art thou, belovedest? two or three centuries have passed since i saw thee; and then thou wast pale and languid. thou didst comfort me in that little note of thine; but still i cannot help longing to be informed of thy present welfare. thou art not a prudent little dove, and wast naughty to come on such a day as thou didst; and it seems to me that mrs. ripley does not know how to take care of thee at all. art thou quite well now? dearest wife, i intend to come and see thee either on thursday or friday--perhaps my visit may be deferred till saturday, if the gold mine should hold out so long. i yearn for thee unspeakably. good bye now; for the breakfast horn has sounded, some time since. god bless thee, ownest. thy lovingest husband. miss sophia a. peabody, 13 west street, boston. to miss peabody _brook farm_, friday, july 9th, ½ past 5 p.m. [1841] oh, unutterably ownest wife, no pen can write how i have longed for thee, or for any the slightest word from thee; for thy sunday's letter did not reach me till noon of this very day! never was such a thirst of the spirit as i have felt. i began to wonder whether my dove did really exist, or was only a vision; and canst thou imagine what a desolate feeling that was. oh, i need thee, my wife, every day, and every hour, and every minute, and every minutest particle of forever and forever. belovedest, the robe reached me in due season, and on sabbath day, i put it on; and truly it imparted such a noble and stately aspect to thy husband, that thou couldst not possibly have known him. he did really look tolerably personable! and, moreover, he felt as if thou wert embracing him, all the time that he was wrapt in the folds of this precious robe. hast thou made it of such immortal stuff as the robes of bunyan's pilgrim were made of? else it would grieve my very heart to subject it to the wear and tear of the world. belovedest, when dost thou mean to come home? it is a whole eternity since i saw thee. if thou art at home on a sunday, i must and will spend it with my ownest wife. oh, how my heart leaps at the thought. god bless thee, thou belovedest woman-angel! i cannot write a single word more; for i have stolen the time to write this from the labors of the field. i ought to be raking hay, like my brethren, who will have to labor the longer and later, on account of these few moments which i have given to thee. now that we are in the midst of haying, we return to our toil, after an early supper. i think i never felt so vigorous as now; but, oh, i cannot be well without thee. farewell, thine ownest. miss sophia a. peabody. to miss peabody _brook farm_, aug. 13th, 1841 dearest unutterably, mrs. ripley is going to boston this morning, to miss slade's wedding; so i sit down to write a word to thee, not knowing whither to direct it. my heart searches for thee, but wanders about vaguely, and is strangely dissatisfied. where art thou? i fear that thou didst spend yesterday in the unmitigated east wind of the seacoast. perhaps thou art shivering, at this moment. dearest, i would that i were with thee. it seems as if all evil things had more power over thee, when i am away. then thou art exposed to noxious winds, and to pestilence, and to death-like weariness; and, moreover, nobody knows how to take care of thee but thy husband. everybody else thinks it of importance that thou shouldst paint and sculpture; but it would be no trouble to me, if thou shouldst never touch clay or canvas again. it is not what thou dost, but what thou art, that i concern myself about. and if thy mighty works are to be wrought only by the anguish of thy head, and weariness of thy frame, and sinking of thy heart, then do i never desire to see another. and this should be the feeling of all thy friends. especially ought it to be thine, for thy husband's sake. belovedest, i am very well, and not at all weary; for yesterday's rain gave us a holyday; and moreover the labors of the farm are not as pressing as they have been. and--joyful thought!--in a little more than a fortnight, thy husband will be free from his bondage--free to think of his dove--free to enjoy nature--free to think and feel! i do think that a greater weight will then be removed from me, than when christian's burthen fell off at the foot of the cross. even my custom-house experience was not such a thraldom and weariness; my mind and heart were freer. oh, belovedest, labor is the curse of the world, and nobody can meddle with it, without becoming proportionably brutified. dost thou think it a praiseworthy matter, that i have spent five golden months in providing food for cows and horses? dearest, it is not so. thank god, my soul is not utterly buried under a dung-heap. i shall yet retain it, somewhat defiled, to be sure, but not utterly unsusceptible of purification. farewell now, truest wife. it is time that this letter were sealed. love me; for i love thee infinitely, and pray for thee, and rejoice in thee, and am troubled for thee--for i know not where thou art, nor how thou dost. thine ownest. miss sophia a. peabody, care of mr. daniel newhall, lynn, mass. to miss peabody _brook farm_, 18th aug. 1841. ½ 12 p.m. belovedest, mrs. ripley met me at the door, as i came home from work, and told me that mary was at mrs. park's, and that i might have an opportunity to send a message to thee. whether thou hast written i do not know. at all events, mrs. ripley has not yet given me the letter; nor have i had a chance to ask her what she has heard about thee; such a number of troublesome and intrusive people are there in this thronged household of ours. dearest, if thou hast not written, thou art very sick--one or the other is certain. that wretched and foolish woman! why could not she have put the letter on my table, so that i might have been greeted by it immediately on entering my room? she is not fit to live. dearest, i am very well; only somewhat tired with walking half a dozen miles immediately after breakfast, and raking hay ever since. we shall quite finish haying this week; and then there will be no more very hard or constant labor, during the one other week that i shall remain a slave. most beloved, i received thy lynn letter on saturday, and thy boston letter yesterday. then thou didst aver that thou wast very well--but thou didst not call thyself magnificent. why art thou not magnificent? in thy former letter, thou sayest that thou hast not been so well for two months past. naughtiest wife, hast thou been unwell for two months? ownest, since writing the above, i have been to dinner; and still mrs. ripley has given no sign of having a letter for me; nor was it possible for me to ask her--nor do i know when i can see her alone, to inquire about thee. surely thou canst not have let mary come without a letter. and if thou art sick, why did she come at all? belovedest, the best way is always to send thy letters by the mail; and then i shall know where to find them. aug. 17th--after breakfast.--dearest, thou didst not write--that seems very evident. i have not, even yet, had an opportunity to ask mrs. ripley about thee; for she was gone out last evening; and when she came back, miss ripley and another lady were with her. she mentioned, however, that thy sister mary looked very bright and happy; so i suppose thou couldst not be very intensely and dangerously sick. i might have asked mrs. ripley how thou didst, even in the presence of those two women; but i have an inexpressible and unconquerable reluctance to speak of thee to almost anybody. it seems a sin. well; i do not feel so apprehensive about thy health as i did yesterday; but, sweetest, if thou hadst sent some distinct message, even though not a letter, it would have saved thy husband some disquietude. now farewell for the present. i do long to see thee, but know not how to get to thee. dost thou love me at all? it is a great while since thou hast told me so. ownest wife, i meant to have finished this letter this afternoon, and to have sent it by william allen in the morning; but i have just learnt that mr. ripley is about to start for boston; so i conclude suddenly. god bless thee, and make thee magnificent, and keep thee so forever and ever. i love thee. i love thee. thine ownest. do not write to me, if thou art not well. miss sophia a. peabody, boston, mass. [blank page] to miss peabody _brook farm_, aug. 22nd, 1841 most dear wife, it seems a long time since i have written to thee. dost thou love me at all? i should have been reprehensible in not writing, the last time mr. and mrs. ripley went to town; but i had an indispensable engagement in the bean-field--whither, indeed, i was glad to betake myself, in order to escape a parting scene with poor mr. farley. he was quite out of his wits, the night before, and thy husband sat up with him till long past midnight. the farm is pleasanter now that he is gone; for his unappeasable wretchedness threw a gloom over everything. since i last wrote to thee, we have done haying; and the remainder of my bondage will probably be light. it will be a long time, however, before i shall know how to make a good use of leisure, either as regards enjoyment or literary occupation. when am i to see thee again? the first of september comes a week from tuesday next; but i think i shall ante-date the month, and compel it to begin on sunday. wilt thou consent? then, on saturday afternoon, (for i will pray mr. ripley to give me up so much time, for the sake of my past diligence) i will come to thee, dearest wife, and remain in the city till monday evening. thence i shall go to salem, and spend a week there, longer or shorter according to the intensity of the occasion for my presence. i do long to see our mother and sisters; and i should not wonder if they felt some slight desire to see me. i received a letter from louisa, a week or two since, scolding me most pathetically for my long absence. indeed, i have been rather naughty in this respect; but i knew that it would be unsatisfactory to them and myself, if i came only for a single day--and that has been the longest space that i could command. dearest wife, it is extremely doubtful whether mr. ripley will succeed in locating his community on this farm. he can bring mr. ellis to no terms; and the more they talk about the matter, the farther they appear to be from a settlement. thou and i must form other plans for ourselves; for i can see few or no signs that providence purposes to give us a home here. i am weary, weary, thrice weary of waiting so many ages. yet what can be done? whatever may be thy husband's gifts, he has not hitherto shown a single one that may avail to gather gold. i confess that i have strong hopes of good from this arrangement with munroe; but when i look at the scanty avails of my past literary efforts, i do not feel authorized to expect much from the future. well; we shall see. other persons have bought large estates and built splendid mansions with such little books as i mean to write; so perhaps it is not unreasonable to hope that mine may enable me to build a little cottage--or, at least, to buy or hire one. but i am becoming more and more convinced, that we must not lean upon the community. whatever is to be done, must be done by thy husband's own individual strength. most beloved, i shall not remain here through the winter, unless with an absolute certainty that there will be a home ready for us in the spring. otherwise i shall return to boston,--still, however, considering myself an associate of the community; so that we may take advantage of any more favorable aspect of affairs. dearest, how much depends on these little books! methinks, if anything could draw out my whole strength, it should be the motives that now press upon me. yet, after all, i must keep these considerations out of my mind, because an external purpose always disturbs, instead of assisting me. dearest, i have written the above in not so good spirits as sometimes; but now that i have so ungenerously thrown my despondency on thee, my heart begins to throb more lightly. i doubt not that god has great good in store for us; for he would not have given us so much, unless he were preparing to give a great deal more. i love thee! thou lovest me! what present bliss! what sure and certain hope! thine ownest husband. miss sophia a. peabody, 13 west-street, boston. to miss peabody _salem_, sept. 3d, 1841--4 o'clock p.m. most beloved,--thou dost not expect a letter from thy husband; and yet, perhaps, thou wilt not be absolutely displeased should one come to thee tomorrow. at all events, i feel moved to write; though the haze and sleepiness, which always settles upon me here, will certainly be perceptible in every line. but what a letter didst thou write to me! thou lovest like a celestial being, (as truly thou art,) and dost express thy love in heavenly language;--it is like one angel writing to another angel; but alas! the letter has miscarried, and has been delivered to a most unworthy mortal. now wilt thou exclaim against thy husband's naughtiness! and truly he is very naughty. well then; the letter was meant for him, and could not possibly belong to any other being, mortal or immortal. i will trust that thy idea of me is truer than my own consciousness of myself. dearest, i have been out only once, in the day time, since my arrival. how immediately and irrecoverably (if thou didst not keep me out of the abyss) should i relapse into the way of life in which i spent my youth! if it were not for my dove, this present world would see no more of me forever. the sunshine would never fall on me, no more than on a ghost. once in a while, people might discern my figure gliding stealthily through the dim evening--that would be all. i should be only a shadow of the night; it is thou that givest me reality, and makest all things real for me. if, in the interval since i quitted this lonely old chamber, i had found no woman (and thou wast the only possible one) to impart reality and significance to life, i should have come back hither ere now, with the feeling that all was a dream and a mockery. dost thou rejoice that thou hast saved me from such a fate? yes; it is a miracle worthy even of thee, to have converted a life of shadows into the deepest truth, by thy magic touch. belovedest, i have not yet made acquaintance with miss polly metis. mr. foote was not in his office when i called there; so that my introduction to the erudite polly was unavoidably deferred. i went to the athenaeum this forenoon, and turned over a good many dusty books. when we dwell together, i intend that my dove shall do all the reading that may be necessary, in the concoction of my various histories; and she shall repeat the substance of her researches to me. thus will knowledge fall upon me like heavenly dew. sweetest, it seems very long already since i saw thee; but thou hast been all the time in my thoughts; so that my being has been continuous. therefore, in one sense, it does not seem as if we had parted at all. but really i should judge it to be twenty years since i left brook farm; and i take this to be one proof that my life there was an unnatural and unsuitable, and therefore an unreal one. it already looks like a dream behind me. the real me was never an associate of the community; there has been a spectral appearance there, sounding the horn at day-break, and milking the cows, and hoeing potatoes, and raking hay, toiling and sweating in the sun, and doing me the honor to assume my name. but be thou not deceived, dove, of my heart. this spectre was not thy husband. nevertheless, it is somewhat remarkable that thy husband's hands have, during the past summer, grown very brown and rough; insomuch that many people persist in believing that he, after all, was the aforesaid spectral horn-sounder, cow-milker, potatoe-hoer, and hay-raker. but such people do not know a reality from a shadow. enough of nonsense. belovedest, i know not exactly how soon i shall return to the farm. perhaps not sooner than a fortnight from tomorrow; but, in that case. i shall pay thee an intermediate visit of one day. wilt thou expect me on friday or saturday next, from ten to twelve o'clock on each day,--not earlier nor later. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. to miss peabody _salem_, septr. 9th, 1841--a.m. _ownest love,_ in my last letter, i left it uncertain whether i should come friday or saturday, because i deemed it good to allow myself the freedom of choosing the day that should be most vacant from all earthly care and inconvenience, so that thou mightest be sure to meet the whole of me; and, likewise, i desired to have a brightest and sunniest day, because our meetings have so often been in clouds and drizzle. also, i thought it well that thy expectation of seeing thy husband should be diffused over two days, so that the disappointment might be lessened, if it were impossible for me to come on the very day appointed. but these reasons are of no moment, since thou so earnestly desirest to know the day and hour. unless the sky fall, belovedest, i will come tomorrow. i know of no obstacle; and if there were a million, it would be no matter. when once we are together, our own world is round about us, and all things else cease to exist. belovedest, thy letter of a week from thursday reached me not till tuesday! it had got into the hands of the penny-post. farewell, ownest. i love thee with infinite intensity, and think of thee continually. thine ownest husband. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. to miss peabody _salem_, septr. 10th, 1841--a.m. most dear wife, thou canst not imagine how strange it seems to me that thou shouldst ever suffer any bodily harm. i cannot conceive of it--the idea will not take the aspect of reality. thou art to me a spirit gliding about our familiar paths; and i always feel as if thou wert beyond the reach of mortal accident--nor am i convinced to the contrary even by thy continual gashings of thy dearest fingers and sprainings of thy ancle. i love thee into the next state of existence, and therefore do not realise that thou art here as subject to corporeal harm as is thy husband himself--nay, ten times more so, because thy earthly manifestation is refined almost into spirit. but, dearest, thy accident did make thy husband's heart flutter very riotously. i wanted to hold thee in mine arms; for i had a foolish notion that thou wouldst be much better--perhaps quite well! i cannot tell thee all i felt; and still i had not the horrible feelings that i should expect, because there was a shadowiness interposed between me and the fact, so that it did not strike my heart, as the beam did thy head. let me not speak of it any more, lest it become too real. sweetest, thou dost please me much by criticising thy husband's stories, and finding fault with them. i do not very well recollect monsieur de miroir; but as to mrs. bullfrog, i give her up to thy severest reprehension. the story was written as a mere experiment in that style; it did not come from am depth within me--neither my heart nor mind had anything to do with it. i recollect that the man of adamant seemed a fine idea to me, when i looked at it prophetically; but i failed in giving shape and substance to the vision which i saw. i don't think it can be very good. ownest wife, i cannot believe all these stories about munroe, because such an abominable rascal never would be sustained and countenanced by respectable men. i take him to be neither better nor worse than the average of his tribe. however, i intend to have all my copy-rights taken out in my own name; and if he cheats me once, i will have nothing more to do with him, but will straightway be cheated by some other publisher--that being, of course, the only alternative. dearest, what dost thou think of taking governor shirley's young french wife as the subject of one of the cuts. thou shouldst represent her in the great chair, perhaps with a dressing glass before her, and arrayed in all manner of fantastic finery, and with an outre french air; while the old governor is leaning fondly over her, and a puritan counsellor or two are manifesting their disgust, in the background. a negro footman and french waiting maid might be in attendance. do not think that i expect thee to adopt my foolish fancies about these things. whatever thou mayst do, it will be better than i can think. in liberty tree, thou mightest have a vignette, representing the chair in a very battered, shattered, and forlorn condition, after it had been ejected from hutchinson's house. this would serve to impress the reader with the woeful vicissitudes of sublunary things. many other subjects would thy husband suggest, but he is terribly afraid that thou wouldst take one of them, instead of working out thine own inspirations. belovedest, i long to see thee. do be magnificently well by saturday--yet not on my account, but thine own. meantime, take care of thy dearest head. thou art not fit to be trusted away from thy husband's guidance, one moment. dear little wife, didst thou ever behold such an awful scribble as thy husband writes, since he became a farmer? his chirography always was abominable; but now it is outrageous. god bless thee, dearest and may his hand be continually outstretched over thy head. expect me on saturday afternoon. thine ownest husband. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. to miss peabody _salem_, september 14th, 1841--a.m. ownest beloved, i know not whether thou dost expect a letter from thy husband; but i have a comfortable faith that it will not be altogether unwelcome; so i boldly sit down to scribble. i love thee transcendently; and nothing makes me more sensible of the fact, than that i write thee voluntary letters, without any external necessity. it is as if intense love should make a dumb man speak. (alas! i hear a knocking at the door, and suspect that some untimely person is about to call me away from my dove.) afternoon.--dearest, it was even as i suspected. how sad it is, that we cannot be sure of one moment's uninterrupted communication, even when we are talking together in that same old chamber, where i have spent so many quiet years! well; thou must be content to lose some very sweet outpourings wherewith my heart would probably have covered the first, and perhaps the second page of this sheet. the amount of all would have been, that i am somewhat partial to thee--and thou hast a suspicion of that fact, already. belovedest, master cheever is a very good subject for a sketch--especially if thou dost portray him in the very act of executing judgment on an evil-doer. the little urchin may be laid across his knee, and his arms and legs (and whole person, indeed) should be flying all abroad, in an agony of nervous excitement and corporeal smart. the master, on the other hand, must be calm, rigid, without anger or pity, the very personification of that unmitigable law, whereby suffering follows sin. meantime, the lion's head should have a sort of sly twist of one side of its mouth, and wink of one eye, in order to give the impression, that, after all, the crime and the punishment are neither of them the most serious things in the world. i would draw this sketch myself, if i had but the use of thy magic fingers. why dost thou--being one and the same person with thy husband--unjustly keep those delicate little instruments (thy fingers, to wit) all to thyself? then, dearest, the acadians will do very well for the second sketch. wilt thou represent them as just landing on the wharf?--or as presenting themselves before governor shirley, seated in the great chair? another subject (if this do not altogether suit thee) might be old cotton mather, venerable in a three cornered hat and other antique attire, walking the streets of boston, and lifting up his hands to bless the people, while they all revile him. an old dame should be seen flinging or emptying some vials of medicine on his head, from the latticed window of an old-fashioned house; and all around must be tokens of pestilence and mourning--as a coffin borne along, a woman or children weeping on a door-step. canst thou paint the tolling of the old south bell? if thou likest not this subject, thou canst take the military council, holden at boston by the earl of loudoun, and other captains and governors--his lordship in the great chair, an old-fashioned military figure, with a star on his breast. some of louis xv's commanders will give thee the costume. on the table and scattered about the room must be symbols of warfare, swords, pistols, plumed hats, a drum, trumpet, and rolled up banner, in one heap. it were not amiss that thou introduce the armed figure of an indian chief, as taking part in the council--or standing apart from the english, erect and stern. now for liberty tree--there is an engraving of that famous vegetable in snow's history of boston; but thou wilt draw a better one out of thine own head. if thou dost represent it, i see not what scene can be beneath it, save poor mr. oliver taking the oath. thou must represent him with a bag wig, ruffled sleeves, embroidered coat, and all such ornaments, because he is the representative of aristocracy and artificial system. the people may be as rough and wild as thy sweetest fancy can make them;--nevertheless, there must be one or two grave, puritanical figures in the midst. such an one might sit in the great chair, and be an emblem of that stern spirit, which brought about the revolution. but thou wilt find this is a hard subject. but what a dolt is thy husband, thus to obtrude his counsel in the place of thine own inspiration! belovedest, i want soon to tell thee how i love thee. thou must not expect me till saturday afternoon. i yearn infinitely to see thee. heaven bless thee forever and forever. thine ownest. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. to miss peabody _brook farm_, sept. 22d, 1841--p.m. dearest love, here is thy husband again, slowly adapting himself to the life of this queer community, whence he seems to have been absent half a life time--so utterly has he grown apart from the spirit and manners of the place. thou knowest not how much i wanted thee, to give me a home-feeling in the spot--to keep a feeling of coldness and strangeness from creeping into my heart and making me shiver. nevertheless, i was most kindly received; and the fields and woods looked very pleasant, in the bright sunshine of the day before yesterday. i had a friendlier disposition towards the farm, now that i am no longer obliged to toil in its stubborn furrows. yesterday and to-day, however, the weather has been intolerable--cold, chill, sullen, so that it is impossible to be on kindly terms with mother nature. would i were with thee, mine own warmest and truest-hearted wife! belovedest, i doubt whether i shall succeed in writing another volume of grandfather's library, while i remain at the farm. i have not the sense of perfect seclusion, which has always been essential to my power of producing anything. it is true, nobody intrudes into my room; but still i cannot be quiet. nothing here is settled--everything is but beginning to arrange itself--and though thy husband would seem to have little to do with aught beside his own thoughts, still he cannot but partake of the ferment around him. my mind will not be abstracted. i must observe, and think, and feel, and content myself with catching glimpses of things which may be wrought out hereafter. perhaps it will be quite as well that i find myself unable to set seriously about literary occupation for the present. it will be good to have a longer interval between my labor of the body and that of the mind. i shall work to the better purpose, after the beginning of november. meantime, i shall see these people and their enterprise under a new point of view, and perhaps be able to determine whether thou and i have any call to cast in our lot among them. sweetest, our letters have not yet been brought from the post office; so that i have known nothing of thee since our parting. surely we were very happy--and never had i so much peace and joy as in brooding over thine image, as thou wast revealed to me in our last interview. i love thee with all the heart i have--and more. now farewell, most dear. mrs. ripley is to be the bearer of this letter; and i reserve the last page for tomorrow morning. perhaps i shall have a blessed word from thee, ere then. septr. 23d--before breakfast.--sweetest wife, thou hast not written to me. nevertheless, i do not conclude thee to be sick, but will believe that thou hast been busy in creating laura bridgman. what a faithful and attentive husband thou hast! for once he has anticipated thee in writing. belovedest, i do wish the weather would put off this sulky mood. had it not been for the warmth and brightness of monday, when i arrived here, i should have supposed that all sunshine had left brook farm forever. i have no disposition to take long walks, in such a state of the sky; nor have i any buoyancy of spirit. thy husband is a very dull person, just at this time. i suspect he wants thee. it is his purpose, i believe, either to walk or ride to boston, about the end of next week, and give thee a kiss--after which he will return quietly and contentedly to the farm. oh, what joy, when he will again see thee every day! we had some tableaux last night. they were very stupid, (as, indeed, was the case with all i have ever seen) but do not thou tell mrs. ripley so. she is a good woman, and i like her better than i did--her husband keeps his old place in my judgment. farewell, thou gentlest dove--thou perfectest woman- thine ownest husband. miss sophia a. peabody, boston, mass. to miss peabody _brook farm_, septr. 25th, 1841--½ past 7 a.m. ownest dove, it was but just now that i thought of sending thee a few lines by mr. ripley; for this penning of epistles is but a wretched resource. what shall i do? what shall i do? to talk to thee in this way does not bring thee nearer; it only compels me to separate myself from thee, and put thee at a distance. of all humbugs, pretending to alleviate mortal woes, writing is the greatest. yet, thy two letters were a great comfort to me--so great, that they could not possibly have been dispensed with. dearest, i did not write thee what mr. and mrs. ripley said to me, because they have said nothing which i did not know before. the ground, upon which i must judge of the expediency of our abiding here, is not what they may say, but what actually is, or is likely to be; and of this i doubt whether either of them is capable of forming a correct opinion. would that thou couldst he here--or could have been here all summer--in order to help me think what is to be done. but one thing is certain--i cannot and will not spend the winter here. the time would be absolutely thrown away, so far as regards any literary labor to be performed,--and then to suffer this famished yearning for thee, all winter long! it is impossible. dearest, do not thou wear thyself out with working upon that bust. if it cause thee so much as a single head-ache, i shall wish that laura bridgman were at jericho. even if thou shouldst not feel thyself wearied at the time, i fear that the whole burthen of toil will fall upon thee when all is accomplished. it is no matter if laura should go home without being sculptured--no matter if she goes to her grave without it. i dread to have thee feel an outward necessity for such a task; for this intrusion of an outward necessity into labors of the imagination and intellect is, to me, very painful. oh, what weather! it seems to me as if every place were sunny, save brook farm. nevertheless, i had rather a pleasant walk to a distant meadow, a day or two ago; and we found white and purple grapes, in great abundance, ripe, and gushing with rich juice when the hand pressed their clusters. didst thou know what treasures of wild grapes there are in this land. if we dwell here, we will make our own wine--of which, i know, my dove will want a great quantity. good bye, sweetest. if thou canst contrive to send me a glimpse of sunshine, i will be the gratefullest husband on earth. i love thee inextinguishably. thou hast no place to put all the love which i feel for thee. thine ownest husband. miss sophia a. peabody, boston, mass. to miss peabody _brook farm_, septr. 27th, 1841. 7½ a.m. _dearest love,_ thy two letters of business came both together, saturday evening! what an acute and energetic personage is my little dove! i say it not in jest (though with a smile) but in good earnest, and with a comfortable purpose to commit all my business transactions to thee, when we dwell together. and why dost thou seem to apprehend that thou mayst possibly offend me. thou canst do so never, but only make me love thee more and more. now as to this affair with munroe. i fully confide in thy opinion that he intends to make an unequal bargain with thy poor simple and innocent husband--never having doubted this, myself. but how is he to accomplish it? i am not, nor shall be, in the least degree in his power; whereas, he is, to a certain extent, in mine. he might announce his projected library, with me for the editor, in all the newspapers in the universe; but still i could not be bound to become the editor, unless by my own act; nor should i have the slightest scruple in refusing to be so, at the last moment, if he persisted in treating me with injustice. then, as for his printing grandfather's chair, i have the copy-right in my own hands, and could and would prevent the sale, or make him account to me for the profits, in case of need. meantime, he is making arrangements for publishing this library, contracting with other booksellers, and with printers and engravers, and, with every step, making it more difficult for himself to draw back. i, on the other hand, do nothing which i should not do, if the affair with munroe were at an end; for if i write a book, it will be just as available for some other publisher as for him. my dearest, instead of getting me within his power by this delay, he has trusted to my ignorance and simplicity, and has put _himself_ in _my_ power. show the contrary, if thou canst. he is not insensible of this. at our last interview, he himself introduced the subject of our bargain, and appeared desirous to close it. but thy husband was not prepared, among other reasons, because i do not yet see what materials i shall have for the republications in the library; the works that he has shown me being all ill-adapted for that purpose; and i wish first to see some french and german books, which he has sent for to new york. and, belovedest, before concluding the bargain, i have promised george hillard to consult him and let him do the business. is not this consummate discretion? and is not thy husband perfectly safe? then why does my dove put herself into a fever? rather, let her look at the matter with the same perfect composure that i do, who see all around my own position, and know that it is impregnable. most sweet wife, i cannot write thee any more at present, as mr. ripley is going away instantaneously; but we will talk at length on saturday, when god means to send me to thee. i love thee infinitely, and admire thee beyond measure, and trust thee in all things, and will never transact any business without consulting thee--though on some rare occasions, it may happen that i will have my own way, after all. i feel inclined to break off this engagement with munroe; as thou advisest, though not for precisely the reasons thou urgest; but of this hereafter. thy most own husband. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. to miss peabody _brook farm_, septr. 29th, 1841.--a.m. ownest wife, i love thee most exceedingly--never so much before; though i am sure i have loved thee through a past eternity. how dost thou do? dost thou remember that, the day after tomorrow, thou art to meet thy husband? does thy heart thrill at the thought? dearest love, thy husband was elected to two high offices, last night--viz., to be a trustee of the brook farm estate, and chairman of the committee of finance!!!! now dost thou not blush to have formed so much lower an opinion of my business talents, than is entertained by other discerning people? from the nature of my office, i shall have the chief direction of all the money affairs of the community--the making of bargains--the supervision of receipts and expenditures &c. &c. &c. thou didst not think of this, when thou didst pronounce me unfit to make a bargain with that petty knave of a publisher. a prophet has no honor among those of his own kindred, nor a financier in the judgment of his wife. belovedest, my accession to these august offices does not at all decide the question of my remaining here permanently. i told mr. ripley, that i could not spend the winter at the farm, and that it was quite uncertain whether i returned in the spring. now, farewell, most dear and sweet wife. of course, thou canst not expect that a man in eminent public station will have much time to devote to correspondence with a dove. i will remember thee in the intervals of business, and love thee in all my leisure moments. will not this satisfy thee? god bless thee, mine ownest--my treasure--thou gold and diamond of my soul!--my possession forever--my enough and to spare, yet never, never, to be spared! sweetest, if it should be very stormy on saturday, expect me not--but the first fair day thereafter. i put all my love into one kiss, and have twice as much left as before. thy truest husband. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. to miss peabody _brook farm_, octr. 9th--before breakfast [1841] _most dear,_ here is thy husband trying to write to thee, while it is so dark that he can hardly see his own scribble--not that it is very early; for the sun is up long ago, and ought to be shining into my window. but this dismal gloom! i positively cannot submit to have this precious month all darkened with cloud and sullied with drizzle. dearest, i return the manuscript tale. it is pretty enough; but i doubt whether it be particularly suited to the american public; and, if intended for publication, i trust it will undergo a very severe revision. it will need it. i speak frankly about this matter; but i should do the same (only more frankly still) if the translation were my dove's own. i wonder whether munroe has yet returned grandfather's chair to elizabeth. i send back his books to-day. belovedest, i think thou wilt see me in the latter half of next week. thou needest not to give up any visit to south boston on this account; for i cannot get to thee before twelve o'clock. it will be but an hour or so's visit. thine with deepest and keenest love, theodore de l'aubepine. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. to miss peabody _brook farm_, october 18th, saturday [1841] most dear wife, i received thy letter and note, last night, and was much gladdened by them; for never has my soul so yearned for thee as now. but, belovedest, my spirit is moved to talk to thee to day about these magnetic miracles, and to beseech thee to take no part in them. i am unwilling that a power should be exercised on thee, of which we know neither the origin nor the consequence, and the phenomena of which seem rather calculated to bewilder us, than to teach us any truths about the present or future state of being. if i possessed such a power over thee, i should not dare to exercise it; nor can i consent to its being exercised by another. supposing that this power arises from the transfusion of one spirit into another, it seems to me that the sacredness of an individual is violated by it; there would be an intrusion into thy holy of holies--and the intruder would not be thy husband! canst thou think, without a shrinking of thy soul, of any human being coming into closer communion with thee than i may?--than either nature or my own sense of right would permit me? i cannot. and, dearest, thou must remember, too, that thou art now a part of me, and that, by surrendering thyself to the influence of this magnetic lady, thou surrenderest more than thine own moral and spiritual being--allowing that the influence _is_ a moral and spiritual one. and, sweetest, i really do not like the idea of being brought, through thy medium, into such an intimate relation with mrs. park! now, ownest wife, i have no faith whatever that people are raised to the seventh heaven, or to any heaven at all, or that they gain any insight into the mysteries of life beyond death, by means of this strange science. without distrusting that the phenomena which thou tellest me of, and others as remarkable, have really occurred, i think that they are to be accounted for as the result of a physical and material, not of a spiritual, influence. _opium_ has produced many a brighter vision of heaven (and just as susceptible of proof) than those which thou recountest. they are dreams, my love--and such dreams as thy sweetest fancy, either waking or sleeping, could vastly improve upon. and what delusion can be more lamentable and mischievous, than to mistake the physical and material for the spiritual? what so miserable as to lose the soul's true, though hidden, knowledge and consciousness of heaven, in the mist of an earth-born vision? thou shalt not do this. if thou wouldst know what heaven is, before thou comest thither hand in hand with thy husband, then retire into the depths of thine own spirit, and thou wilt find it there among holy thoughts and feelings; but do not degrade high heaven and its inhabitants into any such symbols and forms as those which miss larned describes--do not let an earthly effluence from mrs. park's corporeal system bewilder thee, and perhaps contaminate something spiritual and sacred. i should as soon think of seeking revelations of the future state in the rottenness of the grave--where so many do seek it. belovedest wife, i am sensible that these arguments of mine may appear to have little real weight; indeed, what i write does no sort of justice to what i think. but i care the less for this, because i know that my deep and earnest feeling upon the subject will weigh more with thee than all the arguments in the world. and thou wilt know that the view which i take of this matter is caused by no want of faith in mysteries, but from a deep reverence of the soul, and of the mysteries which it knows within itself, but never transmits to the earthly eye or ear. keep thy imagination sane--that is one of the truest conditions of communion with heaven. dearest, after these grave considerations, it seems hardly worth while to submit a merely external one; but as it occurs to me, i will write it. i cannot think, without invincible repugnance, of thy holy name being bruited abroad in connection with these magnetic phenomena. some (horrible thought!) would pronounce my dove an impostor; the great majority would deem thee crazed; and even the few believers would feel a sort of interest in thee, which it would be anything but pleasant to excite. and what adequate motive can there be for exposing thyself to all this misconception? thou wilt say, perhaps, that thy visions and experiences would never be known. but miss larned's are known to all who choose to listen. october 19th. monday.--most beloved, what a preachment have i made to thee! i love thee, i love thee, i love thee, most infinitely. love is the true magnetism. what carest thou for any other? belovedest, it is probable that thou wilt see thy husband tomorrow. art thou magnificent? god bless thee. what a bright day is here; but the woods are fading now. it is time i were in the city, for the winter. thine ownest. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. to miss peabody _brook farm_, october 21st, 1841--noon ownest beloved, i know thou dost not care in the least about receiving a word from thy husband--thou lovest me not--in fact thou hast quite forgotten that such a person exists. i do love thee so much, that i really think that all the love is on my side;--there is no room for any more in the whole universe. sweetest, i have nothing at all to say to thee--nothing, i mean, that regards this external world; and as to matters of the heart and soul, they are not to be written about. what atrocious weather! in all this month, we have not had a single truly october day; it has been a real november month, and of the most disagreeable kind. i came to this place in one snowstorm, and shall probably leave it in another; so that my reminiscences of brook farm are like to be the coldest and dreariest imaginable. but next month, thou, belovedest, will be my sunshine and my summer. no matter what weather it may be then. dearest, good bye. dost thou love me after all? art thou magnificently well? god bless thee. thou didst make me infinitely happiest, at our last meeting. was it a pleasant season likewise to thee? thine ownest, theodore de l'aubepine. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. to miss peabody _salem_, novr. 27th, 1841 _dearest soul,_ i know not whether thou wilt have premonitions of a letter from thy husband; but i feel absolutely constrained to write thee a few lines this morning, before i go up in town. i love thee--i love thee--and i have no real existence but in thee. never before did my bosom so yearn for the want of thee--so thrill at the thought of thee. thou art a mighty enchantress, my little dove, and hast quite subdued a strong man, who deemed himself independent of all the world. i am a captive under thy little foot, and look to thee for life. stoop down and kiss me--or i die! dearest, i am intolerably weary of this old town; and i would that my visits might not be oftener than once in ten years, instead of a fortnight. dost thou not think it really the most hateful place in all the world? my mind becomes heavy and nerveless, the moment i set my foot within its precincts. nothing makes me wonder more than that i found it possible to write all my tales in this same region of sleepy-head and stupidity. but i suppose the characteristics of the place are reproduced in the tales; and that accounts for the overpowering disposition to slumber which so many people experience, in reading thy husband's productions. belovedest, according to thy instructions, i have been very careful in respect to mince-pies and other thanksgiving dainties; and so have passed pretty well through the perils of the carnival season. thou art a dearest little wife, and i would live on bread and water, to please thee, even if such temperate regimen should produce no other good. but truly thou art very wise in thy dietetic rules; and it is well that i have such a wife to take care of me; inasmuch as i am accustomed to eat whatever is given me, with an appetite as indiscriminate, though not quite so enormous, as that of an ostrich. setting aside fat pork, i refuse no other christian meat. dearest, i write of nothing; for i had nothing to write when i began, save to make thee aware that i loved thee infinitely; and now that thou knowest it, there is no need of saying a word more. on monday evening, please god, i shall see thee. how would i have borne it, if thy visit to ida russel were to commence before my return to thine arms? god bless thee, mine ownest. thy truest husband. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. to miss peabody 54 pinckney st., jany. 1st, [1842] _very dearest,_ i would gladly go to salem immediately if i could, but i am detained here by some ceremonies, which are needful to be gone through, previous to my final deliverance from the custom-house. as mr. bancroft is not expected back from washington for some days, i shall probably remain till nearly the close of next week. meantime, i must be near at hand, because my presence may be required at any moment. naughtiest, thou shouldst not put thy little white hands into cold clay. canst thou not use warm water? how canst thou hope for any warmth of conception and execution, when thou art working with material as cold as ice? as to the proof-sheets, i think we need not trouble.... (remainder of letter missing) to miss peabody _salem_, jany. 20th, 1842--11 o'clock a.m. _truest heart,_ here is thy husband in his old chamber, where he produced those stupendous works of fiction, which have since impressed the universe with wonderment and awe! to this chamber, doubtless, in all succeeding ages, pilgrims will come to pay their tribute of reverence;--they will put off their shoes at the threshold, for fear of desecrating the tattered old carpet. "there," they will exclaim, "is the very bed in which he slumbered, and where he was visited by those ethereal visions, which he afterward fixed forever in glowing words! there is the wash-stand, at which this exalted personage cleansed himself from the stains of earth, and rendered his outward man a fitting exponent of the pure soul within. there, in its mahogany frame, is the dressing-glass, which reflected that noble brow, those hyacinthine locks, that mouth, bright with smiles, or tremulous with feeling, that flashing or melting eye, that--in short, every item of the magnanimous phiz of this unexampled man! there is the pine table--there the old flag-bottomed chair--in which he sat, and at which he scribbled, during his agonies of inspiration! there is the old chest of drawers, in which he kept what shirts a poor author may be supposed to have possessed! there is the closet, in which was reposited his threadbare suit of black! there is the worn-out shoe-brush with which this polished writer polished his boots. there is--" but i believe this will be pretty much all;--so here i close the catalogue. most dear, i love thee beyond all limits, and write to thee because i cannot help it;--nevertheless, writing grows more and more an inadequate and unsatisfactory mode of revealing myself to thee. i no longer think of saying anything deep, because i feel that the deepest and truest must remain unsaid. we have left expression--at least, such expression as can be achieved with pen and ink--far behind us. even the spoken word has long been inadequate. looks are a better language; but, bye-and-bye, our spirits will demand some more adequate expression even than these. and thus it will go on; until we shall be divested of these earthly forms, which are at once our medium of expression, and the impediments to full communion. then we shall melt into [one] another, and all be expressed, once and continually, without a word--without an effort. belovedest, my cold is very comfortable now. mrs. hillard gave me some homo--i don't know how to spell it--homeopathic medicine, of which i took a dose last night; and shall not need another. art thou likewise well? didst thou weary thy poor little self to death, yesterday? i do not think that i could possibly undergo the fatigue and distraction of mind which thou dost. thou art ten times as powerful as i, because thou art so much more ethereal. sweetest, thy husband has recently been both lectured about and preached about, here in his native city. the preacher was rev. mr. fox of newburyport; but how he contrived to hook me into a sermon, i know not. i trust he took for his text that which was spoken of my namesake of old--"behold an israelite indeed, in whom there is no guile." belovedest, if ever thou shouldst happen to hear me lauded on any public occasion, i shall expect thee to rise, and make thine own and my acknowledgments, in a neat and appropriate speech. wilt thou not? surely thou wilt--inasmuch as i care little for applause, save as it shall please thee; so it is rather thy concern than mine. mine ownest, it is by no means comfortable to be separated from thee three whole days at a time. it is too great a gap in life. there is no sunshine in the days in which thou dost not shine on me. and speaking of sunshine, what a beautifullest day (to the outward eye, i mean) was yesterday; and to-day seems equally bright and gladsome, although i have not yet tasted the fresh air. i trust that thou has flown abroad, and soared upward to the seventh heaven. but do not stay there, sweetest dove! come back for me; for i shall never get there, unless by the aid of thy wings. now god bless thee, and make thee happy and joyful, until saturday evening, when thou must needs bear the infliction of thine ownest husband. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. to miss peabody _salem_, feby. 27th, 1842--forenoon _thou dearest heart,_ as it is uncertain whether i shall return to boston tomorrow, i write thee a letter; for i need to commune with thee; and even if i should bring the scroll of my thoughts and feelings with me, perhaps thou wilt not refuse to receive it. it is awful, almost (and yet i would not have it otherwise, for the world) to feel how necessary thou hast become to my well-being, and how my spirit is disturbed at a separation from thee, and stretches itself out through the dimness and distance to embrace its other self. thou art my quiet and satisfaction--not only my chiefest joy, but the condition of all other enjoyments. when thou art away, vague fears and misgivings sometimes steal upon me; there are heart-quakes and spirit-sinkings for no real cause, and which never trouble me when thou art with me. belovedest, i have thought much of thy parting injunction to tell my mother and sisters that thou art her daughter and their sister. i do not think that thou canst estimate what a difficult task thou didst propose to me--not that any awful and tremendous effect would be produced by the disclosure; but because of the strange reserve, in regard to matters of feeling, that has always existed among us. we are conscious of one another's feelings, always; but there seems to be a tacit law, that our deepest heart-concernments are not to be spoken of. i cannot gush out in their presence--i cannot take my heart in my hand, and show it to them. there is a feeling within me (though i know it is a foolish one) as if it would be as indecorous to do so, as to display to them the naked breast. and they are in the same state as myself. none, i think, but delicate and sensitive persons could have got into such a position; but doubtless this incapacity of free communion, in the hour of especial need, is meant by providence as a retribution for something wrong in our early intercourse. then it is so hard to speak of thee--_really_ of thee--to anybody! i doubt whether i ever have _really_ spoken of thee to any person. i have spoken the name of sophia, it is true; but the idea in my mind was apart from thee--it embraced nothing of thine inner and essential self; it was an outward and faintly-traced shadow that i summoned up, to perform thy part, and which i placed in the midst of thy circumstances; so that thy sister mary, or mrs. ripley, or even margaret, were deceived, and fancied that i was talking about thee. but there didst thou lie, thy real self, in my deepest, deepest heart, while far above, at the surface, this distant image of thee was the subject of talk. and it was not without an effort which few are capable of making, that i could ever do so much; and even then i felt as if it were profane. yet i spoke to persons from whom, if from any, i might expect true sympathy in regard to thee. i tell thee these things, in order that my dove, into whose infinite depths the sunshine falls continually, may perceive what a cloudy veil stretches over the abyss of my nature. thou wilt not think that it is caprice or stubbornness that has made me hitherto resist thy wishes. neither. i think, is it a love of secrecy and darkness. i am glad to think that god sees through my heart; and if any angel has power to penetrate into it, he is welcome to know everything that is there. yes; and so may any mortal, who is capable of full sympathy, and therefore worthy to come into my depths. but he must find his own way there. i can neither guide him nor enlighten him. it is this involuntary reserve, i suppose, that has given the objectivity to my writings. and when people think that i am pouring myself out in a tale or essay, i am merely telling what is common to human nature, not what is peculiar to myself. i sympathise with them--not they with me. feb. 28th--forenoon.--sweetest, thou shalt have this letter instead of thy husband, to-night. dost thou love me? i shall not find any letter from thee at the post office, because thou dost expect to hear my footsteps on thy staircase, at six o'clock this evening. oh, but another day will quickly pass; and then this yearning of the soul will be appeased, for a little while at least. i wonder, i wonder, i wonder, where on earth we are to set up our tabernacle. god knows;--but i want to know too. dearest love, i am very well, and comfortable as i desire to be, in thy absence. after all, it is a happiness to need thee, to sigh for thee, to feel the nothingness of all things without thee. but do not thou think so--thou must be happy always, not independently of thy husband, but with a bliss equally pervading presence and absence. belovedest, i have employed most of my time here in collecting curiosities, and have so many on my hands that i begin to fear it will require a volume to contain the catalogue. i would we had such a museum in reality. and now good-bye, most true heart. methinks this is the longest letter that i have written thee for a great while. shalt thou expect me to write during my journey to new york?--or, were it not better to allow thee to forget me entirely, during that interval of a week? god bless thee, thou unforgettablest and unforgettingest, thine ownest husband. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, 13 west-street, boston, mass. to miss peabody _new york_, march 4th, 1842 dearest, i can find only this torn sheet of paper, on which to scribble thee a bulletin. we are arrived safely; but i am very homesick for thee--otherwise well and in good spirits. i love thee infinitely much. belovedest, i know not whether the colonel and i will leave this city on monday or tuesday, but if thou hast not already written, it will be to[o] late to direct a letter hither. in that case, best wife, write to albany--whence i shall write to thee. the steam-engine kept me awake last night; but i cared not, for i was thinking about thee. i am exceedingly well. dost thou love me? thine ownest husband. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. to miss peabody _albany_, march 10th, 1842 mine own heart, i arrived here early this morning, by the steamboat; and thou mayst be well assured that i lost no time in going to the post office; and never did even a letter from thee so thrill my heart as this. there is no expressing what i feel; and so i will not try--especially now when i am compelled to write in a bar-room with people talking and drinking around me. but i love thee a thousand infinities more than ever. most dear, i have come hither to see mr. o'sullivan, with whom i have relations of business as well as friendship, all which thou shalt know, if thou thinkest them worth enquiring about. the good colonel is with me; but is going about a hundred miles into the interior, tomorrow. in the meantime i shall remain here; but thou wilt see me again on tuesday evening. how is it possible to wait so long? it is not possible--yet i have much to talk of with o'sullivan; and this will be the longest absence that we shall be compelled to endure, before the time when thou shalt be the companion of all my journeys. truest wife, it is possible that the cars may not arrive in boston till late in the evening; but i have good hope to be with thee by six o'clock, or a little after, on tuesday. god bless us. thine ownest. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. _salem_, wednesday, april 5th, 1842 _my dear,_ it was thy husband's intention to spend all his leisure time, here at home, in sketching out a tale; but my spirit demands communion with thine so earnestly, that i must needs write to thee, if all the affairs in the world were pressing on me at once. my breast is full of thee; thou art throbbing throughout all my veins. never, it seems to me, did i know what love was, before. and yet i am not satisfied to let that sentence pass; for it would do wrong to the blissful and holy time that we have already enjoyed together. but our hearts are new-created for one another daily, and they enter upon existence with such up-springing rapture as if nothing had ever existed before--as if, at this very _now_, the physical and spiritual world were but first discovered, and by ourselves only. this is eternity--thus will every moment of forever-and-ever be the first moment of life, and no weariness can gather upon us from the past. it is a bliss which i never wish to enjoy, when i can attain that of thy presence; but it is nevertheless a fact, that there is a bliss even in being absent from thee. this yearning that disturbs my very breath--this earnest stretching out of my soul towards thee--this voice of my heart, calling for thee out of its depths, and complaining that thou art not instantly given to it--all these are a joy; for they make me know how entirely our beings have blended into one another. after all, these pangs are but symptoms of the completeness of our spiritual union--the effort of the outward to respond to the inward. dearest, i do not express myself clearly on this matter; but what need?--wilt not thou know better what i mean than words could tell thee? dost not thou too rejoice in everything that gives thee a more vivid consciousness that we are one?--even if it have something like pain in it. the desire of my soul is to know thee continually, and to know that thou art mine; and absence, as well as presence, gives me this knowledge--and as long as i have it, i live. it is, indeed, impossible for us ever to be really absent from one another; the only absence, for those who love, is estrangement or forgetfulness--and we can never know what those words mean. oh, dear me, my mind writes nonsense, because it is an insufficient interpreter for my heart. ... most beloved, i am thinking at this moment of thy dearest nose! thou canst not know how infinitely better i know and love sophie hawthorne, since she has yielded up that fortress. and, in requital, i yield my whole self up to her, and kiss her beloved foot, and acknowledge her for my queen and liege-lady forever more. come into my heart, dearest; for i am about to close my letter. hitherto, i have kept thee at arms' length; because the very act of writing necessarily supposes that thou art apart from me; but now i throw down the pen, in order that thou mayst be the closer to me. thine ownest husband, nath. hawthorne. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. to miss peabody 54 pinckney st., monday, 11 o'clock a.m. [1842] _most dear love,_ i have been caught by a personage who has been in search of me for two or three days, and shall be compelled to devote this unfortunate evening to him, instead of to my dove. dost thou regret it?--so does thy poor husband, who loves thee infinitely, and needs thee continually. art thou well to-day very dearest? how naughty was i, last night, to contend against thy magnetic influence, and turn it against thyself! i will not do so again. my head has been in pain for thine--at least my heart has. thou wast very sweet and lovely, last night--so art thou always. belovedest, thou knowest not how i yearn for thee--how i long and pray for the time when we may be together without disturbance--when absence shall be a rare exception to our daily life. my heart will blossom like a rose, when it can be always under thy daily influence--when the dew of thy love will be falling upon it, every moment. most sweet, lest i should not be able to avoid another engagement for tomorrow evening, i think it best for me to come in the afternoon--shortly after two o'clock, on tuesday. canst thou devote so much of thy precious day to my unworthiness? unless i hear from thee, i shall come. i love thee. i love thee. dearest, i kiss thee with my whole spirit. thy husband, theodore de l'aubepine. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. to miss peabody 54 pinckney st., may 19th [1842] _my ownest_, mr. hillard, this morning, put into my hands the enclosed paragraph from the philadelphia saturday courier. it is to be hoped that the penny papers of this city will copy an item of so much public importance. canst thou tell me whether the "miss peabody" here mentioned, is miss mary or miss elizabeth peabody? thine ownest. p.s. please to present my congratulations to the "accomplished miss peabody." but i shall call, this evening, and present them in person. miss sophia a. peabody, 13 west-street, boston. to miss peabody 54 pinckney st., may 27th, 1842 _dearest heart_, thy letter to my sisters was most beautiful--sweet, gentle, and magnanimous; such as no angel save my dove, could have written. if they do not love thee, it will be because they have no hearts to love with;--and even if this were the case, i should not despair of thy planting the seeds of hearts in their bosoms. they will love thee, all in good time, dearest; and we will be very happy. i am so at this moment, while my breast heaves with the consciousness of what a treasure god has given me--in whom i see more to worship, and admire, and love, every day of my life; and shall see more and more as long as i live; else, it will be because my own nature retrogrades, instead of advancing. but thou wilt make me better and better, till i am even worthy to be thy husband. oh, truest wife, what a long widowhood is this! three evenings without a glimpse of thee! and i know not whether i am to come at six or seven o'clock tomorrow evening--or scarcely, indeed, whether i am to come at all. but, unless thou orderest me to the contrary, i shall come at seven o'clock. i met mr. emerson at the athenaeum yesterday. he tells me that our garden, &c., makes fine progress. would that we were there. god bless us. thine ownest. miss sophia a. peabody, no. 13 west-street, boston. to miss peabody _salem_, june 9th, 1842--afternoon _dearest wife_, i love thee beyond all hope of expression--so do thou measure it by thine own love for me, if indeed thou canst continue to love me, after our parting. but never did i love thee better than then; and i am even glad that this vapor of tobacco smoke did, for once, roll thus darkly and densely between us, because it helps me to hate the practice forevermore. thou wast very sweet not to scold me fiercely, for allowing myself to be so impregnated. sweetest, scarcely had i arrived here, when our mother came out of her chamber, looking better and more cheerful than i have seen her this some time, and enquired about the health and well-being of my dove! very kindly too. then was thy husband's heart much lightened; for i knew that almost every agitating circumstance of her life had hitherto cost her a fit of sickness; and i knew not but it might be so now. foolish me, to doubt that my mother's love would be wise, like all other genuine love! and foolish again, to have doubted my dove's instinct--whom, henceforth--(if never before)--i take for my unerring guide and counsellor in all matters of the heart and soul. yet if, sometimes, i should perversely follow mine own follies, do not thou be discouraged. i shall always acknowledge thy superior wisdom in the end; and, i trust, not too late for it to exert its good influence. now i am very happy--happier than my naughtiness deserves. it seems that our mother had seen how things were, a long time ago. at first, her heart was troubled, because she knew that much of outward as well as inward fitness was requisite to secure thy foolish husband's peace; but, gradually and quietly, god has taught her that all is good; and so, thou dearest wife, we shall have her fullest blessing and concurrence. my sisters, too, begin to sympathise as they ought; and all is well. god be praised! i thank him on my knees, and pray him to make me worthy of thee, and of the happiness thou bringest me. mine ownest, i long for thee, yet bear our separation patiently, because time and space, and all other finite obstructions, are so fast flitting away from between us. we can already measure the interval by days and hours. what bliss!--and what awe is intermingled with it!--no fear nor doubt, but a holy awe, as when an immortal spirit is drawing near to the gate of heaven. i cannot tell what i feel; but thou knowest it all. sweetest, it is my purpose to remain here till friday, when, unless thou forbiddest me, i shall be with thee at seven o'clock. god bless thee! i have no more words, but a heart full of love. thine ownest husband. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. to miss peabody _salem_, june 20th, 1842--a.m. 11 o'clock _true and honorable wife_, thou hast not been out of mind a moment since i saw thee last,--and never wilt thou be, so long as we exist. canst thou say as much? dearest, dost thou know that there are but ten days more in this blessed month of june? and dost thou remember what is to happen within those ten days? poor little dove! now dost thou tremble, and shrink back, and beginnest to fear that thou hast acted too rashly in this matter. now dost thou say to thyself--"oh, that i could prevail upon this wretched person to allow me a month or two longer to make up my mind; for, after all, he is but an acquaintance of yesterday; and unwise am i, to give up father, mother, and sisters, for the sake of such a questionable stranger!" ah, foolish virgin! it is too late; nothing can part us now; for god himself hath ordained that we shall be one. so nothing remains, but to reconcile thyself to thy destiny. year by year, thou must come closer and closer to me; and a thousand ages hence, we shall be only in the honeymoon of our marriage. poor little dove! sweetest wife, i cannot write to thee. the time for that species of communion is past. hereafter, i cannot write my feelings, but only external things, business, facts, details, matters which do not relate to the heart and soul, but merely to our earthly condition. i have long had such a feeling, whenever i took up my pen--and now more than ever. would that i knew when the priest is to thrust himself between us! dearest, the last day of the month, if i mistake not, is thursday, of next week. unless thou desirest my presence sooner, i shall return to boston probably on sunday evening. then will the days lag heavily, till we can flee away and be at rest. and, i pray thee, let our flight be in the morning; for it would be strange and wearisome to live half a day of ordinary life at such an epoch. i should be like a body walking about the city without a soul--being therein the reverse of good old dr. harris, whose soul walks about without the body. and this reminds me, that he has not made himself visible of late. foolish me, not to have accosted him; for perhaps he wished to give us some good advice on our entrance into connubial life--or possibly, he intended to disclose the hiding-place of some ancient hoard of gold, which would have freed us forever from all pecuniary cares. i think we shall not need his counsel on the former point; but on the latter, it would have been peculiarly acceptable. ownest, would there be anything amiss in exchanging that copy of southey's poems for some other book? we should still have campbell's english poets as an immediate keepsake from miss burley; and whatever book we might procure would be none the less a gift from her. my copy of southey went to the manse with my furniture; else i should have brought it hither and given it to elizabeth--who, however, does not especially admire southey. now good bye, dearest love. i fear thou wilt make thyself sick with much care and toil. god bless thee! our mother and sisters would send their love, if they knew that i am writing to thee. they love thee, and link us together in their thoughts. god bless them, and us, and everybody. dost thou perceive how love widens my heart? thine ownest husband. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. to miss peabody _boston_, june 24th.--past 8 o'clock p.m. [1842] _mine ownest_, i have just received thy letter, and rejoice unspeakably at the news which thou tellest me. dearest, thou knowest not how i have yearned for thee during thy absence; and yet thou didst seem so well and happy there, that i sent thee a letter, yesterday morning, submitting it to thy wisdom whether thou hadst not better stay another week. but thou hast done more wisely to come; for my heart is faint with hunger for thee. i have been quite sad and dolorous at thy absence. and oh, what joy to think that henceforth there shall be no long separations for us. it has taken me so by surprise that i know not what to say upon the subject; but my heart throbs mightily. dearest, thou canst not have a long letter to-night, because thy husband is weary, and moreover he wants to think about thee, and embrace thee a thousand million times deep within himself. art thou quite well? most beloved, i beseech [thee] not to agitate thyself in this removal of the household gods. i shall come on saturday, but perhaps not till late. god bless and keep thee. thine ownest, lovingest husband, de l'aubepine. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody 54 pinckney st., june 27th. --7 o'clock p.m. [1842] _most dear_, i have just arrived from salem, and find thy note, in which thou tellest me of thy illness. oh, my poor little dove, thou dost need a husband with a strong will to take care of thee; and when i have the charge of thee, thou wilt find thyself under much stricter discipline than ever before. how couldst thou be so imprudent? yet i will not scold thee till thou art quite well. then thou must look for scoldings and chastisement too. belovedest, i shall not say a single word to induce thee to go through the ceremony on monday;--nay i do not know that i will consent to its taking place then. this we will determine upon tomorrow evening. if thou art not very well indeed, i shall be afraid to take thee from under thy mother's care. and, belovedest, do not fear but that i will bear patiently any necessary delay--and i know that thou wilt recover as soon as possible, for my sake. dearest, god bless thee. keep thy heart quiet; and tomorrow evening we will meet in hope and joy. thy lovingest husband. miss sophia a. peabody, 13 west-street, boston. to miss peabody 54 pinckney st.--june 30th.--morning [1842] _dearest love_, thy sister mary, after i left thee, told me that it was her opinion that we should not be married for a week longer. i had hoped, as thou knowest, for an earlier day; but i cannot help feeling that mary is on the safe and reasonable side. shouldst thou feel that this postponement is advisable, thou wilt find me patient beyond what thou thinkest me capable of. i will even be happy, if thou wilt only keep thy mind and heart in peace. belovedest, didst thou sleep well, last night? my pillow was haunted with ghastly dreams, the details whereof have flitted away like vapors, but a strong impression remains about thy being magnetised. god save me from any more such! i awoke in an absolute quake. dearest, i cannot oppose thy submitting to so much of this influence as will relieve thy headache; but, as thou lovest me, do not suffer thyself to be put to sleep. my feeling on this point is so strong, that it would be wronging us both to conceal it from thee. my ownest, if it will at all reconcile thee to the ceremony, i will go to concord, tomorrow or next day, and see about our affairs there. i would even go there and live alone, if thou didst bid me though i shall be much happier in lingering here, and visiting thy couch every evening, and hearing thee say that thou art better than the night before. what a sweet morning is this; it makes me feel bright and hopeful, after the troubles of the night. thine ownest husband. p.s. i enclose an order for a case of mine, which is to be given to the baggage-wagoner, when he comes for the furniture. he can present it, and receive the case. p.s. 2d. i love thee! i love thee! i love thee. p.s. 3d. dost thou love me at all? miss sophia a. peabody, 13 west-street, boston. to mrs. hawthorne _salem_, march 12th (saturday), 1843 own wifie, how dost thou do? i have been in some anxiety about thy little head, and indeed about the whole of thy little person. art thou ill at ease in any mode whatever? i trust that thy dearest soul will not be quite worn out of thee, with the activity and bustle of thy present whereabout, so different from the intense quiet of our home. that poor home! how desolate it is now! last night, being awake, my thoughts travelled back to the lonely old house; and it seemed as if i was wandering up stairs and down stairs all by myself. my fancy was almost afraid to be there, alone. i could see every object in a sort of dim, gray light--our bed-chamber--the study, all in confusion--the parlor, with the fragments of that abortive breakfast on the table, and the precious silver-forks, and the old bronze image keeping its solitary stand upon the mantel-piece. then, methought, the wretched pigwigger came and jumped upon the window-sill, and clung there with her forepaws, mewing dismally for admittance, which i could not grant her, being there myself only in the spirit. and then came the ghost of the old doctor stalking through the gallery, and down the staircase, and peeping into the parlor; and though i was wide awake, and conscious of being so many miles from the spot, still it was quite awful to think of the ghost having sole possession of our home; for i could not quite separate myself from it, after all. somehow, the doctor and i seemed to be there tete-a-tete, and i wanted thee to protect me. why wast not thou there in thought, at the same moment; and then we should have been conscious of one another, and have had no fear, and no desolate feeling. i believe i did not have any fantasies about the ghostly kitchen-maid; but i trust mary left the flat-irons within her reach; so that she may do all the ironing while we are away, and never disturb us more at midnight. i suppose she comes thither to iron her shroud, and perhaps, likewise, to smooth the doctor's band. probably, during her lifetime, she allowed the poor old gentleman to go to some ordination or other grand clerical celebration with rumpled linen, and ever since, and throughout all earthly futurity (at least, so long us the house shall stand) she is doomed to exercise a nightly toil, with spiritual flat-irons. poor sinner--and doubtless satan heats the irons for her. what nonsense is all this!--but really, it does make me shiver to think of that poor house of ours. glad am i that thou art not there without thy husband. i found our mother tolerably well; and louisa, i think, in especial good condition for her, and elizabeth comfortable, only not quite thawed. they speak of thee and me with an evident sense that we are very happy indeed, and i can see that they are convinced of my having found the very little wife that god meant for me. i obey thy injunctions, as well as i can, in my deportment towards them; and though mild and amiable manners are foreign to my nature, still i get along pretty well for a new beginner. in short, they seem content with thy husband, and i am very certain of their respect and affection for his wife. take care of thy little self, i tell thee! i praise heaven for this snow and "slosh," because it will prevent thee from scampering all about the city, as otherwise thou wouldst infallibly have done. lie abed late--sleep during the day--go to bed seasonably--refuse to see thy best friend, if either flesh or spirit be sensible of the slightest repugnance--drive all trouble out of thy mind--and above all things, think continually what an admirable husband thou hast! so shalt thou have quiet sleep and happy awaking; and when i fold thee to my bosom again, thou wilt be such a round, rosy, smiling little dove, that i shall feel as if i had grasped all cheerfulness and sunshine within the span of thy waist. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. to mrs. hawthorne _salem_, march 15th, 1843 dearest wife, thy letters have all been received; and i know not that i could have kept myself alive without them; for never was my heart so hungry and tired as it is now. i need thee continually wherever i am, and nothing else makes any approach towards satisfying me. thou hast the easier part--being drawn out of thyself by society; but with me there is an ever-present yearning, which nothing outward seems to have any influence upon. four whole days must still intervene before we meet--it is too long--too long--we have not so much time to spare out of eternity. as for this mr. billings, i wish he would not be so troublesome. i put a note for him into the boston post-office, directed according to his own request. his scheme is well enough, and might possibly become popular; but it has no peculiar advantages with reference to myself; nor do the subjects of his proposed books particularly suit my fancy, as themes to write upon. somebody else will answer his purpose just as well; and i would rather write books of my own imagining than be hired to develope the ideas of an engraver; especially as the pecuniary prospect is not better, nor so good, as it might be elsewhere. i intend to adhere to my former plan, of writing one or two mythological story books, to be published under o'sullivan's auspices in new york--which is the only place where books can be published, with a chance of profit. as a matter of courtesy, i may perhaps call on mr. billings, if i have time; but i do not intend to be connected with this affair. it is queer news that thou tellest me about the pioneer. i expected it to fail in due season, but not quite so soon. shouldst there be an opportunity within a day or two, i wish thou wouldst send for any letters that may be in the post-office there; but not unless some person is going thither, with intent to return before wednesday next. if thou receive any, keep them till we meet in boston. i dreamed the other night that our house was broken open, and all our silver stolen. no matter though it be:--we have steel forks and german silver spoons in plenty, and i only wish that we were to eat our dinner with them to-day. but we shall have gained nothing on the score of snow, and slosh, and mud, by our absence; for the bad walking will be at its very _ne plus ultra_, next week. wouldst thou not like to stay just one little fortnight longer in boston, where the sidewalks afford dry passage to thy little feet? it will be mid-may, at least, ere thou wilt find even tolerable walking in concord. so if thou wishest to walk while thou canst, we will put off our return a week longer. naughty husband that i am! i know by my own heart that thou pinest for our home, and for the bosom where thou belongest. a week longer! it is a horrible thought. we cannot very well afford to buy a surplus stock of paper, just now. by and by, i should like some, and i suppose there will always be opportunities to get it cheap at auction. i do wonder--and always shall wonder, until the matter be reformed--why providence keeps us so short of cash. our earnings are miserably scanty at best; yet, if we could but get even that pittance, i should continue to be thankful, though certainly for small favors. the world deserves to come to a speedy end, if it were for nothing else save to break down the abominable system of credit--of keeping possession of other people's property--which renders it impossible for a man to be just and honest, even if so inclined. it is almost a pity that the comet is retrograding from the earth; it might do away with all our perversities at one smash. and thou, my little dove, and thy husband for thy sake, might be pretty certain of a removal to some sphere where we should have all our present happiness, and none of these earthly inconveniences. ah, but, for the present, i like this earth better than paradise itself. i love thee, thou dearest. it is only when away from thee, that the chill winds of the world make me shiver. thou always keepest me warm, and always wilt; and without thee, i should shiver in heaven. dearest, i think i prefer to write thy name "mrs. sophia a. hawthorne," rather than "mrs. nathaniel hawthorne";--the latter gives me an image of myself in petticoats, knitting a stocking. i feel so sensibly that thou art my chastest, holiest wife--a _woman_ and an angel. but thou dost not love to blush in the midst of people. ownest, expect me next tuesday in the forenoon; and do not look for another letter. i pray heaven that i may find thee well, and not tired quite to death. even shouldst thou be so, however, i will restore thee on wednesday. mrs. nathaniel hawthorne, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. to mrs. hawthorne _salem_, decr. 2d, 1844 _ownest phoebe_, thy letter came this morning--much needed; for i was feeling desolate and fragmentary. thou shouldst not ask me to come to boston, because i can hardly resist setting off this minute--and i have no right to spend money for such luxuries. i think i shall stay here until bridge reaches boston; for he wishes to see me then; and, if he could meet thee, and baby, and me, it would save him and us the trouble and perplexity of a visit at concord. he will probably be in boston in not much more or less than a week; and i have written to him to call at 13, west st. when he arrives, let him be told to send for me forthwith, or do thou write thyself; and i will immediately make my appearance. sweetest wife, it goes against my conscience to add another inhabitant to the immense multitude in thy mother's caravanserai; nevertheless, methinks i may come there for one night, and, if i stay longer, remove thence to george hillard's. but i don't know. i should like to spend two or three days in boston, if it could be done without any derangement of other people or myself; but i should not feel easy in the caravanserai. perhaps it would be better to go at once to george hillard's. after we get home, we will rest one another from all toils. i am very well, dearest, and it seems to me that i am recovering some of the flesh that i lost, during our long lent. i do not eat quite enough to satisfy mother and louisa; but thou wouldst be perfectly satisfied, and so am i. my spirits are pretty equable, though there is a great vacuity caused by thy absence out of my daily life--a bottomless abyss, into which all minor contentments might be flung without filling it up. still, i feel as if our separation were only apparent--at all events, we are at less than an hour's distance from one another, and therefore may find it easier to spend a week apart. the good that i get by remaining here, is a temporary freedom from that vile burthen which had irked and chafed me so long--that consciousness of debt, and pecuniary botheration, and the difficulty of providing even for the day's wants. this trouble does not pursue me here; and even when we go back, i hope not to feel it nearly so much as before. polk's election has certainly brightened our prospects; and we have a right to expect that our difficulties will vanish, in the course of a few months. i long to see our little una; but she is not yet a vital portion of my being. i find that her idea merges in thine. i wish for thee; and our daughter is included in that wish, without being particularly expressed. she has quite conquered the heart of our mother and sisters; and i am glad of it, for now they can transfer their interest from their own sombre lives to her happy one; and so be blest through her. to confess the truth, she is a dear little thing. sweetest phoebe: i don't intend to stay here more than a week, even if bridge should not arrive;--and should there be any reason for our returning to concord sooner, thou canst let me know. otherwise, i purpose to come to boston in a week from to-day or tomorrow,--to spend two or three days there--and then go back to the old abbey; of which there is a very dismal picture at present in my imagination, cold, lonely, and desolate, with untrodden snow along the avenue, and on the doorsteps. but its heart will be warm, when we are within. if thou shalt want me sooner, write,--if not so soon, write. god bless thee, mine ownest. i must close the letter now, because it is dinner-time; and i shall take it to the post-office immediately after dinner. i spend almost all my afternoons at the athenaeum. kiss our child for me--one kiss for thyself and me together. i love her, and live in thee. thy husband. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. to mrs. hawthorne [december, 1844] _darlingest phoebe_, i knew that a letter must come to-day; and it cheered and satisfied me, as mine did thee. how we love one another! blessed we! what a blot i have made of that word "blessed"! but the consciousness of bliss is as clear as crystal in my heart, though now and then, in great stress of earthly perplexities, a mist bedims its surface. belovedest, it will not be anywise necessary for thee to see bridge at all, before i come,--nor then either, if thou preferrest meeting him in concord. if i find him resolved to go to concord, at any rate, i shall not bring him to see thee in boston; because, as a lady ought, thou appearest to best advantage in thine own house. i merely asked him to call at 13 west-street to learn my whereabout--not to be introduced to thee. indeed; i should prefer thy not seeing him till i come. it was his purpose to be in boston before this time; but probably he has remained in washington to see the opening of congress, and perhaps to try whether he can help forward our official enterprises. unless he arrive sooner, i purpose to remain here till wednesday, and to leave on the evening of that day. i have not yet called on the pickmen or the feet, but solemnly purpose so to do, before i leave salem. mr. upham, it is said, has resigned his pastorship. when he returned from concord, he told the most pitiable stories about our poverty and misery; so as almost to make it appear that we were suffering for food. everybody that speaks to me seems tacitly to take it for granted that we are in a very desperate condition, and that a government office is the only alternative of the almshouse. i care not for the reputation of being wealthier than i am; but we never have been quite paupers, and need not have been represented as such. now good-bye, mine ownest little wife! i thank god above all things that thou art my wife--next that una is our child. i shall come back to thee with tenfold as much love as ever i felt before. nobody but we ever knew what it is to be married. we alone know the bliss and the mystery; if other people knew it, this dull old earth would have a perpetual glow round about it. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. to mrs. hawthorne _salem_, december 20th (friday morning), 1844 _sweetest phoebe_, it will be a week tomorrow since i left thee; and in all that time, i have heard nothing of thee, nor thou of me. nevertheless, i am not anxious, because i know thou wouldst write to me at once, were anything amiss. but truly my heart is not a little hungry and thirsty for thee; so, of my own accord, or rather of my own necessity, i sit down to write thee a word or two. first of all, i love thee. also, i love our little una--and, i think, with a much more adequate comprehension of her loveliness, than before we left concord. she is partly worthy of being thy daughter;--if not wholly to, it must be her father's fault. mine own, i know not what to say to thee. i feel now as when we clasp one another in our arms, and are silent. our mother and sisters were rejoiced to see me, and not altogether surprised; for they seem to have had a kind of presentiment of my return. mother had wished louisa to write for us both to come back; but i think it would not be wise to bring una here again, till warm weather. i am not without apprehensions that she will have grown too tender to bear the atmosphere of our cold and windy old abbey in concord, after becoming acclimated to the milder temperature of thy father's house. however, we will trust to providence, and likewise to a good fire in our guest-chamber. thou wilt write to me when all things are propitious for our return. they wish me to stay here till after christmas;--which i think is next wednesday--but i care little about festivals. my only festival is when i have thee. but i suppose we shall not get home before the last of next week;--it will not do to delay our return much longer than that, else we shall be said to have run away from our creditors. if i had not known it before, i should have been taught by this long separation, that the only real life is to be with thee--to be thy husband--thy intimatest, thy lovingest, thy belovedest--and to share all things, good or evil, with thee. the days and weeks that i have spent away from thee are unsubstantial--there is nothing in them--and yet they have done me good, in making me more conscious of this truth. now that i stand a little apart from our concord life, the troubles and incommodities look slighter--our happiness more vast and inestimable. i trust heaven will not permit us to be greatly pinched by poverty, during the remainder of our stay there. it would be a pity to have our recollection of this first home darkened by such associations,--the home where our love first assumed human life in the form of our darling child. i hear nothing yet from o'sullivan--nor from bridge. i am afraid the latter gentleman must be ill; else, methinks, he would certainly have written; for he has always been a punctual correspondent, when there was anything to write about. ownest dove, i think i shall not go back to hillard's. i shall be ready to go back to concord whenever thou art; but, not having the opportunity to consult thee, i now propose that we settle our return for saturday, a week from tomorrow. should anything prevent thee from going then (for instance, the want of a girl) i may go and pay our debts, as far as in my power, and then return. but this need not be anticipated. there is no absolute necessity--(except in our hearts, which cannot endure to be away from one another much longer)--for our being at home before the first of january; but if all things are convenient, we will not delay longer than saturday. oh, what sweet, sweet times we will have. give una a kiss, and her father's blessing. she is very famous here in salem. thy husband. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. to mrs. hawthorne _salem_, april 14th (sunday), 1844 _ownest phoebe_, thy letter reached me yesterday forenoon, and made me truly happy--happier than i can tell. i do not think that i am the more conscious of the baby, by standing aloof from her. she has not yet sufficiently realised herself in my soul; it seems like a dream, therefore, which needs such assurances as thy letter, to convince me that it is more than a dream. well; i cannot write about her--nor about thee, belovedest, for whom i have at this moment an unutterable yearning. methinks my hand was never so out of keeping with my heart. i called at the book room in boston, and saw there thy mother, thy brother nat, and elizabeth!!--besides two or three ladies. it was the most awkward place in the world to talk about una and other kindred subjects; so i made my escape as soon as possible, promising to return to dine if convenient, and resolving that it should be as inconvenient as possible. i wish thy mother could be so inhospitable as never to ask me--but at all events, i need never go, except when thou art there. i went to george hillard's office, and he spoke with unmitigable resolution of the necessity of my going to dine with longfellow before returning to concord; but i have an almost miraculous power of escaping from necessities of this kind. destiny itself has often been worsted in the attempt to get me out to dinner. possibly, however, i may go. afterwards i called on colonel hall, who held me long in talk about politics and other sweetmeats. here, likewise, i refused one or two invitations to dinner. then i stept into a book-auction, not to buy, but merely to observe; and after a few moments, who should come in, with a smile as sweet as sugar (though savoring rather of molasses) but, to my horror and petrifaction, mr. watterson! i anticipated a great deal of bore and botheration; but, through heaven's mercy, he merely spoke a few words, and then left me. this is so unlike his deportment in times past, that i suspect the celestial railroad must have given him a pique; and if so, i shall feel as if providence had sufficiently rewarded me for that pious labor. in the course of the forenoon, i encountered mr. howes in the street. he looked most exceedingly depressed, and pressing my hand with peculiar emphasis, said that he was in great affliction, having just had news of his son george's death in cuba. he seemed encompassed and overwhelmed by the misfortune, and walked the street as in a heavy cloud of his own grief, forth from which he extended his hand to meet my grasp. i expressed my sympathy, which i told him i was now the more capable of feeling in a father's suffering, as being myself the father of a little girl--and, indeed, the being a parent does give one the freedom of a wider range of sorrow as well as happiness. he again pressed my hand, and left me. well, dove, when i got to salem, there was great joy, as you may suppose. our mother and sisters take as much interest in little una as can possibly be desired. they think the lock of hair very beautiful, and deny that it has the faintest tinge of red. mother hinted an apprehension that poor baby would be spoilt--whereupon i irreverently observed, that having spoilt her own three children, it was natural for her to suppose that all other parents would do the same; when she knocked me into a cocked hat, by averring that it was impossible to spoil such children as elizabeth and me, because she had never been able to do anything with us. this i believe to be very true. there was too much gentleness in her nature for such a task. she remonstrates, by the by, against una's being carried about in anybody's arms, and says that it will soon be impossible to keep her quiet in any other way. this was the case with elizabeth; and mother never allowed her other children to become habituated to it. i could scarcely convince them that una has begun to smile so soon. it surprised even mother; though her own children appear to have been bright specimens of babyhood. elizabeth could walk and talk at nine months old. i do not understand that thy husband was quite such a miracle of precocity, but should think it not improbable, inasmuch as precocious boys are said to make stupid men. ownest wife, i long so much to get back to thee, that it is a mockery to try to say how much. yet i think i shall be benefitted by the absence, though it be truly an unpalatable medicine. i hope thy father will be able to stay till friday. it is just possible, if i go out to see longfellow, that i may not come till saturday night; but this will depend partly on what day the steamer comes. i shall consult thy mother about the necessity of thy father's presence in boston earlier than that. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, concord, massachusetts. to mrs. hawthorne _concord_, may 27th, 1844 _dearest phoebe_, i cannot let the day pass without speaking a little word to thee, to tell thee how strange the old abbey seems without thy presence, and how strange this life, when thou art away. nevertheless, i truly rejoice in thy absence, as hoping it will do good to thy dearest brain, which has been over-wrought, as well as thy physical frame. and how does our belovedest little una? whom i love more than i ever told thee, though not more than thou knowest--for is she not thine and mine, the symbol of the one true union in the world, and of our love in paradise. dearest, my cook does his office admirably. he prepared what i must acknowledge to be the best dish of fried fish and potatoes for dinner to-day, that i ever tasted in this house. i scarcely recognized the fish of our own river. i make him get all the dinners while i confine myself to the much lighter labors of breakfast and tea. he also takes his turn at washing the dishes. ellery channing came to see me this morning, and was very gracious and sociable; and we went a fishing together. he says his little girl weighed seven pounds at her birth, and is doing very well. miss prescott is now there. we had a very pleasant dinner at longfellow's; and i liked mrs. longlady (as thou naughtily nicknamest her) quite much. the dinner was late, and we sate long; so that conolly and i did not get here till half-past nine o'clock--and truly the old house seemed somewhat dark and desolate. the next morning came george prescott with una's lion, who greeted me very affectionately, but whined and moaned as if he missed somebody who should have been here. i am not quite as strict as i should be in keeping him out of the house; but i commiserate him and myself--for are we not both of us bereaved. still i am happy, and more quiet than when thou wast here; because i feel it to be good for thee to be there. dearest, keep thyself at peace, and do not let persons nor things trouble thee; and let other people take all the care of una that is possible; and do not fear to go out occasionally; and think sometimes of thy husband, who loves thee unspeakably; and because he cannot tell its immensity, he may as well stop here, especially as conolly (whom i can no more keep from smoking than i could the kitchen chimney) has just come into the study with a cigar, which might perfume this letter, and make thee think it came from thy husband's own enormity. i love thee. i love thee. thine ownest. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, massachusetts. to mrs. hawthorne _concord_, may 29th, 1844 _ownest wife_, conolly is leaving me, to my unspeakable relief; for he has had a bad cold, which caused him to be much more troublesome, and less amusing, than might otherwise have been the case. thy husband is in perfect health; and as happy in the prospect of being alone, as he would be in anything, except to be reunited to thee. i suppose i must invite mr. farley to come by-and-by; but not quite yet--oh, not quite yet--it is so sweet to be alone. i want to draw a little free breath. ah, why canst not thou be with me here--and no mary--no nobody else! but our little una! should not she be of the party? yes; we have linked a third spirit forever to our own; and there is no existing without her. dearest phoebe, i do trust thou art well and at ease. thou absolutely knowest not how i love thee. god bless thee, mine ownest--god bless our daughter--god bless thy husband--god bless us altogether, and the whole world too. i write in the greatest hurry. thine ownest husband. have no apprehensions on my account. i shall write to farley at the end of the week--and till then shall bathe myself in solitude. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, care of dr. n. peabody, 13 west-street, boston, mass. to mrs. hawthorne _concord_, may 31st, 1844 _ownest phoebe_, thy two dearest letters have been received, and gave me infinite comfort. oh, keep thyself quiet, best wife, and do not think of coming home till thou art quite cured, even though una should grow to be quite a large girl in the interim. as for me, i get along admirably, and am at this moment superintending the corned beef, which has been on the fire, as it appears to me, ever since the beginning of time, and shows no symptom of being done before the crack of doom. mrs. hale says it must boil till it becomes tender; and so it shall, if i can find wood to keep the fire a-going. meantime, i keep my station in the dining-room, and read or write as composedly as in my own study. just now, there came a very important rap to the front door; and i threw down a smoked herring which i had begun to eat (as there is no hope of the corned beef to-day) and went to admit the visitor. who should it be but ben, with a very peculiar and mysterious grin upon his face! he put into my hands a missive directed to "mr. and mrs. hawthorne"; it contained a little hit of card signifying that "dr. lemuel fuller and miss catherine barrett receive their friends thursday eve, june 6th, at 8 o'clock." i am afraid i shall be too busy washing my dishes, to pay many visits during thy absence. this washing of dishes does seem to me the most absurd and unsatisfactory business that i ever undertook. if, when once washed, they would remain clean forever and ever, (which they ought in all reason to do, considering how much trouble it is,) there would be less occasion to grumble; but no sooner is it done, than it requires to be done again. on the whole i have come to the resolution not to use more than one dish at each meal. however, i moralise deeply on this and other matters, and have discovered that all the trouble and affliction in the world arises from the necessity of cleansing away our earthly pollutions. i ate the last morsel of bread, yesterday, and congratulated myself on being now reduced to the fag-end of necessity. nothing worse can happen (according to ordinary modes of thinking) than to want bread; but, like most afflictions, it is worse in prospect than reality. i found one cracker in the tureen, and exulted over it as if it had been so much gold. however, i have sent a petition to mrs. prescott, stating my destitute condition, and imploring her succor; and till it arrives, i shall keep myself alive on smoked herrings and apples, together with part of a pint of milk, which i share with leo. he is my great trouble now, though an excellent companion too. but it is not easy to find food for him, unless i give him what is fit for christians--though, for that matter, he appears to be as good a christian as most laymen, or even as some of the clergy. i fried some pouts and eels, yesterday, on purpose for him; for he does not like raw fish. they were very good; but i should hardly have taken the trouble on my own account. george prescott has just come to say, that mrs. prescott has no bread at present, and is gone away this afternoon, but that she will send me some tomorrow. i mean to have a regular supply from the same source--which thou shalt repay after thy return. i go to bed at dusk, now-a-days, out of a tender consideration for the oil-can, which does not possess the peculiar virtues of the widow cruse's. [sic] oh, dear little wife! dost thou even think of me? i think of thee continually, and of our darling una, and long to see both thee and her, yet not with an impatient and importunate longing. i am too sure of my treasures not to be able to bear a little separation of them, when it is for thine own good. thou needest be under no uneasiness for my sake. everything goes on well, and i enjoy my solitude, next to thy society. i suppose i shall write to mr. farley tomorrow, but it would content me well to be quite alone till thy return. thou canst not imagine how much the presence of leo relieves the feeling of perfect loneliness. he insists upon being in the room with me all the time, (except at night, when he sleeps in the shed) and i do not find myself severe enough to drive him out. he accompanies me, likewise, on all my walks, to the village and elsewhere; and, in short, keeps at my heels all the time, except when i go down cellar. then he stands at the head of the stairs and howls, as if he never expected to see me again. he is evidently impressed with the present solitude of our old abbey, both on his own account and mine, and feels that he may assume a greater degree of intimacy than would be otherwise allowable. he will easily be brought within the old regulations, after thy return. ownest, i have written to-day, because i thought thou wouldst be anxious to know what sort of a life i lead, now that my guest has departed. thou wilt see that i am fit to be trusted in my own keeping. no ghost has haunted me, and no living thing has harmed me. god bless thee and our little una. i say to myself, when i feel lonely, "i am a husband!--i am a father!"--and it makes me so happy! thine ownest. p.s.--three o'clock.--the beef is done!!! mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, massachusetts. to mrs. hawthorne _concord_, june 2d, 1844. 12 o'clock _mine ownest_, thy letter was brought this morning by one of the fullers--which, i know not--but it was the young man who called on us last winter; and he promises to call and take this. sweetest, if it troubles thee to write, thou must not make the attempt. perhaps it is not good for thy head; and thy mother can just say a word or two, to let me know that all is going on well. oh, keep thyself quiet, dearest wife, and let not thy brain be whirled round in the vortex of thy present whereabout; else i must have thee back again as soon as possible. but if it be for thy good, i can spare thee at least a month longer; indeed, thou must not come till the doctor has both found out thy disorder and cured it. everything goes on well with thy husband. thou knowest, at the time of writing my last letter, i was without bread. well, just at supper time came mrs. brown with a large covered dish, which proved to contain a quantity of special good slap jacks, piping hot, prepared, i suppose, by the fair hands of miss martha or miss abby; for mrs. prescott was not at home. they served me both for supper and breakfast; and i thanked providence and the young ladies, and compared myself to the prophet fed by ravens--though the simile does rather more than justice to myself, and not enough to the generous donors of the slap jacks. the next morning, mrs. prescott herself brought two big loaves of bread, which will last me a week, unless i have some guests to provide for. i have likewise found a hoard of crackers in one of the covered dishes; so that the old castle is sufficiently provisioned to stand a long siege. the cornbeef is exquisitely done, and as tender as a young lady's heart, all owing to my skilful cookery; for i consulted mrs. hale at every step; and precisely followed her directions. to say the truth, i look upon it as such a masterpiece in its way, that it seems irreverential to eat it; so perhaps thou wilt find it almost entire at thy return. things on which so much thought and labor are bestowed should surely be immortal. ellery channing intends to make a tour presently. wm. fuller says he is at variance with miss prescott--or at least is uncomfortable in the house with her. what a gump! i have had some idea of inviting him to stay here till thy return; but really, on better consideration, the experiment would be too hazardous. if he cannot keep from quarrelling with his wife's nurse, he would surely quarrel with me, alone in an empty house; and perhaps the result might be a permanent breach. on the whole, he is but little better than an idiot. he should have been whipt often and soundly in his boyhood; and as he escaped such wholesome discipline then, it might be well to bestow it now. but somebody else may take him in hand; it is none of my business. leo and i attended divine services, this morning, in a temple not made with hands. we went to the farthest extremity of peter's path, and there lay together under an oak, on the verge of the broad meadow. dearest phoebe, thou shouldst have been there. thy head would have been quite restored by the delicious air, which was too good and pure for anybody but thee to breathe. shouldst thou not walk out, every day, round the common, at least, if not further? thou must not fear to leave una occasionally. i shall not love her, if she imprisons thee when thy health requires thee to be abroad. do not people offer to take thee to ride? i doubt whether mr. bradford could be comfortable here, unless there were womankind in the house to keep it in better order than it suits my convenience to do. a man of his nice conscience would be shocked, i suppose, if the whole house were not swept, every day, from top to bottom, or if the dishes of several meals were suffered to accumulate, in order to save trouble by a general cleansing. now such enormities do not at all disturb my composure. besides, i find myself such good company, and the hours flit so rapidly away, that i have no time to bestow on anybody else. talk is but a waste of time. when i cannot be with thee, mine ownest--my true life--then let me be alone. i wrote to mr. farley, yesterday; and am sorry for it, since i received thy letter. but i presume there is no prospect of his coming; and should he do so, i shall not hesitate to advise him to go away, if our mode of life here should seem unsuitable to his condition. darlingest wife, when thou writest next, tell me if thou canst see the termination of thy absence; but do not think it in the least necessary to hurry on my account. i find i have shirts enough for a fortnight or three weeks longer; and can get somebody to wash them, at the end of that time. do not hurry thyself--do not be uneasy. i had rather come and see thee in boston, than that thou shouldst return too soon. give my blessing to our daughter. thy lovingest husband. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, care of dr. n. peabody, 13 west-street, boston. by mr. fuller. to mrs. hawthorne _concord_, june 6th, 1844 mine ownest, ownest love, dost thou not want to hear from thy husband? there is no telling nor thinking how much i love thee; so we will leave all that matter without another word. dearest, mr. farley arrived yesterday, and appeared to be in most excellent health, and as happy as the sunshine. almost the first thing he did was to wash the dishes; and he is really indefatigable in the kitchen; so that thy husband is quite a gentleman of leisure. previous to his coming, i had kindled no fire for four entire days, and had lived all that time on the corned beef--except one day, when ellery and i went down the river on a fishing excursion. yesterday we boiled some lamb, which we shall have cold for dinner to-day. this morning, mr. farley fried a sumptuous dish of eels for breakfast, and he avows his determination to make me look fat before thy return. mrs. prescott continues to be the instrument of providence, and yesterday sent us a very nice plum-pudding. thou seest, therefore, that domestic matters are going on admirably. i have told mr. farley that i shall be engaged in the forenoons, and he is to arrange his own occupations and amusements during that time. thus, as everything is so comfortably regulated, thou canst stay in boston without the slightest solicitude about my welfare, as long as there is any object in being near dr. wesselhoeft. but how our hearts will rush together, when we meet again! oh, how i love thee! not much has happened of late. leo, i regret to say, has fallen under suspicion of a very grave crime--nothing less than murder--a fowl crime it may well be called--for it is the slaughter of one of mr. hayward's hens. he has been seen to chase the hens, several times, and the other day one of them was found dead. possibly he may be innocent; and as there is nothing but circumstantial evidence, it must be left with his own conscience. meantime, mr. hayward or somebody else seems to have given him such a whipping, that he is absolutely stiff, and walks about like a rheumatic old gentleman. i am afraid, too, that he is an incorrigible thief. ellery channing says he saw him coming up the avenue with a whole calf's head in his mouth. how he came by it, is best known to leo himself. if he were a dog of fair character, it would be no more than charity to conclude that he had either bought it or had it given to him; but, with the other charges against him, it inclines me to great distrust of his moral principles. be that as it may, he managed his stock of provisions very thriftily--burying it in the earth, and eating a portion of it whenever he felt an appetite. if he insists upon living by highway robbery, dost thou not think it would be well to make him share his booty with us? our butcher's bill might thus be considerably lessened. miss barret came a day or two ago to enquire whether i thought my wife would be willing to lend our astral lamp for the great occasion of this evening. thou seest, she has a very proper idea of the authority of the wife, and cannot imagine that i should venture to lend any article without reference to thy wishes. as she pledged herself, if there were any damages, to "make it good," i took the liberty to put the lamp into her hands. thou knowest its trick of going out in the middle of the evening; and it will be a truly laughable and melancholy mishap, if it should suddenly leave them in darkness, at the most critical moment. methinks it would be no favorable omen for the prosperity of the marriage. miss catherine regrets very much that thou art not to be here, this evening. i wonder thou dost not come on purpose. by the by, it was not our old broken astral lamp, but the solar lamp that i lent her. ownest wife, am i really a father?--the father of thy child! sometimes the thought comes to me with such a mighty wonder that i cannot take it in. i love our little una a great deal better than when i saw her last; and all the love that grows within me for her, is so much added to the infinite store of my love for thee. ah, dost thou think of me?--dost thou yearn for me?--does thy breast heave and thy heart quake with love for thy husband?--... (portion of letter missing) i can hardly breathe for loving thee so much. dearest, mr. farley is to carry this letter to the post-office this morning, and perhaps he will find a line or two from thee. if so, i shall be happy; and if not, then too i shall be glad that thou hast not tasked thy dearest little head to do any pen-work. thy belovedest husband. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. to mrs. hawthorne _concord_, june 10th, 1844 _only belovedest_, thy letter came yesterday; and i suppose thou didst get mine about the same time. dearest, i take it for granted that thou hast concluded to await the arrival of the money from o'sullivan; so that i shall not expect thee till friday or saturday. i think it is an excellent plan to have thy mother come with thee; so pray ask her immediately, if thou hast not done it already. i shall not be able to send away mr. farley before thou comest; but he will go on monday. mr. farley is in perfect health, and absolutely in the seventh heaven; and he talks, and talks, and talks, and talks; and i listen, and listen, and listen, with a patience for which (in spite of all my sins) i firmly expect to be admitted to the mansions of the blessed. and there is really a contentment in being able to make the poor, world-worn, hopeless, half-crazy man so entirely comfortable as he seems to be here. he is an admirable cook. we had some roast veal and a baked rice pudding on sunday--really a fine dinner, and cooked in better style than mary can equal; and george curtis came to dine with us. like all male cooks, he is rather expensive, and has a tendency to the consumption of eggs in his various concoctions, which thou wouldst be apt to oppose. however, we consume so much fish of our own catching, that there is no great violation of economy upon the whole. i have had my dreams of splendor, but never expected to arrive at the dignity of keeping a man-cook. at first, we had three meals a day, but now only two. we dined at mr. emerson's the other day, in company with mr. hedge. mr. bradford has been to see us two or three times. and, speaking of him, do thou be most careful never to say a word in depreciation of sarah stearns, in his presence. both of us (horrible to say!) have fallen into this misfortune, on former occasions. mr. farley has given me most unlooked for intelligence in regard to him and her. he looks thinner than ever--judge, then, how thin he must be--his face is so thin, and his nose is so sharp, that he might make a pen with it; and i wish he would make me a better one than i am now writing with. he is particularly melancholy, and last saturday, when we were alone on the river together, seemed half-inclined to tell me the why and wherefore. but i desire no such secrets. keep this to thy little self. i love thee, i love thee! thou lovest me, thou lovest me! oh, i shiver again to think how much i love thee--how much we love, and that thou art soon, soon, coming back to thine own home--to thine ownest husband; and with our beloved baby in thine arms. shall i know little una, dost thou think? now good bye, sweetest wife. it will be no more than decent for me to go down and offer my assistance to mr. farley in some of the minor preparations of dinner. thy mother must put her skill in exercise; else he will find a sad falling-off in our living, after thy return. i shall look for thee partly on friday, but shall not be disappointed if thou comest not till saturday. god bless thee, thou belovedest. thine own husband. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. to mrs. hawthorne _boston_, may 23d, 1845 _ownest dearest_, i write this little note in order to warn thee in due season that i shall not be at home till monday. hillard has made an engagement for me with longfellow for sunday; so that, without disappointing both of those worthies exceedingly, i cannot come away sooner. belovedest, i love thee a million times as much every hour that i stay away from thee; and my heart swells toward thee like a mighty flood. also, i have a yearning for our little una; and whenever i go, and with whomsoever i am talking, the thought of thee and her is ever present with me. god bless thee! what a happy home we have. that is the knowledge that i gain by staying away from thee. i saw thy mother this forenoon. she told me that elizabeth had gone to concord this morning. remember me to "our boarder." in utmost haste, thine ownest husband. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, concord, mass. to mrs. hawthorne _salem_, august 25th, 1845 _dearest phoebe hawthorne_, already an age has elapsed since i parted from thee, mine own life; although, according to human measurement, it is but about twenty-seven hours. how i love thee, wife of my bosom! there is no telling; so judge it by what is in thine own deepest and widest little heart. sweetest, what became of that letter? whose fault was it, that it was left behind? i was almost afraid to present myself before thy mother without it. nevertheless, the count and i made it our first business to call at 13 west-street, where we found madame peabody (i will call her so to please my dove) in the book room alone. she seemed quite as well as usual, and regretted, i believe, that she had not gone to concord--and so did thy husband; but thou needest not say so to the good old gentleman who sits looking at the outside of this letter, while thou art reading the inside. i gave her all the information i could about thy condition--being somewhat restrained, however, by the presence of o'sullivan. taking leave of thy mother, i went with the count to mr. bancroft's door, and then parted with him, with some partial expectation of meeting him again at dinner. then i looked in at the athenaeum reading-room, and next went to george hillard's office. who should i find here but longfellow, and with him mr. green, the roman consul, whom, as thou knowest, it was bridge's plan to eject from office for thy husband's benefit. he has returned to this country on a visit. never didst thou see such an insignificant looking personage (or person rather;) and it surprised me so much the more, for i had formed a high idea of his intellectual incarnation from a bust by crawford, at longfellow's rooms. longfellow himself seems to have bloomed forth and found solidity and substance since his marriage;--never did i behold a man of happier aspect; although i know one of happier fortunes incomparably. but longfellow appears perfectly satisfied, and to be no more conscious of any earthly or spiritual trouble than a sunflower is--of which lovely blossom he, i know not why, reminded me. hillard looked better than i have ever before seen him, and was in high spirits on account of the success of his oration. it seems to have had truly triumphant success--superior to that of any phi beta kappa oration ever delivered. it gladdened me most to see this melancholy shadow of a man for once bathed and even pervaded with a sunshine; and i must doubt whether any literary success of my own ever gave me so much pleasure. outward triumphs are necessary to him; to thy husband they are anything but essential. from hillard's i went to see colonel hall, and had a talk about politics and official matters; and the good colonel invited me to dinner; and i concluded to accept, inasmuch as, by dining with the count, i should have been forced to encounter brownson--from whom the lord deliver us. these are the main incidents of the day; but i did not leave boston till half past five, by which time i was quite wearied with the clatter and confusion of the city, so unlike our quiet brooding life at home. oh, dear little dove, thou shouldst have been with me; and then all the quiet would have been with me likewise. great was the surprise and joy of louisa when she found me at the door. i found them all pretty well; but our poor mother seems to have grown older and thinner since i saw her at last. they all inquired for thee with loving kindness. louisa intended to come and visit us in about a week; and i shall not thwart her purpose, if it still continue. she thinks she may be ready in a week from to-day. and, dearest little wife, i fear that thy husband will have to defer his return to thy blessed arms till the same day. longfellow wants me to dine with him on friday; and my mother will not be content to give me up before thursday; and indeed it is not altogether unreasonable that she should have me this long; because she will not see me again. but, sweetest phoebe, thou knowest not how i yearn for thee. never hadst thou such love, as now. oh, dearest wife, take utmost care of thyself; for if any harm should come to thee during my absence, i should always impute blame to myself. do watch over my dove, now that i am away. and should my presence be needful before saturday, i will fly to thee at a moment's warning. if all continue well, i shall proceed to boston on thursday, visit longfellow on friday, and come home (oh, happiest thought!) on saturday night, with louisa, if she finds it possible to come. if anything should detain her, it will be our mother's health. god bless thee. amen. afternoon.--what a scrawl is the foregoing! i wrote fast because i loved fervently. i shall write once more before my return. take care of thy dearest little self and do not get weary. thy best of husbands. mrs. nathaniel hawthorne, concord, massachusetts. to mrs. hawthorne _salem_, novr. 10th, 1845 _ownest_, it was revealed to me that thou didst write on saturday, and so, at nightfall, i went to the post-office, but found no letter. this morning, it has arrived, with the postmark of to-day. it gladdens me to hear of una's joy, and of thy being with people whom thou knowest well, and who know thee well, and with whom thou canst have real intercourse and sympathy. as for us in castle dismal, we miss thee greatly, all of us, and dwell in a deeper shadow for lack of thee, and that streak of living sunshine with which thou hast illuminated the earth. whom do i mean by this brilliant simile? can it be that little redheaded personage? louisa complains of the silence of the house; and not all their innumerable cats avail to comfort them in the least. thy husband thinks of thee when he ought to be scribbling nonsense--and very empty and worthless is his daily life, without thee. nevertheless, if thou art at ease, do not come home in less than a week. i feel as if it were good for thee to be there, and good for una too. louisa told me, yesterday, with some alarm in her manner, that dr. moss (thy medical friend) says that the illness from vaccination does not come on, or does not reach its crisis, till the ninth day. can this be so? and will it be necessary to wait so long? that would postpone thy return till the middle of next week--a term to which i cannot yet reconcile myself. i read una's note, addressed to "madame hawthorne," then sealed it up and threw it downstairs. doubtless, they find it a most interesting communication; and i feel a little shamefaced about meeting them. i hear nothing from washington as yet; nor, indeed, is it yet time to expect any definite intelligence. meanwhile pike and thy friend david are planning to buy us an estate, and build a house, and have even gone so far as to mark out the ground-plot of the house, in chalk, on david's hearth. i fear it will prove a castle in the air; and yet, a moderate smile of providence would cause it to spring out of the earth, on that beautiful hillside, like a flower in the summer time. with a cottage of our own, and the surveyorship, how happy we might be!--happier than in concord, on many accounts. the surveyorship i think we shall have; but the cottage implies an extra thousand or fifteen hundred dollars. i have heard of mr. atherton's being in boston since thy departure;--whether mrs. atherton is with him i know not. governor fairfield, i understand, starts for washington to-day. god bless thee, dearest!--and blessed be our daughter, whom i love next to thee! again, if thou feelest it good for thee, on any account, to stay longer in boston, do not hasten home;--but whenever thou comest, my heart will open to take thee in. thy lovingest husband. to mrs. hawthorne _castle dismal_, novr. 13th, 1845 _intimatest friend_, i cannot settle down to work this forenoon, or do anything but write to thee--nor even that, i fear, with any good effect; for i am just as much dissatisfied with this mode of intercourse as always hitherto. it is a wretched mockery. but then it _is_ a semblance of communication, and, thus far, better than nothing. i got thy letter of tuesday the same evening, while it was still warm out of thy heart; and it seemed to fill the air round about me with nona's prattle. i do love her--that is the truth,--and almost feel it a pity to lose a single day of her development;--only thou wilt tell me, by letter or by mouth, all the pretty things that she says or does, and more over find a beauty in them which would escape my grosser perception. thus, on the whole, i shall be a gainer by our occasional separations. thee i miss, and without any recompense. i marvel how it is that some husbands spend years and years away from their wives, and then come home with perhaps a bag or two of gold, earned by the sacrifice of all that life. even poverty is better--and in saying that, thou knowest how much i say. nothing has happened here since i wrote thee last. i suspect the intelligence of thy meditated baby is very pleasant to the grandmother and aunts; for louisa met me at dinner, that day, with unusual cheerfulness, and observed that thanksgiving was at hand, and that we must think of preparing. [as] for me, i already love the future little personage; and yet, somehow or other, i feel a jealousy of him or her, on una's account, and should not choose to have the new baby better than the old one. so take care what thou dost, phoebe hawthorne! and now i think of it, do not thou venture into that tremendous press and squeeze, which always takes place on landing from the ferry-boat at the east boston depot. thou art not to be trusted in such a tumult; it will be far better to wait behind, and compel the conductor to find thee a seat. there is always the densest squeeze on saturdays. but i shall not expect thee back on saturday. according to dr. wesselhoeft's dictum, and supposing the vaccination to have taken, that will be precisely the critical day;--if dr. moss be correct, the crisis comes on monday. in either case, i hope thou wilt wait a little. there is the greatest satisfaction to me in thinking how comfortably situated thou art, with thy sister at thy elbow, and thy mother at arms' length, and thy aesculapius within a five minutes' summons. if i (and thou too, thou lovingest one) could endure it, i should be glad that thou mightest spend the winter there; but that is too heart-chilling to think of--so thou must even come back, in a few days more, to old castle dismal! but i shall never feel at home here with thee. i went, the other afternoon, to look at the hill where pike and the chancellor have built a castle in the air for our reception. thou hast no idea what capacities it has. (portion of letter missing) to mrs. hawthorne _salem_, jany. 19th, 1846.--tuesday _ownest phoebe_, the shoe arrived last evening; but on what evidence thou dost so confidently accuse me of putting it into the trunk, i cannot imagine. thou positively didst put it there thyself. i saw thee! dearest, if any money comes from new york by to-day's mail, i will come to boston on thursday morning, to escort thee home. otherwise, i really do not think i ought. heaven knows, i desire it; but as it is not necessary for thy safety, and as we are so miserably poor, methinks the dollar should be reserved for indispensables. i did hope the new york money would have come to hand before now. providence must take our matters in hand very speedily. i hope, phoebe, thou hast not engaged to pay winifred's passage, either to or from boston. she told mrs. dromedary that she should not have gone with thee, only that her passage would be paid. she has a cousin living at the essex house in this city; and the dromedary thinks she is partly engaged to go there herself. this is the secret of her willingness to remain in salem. dotish as she appeared, she has wit enough to be fair and false, like all her countryfolk. it will be well to investigate this matter before thou returnest; and, if she really means to leave us, perhaps thou hadst better engage a new girl in boston forthwith. poor little una's back--my heart bleeds for it. do not come back till it is well, nor till thou thyself hast undergone thorough repairs, even though thou shouldst be compelled to hire a lodging. ownest, be careful not to slip down. thou art prudent in behalf of other people, but hast little caution on thine own account. in going to the cars do not get entangled in that great rush of people who throng out of the ferry-boat. remain behind, and heaven will find thee a seat. would thou wast safe home again, eating thy potatoes, and glancing sideways at me with thy look of patient resignation. never did i miss thee so much as during this separation. but for the idea of thee, my existence would be as cold and wintry as the weather is now, and with a cloudy gloom besides, instead of the dazzling sunshine. i was driven to play cards with louisa, last evening! god bless thee! i have nothing more to say, that can be said. thine ownest husband. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, massachusetts. to mrs. hawthorne _salem_, april 24th, 1846.--6 p.m. _ownest dearest_, i have this moment received the packet and thy letter, and cannot tolerate that thou shouldst not have a word from thy husband tomorrow morning. truly, castle dismal has seemed darker than ever, since i returned to it;--and not only to me, but to its other inmates. louisa spoke of the awful stillness of the house, and said she could not bear to give una's old shoes to that little lines child, and was going to keep them herself. i rejoiced her much, by telling her of una's home-sickness. fees were tolerably good, yesterday and to-day; and i doubt we shall have enough to live on, during thy continuance in boston--for which let us be thankful. bridge came to see me this afternoon, and says mary pray has consented to come to thee; and by this time, i hope, thou hast her. thou canst not think what a peace i enjoy in the consideration that thou art within reach of dr. wesselhoeft. it is by my feelings as to thee and una, more than on my own account, that i find i am a true believer in homeopathy. ownest, i love thee. i love little una dearly too. tell her so, and show her the place, and give her a kiss for me. thine ownest husband. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, massachusetts. to mrs. hawthorne [_salem_, march 15th, 1847] _ownest phoebe_, above is the note. i will not say how much beyond all money i feel indebted to mr. shaw for his kindness. it relieves my spirits from a great burthen, and now i feel calm and very happy. i love thee infinitely, and need thee constantly. i long to hear una's voice. i find that i even love bundlebreech!!! ellery and i have a very pleasant time, and take immense walks every afternoon, and sit up talking till midnight. he eats like an anaconda. thou didst never see such an appetite. thou dost not tell me when thou wilt turn thy face homeward. shouldst thou stay till next week, i will come and escort thee home. ellery, i suppose, will go as soon as saturday. (i shall need some money to come with. couldst thou send me ten dollars?) in haste, in depths of love. thy husband. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, massachusetts. to mrs. hawthorne _salem_, march 20th, 1847.--saturday _ownest wife_, thy letter of thursday did not reach me till this morning. ellery goes to-day--much to my satisfaction, though we have had a good time. thou dost not know how much i long to see thee and our children. i never felt anything like it before--it is too much to write about. i do not think i can come on monday before 10 ½, arriving in boston at about 11. it is no matter about the session at johnson's; and if thou choosest to give him notice, so be it. now that the days are so long, would it not do to leave boston, on our return, at ½ past 4? kiss una for me--likewise bundlebreech. thy husband. p.s. of course, my coming on monday must be contingent on reasonably pleasant weather. i shall probably go to johnson's immediately after my arrival--before coming to west-street. i hope he will be otherwise engaged. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, massachusetts. to mrs. hawthorne _salem_, july 13th, 1847 _ownest phoebe_, greatly needed by me were thy two letters; for thou hadst never before been away from me so long without writing. and thou art still busy, every moment! i was in hopes thou wouldst have a little quiet now, with dora to take care of the children;--but that seems fated never more to be thine. as for me, i sink down into bottomless depths of quiet:--never was such a quiet life as mine is, in this voiceless house. thank god, there are echoes of voices in my heart, else i should die of this marble silence. yet i am happy, and, dearest phoebe, i wish that thou, likewise, couldst now and then stand apart from thy lot, in the same manner, and behold how fair it is. i think we are very happy--a truth that is not always so evident to me, until i step aside from our daily life. how i love thee!--how i love our children! can it be that we are really parents!--that two beautiful lives have gushed out of our life! i am now most sensible of the wonder, and the mystery, and the happiness. sweetest wife, i have nothing to tell thee. my life goes on as regularly as our kitchen clock. it has no events, and therefore can have no history. well; when our children--these two, and three or four more are grown up, and married off, thou wilt have a little leisure, and mayst paint that grecian picture that used to haunt thy fancy. but then our grandchildren--una's children, and bundlebreech's,--will be coming upon the stage. in short, after a woman has become a mother, she may find rest in heaven, but nowhere else. this pen is so horrible that it impedes my thought. i cannot write any more with it. dearest, stay as long as it is good for the children and thyself. i have great joy in thinking how good it has been for una to have this change. when thou comest back to me, it will be as the coming of an angel, and with a cherub in each hand. indeed, it does not require absence and distance to make an angel of thee; but the divine qualities of the children do become somewhat more apparent, by occasionally getting beyond the reach of their clamor. i think i had better not come on saturday; but if thou wilt tell me the day of thy return, i will come in the afternoon, and escort thee back. poor little una! how will she bear to be caged up here again. give her a kiss for me, and tell her i want to see her _very much_. i have been much affected by a little shoe of hers, which i found on the floor. does bundlebreech walk yet? thinest husband. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, massachusetts. to mrs. hawthorne _salem_, oct. 7th, 1847 _ownest phoebe_, thy letter has just come. i knew the day would not pass over without one. would that my love could transform this ugly east wind into the sweet south-west--then wouldst thou be full of pleasant air and sunshine. i want to be near thee, and rest thee. dearest, the things all arrived safe--not having suffered even the dollar's worth of damage to which the man restricted himself. the carpet shall not be put down till thou comest. there is no need of it, except to save thee the trouble. we are in hopes of getting an elderly woman (hannah lord, whom i think thou hast heard of) for a handmaiden, but this is not so certain as i could wish. our mother and louisa repugn at the idea of an irish girl; and there are scarcely any others to be heard of. i should not wonder, after all, if we had to seek one in boston. the usual price here is $1.25. i trust we shall be provided by the time thou art ready to come; but if otherwise, mrs. campbell is now well, and can officiate for a few days. duyckinck writes me that the african cruise has come to a second edition. it is also to be published in a cheaper style, as one of the numbers of a district school library. the weather is so bad that i hope thou wilt not have gone to horn pond to-day. how different these east winds are from anything that we felt in concord. nevertheless, i feel relieved at having left that place of many anxieties, and believe that we shall pass a happy winter here. all that i need is to have shelter, and clothes, and daily bread, for thee and una, without the anguish of debt pressing upon me continually;--and then i would not change places with the most fortunate person in the world. what a foolish sentence that is! as if i would change places, in our worst estate, either with man or angel. phoebe, i think i had better not come for thee till monday, as the weather is so unpropitious for thy visits. if that be too soon, tell me; for thou hadst better calculate on not seeing boston again for some months; and, that being the case, it will be advisable to act as if thou wast going to make a voyage to europe. i find i shall love thee as thou never wast loved before. god bless our little una. she is our daughter! what a miracle! i love mother and child so much that i can put nothing into words. i think i shall be diligent with my pen, in this old chamber whence so many foolish stories have gone forth to the world. i have already begun to scribble something for wiley & putnam. thine ownest own husband. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. to mrs. hawthorne surveyor's office, _salem_, may 5th, 1848 _ownest phoebe_, i am altogether in favor of getting the six chairs; as to the glass, i know not what to think. in fact, i must leave all other articles to thy judgment, and shall be satisfied, whatever thou dost. we can dispense with the glass better than with anything else. i rather covet the large marble-top table; but perhaps the repairs would make it otherwise than cheap. una behaves (as thou wouldst affirm) like an angel. we rode out to lynn, yesterday afternoon, and had a long walk--much to her delight. i bathed her this morning; and i believe she has not shown the slightest wilfulness or waywardness, since thy departure. we have very loving times together. i had a great mind to come to boston, yesterday, with una, instead of alighting at lynn. i felt thy magnetism drawing me thither. thine ownest. if thou canst get me a book or two, i shall be glad. kiss old bundlebreech, and ask him if he remembers me. if thou art very desirous of it, thou mayst stay till monday--or, indeed, a week or two longer--or ten years, if thou thinkest proper. i seem already to have been solitary at least so long. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. to mrs. hawthorne surveyor's office, [_salem_,] june 19th, 1848 _only belovedest_, i received thy letter on saturday evening, and was more refreshed by it than if it had been a draft of ice-water--a rather inapt comparison, by the way. thou canst have no imagination how lonely our house is. the rooms seem twice as large as before--and so awfully quiet! i wish, sometime or other, thou wouldst let me take the two children and go away for a few days, and thou remain behind. otherwise, thou canst have no idea of what it is. i really am half afraid to be alone, and feel shy about looking across the dimly moon-lighted chamber. i expend a great deal of sentiment as often as i chance to see any garment of thine, in my rambles about the house, or any of the children's playthings. and after all, there is a strange bliss in being made sensible of the happiness of my customary life, by this blank interval. tell my little daughter una that her dolly, since her departure, has been blooming like a rose--such an intense bloom, indeed, that i rather suspected her of making free with the brandy-bottle. on taxing her with it, however, she showed no signs of guilt or confusion; and i trust it was owing merely to the hot weather. the color has now subsided into quite a moderate tint, and she looks splendidly at a proper distance; though, on too close inspection, her skin appears rather coarse--not altogether unlike that of thy good aunt b. she has contracted an unfortunate habit of squinting; and her mouth, i am sorry to say, is somewhat askew. i shall take her to task on these matters, and hope to produce a reformation. should i fail, thou must take her in hand. give una a kiss, and tell her i love her dearly. the same to little bundlebreech, who has probably forgot "faver" by this time. dora complains terribly of lonesomeness, and so does aunty n. in short, we are pretty forlorn. nevertheless, i have much joy in your all being in the country, and hope thou wilt stay as long as thou feelest it to be for the best. how i love the children!--how i love thee, best of wives!--and how i shall make thee feel it, when thou comest home! dost thou love me? thine ownest husband. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, newton, mass. to mrs. hawthorne _salem_, june 27th, 1848 dearest phoebe, when i saw thy thick letter, last night, i could not imagine what might be its contents, unless thou hadst sent a large package of the precious roses, which i should have kissed with great reverence and devotion. thou wast naughty not to do it. but the letter truly refreshed my heart's thirst; and una's also were very delightful. what a queer epistle was that which she dictated! it seemed as if she were writing from paradise to comfort me on earth. dearest, i long for thee as thou dost for me. my love has increased infinitely since the last time we were separated. i can hardly bear to think of thy staying away yet weeks longer. i think of thee all the time. the other night, i dreamed that i was at newton, in a room with thee, and with several other people; and thou tookst occasion to announce, that thou hadst now ceased to be my wife, and hadst taken another husband. thou madest this intelligence known with such perfect composure and _sang froid_--not particularly addressing me, but the company generally--that it benumbed my thoughts and feelings, so that i had nothing to say. thou wast perfectly decided, and i had only to submit without a word. but, hereupon, thy sister elizabeth, who was likewise present, informed the company, that, in this state of affairs, having ceased to be thy husband, i of course became hers; and turning to me, very coolly inquired whether she or i should write to inform my mother of the new arrangement! how the children were to be divided, i know not. i only know that my heart suddenly broke loose, and i began to expostulate with thee in an infinite agony, in the midst of which i awoke; but the sense of unspeakable injury and outrage hung about me for a long time--and even yet it has not quite departed. thou shouldst not behave so, when thou comest to me in dreams. i had a letter from bridge, yesterday, dated in the latter part of april. he seems to be having a very pleasant time with his wife; but i do not understand that she is, as the germans say, "of good hope." in the beginning of the letter, he says that mrs. bridge will return to america this summer. in another part, he says that the ship in which he is will probably return late in the autumn; but he rather wishes that it may [be] delayed till spring, because mrs. bridge desires to spend the winter in italy. oh, phoebe, i want thee much. my bosom needs thy head upon it,--thou alone art essential. thou art the only person in the world that ever was necessary to me. other people have occasionally been more or less agreeable; but i think i was always more at ease alone than in anybody's company, till i knew thee. and now i am only myself when thou art within my reach. thou art an unspeakably beloved woman. how couldst thou inflict such frozen agony upon me, in that dream! thou shouldst have caressed me and embraced me. but do not think, much as i want thee, that i wish thee to come as long as thou judgest it good for the children to be away, and as long as thou thinkest we can afford the expense. we have a pervading happiness, that goes on whether we are present or absent in the body. their happiness depends upon time and place; and the difference to them between town and country must be almost that of a cage or the free air, to the birds. and then it is so much better for their health. hast thou remembered to ask mrs. mann whether little pick mann was named out of pure gratitude and respect for the old refugee colonel, or whether there was not a little earthly alloy--an idea of gilding an ugly name with a rich legacy? ownest, if i write any more, it would be only to try to express more lovings, and longings--and as they are impossible to express, i may as well close. my only belovedest, thy best beloved. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, west newton. to mrs. hawthorne _salem_, july 1st, 1848 ownest, how long is it since i heard from thee--and what an eternity since thou didst go away! it seems at least as long as the whole time that we have been married. my heart calls for thee, very loudly, and thou comest not. and i want to hear our children's voices;--it would be pleasant, even, to see little tornado in one of her tantrums. she is a noble child. kiss her and bundlebreech for me, and talk to them about me, lest i be entirely forgotten. if this had been a pleasant day, i should probably have gone to new york on custom-house business; but it being thick and dismal, i shall give up the expedition, although it would have been a very favorable opportunity. i should have been back here on wednesday morning; and as one of the intervening days is sunday, and another the fourth of july, only a single day of attendance at my office would have been lost. best of all, it would have cost nothing. dora has a great deal of work to do; but she neglects nothing appertaining to my comfort. aunty 'ouisa has favored me with one cup of coffee, since thou wentest away, and with an occasional doughnut; but i think thy lectures on diet and regimen have produced a considerable effect. dearest, is thy absence so nearly over that we can now see light glimmering at the end of it? is it half over? if not, i really do not see how i am to bear it. a month of non-existence is the utmost limit---i am continually interrupted as i write, this being pay-day, and a very busy time. i don't know exactly what will be the amount of our fees; but i should think it would be about as good a month as the last. thirty-five dollars, however, have already been drawn for our quarter's rent. if thou wantest any more money, as probably thou dost, write me how much, and i will send it. how much must i reserve to pay rebecca's wages? any surplus, i intend to apply in lessening millet's bill. here comes somebody else. ownest wife, i am the best, and truest, and lovingest husband that ever was, because thy goodness makes me so. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, west newton, mass. to mrs. hawthorne _surveyor's office_, july 5th, 1848 unspeakably belovedest, thy letter has just been handed me, and i snatch a moment from much press of business to say a word to thee. it has made my heart heave like the sea, it is so tender and sweet. ah, thou hast my whole soul. there is no thinking how much i love thee; and how blessed thy love makes me. i wonder how thou canst love me. thy letter was also most comfortable to me, because it gives such a picture of thy life there with the children. it seemed as if i could see the whole family of my heart before my eyes, and could hear you all talking together. i began to be quite uneasy about little bundlebreech's indisposition, until thy latest intelligence reassured me. yet i shall be anxious to hear again. dora could not come to boston yesterday, to meet rebecca, because she has an infinity of work, and moreover, yesterday morning, she had to go to bed with the tooth-ache. i went to boston to see the fireworks, and got home between 11 & 12 o'clock, last evening. i went into the little room to put on my linen coat; and, on my return into the sitting room, behold! a stranger there--whom dost thou think it might be?--it was elizabeth! i did not wish to risk frightening her away by anything like an exhibition of wonder; and so we greeted one another kindly and cordially, but with no more _empressement_ than if we were constantly in the habit of meeting. it being so late, and i so tired, we did not have much talk then; but she said she meant to go to walk this afternoon, and asked me to go with her--which i promised to do. perhaps she will now make it her habit to come down and see us occasionally in the evening. oh, my love, my heart calls for thee so, that i know not how to wait weeks longer for thee. yet i would not that thou shouldst deprive the children of the beautiful country on that account. all will be repaid us in the first hour of meeting. own wife, the coat does not crock the shirtsleeve in the least--so thy labor in lining it would have been thrown away. i gave the vest to louisa soon after thou wentest away, and have seen nothing of it since. i wish una, and julian too, would write a letter to aunty 'ouisa. i know it would give her as much pleasure as anything can. with infinite love, i am thine ownest. naughtiest, i do not leave thy letter about. i would just as soon leave my own heart on the "walking side," as una calls it. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, west newton. to mrs. hawthorne _salem_, july 7th, 1848 ownest, when thy letters come, i always feel as if i could not have done without them a moment longer. thou must have received one from me since the date of thine, but i hope it will not weary thee to receive this brief scribblement. if my hand would only answer to my heart, what letters i should write thee! it is wonderful--the growth of our love! six years ago, it seemed infinite; yet what was the love of that epoch to the present! thou badest me burn two pages of thy last letter; but i cannot do it, and will not; for never was a wife's deep, warm, chaste love so well expressed, and it is as holy to me as the bible. oh, i cannot begin to tell how i love thee. dearest, i should not forgive myself if i were to deprive the children of the country. thou must keep them there as long as thou canst. when thou hast paid thy visit to sarah clark, i must come and see thee in boston, and if possible (and if i shall be welcome) will spend a sunday there with thee. there is no news. miss derby has finished her picture, and it is now being publicly exhibited. i have not yet seen it, but mean to go. mr. pike is going to dine with me to-day, on green peas. oh, for one kiss! thy lovingest husband. did julian have a tooth?--or what was the matter? why did all the children have fever-fits? why was horace jumped in a wet sheet? mrs. sophia a. hawthorne. to mrs. hawthorne _salem_, july 12th, 1848 dearest phoebe, i enclose an advertisement of silks. aunty 'ouisa would like to have you get some patterns of those which she has marked with a pencil. a letter from mrs. f. shaw came for thee to-day; and i opened and read it. it contains nothing that requires thy immediate perusal; and as it is rather bulky, i do not send it. she is well, and so is caroline sturgis. i hear great accounts of the canary birds, now exhibiting in boston; and it seems to me thou mightest please una very much by taking her to see them. i need thee very much indeed, and shall heartily thank god when thou comest back to thine own home--and thine ownest husband. what a wretched time thou art having on that infernal mattress----truly do i pity thee, cooped up in that hot and dusty house, such a day as this. were it not for dr. wesselhoeft, i should think it best for thee to get away immediately. did una remember me, when she waked up?--and has little bundlebreech wanted me?--and dost thou thyself think of me with moderate kindness? oh, phoebe, it is too great a sacrifice--this whole blank month in our wedded life. i want thee always. thy lovingest spouse. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, massachusetts. to mrs. hawthorne _salem_, july 18th, 1848 belovedest, thy letter came yesterday, and caused my heart to heave like an ocean. thou writest with a pen of celestial fire;--none ever wrote such letters but thou--none is worthy to read them but i--and i only because thou purifiest and exaltest me by thy love. angels, i doubt not, are well pleased to look over thy shoulder as thou writest. i verily believe that no mortals, save ourselves, have ever known what enjoyment was. how wonderful that to the pure in spirit all earthly bliss is given in a measure which the voluptuary never can have dreamed of. soon--soon--thou wilt be at home. what joy! i count the days, and almost the hours, already. there is one good in our separation--that it has enabled us to estimate whereabouts we are, and what vast progress we have made into the ever-extending infinite of love. wherefore, this will not be a blank space, but a bright one, in our recollection. dearest, i told louisa of thy wish that she should come on saturday; and it seemed that the proposal found favor in her eyes. if not, she will perhaps commission thee to buy her a gown. elizabeth came down to see me last evening, and we confabulated till eleven o'clock. dora is dying to see thee and the children. the fortune teller has foretold that she is not to marry poor mr. hooper, nor anybody else that has been hitherto in question; but a young man, who, dora says, lives in boston. she has thorough faith in the prediction. i forgot to take those two volumes of cooper's miles wallingford; and when i was last in boston, i looked for them on the shelf in vain. if they may conveniently be had, when thou comest home, wilt thou please to give thyself the trouble of taking them. kiss our beloved children for me. thou art coming home!--thou art coming home! thine ownest husband. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, massachusetts. to mrs. hawthorne _castle dismal_, novr. 18th, 1848 _ownest phoebe_, thy letter did not come till to-day; and i know not that i was ever more disappointed and impatient--for i was sure that it ought to have come yesterday, and went to the post office three times after it. now i have nothing to tell thee, belovedest wife, but write thee just a word, because i must. thou growest more and more absolutely essential to me, every day we live. i never knew how thou art intertwined with my being, till this absence. darlingest, thou hast mentioned horace's sickness two or three times, and i have speculated somewhat thereupon. thou hast removed to west-street, likewise, and reservest the reasons till we meet. i wonder whether there be any connection between these two matters. but i do not feel anxious. if i am not of a hopeful nature, at least my imagination is not suggestive of evil. if una were to have the hooping-cough, i should be glad thou wast within dr. wesselhoeft's sphere. what a shadowy day is this! while this weather lasts, thou canst not come. thy belovedest husband. do not hasten home on my account--stay as long as thou deemest good. i well know how thy heart is tugging thee hitherward. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, massachusetts. to mrs. hawthorne 14 mull street, monday, [_salem_,] 16th april, 1849 _ownest wife_, i suppose thou wilt not expect (nor wish for) a letter from me; but it is so desolate and lonesome here that i needs must write. this is a miserable time. thy and the children's absence; and this dreary bluster of the wind, which at once exasperates and depresses me to the very last degree; and finally, a breakfast (the repetition of yesterday's) of pease and indian pudding!! it is a strange miscellany of grievances; but it does my business--it makes me curse my day. this matter of the breakfast is the most intolerable, just at this moment; because the taste of it is still in my mouth, and the nausea and disgust overwhelms me like the consciousness of sin. hell is nothing else but eating pease and baked indian pudding! if thou lovest me, never let me see either of them again. keep such things for thy and my worst enemies. give thy husband bread, or cold potatoes; and he never will complain--but pease and indian pudding! god forgive me for ever having burthened my conscience with such abominations. they are the unpardonable sin and the intolerable punishment, in one and the same accursed spoonfull! i think i hardly ever had such a dismal time as yesterday. i cannot bear the loneliness of the house. i need the sunshine of the children; even their little quarrels and naughtinesses would be a blessing to me. i need thee, above all, and find myself, at every absence, so much the less able to endure it. come home come home! where dost thou think i was on saturday afternoon? thou wilt never guess. in haste; for it is almost custom house time. thy husband. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, care of dr. n. peabody, 13 west street, boston, mass. to mrs. hawthorne _salem_, may 9th, 1849 _dearest_, thy letter was received last night. what a time thou hast!--and i not there to help thee! i almost feel as if i ought to come every day; but then i should do so little good--arriving at 4 o'clock; and the children going to bed at six or seven; and the expense is so considerable. if thou canst hold out till friday, i shall endeavor to come in the afternoon and stay till monday. but this must depend on arrangements hereafter to be made; so do not absolutely expect me before saturday. oh that providence would bring all of you home, before then! this is a miserable time for me; more so than for thee, with all thy toil, and watchfulness and weariness. these sunless days are as sunless within as without. thou hast no conception how melancholy our house can be. it absolutely chills my heart. if it is necessary for me to come sooner, write by express. give my love to una and julian, and tell them how much i miss them. god bless thee and them. thine ownest. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, care of dr. n. peabody, 13 west-street, boston. to mrs. hawthorne _navy yard_, april 26th, 1850 _ownest wife_, thy letter (dated 22d, but postmarked this very day) has just arrived, and perplexed me exceedingly with its strange aspect. thy poor dear thumb! i am afraid it puts thee to unspeakable pain and trouble, and i feel as if i ought to be with thee; especially as una is not well. what is the matter?--anything except her mouth? i almost wish thou hadst told me to come back. it rained so continually on the day of my departure that i was not able to get over to the navy yard, but had to put up at the rockingham house. being recognized there, i was immediately lugged into society, whether i would or no; taking tea at one place, and spending the evening at another. i have since dined out, and been invited to a party--but escaped this latter infliction. bridge's house, however, is the quietest place imaginable, and i only wish thou couldst be here, until our lenox home is ready. i long to see thee, and am sad for want of thee. and thou too so comfortless in all that turmoil and confusion! i have been waiting for thee to write; else i should have written before, though with nothing to say to thee--save the unimportant fact that i love thee better than ever before, and that i cannot be at peace away from thee. why has not dr. wesselhoeft cured thy thumb? thou never must hereafter do any work whatever; thou wast not made strong, and always sufferest tenfold the value of thy activities. thou didst much amiss, to marry a husband who cannot keep thee like a lady, as bridge does his wife, and as i should so delight to keep thee, doing only beautiful things, and reposing in luxurious chairs, and with servants to go and to come. thou hast a hard lot in life; and so have i that witness it, and can do little or nothing to help thee. again i wish that thou hadst told me to come back; or, at least, whether i should come or no. four days more will bring us to the first of may, which is next wednesday; and it was my purpose to return then. thou wilt get this letter, i suppose, tomorrow morning, and, if desirable, might send to me by express the same day; and i could leave here on monday morning. on looking at the pathfinder guide, i find that a train leaves portsmouth for boston at 5 o'clock p.m. shouldst thou send me a message by the 11 o'clock train, i might return and be with thee tomorrow (saturday) evening, before 8 o'clock. i should come without being recalled; only that it seems a sin to add another human being to the multitudinous chaos of that house. i cannot write. thou hast our home and all our interests about thee, and away from thee there is only emptiness--so what have i to write about? thine ownest husband. p.s. if thou sendest for me to-morrow, and i do not come, thou must conclude that the express did not reach me. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, care of dr. nathl. peabody, boston, massachusetts. to mrs. hawthorne _lenox_, july 30th, 1851 _dearest phoebe_, we are getting along perfectly well, and without a single event that could make a figure in a letter. i keep a regular chronicle of all our doings; and you may read it on your return. julian seems perfectly happy, but sometimes talks in rather a sentimental style about his mother. i do hope thou camest safely to west newton, and meetest with no great incommodities there. julian is now out in the garden; this being the first time since thou wentest away, almost, (except when he was in bed) that he has left me for five minutes together. i find him really quite a tolerable little man! kiss una for me, and believe me, thy affectionate husband, n. h. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, west newton. to mrs. hawthorne _lenox_, august 1st, friday [1851] _dearest phoebe_, i send the tools, which i found in one of the cupboards. thy two letters arrived together, this morning. i was at the p. o. on wednesday, and greatly disappointed to find nothing. julian and i get along together in great harmony, & as happy as we can be severed from thee. it grieves me that thou findest nobody to help thee there. if this state of things is to continue, thou must abridge thy stay, and return before thou art quite worn out. i wrote a few lines on tuesday (i think) which i suppose thou hast received. i more than ever abhor letter-writing; but thou partly knowest that i am thy lovingest husband. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, west newton. to mrs. hawthorne _lenox_, august 7th, 1851.--thursday _ownest phoebe_, i rec'd thy letter yesterday. i will be in pittsfield on _thursday_ next (a week from to-day) and will escort thee home. i have written quite a small volume of julian's daily life and mine; so that, on thy return, thou wilt know everything that we have done and suffered;--as to enjoyment, i don't remember to have had any, during thy absence. it has been all doing and suffering. thou sayest nothing whatever of una. unless i receive further notice from thee i shall consider thursday the day. i shall go at any rate, i think, rain or shine; but of course, thou wilt not start in a settled rain. in that case, i shall come again to pittsfield, the next day. but, if fair weather, i hope nothing will detain thee; or if it necessarily must, and thou has[t] previous knowledge of it, thou canst write me. julian is perfectly well. we both, according to our respective capacities, long for thee. thinest, n. h. to mrs. hawthorne _lenox_, august 8th, 1851 _ownest phoebe_, i wrote thee a note yesterday, and sent it to the village by cornelius; but as he may have neglected to put it in, i write again. if thou wilt start from west newton on _thursday_ next, i will meet thee at pittsfield, which will answer the same purpose as if i came all the way. mrs. tappan requests that thou wilt bring ten pounds of ground rice for her; or a less quantity, if thou hast not room for so much. julian is very well, and keeps himself happy from morning till night. i hope una does the same. give my love to her. i shall be most gladdest to see thee. thine, n. h. august 9th.--saturday.--i recd. yesterday thy note, in which thou speakest of deferring thy return some days longer. stay by all means as long as may be needful. julian gets along perfectly well; and i am eager for thy coming only because it is unpleasant to remain torn asunder. thou wilt write to tell me finally what day thou decidest upon;--but unless i hear from thee, i shall go to pittsfield on _saturday_, a week from to-day. but if thou seest reason for staying longer do so, that nothing may be left at loose ends. julian and i had a fine ride yesterday with herman melville and two other gentlemen. mrs. peters is perfectly angelic. thinest, n. h. to mrs. hawthorne _west newton_, septr. 19th, 1851 _dearest phoebe_, here i am as thou seest; and if not here, i know not where i could be; for boston is so full that the mayor has issued proclamation for the inhabitants to throw open their doors. the president is there. they all appear to be well here; and thy mother, if horace and georgia say truly, walked three miles yesterday. i went with mary to see her, last evening, and found her much better than i ever hoped. talking with mary, last night, i explained our troubles to her, and our wish to get away from lenox, and she renewed the old proposition about our taking this house for the winter. the great objection to it, when first talked of, was, that we, or i, did not wish to have the care and responsibility of your father and mother. that is now removed. it strikes me as one of those unexpected, but easy and natural solutions wherewith providence occasionally unknots a seemingly inextricable difficulty. if you agree with me, you had better notify mr. or mrs. sedgwick that we shall not want the kemble house. we can remain in the red house till we come here. we shall pay a rent, but i know not as yet precisely what. but we shall probably only remain half the time mr. and mrs. mann are in washington. mary will write. i shall probably go to salem on saturday. kiss and spank the children. thine ownest in haste, n. h. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, lenox, massachusetts. to mrs. hawthorne _salem_, sept. 23d, 1851 _dearest_, i have just received thy two letters; they having been forwarded hither by ticknor & co. i wish thou hadst not had the head-ache; it gives me the heart-ache. in regard to the rent, it is much to pay; but thou art to remember that we take the house only till we can get another; and that we shall not probably have to pay more than half, at most, of the $350. it does seem to me better to go; for we shall never be comfortable in lenox again. ticknor & co. promise the most liberal advances of money, should we need it, towards buying the house. i will tell thee my adventures when i come. i am to return to boston to-night, and fully intend to be in lenox by saturday night. in hugest haste, thine ownest. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, lenox, massachusetts. to mrs. hawthorne _portsmouth_, sept. 3d, 1852 _ownest phoebe_, i left brunswick wednesday night, and arrived here yesterday, with pierce. my adventures thou shalt know when i return, and how i was celebrated by orators and poets--and how, by the grace of divine providence, i was not present, to be put to the blush. all my contemporaries have grown the funniest old men in the world. am i a funny old man? i am going to cross over to the isle of shoals, this forenoon, and intend to spend several days there, until i get saturated with sea-breezes. i love thee very much-est;--likewise, the children are very pleasant to think of. kiss una--kiss julian--kiss rosebud--for me! kiss thyself, if thou canst--and i wish thou wouldst kiss me. a boat passes between portsmouth and the isle of shoals, every forenoon; and a letter, i presume, would reach me in case of necessity. i long to see thee. it is breakfast time. thine ownest n. hawthorne. mrs. sophia a. hawthorne, concord, massachusetts. to mrs. hawthorne _new york_, sunday morng., april 17th, 1853 _dearest_, i arrived here in good condition thursday night at ½ past 12. every moment of my time has been so taken up with calls and engagements that i really could not put pen to paper until now, when i am writing before going down to breakfast. it is almost as difficult to see o'sullivan here as if he were a hundred miles off. i rode three miles to his home on friday, and found him not at home. however, he came yesterday, and we talked together until other people came between. i do wish i could be let alone, to follow my own ideas of what is agreeable. to-day, i am to dine with a college-professor of mathematics, to meet miss lynch!! why did i ever leave thee, my own dearest wife? now, thou seest, i am to be lynched. we have an ugly storm here to-day. i intend to leave new york for philadelphia tomorrow, and shall probably reach washington on wednesday. i am homesick for thee. the children, too, seem very good and beautiful. i hope una will be very kind and sweet. as for julian, let ellen make him a pandowdy. does rosebud still remember me? it seems an age since i left home. no words can tell how i love thee. i will write again as soon as possible. thine ownest husband. to mrs. hawthorne _philadelphia_, tuesday 19th, 1853 _ownest_, we left new york yesterday at 3 o'clock, and arrived safely here, where we have spent the day. we leave for washington tomorrow morning, and i shall mail this scribble there, so that thou wilt know that i have arrived in good condition. thou canst not imagine the difficulty of finding time and place to write a word. i enjoy the journey and seeing new places, but need thee beyond all possibility of telling. i feel as if i had just begun to know that there is nothing else for me but thou. the children, too, i know how to love, at last. kiss them all for me. in greatest haste (and in a public room), thine ownest, n. h. baltimore, wednesday, 5 o'clock.--thus far in safety. i shall mail the letter immediately on reaching washington, where we expect to be at ½ past 9. with love a thousand times more than ever, thinest, n. h. washington, thursday.--before breakfast. --dearest, i arrived so late and tired, last night, that i quite forgot to mail the letter. i found about a dozen letters awaiting me at the hotel, from other people, but none from thee. my heart is weary with longing for thee. i want thee in my arms. i shall go to the president at nine o'clock this morning--shall spend three or four days here--and mean to be back early next week. thine ownest. to mrs. hawthorne _washington_, april 28th, thursday. 1853 _dearest_, the president has asked me to remain in the city a few days longer, for particular reasons; but i think i shall be free to leave by saturday. it is very queer how much i have done for other people and myself since my arrival here. colonel miller is to be here to-night. ticknor stands by me manfully, and will not quit me until we see boston again. i went to mount vernon yesterday with the ladies of the president's family. thou never sawst such a beautiful and blossoming spring as we have here. expect me early in next week. how i long to be in thy arms is impossible to tell. tell the children i love them all. thinest. to mrs. hawthorne _liverpool_, july 26th, '54 _dearest wife_, we had the pleasantest passage, yesterday, that can be conceived of. how strange, that the best weather i have ever known should have come to us on these english coasts! i enclose some letters from the o'sullivan's, whereby you will see that they have come to a true appreciation of mr. cecil's merits. they say nothing of his departure; but i shall live in daily terror of his arrival. i hardly think it worth while for me to return to the island, this summer;--that is, unless you conclude to stay longer than a week from this time. do so, by all means, if you think the residence will benefit either yourself or the children. or it would be easy to return thither, should it seem desirable--or to go somewhere else. tell me what day you fix upon for leaving; and i will either await you in person at the landing-place, or send henry. do not start, unless the weather promises to be favorable, even though you should be all ready to go on board. i think you should give something to the servants--those of them, at least, who have taken any particular pains with you. michael asked me for something, but i told him that i should probably be back again;--so you must pay him my debts and your own too. it is very lonesome at rock ferry, and i long to have you all back again. give my love to the children. thine ownest. to mrs. hawthorne _liverpool_, sept. 12th, 1854 _dearest_, we arrived safe at rock ferry at about ten. emily had gone to bed, but came down in her night-clothes--the queerest figure i ever saw. i enclose a letter from thy brother n. it contains one piece of intelligence very interesting to the parties concerned. mr. o'sullivan is going to london, this afternoon. i wish thou wast at home, for the house is very cheerless in its solitude. but it will be only a few days before i see thee again; and in the meantime thou must go to all accessible places, and enjoy thyself for both of us. the barometer goes backward to-day, and indicates a proximate change of weather. what wilt thou do in a rain-storm? i am weighed down and disheartened by the usual immense pile of american newspapers. what a miserable country! kiss all the old people for me--julian, as well as the others. thine ownest, n. h. to mrs. hawthorne _liverpool_, july 30th, 1855 _dearest_, i slept at lancaster, last night, where i arrived at 10 o'clock; and leaving at ½ past nine, this morning, got here at twelve. since leaving you, i have been thinking that we have skimmed the cream of the lakes, and perhaps may as well go somewhere else, now. what if you should come to liverpool (that is, to rock ferry hotel) and spend a day or two, for the sake of variety, and then go to matlock or malvern, or wherever we may think best? should you conclude to do this, i think you had better take a phaeton & pair from grasmere to windermere, and there you can get on the rail. if you wish to stay longer at the lakes, however, i shall be quite happy to come back. mr. wildeys says that lodgings may be had reasonable (and some at farmers' houses) in the vicinity of bourness; but he does not know of any in particular. weigh these matters, and decide for yourself. i have an impression, i hardly know why, that we have done with the lakes for this year; but i should not regret to have you stay longer. i send the halves of a £10 & of a £5. there would be no difficulty in your coming here without a male attendant. do not think that i wish you to come, contrary to your opinion. if you and the children are comfortable & happy, i am quite content to take another draught of the lakes. kiss them all. thine n. mr. bradford and miss ripley sailed a fortnight ago. mr. bright was in this morning. to mrs. hawthorne _liverpool_, novr. 3d, 1855 _dearest wife_, i received your letter a week ago, telling me of your woeful passage and safe arrival. if i had thought how much you were to suffer on the voyage, i never could have consented to thy departure; but i hope thou art now flourishing in the southern sunshine, and i am sure it would have been a dreadful matter for thee to remain in such weather as we have lately had. but i do so long to see thee! if it were not for julian, i do not think i could bear it at all. he is really a great comfort and joy to me, and rather unexpectedly so; for i must confess i wished to keep him here on his own account and thine, much more than on my own. we live together in great love and harmony, the best friends in the world. he has begun to go to dancing-school; and i have heard of a drawing-master for him, but do not yet let him take lessons, because they might interfere with his day-school, should we conclude to send him thither. his health and spirits seem now to be perfectly good; and i think he is benefitted by a greater regularity of eating than when at home. he never has anything between meals, and seems not to want anything. mrs. blodgett, miss williams, and their niece, all take motherly care of him, combing his wool, and seeing that he looks clean and gentlemanly as a consul's son ought to do. since the war-cloud has begun to darken over us, he insists on buckling on his sword the moment he is dressed, and never lays it aside till he is ready to go to bed--after drawing it, and making blows and thrusts at miss williams's tom-cat, for lack of a better antagonist. i trust england and america will have fought out their warfare before his worship's beard begins to sprout; else he will pester us by going forth to battle. i crossed over to rock ferry, a few days ago; and thou canst not imagine the disgust and horror with which i greeted that abominable old pier. the atmosphere of the river absolutely sawed me asunder. if we had been wise enough to avoid the river, i believe thou wouldst have found the climate of england quite another thing; for though we have had very bad weather for weeks past, the air of the town has nothing like the malevolence of that of the river. mrs. hantress is quite well, and inquires very affectionately about thee, and the children, and fanny. mrs. watson crossed in the same boat with me. she has taken a house at cloughton, and was now going over to deliver up the keys of the rock ferry house. i forgot to inquire about miss sheppard, and do not know whether she has succeeded in letting our house. i dined at mr. bright's on thursday evening. of course, there were the usual expressions of interest in thy welfare; and annie desired to be remembered to una. mr. channing called on me, a few days since. he has just brought his family from southport, where they have been spending several weeks. our conversation was chiefly on the subject of the approaching war; for there has suddenly come up a mysterious rumor and ominous disturbance of all men's spirits, as black and awful as a thunder-gust. so far as i can ascertain, mr. buchanan considers the aspect of affairs very serious indeed; and a letter, said to be written with his privity, was communicated to the americans here, telling of the breach of treaties, and a determination on the part of the british government to force us into war. it will need no great force, however, if the yankees are half so patriotic at home, as we on this side of the water. we hold the fate of england in our hands, and it is time we crushed her--blind, ridiculous, old lump of beef, sodden in strong beer, that she is; not but what she has still vitality enough to do us a good deal of mischief, before we quite annihilate her. at mr. bright's table, for the first time, i heard the expression of a fear that the french alliance was going to be ruinous to england, and that louis napoleon was getting his arm too closely about the neck of britannia, insomuch that the old lady will soon find herself short of breath. i think so indeed! he is at the bottom of these present commotions. one good effect of a war would be, that i should speedily be warned out of england, and should betake myself to lisbon. but how are we to get home? luckily, i don't care much about getting home at all; and we will be cosmopolites, and pitch our tent in any peaceable and pleasant spot we can find, and perhaps get back to concord by the time our larch-trees have ten years' growth. dost thou like this prospect? what a beautiful letter was thine! i do think nobody else ever wrote such letters, so magically descriptive and narrative. i have read it over and over and over to myself, and aloud to julian, whose face shone as he listened. by-the-by, i meant that he should have written a letter to accompany this; but this is his dancing-school day, and i did not bring him to the consulate. one packet of letters, intended for lisbon, has mysteriously vanished; and i cannot imagine what has become of it, unless it were slipt by mistake into ticknor's letter-bag, and so went to america by the last steamer. it contained a letter from thy sister elizabeth, one from julian, and myself, and, i believe, one from mr. dixon. did you pay a bill (of between one or two pounds) of frisbie, dyke & co.? i inquired in my last about mr. weston's bill for coals. do not stint thyself on the score of expenses, but live and dress and spend like a lady of station. it is entirely reasonable and necessary that thou shouldst. send una to whatever schools, and let her take whatever lessons, thou deemest good. kiss una; kiss naughty little rosebud. give my individual love to everybody. thine own, ownest, ownestest. p.s. since writing the above, mr. channing has been in, and thou wouldst be (as i am) at once confounded and delighted to hear the warlike tone in which he talks. he thinks that the government of england is trying to force us into a war, and he says, in so many words, "let it come!!!" he is already considering how he is to get home, and says that he feels ready to enlist; and he breathes blood and vengeance against whomsoever shall molest our shores. huzza! huzza! i begin to feel warlike, too. there was a rumor yesterday, that our minister had demanded his passports; and i am mistaken in frank pierce if mr. crampton has not already been ejected from washington. no doubt o'sullivan's despatches will enable him to give thee more authentic intelligence than i possess as to the real prospects. n. h. to mrs. hawthorne _liverpool_, february 7th, 1856 thy letter, my own most beloved, (dated jany. 31st) arrived yesterday, and revived me at once out of a state of half-torpor, half misery--just as much of each as could co-exist with the other. do not think that i am always in that state; but one thing, dearest, i have been most thoroughly taught by this separation--that is, the absolute necessity of expression. i must tell thee i love thee. i must be told that thou lovest me. it must be said in words and symbolized with caresses; or else, at last, imprisoned love will go frantic, and tear all to pieces the heart that holds it. and the only other alternative is to be torpid. i just manage to hold out from one letter of thine to another; and then comes life and joy again. thou canst not conceive what an effect yesterday's letter had on me. it renewed my youth, and made my step lighter; it absolutely gave me an appetite; and i went to bed joyfully to think of it. oh, my wife, why did god give thee to poor unworthy me! art thou sure that he made thee for me? ah, thy intuition must have been well-founded on this point; because, otherwise, all through eternity, thou wouldst carry my stain upon thee; and how could thine own angel ever need thee then! thou art mine!--thou _shalt_ be mine! thou hast given thyself to me irredeemably. thou hast grown to me. thou canst never get away. oh, my love, it is a desperate thing that i cannot see thee this very instant. dost thou ever feel, at one and the same moment, the impossibility of doing without me, and also the impossibility of having me? i know not how it is that my strong wishes do not bring thee here bodily, while i am writing these words. one of the two impossibilities must needs be overcome; and it seems the strongest impossibility that thou shouldst be anywhere else, when i need thee so insufferably. well, my own wife, i have a little wreaked myself now, and will go on more quietly with what i have further to say. as regards o'sullivan--(how funny that thou shouldst put quotation marks to this name, as if astonished at my calling him so! did we not entirely agree in thinking "john" an undue and undesirable familiarity? but thou mayst call him "john," or "jack" either, as best suits thee.)--as regards o'sullivan, then, my present opinion of him is precisely what thou thyself didst leave upon my mind, in our discussions of his character. i have often had a similar experience before, resulting from thy criticism upon any views of mine. thou insensibly convertest me to thy own opinion, and art afterwards surprised to find it so; in fact, i seldom am aware of the change in my own mind, until the subject chances to come up for further discussion, and i find myself on what was thy side. but i will try to give my true idea of his character. i know that he has most vivid affections--a quick, womanly sensibility--a light and tender grace, which, in happy circumstances, would make all his deeds and demonstrations beautiful. in respect to companionship, beyond all doubt, he has never been in such fortunate circumstances as during his present intercourse with thee; and i am willing to allow that thou bringest out his angelic part, and therefore canst not be expected to see anything but an angel in him. it has sometimes seemed to me that the lustre of his angel-plumage has been a little dimmed--his heavenly garments a little soiled and bedraggled--by the foul ways through which it has been his fate to tread, and the foul companions with whom necessity and politics have brought him acquainted. but i had rather thou shouldst take _him_ for a friend than any other man i ever knew (unless, perhaps, george bradford, who can hardly be reckoned a man at all,) because i think the devil has a smaller share in o'sullivan than in other bipeds who wear breeches. to do him justice, he is miraculously pure and true, considering what his outward life has been. now, dearest, i have a genuine affection for him, and a confidence in his honor; and as respects his defects in everything that concerns pecuniary matters, i believe him to have kept his integrity intact to a degree that is really wonderful, in spite of the embarrassments of a lifetime. if we had his whole life mapped out before us, i should probably forgive him some things which thy severer sense of right would condemn. thou talkest of his high principle; but that does not appear to me to be his kind of moral endowment. perhaps he may have the material that principles are manufactured from. my beloved, he is not the man in whom i see my ideal of a friend; not for his lack of principle, not for any ill-deeds or practical shortcomings which i know of or suspect; not but what he is amiable, loveable, fully capable of self-sacrifice, utterly incapable of selfishness. the only reason, that i can put into words, is, that he never stirs me to any depth beneath my surface; i like him, and enjoy his society, and he calls up, i think, whatever small part of me is elegant and agreeable; but neither of my best nor of my worst has he ever, or could he ever, have a glimpse. i should wish my friend of friends to be a sterner and grimmer man than he; and it is my opinion, sweetest wife, that the truest manly delicacy is to be found in those stern, grim natures--a little alpine flower, of tenderest texture, and loveliest hue, and delicious fragrance, springing out of a rocky soil in a high, breezy, mountain atmosphere. o'sullivan's quick, genial soil produces an abundant growth of flowers, but not just this precious little flower. he is too much like a woman, without being a woman; and between the two characters, he misses the quintessential delicacy of both. there are some tests of thorough refinement which, perhaps, he could not stand. and yet i shall not dispute that for refinement and delicacy he is one out of a thousand; and we might spend a lifetime together without putting him to a test too severe. as for his sympathies, he would be always ready to pour them out (not exactly like niagara, but like a copious garden-fountain) for those he loved. if thou thinkest i have done him great injustice in the foregoing sketch, it is very probable that thou wilt bring me over to thy way of thinking; and perhaps balance matters by passing over to mine. dearest, i do hope i shall next hear of thee from madeira; for this suspense is hard to bear. thou must not mind what i say to thee, in my impatient agonies, about coming back. whatever can be borne, i shall find myself able to bear, for the sake of restoring thee to health. i have now groped so far through the thick darkness that [a] little glimmer of light begins to appear at the other end of the passage; it will grow clearer and brighter continually, and at last it will show me my dearest wife. i do hope thou wilt find thy husband wiser and better than he has been hitherto; wiser, in knowing the more adequately what a treasure he has in thee; and better, because i feel it such a shame to be loved by thee without deserving it. dost thou love me? give my love to una, to whom i cannot write now, without doubling the postage. do not let little rosebud forget me. remember me to fanny, and present my regards to madame o'sullivan, and mrs. susan, and miss rodgers. so all is said very properly. thou toldest me not to write to madeira before hearing from thee there; but i shall send this to the care of the american consul, to whom i wrote by the last lisbon steamer, sending the letter to o'sullivan's care. thine own-ownest. julian is perfectly well. to mrs. hawthorne _liverpool_, march 18th, 1856 in a little while longer, ownest wife, we must think about thy return to england. the thought is a happiness greater than i can crowd into my mind. wilt thou think it best to go back to lisbon? this must depend, i suppose, on the length of stay of the o'sullivans in madeira. if they return to lisbon before june, thou wilt have to go with them; if they stay so late as the first of june, i should think it best for thee to come direct to southampton; but i leave it to thy decision, as thou canst weigh all the circumstances. i somewhat dread thy returning to this miserable island at all; for i fear, even if madeira quite rids thee of thy cough, england will at once give it back. but elizabeth has sent thee a certain article which is vouched for, by numerous certificates, as a certain cure for all coughs and affections of the lungs. so far as i can ascertain its structure, it consists of some layers of quilted flannel, covered with an oilcloth; and the whole thing is not more than three inches square. it is worn on the breast, next the skin, and, being so small, it would not be perceptible under the thinnest dress. in order to make it efficacious, it is to be moistened with some liquor from a bottle which accompanied it; and it keeps the person comfortably warm, and appears to operate like a charm, and makes a little madeira of its own about the wearer. if thou wast not so very naughty--if thou wouldst consent to be benefitted by anything but homeopathy--here in this little box is health and joy for us!--yes, the possibility of sitting down together in a mud-puddle, or in the foggiest hole in england, and being perfectly well and happy. oh, mine ownest love, i shall clap this little flannel talisman upon thy dearest bosom, the moment thou dost touch english soil. every instant it shall be shielded by the flannel. i have drawn the size and thickness of it, above. we are plodding on here, julian and i, in the same dull way. the old boy, however, is happy enough; and i must not forget to tell thee that mary w. has taken him into her good graces, and has quite thrown off another boy, who, julian says, has heretofore been her "adorer." i told julian that he must expect to be cast aside in favor of somebody else, by-and-bye. "then i shall tell her that i am very much ashamed of her," said he. "no," i answered; "you must bear it with a good grace and not let her know that you are mortified." "but why shouldn't i let her know it, if i _am_ mortified?" asked he; and really, on consideration, i thought there was more dignity and self-respect in his view of the case, than in mine; so i told him to act as he thought right. but i don't think he will be much hurt or mortified; for his feelings are marvellously little interested, after all, and he sees her character and criticises her with a shrewdness that quite astonishes me. he is a wonderfully observant boy; nothing escapes his notice; nothing, hardly, deceives his judgment. his intellect is certainly very remarkable, and it is almost a miracle to see it combined with so warm and true and simple a heart. but his heart admits very few persons into it, large though it be. he is not, i think, of a diffusive, but of a concentrative tendency, both as regards mind and affections. in grace greenwood's last "little pilgrim," there is a description of her new baby!!! in response to numerous inquiries which, she says, have been received from her subscribers. i wonder she did not think it necessary to be brought to bed in public, or, at least, in presence of a committee of the subscribers. my dearest, i cannot enough thank god, that, with a higher and deeper intellect than any other woman, thou hast never--forgive me the base idea!--never prostituted thyself to the public, as that woman has, and as a thousand others do. it does seem to me to deprive women of all delicacy. women are too good for authorship, and that is the reason it spoils them so. the queen of england is said to be going to lisbon, this summer; so perhaps thou wouldst rather stay there and be introduced to her, than come hither and be embraced by me--the o'sullivans would not miss seeing her, i suppose, for all the husbands on earth. dearest, i do not like those three women very much; and, indeed, they cannot be good and amiable, nor wise, since, after living with thee for months, they have not made thee feel that they value thee above all things else. neither am i satisfied with mr. welsh's turning thee out of his house. mr. dallas, our new ambassador, arrived at liverpool a few days ago; and i had to be civil to him and his son, and to at least five ladies whom he brought with him. he seems to be a good old gentleman enough, and of venerable aspect; but as regards ability, i should judge mr. buchanan to be worth twenty of him. dost thou know that we are going to have a war? it is now quite certain; and i hope i shall be ordered out of the country in season to meet thee at madeira. dost thou not believe me? march 19th.--ownest beloved, this morning came thy letter of the 9th, by the african steamer. i knew it could not be much longer delayed, for my heart was getting intolerably hungry. oh, my wife, thou hast been so ill! and thou art blown about the world, in the midst of rain and whirlwind! it was a most foolish project of o'sullivan's (as all his projects are) to lead thee from his comfortable fireside, to that comfortless madeira. and thou sayest, or una says, that the rainy season is just commencing there, and that this month and the next are the two worst months of the year! thou _never_ again shalt go away anywhere without me. my two arms shall be thy tropics, and my breast thy equator; and from henceforth forever i will keep thee a great deal too warm, so that thou shalt cry out--"do let me breathe the cool outward air for a moment!" but i will not. as regards teaching julian french, i wish i had found a master for him when we first left thee; but there seemed to be so many difficulties in making him really and seriously study, without companions, and without constant supervision, that i let it alone, thinking that, on the continent, all lost time would quickly be made up. and now it will be so little while before thy return, that i doubt whether much would be accomplished in the meantime. it is very difficult to get him really interested in any solitary study; and as he could not take more than two lessons in a week, and would have nobody to practise pronounciation with, in the intervals, i think, the result would be only an ineffectual commencement. i have not myself the slightest tact or ability in making him study, or in compelling him to do anything that he is not inclined to do of his own accord; and to tell thee the truth, he has pretty much his own way in everything. at least, such is my impression; but thou hast so often told me of the strength of my will (of which i am not in the least conscious) that it is very possible i may have been ruling him with a rod of iron, all the time. it is true, i have a sort of inert and negative power, with which i should strongly interpose to keep him out of mischief; but i am always inclined to let him wander around at his own sweet will, as long as the path is a safe one. thou hast incomparably greater faculty of command than i have. i think he must remain untaught till thou comest back to take the helm. thou wilt find him a good and honest boy, healthy in mind, and healthier in heart than when he left thee; ready to begin his effectual education as soon as circumstances will permit. let this suffice. in body, too, he never was better in his life than now; and he is a real little rampant devil for physical strength. i find it an arduous business, now-a-days, to take him across my knee and spank him; and unless i give up the attempt betimes, he will soon be the spanker, and his poor father the spankee. i am going to dine at mr. bright's, this evening. he has often besought me that julian might come and spend a few days at sandheys; and i think i shall let him go, and take the opportunity to run up to london. what vicissitudes of country and climate thou hast run through, while i have never once stirred out of this mud and fog of liverpool! after returning from london, and as spring advances, i mean to make little excursions of a day or two with julian. oh, dearest, dearest, interminably and infinitely dearest--i don't know how to end that ejaculation. the use of kisses and caresses is, that they supersede language, and express what there are no words for. i need them at this moment--need to give them, & to receive them. thine ownest. to mrs. hawthorne 32, st. anne's place, _london_, april 7th, 1856 best wife in the world, here i am in london; for i found it quite impossible to draw any more breath in that abominable liverpool without allowing myself a momentary escape into better air. i could not take julian with me; and so i disposed of him, much to his own satisfaction, first with the brights, then with the channings; and i have now been here more than a week, and shall remain till thursday. the old boy writes to me in the best of spirits; and i rather think he can do without me better than i can without him; for i really find i love him _a little_, and that his society is one of my necessities, including, as he does, thyself and everything else that i love. nevertheless, my time has been so much occupied in london, that i have not been able to brood over the miseries of heart-solitudes. they have found me out, these london people, and i believe i should have engagements for every day, and two or three a day, if i staid here through the season. they thicken upon me, the longer i remain. to-night, i am to dine with the lord mayor, and shall have to make a speech!! good heavens! i wish i might have been spared this. tomorrow night, i shall dine in the house of commons, with a member of parliament, in order to hear a debate. in short, i have been lionized, and am still being lionized; and this one experience will be quite sufficient for me. i find it something between a botheration and a satisfaction. oh, my dearest, i feel that my heart will be very heavy, as soon as i get back to liverpool; for thy cough is not getting better, and our dear little rosebud has been ill! and i was not there! and i do not know--and shall not know for many days--what may have since happened to her and thee! this is very hard to bear. we ought never, never, to have separated. it is most unnatural. it cannot be borne. how strange that it _must_ be borne! most beloved, i have sent down to liverpool for elizabeth's talisman and medicine-bottles; for mr. marsh is now in london, and perhaps he will be able to take them to thee. i fear, however, that they will not reach me in time to be delivered to him, and i shall be afraid to trust them to any but a private conveyance. if they come, i hope thou wilt give them a fair trial, at least, if the weather still continues cold and wet. what a wretched world we live in! not one little nook or corner where thou canst draw a wholesome breath! in all our separation, i have never once felt so utterly desperate as at this moment. i _cannot_ bear it. everybody inquires about thee. i spent yesterday (sunday) at mrs. s. c. hall's country-seat, and she was very affectionate in her inquiries, and gave me this very sheet of paper on which i am now writing--also some violets, which i have lost, though i promised faithfully to send them to madeira. dear me, i wish i had a little bit of sentiment! didst thou ever read any of her books? she is a very good and kind person, and so is her husband, though he besmeared me with such sweetness of laudation, that i feel all over bestuck, as after handling sweetmeats or molasses-candy. there is a limit of decorum which ought not to be over-stept. i met miss cushman, on saturday, in the strand, and she asked me to dinner, but i could not go, being already engaged to meet another actress! i have a strange run of luck as regards actresses, having made friends with the three most prominent ones since i came to london, and i find them all excellent people; and they all inquire for thee!! mrs. bennoch, too, wishes to see thee very much. unless thou comest back in very vigorous health, it will never do for us to take lodgings in london for any considerable time, because it would be impossible to keep quiet. neither shall i dare to have thee come back to liverpool, accursed place that it is! we will settle ourselves in the south of england, until the autumn, and then (unless elizabeth's talisman works miracles) we must be gone. the trip to scotland, i fear, must be quite given up. i suppose, as regards climate, scotland is only a more intensely disagreeable england. oh, my wife, i do want thee so intolerably. nothing else is real, except the bond between thee and me. the people around me are but shadows. i am myself but a shadow, till thou takest me in thy arms, and convertest me into substance. till thou comest back, i do but walk in a dream. i think a great deal about poor little rosebud, and find that i loved her about ten million times as much as i had any idea of. really, dearest wife, i have a heart, although, heretofore, thou hast had great reason to doubt it. but it yearns, and throbs, and burns with a hot fire, for thee, and for the children that have grown out of our loves. una, too! i long unutterably to see her, and cannot bear to think that she has been growing out of her childhood, all the time, without my witnessing each day's change. but the first moment, when we meet again, will set everything right. oh, blessed moment! well, dearest, i must close now, and go in search of mr. marsh, whom i have not yet been able to see. god bless thee! i cannot see why he has permitted so much rain, and such cold winds, where thou art. thine ownest, ownest. i have no time to read over the above, and know not what i have said, nor left unsaid. to mrs. hawthorne _liverpool_, novr. 24th, 1858 _dearest wife_, your letter by the steamer of the 19th has come, and has given me delight far beyond what i can tell thee. there never were such letters in the world as thine; but this, no doubt, i have already told thee over and over. what pleasantly surprises me is, that the beauty of thy hand-writing has all come back, in these lisbon letters, and they seem precisely the same, in that respect, that my little virgin dove used to write me. before this reaches thee, thou wilt have received the trunks by the cintra, and also, the sad news of the death of o'sullivan's brother. i shall wait with the utmost anxiety for thy next letter. do not thou sympathise too much. thou art wholly mine, and must not overburthen thyself with anybody's grief--not even that of thy dearest friend next to me. i wish i could be with thee. i am impatient for thee to be well. thou shouldst not trust wholly to the climate, but must take medical advice--in lisbon, if it is to be had--otherwise, dr. wilkinson's. _do_ take cod-liver oil. it is the only thing i ever really had any faith in; and thou wilt not take it. thou dost confess to growing thin. take cod-liver oil, and, at all events, grow fat. i suppose this calamity of the o'sullivans will quite shut them up from the world, at present. julian thrives, as usual. he has lately been out to dine with a boy of about his own age, in the neighborhood. his greatest daily grievance is, that he is not allowed to have his dinner at 5½, with the rest of the family, but dines at one, and sups alone at our dinner time. he never has anything between meals, unless it be apples. i believe i told thee, in my last, that i had give up the thought of sending him to school, for the present. it would be so great and hazardous a change, in the whole system of his life, that i do not like to risk it as long as he continues to do well. the intercourse which he holds with the people of mrs. blodgett's seems to me of a healthy kind. they make a playmate of him, to a certain extent, but do him no mischief; whereas, the best set of boys in the world would infallibly bring him harm as well as good. his manners improve, and i do not at all despair of seeing him grow up a gentleman. it is singular how completely all his affections of the head have disappeared;--and that, too, without any prescriptions from dr. dryasdust. i encourage him to make complaints of his health, rather than the contrary; but he always declares himself quite well. the difficulty heretofore has been, i think, that he had grown morbid for want of a wider sphere. miss williams is very unwell, and, for the last two or three days, has had several visits from the doctor;--being confined to her bed, and in great pain. i don't know what her disorder is; but she is excessively nervous, and is made ill by anything that agitates her. the rumor of war with america confined her for several days. give my most affectionate regards to the o'sullivans. i never felt half so grateful to anybody, as i do to them, for the care they take of thee. it would make a summer climate of nova zembla, to say nothing of lisbon. thine ownest. p.s. i enclose the gold dollar. to mrs. hawthorne _liverpool_, decr. 11th, 1858 _dearest_, this despatch for o'sullivan has just reached me; and i do not know whether there will be time to send it by the steamer that sails to-day. your letters, written immediately after the receipt of the sad news, did not reach me till yesterday; while those by the southampton steamer, written afterwards, arrived here days ago. those liverpool steamers are not nearly such safe mediums as those by southampton; and no letters of importance ought to be trusted to them. mrs. blodgett will buy the articles required by mrs. o'sullivan, and likewise the soap for you, and have them in readiness for the next liverpool steamer. we are quite well (julian and i) and as contented as we can expect to be, among strangers, and in a continual cold fog. i have heard no private news from america, since i wrote last. i have not a moment's time to write una; but kiss her for me, and rosebud too. neither can i tell thee, in this little moment, how infinitely i love thee. thinest. p.s. tell o'sullivan that mr. miller (despatch agent) will allow the postage of this package in his account with government. to mrs. hawthorne _liverpool_, decr. 13th, 1858 _dearest_, i wrote thee a brief note by a steamer from this port on the 11th, with o'sullivan's despatches. nothing noteworthy has happened since; and nothing can happen in this dawdling[a] life of ours. the best thing about our liverpool days is, that they are very short; it is hardly morning, before night comes again. una says that the weather in lisbon is very cold. so it is here--that searching, spiteful cold that creeps all through one's miserable flesh; and if i had to cross the river, as last winter, i do believe i should drown myself in despair. nevertheless, julian and i are in excellent condition, though the old boy often grumbles--"it is very cold, papa!"--as he takes his morning bath. [a] on reading over my letter, i cannot make out this word.] the other day, speaking of his first advent into this world, julian said, "i don't remember how i came down from heaven; but i'm very glad i happened to tumble into so good a family!" he was serious in this; and it is certainly very queer, that, at nearly ten years old, he should still accept literally our first explanation of how he came to be among us. thy friend john o'hara still vagabondises about the street; at least, i met him, some time since, with a basket of apples on his arm, very comfortably clad and looking taller than of yore. i gave him an eleemosynary sixpence, as he told me he was getting on pretty well. yesterday, his abominable mother laid siege to my office during the greater part of the day, pretending to have business with me. i refused to see her; and she then told mr. wilding that her husband was gone to ireland, and that john was staying at rock ferry with mrs. woodward, or whatever the lady's name may be, and that she herself had no means of support. but i remained as obdurate as a paving-stone, knowing that, if i yielded this once, she would expect me to supply her with the means of keeping drunk as long as i stay in liverpool. she hung about the office till dusk, but finally raised the siege. julian looks like a real boy now; for mrs. blodgett has his hair cut at intervals of a month or so, and though i thought his aspect very absurd, at first, yet i have come to approve it rather than otherwise. the good lady does what she can to keep his hands clean, and his nails in proper condition--for which he is not as grateful as he should be. there is to be a ball at his dancing-school, next week, at which the boys are to wear jackets and white pantaloons; and i have commissioned miss maria to get our old gentleman equipped in a proper manner. it is funny how he gives his mighty mind to this business of dancing, and even dreams, as he assured me, about quadrilles. his master has praised him a good deal, and advanced him to a place among his elder scholars. when the time comes for julian to study in good earnest, i perceive that this feeling of emulation will raise his steam to a prodigious height. in drawing (having no competitors) he does not apply himself so earnestly as to the terpsichorean science; yet he succeeds so well that, last night, i mistook a sketch of his for one of his master's. mrs. blodgett and the ladies think his progress quite wonderful; the master says, rather coolly, that he has a very tolerable eye for form. una seems to be taking rapid strides towards womanhood. i shall not see her a child again; that stage has passed like a dream--a dream merging into another dream. if providence had not done it, as thou sayest, i should deeply regret her having been present at this recent grief-time of the o'sullivans. it did not seem to me that she needed experiences of that kind; for life has never been light and joyous to her. her letters make me smile, and sigh, too; they are such letters as a girl of fifteen would write, with a vein of sentiment continually cropping up, as the geologists say, through the surface. then the religious tone startles me a little. would it be well--(perhaps it would, i really don't know)--for religion to be intimately connected, in her mind, with forms and ceremonials, and sanctified places of worship? shall the whole sky be the dome of her cathedral?--or must she compress the deity into a narrow space, for the purpose of getting at him more readily? wouldst thou like to have her follow aunt lou and miss rodgers into that musty old church of england? this looks very probable to me; but thou wilt know best how it is, and likewise whether it had better be so, or not. if it is natural for una to remain within those tenets, she will be happiest there; but if her moral and intellectual development should compel her hereafter to break from them, it would be with the more painful wrench for having once accepted them. december 14th.--friday.--o'sullivan desires me to send american newspapers. i shall send some with the parcel by the liverpool steamer of the 21st; and likewise through john miller, whenever i have any late ones; but the english post office does not recognize american newspapers as being newspapers at all, and will not forward them except for letter postage. this would be ruinous, considering that the rate for single letters, between here and lisbon, is a shilling and sixpence; and a bundle of newspapers, at a similar rate, would cost several pounds. i _won't_ do it. miss williams has not yet left her chamber. her illness was very serious, and mrs. blodgett was greatly alarmed about her; but i believe she is now hopefully convalescent. julian is outgrowing all the clothes he has, and is tightening terribly in best sack, and absolutely bursting through his trousers. no doubt thou wouldst blaspheme at his appearance; but all boys are the awkwardest and unbeautifullest creatures whom god has made. i don't know that he looks any worse than the rest. i have given mrs. blodgett the fullest liberty to get him whatever she thinks best. he ought to look like a gentleman's son, for the ladies of our family like to have him with them as their cavalier and protector, when they go a-shopping. it amazes me to see the unabashed front with which he goes into society. i have done my best, in the foregoing scribble, to put thee in possession of the outward circumstances of our position. it is a very dull life; but i live it hopefully, because thou (my true life) will be restored to me by-and-by. if i had known what thou wouldst have to suffer, through thy sympathies, i would not for the world have sent thee to lisbon; but we were in a strait, and i knew no other way. take care of thyself for my sake. remember me affectionately to the o'sullivans. thinest. to mrs. hawthorne 31, hertford st., _london_, may 17th, thursday [1859] _dearest_, una must be tired of the monotony of receiving letters from me; and perhaps thou wilt be willing to relieve her, just for once. her letter, and julian's, and rosebud's, all three gave me great pleasure; and i was particularly astonished at the old boy's learned epistle--so learned, indeed, that it cost me some study to comprehend it. he is certainly a promising lad, and i wish i could answer his letter in hebrew. affairs succeed each other so fast, that i have really forgotten what i did yesterday. i remember seeing henry bright, and listening to a stream of babble from his lips, as we strolled in the park and along the strand. today, i have breakfasted with fields, and met, among other people, mr. field talfourd, who promises to send thee a photograph of his portrait of mr. browning. he was very agreeable, and seemed delighted to see me again. at lunch, we had lady dufferin, mrs. norton, and mrs. sterling, author of the cloister life of charles v., with whom we are to dine on sunday. thou wouldst be stricken dumb to see how quietly i accept a whole string of invitations, and, what is more, perform my engagements without a murmur. a little german artist has come to me with a letter of introduction, and a request that i will sit to him for a portrait in bas-relief. to this, likewise, i have consented!!!--subject to the condition that i shall have my leisure. mr. fields has given me, for thee, the idylls of the king--not the american, but the english edition. i have had time to see bennoch only once. if i go to canterbury at all, it must be after my visit to cambridge; and in that case, i shall have to defer my return till the 31st of may. i cannot yet tell how it will be. the stir of this london life, somehow or other, has done me a wonderful deal of good, and i feel better than for months past. this is queer, for, if i had my choice, i should leave undone almost all the things i do. i have bought a large alpaca umbrella, costing nine shillings. probably i shall mislay it before my return. i trust thou dost not burthen thyself with cares. do drive about, and see bath, and make thyself jolly with thy glass of wine. remembrances to fanny, and love to great and small. thine, nath' hawthorne. to mrs. hawthorne _pride's crossing_, thursday, aug. 8th, '61 _dearest wife_, this is a very ugly morning, and, i am afraid, will keep julian and me at home. the old gentleman had planned a fishing expedition and will probably insist upon it pretty strenuously, in spite of the imminent danger of rain. he seems insatiable in his love of the sea, and regrets that we have but a day or two more to stay, as much as i rejoice of it. thou dost insist too strongly upon the inconveniences and discomforts of our present abode. i rather need to have the good side of our condition presented to me than the bad one--being sufficiently prompt in discovering the latter for myself; and this is true in almost all cases. i first look at matters in their darkest aspect, and having satisfied myself with that, i begin gradually to be consoled, to take into account the advantages of the case, and thus trudge on, in my heavy way, but with the light brightening around me. now, while this process is going on, methinks it would be more advisable to assist the benigner influence than to range thyself on the side of the sinister demon, and assure me that i am suffering a thousand inconveniences, of which i am beginning to be unconscious. i doubt whether i could have been more comfortable anywhere else than here. the people of the house are very worthy souls, both of them, entirely unobtrusive, doing everything they can for us, and evidently anxious to give us the worth of our money--and kindly disposed, moreover, beyond money's worth. we live better than i care about living, and so well that julian dreads the return to the simple fare of the wayside. the vicinity is very beautiful--insomuch that if i had seen it sooner, i doubt whether i should have built my tower in concord--but somewhere among these noble woods of white pine and near these rocks and beaches. in fact, were it not for the neighborhood of the railway, the site of this little black house would be an excellent one; for the wood is within half a minute's walk, and the shore may be reached in ten minutes. well;--our sleeping accommodations are poor;--that is not to [be] denied, but leaving out that matter, we have nothing to complain of--except the heat, which would have pervaded any abode, unless it were an italian palace. mrs. dana (the elder poet's wife, i believe) called here in a barouche the other day, while julian and i were out, to see una, whom she sup[posed] to be stopping here? she had two or three young ladies with her, and would probably have asked una to make a visit at their villa. elizabeth came to see us, tuesday afternoon, and brought some more books. i proposed that she should take advantage of our escort to concord; but she says she cannot be ready before the first week of september. it is time we were gone from hence; for everybody seems to have found us out, and julian says the boys shout at him from the cliffs, crying "mr. hawthorne! mr. hawthorne!!" i don't know whether they mistake him for his father, or pay him these courteous attentions on his own account. you may await tea for us on saturday--unless the old people chance to be very hungry. with utmost love, n. h. to mrs. hawthorne (letter 50--written by julian hawthorne, and continued by n. h.; no date or superscription.) willy has been making a topmast for his ship, but by the way i have forgot about his ship. he made it and it is 29 inches long, and about three tuns. he has made a beautiful solid balance for it and he says it looks just like a real ship he has made or is going to make _dearest wife_, julian did not finish his letter; but i suppose thou wilt be glad to receive it, such as it is. it rains again most horribly to-day; so that i have been obliged to leave him at home, where he finds society enough and the greatest kindness. i believe i told you, in one of my former letters, that he has quite left off hunching his shoulders. he has complained of the headache, now and then, but not often; and dr. dryasdust has promised to take him in hand, and entirely refit him--that is, if he prove to be out of repair. do not forget to tell me whether mr. westen's coal-bill was paid. i hoped to have received letters from thee by the cintra, which arrived here day before yesterday, having left lisbon on the 15th. she reports the madrid as having arrived on the friday after sailing. i long to know whether thy cough yet begins to be benefitted by the sunshine, and whether thou findest again the elasticity of frame and spirit, which thou leftest behind in america. since thou hast departed, i sometimes feel a strange yearning for the wayside, and wish that our wanderings were over, and all of us happy together in that wretched old house. thine own ownest. to mrs. hawthorne continental hotel, _philadelphia_, march 9th, '62 _dearest wife_, wishing to spend a little while in new york, we did not leave there till 2 o'clock, yesterday, and so are not yet in washington. i had a pleasant time in new york, and went on friday evening, by invitation, to the century club, where i met various artists and literary people. the next forenoon, ticknor strolled round among his acquaintances, taking me with him. nothing remarkable happened, save that my poor old bedevilled phizmahogany was seized upon and photographed for a stereoscope; and as far as i could judge from the negative, it threatens to be fearfully like. the weather here is very warm and pleasant; there are no traces of snow and it seems like the latter end of april. i feel perfectly well, and have a great appetite. the farther we go, the deeper grows the rumble and grumble of the coming storm, and i think the two armies are only waiting our arrival to begin. we expect to leave philadelphia at 8¼ tomorrow morning, and shall reach washington at 6 o'clock p.m. it i have an opportunity, i shall send off una's note the same evening, but cannot tell how. to mrs. hawthorne [9th may, 1863, _concord_] _dearest wife_, i have been particularly well yesterday and to-day. you must particularly thank mr. fields for the two volumes of the magazine. the article about lichfield and uttoxeter is done; and i shall set about the remaining article for the magazine in a day or two, and probably get it finished by the end of the month, since it will not be necessary to hurry. i shall call it "civic banquets," and i suppose it will be the concluding article of the volume. i want a new hat, my present one being too shabby to wear anywhere but at home; and as mr. fields is all made up of kindness, i thought he might be kind enough to get me one at his hatter's. i have measured my old hat round outside of the hatband, and it is about 24 inches; inside, it measures 7 inches one way, and a little more than 8 the other, and is hardly large enough. get the largest hat possible; color black, a broad brimmed slouch. thank rose for her kind letter. your spouse. (on the reverse side of the foregoing letter appears the following, written by una) all rose's side of the hawthorn is covered with buds, and my wild violets are rampant. i water your hawthorn branches every morning, and as yet they have showed no signs of fading, though papa, with his usual hopefulness, declares they will. we found today on the hill a lonely violet, the first of that sisterhood. julian appears well and jolly, but yesterday we were all killed by eating newly-dug horse-radish, which was as pungent as a constellation of stars. papa stamped and kicked, and melted into tears, and said he enjoyed it intensely, and i bore equal tortures more quietly; the impregnable julian being entirely unaffected by it, laughed immoderately at us both. papa wants me to leave a place for him, so good-bye. your loving daughter, una hawthorne. to mrs. hawthorne _dearest wife._ i have nothing to say except that a hen has vouchsafed to lay two eggs in our barn, and i have directed that one shall be left as a nest egg; so that you can have a fresh dropt egg every morning for breakfast, after your return. una has considerably improved our table; and i like this new cook much better than poor ann. do not mind what una says about staying away longer, but come whenever you like; though i think you have hardly been away long enough to want to see us again. thine n. h. to mrs. hawthorne _boston_, july 3d, 3½ o'clock _dearest wife_, mr. fields tells me that a proof sheet was sent to concord to-day, and he wishes it to be sent to him in boston, so that i may look over it on monday. you must put two one-cent postage stamps. this has been a terrifically hot day. i shall leave for concord (n. h.) at five o'clock, and shall mail this scribble there, so that you may know that i have arrived safely. with love to the old people, thine, n. h. to mrs. hawthorne _the wayside_, sunday morng., sept. 29th _dearest_, we were disappointed in not receiving a letter last night, but doubt not all is going on well with you;--only that miserable headache. why was this world created? and thy throat too--which thou wilt never be at the trouble of curing. we get on bravely here, in great quiet and harmony; and except that life is suspended (with me, at least) till thou comest back again, i do not see how things could go better. we tried hard to be wretched on fast day, in compliance with thy advice; but i think it did not succeed very well with the two young people; nor could i perceive that anybody really fasted, except myself, who dined on potatoes and squash, as usual. i did purpose indulging myself in a plate of hot soup; but thy exhortations were so earnest that i gave up the idea, and am doubtless the better for my abstinence--though i do not as yet see that the country has profited thereby. mr. wetherbie came to see me with his bill; but i informed him of thy orders not to pay it without some subtraction, and told him he must await thy return--which he seemed not unwilling to do. he is going to the wars!--as a dragoon!!--for he says he has all his life been fond of military service, and the captain of his troop is an "old military associate." thou wouldst have thought, to hear him talk, that this gallant wetherbie was a veteran of at least twenty campaigns; but i believe the real motive of his valiant impulses consists in his having nothing else to do, and in his being dazzled by the sight of $200 in gold, which w. brought home--where he could have got it (unless by robbing the dead) i can't imagine; for his wages for three months would not have been more than $40. but really, dearest, the spirit of the people must be flagging terribly, when a sick old man like wetherbie is accepted as a bold dragoon! it shows that good soldiers cannot be had. julian has had his hair cut according to his own notions; so thou must expect to see a scarecrow. do not thou come home on wednesday, if it can do any good either to thyself or bab to stay longer. but thou hast still another expedition to make, and the cold weather will soon be upon us. kiss bab for me and believe me thy own ownest. transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). love letters of nathaniel hawthorne privately printed the society of the dofobs chicago 1907 copyright, 1907, by william k. bixby introductory in "hawthorne and his wife" and "memories of hawthorne" both julian hawthorne and his sister, rose hawthorne lathrop, have given citations from the letters written by nathaniel hawthorne to miss sophia peabody during their years of courtship. these excerpts were free and irregular, often, and evidently with specific intent, taken out of order and run together as if for the purpose of illustrating a point or emphasizing a particular phase of character. while the extracts were sufficiently numerous for the object desired, and while they gave an agreeable glimpse of an interesting period of hawthorne's life, they were necessarily too fragmentary, too lacking in continuity, to convey any adequate idea of the simplicity, beauty, humor and tenderness of the letters, even considered in the matter of a literary style. the original letters were acquired by mr. william k. bixby of st. louis, and, at the urgent request of the society of the dofobs, of which he is a highly esteemed and honored member, turned over to the society with the understanding that they should be published for presentation to members only. it was specified also that great care should be exercised in going over the letters, that no apparent confidences should be violated and that all private and personal references, which might wound the feelings of the living or seem to speak ill of the dead, should be eliminated. it is indeed remarkable that in the large number of letters presented there was practically nothing which called for elision, nothing in the lighter mood which breathed a spirit beyond the innocent limits of good-natured banter. the work of the editors was consequently easy and grateful, and the task one of delight. it is not claimed that these love letters, so-called, comprise the entire correspondence on hawthorne's part between miss peabody and himself during the three-and-one-half years of courtship. naturally a series of letters begun sixty-eight years ago, with all the vicissitudes of a shifting life, would not be preserved intact. but while some letters have been lost or destroyed, and others may not have been permitted for one reason or another to leave the possession of the family, the continuity here preserved is practically as complete as could be desired and fully illustrative of the qualities which make them so worthy of publication. in giving these letters to its members the society has conformed strictly to the exactions of the manuscript save in a few cases perhaps where haste on the part of the writer omitted a word, slightly obscuring the sense. it has been deemed advisible also to omit all notes or paragraphs of explanation. happily the letters are sufficiently intelligible without such notes, and the conclusion has been reached that no needed purpose can be served by minor explanatory details relating to individuals mentioned or incidents suggested. it has been thought best as well to add a few letters extending beyond the period of courtship. no defence is necessary, for to the last they are "love letters" in the purest and truest sense of the words. this will be vindicated in the perusal. in selecting two letters for facsimile reproduction the choice has fallen upon the letter from brook farm under date of april 13, 1841, and that from salem written in the following year. both illustrate the quiet, quaint humor of hawthorne. in the brook farm letter he sketches drily his thinly veiled impressions of the community, and herein will be found the famous reference to "miss fuller's transcendental heifer" which has fallen little short of immortality. writing from the old home in salem he makes his letter conspicuous by the fact that he prophesies banteringly--doubtless he little knew how truly--his own coming fame and the public craze to inspect his belongings. this humorous tribute to himself, in its mock, self-satisfied strain, suggests not so much the mental state of horace predicting his metamorphosis and immortality as the good-natured prophecy of burns that "you may expect henceforth to see my birthday inscribed among the wonderful events in the poor robin and aberdeen almanacks, along with the black monday and the battle of bothwell bridge." horace, burns, hawthorne--how all exceeded their predictions, whether gravely or lightly made! it is true that to many persons of sensibility the thought of publishing the love letters of men and women however distinguished or in the public mind is repugnant. it seems to them a violation of a sacred confidence, a wanton exposure of a tenderness not intended for the world as a part of its literary diversion. the objection in many instances is a fair one, and too often the obligation of delicacy has been violated and the dictates of gentle consideration have been unheeded. of recent years more persons have been shocked than gratified by the exploitation of love letters of famous women or men, and by the ruthless tearing away of the veil which has concealed their happy love life, and this emotion of disapprobation has not been lessened by the apparent fact that a sordid motive inspired the publication. at the outset such impulse of disinclination possessed the gentleman who owns the hawthorne manuscript and the members of the society with whom he conversed with reference to its appearance in type. it was only after the letters had been carefully read, the motive governing their publication seriously analyzed, and the respectful limits of their circulation considered, that this doubting impulse vanished. that any one can read these letters without a warmer, closer feeling for the "shy, grave hawthorne" seems impossible. to one who has perused them in manuscript, transcription and proof sheets there comes almost a conviction that he wrote them not merely for the woman waiting for the day when pledges should be sanctified, but with the half wish that all sympathetic spirits might see him and know him as he was. for gaily he speaks of his own bashfulness and reserve; hopefully he passes beyond the drudgery and disappointments of his position in life to the future which allures him; bravely he fights anxiety and care; with quaint humor and lightness of touch he pictures the scenes around that amuse and interest him. and when in loving remembrance he calls for the "dove," or with mock seriousness chides the "naughty sophie hawthorne," a strong affection is breathed in gentleness, a manly tenderness delights in every line. and whether toiling with the measurer in the vessel's hold, or chafing with him in the somberness of the custom house, sharing now his relief from distasteful tasks and now his dreams for a happier day, the reader feels the spirit of the past. and above all the shadowy ghostliness of the threescore years seems to come the perfume of the apple blossoms that fell around the wayside, with the gentle graciousness of a time well known to all, when youth and love and hope are young. roswell field. to miss peabody wednesday afternoon, march 6th, 1839 _my dearest sophie:_ i had a parting glimpse of you, monday forenoon, at your window--and that image abides by me, looking pale, and not so quiet as is your wont. i have reproached myself many times since, because i did not show my face, and then we should both have smiled; and so our reminiscences would have been sunny instead of shadowy. but i believe i was so intent on seeing you, that i forgot all about the desirableness of being myself seen. perhaps, after all, you did see me--at least you knew that i was there. i fear that you were not quite well that morning. do grow better and better--physically, i mean, for i protest against any spiritual improvement, until i am better able to keep pace with you--but do be strong, and full of life--earthly life--and let there be a glow in your cheeks. and sleep soundly the whole night long, and get up every morning with a feeling as if you were newly created; and i pray you to lay up a stock of fresh energy every day till we meet again; so that we may walk miles and miles, without your once needing to lean upon my arm. not but what you _shall_ lean upon it, as much as you choose--indeed, whether you choose or not--but i would feel as if you did it to lighten my footsteps, not to support your own. am i requiring you to work a miracle within yourself? perhaps so--yet, not a greater one than i do really believe might be wrought by inward faith and outward aids. try it, my dove, and be as lightsome on earth as your sister doves are in the air. tomorrow i shall expect a letter from you; but i am almost in doubt whether to tell you that i expect it; because then your conscience will reproach you, if you should happen not to have written. i would leave you as free as you leave me. but i do wonder whether you were serious in your last letter, when you asked me whether you wrote too often, and seemed to think that you might thus interfere with my occupations. my dear sophie, your letters are no small portion of my spiritual food, and help to keep my soul alive, when otherwise it might languish unto death, or else become hardened and earth-incrusted, as seems to be the case with almost all the souls with whom i am in daily intercourse. they never interfere with my worldly business-neither the reading nor the answering them--(i am speaking of your letters, not of those "earth-incrusted" souls)--for i keep them to be the treasure of my still and secret hours, such hours as pious people spend in prayer; and the communion which my spirit then holds with yours has something of religion in it. the charm of your letters does not depend upon their intellectual value, though that is great, but on the spirit of which they are the utterance, and which is a spirit of wonderful efficacy. no one, whom you would deem worthy of your friendship, could enjoy so large a share of it as i do, without feeling the influence of your character throughout his own--purifying his aims and desires, enabling him to realise that this is a truer world than the feverish one around us, and teaching him how to gain daily entrance into that better world. such, so far as i have been able to profit by it, has been your ministration to me. did you dream what an angelic guardianship was entrusted to you? march 7th. your letter did come. you had not the heart to disappoint me, as i did you, in not making a parting visit, and shall again, by keeping this letter to send by mary. but i disappoint you in these two instances, only that you may consider it a decree of fate (or of providence, which you please) that we shall not meet on the mornings of my departure, and that my letters shall not come oftener than on the alternate saturday. if you will but believe this, you will be quiet. otherwise i know that the dove will flutter her wings, and often, by necessity, will flutter them in vain. so forgive me, and let me have my own way, and believe (for it is true) that i never cause you the slightest disappointment without pain and remorse on my part. and yet, i know that when you wish me to do any particular thing you will always tell me so, and that if my sins of omission or commission should ever wound your heart, you will by no means conceal it. i did enjoy that walk infinitely--for certainly the enjoyment was not all finite. and what a heavenly pleasure we might have enjoyed this very day; the air was so delicious, that it seemed as if the dismal old custom house was situated in paradise; and this afternoon, i sat with my window open, to temper the glow of a huge coal fire. it almost seems to me, now, as if beautiful days were wasted and thrown away, when we do not feel their beauty and heavenliness through one another. your own friend, n. h. miss sophia a. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _boston_, april 2d, 1839 _mine own dove_, i have been sitting by my fireside ever since teatime, till now it is past eight o'clock; and have been musing and dreaming about a thousand things, with every one of which, i do believe, some nearer or remoter thought of you was intermingled. i should have begun this letter earlier in the evening, but was afraid that some intrusive idler would thrust himself between us, and so the sacredness of my letter would be partly lost;--for i feel as if my letters were sacred, because they are written from my spirit to your spirit. i wish it were possible to convey them to you by other than earthly messengers--to convey them directly into your heart, with the warmth of mine still lingering in them. when we shall be endowed with our spiritual bodies, i think they will be so constituted, that we may send thoughts and feelings any distance, in no time at all, and transfuse them warm and fresh into the consciousness of those whom we love. oh what a bliss it would be, at this moment; if i could be conscious of some purer feeling, some more delicate sentiment, some lovelier fantasy, than could possibly have had its birth in my own nature, and therefore be aware that my dove was thinking through my mind and feeling through my heart! try--some evening when you are alone and happy, and when you are most conscious of loving me and being loved by me--and see if you do not possess this power already. but, after all, perhaps it is not wise to intermix fantastic ideas with the reality of our affection. let us content ourselves to be earthly creatures, and hold communion of spirit in such modes as are ordained to us--by letters (dipping our pens as deep as may be into our hearts) by heartfelt words, when they can be audible; by glances--through which medium spirits do really seem to talk in their own language--and by holy kisses, which i do think have something supernatural in them. and now good night, my beautiful dove. i do not write any more at present, because there are three more whole days before this letter will visit you: and i desire to talk with you, each of those three days. your letter did not come today. even if it should not come tomorrow, i shall not imagine that you forget me or neglect me, but shall heave two or three sighs, and measure salt and coal so much the more diligently. good night; and if i have any power, at this distance, over your spirit, it shall be exerted to make you sleep like a little baby, till the "harper of the golden dawn" arouse you. then you must finish that ode. but do, if you love me, sleep. april 3d. no letter, my dearest; and if one comes tomorrow i shall not receive it till friday, nor perhaps then; because i have a cargo of coal to measure in east cambridge, and cannot go to the custom house till the job is finished. if you had known this, i think you would have done your [best] possible to send me a letter today. doubtless you have some good reason for omitting it. i was invited to dine at mr. hooper's; with your sister mary; and the notion came into my head, that perhaps you would be there,--and though i knew that it could not be so, yet i felt as if it might. but just as i was going home from the custom house to dress, came an abominable person to say that a measurer was wanted forthwith at east cambridge; so over i hurried, and found that, after all, nothing would be done till tomorrow morning at sunrise. in the meantime, i had lost my dinner, and all other pleasures that had awaited me at mr. hooper's; so that i came back in very ill humor, and do not mean to be very good-natured again, till my dove shall nestle upon my heart again, either in her own sweet person, or by her image in a letter. but your image will be with me, long before the letter comes. it will flit around me while i am measuring coal, and will peep over my shoulder to see whether i keep a correct account, and will smile to hear my bickerings with the black-faced demons in the vessel's hold, (they look like the forge-men in retsch's fridolin) and will soothe and mollify me amid all the pester and plague that is in store for me tomorrow. not that i would avoid this pester and plague, even if it were in my power to do so. i need such training, and ought to have undergone it long ago. it will give my character a healthy hardness as regards the world; while it will leave my heart as soft--as fit for a dove to rest upon--as it is now, or ever was. good night again, gentle dove. i must leave a little space for tomorrow's record; and moreover, it is almost time that i were asleep, having to get up in the dusky dawn. did you yield to my conjurations, and sleep well last night? well then, i throw the same spell over you tonight. april 4th. â½ past 9 p.m. i came home late in the afternoon, very tired, sunburnt and sea-flushed, having walked or sat on the deck of a schooner ever since sunrise. nevertheless, i purified myself from the sable stains of my profession--stains which i share in common with chimney sweepers--and then hastened to the custom house to get your letter--for i _knew_ there was one there awaiting me, and now i thank you with my whole heart, and will straight way go to sleep. do you the same. april 5th. your yesterday's letter is received, my beloved sophie. i have no time to answer it: but, like all your communications, personal or written, it is the sunshine of my life. i have been busy all day, and am now going to see your sister mary--and i hope, elizabeth. mr. pickens is going with me. miss sophia a. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody wednesday, april 17th, 1839--4 o'clock p.m. _my dearest_: if it were not for your sake, i should really be glad of this pitiless east wind, and should especially bless the pelting rain and intermingled snowflakes. they have released me from the toils and cares of office, and given me license to betake myself to my own chamber; and here i sit by a good coal fire, with at least six or seven comfortable hours to spend before bed-time. i feel pretty secure against intruders; for the bad weather will defend me from foreign invasion; and as to cousin haley, he and i had a bitter political dispute last evening, at the close of which he went to bed in high dudgeon, and probably will not speak to me these three days. thus you perceive that strife and wrangling, as well as east winds and rain, are the methods of a kind providence to promote my comfort--which would not have been so well secured in any other way. six or seven hours of cheerful solitude! but i will not be alone. i invite your spirit to be with me--at any hour and as many hours as you please--but especially at the twilight hour, before i light my lamp. are you conscious of my invitation? i bid you at that particular time, because i can see visions more vividly in the dusky glow of fire light, than either by daylight or lamplight. come--and let me renew my spell against headache and other direful effects of the east wind. how i wish i could give you a portion of my insensibility!--and yet i should be almost afraid of some radical transformation, were i to produce a change in that respect. god made you so delicately, that it is especially unsafe to interfere with his workmanship. if my little sophie--mine own dove--cannot grow plump and rosy and tough and vigorous without being changed into another nature then i do think that for this short life, she had better remain just what she is. yes; but you will always be the same to me, because we have met in eternity, and there our intimacy was formed. so get as well as you possibly can, and be as strong and rosy as you will; for i shall never doubt that you are the same sophie who have so often leaned upon my arm, and needed its superfluous strength. i _was_ conscious, on those two evenings, of a peacefulness and contented repose such as i never enjoyed before. you could not have felt such quiet unless i had felt it too--nor could i, unless you had. if either of our spirits had been troubled, they were then in such close communion that both must have felt the same grief and turmoil. i never, till now, had a friend who could give me repose;--all have disturbed me; and whether for pleasure or pain, it was still disturbance, but peace overflows from your heart into mine. then i feel that there is a now--and that now must be always calm and happy--and that sorrow and evil are but phantoms that seem to flit across it. you must never expect to see my sister e. in the daytime, unless by previous appointment, or when she goes to walk. so unaccustomed am i to daylight interviews, that i never imagine her in sunshine; and i really doubt whether her faculties of life and intellect begin to be exercised till dusk--unless on extraordinary occasions. their noon is at midnight. i wish you could walk with her; but you must not, because she is indefatigable, and always wants to walk half round the world, when once she is out of doors. april 18th. my dove--my hopes of a long evening of seclusion were not quite fulfilled; for, a little before nine o'clock john forrester and cousin haley came in, both of whom i so fascinated with my delectable conversation, that they did not take leave till after eleven. nevertheless, i had already secured no inconsiderable treasure of enjoyment, with all of which you were intermingled. there has been nothing to do at the custom house today; so i came home at two o'clock, and--went to sleep! pray heaven you may have felt a sympathetic drowsiness, and have yielded to it. my nap has been a pretty long one, for--as nearly as i can judge by the position of the sun, it must be as much as five o'clock. i think there will be a beautiful sunset; and perhaps, if we could walk out together, the wind would change and the air grow balmy at once. the spring is not acquainted with my dove and me, as the winter was;--how then can we expect her to be kindly to us? we really must continue to walk out and meet her, and make friends with her; then she will salute your cheek with her balmiest kiss, whenever she gets a chance. as to the east wind, if ever the imaginative portion of my brain recover from its torpor, i mean to personify it as a wicked, spiteful, blustering, treacherous--in short, altogether devilish sort of body, whose principle of life it is to make as much mischief as he can. the west wind--or whatever is the gentlest wind of heaven--shall assume your aspect, and be humanised and angelicised with your traits of character, and the sweet west shall finally triumph over the fiendlike east, and rescue the world from his miserable tyranny; and if i tell the story well, i am sure my loving and beloved west wind will kiss me for it. when this week's first letter came, i held it a long time in my hand, marvelling at the superscription. how did you contrive to write it? several times since, i have pored over it, to discover how much of yourself was mingled with my share of it; and certainly there is a grace flung over the fac simile, which was never seen in my harsh, uncouth autograph--and yet none of the strength is lost. you are wonderful. imitate this. nath. hawthorne. friday, april 19th. your wednesday's letter has come, dearest. your letters delight me more than anything, save the sound of your voice; and i love dearly to write to you--so be at peace on that score. you _are_ beautiful, my own heart's dove. never doubt it again. i shall really and truly be very glad of the extracts; and they will have a charm for me that could not otherwise have been. i will imagine your voice repeating them, tremulously. the _spell_ which you laid upon my brow will retain its power till we meet again--then it must be renewed. what a beautiful day--and i had a double enjoyment of it, for your sake and my own. i have been to walk this afternoon, to bunker's hill and the navy yard, and am tired, because i had not your arm to support me. god keep you from east winds and every other evil. mine own dove's own friend, n. h. â½ past 5 p.m. miss sophia a. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _boston_, april 30th, 6 p.m., 1839 _my beloved_, your sweetest of all letters found me at the custom house, where i had almost just arrived, having been engaged all the forenoon in measuring twenty chaldrons of coal--which dull occupation was enlivened by frequent brawls and amicable discussions with a crew of funny little frenchmen from acadie. i know not whether your letter was a surprise to me--it seems to me that i had a prophetic faith that the dove would visit me--but at any rate, it was a joy, as it always is; for my spirit turns to you from all trouble and all pleasure. this forenoon i could not wait as i generally do, to be in solitude before opening your letter; for i expected to be busy all the afternoon, and was already tired with working yesterday and today; and my heart longed to drink your thoughts and feelings, as a parched throat for cold water. so i pressed the dove to my lips (turning my head away, so that nobody saw me) and then broke the seal. i do think it is the dearest letter you have written, but i think so of each successive one; so you need not imagine that you have outdone yourself in this instance. how did i live before i knew you--before i possessed your affection! i reckon upon your love as something that is to endure when everything that can perish has perished--though my trust is sometimes mingled with fear, because i feel myself unworthy of your love. but if i am worthy of if you will always love me; and if there be anything good and pure in me, it will be proved by my always loving you. after dinner. i had to journey over to east cambridge, expecting to measure a cargo of coal there; but the vessel had stuck in the mud on her way thither, so that nothing could be done till tomorrow morning. it must have been my guardian angel that steered her upon that mud-bank, for i really needed rest. did you lead the vessel astray, my dove? i did not stop to inquire into particulars, but returned home forthwith, and locked my door, and threw myself on the bed, with your letter in my hand. i read it over slowly and peacefully, and then folding it up, i rested my heart upon it, and fell fast asleep. friday, may 3d. 5 p.m. my dearest, ten million occupations and interruptions, and intrusions, have kept me from going on with my letter; but my spirit has visited you continually, and yours has come to me. i have had to be out a good deal in the east winds; but your spell has proved sovereign against all harm, though sometimes i have shuddered and shivered for your sake. how have you borne it, my poor dear little dove? have you been able to flit abroad on today's east wind, and go to marblehead, as you designed? you will not have seen mrs. hooper, because she came up to boston in the cars on monday morning. i had a brief talk with her, and we made mutual inquiries, she about you, and i about little c. i will not attempt to tell you how it rejoices me that we are to spend a whole month together in the same city. looking forward to it, it seems to me as if that month would never come to an end, because there will be so much of eternity in it. i wish you had read that dream-letter through, and could remember its contents. i am very sure that it could not have [been] written by me, however, because i should not think of addressing you as "my dear sister"--nor should i like to have you call me brother--nor even should have liked it, from the very first of our acquaintance. we are, i trust, kindred spirits, but not brother and sister. and then what a cold and dry annunciation of that awful contingency--the "continuance or not of our acquaintance." mine own dove, you are to blame for dreaming such letters, or parts of letters, as coming from me. it was you that wrote it--not i. yet i will not believe that it shows a want of faith in the steadfastness of my affection, but only in the continuance of circumstances prosperous to our earthly and external connection. let us trust in god for that. pray to god for it, my dove--for you know how to pray better than i do. pray, for my sake, that no shadows of earth may ever come between us, because my only hope of being a happy man depends upon the permanence of our union. i have great comfort in such thoughts as those you suggest--that our hearts here draw towards one another so unusually--that we have not cultivated our friendship, but let it grow,--that we have thrown ourselves upon one another with such perfect trust;--and even the deficiency of worldly wisdom, that some people would ascribe to us in following the guidance of our hearts so implicitly, is proof to me that there is a deep wisdom within us. oh, let us not think but that all will be well! and even if, to worldly eyes, it should appear that our lot is not a fortunate one, still we shall have glimpses, at least--and i trust a pervading sunshine--of a happiness that we could never have found, if we had unquietly struggled for it, and made our own selection of the means and species of it, instead of trusting all to something diviner than our reason. my dove, there were a good many things that i meant to have written in this letter; but i have continually lapsed into fits of musing, and when i have written, the soul of my thoughts has not readily assumed the earthly garments of language. it is now time to carry the letter to mary. i kiss you, dearest--did you feel it? your own friend, nath. hawthorne, esq. (dear me! what an effect that esquire gives to the whole letter!) miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _salem_, may 26th, 1839 _mine own self_, i felt rather dismal yesterday--a sort of vague weight on my spirit--a sense that something was wanting to me here. what or who could it have been that i so missed? i thought it not best to go to your house last evening; so that i have not yet seen elizabeth--but we shall probably attend the hurley-burley tonight. would that my dove might be there! it seems really monstrous that here, in her own home--or what was her home, till she found another in my arms--she should no longer be. oh, my dearest, i yearn for you, and my heart heaves when i think of you--(and that is always, but sometimes a thought makes me know and feel you more vividly than at others, and _that_ i call "thinking of you")--heaves and swells (my heart does) as sometimes you have felt it beneath you, when your head was resting on it. at such moments it is stirred up from its depths. then our two ocean-hearts mingle their floods. i do not believe that this letter will extend to three pages. my feelings do not, of their own accord, assume words--at least, not a continued flow of words. i write a few lines, and then i fall a-musing about many things, which seem to have no connection among themselves, save that my dove flits lightly through them all. i feel as if my being were dissolved and the idea of you were diffused throughout it. am i writing nonsense? that is for you to decide. you know what is truth--"what is what"--and i should not dare to say to you what i felt to be other than the truth--other than the very "what." it is very singular (but i do not suppose i can express it) that, while i love you so dearly, and while i am so conscious of the deep embrace of our spirits, still i have an awe of you that i never felt for anybody else. awe is not the word, either; because it might imply something stern in you--whereas--but you must make it out for yourself. i do wish that i could put this into words--not so much for your satisfaction (because i believe you will understand) as for my own. i suppose i should have pretty much the same feeling if an angel were to come from heaven and be my dearest friend--only the angel could not have the tenderest of human natures too, the sense of which is mingled with this sentiment. perhaps it is because in meeting you, i really meet a spirit, whereas the obstructions of earth have prevented such a meeting in every other place. but i leave the mystery here. some time or other, it may be made plainer to me. but methinks it converts my love into a religion. and then it is singular, too, that this awe (or whatever it be) does not prevent me from feeling that it is i who have the charge of you, and that my dove is to follow my guidance and do my bidding. am i not very bold to say this? and will not you rebel? oh no; because i possess the power only so far as i love you. my love gives me the right, and your love consents to it. since writing the above i have been asleep; and i dreamed that i had been sleeping a whole year in the open air; and that while i slept, the grass grew around me. it seemed, in my dream, that the very bed-clothes which actually covered me were spread beneath me, and when i awoke (in my dream) i snatched them up, and the earth under them looked black, as if it had been burnt--one square place, exactly the size of the bedclothes. yet there was grass and herbage scattered over this burnt space, looking as fresh, and bright, and dewy, as if the summer rain and the summer sun had been cherishing them all the time. interpret this for me, my dove--but do not draw any somber omens from it. what is signified [by] my nap of a whole year? (it made me grieve to think that i had lost so much of eternity)--and what was the fire that blasted the spot of earth which i occupied, while the grass flourished all around?--and what comfort am i to draw from the fresh herbage amid the burnt space? but it is a silly dream, and you cannot expound any sense out of it. generally, i cannot remember what my dreams have been--only there is a confused sense of having passed through adventures, pleasurable or otherwise. i suspect that you mingle with my dreams, but take care to flit away just before i awake, leaving me but dimly and doubtfully conscious of your visits. do you never start so suddenly from a dream that you are afraid to look round the room, lest your dream-personages (so strong and distinct seemed their existence, a moment before) should have thrust themselves out of dream-land into the midst of realities? i do, sometimes. i wish i were to see you this evening. how many times have you thought of me today? all the time?--or not at all? did you ever read such a foolish letter as this? (here i was interrupted, and have taken a stroll down on the neck--a beautiful, beautiful, beautiful sunshine, and air, and sea. would that my dove had been with me. i fear that we shall perforce lose some of our mutual intimacy with nature--we walk together so seldom that she will seem more like a stranger. would that i could write such sweet letters to mine own self, as mine own self writes to me. good bye, dearest self. direct yours to nath. hawthorne, esq. custom-house, boston. miss sophia a. peabody, no. 4 avon place, boston. to miss peabody _boston_, july 3d, 1839 _most beloved amelia_, i shall call you so sometimes in playfulness, and so may you; but it is not the name by which my soul recognizes you. it knows you as sophie; but i doubt whether that is the inwardly and intensely dearest epithet either. i believe that "dove" is the true word after all; and it never can be used amiss, whether in sunniest gaiety or shadiest seriousness. and yet it is a sacred word, and i should not love to have anybody hear me use it, nor know that god has baptised you so--the baptism being for yourself and me alone. by that name, i think, i shall greet you when we meet in heaven. other dear ones may call you "daughter," "sister," "sophia," but when, at your entrance into heaven, or after you have been a little while there, you hear a voice say "dove!" then you will know that your kindred spirit has been admitted (perhaps for your sake) to the mansions of rest. that word will express his yearning for you--then to be forever satisfied; for we will melt into one another, and be close, close together then. the name was inspired; it came without our being aware that you were thenceforth to be my dove, now and through eternity. i do not remember, how nor when it alighted on you; the first i knew, it was in my heart to call you so. good night now, my dove. it is not yet nine o'clock; but i am somewhat aweary and prefer to muse about you till bedtime, rather than write. july 5th, â½ past seven p.m. i must, somehow or other, finish this letter tonight, my dearest--or else it would not be sent tomorrow; and then i fear our head would ache, naughty head that it is. my heart yearns to communicate to you; but if it had any other means at hand, it certainly would not choose to communicate by the scratchings of an iron pen, which i am now compelled to use. this must and will inevitably be a dull letter. oh how different from yours, which i received today. you are absolutely inspired, my dove; and it is not my poor stupid self that inspires you; for how could i give what is not in me. i wish i could write to you in the morning, before my toils begin; but that is impossible, unless i were to write before daylight. at eventide, my mind has quite lost its elasticity--my heart, even, is weary--and all that i seem capable of doing is to rest my head on its pillow and there lay down the burthen of life. i do not mean to imply that i am unhappy or discontented; for this is not the case; my life is only a burthen, in the same way that it is so to every toilsome man, and mine is a healthy weariness, such as needs only a night's sleep to remove it. but from henceforth forever, i shall be entitled to call the sons of toil my brethren, and shall know how to sympathise with them, seeing that i, likewise, have risen at the dawn and borne the fervor of the mid-day sun, nor turned my heavy footsteps homeward till eventide. years hence, perhaps, the experience that my heart is acquiring now will flow out in truth and wisdom. you ask me a good many questions, my dove, and i will answer such of them as now occur to me; and the rest you may ask me again, when we meet. first as to your letters. my beloved, you must write whenever you will--in all confidence that i can never be otherwise than joyful to receive your letters. do not get into the habit of trying to find out, by any method save your own intuition, what is pleasing and what is displeasing to me. whenever you need my counsel, or even my reproof, in any serious matter, you will not fail to receive it; but i wish my dove to be as free as a bird of paradise. now, as to this affair of the letters. i have sometimes been a little annoyed at the smiles of my brother measurers, who, notwithstanding the masculine fist of the direction, seem to know that such delicately sealed and folded epistles can come only from a lady's small and tender hand. but the annoyance is not on my own account; but because it seems as if the letters were prophaned by being smiled at--but this is, after all, a mere fantasy, since the smilers know nothing about my dove, nor that i really have a dove; nor can they be certain that the letters come from a lady, nor, especially, can they have the remotest imagination what heavenly letters they are. the sum and substance is, that they are smiling at nothing; and so it is no matter for their smiles. i would not give up one letter to avoid the "world's dread laugh,"--much less to shun the good-natured raillery of three or four people who do not dream of giving pain. why has my dove made me waste so much of my letter in this talk about nothing? my dearest, did you really think that i meant to express a doubt whether we should enjoy each other's society so much, if we could be together all the time. no, no; for i always feel, that our momentary and hurried interviews scarcely afford us time to taste the draught of affection that we drink from one another's hearts. there is a precious portion of our happiness wasted, because we are forced to enjoy it too greedily. but i thought, as you do, that there might be more communication of the intellect, as well as communion of heart, if we could be oftener together. your picture gallery of auxiliary verbs is an admirable fantasy. you are certainly the first mortal to whom it was given to behold a verb; though, it seems as if they ought to be visible, being creatures whose office it is (if i remember my grammar aright) "to be, to do, and to suffer." therein is comprehended all that we mortals are capable of. no; for, according to the definition, verbs do not feel, and cannot enjoy--they only exist, and act, and are miserable. my dove and i are no verbs--or if so, we are passive verbs, and therefore happy ones. (rest of letter missing) to miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, massachusetts. to miss peabody _boston_, monday eveg july 15th [1839] _my blessed dove_, your letter was brought to me at east cambridge this afternoon:--otherwise i know not when i should have received it; for i am so busy that i know not whether i shall have time to go to the custom-house these two or three days. i put it in my pocket, and did not read it till just now, when i could be quiet in my own chamber--for i always feel as if your letters were too sacred to be read in the midst of people--and (you will smile) i never read them without first washing my hands! and so my poor dove is sick, and i cannot take her to my bosom. i do really feel as if i could cure her. [portion of letter missing] oh, my dearest, do let our love be powerful enough to make you well. i will have faith in its efficacy--not that it will work an immediate miracle--but it shall make you so well at heart that you cannot possibly be ill in the body. partake of my health and strength, my beloved. are they not your own, as well as mine? yes--and your illness is mine as well as yours; and with all the pain it gives me, the whole world should not buy my right to share in it. my dearest, i will not be much troubled, since you tell me (and your word is always truth) that there is no need. but, oh, be careful of yourself--remembering how much earthly happiness depends on your health. be tranquil--let me be your peace, as you are mine. do not write to me, unless your heart be unquiet, and you think that you can quiet it by writing. god bless mine own dove. i have kissed those three last words. do you kiss them too. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody wednesday eveg. july 17th [1839] _my dearest_, i did not know but you would like another little note--and i think i feel a strange impulse to write, now that the whole correspondence devolves on me. and i wrote my other note in such a hurry, that i quite forgot to give you the praise which you so deserved, for bearing up so stoutly against the terrible misfortune of my non-appearance. indeed, i do think my dove is the strongest little dove that ever was created--never did any creature live, who could feel so acutely, and yet endure so well. this note must be a mere word, my beloved--and i wish i could make it the very tenderest word that ever was spoken or written. imagine all that i cannot write. god bless you, mine own dove, and make you quite well against i take you to your home--which shall be on saturday eveg, without fail. till then, dearest, spend your time in happy thoughts and happy dreams--and let my image be among them. good bye, mine own dove--i have kissed that holy word. your own, own, ownest. my dove must not look for another note. to miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _boston_, july 24th, 1839--8 o'clock p.m. _mine own_, i am tired this evening, as usual, with my long day's toil; and my head wants its pillow--and my soul yearns for the friend whom god has given it--whose soul he has married to my soul. oh, my dearest, how that thought thrills me! we _are_ married! i felt it long ago; and sometimes, when i was seeking for some fondest word, it has been on my lips to call you--"wife"! i hardly know what restrained me from speaking it--unless a dread (for _that_ would have been an infinite pang to me) of feeling you shrink back, and thereby discovering that there was yet a deep place in your soul which did not know me. mine own dove, need i fear it now? are we not married? god knows we are. often, i have silently given myself to you, and received you for my portion of human love and happiness, and have prayed him to consecrate and bless the union. yes--we are married; and as god himself has joined us, we may trust never to be separated, neither in heaven nor on earth. we will wait patiently and quietly, and he will lead us onward hand in hand (as he has done all along) like little children, and will guide us to our perfect happiness--and will teach us when our union is to be revealed to the world. my beloved, why should we be silent to one another--why should our lips be silent--any longer on this subject? the world might, as yet, misjudge us; and therefore we will not speak to the world; but why should we not commune together about all our hopes of earthly and external as well [as] our faith of inward and eternal union? farewell for tonight, my dearest--my soul's bride! july 25th. 8 o'clock, p.m. how does my dove contrive to live and thrive, and keep her heart in cheerful trim, through a whole fortnight, with only one letter from me? it cannot be indifference; so it must be heroism--and how heroic! it does seem to me that my spirit would droop and wither like a plant that lacked rain and dew, if it were not for the frequent shower of your gentle and holy thoughts. but then there is such a difference in our situations. my dove is at home--not, indeed, in her home of homes--but still in the midst of true affections; and she can live a spiritual life, spiritual and intellectual. now, my intellect, and my heart and soul, have no share in my present mode of life--they find neither labor nor food in it; everything that i do here might be better done by a machine. i _am_ a machine, and am surrounded by hundreds of similar machines;--or rather, all of the business people are so many wheels of one great machine--and we have no more love or sympathy for one another than if we were made of wood, brass, or iron, like the wheels of other pieces of complicated machinery. perchance--but do not be frightened, dearest--the soul would wither and die within me, leaving nothing but the busy machine, no germ for immortality, nothing that could taste of heaven, if it were not for the consciousness of your deep, deep love, which is renewed to me with every letter. oh, my dove, i have really thought sometimes, that god gave you to me to be the salvation of my soul. (rest of letter missing) to miss peabody _boston_, july 30th, 8 (or thereabouts) p.m. [1839] _beloved_, there was no letter from you to-day; and this circumstance, in connection with your mention of a headache on sunday, made me apprehensive that my dove is not well. yet surely she would write, or cause to be written, intelligence of the fact (if fact it were) to the sharer of her well-being and ill-being. do, dearest, give me the assurance that you will never be ill without letting me know, and then i shall always be at peace, and will not disquiet myself for the non-reception of a letter; for really, i would not have you crowd your other duties into too small a space, nor dispense with anything that it is desirable to do, for the sake of writing to me. if you were not to write for a whole year, i still should never doubt that you love me infinitely; and i doubt not that, in vision, dream, or reverie, our wedded souls would hold communion throughout all that time. therefore i do not ask for letters while you are well, but leave all to your own heart and judgment; but if anything, bodily or mental, afflicts my dove, her beloved _must_ be told. and why was my dearest wounded by that silly sentence of mine about "indifference"? it was not well that she should do anything but smile at it. i knew, just as certainly as your own heart knows, that my letters are very precious to you--had i been less certain of it, i never could have trifled upon the subject. oh, my darling, let all your sensibilities be healthy--never, never, be wounded by what ought not to wound. our tenderness should make us mutually susceptible of happiness from every act of each other, but of pain from none; our mighty love should scorn all little annoyances, even from the object of that love. what misery (and what ridiculous misery too) would it be, if, because we love one another better than all the universe besides, our only gain thereby were a more exquisite sensibility to pain for the beloved hand and a more terrible power of inflicting it! dearest, it never shall be so with us. we will have such an infinity of mutual faith, that even real offenses (should they ever occur) shall not wound, because we know that something external from yourself or myself must be guilty of the wrong, and never our essential selves. my beloved wife, there is no need of all this preachment now; but let us both meditate upon it, and talk to each other about it;--so shall there never come any cloud across our inward bliss--so shall one of our hearts never wound the other, and itself fester with the sore that it inflicts. and i speak now, when my dove is not wounded nor sore, because it is easier than it might be hereafter, when some careless and wayward act or word of mine may have rubbed too roughly against her tenderest of hearts. dearest, i beseech you grant me freedom to be careless and wayward--for i have had such freedom all my life. oh, let me feel that i may even do you a little wrong without your avenging it (oh how cruelly) by being wounded. (rest of letter missing) to miss peabody _custom house_, august 8th, 1839 your letter, my beloved wife, was duly received into your husband's heart yesterday. i found it impossible to keep it all day long, with unbroken seal, in my pocket; and so i opened and read it on board of a salt vessel, where i was at work, amid all sorts of bustle, and gabble of irishmen, and other incommodities. nevertheless its effect was very blessed, even as if i had gazed upward from the deck of the vessel, and beheld my wife's sweet face looking down upon me from a sun-brightened cloud. dearest, if your dove-wings will not carry you so far, i beseech you to alight upon such a cloud sometimes, and let it bear you to me. true it is, that i never look heavenward without thinking of you, and i doubt whether it would much surprise me to catch a glimpse of you among those upper regions. then would all that is spiritual within me so yearn towards you, that i should leave my earthly incumbrances behind, and float upward and embrace you in the heavenly sunshine. yet methinks i shall be more content to spend a lifetime of earthly and heavenly happiness intermixed. so human am i, my beloved, that i would not give up the hope of loving and cherishing you by a fireside of our own, not for any unimaginable bliss of higher spheres. your influence shall purify me and fit me for a better world--but it shall be by means of our happiness here below. was such a rhapsody as the foregoing ever written in the custom house before? i have almost felt it a sin to write to my dove here, because her image comes before me so vividly--and the place is not worthy of it. nevertheless, i cast aside my scruples, because, having been awake ever since four o'clock this morning (now thirteen hours) and abroad since sunrise, i shall feel more like holding intercourse in dreams than with my pen, when secluded in my room. i am not quite hopeless, now, of meeting you in dreams. did you not know, beloved, that i dreamed of you, as it seemed to me, all night long, after that last blissful meeting? it is true, when i looked back upon the dream, it immediately became confused; but it had been vivid, and most happy, and left a sense of happiness in my heart. come again, sweet wife! force your way through the mists and vapors that envelope my slumbers--illumine me with a radiance that shall not vanish when i awake. i throw my heart as wide open to you as i can. come and rest within it, dove. oh, how happy you make me by calling me your husband--by subscribing yourself my wife. i kiss that word when i meet it in your letters; and i repeat over and over to myself, "she is my wife--i am her husband." dearest, i could almost think that the institution of marriage was ordained, first of all, for you and me, and for you and me alone; it seems so fresh and new--so unlike anything that the people around us enjoy or are acquainted with. nobody ever had a wife but me--nobody a husband, save my dove. would that the husband were worthier of his wife; but she loves him--and her wise and prophetic heart could never do so if he were utterly unworthy. _my own room._ august 9th--about 10 a.m. it is so rare a thing for your husband to find himself in his own room in the middle of the forenoon, that he cannot help advising his dove of that remarkable fact. by some misunderstanding, i was sent on a fruitless errand to east cambridge, and have stopped here, on my return to the custom house, to rest and refresh myself--and what can so rest and refresh me as to hold intercourse with my darling wife? it must be but a word and a kiss, however--a written word and a shadowy kiss. good bye, dearest. i must go now to hold controversy, i suppose, with some plaguy little frenchman about a peck of coal more or less; but i will give my beloved another word and kiss, when the day's toil is over. _about 8 o'clock p.m._--i received your letter, your sweet, sweet letter, my sweetest wife, on reaching the custom house. now as to that swelled face of ours--it had begun to swell when we last met; but i did not tell you, because i knew that you would associate the idea of pain with it, whereas, it was attended with no pain at all. very glad am i, that my dove did not see me when one side of my face was swollen as big as two, for the image of such a monstrous one-sidedness, or double-sidedness, might have haunted her memory through the whole fortnight. dearest, is it a weakness that your husband wishes to look tolerably comely always in your eyes?--and beautiful if he could!! my dove is beautiful, and full of grace; she should not have an ugly mate. but to return to this "naughty swelling"--it began to subside on tuesday, and has now, i think, entirely disappeared, leaving my visage in its former admirable proportion. nothing is now the matter with me; save that my heart is as much swollen as my cheek was--swollen with love, with pent-up love, which i would fain mingle with the heart-blood of mine own sweet wife. oh, dearest, how much i have to say to you!--how many fond thoughts. dearest, i dare not give you permission to go out in the east winds. the west wind will come very often i am sure, if it were only for the sake of my dove. have nothing to do with that hateful east wind. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _boston_, august 21st, 1839 my dearest will be glad to know that her husband has not had to endure the heavy sunshine this afternoon;--he came home at three o'clock or thereabout, and locking the door, betook himself to sleep--first ensuring himself sweet slumber and blissful dreams (if any dreams should come) by reperusing his sweet wife's letter. his wife was with him at the moment of falling asleep, and at the moment of awaking; but she stole away from him during the interval. naughty wife! nevertheless, he has slept and is refreshed--slept how long he does not know; but the sun has made a far progress downward, since he closed his eyes. oh, my wife, if it were possible that you should vanish from me, i feel and know that my soul would be solitary forever and ever. i almost think that there would be no "forever" for me. i could not encounter such a desolate eternity, were you to leave me. you are my first hope and my last. if you fail me (but there is no such if) i might toil onward through this life without much outward change, but i should sink down and die utterly upon the threshold of the dreary future. were _you_ to find yourself deceived, you would betake yourself at once to god and heaven, in the certainty of there finding a thousand-fold recompense for all earthly disappointment; but with me, it seems as if hope and happiness would be torn up by the roots, and could never bloom again, neither in this soil nor the soil of paradise. august 22d. five or six o'clock p.m. i was interrupted by the supper bell, while writing the foregoing sentence; and much that i might have added has now passed out of my mind--or passed into its depths. my beloved wife, let us make no question about our love, whether it be true. were it otherwise, god would not have left your heart to wreck itself utterly--his angels keep watch over you--they would have given you early and continued warning of the approach of evil in any shape. two letters has my dove blessed me with, since that of monday--both beautiful--all three, indeed, most beautiful. there is a great deal in all of them that should be especially answered; but how may this be effected in one little sheet?--moreover, it is my pleasure to write in a more desultory fashion. nevertheless, propound as many questions as you see fit, in your letters, but, dearest, let it be without expectation of a set response. when i first looked at that shadow of the passing hour, i thought her expression too sad; but the more i looked the sweeter and pleasanter it grew--and now i am inclined to think that few mortals are waited on by happier hours than is my dove, even in her pensive moods. my beloved, you make a heaven round about you, and dwell in it continually; and as it is your heaven, so is it mine. my heart has not been very heavy--not desperately heavy--any one time since i loved you; not even your illness and headaches, dearest wife, can make me desperately sad. my stock of sunshine is so infinitely increased by partaking of yours, that even when a cloud flits by, i incomparably prefer its gloom to the sullen, leaden tinge that used to overspread my sky. were you to bring me, in outward appearance, nothing save a load of grief and pain, yet i do believe that happiness, in no stinted measure, would somehow or other be smuggled into the dismal burthen. but you come to me with no grief--no pain--you come with flowers of paradise; some in bloom, many in the bud, and all of them immortal. august 23d--between 7 and 8 p.m. dearest wife, when i think how soon this letter will greet you, it makes my heart yearn towards you so much the more. how much of life we waste! oh, beloved, if we had but a cottage somewhere beyond the sway of the east wind, yet within the limits of new england, where we could be always together, and have a place to _be_ in--what could we desire more? nothing--save daily bread, (or rather bread and milk, for i think i should adopt your diet) and clean white apparel every day for mine unspotted dove. then how happy i would be--and how good! i could not be other than good and happy, when your kiss would sanctify me at all my outgoings and incomings. and you should draw, and paint, and sculpture, and make music, and poetry too, and your husband would admire and criticise; and i, being pervaded with your spirit, would write beautifully and make myself famous for your sake, because perhaps you would like to have the world acknowledge me--but if the whole world glorified me with one voice, it would be a meed of little value in comparison with my wife's smile and kiss. for i shall always read my manuscripts to you, in the summer afternoons or winter evenings; and if they please you i shall expect a smile and a kiss as my reward--and if they do not please, i must have a smile and kiss to comfort me. good bye--sweet, sweet, dear, dear, sweetest, dearest wife. i received the kiss you sent me and have treasured it up in my heart. take one from your own husband. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. a. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _boston_, august 25th, 1839 _dearest wife_, i did not write you yesterday, for several reasons--partly because i was interrupted by company; and also i had a difficult letter to project and execute in behalf of an office-seeker; and in the afternoon i fell asleep amid thoughts of my own dove; and when i awoke, i took up miss martineau's deerbrook, and became interested in it--because, being myself a lover, nothing that treats earnestly of love can be indifferent to me. some truth in the book i recognised--but there seems to be too much of dismal fantasy. thus, one way or another, the sabbath passed away without my pouring out my heart to my sweet wife on paper; but i thought of you, dearest, all day long. your letter came this forenoon, and i opened it on board of a salt-ship, and snatched portions of it in the intervals of keeping tally. every letter of yours is as fresh and new as if you had never written a preceding one--each is like a strain of music unheard before, yet all are in sweet accordance--all of them introduce me deeper and deeper into your being, yet there is no sense of surprise at what i see, and feel, and know, therein. i am familiar with your inner heart, as with my home; but yet there is a sense of revelation--or perhaps of recovered intimacy with a dearest friend long hidden from me. were you not my wife in some past eternity? dearest, perhaps these speculations are not wise. we will not cast dreamy glances too far behind us or before us, but live our present life in simplicity; for methinks that is the way to realise it most intensely. good night, most beloved. your husband is presently going to bed; for the bell has just rung (those bells are always interrupting us, whether for dinner, or supper, or bed-time) and he rose early this morning, and must be abroad at sunrise tomorrow. good night, my wife. receive your husband's kiss upon your eyelids. august 27th. â½ past 7 o'clock. very dearest, your husband has been stationed all day at the end of long wharf, and i rather think that he had the most eligible situation of anybody in boston. i was aware that it must be intensely hot in the middle of the city; but there was only a very short space of uncomfortable heat in my region, half-way towards the center of the harbour; and almost all the time there was a pure and delightful breeze, fluttering and palpitating, sometimes shyly kissing my brow, then dying away, and then rushing upon me in livelier sport, so that i was fain to settle my straw hat tighter upon my head. late in the afternoon, there was a sunny shower, which came down so like a benediction, that it seemed ungrateful to take shelter in the cabin, or to put up an umbrella. then there was a rainbow, or a large segment of one, so exceedingly brilliant, and of such long endurance, that i almost fancied it was stained into the sky, and would continue there permanently. and there were clouds floating all about, great clouds and small, of all glorious and lovely hues (save that imperial crimson, which was never revealed save to our united gaze) so glorious, indeed, and so lovely, that i had a fantasy of heaven's being broken into fleecy fragments, and dispersed throughout space, with its blessed inhabitants yet dwelling blissfully upon those scattered islands. oh, how i do wish that my sweet wife and i could dwell upon a cloud, and follow the sunset round about the earth! perhaps she might; but my nature is too earthy to permit me to dwell there with her--and i know well that she would not leave me here. dearest, how i longed for you to be with me, both in the shower and the sunshine. i did but half see what was to be seen, nor but half feel the emotions which the scene ought to have produced. had you been there, i do think that we should have remembered this among our most wondrously beautiful sunsets. and the sea was very beautiful too. would it not be a pleasant life to--but i will not sketch out any more fantasies tonight. beloved, have not i been gone a great while? truly it seems to me very long; and it [is] strange what an increase of apparent length is always added by two or three days of the second week. do not you yearn to see me? i know you do, dearest. how do i know it? how should i, save by my own heart? dearest wife, i am tired now, and have scribbled this letter in such slovenly fashion that i fear you will hardly be able to read it--nevertheless, i have been happy in writing it. but now, though it is so early yet, i shall throw aside my pen, especially as the paper is so nearly covered. my sweet dove, good night. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _boston_, september 23d 1839. â½ past 6 p.m. belovedest little wife--sweetest sophie hawthorne--what a delicious walk that was, last thursday! it seems to me, now, as it i could really remember every footstep of it. it is almost as distinct as the recollection of those walks, in which my earthly form did really tread beside your own, and my arm upheld you; and, indeed, it has the same character as those heavenly ramblings;--for did we tread on earth ever then? oh no--our souls went far away among the sunset clouds, and wherever there was ethereal beauty, there were we, our true selves; and it was there we grew into each other, and became a married pair. dearest, i love to date our marriage as far back as possible, and i feel sure that the tie had been formed, and our union had become indissoluble, even before we sat down together on the steps of the "house of spirits." how beautiful and blessed those hours appear to me! true; we are far more conscious of our relation, and therefore infinitely happier, now, than we were then; but still those remembrances are among the most precious treasures of my soul. it is not past happiness; it makes a portion of our present bliss. and thus, doubtless, even amid the joys of heaven, we shall love to look back to our earthly bliss, and treasure it forever in the sum of an infinitely accumulating happiness. perhaps not a single pressure of the hand, not a glance, not a sweet and tender tone, but will be repeated sometime or other in our memory. oh, dearest, blessedest dove, i never felt sure of going to heaven, till i knew that you loved me; but now i am conscious of god's love in your own. and now, good bye for a little while, mine own wife. i thought it was just on the verge of supper-time when i began to write--and there is the bell now. i was beginning to fear that it had rung unheard while i was communing with my dove. should we be the more ethereal, if we did not eat? i have a most human and earthly appetite. mine own wife, since supper i have been reading over again (for the third time--the two first being aboard my saltship--the marcia cleaves) your letter of yesterday--and a dearest letter it is--and meeting with sophie hawthorne twice, i took the liberty to kiss her very fervently. will she forgive me? do know yourself by that name, dearest, and think of yourself as sophie hawthorne? it thrills my heart to write it, and still more, i think, to read it in the fairy letters of your own hand. oh, you are my wife, my dearest, truest, tenderest, most beloved wife. i would not be disjoined from you for a moment, for all the world. and how strong, while i write, is the consciousness that i am truly your husband! my little dove. i have observed that butterflies--very broad-winged and magnificent butterflies--frequently come on board of the salt ship when i am at work. what have these bright strangers to do on long wharf, where there are no flowers or any green thing--nothing but brick stores, stone piles, black ships, and the bustle of toilsome men, who neither look up to the blue sky, nor take note of these wandering gems of air. i cannot account for them, unless, dearest, they are the lovely fantasies of your mind, which you send thither in search of me. there is the supper-bell. good-bye, darling. sept. 25th. morning.--dove, i have but a single moment to embrace you. tell sophie hawthorne i love her. has she a partiality for her own, own husband. to miss peabody _custom house_, october 10th, 1839--â½ past 2 p.m. belovedest, your two precious letters have arrived--the first yesterday forenoon, the second today. in regard to the first, there was a little circumstance that affected me so pleasantly, that i cannot help telling my sweetest wife of it. i had read it over three times, i believe, and was reading it again, towards evening in my room; when i discovered, in a remote region of the sheet, two or three lines which i had not before seen, and which sophie hawthorne had signed with her own name. it is the strangest thing in the world that i had not read them before--but certainly it was a happy accident; for, finding them so unexpectedly, when i supposed that i already had the whole letter by heart, it seemed as if there had been a sudden revelation of my dove--as if she had stolen into my room (as, in her last epistle, she dreams of doing) and made me sensible of her presence at that very moment. dearest, since writing the above, i have been interrupted by some official business; for i am at present filling the place of colonel hall as head of the measurers' department--which may account for my writing to you from the custom house. it is the most ungenial place in the whole world to write a love-letter in:--not but what my heart is full of love, here as elsewhere: but it closes up, and will not give forth its treasure now. i do wish mine own dove had been with me, on my last passage to boston. we should assuredly have thought that a miracle had been wrought in our favor--that providence had put angelic sentinels round about us, to ensure us the quiet enjoyment of our affection--for, as far as lynn, i was actually the sole occupant of the car in which i had seated myself. what a blissful solitude would that have been, had my whole self been there! then would we have flown through space like two disembodied spirits--two or one. are we singular or plural, dearest? has not each of us a right to use the first person singular, when speaking in behalf of our united being? does not "i," whether spoken by sophie hawthorne's lips or mine, express the one spirit of myself and that darlingest sophie hawthorne? but what a wilful little person she is! does she still refuse my dove's proffer to kiss her cheek? well--i shall contrive some suitable punishment: and if my dove cannot kiss her, i must undertake the task in person. what a painful duty it will be! october 11th--â½ past 4 p.m. did my dove fly in with me in my chamber when i entered just now? if so, let her make herself manifest to me this very moment, for my heart needs her presence.--you are not here dearest. i sit writing in the middle of the chamber, opposite the looking-glass; and as soon as i finish this sentence, i shall look therein--and really i have something like a shadowy notion, that i shall behold mine own white dove peeping over my shoulder. one moment more--i defer the experiment as long as possible, because there is a pleasure in the slight tremor of the heart that this fantasy has awakened. dearest, if you can make me sensible of your presence, do it now!--oh, naughty, naughty dove! i have looked, and saw nothing but my own dark face and beetle-brow. how could you disappoint me so? or is it merely the defect in my own eyes, which cannot behold the spiritual? my inward eye can behold you, though but dimly. perhaps, beloved wife, you did not come when i called, because you mistook the locality whence the call proceeded. you are to know, then, that i have removed from my old apartment, which was wanted as a parlor by mr. and mrs. devens, and am now established in a back chamber--a pleasant enough and comfortable little room. the windows have a better prospect than those of my former chamber, for i can see the summit of the hill on which gardner greene's estate was situated; it is the highest point of the city, and the boys at play on it are painted strongly against the sky. no roof ascends as high as this--nothing but the steeple of the park-street church, which points upward behind it. it is singular that such a hill should have been suffered to remain so long, in the very heart of the city; it affects me somewhat as if a portion of the original forest were still growing here. but they are fast digging it away now; and if they continue their labors, i shall soon be able to see the park-street steeple as far downward as the dial. moreover, in another direction, i can see the top of the dome of the state-house; and if my dove were to take wing and alight there (the easiest thing in the world for a dove to do) she might look directly into my window, and see me writing this letter. i glance thither as i write, but can see no dove there. (rest of letter missing) to miss peabody _boston_, october 3d, 1839. â½ past 7 p.m. _ownest dove_; did you get home safe and sound, and with a quiet and happy heart? providence acted lovingly toward us on tuesday evening, allowing us to meet in the wide desert of this world, and mingle our spirits. it would have seemed all a vision then, now we have the symbol of its reality. you looked like a vision, beautifullest wife, with the width of the room between us--so spiritual that my human heart wanted to be assured that you had an earthly vesture on. what beautiful white doves those were, on the border of the vase; are they of mine own dove's kindred? do you remember a story of a cat who was changed into a lovely lady?--and on her bridal night, a mouse happened to run across the floor; and forthwith the cat-wife leaped out of bed to catch it. what if mine own dove, in some woeful hour for her poor husband, should remember her dove-instincts, and spread her wings upon the western breeze, and return to him no more! then would he stretch out his arms, poor wingless biped, not having the wherewithal to fly, and say aloud--"come back, naughty dove!--whither are you going?--come back, and fold your wings upon my heart again, or it will freeze!" and the dove would flutter her wings, and pause a moment in the air, meditating whether or no she should come back: for in truth, as her conscience would tell her, this poor mortal had given her all he had to give--a resting-place on his bosom--a home in his deepest heart. but then she would say to herself--"my home is in the gladsome air--and if i need a resting-place, i can find one on any of the sunset-clouds. he is unreasonable to call me back; but if he can follow me, he may!" then would the poor deserted husband do his best to fly in pursuit of the faithless dove; and for that purpose would ascend to the topmast of a salt-ship, and leap desperately into the air, and fall down head-foremost upon the deck, and break his neck. and there should be engraven on his tombstone--"mate not thyself with a dove, unless thou hast wings to fly." now will my dove scold at me for this foolish flight of fancy;--but the fact is, my goose quill flew away with me. i do think that i have gotten a bunch of quills from the silliest flock of geese on earth. but the rest of the letter shall be very sensible. i saw mr. howes in the reading-room of [the] athenaeum, between one and two o'clock to-day; for i happened to have had leisure for an early dinner, and so was spending a half-hour turning over the periodicals. he spoke of the long time since your husband had been at his house; and so i promised, on behalf of that respectable personage, that he would spend an evening there on his next visit to salem. but if i had such a sweetest wife as your husband has, i doubt whether i could find [it] in my heart to keep the engagement. now, good night, truest dove in the world. you will never fly away from me; and it is only the infinite impossibility of it that enables me to sport with the idea. dearest, there was an illegible word in your yesterday's note. i have pored over it, but cannot make it out. your words are too precious to be thus hidden under their own vesture. good night, wife! october 4th.--5 or thereabout p.m. mine own dove, i dreamed the queerest dreams last night, about being deserted, and all such nonsense--so you see how i was punished for that naughty nonsense of the faithless dove. it seems to me that my dreams are generally about fantasies, and very seldom about what i really think and feel. you did not appear visibly in my last night's dreams: but they were made up of desolation; and it was good to awake, and know that my spirit was forever and irrevocably linked with the soul of my truest and tenderest dove. you have warmed my heart, mine own wife: and never again can i know what it is to be cold and desolate, save in dreams. you love me dearly--don't you? and so my dove has been in great peril since we parted. no--i do not believe she was; it was only a shadow of peril, not a reality. my spirit cannot anticipate any harm to you, and i trust you to god with securest faith. i know not whether i could endure actually to see you in danger: but when i hear of any risk--as, for instance, when your steed seemed to be on the point of dashing you to pieces (but i do quake a little at that thought) against a tree--my mind does not seize upon it as if it had any substance. believe me, dearest, the tree would have stood aside to let you pass, had there been no other means of salvation. nevertheless, do not drive your steed against trees wilfully. mercy on us, what a peril that was of the fat woman, when she "smashed herself down" beside my dove! poor dove! did you not feel as if an avalanche had all but buried you. i can see my dove at this moment, my slender, little delicatest white dove, squeezed almost out of christendom by that great mass of female flesh--that ton of woman--that beef-eater and beer-guzzler, whose immense cloak, though broad as a ship's mainsail, could not be made to meet in front--that picture of an ale-wife--that triple, quadruple, dozen-fold old lady. will not my dove confess that there is a little _nonsense_ in this epistle? but be not wroth with me, darling wife;--my heart sports with you because it loves you. if you happen to see sophie hawthorne, kiss her cheek for my sake. i love her full as well as i do mine own wife. will that satisfy her, do you think? if not, she is a very unreasonable little person. it is my chiefest pleasure to write to you, dearest. your ownest husband. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _boston_, october 23d, 1839--â½ past 7 p.m. _dear little dove_, here sits your husband, comfortably established for the evening in his own domicile, with a cheerful coal fire making the room a little too warm. i think i like to be a very little too warm. and now if my dove were here, she and that naughty sophie hawthorne, how happy we all three--two--one--(how many are there of us?)--how happy might we be! dearest, it will be a yet untasted bliss, when, for the first time, i have you in a domicile of my own, whether it be in a hut or a palace, a splendid suit of rooms or an attic chamber. then i shall feel as if i had brought my wife home at last. shall sophie hawthorne be there too? yes, mine own dove, whether you like it or no. you would wonder, were i to tell you how absolutely necessary she has contrived to render herself to your husband. his heart stirs at her very name--even at the thought of her unspoken name. she is his sunshine--she is a happy smile on the visage of his destiny, causing that stern personage to look as benign as heaven itself. and were sophie hawthorne a tear instead of a smile, still your foolish husband would hold out his heart to receive that tear within it, and doubtless would think it more precious than all the smiles and sunshine in the world. but sophie hawthorne has bewitched him--for there is great reason to suspect that she deals in magic. sometimes, while your husband conceives himself to be holding his dove in his arms, lo and behold! there is the arch face of sophie hawthorne peeping up at him. and again, in the very midst of sophie hawthorne's airs, while he is meditating what sort of chastisement would suit her misdemeanors, all of a sudden he becomes conscious of his dove, with her wings folded upon his heart to keep it warm. methinks a woman, or angel (yet let it be a woman, because i deem a true woman holier than an angel)-methinks a woman, then, who should combine the characteristics of sophie hawthorne and my dove would be the very perfection of her race. the heart would find all it yearns for, in such a woman, and so would the mind and the fancy;--when her husband was lightsome of spirit, her merry fantasies would dance hand in hand with his; and when he was overburthened with cares he would rest them all upon her bosom. dearest, your husband was called on by mr. hillard yesterday, who said that he intended soon to take a house in boston, and, in that case, would like to take your respectable spouse to lodge and breakfast. what thinks my dove of this? your husband is quite delighted, because he thinks matters may be managed so that once in a while he may meet his own wife within his own premises. might it not be so? or would his wife--most preposterous idea!--deem it a sin against decorum to pay a visit to her husband? oh, no, belovedest. your unreserve, your out-gushing frankness, is one of the loveliest results of your purity, and innocence, and holiness. and now good night, wife worshipful and beloved. amid many musings, nine o'clock has surprised me at this stage of my epistle. october 24th.--â½ past 6 p.m. dearest dove, your letter came to-day; and i do think it the sweetest of all letters--but you must not therefore suppose that you have excelled yourself; for i think the same of each successive one. my dearest, what a delightful scene was that between sophie hawthorne and my dove, when the former rebelled so stoutly against destiny, and the latter, with such meek mournfulness, submitted. which do i love the best, i wonder--my dove, or my little wild-flower? i love each best, and both equally; and my heart would inevitably wither and dry up, and perish utterly, if either of them were torn away from it. yet, truly i have reason to apprehend more trouble with sophie hawthorne than with my dove. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _custom house_, novr. 14th [1839] _my dearest wife_, may god sustain you under this affliction. i have long dreaded it for your sake. oh, let your heart be full of love for me now, and realise how entirely my happiness depends on your well-being. you are not your own, dearest--you must not give way to grief. were it possible, i would come to see you now. i will write you again on saturday. your own husband. my dearest, this note seems cold and lifeless to me, as if there were no tenderness nor comfort in it. think for yourself all that i cannot speak. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _boston_, novr. 15th--very late [1839] dearest and best wife, i meant to have written you a long letter this evening; but an indispensable and unexpected engagement with gen. m'neil has prevented me. belovedest, your yesterday's letter was received; and gave me infinite comfort. yet, oh, be prepared for the worst--if this may be called worst, which is in truth best for all--and more than all for george. i cannot help trembling for you, dearest. god bless you and keep you. i will write a full letter in a day or two. meantime, as your husband is to rise with peep of day tomorrow, he must betake him to his mattress. good night, dearest. your ownest. miss sophia a. peabody, salem. to miss peabody _boston_, nov. 17, 1839--6 p.m. or thereabout. i received no letter from my sweetest wife yesterday; and my heart is not quite at ease about her. dearest, i pray to god for you--and i pray to yourself, too; for methinks there is within you a divine and miraculous power to counteract all sorts of harm. oh be strong for the sake of your husband. let all your love for me be so much added to the strength of your heart. remember that your anguish must likewise be mine. not that i would have it otherwise, mine own wife--your sorrows shall be just as precious a possession to me as your joys. dearest, if you could steal in upon your husband now, you would see a comfortable sight. i wish you would make a sketch of me, here in our own parlour; and it might be done without trusting entirely to imagination, as you have seen the room and the furniture--and (though that would be the least important item of the picture) you have seen myself. i am writing now at my new bureau, which stands between the windows; there are two lamps before me, which show the polished shadings of the mahogany panels to great advantage. a coal fire is burning in the grate--not a very fervid one, but flickering up fitfully, once in a while, so as to remind me that i am by my own fireside. i am sitting in the cane-bottomed rocking-chair (wherein my dove once sate, but which did not meet her approbation); and another hair-cloth arm-chair stands in front of the fire. would that i could look round with the assurance of seeing mine own white dove in it! not that i want to see her apparition--nor to have her brought here by miracle, but i want that full assurance of peace and joy, which i should have if my belovedest wife were near me in our own parlor. sophie hawthorne, what a beautiful carpet did you choose for me! i admire it so much that i can hardly bear to tread upon it. it is fit only to be knelt upon; and i do kneel on it sometimes. as you saw it only in narrow strips, i doubt whether even you can imagine what an effect is produced by the tout ensemble, spreading its fantastic foliage, or whatever it is, all over the floor. many times today have i found myself gazing at it; and i am almost tempted to call in people from the street to help me admire it worthily. but perhaps they would not quite sympathize with my raptures. i am doubtless somewhat more alive to the merits of this carpet, because it was your choice, and is our mutual property. my dove, there is an excellent place for a bust over the bookcase which surmounts my bureau; some time or other, i shall behold a creation of your own upon it. at present, i have no work of art to adorn our parlour with, except an allumette-holder, on the mantel-piece ornamented with drawings from flaxman. it was given me by elizabeth; and, considerably to my vexation, one of the glasses has been broken, during the recent removal of my household gods. my wife, i like sleeping on a mattress better than on a feather-bed. it is a pity, however, that a mattress looks so lean and lank;--it certainly does not suggest such ideas of comfort and downy repose as a well-filled feather-bed does; but my sleep, i think, is of better quality, though, indeed, there was nothing to complain of on that score, even while i reposed on feathers. you need not be afraid of my smothering in the little bed-room; for i always leave the door open, so that i have the benefit of the immense volume of air in the spacious parlor. mrs. hillard takes excellent care of me, and feeds [me] with eggs and baked apples and other delectable dainties; and altogether i am as happily situated as a man can be, whose heart is wedded, while externally he is still a bachelor. my wife, would you rather that i should come home next saturday and stay till monday, or that i should come to thanksgiving and stay the rest of the week? both i cannot do; but i will try to do the latter, if you wish it; and i think i shall finish the salt-ship which i am now engaged upon, about thanksgiving time--unless foul weather intervene to retard our progress. how delightfully long the evenings are now! i do not get intolerably tired any longer; and my thoughts sometimes wander back to literature and i have momentary impulses to write stories. but this will not be, at present. the utmost that i can hope to do, will be to portray some of the characteristics of the life which i am now living, and of the people with whom i am brought into contact, for future use. i doubt whether i shall write any more for the public, till i can have a daily or nightly opportunity of submitting my productions to the criticism of sophie hawthorne. i have a high opinion of that young lady's critical acumen, but a great dread of her severity--which, however, the dove will not fail to temper with her sweetness. dearest, there is nothing at all in this letter; and perhaps it may come to you at a time when your heart needs the strongest, and tenderest, and most comfortable words that mine can speak to it. yet what could i say, but to assure you that i love you, and partake whatever of good or evil god sends you--or rather, partake whatever good god sends you, whether it come in festal garments or mourning ones; for still it is good, whether arrayed in sable, or flower-crowned. god bless you, belovedest, your ownest husband. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _boston_, novr. 19th, 6 p.m., [1839] _belovedest wife_, my heart bids me to send you a greeting; and therefore i do it, although i do not feel as if i had many thoughts and words at command tonight, but only feelings and sympathies, which must find their way to you as well as they can. dearest, i cannot bear to think of you sitting all day long in that chamber, and not a soul to commune with you. but i endeavor, and will still endeavor, to send my soul thither, from out of the toil and tedium of my daily life;--so think, beloved, whenever solitude and sad thoughts become intolerable, that, just at that moment i am near you, and trying to comfort you and make you sensible of my presence. beloved, it occurs to me, that my earnest entreaties to you to be calm and strong may produce an effect not altogether good. the behests of nature may perhaps differ from mine, and be wiser. if she bids you shed tears, methinks it will be best to let them flow, and then your grief will melt quietly forth, instead of being pent up till it breaks out in a torrent. but i cannot speak my counsel to you, dearest, so decidedly as if i were with you; for then my heart would know all the state of yours, and what it needed. but love me infinitely, my wife, and rest your heart with all its heaviness on mine. i know not what else to say;--but even that is saying something--is it not, dearest? i rather think, beloved, that i shall come home on saturday night, and take my chance of being able to come again on thanksgiving-day. but then i shall not be able to remain the rest of the week. that you want me i know; and, dearest, my head and heart are weary with absence from you; so that it will be best to snatch the first chance that offers. soon, mine own wife, i shall be able to spend much more time with you. your lovingest husband. does sophie hawthorne keep up my dove's spirits? miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _boston_, novr. 20th, â½ past 8 p.m., [1839] dearest, you know not how your blessed letter strengthens my heart on your account; for i know by it that god and the angels are supporting you. and, mine own wife, though i thought that i reverenced you infinitely before, yet never was so much of that feeling mingled with my love, as now. you are yourself one of the angels who minister to your departing brother--the more an angel, because you triumph over earthly weakness to perform those offices of affection. i feel, now, with what confidence i can rest upon you in all my sorrows and troubles--as confident of your strength as of your love. dearest, there is nothing in me worthy of you. my heart is weak in comparison with yours. its strength, it is true, has never been tried; for i have never been called to minister at the dying bed of a dear friend; but i have often thought, that, in such a scene, i should need support from the dying, instead of being able to give it. i bless god that he has made death so beautiful as he appears in the scene which you describe--that he has caused the light from the other side to shine over and across the chasm of the grave. my wife, my spirit has never yearned for communion with you so much as it does now. i long to hold you on my bosom--to hold you there silently--for i have no words to write my sympathy, and should have none to speak them. sometimes, even after all i have now learned of your divine fortitude, i feel as if i shall dread to meet you, lest i should find you quite worn down by this great trial. but, dearest, i will make up my mind to see you pale, and thinner than you were. only do not be sick--do not give me too much to bear. novr. 21st, â½ past 5 p.m. mine own dove, your fourth letter came today, and all the rest were duly received, and performed their heaven-appointed mission to my soul. the last has left a very cheering influence on my spirit. dearest, i love that naughty sophie hawthorne with an unspeakable affection, and bless god for her every minute; for what my dove could do without her, passes my comprehension. and, mine own wife, i have not been born in vain, but to an end worth living for, since you are able to rest your heart on me, and are thereby sustained in this sorrow, and enabled to be a help and comfort to your mother, and a ministering angel to george. give my love to george. i regret that we have known each other so little in life; but there will be time enough hereafter--in that pleasant region "on the other side." beloved, i shall come on saturday, but probably not till the five o'clock train, unless it should storm; so you must not expect me till seven or thereabouts. i never did yearn for you so much as now. there is a feeling in me as if a great while had passed since we met. is it so with you? the days are cold now, the air eager and nipping--yet it suits my health amazingly. i feel as if i could run a hundred miles at a stretch, and jump over all the houses that happen to be in my way. belovedest, i must bring this letter to a close now, for several reasons--partly that i may carry it to the post-office before it closes; for i hate to make your father pay the postage of my wife's letters. also, i have another short letter of business to write;--and, moreover, i must go forth into the wide world to seek my supper. this life of mine is the perfection of a bachelor-life--so perfectly untrammelled as it is. do you not fear, my wife, to trust me to live in such a way any longer? belovedest, still keep up your heart for your husband's sake. i pray to god for quiet sleeps for my dove, and cheerful awakings--yes, cheerful; for death moves with a sweet aspect into your household; and your brother passes away with him as with a friend. and now farewell, dearest of wives. you are the hope and joy of your husband's heart. never, never forget how very precious you are to him. god bless you, dearest. your ownest husband. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _boston_, novr. 25th, 1839--6 p.m. _belovedest wife_, this very day i have held you in my arms; and yet, now that i find myself again in my solitary room, it seems as if a long while had already passed--long enough, as i trust my dove will think, to excuse my troubling her with an epistle. i came off in the two o'clock cars, through such a pouring rain, that doubtless sophie hawthorne set it down for certain that i should pass the day and night in salem. and perhaps she and the dove are now watching, with beating heart, to hear your husband lift the door-latch. alas, that they must be disappointed! dearest, i feel that i ought to be with you now; for it grieves me to imagine you all alone in that chamber, where you "sit and _wait_"--as you said to me this morning. this, i trust, is the last of your sorrow, mine own wife; in which you will not have all the aid that your husband's bosom, and the profoundest sympathy that exists within it, can impart. i found your letter in the measurer's desk; and though i knew perfectly well that it was there, and had thought of it repeatedly, yet it struck me with a sense of unexpectedness when i saw it. i put it in my breast-pocket, and did not open it till i found myself comfortably settled for the evening; for i took my supper of oysters on my way to my room, and have nothing to do with the busy world till sunrise tomorrow. oh, mine own beloved, it seems to me the only thing worth living for that i have ever done, or been instrumental in, that god has made me the means of saving you from the heaviest anguish of your brother's loss. ever, ever, dearest wife, keep my image, or rather my reality, between yourself and pain of every kind. let me clothe you in my love as in an armour of proof--let me wrap my spirit round about your own, so that no earthly calamity may come in immediate contact with it, but be felt, if at all, through a softening medium. and it is a blessed privilege, and even a happy one, to give such sympathy as my dove requires--happy to give--and, dearest, is it not also happiness to receive it? our happiness consists in our sense of the union of our hearts--and has not that union been far more deeply felt within us now, than if all our ties were those of joy and gladness? thus may every sorrow leave us happier than it found us, by causing our hearts to embrace more closely in the mutual effort to sustain it. dearest, i pray god that your strength may not fail you at the close of this scene. my heart is not quite at rest about you. it seems to me, on looking back, that there was a vague inquietude within me all through this last visit; and this it was, perhaps, that made me seem more sportive than usual. did i tell my carefullest little wife that i had bought me a fur cap, wherewith my ears may bid defiance to the wintry blast--a poor image, by the way, to talk of _ears bidding_ defiance. the nose might do it, because it is capable of emitting sounds like a trumpet--indeed, sophie hawthorne's nose bids defiance without any sound. but what nonsense this is. also (i have now been a married man long enough to feel these details perfectly natural, in writing to my wife) your husband, having a particular dislike to flannel, is resolved, every cold morning, to put on two shirts, and has already done so on one occasion, wonderfully to his comfort. perhaps--but this i leave to sophie hawthorne's judgment--it might be well to add a daily shirt to my apparel as the winter advances, and to take them off again, one by one, with the approach of spring. dear me, what a puffed-out heap of cotton-bagging would your husband be, by the middle of january! his dove would strive in vain to fold her wings around him. my beloved, this is thanksgiving week. do you remember how we were employed, or what our state of feeling was, at this time last year? i have forgotten how far we had advanced into each other's hearts--or rather, how conscious we had become that we were mutually within one another--but i am sure we were already dearest friends. but now our eyes are opened. now we know that we have found all in each other--all that life has to give--and a foretaste of eternity. at every former thanksgiving-day i have been so ungrateful to heaven as to feel that something was wanting, and that my life so far had been abortive; and therefore, i fear, there has often been repining instead of thankfulness in my heart. now i can thank god that he has given me my dove, and all the world in her. i wish, dearest, that we could eat our thanksgiving dinner together; and were it nothing but your bowl of bread and milk, we would both of us be therewith content. but i must sit at our mother's table. one of these days, sweetest wife, we will invite her to our own. will my dove expect a letter from me so soon? i have written this evening, because i expect to be engaged tomorrow--moreover, my heart bade me write. god bless and keep you, dearest. your ownest deodatus. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _boston_, novr. 29th, 1839--6 or 7 p.m. _blessedest wife_, does our head ache this evening?--and has it ached all or any of the time to-day? i wish i knew, dearest, for it seems almost too great a blessing to expect, that my dove should come quite safe through the trial which she has encountered. do, mine own wife, resume all your usual occupations as soon as possible--your sculpture, your painting, your music (what a company of sister-arts is combined in the little person of my dove!)--and above all, your riding and walking. write often to your husband, and let your letters gush from a cheerful heart; so shall they refresh and gladden me, like draughts from a sparkling fountain, which leaps from some spot of earth where no grave has ever been dug. dearest, for some little time to come, i pray you not to muse too much upon your brother, even though such musings should be untinged with gloom, and should appear to make you happier. in the eternity where he now dwells, it has doubtless become of no importance to himself whether he died yesterday, or a thousand years ago; he is already at home in the celestial city--more at home than ever he was in his mother's house. then, my beloved, let us leave him there for the present; and if the shadows and images of this fleeting time should interpose between us and him, let us not seek to drive them away, for they are sent of god. by and bye, it will be good and profitable to commune with your brother's spirit; but so soon after his release from mortal infirmity, it seems even ungenerous towards himself, to call him back by yearnings of the heart and too vivid picturings of what he was. little dove, why did you shed tears the other day, when you supposed that your husband thought you to blame for regretting the irrevocable past? dearest, i never think you to blame; for you positively have no faults. not that you always act wisely, or judge wisely, or feel precisely what it would be wise to feel, in relation to this present world and state of being; but it is because you are too delicately and exquisitely wrought in heart, mind, and frame, to dwell in such a world--because, in short, you are fitter to be in paradise than here. you needed, therefore, an interpreter between the world and yourself--one who should sometimes set you right, not in the abstract (for there you are never wrong) but relatively to human and earthly matters;--and such an interpreter is your husband, who can sympathise, though inadequately, with his wife's heavenly nature, and has likewise a portion of shrewd earthly sense, enough to guide us both through the labyrinths of time. now, dearest, when i criticise any act, word, thought, or feeling of yours, you must not understand it as a reproof, or as imputing anything wrong, wherewith you are to burthen your conscience. were an angel, however holy and wise, to come and dwell with mortals, he would need the guidance and instruction of some mortal; and so will you, my dove, need mine--and precisely the same sort of guidance that the angel would. then do not grieve, nor grieve your husband's spirit, when he essays to do his office; but remember that he does it reverently, and in the devout belief that you are, in immortal reality, both wiser and better than himself, though sometimes he may chance to interpret the flitting shadows around us more accurately than you. hear what i say, dearest, in a cheerful spirit, and act upon it with cheerful strength. and do not give an undue weight to my judgment, nor imagine that there is no appeal from it, and that its decrees are not to be questioned. rather, make it a rule always to question them and be satisfied of their correctness;--and so shall my dove be improved and perfected in the gift of a human understanding, till she become even _earthly-wiselier_ than her sagacious husband. undine's husband gave her an immortal soul; my beloved wife must be content with an humbler gift from me, being already provided with as high and pure a soul as ever was created. god bless you, belovedest. i bestow three kisses on the air--they are intended for your eyelids and brow, to drive away the head-ache. your ownest. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _custom-house_, novr. 30th [1839] _mine own dove_, you will have received my letter, dearest, ere now, and i trust that it will have conveyed the peace of my own heart into yours; for my heart is too calm and peaceful in the sense of our mutual love, to be disturbed even by my sweetest wife's disquietude. belovedest and blessedest, i cannot feel anything but comfort in you. rest quietly on my deep, deep, deepest affection. you deserve it all, and infinitely more than all, were it only for the happiness you give me. i apprehended that this cup could not pass from you, without your tasting bitterness among its dregs. you have been too calm, my beloved--you have exhausted your strength. let your soul lean upon my love, till we meet again--then all your troubles shall be hushed. your ownest, happiest, deodatus. how does sophie hawthorne do? expect a letter on tuesday. god bless my dearest. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _boston_, december 1st, 1839--6 or 7 p.m. _my dearest_, the day must not pass without my speaking a word or two to my belovedest wife, of whom i have thought, with tender anxieties mingled with comfortable hopes, all day long. dearest, is your heart at peace now? god grant it--and i have faith that he will communicate the peace of my heart to yours. mine own wife, always when there is trouble within you, let your husband know of it. strive to fling your burthen upon me; for there is strength enough in me to bear it all, and love enough to make me happy in bearing it. i will not give up any of my conjugal rights--and least of all this most precious right of ministering to you in all sorrow. my bosom was made, among other purposes, for mine ownest wife to shed tears upon. this i have known, ever since we were married--and i had yearnings to be your support and comforter, even before i knew that god was uniting our spirits in immortal wedlock. i used to think that it would be happiness enough, food enough for my heart, it i could be the life-long, familiar friend of your family, and be allowed to see yourself every evening, and to watch around you to keep harm away--though you might never know what an interest i felt in you. and how infinitely more than this has been granted me! oh, never dream, blessedest wife, that you can be other than a comfort to your husband--or that he can be disappointed in you. mine own dove, i hardly know how it is, but nothing that you do or say ever surprises or disappoints me; it must be that my spirit is so thoroughly and intimately conscious of you, that there exists latent within me a prophetic knowledge of all your vicissitudes of joy or sorrow; so that, though i cannot foretell them before-hand, yet i recognize them when they come. nothing disturbs the preconceived idea of you in my mind. whether in bliss or agony, still you are mine own dove--still my blessing--still my peace. belovedest, since the foregoing sentence, i have been interrupted; so i will leave the rest of the sheet till tomorrow evening. good night, and in writing these words my soul has flown through the air to give you a fondest kiss. did you not feel it? decr. 2d.--your letter came to me at the custom-house, very dearest, at about eleven o'clock; and i opened it with an assured hope of finding good news about my dove; for i had trusted very much in sophie hawthorne's assistance. well, i am afraid i shall never find in my heart to call that excellent little person "naughty" again--no; and i have even serious thoughts of giving up all further designs upon her nose, since she hates so much to have it kissed. yet the poor little nose!--would it not be quite depressed (i do not mean flattened) by my neglect, after becoming accustomed to such marked attention? and besides, i have a particular affection for that nose, insomuch that i intend, one of these days, to offer it an oblation of rich and delicate odours. but i suppose sophie hawthorne would apply her handkerchief, so that the poor nose should reap no pleasure nor profit from my incense. naughty sophie hawthorne! there--i have called her "naughty" already--and on a mere supposition, too. half a page of nonsense about sophie hawthorne's nose! and now have i anything to say to my little dove? yes--a reproof. my dove is to understand, that she entirely exceeds her jurisdiction, in presuming to sit in judgment upon herself, and pass such severe censure as she did upon her friday's letter--or indeed any censure at all. it was her bounden duty to write that letter; for it was the cry of her heart, which ought and must have reached her husband's ears, wherever in the world he might be. and yet you call it wicked. was it sophie hawthorne or the dove that called it so? naughty sophie hawthorne--naughty dove--for i believe they are both partakers of this naughtiness. dearest, i have never had the good luck to profit much, or indeed any, by attending lectures; so that i think the ticket had better be bestowed on somebody who can listen to mr. emerson more worthily. my evenings are very precious to me; and some of them are unavoidably thrown away in paying or receiving visits, or in writing letters of business; and therefore i prize the rest as if the sands of the hour-glass were gold or diamond dust. i have no other time to sit in my parlor (let me call it ours) and be happy by our own fireside--happy in reveries about a certain little wife of mine, who would fain have me spend my evenings in hearing lectures, lest i should incommode her with too frequent epistles. good bye, dearest. i suppose i have left a dozen questions in your letter unanswered; but you shall ask them again when we meet. do not you long to see me? mercy on us,--what a pen! it looks as if i had laid a strong emphasis on that sentence. god bless my dove, and sophie hawthorne too.--so prays their ownest husband. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _boston_, decr. 5th, 1839--5 p.m. _dearest wife_, i do wish that you would evince the power of your spirit over its outward manifestations, in some other way than by raising an inflammation over your eye. do, belovedest, work another miracle forthwith, and cause this mountain--for i fancy it as of really mountainous bulk--cause it to be cast into the sea, or anywhere else; so that both eyes may greet your husband, when he comes home. otherwise, i know not but my eyes will have an inflammation too;--they certainly smarted in a very unwonted manner, last evening. "the naughty swelling!" as my dove (or sophie hawthorne) said of the swollen cheek that afflicted me last summer. will kisses have any efficacy? no; i am afraid not, for if they were medicinal, my dove's eyelids have been so imbued with them that no ill would have come there. nevertheless, though not a preventive, a kiss may chance to be a remedy. can sophie hawthorne be prevailed upon to let me try it? i went to see my wife's (and of course my own) sister mary, on tuesday evening. she appeared very well; and we had a great deal of good talk, wherein my dove was not utterly forgotten--(now will sophie hawthorne, thinking the dove slighted, pout her lip at that expression)--well then, my dove was directly or indirectly concerned in all my thoughts, and most of my words. mrs. park was not there, being gone, i believe, to some lecture. mary and your husband talked with the utmost hopefulness and faith of my dove's future health and well-being. dearest, you _are_ well (all but the naughty swelling) and you always will be well. i love mary because she loves you so much;--our affections meet in you, and so we become kindred. but everybody loves my dove--everybody that knows her--and those that know her not love her also, though unconsciously, whenever they image to themselves something sweeter, and tenderer, and nobler, than they can meet with on earth. it is the likeness of my dove that has haunted the dreams of poets, ever since the world began. happy me, to whom that dream has become the reality of all realities--whose bosom has been warmed, and is forever warmed, with the close embrace of her who has flitted shadowlike away from all other mortals! dearest, i wish your husband had the gift of making rhymes; for methinks there is poetry in his head and heart, since he has been in love with you. you are a poem, my dove. of what sort, then? epic?--mercy on me,--no! a sonnet?--no; for that is too labored and artificial. my dove is a sort of sweet, simple, gay, pathetic ballad, which nature is singing, sometimes with tears, sometimes with smiles, and sometimes with intermingled smiles and tears. i was invited to dine at mr. bancroft's yesterday with miss margaret fuller; but providence had given me some business to do; for which i was very thankful. when my dove and sophie hawthorne can go with me, i shall not be afraid to accept invitations to meet literary lions and lionesses, because then i shall put the above-said redoubtable little personage in the front of the battle. what do you think, dearest, of the expediency of my making a caucus speech? a great many people are very desirous of listening to your husband's eloquence; and that is considered the best method of making my debut. now, probably, will sophie hawthorne utterly refuse to be kissed, unless i give up all notion of speechifying at a caucus. silly little sophie!--i would not do it, even if thou thyself besought it of me. belovedest, i wish, before declining your ticket to mr. emerson's lectures, that i had asked whether you wished me to attend them; for if you do, i should have more pleasure in going, than if the wish were originally my own. dearest wife, nobody can come within the circle of my loneliness, save you;--you are my only companion in the world;--at least, when i compare other intercourse with our intimate communion, it seems as [if] other people were the world's width asunder. and yet i love all the world better for my dove's sake. good bye, belovedest. drive away that "naughty swelling." your ownest husband. do not expect me till seven o'clock on saturday--as i shall not leave boston till sunset. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _boston_, decr. 11th, 1839--7 p.m. _belovedest_, i am afraid you will expect a letter tomorrow--afraid, because i feel very sure that i shall not be able to fill this sheet tonight. i am well, and happy, and i love you dearly, sweetest wife;--nevertheless, it is next to impossibility for me to put ideas into words. even in writing these two or three lines, i have fallen into several long fits of musing. i wish there was something in the intellectual world analogous to the daguerrotype (is that the name of it?) in the visible--something which should print off our deepest, and subtlest, and delicatest thoughts and feelings as minutely and accurately as the above-mentioned instrument paints the various aspects of nature. then might my dove and i interchange our reveries--but my dove would get only lead in exchange for gold. dearest, your last letter brought the warmth of your very heart to your husband--belovedest, i cannot possibly write one word more, to-night. this striving to talk on paper does but remove you farther from me. it seems as if sophie hawthorne fled away into infinite space the moment i try to fix her image before me in order to inspire my pen;--whereas, no sooner do i give myself up to reverie, than here she is again, smiling lightsomely by my side. there will be no writing of letters in heaven; at least, i shall write none then, though i think it would add considerably to my bliss to receive them from my dove. never was i so stupid as to-night;--and yet it is not exactly stupidity, either, for my fancy is bright enough, only it has, just at this time, no command of external symbols. good night, dearest wife. love your husband, and dream of him. decr. 12th--6 p.m. blessedest--dove-ward and sophie hawthorne-ward doth your husband acknowledge himself "very reprehensible," for leaving his poor wife destitute of news from him such an interminable time--one, two, three, four days tomorrow noon. after seven years' absence, without communication, a marriage, if i mistake not, is deemed to be legally dissolved. does it not appear at least seven years to my dove, since we parted? it does to me. and will my dove, or naughty sophie hawthorne, choose to take advantage of the law, and declare our marriage null and void? oh, naughty, naughty, naughtiest sophie hawthorne, to suffer such an idea to come into your head! the dove, i am sure, would not disown her husband, but would keep her heart warm with faith and love for a million of years; so that when he returned to her (as he surely would, at some period of eternity, to spend the rest of eternal existence with her) he would seem to find in her bosom the warmth which his parting embrace had left there. very dearest, i do wish you would come to see me, this evening. if we could be together in this very parlour of ours, i think you, and both of us, would feel more completely at home than we ever have before in all our lives. your chamber is but a room in your mother's house, where my dove cannot claim an independent and separate right; she has a right, to be sure, but it is as a daughter. as a wife, it might be a question whether she has a right. now this pleasant little room, where i sit, together with the bed-room in which i intend to dream tonight of my dove, is my dwelling, my castle, mine own place wherein to be, which i have bought, for the time being, with the profits of mine own labor. then is it not our home? (rest of letter missing) to miss peabody _boston_, decr. 18th, 1839--nearly 7 p.m. _belovedest_, i wish you could see our parlour to-night--how bright and cheerful it looks, with the blaze of the coal-fire throwing a ruddy tinge over the walls, in spite of the yellow gleam of two lamps. now if my dove were sitting in the easiest of our two easy chairs--(for sometimes i should choose to have her sit in a separate chair, in order to realise our individuality, as well as our unity)--then would the included space of these four walls, together with the little contiguous bed-room, seem indeed like home.--but the soul of home is wanting now. oh, naughtiest, why are you not here to welcome your husband when he comes in at eventide, chilled with his wintry day's toil? why does he not find the table placed cosily in front of the fire, and a cup of tea steaming fragrantly--or else a bowl of warm bread and milk, such as his dove feeds upon? a much-to-be-pitied husband am i, naughty wife--a homeless man--a wanderer in the desert of this great city; picking up a precarious subsistence wherever i happen to find a restaurateur or an oyster-shop--and returning at night to a lonely fireside. dearest, have i brought the tears into your eyes? what an unwise little person is my dove, to let the tears gather in her eyes for such nonsensical pathos as this! yet not nonsensical either, inasmuch as it is a sore trial to your husband to be estranged from that which makes life a reality to him, and to be compelled to spend so many god-given days in a dream--in an outward show, which has nothing to satisfy the soul that has become acquainted with truth. but, mine own wife, if you had not taught me what happiness is, i should not have known that there is anything lacking to me now. i am dissatisfied--not because, at any former period of my life, i was ever a thousandth part so happy as now--but because hope feeds and grows strong on the happiness within me. good night, belovedest wife. i have a note to write to mr. capen, who torments me every now-and-then about a book which he wants me to manufacture. hereafter, i intend that my dove shall manage all my correspondence:--indeed, it is my purpose to throw all sorts of trouble upon my dove's shoulders. good night now, dearest.-december 20th--7 p.m. blessedest wife--has not sophie hawthorne been very impatient for this letter, one half of which yet remains undeveloped in my brain and heart? would that she could enter those inward regions, and read the letter there--together with so much that never can be expressed in written or spoken words. and can she not do this? the dove can do it, even if sophie hawthorne fail. dearest, would it be unreasonable for me to ask you to manage my share of the correspondence, as well as your own?--to throw yourself into my heart, and make it gush out with more warmth and freedom than my own pen can avail to do? how i should delight to see an epistle from myself to sophie hawthorne, written by my dove!--or to my dove, sophie hawthorne being the amanuensis! i doubt not, that truths would then be spoken, which my heart would recognise as existing within its depths, yet which can never be clothed in words of my own. you know that we are one another's consciousness--then it is not poss--my dearest, george hillard has come in upon me, in the midst of the foregoing sentence, and i have utterly forgotten what i meant to say. but it is not much matter. even if i could convince you of the expediency of your writing my letters as well as your own, still, when you attempted to take the pen out of my hand, i believe i should resist very strenuously. for, belovedest, though not an epistolarian by nature, yet the instinct of communicating myself to you makes it a necessity and a joy to write. your husband has received an invitation, through mr. collector bancroft, to go to dr. channing's to-night. what is to be done? anything, rather than to go. i never will venture into company, unless i can put myself under the protection of sophie hawthorne. she, i am sure, will take care that no harm comes to me. or my dove might take me "under her wing." dearest, you must not expect me too fervently on christmas eve, because it is very uncertain whether providence will bring us together then. if not, i shall take care to advise you thereof by letter--which, however, may chance not to come to hand till three o'clock on christmas day. and there will be my dove, making herself nervous with waiting for me. dearest, i wish i could be the source of nothing but happiness to you--and that disquietude, hope deferred, and disappointment, might not ever have aught to do with your affection. does the joy compensate for the pain? naughty sophie hawthorne--silly dove--will you let that foolish question bring tears into your eyes? my dove's letter was duly received. your lovingest husband. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _boston_, december 24th, 1839. 6 or 7 p.m. _my very dearest_, while i sit down disconsolately to write this letter, at this very moment is my dove expecting to hear her husband's footstep upon the threshold. she fully believes, that, within the limits of the hour which is now passing, she will be clasped to my bosom. belovedest, i cannot bear to have you yearn for me so intensely. by and bye, when you find that i do not come, our head will begin to ache;--but still, being the "hopingest little person" in the world, you will not give me up, perhaps till eight o'clock. but soon it will be bed-time--it will be deep night--and not a spoken word, not a written line, will have come to your heart from your naughtiest of all husbands. sophie hawthorne, at least, will deem him the naughtiest of husbands; but my dove will keep her faith in him just as firmly and fervently, as if she were acquainted with the particular impossibilities which keep him from her. dearest wife, i did hope, till this afternoon, that i should be able to disburthen myself of the cargo of salt which has been resting on my weary shoulders for a week past; but it does seem as if heaven's mercy were not meant for us miserable custom-house officers. the holiest of holydays--the day that brought ransom to all other sinners--leaves us in slavery still. nevertheless, dearest, if i did not feel two disappointments in one--your own and mine--i should feel much more comfortable and resigned than i do. if i could have come to you to-night, i must inevitably have returned hither tomorrow evening. but now, in requital of my present heaviness of spirit, i am resolved that my next visit shall be at least one day longer than i could otherwise have ventured to make it. we cannot spend this christmas eve together, mine own wife; but i have faith that you will see me on the eve of the new year. will not you be glad when i come home to spend three whole days, that i was kept away from you for a few brief hours on christmas eve? for if i went now, i could not be with you then. my blessedest, write and let me know that you have not been very much disturbed by my non-appearance. i pray you to have the feelings of a wife towards me, dearest--that is, you must feel that my whole life is yours, a life-time of long days, and therefore it is no irreparable nor very grievous loss, though sometimes a few of those days are wasted away from you. a wife should be calm and quiet, in the settled certainty of possessing her husband. above all, dearest, bear these crosses with philosophy for my sake; for it makes me anxious and depressed, to imagine your anxiety and depression. oh, that you could be very joyful when i come, and yet not sad when i fail to come! is that impossible, my sweetest dove?--is it impossible, my naughtiest sophie hawthorne? to miss peabody _boston_, jany. 1st, 1840. 6 o'clock p.m. _belovedest wife_, your husband's heart was exceedingly touched by that little backhanded note, and likewise by the bundle of allumettes--half a dozen of which i have just been kissing with great affection. would that i might kiss that poor dear finger of mine! kiss it for my sake, sweetest dove--and tell naughty sophie hawthorne to kiss it too. nurse it well, dearest; for no small part of my comfort and cheeriness of heart depends upon that beloved finger. if it be not well enough to bear its part in writing me a letter within a few days, do not be surprised if i send down the best surgeon in boston to effect a speedy cure. nevertheless, darlingest wife, restrain the good little finger, if it show any inclination to recommence its labors too soon. if your finger be pained in writing, your husband's heart ought to (and i hope would) feel every twinge. belovedest, i have not yet wished you a happy new year! and yet i have--many, many of them; as many, mine own wife, as we can enjoy together--and when we can no more enjoy them together, we shall no longer think of happy new years on earth, but look longingly for the new year's day of eternity. what a year the last has been! dearest, you make the same exclamation; but my heart originates it too. it has been the year of years--the year in which the flower of our life has bloomed out--the flower of our life and of our love, which we are to wear in our bosoms forever. oh, how i love you, belovedest wife!--and how i thank god that he has made me capable to know and love you! sometimes i feel, deep, deep down in my heart, how dearest above all things you are to me; and those are blissful moments. it is such a happiness to be conscious, at last, of something real. all my life hitherto, i have been walking in a dream, among shadows which could not be pressed to my bosom; but now, even in this dream of time, there is something that takes me out of it, and causes me to be a dreamer no more. do you not feel, dearest, that we live above time and apart from time, even while we seem to be in the midst of time? our affection diffuses eternity round about us. my carefullest little wife will rejoice to know that i have been free to sit by a good fire all this bitter cold day--not but what i have a salt-ship on my hands, but she must have some ballast, before she can discharge any more salt; and ballast cannot be procured till the day after tomorrow. are not these details very interesting? i have a mind, some day, to send my dearest a journal of all my doings and sufferings, my whole external life, from the time i awake at dawn, till i close my eyes at night. what a dry, dull history would it be! but then, apart from this, i would write another journal of my inward life throughout the self-same day--my fits of pleasant thought, and those likewise which are shadowed by passing clouds--the yearnings of my heart towards my dove--my pictures of what we are to enjoy together. nobody would think that the same man could live two such different lives simultaneously. but then, as i have said above, the grosser life is a dream, and the spiritual life a reality. very dearest, i wish you would make out a list of books that you would like to be in our library; for i intend, whenever the cash and the opportunity occur together, to buy enough to fill up our new book-case; and i want to feel that i am buying them for both of us. when i next come to salem, you shall read the list, and we will discuss it, volume by volume. i suppose the book-case will hold about two hundred volumes; but you need not calculate upon making such a vast collection all at once. it shall be accomplished in small lots; and then we shall prize every volume, and receive a separate pleasure from the acquisition of it. does it seem a great while since i left you, dearest? truly, it does to me. these separations lengthen our earthly lives by at least nine-tenths; but then, in our brief seasons of communion, there is the essence of a thousand years. was it thursday that i told my dove would be the day of my next appearance?--or friday? "oh, friday, certainly!" says sophie hawthorne. well; it must be as naughty sophie says. oh, belovedest, i want you. you have given me a new feeling, blessedest wife--a sense, that strong as i may have deemed myself, i am insufficient for my own support; and that there is a tender little dove, without whose help i cannot get through this weary world at all. god bless you, ownest wife. your ownest husband. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _boston_, jany. 3d, 1840--3 p.m. what a best of all possible husbands you have, sweetest wife, to be writing to you so soon again, although he has heard nothing from you since the latter part of the year 1839! what a weary length of time that naughty finger has been ill! unless there are signs of speedy amendment, we must begin to think of "rotation in office," and the left hand must be nominated to the executive duties of which the right is no longer capable. yet, dearest, do not imagine that i am impatient. i do indeed long to see your delicatest little penmanship; (what an enormity it would be to call my dove's most feminine of handwritings pen_man_ship!) but it would take away all the happiness of it, when i reflected that each individual letter had been a pain to you. nay; i would not have you write, if you find that the impediments of this mode of utterance check the flow of your mind and heart. but you tell me that the wounded finger will be no hindrance to your painting. very glad am i, dearest; for you cannot think how much delight those pictures are going to give me. i shall sit and gaze at them whole hours together--and these will be my happiest hours, the fullest of you, though all are full of you. i never owned a picture in my life; yet pictures have always been among the earthly possessions (and they are spiritual possessions too) which i most coveted. i know not what value my dove's pictures might bear at an auction-room; but to me, certainly, they will be incomparably more precious than all the productions of all the painters since apelles. when we live together in our own home, belovedest, we will paint pictures together--that is, our minds and hearts shall unite to form the conception, to which your hand shall give material existence. i have often felt as if i could be a painter, only i am sure that i could never handle a brush;--now my dove will show me the images of my inward eye, beautified and etherealised by the mixture of her own spirit. belovedest, i think i shall get these two pictures put into mahogany frames, because they will harmonize better with the furniture of our parlor than gilt frames would. while i was writing the foregoing paragraph, mary has sent to inquire whether i mean to go to salem tomorrow, intending, if i did, to send a letter by me. but, alas! i am not going. the inquiry, however, has made me feel a great yearning to be there. but it is not possible, because i have an engagement at cambridge on saturday evening; and even if it were otherwise, it would be better to wait till the middle of the week, or a little later, when i hope to spend three or four days with you. oh, what happiness, when we shall be able to look forward to an illimitable time in each other's society--when a day or two of absence will be far more infrequent than the days which we spend together now. then a quiet will settle down upon us, a passionate quiet, which is the consummation of happiness. dearest, i hope you have not found it impracticable to walk, though the atmosphere be so wintry. did we walk together in any such cold weather, last winter? i believe we did. how strange, that such a flower as our affection should have blossomed amid snow and wintry winds--accompaniments which no poet or novelist, that i know of, has ever introduced into a love-tale. nothing like our story was ever written--or ever will be--for we shall not feel inclined to make the public our confidant; but if it could be told, methinks it would be such as the angels might take delight to hear. if i mistake not, my dove has expressed some such idea as this, in one of her recent letters. well-a-day! i have strolled thus far through my letter, without once making mention of naughty sophie hawthorne. will she pardon the neglect? present my profound respects to her beloved nose, and say that i still entreat her to allow my dove to kiss her cheek. when she complies with this oft-repeated petition, i shall hope that her spirit is beginning to be tamed, and shall then meditate some other and more difficult trials of it. nonsense! do not believe me, dear little sophie hawthorne. i would not tame you for the whole universe. but now good bye, dearest wife. keep yourself in good heart while i am absent, and grow round and plump and rosy;--eat a whole chicken every day;--go to bed at nine o'clock or earlier, and sleep sound till sunrise. come to me in dreams, beloved. what should i do in this weary world, without the idea of you, dearest! give my love to your father and mother, and to elizabeth. god bless you, darling. your ownest husband. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _boston_, jany. 24th, 1840--4 p.m. _ownest dove_, your letter came this forenoon, announcing the advent of the pictures; so i came home as soon as i possibly could--and there was the package! i naturally trembled as i undid it, so eager was i to behold them. dearissima, there never was anything so lovely and precious in this world. they are perfect. so soon as the dust and smoke of my fire had evaporated, i put them on the mantelpiece, and sat a long time before them with clasped hands, gazing, and gazing, and gazing, and painting a fac-simile of them in my heart, in whose most sacred chamber they shall keep a place forever and ever. belovedest, i was not long in finding out the dove in the menaggio. in fact, she was the very first object that my eyes rested on, when i uncovered the picture. she flew straightway into my heart--and yet she remains just where you placed her. dearest, if it had not been for your strict injunctions that nobody nor anything should touch the pictures, i do believe that my lips would have touched that naughty sophie hawthorne, as she stands on the bridge. do you think the perverse little damsel would have vanished beneath my kiss? what a misfortune would that have been to her poor lover!--to find that he kissed away his mistress. but, at worst, she would have remained on my lips. however, i shall refrain from all endearments, till you tell me that a kiss may be hazarded without fear of her taking it in ill part and absenting herself without leave. mine ownest, it is a very noble-looking cavalier with whom sophie is standing on the bridge. are you quite sure that her own husband is the companion of her walk? yet i need not ask--for there is the dove to bear witness to his identity. that true and tender bird would never have alighted on another hand--never have rested so near another bosom. yes; it must be my very self; and from henceforth it shall be held for an absolute and indisputable truth. it is not my picture, but the very i; and as my inner self belongs to you, there is no doubt that you have caused my soul to pervade the figure. there we are, unchangeable. years cannot alter us, nor our relation to each other. ownest, we will talk about these pictures all our lives and longer; so there is no need that i should say all that i think and feel about them now; especially as i have yet only begun to understand and feel them. i have put them into my bed-room for the present, being afraid to trust them on the mantel-piece; but i cannot help going to feast my eyes upon them, every little while. i have determined not to hang them up till after i have been to salem, for fear of the dust and of the fingers of the chamber-maid and other visitants. whenever i am away, they will be safely locked up, either in the bureau or in my closet. i shall want your express directions as to the height at which they ought to be hung, and the width of the space between them, and other minutest particulars. we will discuss these matters, when i come home to my wife. belovedest, there are several obstacles to my coming home immediately. at present, two of the measurers are employed, and another is detained at his home in chelsea by the sickness of his family, and colonel hall continues too unwell to be at the custom-house; so that i am the only one in attendance there; and moreover i have a coal vessel to discharge to-morrow. but this state of affairs will not continue long. i think i cannot fail to be at liberty by tuesday or wednesday at furthest; and at all events, next week shall not pass without our meeting; even if i should have barely time to press you in my arms, and say goodbye. but the probability is, that i shall come to spend a week. dearissima, be patient--sophie hawthorne as well as the dove. my carefullest little wife, i am of opinion that elizabeth has been misinformed as to the increased prevalence of the small-pox. it could not be so generally diffused among the merchants and business-people without my being aware of it; nor do i hear of its committing such fearful ravages anywhere. the folks at the custom-house know of no such matter; nor does george hillard. in truth, i had supposed (till i heard otherwise from you) that all cause for alarm was past. trust me, dearest, there is no need of heart-quake on my account. you have been in greater danger than your husband. god be with you, blessedest and blessingest. i did ... (remainder of letter missing) miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _boston_, february 7th, 1840--â½ past 3 p.m. _ownest dove_, can you reckon the ages that have elapsed since our last embrace? it quite surpasses my powers of computation. i only know that, in some long by-gone time, i had a wife--and that now i am a widowed man, living not in the present, but in the past and future. my life would be empty indeed, if i could neither remember nor anticipate; but i can do both; and so my heart continues to keep itself full of light and warmth. belovedest, let it be so likewise with you. you promised me--did you not?--to be happy during our separation, and really i must insist upon holding you to your word even if it should involve a miracle. dearest, i have hung up the pictures--the isola over the mantel-piece, and the menaggio on the opposite wall. this arrangement pleased me better, on the whole, than the other which we contemplated; and i cannot perceive but that the light is equally favorable for them both. you cannot imagine how they glorify our parlor--and what a solace they are to its widowed inhabitant. i sit before them with something of the quiet and repose which your own beloved presence is wont to impart to me. i gaze at them by all sorts of light--daylight, twilight, and candle-light; and when the lamps are extinguished, and before getting into bed, i sit looking at these pictures, by the flickering fire-light. they are truly an infinite enjoyment. i take great care of them, and have hitherto hung the curtains before them every morning; and they remain covered till after i have kindled my fire in the afternoon. but i suppose this precaution need not be taken much longer. i think that this slight veil produces a not unpleasing effect, especially upon the isola--a gentle and tender gloom, like the first approaches of twilight. nevertheless, whenever i remove the curtains i am always struck with new surprise at the beauty which then gleams forth. mine ownest, you are a wonderful little dove. what beautiful weather this is--beautiful, at least, so far as sun, sky, and atmosphere are concerned; though a poor wingless biped, like my dove's husband, is sometimes constrained to wish that he could raise himself a little above the earth. how much mud and mire, how many pools of unclean water, how many slippery footsteps and perchance heavy tumbles, might be avoided, if we could but tread six inches above the crust of this world. physically, we cannot do this; our bodies cannot; but it seems to me that our hearts and minds may keep themselves above moral mud-puddles, and other discomforts of the soul's path-way, and so enjoy the sunshine. i have added coleridge's poems, a very good edition in three volumes, to our library. dearest, dearest, what a joy it is to think of you, whenever i buy a book--to think that we shall read them aloud to one another, and that they are to be our mutual and familiar friends for life. i intended to have asked you again for that list which you shewed me; but it will do the next time i come. i mean to go to a book-auction this evening. when our book-case is filled, my bibliomania will probably cease; for its shelves, i think, would hold about all the books that i should care to read--all, at least, that i should wish to possess as household friends. what a reprehensible husband am i, not to have inquired, in the very first sentence of my letter, whether my belovedest has quite recovered from the varioloid! but, in truth, it seemed so long since we parted, that none but chronic diseases can have subsisted from that time to this. i make no doubt, therefore, but that the afflicted arm is entirely recovered, and that only a slight scar remains--which shall be kissed, some time or other. and how are your eyes, my blessedest? do not torture them by attempting to write, before they are quite well. if you inflict pain on them for such a purpose, your husband's eyes will be sensible of it, when he shall read your letters. remember that we have now a common property in each other's eyes. dearest, i have not seen colonel hall since my return hither--he being gone to maine. when he comes back, or shortly thereafter, i will try to prevail on your neglectful spouse to pay you a short visit. methinks he is a very cold and loveless sort of person. i have been pestering him, ever since i began this letter, to send you some word of affectionate remembrance; but he utterly refuses to send anything, save a kiss apiece to the dove's eyes and mouth, and to sophie hawthorne's nose and foot. will you have the kindness to see that these valuable consignments arrive at their destination? dearest wife, the letter-writer belies your ownest husband. he thinks of you, and yearns for you all day long. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _boston_, feby. 11th, 1840--7 p.m. _belovedest_, your letter, with its assurance of your present convalescence, and its promise (to which i shall hold you fast) that you will never be sick any more, caused me much joy.... dearest, george hillard came in just as i had written the first sentence; so we will begin on a new score. your husband has been measuring coal all day, aboard of a black little british schooner, in a dismal dock at the north end of the city. most of the time, he paced the deck to keep himself warm; for the wind (north-east, i believe it was) blew up through the dock, as if it had been the pipe of a pair of bellows. the vessel lying deep between two wharves, there was no more delightful prospect, on the right hand and on the left, than the posts and timbers, half immersed in the water, and covered with ice, which the rising and falling of successive tides had left upon them; so that they looked like immense icicles. across the water, however, not more than half a mile off, appeared the bunker hill monument; and what interested me considerably more, a church-steeple, with the dial of a clock upon it, whereby i was enabled to measure the march of the weary hours. sometimes your husband descended into the dirty little cabin of the schooner, and warmed himself by a red-hot stove, among biscuit-barrels, pots and kettles, sea-chests, and innumerable lumber of all sorts--his olfactories, meanwhile, being greatly refreshed by the odour of a pipe, which the captain or some of his crew were smoking. but at last came the sunset, with delicate clouds, and a purple light upon the islands; and your husband blessed it, because it was the signal of his release; and so he came home to talk with his dearest wife. and now he bids her farewell, because he is tired and sleepy. god bless you, belovedest. dream happy dreams of me tonight. february 12th--evening.--all day long again, best wife, has your poor husband been engaged in a very black business--as black as a coal; and though his face and hands have undergone a thorough purification, he feels as if he were not altogether fit to hold communion with his white dove. methinks my profession is somewhat akin to that of a chimney-sweeper; but the latter has the advantage over me, because, after climbing up through the darksome flue of the chimney, he emerges into the midst of the golden air, and sings out his melodies far over the heads of the whole tribe of weary earth-plodders. my dearest, my toil today has been cold and dull enough; nevertheless your husband was neither cold nor dull; for he kept his heart warm and his spirit bright with thoughts of his belovedest wife. i had strong and happy yearnings for you to-day, ownest dove--happy, even though it was such an eager longing, which i knew could not then be fulfilled, to clasp you to my bosom. and now here i am in our parlour, aweary--too tired, almost, to write. well, dearest, my labors are over for the present. i cannot, however, come home just at present, three of the measurers being now absent; but you shall see me very soon. naughtiest, why do you say that you have scarcely seen your husband, this winter? have there not, to say nothing of shorter visits, been two eternities of more than a week each, which were full of blessings for us? my dove has quite forgotten these. oh, well! if visits of a week long be not worth remembering, i shall alter my purpose of coming to salem for another like space;--otherwise i might possibly have been there, by saturday night, at furthest. dear me, how sleepy i am! i can hardly write, as you will discover by the blottings and scratchings. so good-bye now, darlingest;--and i will finish in the freshness of the morning. february 13th--past 8 a.m. belovedest, how very soon this letter will be in your hands. it brings us much closer together, when the written words of one of us can come to the heart of the other, in the very same day that they flowed from the heart of the writer. i mean to come home to our parlour early to-day; so, when you receive this letter, you can imagine me there, sitting in front of the isola. i have this moment interrupted myself to go and look at that precious production. how i wish that naughty sophie hawthorne could be induced to turn her face towards me! nevertheless, the figure is her veritable self, and so would the face be, only that she deems it too beauteous to be thrown away on her husband's gaze. i have not dared to kiss her yet. will she abide it? my dearest, do not expect me very fervently till i come. i am glad you were so careful of your inestimable eyes as not to write to me yesterday. mrs. hillard says that elizabeth made her a call. good-bye. i am very well to day, and unspeakably happy in the thought that i have a dearest little wife, who loves me pretty well. god bless her. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _boston_, march 11th, 1840--2 p.m. _blessedest_, it seems as if i were looking back to a former state of existence, when i think of the precious hours which we have lived together. and now we are in two different worlds--widowed, both of us--both of us deceased, and each lamenting ... (portion of letter missing) belovedest, almost my first glance, on entering our parlor after my return hither, was at the pictures--my very first glance, indeed, as soon as i had lighted the lamps. they have certainly grown more beautiful during my absence, and are still becoming more perfect, and perfecter, and perfectest. i fancied that sophie hawthorne, as she stands on the bridge, had slightly turned her head, so as to reveal somewhat more of her face; but if so, she has since turned it back again. i was much struck with the menaggio this morning;--while i was gazing at it, the sunshine and the shade grew positively real, and i agreed with you, for the time, in thinking this a more superlative picture than the other. but when i came home about an hour ago, i bestowed my chiefest attention upon the isola; and now i believe it has the first place in my affections, though without prejudice to a very fervent love for the other. ... dove, there is little prospect for me, indeed; but forgive me for telling you so, dearest--no prospect of my returning so soon as next monday; but i have good hope to be again at liberty by the close of the week. do be very good, my dove--be as good as your nature will permit, naughty sophie hawthorne. as to myself, i shall take the liberty to torment myself as much as i please. my dearest, i am very well, but exceedingly stupid and heavy; so the remainder of this letter shall be postponed until tomorrow. has my dove flown abroad, this cold, bright day? would that the wind would snatch her up, and waft her to her husband. how was it, dearest? and how do you do this morning? is the wind east? the sun shone on the chimney-tops round about here, a few minutes ago; and i hoped that there would be a pleasant day for my dove to take wing, and for sophie hawthorne to ride on horseback; but the sky seems to be growing sullen now. do you wish to know how your husband will spend the day? first of the first--but there rings the bell for eight o'clock; and i must go down to breakfast. after breakfast;--first of the first, your husband will go to the post-office, like a dutiful husband as he is, to put in this letter for his belovedest wife. thence he will proceed to the custom house, and finding that there is no call for him on the wharves, he will sit down by the measurers' fire, and read the morning post. next, at about half past nine o'clock, he will go to the athenaeum, and turn over the magazines and reviews till eleven or twelve, when it will be time to return to the custom-house to see whether there be a letter from dove hawthorne--and also (though this is of far less importance) to see whether there be any demand for his services as measurer. at one o'clock, or thereabouts, he will go to dinner--but first, perhaps, he will promenade the whole length of washington street, to get himself an appetite. after dinner, he will take one more peep at the custom-house, and it being by this time about two o'clock, and no prospect of business to-day, he will feel at liberty to come home to our own parlor, there to remain till supper-time. at six o'clock he will sally forth again, to get some oysters and read the evening papers, and returning between seven and eight, he will read and re-read his belovedest's letter--then take up a book--and go to bed at ten, with a blessing on his lips for the dove and sophie hawthorne. thine ownest. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _boston_, march 15th, 1840--forenoon. _best-belovedest_, thy letter by elizabeth came, i believe, on thursday, and the two which thou didst entrust to the post reached me not till yesterday--whereby i enjoyed a double blessing in recompense of the previous delay. nevertheless, it were desirable that the new salem postmaster be forthwith ejected, for taking upon himself to withhold the outpourings of thy heart, at their due season. as for letters of business, which involve merely the gain or loss of a few thousand dollars, let him be as careless as he pleases; but when thou wouldst utter thyself to thy husband, dearest wife, there is doubtless a peculiar fitness of thy communications to that point and phase of our existence, at which they ought to be received. however, come when they will, they are sure to make sweetest music with my heart-strings. blessedest, what an ugly day is this!--and there thou sittest as heavy as thy husband's heart. and is his heart indeed heavy? why no--it is not heaviness--not the heaviness, like a great lump of ice, which i used to feel when i was alone in the world--but--but--in short, dearest, where thou art not, there it is a sort of death. a death, however, in which there is still hope and assurance of a joyful life to come. methinks, if my spirit were not conscious of thy spirit, this dreary snow-storm would chill me to torpor;--the warmth of my fireside would be quite powerless to counteract it. most absolute little wife, didst thou expressly command me to go to father taylor's church this very sabbath?--(dinner, or luncheon rather, has intervened since the last sentence)--now, belovedest, it would not be an auspicious day for me to hear the aforesaid son of thunder. thou knowest not how difficult is thy husband to be touched or moved, unless time, and circumstances, and his own inward state, be in a "concatenation accordingly." a dreadful thing would it be, were father taylor to fail in awakening a sympathy from my spirit to thine. darlingest, pray let me stay at home this afternoon. some sunshiny sunday, when i am wide awake, and warm, and genial, i will go and throw myself open to his blessed influences; but now, there is but one thing (thou being absent) which i feel anywise inclined to do--and that is, to go to sleep. may i go to sleep, belovedest? think what sweet dreams of thee may visit me--think how i shall escape this snow-storm--think how my heavy mood will change, as the mood of mind almost always does, during the interval that withdraws me from the external world. yes; thou bidst me sleep. sleep thou too, my beloved--let us pass at one and the same moment into that misty region, and embrace each other there. well, dearest, i have slept; but sophie hawthorne has been naughty--she would not be dreamed about. and now that i am awake again, here are the same snow-flakes in the air, that were descending when i went to sleep. would that there were an art of making sunshine! knowest thou any such art? truly thou dost, my blessedest, and hast often thrown a heavenly sunshine around thy husband's spirit, when all things else were full of gloom. what a woe--what a cloud it is, to be away from thee! how would my dove like to have her husband continually with her, twelve or fourteen months out of the next twenty? would not that be real happiness?--in such long communion, should we not feel as if separation were a dream, something that never had been a reality, nor ever could be? yes; but--for in all earthly happiness there is a but--but, during those twenty months, there would be two intervals of three months each, when thy husband would be five hundred miles away--as far away as washington. that would be terrible. would not sophie hawthorne fight against it?--would not the dove fold her wings, not in the quietude of bliss, but of despair? do not be frightened, dearest--nor rejoiced either--for the thing will not be. it might be, if i chose; but on multitudinous accounts, my present situation seems preferable; and i do pray, that, in one year more, i may find some way of escaping from this unblest custom-house; for it is a very grievous thraldom. i do detest all offices--all, at least, that are held on a political tenure. and i want nothing to do with politicians--they are not men; they cease to be men, in becoming politicians. their hearts wither away, and die out of their bodies. their consciences are turned to india-rubber--or to some substance as black as that, and which will stretch as much. one thing, if no more, i have gained by my custom-house experience--to know a politician. it is a knowledge which no previous thought, or power of sympathy, could have taught me, because the animal, or the machine rather, is not in nature. oh my darlingest wife, thy husband's soul yearns to embrace thee! thou art his hope--his joy--he desires nothing but to be with thee, and to toil for thee, and to make thee a happy wife, wherein would consist his own heavenliest happiness. dost thou love him? yes; he knoweth it. god bless thee, most beloved. thine ownest husband. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody (fragment only) and now good night, best, beautifullest, belovedest, blessingest of wives. notwithstanding what i have said of the fleeting and unsatisfying bliss of dreams, still, if thy husband's prayers and wishes can bring thee, or even a shadow of thee, into his sleep, thou or thy image will assuredly be there. good night, ownest. i bid thee good night, although it is still early in the evening; because i must reserve the rest of the page to greet thee upon in the morning. to miss peabody _boston_, march 26th, 1840--afternoon. _thou dearest wife_, here is thy husband, yearning for thee with his whole heart--thou, meanwhile, being fast asleep, and perhaps hovering around him in thy dreams. very dreary are the first few centuries which elapse after our separations, and before it is time to look forward hopefully to another meeting--these are the "dark ages." and hast thou been very good, my beloved? dost thou dwell in the past and in the future, so that the gloomy present is quite swallowed up in sunshine? do so, mine ownest, for the sake of thy husband, whose desire it is to make thy whole life as sunny as the scene beyond those high, dark rocks of the menaggio. dearest, my thoughts will not flow at all--they are as sluggish as a stream of half-cold lava. methinks i could sleep an hour or two--perhaps thou art calling to me, out of the midst of thy dream, to come and join thee there. i will take a book, and lie down awhile, and perhaps resume my pen in the evening. i will not say good bye; for i am coming to thee now. march 27th,--before breakfast.--good morning, most belovedest. i felt so infinitely stupid, after my afternoon's nap, that i could not possibly write another word; and it has required a whole night's sleep to restore me the moderate share of intellect and vivacity that naturally belongs to me. dearest, thou didst not come into my dreams, last night; but, on the contrary, i was engaged in assisting the escape of louis xvi and marie antoinette from paris, during the french revolution. and sometimes, by an unaccountable metamorphosis, it seemed as if my mother and sister were in the place of the king and queen. i think that fairies rule over our dreams--beings who have no true reason or true feeling, but mere fantasies instead of those endowments. afternoon.--blessedest, i do think that it is the doom laid upon me, of murdering so many of the brightest hours of the day at that unblest custom-house, that makes such havoc with my wits; for here i am again, trying to write worthily to my etherealest, and intellectualest, and feelingest, and imaginativest wife, yet with a sense as if all the noblest part of man had been left out of my composition--or had decayed out of it, since my nature was given to my own keeping. sweetest dove, shouldst thou once venture within those precincts, the atmosphere would immediately be fatal to thee--thy wings would cease to flutter in a moment--scarcely wouldst thou have time to nestle into thy husband's bosom, ere thy pure spirit would leave what is mortal of thee there, and flit away to heaven. never comes any bird of paradise into that dismal region. a salt, or even a coal-ship is ten million times preferable; for there the sky is above me, and the fresh breeze around me, and my thoughts, having hardly anything to do with my occupation, are as free as air. nevertheless, belovedest, thou art not to fancy that the above paragraph gives thee a correct idea of thy husband's mental and spiritual state; for he is sometimes prone to the sin of exaggeration. it is only once in a while that the image and desire of a better and happier life makes him feel the iron of his chain; for after all, a human spirit may find no insufficiency of food fit for it, even in the custom-house. and with such materials as these, i do think, and feel, and learn things that are worth knowing, and which i should not know unless i had learned them there; so that the present portion of my life shall not be quite left out of the sum of my real existence. moreover, i live through my dove's heart--i live an intellectual life in sophie hawthorne. therefore ought those two in one to keep themselves happy and healthy in mind and feelings, inasmuch as they enjoy more blessed influences than their husband, and likewise have to provide happiness and moral health for him. very dearest, i feel a great deal better now--nay, nothing whatever is the matter. what a foolish husband hast thou, misfortunate little dove, that he will grieve thee with such a long jeremiad, and after all find out that there is not the slightest cause for lamentation. but so it must often be, dearest--this trouble hast thou entailed upon thyself, by yielding to become my wife. every cloud that broods beneath my sky, or that i even fancy is brooding there, must dim thy sunshine too. but here is no real cloud. it is good for me, on many accounts, that my life has had this passage in it. thou canst not think how much more i know than i did a year ago--what a stronger sense i have of power to act as a man among men--what worldly wisdom i have gained, and wisdom also that is not altogether of this world. and when i quit this earthy cavern, where i am now buried, nothing will cling to me that ought to be left behind. men will not perceive, i trust, by my look, or the tenor of my thoughts and feelings, that i have been a custom-house officer. belovedest!--what an awful concussion was that of our two heads. it was as if two worlds had rushed together--as if the moon (thou art my moon, gentlest wife) had met in fierce encounter with the rude, rock-promontoried earth. dearest, art thou sure that thy delicatest brain has suffered no material harm? a maiden's heart, they say, is often bruised and broken by her lover's cruelty; it was reserved for naughtiest me to inflict those injuries upon my mistress's head.... (portion of letter missing) to miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _boston_, march 30th, 1840--5 or 6 p.m. _infinitely belovedest_, thy thursday's letter came not till saturday--so long was thy faith fullest husband defrauded of his rights! thou mayst imagine how hungry was my heart, when at last it came. thy yesterday's letter, for a wonder, arrived in its due season, this forenoon; and i could not refrain from opening it immediately; and then and there, in that earthy cavern of the custom-house, and surrounded by all those brawling slang-whangers, i held sweet communion with my dove. dearest, i do not believe that any one of those miserable men ever received a letter which uttered a single word of love and faith--which addressed itself in any manner to the soul. no beautiful and holy woman's spirit came to visit any of them, save thy husband. how blest is he! thou findest thy way to him in all dismallest and unloveliest places, and talkest with him there, nor can the loudest babble nor rudest clamor shut out thy gentle voice from his ear. truly, he ought not to bemoan himself any more, as in his last letter, but to esteem himself favored beyond all other mortals;--but truly he is a wayward and incalculable personage, and will not be prevailed with to know his own happiness. the lovelier thou art, mine ownest, the more doth thy unreasonable husband discontent himself to be away from thee, though thou continually sendest him all of thyself that can be breathed into written words. oh, i want thee with me forever and ever!--at least i would always have the feeling, amid the tumult and unsuitable associations of the day, that the night would bring me to my home of peace and rest--to thee, my fore-ordained wife. well--be patient, heart! the time will come. meantime, foolishest heart, be thankful for the much of happiness thou already hast. dearest, thy husband was very reprehensible, yesterday. wilt thou again forgive him? he went not to hear father taylor preach. in truth, his own private and quiet room did have such a charm for him, after being mixed and tossed together with discordant elements all the week, that he thought his dove would grant him indulgence for one more sabbath. also, he fancied himself unfit to go out, on account of a cold; though, as the disease has quite disappeared to-day, i am afraid he conjured it up to serve his naughty purpose. but, indeed, dearest, i feel somewhat afraid to hear this divine father taylor, lest my sympathy with thy admiration of him should be colder and feebler than thou lookest for. belovedest wife, our souls are in happiest unison; but we must not disquiet ourselves if every tone be not re-echoed from one to the other--if every slightest shade be not reflected in the alternate mirror. our broad and general sympathy is enough to secure our bliss, without our following it into minute details. wilt thou promise not to be troubled, should thy husband be unable to appreciate the excellence of father taylor? promise me this; and at some auspicious hour, which i trust will soon arrive, father taylor shall have an opportunity to make music with my soul. but i forewarn thee, sweetest dove, that thy husband is a most unmalleable man;--thou art not to suppose, because his spirit answers to every touch of thine, that therefore every breeze, or even every whirlwind, can upturn him from his depths. well, dearest, i have said my say, on this matter. what a rain is this, my poor little dove! yet as the wind comes from some other quarter than the east, i trust that thou hast found it genial. good bye, belovedest, till tomorrow evening. meantime, love me, and dream of me. march 31st.--evening.--best wife, it is scarcely dark yet; but thy husband has just lighted his lamps, and sits down to talk to thee. would that he could hear an answer in thine own sweet voice; for his spirit needs to be cheered by that dearest of all harmonies, after a long, listless, weary day. just at this moment, it does seem as if life could not go on without it. what is to be done? dearest, if elizabeth howe is to be with you on saturday, it would be quite a calamity to thee and thy household, for me to come at the same time. now will sophie hawthorne complain, and the dove's eyes be suffused, at my supposing that their husband's visit could be a calamity at any time. well, at least, we should be obliged to give up many hours of happiness, and it would not even be certain that i could have the privilege of seeing mine own wife in private, at all. wherefore, considering these things, i have resolved, and do hereby make it a decree of fate, that my present widowhood shall continue one week longer. and my sweetest dove--yes, and naughtiest sophie hawthorne too--will both concur in the fitness of this resolution, and will help me to execute it with what of resignation is attainable by mortal man, by writing me a letter full of strength and comfort. and i, infinitely dear wife, will write to thee again; so that, though my earthly part will not be with thee on saturday, yet thou shalt have my heart and soul in a letter. will not this be right, and for the best? "yes, dearest husband," saith my meekest little dove; and sophie hawthorne cannot gainsay her. mine unspeakably ownest, dost thou love me a million of times as much as thou didst a week ago? as for me, my heart grows deeper and wider every moment, and still thou fillest it in all its depths and boundlessness. wilt thou never be satisfied with making me love thee? to what use canst thou put so much love as thou continually receivest from me? dost thou hoard it up, as misers do their treasure? thine own blessedest husband. april 1st. before breakfast.--good morning, entirely belovedest. sophie hawthorne, i have enclosed something for thee in this letter. if thou findest it not, then tell me what thou art. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _boston_, april 3d, 1840.--evening. blessedest wife, thy husband has been busy all day, from early breakfast-time to late in the afternoon; and old father time has gone onward somewhat less heavily, than is his wont when i am imprisoned within the walls of the custom-house. it has been a brisk, breezy day, as thou knowest--an effervescent atmosphere; and i have enjoyed it in all its freshness, breathing air which had not been breathed in advance by the hundred thousand pairs of lungs which have common and indivisible property in the atmosphere of this great city.--my breath had never belonged to anybody but me. it came fresh from the wilderness of ocean. my dove ought to have shared it with me, and so have made it infinitely sweeter--save her, i would wish to have an atmosphere all to myself. and, dearest, it was exhilarating to see the vessels, how they bounded over the waves, while a sheet of foam broke out around them. i found a good deal of enjoyment, too, in the busy scene around me; for several vessels were disgorging themselves (what an unseemly figure is this--"disgorge," quotha, as if the vessels were sick at their stomachs) on the wharf; and everybody seemed to be working with might and main. it pleased thy husband to think that he also had a part to act in the material and tangible business of this life, and that a part of all this industry could not have gone on without his presence. nevertheless, my belovedest, pride not thyself too much on thy husband's activity and utilitarianism; he is naturally an idler, and doubtless will soon be pestering thee with bewailments at being compelled to earn his bread by taking some little share in the toils of mortal man. most beloved, when i went to the custom-house, at one o'clock, colonel hall held up a letter, turning the seal towards me; and he seemed to be quite as well aware as myself, that the long-legged little fowl impressed thereon was a messenger from my dove. and so, naughtiest, thou art not patient. well; it will do no good to scold thee. i know sophie hawthorne of old--yea, of very old time do i know her; or rather, of very old eternity. there was an image of such a being, deep within my soul, before we met in this dim world; and therefore nothing that she does, or says, or thinks, or feels, ever surprises me. her naughtiness is as familiar to me as if it were my own. but dearest, do be patient; because thou seest that the busy days are coming again; and how is thy husband to bear his toil lightsomely, if he knows that thou art impatient and disquieted. by and bye, as soon as god will open a way to us, we will help one another bear the burthen of the day, whatever it may be. my little dove, the excellent colonel hall, conceiving, i suppose, that our correspondence must necessarily involve a great expenditure of paper, has imparted to thy husband a quire or two of superfine gilt-edged, which he brought from congress. the sheet on which i am now writing is a specimen; and he charged me to give thee a portion of it, which i promised to do--but whether i shall convey it to thee in the mass, or sheet by sheet, after spoiling it with my uncouth scribble, is yet undetermined. which wouldst thou prefer? likewise three sticks of sealing-[wax] did the good colonel bestow; but unfortunately it is all red. yet i think it proper enough that a gentleman should seal all his letters with red sealing-wax; though it is sweet and graceful in my dove to use fancy-colored. dearest, the paper thou shalt have, every sheet of it, sooner or later; and only that it is so burthensome to thy foolish husband to carry anything in his hand, i would bring it to thee. meantime, till i hit upon some other method, i will send it sheet by sheet. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _custom-house_, april 6th, 1840. 5 p.m. how long it is, belovedest, since i have written thee a letter from this darksome region. never did i write thee a word from hence that was worth reading, nor shall i now; but perhaps thou wouldst get no word at all, these two or three days, unless i write it here. this evening, dearest, i am to have a visitor--the illustrious colonel hall himself; and i have even promised him a bed on my parlor floor--so that, as thou seest, the duties of hospitality will keep me from communion with the best little wife in the world. hearts never do understand the mystery of separation--that is the business of the head. my sweetest, dearest, purest, holiest, noblest, faithfullest wife, dost thou know what a loving husband thou hast? dost thou love him most immensely?--beyond conception, and dost thou feel, as he does, that every new throb of love is worth all other happiness in the world? dearest, my soul drank thy letter this forenoon, and has been conscious of it ever since, in the midst of business and noise and all sorts of wearisome babble. how dreamlike it makes all my external life, this continual thought and deepest, inmostest musing upon thee! i live only within myself; for thou art always there. thou makest me a disembodied spirit; and with the eve of a spirit, i look on all worldly things--and this it [is] that separates thy husband from those who seem to be his fellows--therefore is he "among them, but not of them." thou art transfused into his heart, and spread all round about it; and it is only once in a while that he himself is even imperfectly conscious of what a miracle has been wrought upon him. well, dearest, were ever such words as these written in a custom-house before? oh, and what a mighty heave my heart has given, this very moment! thou art most assuredly thinking of me now, wife of my inmost bosom. never did i know what love was before--i did not even know it when i began this letter. ah, but i ought not to say that; it would make me sad to believe that i had not always loved thee. farewell, now, dearest. be quiet, my dove; lest my heart be made to flutter by the fluttering of thy wings. april 7th. 6 p.m. my tenderest dove, hast thou lived through the polar winter of to-day; for it does appear to me to have been the most uncomfortable day that ever was inflicted on poor mortals. thy husband has had to face it in all its terrors; and the cold has penetrated through his cloak, through his beaver-cloth coat and vest, and was neutralised nowhere but in the region round about his heart--and that it did not chill him even there, he owes to thee. i know not whether i should not have jumped overboard in despair today, if i had not sustained my spirit by the thought of thee, most beloved wife; for, besides the bleak, unkindly air, i have been plagued by two sets of coal-shovellers at the same time, and have had to keep two separate tallies simultaneously. but, dearest, i was conscious that all this was merely a vision and a phantasy, and that, in reality, i was not half-frozen by the bitter blast, nor plagued to death by those grimy coal-heavers, but that i was basking quietly in the sunshine of eternity, with mine own dove. any sort of bodily and earthly torment may serve to make us sensible that we have a soul that is not within the jurisdiction of such shadowy demons--it separates the immortal within us from the mortal. but the wind has blown my brain into such confusion that i cannot philosophise now. blessingest wife, what a habit i have contracted of late, of telling thee all my grievances and annoyances, as if such trifles were worth telling--or as if, supposing them to be so, they would be the most agreeable gossip in the world to thee. thou makest me behave like a child, naughtiest. why dost thou not frown at my nonsensical complaints, and utterly refuse thy sympathy? but i speak to thee of the miseries of a cold day, and blustering wind, and intractable coal-shovellers, with just the same certainty that thou wilt listen lovingly and sympathisingly, as if i were speaking of the momentous and permanent concerns of life. dearest, ... (portion of letter missing) i do not think that i can come on friday--there is hardly any likelihood of it; for one of the measurers is indisposed, which throws additional work on the efficient members of our honorable body. but there is no expressing how i do yearn for thee! the strength of the feeling seems to make my words cold and tame. dearest, this is but a poor epistle, yet is written in very great love and worship of thee--so, for the writer's sake, thou wilt receive it into thy heart of hearts. god keep thee--and me also for thy sake. thine ownest. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _boston_, april 15th, 1840.--afternoon. belovedest--since writing this word, i have made a considerable pause; for, dearest, my mind has no activity to-day. i would fain sit still, and let thoughts, feelings, and images of thee, pass before me and through me, without my putting them into words, or taking any other trouble about the matter. it must be that thou dost not especially and exceedingly need a letter from me; else i should feel an impulse and necessity to write. i do wish, most beloved wife, that there were some other method of communing with thee at a distance; for really this is not a natural one to thy husband. in truth, i never use words, either with the tongue or pen, when i can possibly express myself in any other way;--and how much, dearest, may be expressed without the utterance of a word! is there not a volume in many of our glances?--even in a pressure of the hand? and when i write to thee, i do but painfully endeavor to shadow into words what has already been expressed in those realities. in heaven, i am very sure, there will be no occasion for words;--our minds will enter into each other, and silently possess themselves of their natural riches. even in this world, i think, such a process is not altogether impossible--we ourselves have experienced it--but words come like an earthy wall betwixt us. then our minds are compelled to stand apart, and make signals of our meaning, instead of rushing into one another, and holding converse in an infinite and eternal language. oh, dearest, have [not] the moments of our oneness been those in which we were most silent? it is our instinct to be silent then, because words could not adequately express the perfect concord of our hearts, and therefore would infringe upon it. well, ownest, good bye till tomorrow, when perhaps thy husband will feel a necessity to use even such a wretched medium as words, to tell thee how he loves thee. no words can tell it now. april 15th. afternoon.--most dear wife, never was thy husband gladder to receive a letter from thee than to-day. and so thou didst perceive that i was rather out of spirits on monday. foolish and faithless husband that i was, i supposed that thou wouldst not take any notice of it; but the simple fact was, that i did not feel quite so well as usual; and said nothing about it to thee, because i knew thou wouldst desire me to put off my departure, which (for such a trifle) i felt it not right to do--and likewise, because my dove would have been naughty, and so perhaps have made herself ten times as ill as her husband. dearest, i am quite well now--only very hungry; for i have thought fit to eat very little for two days past; and i think starvation is a remedy for almost all physical evils. you will love colonel hall, when i tell you that he has not let me do a ... (few words missing) ... and even to-day he has sent me home to my room, although i assured him that i was perfectly able to work. now, dearest, it thou givest thyself any trouble and torment about this past indisposition of mine, i shall never dare to tell thee about my future incommodities; but if i were sure thou wouldst estimate them at no more than they are worth, thou shouldst know them all, even to the slightest prick of my finger. it is my impulse to complain to thee in all griefs, great and small; and i will not check that impulse, if thou wilt sympathise reasonably, as well as most lovingly. and now, ownest wife, believe that thy husband is well;--better, i fear, than thou, who art tired to death, and hast even had the headache. naughtiest, dost thou think that all the busts in the world, and all the medallions and other forms of sculpture, would be worth creating at the expence of such weariness and headaches to thee. i would rather that thy art should be annihilated, than that thou shouldst always pay this price for its exercise. but perhaps, when thou hast my bosom to repose upon, thou wilt no longer feel such overwhelming weariness. i am given thee to repose upon, that so my most tender and sensitivest little dove may be able to do great works. and dearest, i do by no means undervalue thy works, though i cannot estimate all thou hast ever done at the price of a single throb of anguish to thy belovedest head. but thou has achieved mighty things. thou hast called up a face which was hidden in the grave--hast re-created it, after it was resolved to dust--and so hast snatched from death his victory. i wonder at thee, my beloved. thou art a miracle thyself, and workest miracles. i would not have believed it possible to do what thou hast done--to restore the lineaments of the dead so perfectly that even she who loved him so well can require nothing more;--and this too, when thou hadst hardly known his living face. thou couldst not have done it, unless god had helped thee. this surely was inspiration, and of the holiest kind, and for one of the holiest purposes. dearest, i shall long to see thee exceedingly next saturday; but having been absent from duty for two or three days past it will not be right for me to ask any more time so soon. dost thou think it would? how naughty was thy husband to waste the first page of this letter in declaiming against the blessed art of writing! i do not see how i could live without it;--thy letters are my heart's food; and oftentimes my heart absolutely insists upon pouring itself out on paper, for thy perusal. in truth, if the heart would do all the work, i should probably write to thee the whole time of my absence; but thou knowest that the co-operation of the hand and head are indispensable; and they, not being able to comprehend the infinite necessity of the heart's finding utterance, are sometimes sluggish. april 17th.--before breakfast.--ownest, i am perfectly well this morning. dost thou love me? dearest, expect not another letter till tuesday. is thy weariness quite gone? thine ownest, ownest husband. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _boston_, april 19th, 1840.--forenoon. dearest, there came no letter from thee yesterday; and i have been a little disquieted with fears that thou art not well and art naughty enough to conceal it from thy husband. but this is a misdemeanor of which my dove ought not to be lightly suspected. or perhaps, ownest wife, thou didst imagine that i might mean to surprise thee by a visit, last evening, and therefore, instead of writing, didst hope to commune with me in living words. best belovedest, if i could have come, i would have given thee notice beforehand; for i love not surprises, even joyful ones--or at least, i would rather that joy should come quietly, and as a matter of course, and warning us of its approach by casting a placid gleam before it. mine own wife, art thou very well? thy husband is so, only love-sick--a disease only to be cured by the pressure of a certain heart to his own heart. belovedest, what a beautiful day was yesterday. wert thou abroad in the sky and air? thy husband's spirit did rebel against being confined in his darksome dungeon, at the custom-house; it seemed a sin--a murder of the joyful young day--a quenching of the sunshine. nevertheless, there he was kept a prisoner,--till it was too late to fling himself on a gentle wind and be blown away into the country. i foresee, dearest, that thou wilt, now that the pleasant days of may and june are coming, be tormented quite beyond thine infinite patience, with my groans and lamentations at being compelled to lose so much of life's scanty summertime. but thou must enjoy for both of us. thou must listen to the notes of the birds, because the rumbling of wheels will be always in my ears--thou must fill thyself with the fragrance of wild flowers, because i must breathe in the dust of the city--thy spirit must enjoy a double share of freedom, because thy husband is doomed to be a captive. it is thine office now, most sweet wife, to make all the additions that may be made to our common stock of enjoyment. by and bye, there shall not be so heavy burthen imposed upon thee. when i shall be again free, i will enjoy all things with the fresh simplicity of a child of five years old; thou shalt find thine husband grown young again, made over all anew--he will go forth and stand in a summer shower, and all the worldly dust that has collected on him shall be washed away at once. then, dearest, whenever thou art aweary, thou shalt lie down upon his heart as upon a bank of fresh flowers. nearly 6--p.m. thy husband went out to walk, dearest, about an hour ago, and found it very pleasant, though there was a somewhat cool wind. i went round and across the common, and stood on the highest point of it, whence i could see miles and miles into the country. blessed be god for this green tract, and the view which it affords; whereby we poor citizens may be put in mind, sometimes, that all god's earth is not composed of brick blocks of houses, and of stone or wooden pavements. blessed be god for the sky too; though the smoke of the city may somewhat change its aspect--but still it is better than if each street were covered over with a roof. there were a good many people walking on the mall, mechanicks apparently and shopkeepers' clerks, with their wives and sweethearts; and boys were rolling on the grass--and thy husband would have liked to lie down and roll too. wouldst thou not have been ashamed of him? and, oh, dearest, thou shouldst have been there, to help me to enjoy the green grass, and the far-off hills and fields--to teach me how to enjoy them, for when i view nature without thee, i feel that i lack a sense. when we are together, thy whole mind and fancy, as well as thy whole heart, is mine; so that all thy impressions from earth, sea, and sky, are added to all mine. how necessary hast thou made thyself to thy husband, my little dove! when he is weary and out of spirits, his heart yearneth for thee; and when he is among pleasant scenes, he requireth thee so much the more. my dearest, why didst thou not write to me, yesterday? it were always advisable, methinks, to arrange matters so that a letter may be sent on each saturday, when i am not coming home; because sunday leaves me free to muse upon thee, and to imagine the state and circumstances in which thou art--and the present sunday i have been troubled with fancies that thou art ill of body or ill at ease in mind. do not thou have any such foolish fancies about me, mine ownest. oh, how we find, at every moment of our lives, that we ought always to be together! then there would be none of these needless heartquakes; but now how can they be avoided, when we mutually feel that one-half our being is wandering away by itself, without the guidance and guard of the other half! well; it will not be always so. doubtless, god has planned how to make us happy; but thy husband, being of a rebellious and distrustful nature, cannot help wishing sometimes that our father would let him into his plans. to miss peabody _boston_, april 21st, 1840.--custom-house. i do trust, my dearest, that thou hast been enjoying this bright day for both of us; for thy husband has spent it in his dungeon--and the only ray of light that broke upon him, was when he opened thy letter. belovedest, i have folded it to my heart, and ever and anon it sends a thrill through me; for thou hast steeped it with thy love--it seems as if thy head were leaning against my breast. i long to get home, that i may read it again and again; for in this uncongenial region, i can but half comprehend it--at least, i feel that there is a richness and sweetness in it, too sacred to be enjoyed, save in privacy. dearest wife, thy poor husband is sometimes driven to wish that thou and he could mount upon a cloud (as we used to fancy in those heavenly walks of ours) and be borne quite out of sight and hearing of all the world;--then, at last, our souls might melt into each other; but now, all the people in the world seem to come between us. how happy were adam and eve! there was no third person to come between them, and all the infinity around them only served to press their hearts closer together. we love [one] another as well as they: but there is no silent and lovely garden of eden for us. mine own, wilt thou sail away with me to discover some summer island?--dost thou not think that god has reserved one for us, ever since the beginning of the world? ah, foolish husband that i am, to raise a question of it, when we have found such an eden, such an island sacred to us two, whenever, whether in mrs. quincy's boudoir, or anywhere else, we have been clasped in one another's arms! that holy circle shuts out all the world--then we are the adam and eve of a virgin earth. now good-bye dearest; for voices are babbling around me, and i should not wonder if thou wert to hear the echo of them, while thou readest this letter. april 22d--6 o'clock p.m. to-day, dearest, i have been measuring salt, on long-wharf; and though considerably weary, i feel better satisfied than if i had been murdering the blessed day at the custom-house. mine own wife, how very good wast thou, to take me with thee on that sweet walk, last monday! and how kind-hearted was that sensible old stump! thou enquirest whether i ever heard a stump speak before. no, indeed; but "stump-speeches" (as thou mayst learn in the newspapers) are very common in the western country. belovedest, i have met with an immense misfortune. dost thou sympathise from the bottom of thy heart? wouldst thou take it upon thyself, if possible? yea; i know thou wouldst, even without asking the nature of it; and truth to tell, i could be selfish enough to wish that thou mightest share it with me. now art thou all in a fever of anxiety! i feel the fluttering of thy foolish little heart. shall i tell thee? no.--yes; i will. i have received an invitation to a party at general mcneil's, next friday evening. why will not people let your poor persecuted husband alone? what possible good can it do for me to thrust my coal-begrimed visage and salt-befrosted locks into good society? what claim have i to be there--a humble measurer, a subordinate custom-house officer, as i am! i cannot go. i will not go. i intend to pass that evening with my wife--that is to say, in musings and dreams of her, and moreover, it was an exceeding breach of etiquette, that this belovedest wife was not included in the invitation. my duties began at sunrise, after a somewhat scanty night's rest; for george hillard and his brother, from london, came to see me, when i was preparing to go [to] bed; and i was kept up pretty late. but i came home at about four o'clock, and straightway went to bed! what a sinful way was that of misusing this summer afternoon! i trust, most dear wife, that the better half of my being has drawn from the sweet day all the honey that it contained. i feel as if it were not so much matter, now, whether my days pass pleasantly or irksomely, since thou canst be living a golden life for both of us. sometime or other, we will contribute each an equal share of enjoyment. dearest, thou knowest not how i have yearned for thee. and now there is but one day more of widowhood! sophie hawthorne must not expect me any more on fridays, till the busy season is over. if i can always come on the appointed saturday, it will be a great mercy of heaven; but i trust in heaven's goodness, and the instrumentality of colonel hall. now god bless thee, ownest wife. god bless us. to miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _boston_, may 15th, 1840. _darlingest_, i did not reach home last night till candle-light, and then i was beyond expression weary and spiritless; and i could as soon have climbed into heaven without a ladder, as to come to see thee at mrs. park's. so, instead of dressing to pay a visit, i undressed and went to bed; but yet i doubt whether i ought not to have gone, for i was restless and wakeful a great part of the night; and it seemed as if i had scarcely fallen asleep, when i awoke with a start, and saw the gray dawn creeping over the roofs of the houses. so then it was necessary for thy poor husband to leave his pillow, without enjoying that half-dreaming interval which i so delight to devote to thee. however the fresh morning air made a new creature of me; and all day i have felt tolerably lively and cheerful--as much so as is anywise consistent with this intolerable position of near distance, or distant nearness, in which we now find ourselves. truly providence does not seem to have smiled on this visit of thine, my dearest. the dispensation is somewhat hard to bear. there is a weight and a gnawing at my heart; but, belovedest, do let thy heart be cheerful, for thy husband's sake. very reviving to me was thy letter, mine ownest. colonel hall brought it at noon to the eating-house where we had agreed to dine together; and i forthwith opened it and read it while my beefsteak was broiling. it refreshed me much more than my dinner--which is a great deal for a hungry man to say. dearest, i am in admirable health; it is not the nature of my present mode of life to make me sick; and my nightly weariness does not betoken anything of that kind. each day, it is true, exhausts all the life and animation that there is in me; but each night restores as much as will be required for the expenditure of the next day. i think this week has been about as tough as any that i ever experienced. i feel the burthen of such constant occupation the more sensibly, from having had so many idle intervals of late. oh, dearest, do not thou tire thyself to death. whenever thou feelest weary, then oughtest thou to glide away from all the world; and go to sleep with the thought of thy husband in thy heart. why do not people know better what is requisite for a dove, than thus to keep her wings fluttering all day long, never allowing her a moment to fold them in peace and quietness? i am anxious for thee, mine ownest wife. when i have the sole charge of thee, these things shall not be. belovedest, didst thou not bless this shower? it caused thy husband's labors to cease for the day, though it confined him in the cabin of the salt-ship till it was over; but when the drops came few and far between, i journeyed hither to our parlor, and began this scribble. really i did not think my ideas would be alert enough to write half so much; but i have scrawled one line after another; and now i feel much revived, and soothed and cheered in mind. i shall sleep the more quietly, sweetest wife, for having had this talk with thee--thou wilt bless my sleep. i wish that thou couldst receive this letter to-night, because i am sure thou needest it. let me know, mine ownest, what time thou intendest to go to salem; and if it be possible, i will come to the depot to see thee. but do not expect me too fervently, because there are many chances that it will not be in my power. what a time this has been for my dove and me! never, since we were married, have the fates been so perverse. and now farewell, my dearest, dearest wife, on whom i repose, in whom i am blest--whom i love with all the heart that is in me, and will love more and more forever, as i grow more worthy to love thee. be happy, dearest; for my happiness must come through thee. god bless thee, and let me feel his blessing through thy heart. thy lovingest husband- de l'aubepine. to miss peabody _boston_, may 19th, 1840 _my dearest_, where in the world art thou?--or hast thou flown away to paradise, naughtiest dove, without bidding thy husband farewell? i know not whereabout this letter will find thee; but i throw it upon the winds in the confidence that some breeze of heaven will bear it to thee; for i suppose heart never spoke to heart, without being heard, and sooner or later finding a response. perhaps some hearts that speak to other hearts here on earth may find no response till they have passed far into eternity; but our hearts catch each other's whispers even here. happy we! but, belovedest, how is it that thou hast sent me no token of thy existence, since we parted on the hoopers' doorstep, when thou didst press my hand without a word? it seems an age since then. thou saidst, on sunday, that thou shouldst probably return to salem to-day; but surely thou hast not gone. i feel lonely and not cheerful--my spirit knows not whereabout to seek thee, and so it shivers as if there were no _thou_ at all--as if my dove had been only a dream and a vision, and now had vanished into unreality and nothingness. but tomorrow i shall surely hear from thee: and even should it be otherwise, i shall yet know, with everlasting faith, that my dove's heart has been trying to make me sensible of its embraces all this time. my dearest, was not that a sweet time--that sabbath afternoon and eve? but why didst thou look up in my face, as we walked, and ask why i was so grave? if i was grave i know no cause for it, beloved. lights and shadows are continually flitting across my inward sky, and i know neither whence they come nor whither they go; nor do i inquire too closely into them. it is dangerous to look too minutely at such phenomena. it is apt to create a substance, where at first there was a mere shadow. if at any time, dearest wife, there should seem--though to me there never does--but if there should ever seem to be an expression unintelligible from one of our souls to another, we will not strive to interpret it into earthly language, but wait for the soul to make itself understood; and were we to wait a thousand years, we need deem it no more time than we can spare. i speak only in reference to such dim and intangible matters as that which suggested this passage of my letter. it is not that i have any love for mystery; but because i abhor it--and because i have felt, a thousand times, that words may be a thick and darksome veil of mystery between the soul and the truth which it seeks. wretched were we, indeed, if we had no better means of communicating ourselves, no fairer garb in which to array our essential selves, than these poor rags and tatters of babel. yet words are not without their use, even for purposes of explanation,--but merely for explaining outward acts, and all sorts of external things, leaving the soul's life and action to explain itself in its own way. my belovedest, what a misty disquisition have i scribbled! i would not read it over for sixpence. think not that i supposed it necessary to sermonize thee so; but the sermon created itself from sentence to sentence; and being written, thou knowest that it belongs to thee, and i have no right to keep it back. dearest, i was up very early this morning, and have had a good deal to do, especially this afternoon. let me plead this excuse for my dulness and mistiness. i suspect that, hereafter, my little dove will know how to estimate the difficulty of pouring one's self out in a soul-written letter, amid the distractions of business and society--she herself having experienced these checks upon her outpourings. now good bye, mine ownest wife. god bless us both--or may god bless either of us, and that one will bless the other. dost thou sleep well now-a-nights, belovedest? of whom dost thou dream? thy husband's long days and short nights hardly leave him time to dream. thine ownest. dearest, just as i was folding this letter, came thy note. do thou be at the depot as soon as possible after eleven; and i will move heaven and earth to meet thee there. perhaps a little before eleven. miss sophia a. peabody, south street. to miss peabody _boston_, may 29th, 1840.--6 p.m. _my dearest_, rejoice with thy husband, for he is free from a load of coal, which has been pressing upon his shoulders throughout all this hot weather. i am convinced that christian's burthen consisted of coal; and no wonder he felt so much relieved when it fell off and rolled into the sepulchre. his load, however, at the utmost, could not have been more than a few bushels; whereas mine was exactly one hundred and thirty-five chaldrons and seven tubs.... oh, my dearest, i feel the stroke upon mine own head. except through thee, i can never feel any torment of that nature; for all these burning suns have blazed upon my head, unprotected except by a black hat, and yet i have felt no more inconvenience than if i had been sitting in the pleasant gloom of a dewy grot. belovedest, be a great deal more careful of thyself. remember always that thou art not thine own, but that providence has entrusted to thy keeping a most delicate physical frame, which belongs wholly to me, and which therefore thou must keep with infinitely more care than thou wouldst the most precious jewel. and yet, i would not have thee anxious and watchful like an invalid; but thou shouldst consider that thou wert created to dwell nowhere but in the clime of paradise, and wast only placed upon this earth, because thy husband is here and cannot do without thee--and that east-winds and fierce suns are evil unknown in thy native region, and therefore thy frame was not so constructed as to resist them; wherefore thine own wise precautions must be thy safeguard. blessedest, i kiss thy brow,--at least, i kiss the air thrice; and if none of the three kisses reach thee, then three very precious things will have gone forth from my heart in vain. but if any of thy headache and bewilderment have remained hitherto, and now thou feelest somewhat like a breath of heaven on thy brow, we will take it for granted that my kisses have found thee out. good bye now, dearest wife; for i am weary and stupid; and as i need not be at the custom-house before eight or nine o'clock tomorrow, thou shalt have the rest of the letter freshly written in the morning. now it will be lucky for thee if thou gettest the last page of this letter entirely full. dearest, thy last letter had the fragrance of a bank of violets--yea, all sorts of sweet smelling flowers and perfumed shrubs. i can lie down and repose upon it, as upon a bed of roses. it rejoices me to think that my whole being is not enveloped with coal-dust, but that its better half is breathing the breath of flowers. oh, do be very happy, mine ownest wife, and fill thyself with all gentle pleasures that lie within thy reach; because at present thou hast a double duty to perform in this respect; since, so far as my enjoyments depend on external things, i can contribute nothing to the common stock of happiness. and yet dearest, nothing that i ever enjoyed before can come into the remotest comparison with my continual enjoyment of thy love--with the deep, satisfied repose which that consciousness brings to me; a repose subsisting, and ever to subsist, in the midst of all anxieties, troubles and agitations. belovedest, i sometimes wish that thou couldst be with [me] on board my salt-vessels and colliers; because there are many things of which thou mightst make such pretty descriptions; and in future years, when thy husband is again busy at the loom of fiction, he would weave in these little pictures. my fancy is rendered so torpid by my ungenial way of life, that i cannot sketch off the scenes and portraits that interest me; and i am forced to trust them to my memory, with the hope of recalling them at some more favorable period. for three or four days past, i have been observing a little mediterranean boy, from malaga, not more than ten or eleven years old, but who is already a citizen of the world, and seems to be just as gay and contented on the deck of a yankee coal-vessel, as he could be while playing beside his mother's door. it is really touching to see how free and happy he is--how the little fellow takes this whole wide world for his home, and all mankind for his family. he talks spanish--at least, that is his native tongue; but he is also very intelligible in english, and perhaps he likewise has smatterings of the speech of other countries, whither the winds may have wafted this little sea-bird. he is a catholic; and yesterday, being friday, he caught some fish and fried them for his dinner, in sweet oil; and really they looked so delicate that i almost wished he would invite me to partake. every once in a while, he undresses himself and leaps overboard, plunging down beneath the waves, as if the sea were as native to him as the earth; then he runs up the rigging of the vessel, as if he meant to fly away through the air. do thou remember this little boy, dearest, and tell me of him one of these days; and perhaps i may make something more beautiful of him than thou wouldst think from these rough and imperfect touches. belovedest, is thy head quite well? art thou very beautiful now? dost thou love me infinitely? miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody _boston_, june 2d, 1840--before breakfast _my dearest_, thy friday's letter came in due season to the custom-house; but colonel hall could not find time to bring it to the remote region of the earth, where i was then an exile; so that it awaited me till the next morning. at noon, came thy next letter, at an interval of several hours from the receipt of the former--a space quite long enough to be interposed between thy missives. and yesterday arrived thy letter of the sabbath--and all three are very precious to thy husband; and the oftener they come the more he needs them. now i must go down to breakfast. dost thou not wonder at finding me scribbling between seven and eight o'clock in the morning? i do believe, naughtiest, that thou hast been praying for the non-arrival of salt and coal--not considering that, if thy petitions are heard, the poor measurers will not earn a sixpence. belovedest, i know not what counsel to give thee about calling on my sisters; and therefore must leave the matter to thine own exquisite sense of what is right and delicate. we will talk it over at an early opportunity. i think i can partly understand why they appear cool towards thee; but it is for nothing in thyself personally, nor for any unkindness towards my dove, whom everybody must feel to be the loveablest being in the world. but there are some untoward circumstances. nevertheless, i have faith that all will be well, and that they will receive sophie hawthorne and the dove into their heart of hearts; so let us wait patiently on providence, as we always have, and see what time will bring forth. and, my dearest, whenever thou feelest disquieted about things of this sort--if ever that be the case--do thou speak freely to thy husband; for these are matters in which words may be of use, because they concern the relations between ourselves and others. now, good bye, belovedest, till night. i perceive that the sun is shining dimly; but i fear that there is still an east wind to keep my dove in her dove-cote. towards night--ownest wife, the day has been spent without much pleasure or profit--a part of the time at the custom-house, waiting there for the chance of work,--partly at the athenaeum, and partly at a bookstore, looking for something suitable for our library. among other recent purchases, i have bought a very good edition of milton (his poetry) in two octavo volumes; and i saw a huge new london volume of his prose works, but it seemed to me that there was but a small portion of it that thou and i should ever care about reading--so i left it on the shelf. dearest, i have bought some lithographic prints at auction, which i mean to send thee, that thou mayst show them to thy husband, the next afternoon that thou permittest him to spend with thee. thou art not to expect anything very splendid; for i did not enter the auction-room till a large part of the collection was sold; so that my choice was limited. perhaps there are one or two not altogether unworthy to be put on the walls of our sanctuary; but this i leave to thy finer judgment. i would thou couldst peep into my room and see thine own pictures, from which i have removed the black veils; and there is no telling how much brighter and cheerfuller the parlor looks now, whenever i enter it. belovedest, i love thee very especially much today. but then that naughty sophie hawthorne--it would be out of the question to treat her with tenderness. nothing shall she get from me, at my next visit, save a kiss upon her nose; and i should not wonder it she were to return the favor with a buffet upon my ear. mine own dove, how unhappy art thou to be linked with such a mate!--to be bound up in the same volume with her!--and me unhappy, too, to be forced to keep such a turbulent little rebel in my inmost heart! dost thou not think she might be persuaded to withdraw herself, quietly, and take up her residence somewhere else? oh, what an idea! it makes my heart close its valves and embrace her the more closely. well, dearest, it is breakfast time, and thy husband hath an appetite. what dost thou eat for breakfast?--but i know well enough that thou never eatest anything but bread and milk and chickens. dost thou love pigeons in a pie? i am fonder of dove than anything else--it is my heart's food and sole sustenance. god bless us. thine own husband. to miss peabody _boston_, june 11th, 1840--5 or 6 p.m. _my blessedest_, thou hast strayed quite out of the sphere of my imagination, and i know not how to represent thy whereabout, any more than if thou hadst gone on pilgrimage beyond the sea, or to the moon. dost thou still love me, in all thy wanderings? are there any east-winds there? truly, now that thou hast escaped beyond its jurisdiction, i could wish that the east wind would blow every day, from ten o'clock till five; for there is great refreshment in it for us poor mortals that toil beneath the sun. dearest, thou must not think too unkindly even of the east-wind. it is not, perhaps, a wind to be loved, even in its benignest moods; but there are seasons when i delight to feel its breath upon my cheek, though it be never advisable to throw open my bosom and take it into my heart, as i would its gentle sisters of the south and west. to-day, if i had been on the wharves, the slight chill of an east wind would have been a blessing, like the chill of death to a world-weary man. but, dearest, thou wilt rejoice to hear that this has been one of the very idlest days that i ever spent in boston. oh, hadst thou been here! in the morning, soon after breakfast, i went to the athenaeum gallery; and during the hour or two that i stayed, not a single visitor came in. some people were putting up paintings in one division of the room; but we might have had the other all to ourselves--thy husband had it all to himself--or rather, he did not have it, nor possess it in fulness and reality, because thou wast not there. i cannot see pictures without thee; so thou must not expect me to criticise this exhibition. there are two pictures there by our friend (thy friend--and is it not the same thing?) sarah clark--scenes in kentucky. doubtless i shall find them very admirable, when we have looked at them together. the gallery of sculpture i shall not visit, unless i can be there with thee. from the picture gallery i went to the reading-room of the athenaeum, and there read the magazines till nearly twelve--thence to the custom-house, and soon afterwards to dinner with colonel hall--then back to the custom-house, but only for a little while. there was nothing in the world to do, and so, at two o'clock, i came home and lay down on the bed, with the faery queen in my hand, and my dove in my heart. soon a pleasant slumber came over me; it was not a deep, sound sleep, but a slumbrous withdrawing of myself from the external world. whether thou camest to me in a dream, i cannot tell; but thou didst peep at me through all the interstices of sleep. after i awoke, i did not take up the faery queen again, but lay thinking of thee, and at last bestirred myself and got up to write this letter. my belovedest wife, does it not make thee happy to think that thy husband has escaped, for one whole summer day, from his burthen of salt and coal, and has been almost as idle as ever his idle nature could desire?--and this, too, on one of the longest days of all the year! oh, could i have spent it in some shady nook, with mine own wife! now good-bye, blessedest. so indolent is thy husband, that he intends now to relieve himself even from the sweet toil of shaping his thoughts of thee into written words; moreover, there is no present need of it, because i am not to be at the custom-house very early, and can finish this letter tomorrow morning. good-bye, dearest, and keep a quiet heart. june 12th. â½ past 7 a.m.--belovedest, art thou not going to be very happy to-day? i hope so, and believe so; and, dearest, if thou findest thyself comfortable at concord--and if the emersonians love thee and admire thee as they ought--do not thou too stubbornly refuse to stay a week longer than the term first assigned. (remainder of letter missing) to miss peabody _boston_, june 22d, (monday) â½ past 4 [1840] ownest, colonel hall put thy letter into my hand at our eating-house, so that its reception was timed very like that of mine to thee; but thy husband cared not for ceremony, nor for the presence of fifty people, but straightway broke the "long-legged little fowl" asunder and began to read. belovedest, what a letter! never was so much beauty poured out of any heart before; and to read it over and over is like bathing my brow in a fresh fountain, and drinking draughts that renew the life within me. nature is kind and motherly to thee, and taketh thee into her inmost heart and cherisheth thee there, because thou lookest on her with holy and loving eyes. my dearest, how canst thou say that i have ever written anything beautiful, being thyself so potent to reproduce whatever is loveliest? if i did not know that thou lovest me, i should even be ashamed before thee. sweetest wife, it gladdens me likewise that thou meetest with such sympathy there, and that thy friends have faith that thy husband is worthy of thee, because they see that thy wise heart could not have gone astray. worthy of thee i am not; but thou wilt make me so; for there will be time, or eternity enough, for thy blessed influence to work upon me. would that we could build our cottage this very now, this very summer, amid the scenes which thou describest. my heart thirsts and languishes to be there, away from the hot sun and the coal-dust and the steaming docks, and the thick-pated, stubborn, contentious men, with whom i brawl from morning till night, and all the weary toil which quite engrosses me, and yet occupies only a part of my being which i did not know existed before i became a measurer. i do think that i should sink down quite disheartened and inanimate if thou wert not happy, and gathering from earth and sky enjoyment for both of us; but this makes me feel that my real, innermost soul is apart from all these unlovely circumstances,--and that it has not ceased to exist, as i might sometimes suspect, but is nourished and kept alive through thee. belovedest, if thou findest it good to be there, why wilt thou not stay even a little longer than this week? thou knowest not what comfort i have in thinking of thee and those beautiful scenes; where the east wind cometh not, and amid those sympathizing hearts, which perhaps thou wilt not find elsewhere--at least not everywhere. i feel as if thou hadst found a haven of peace and rest, where i can trust thee without disquiet, and feel that thou art safe. it thou art well and happy, if thy cheek is becoming rosier, if thy step is light and joyous there, and if thy heart makes pleasant music, then is it not better for thee to stay a little longer? and if better for thee, it is so for thy husband likewise. now, ownest wife, i do not press thee to stay, but leave it all to thy wisdom, and if thou feelest that it is now time to come home, most gladly will he welcome thee. dearest, i meant to have written to thee yesterday afternoon, so that thou shouldst have received the letter today, but mrs. hillard pressed her husband and myself to take a walk into the country, because his health needed such an excursion. so, after taking a nap, we set forth over the western avenue--a dreary, treeless, fierce-sunshiny, irksome road; but after journeying three or four or five miles, we came to some of the loveliest rural scenery--yes, the very loveliest--that ever i saw in my life. the first part of our road was like the life of toil and weariness that i am now leading; the latter part was like the life that we will lead hereafter. would that i had thy pen, and i would give thee pictures of beauty to match thine own; but i should only mar my remembrance of them by the attempt. not a beautiful scene did i behold but i imaged thee in the midst of it--thou wast with me in all the walk, and when i sighed it was for thee, and when i smiled it was for thee, and when i trusted in future happiness, it was for thee; and if i did not doubt and fear, it was altogether because of thee. what else than happiness can god intend for thee?--and if thy happiness, then mine also. on our return, we stopped at braman's baths, and plunged in, and washed away all stains of earth, and became new creatures. dearest, i sympathize with thee in thy love of the bath, and conveniences for it must not be forgotten in our domestic arrangements. yet i am not entirely satisfied with any more contracted bath than the illimitable ocean; and to plunge into it is the next thing to soaring into the sky. this morning i rose early to finish measuring a load of coal, which being accomplished in the forenoon, and there being little prospect of anything more to do, colonel hall, who perceived that thy husband's energies were somewhat exhausted by the heat, and by much brawling with the coal-people, did send me home immediately after dinner. so then i took a nap, with a volume of spenser in my hand, and awaking at four, i re-re-reperused thy last letter, and sat down to pour myself out to thee, and in so doing, dearest wife, i have had great comfort. and now the afternoon is beautiful in its decline; but my feet are somewhat afflicted with yesterday's excursion; so that i am in doubt whether to go out again, although i should like a bath. belovedest, i must not forget to thank mr. emerson for his invitation to concord; but really it will not be in my power to accept it. do thou say this in the way it ought to be said, and let him know what a business-machine thy husband is. now, good-bye. art thou very happy? i trust so, dearest. thou hast our whole treasure of happiness in thy keeping. keep it safe, ownest wife, and add to it continually. god bless thee. miss sophia a. peabody, care of rev. r. w. emerson, concord, massachusetts. (forwarded, salem). to miss peabody _boston_, july 10th, 1840--morning _belovedest_, doubtless thou didst expect a letter from me yesterday; but my days have been so busy, and my evenings so invaded with visitants, that i have not had a moment's time to talk with thee. scarcely, till this morning, have i been able to read thy letter quietly. night before last, came mr. jones very; and thou knowest that he is somewhat unconscionable as to the length of his calls. yesterday i came home early; and had the fates been propitious, thou shouldst have had a long letter; but in the afternoon came mr. hillard's london brother, and wasted my precious hours with a dull talk of nothing; and in the evening i was sorely tried with mr. conolly, and a cambridge law-student, who came to do homage to thy husband's literary renown. so my sweetest wife was put aside for these idle people. i do wish the blockheads, and all other blockheads in this world, could comprehend how inestimable are the quiet hours of a busy man--especially when that man has no native impulse to keep him busy, but is continually forced to battle with his own nature, which yearns for seclusion (the solitude of a united two, my belovedest) and freedom to think, and dream, and feel. well, dearest, thy husband is in perfect health this morning, and good spirits; and much doth he rejoice that thou art so soon to be near him. no tongue can tell--no pen can write what i feel. belovedest, do not thou make thyself sick in the bustle of removing; for i think that there is nothing more trying, even to a robust frame and rugged spirit, than the disturbance of such an occasion. now, good-bye; for i must hurry to the custom-house to see colonel hall, who is going out of town for two days, and will probably leave the administration of our department in my hands. god bless thee, belovedest;--and perhaps thou wilt receive another letter before thy advent, but do not thou count upon it. thine ownest husband, de l'aubepine. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, salem, mass. to miss peabody 54 pinckney st., august 9th [1840] _ownest dove_, i have almost forgotten how to write letters--not having put pen to paper for that purpose (or any other, indeed) since my last to thee; but i cannot help writing thee a few lines, now when i had hoped to be listening to thy sweetest voice. art thou much changed in this intervening time? is thy hair grown gray? art thou an old woman? truly, it does appear very, very long to thy husband--an incomputable period. belovedest, i had been out this forenoon; and when i returned, there was thy letter, lying on the threshold of my chamber-door. i had a presage of calamity, as soon as i saw it. had i known of this visit of thine aunt, i would have taken the opportunity to go to salem, and so we would have had next sunday to ourselves. does thine aunt say that thou lookest in magnificent health?--and that thou art very beautiful? if she has not yet said so thou shouldst ask her opinion on that point. belovedest, even if thine aunt curtis should stay a week, do not thou incommode thy mother and sisters by trying to arrange a meeting. it is very painful to me to disturb and derange anybody in the world. thou dost not say whether thou art very well to-day--and whether thou art light of heart. i beseech thee never to write me even the shortest note, without giving me a glimpse of thyself in the very moment of writing;--and yet, i leave it all to thee, and withdraw this last petition. thou knowest best what to write; for thou art an inspired little penwoman. thy husband is to measure salt at the end of long wharf tomorrow, and the next day, and probably the next, and the next. it is as desirable a place and employment as a measurer can expect; so let thy visions of me be rather pleasurable than otherwise. i am in particularly good health; but my heart hungers for thee--nevertheless, i mean to be cheerful and content. do thou be so likewise, little dove--and naughty sophie hawthorne too. now, good-bye. this is a very empty letter--at least, it would be so, if it had not an infinite love in it. god bless thee. miss sophia a. peabody, no. 13 west street, boston. to miss peabody 54 pinckney st. august 24th, â¼ past 6 p.m. [1840] _own belovedest_, i had a presentiment of a letter from thee this morning; and so was not at all surprised when i saw thy father in the long, low, darksome room where thy husband was in durance. but i had not the least anticipation of the intelligence which thou didst send me; and it is the harder to be borne, because--(do not be naughty, ownest dove)--i have an indispensable engagement at cambridge tomorrow afternoon and evening; whereby our meeting must be delayed yet another day. dearest, do set me a lofty example of patience. be very good and very quiet, and enjoy thy aunt curtis's society to the utmost, and press her to stay with thee till wednesday at six o'clock. but not an hour longer! thou must absolutely eject [her] with thine own tender little hands, if she propose to tarry that night also. belovedest, i went to the hurley burley last evening; and considering that it was the first time i had been there without thee since we were married, i enjoyed it very well. we had a good deal of talk; but i missed thy gentle voice, which is surely the sweetest sound that was ever heard anywhere save in paradise. thy husband talked somewhat more than is his wont, but said nothing that is at all worth repeating; and i think he might as well have dispensed with saying anything. he shows his wisdom and policy much more in his general silence than in his occasional loquacity. dearest, if i had not so high a respect for thy judgment, i should pronounce thy husband but a tolerable person, at best; but as thou hast been impelled to give thy precious self to such a man, there must be more in him than ordinary eyes can perceive. miss burley proposed to me to write an address of some kind for the bunker-hill fair; but i manifested no readiness to comply--neither do i feel any. has my dove contributed anything? i went home in the midst of that beautiful rain, and sat up two hours with elizabeth and louisa. this has not been a toilsome day, my wife. indeed, i have had nothing to do; nor is it certain that i shall be employed tomorrow morning. quite unexpected is this lull amid the tempest of business. i left the custom-house at about four o'clock, and went to the bath, where i spent half an hour very deliciously. dearest, we must have all sorts of bathing conveniences in our establishment. thou art a water-spirit, like undine. and thy spirit is to mine a pure fountain, in which i bathe my brow and heart; and immediately all the fever of the world departs. thou art--but i cannot quite get hold of the idea that i meant to express; and as i want to leave a part of the page till tomorrow morning, i will stop here. god bless thee. i think i shall dream of thee to night, for i never loved thee so much. miss sophia a. peabody, no. 13 west street, boston. to miss peabody 54 pinckney st. sept. 18th, 1840. 8 o'clock p.m. _sweetest dove_, thy father, apparently, did not see fit to carry thy letter to the custom-house; and yet i think my intuition informed me that a letter was written; for i looked into the desk very eagerly, although colonel hall neither pointed with his finger nor glanced with his eye, as is his custom when anything very precious is in store. it reached me here in mine own tabernacle, about half an hour since, while i sat resting myself from the toils of the day, thinking of thee, my dove. thou didst make me happier, last evening, than i ever hoped to be, save in heaven--and still that same happiness is around me and within me. i am the happier for everything thou dost and sayest--thou canst not possibly act so that i will not love thee better and be the happier for that very individual action. dearest, it was necessary that i should speak to thee to-night; but thou must not look for such a golden letter as thou didst write this morning; for thy husband is tolerably weary, and has very few thoughts in his mind, though much love in his heart. i cannot do without thy voice--thou knowest not what a sweet influence it has upon me, even apart from the honied wisdom which thou utterest. it thou shouldst talk in an unknown tongue, i should listen with infinite satisfaction, and be much edified in spirit at least, if not in intellect. when thou speakest to me, there is mingled with those earthly words, which are mortal inventions, a far diviner language, which thy soul utters and my soul understands. ownest dove, i did not choose to go to malden this evening, to hear the political lecture which i told thee of; for, indeed, after toiling all day, it is rather too hard to be bothered with such nonsense at night. i have no desire to go anywhither, after sunset, save to see mine own wife; and as to lectures, i love none but "curtain lectures";--for such i suppose thine may be termed, although our beloved so far hath no curtains. dearest, when we live together, thou wilt find me a most tediously stay-at-home husband. thou wilt be compelled to rebuke and objurgate me, in order to gain the privilege of spending one or two evenings in a month by a solitary fireside. sweetest wife, i must bid thee farewell now, exhorting thee to be as happy as the angels; for thou art as good and holy as they, and have more merit in thy goodness than they have; because the angels have always dwelt in sinless heaven; whereas thy pilgrimage has been on earth, where many sin and go astray. i am ashamed of this letter; there is nothing in it worthy of being offered to my dove; but yet i shall send it; for a letter to one's beloved wife ought not to be kept back for any dimness of thought or feebleness of expression, any more than a prayer should be stifled in the soul, because the tongue of man cannot breathe it eloquently to the deity. love has its own omniscience; and what love speaks to love is comprehended in the same way that prayers are. ownest, dost thou not long very earnestly to see thy husband? well--thou shalt see him on monday night; and this very night he will come into thy dreams, if thou wilt admit him there. thy very lovingest, and very sleepiest, husband. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, boston. to miss peabody _salem_, oct. 4th, 1840--â½ past 10 a.m. _mine ownest_, here sits thy husband in his old accustomed chamber, where he used to sit in years gone by, before his soul became acquainted with thine. here i have written many tales--many that have been burned to ashes--many that doubtless deserved the same fate. this deserves to be called a haunted chamber, for thousands upon thousands of visions have appeared to me in it; and some few of them have become visible to the world. if ever i should have a biographer, he ought to make great mention of this chamber in my memoirs, because so much of my lonely youth was wasted here, and here my mind and character were formed; and here i have been glad and hopeful, and here i have been despondent; and here i sat a long, long time, waiting patiently for the world to know me, and sometimes wondering why it did not know me sooner, or whether it would ever know me at all--at least, till i were in my grave. and sometimes (for i had no wife then to keep my heart warm) it seemed as if i were already in the grave, with only life enough to be chilled and benumbed. but oftener i was happy--at least, as happy as i then knew how to be, or was aware of the possibility of being. by and bye, the world found me out in my lonely chamber, and called me forth--not, indeed, with a loud roar of acclamation, but rather with a still, small voice; and forth i went, but found nothing in the world that i thought preferable to my old solitude, till at length a certain dove was revealed to me, in the shadow of a seclusion as deep as my own had been. and i drew nearer and nearer to the dove, and opened my bosom to her, and she flitted into it, and closed her wings there--and there she nestles now and forever, keeping my heart warm, and renewing my life with her own. so now i begin to understand why i was imprisoned so many years in this lonely chamber, and why i could never break through the viewless bolts and bars; for if i had sooner made my escape into the world, i should have grown hard and rough, and been covered with earthly dust, and my heart would have become callous by rude encounters with the multitude; so that i should have been all unfit to shelter a heavenly dove in my arms. but living in solitude till the fulness of time was come, i still kept the dew of my youth and the freshness of my heart, and had these to offer to my dove. well, dearest, i had no notion what i was going to write, when i began, and indeed i doubted whether i should write anything at all; for after such communion as that of our last blissful evening, it seems as if a sheet of paper could only be a veil betwixt us. ownest, in the times that i have been speaking of, i used to think that i could imagine all passions, all feelings, all states of the heart and mind; but how little did i know what it is to be mingled with another's being! thou only hast taught me that i have a heart--thou only hast thrown a light deep downward, and upward, into my soul. thou only hast revealed me to myself; for without thy aid, my best knowledge of myself would have been merely to know my own shadow--to watch it flickering on the wall, and mistake its fantasies for my own real actions. indeed, we are but shadows--we are not endowed with real life, and all that seems most real about us is but the thinnest substance of a dream--till the heart is touched. that touch creates us--then we begin to be--thereby we are beings of reality, and inheritors of eternity. now, dearest, dost thou comprehend what thou hast done for me? and is it not a somewhat fearful thought, that a few slight circumstances might have prevented us from meeting, and then i should have returned to my solitude, sooner or later (probably now, when i have thrown down my burthen of coal and salt) and never should [have] been created at all! but this is an idle speculation. if the whole world had stood between us, we must have met--if we had been born in different ages, we could not have been sundered. belovedest, how dost thou do? if i mistake not, it was a southern rain yesterday, and, next to the sunshine of paradise, _that_ seems to be thy element. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. to miss peabody _salem_, novr. 27th, friday [1840] _dearest wife_, never was a wife so yearned for as thou art. i wonder how i could have resolved to be absent from thee so long--it is far too long a time to be wasted in a suspension of life. my heart is sometimes faint for want of thee--and sometimes it is violent and tumultuous for the same cause. how is it with thine, mine ownest? dost thou not feel, when thou goest to bed, that the day is utterly incomplete?--that it has been an unsatisfactory dream, wherein the soul groped wearily for something that it could not obtain? thus it is with thy husband. what a history wilt thou have to tell me, when i come back! we shall be a week in getting through it. poor little dove, i pity thee now: for i apprehend that, by this time, thou hast got thy husband's dullest of all books to read. and how many pages canst thou read, without falling asleep? well is it for thee, that thou hast adopted the practice of extending thyself on the sopha, while at thy studies; for now i need be under no apprehension of thy sinking out of a chair. i would, for thy sake, that thou couldst find anything laudable in this awful little volume; because thou wouldst like to tell thy husband that he has done well. oh, this weather!--how dismal it is. a sullen sky above, and mud and "slosh" below! thy husband needs thy sunshine, thou cheerfullest little wife; for he is quite pervaded and imbued with the sullenness of all nature. thou knowest that his disposition is never the most gracious in the world; but now he is absolutely intolerable. the days should be all sunshine when he is away from thee; because, if there were twenty suns in the unclouded sky, yet his most essential sunshine would be wanting. well, there is one good in absence; it makes me realise more adequately how much i love thee--and what an infinite portion of me thou art. it makes me happy even to yearn and sigh for thee as i do; because i love to be conscious of our deep, indissoluble union--and of the impossibility of living without thee. there is something good in me, else thou couldst not have become one with me, thou holy wife. i shall be happy, because god has made my happiness necessary to that of one whom he loves. thus is it that i reason with myself; and therefore my soul rejoices to feel the intermingling of our beings, even when it is felt in this longing desire for thee. dearest, amongst my other reasons for wishing to be in boston, wouldst thou believe that i am eager to behold thy alabaster vase--and the little flower-vase, and thy two precious pictures? even so it is. thou, who art the loadstone of my soul, hast magnetised them, therefore they attract me. i met frederic howes last evening, and promised to go there to-night; although he seemed to think that miss burley will be in boston. perhaps thou wilt see her there. i wonder if she will not come and settle with us in mr. ripley's utopia. and this reminds me to ask whether thou hast drawn those caricatures--especially the one of thy husband, staggering, and puffing, and toiling onward to the gate of the farm, burthened with the unsaleable remnant of grandfather's chair. dear me, what a ponderous, leaden load it will be! dearest, i am utterly ashamed of my handwriting. i wonder how thou canst anywise tolerate what is so ungraceful, being thyself all grace. but i think i seldom write so shamefully as in this epistle. it is a toil and torment to write upon this sheet of paper; for it seems to be greasy, and feels very unpleasantly to the pen. moreover the pen itself is very culpable. yet thou wouldst make the fairest, delicatest strokes upon the same paper, with the same pen. thou art beautiful throughout, even to the minutest thing. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. to miss peabody _salem_, jany. 12th, 1841 infinitely dearest, i went to the post office yesterday, after dinner, and inquiring for a letter, thy "visible silence" was put into my hands. canst thou remotely imagine how glad i was? hast thou also been gladdened by an uncouth scribbling, which thy husband dispatched to thee on monday? oh, belovedest, no words can tell how thirsty my spirit is for thine! surely i was very reprehensible to conceive the idea of spending a whole week and more away from thee. why didst thou not scold me? and go with me wherever i went? without thee, i have but the semblance of life. all the world hereabouts seems dull and drowsy--a vision, but without any spirituality--and i, likewise an unspiritual shadow, struggle vainly to catch hold of something real. thou art my reality; and nothing else is real for me, unless thou give it that golden quality by thy touch. dearest, how camest thou by the headache? thou shouldst have dreamed of thy husband's breast, instead of that arabian execution; and then thou wouldst have awaked with a very delicious thrill in thy heart, and no pain in thy head. and what wilt thou do to-day, persecuted little dove, when thy abiding-place will be a babel of talkers? would that miss margaret fuller might lose her tongue!--or my dove her ears, and so be left wholly to her husband's golden silence! dearest wife, i truly think that we could dispense with audible speech, and yet never feel the want of an interpreter between our spirits. we have soared into a region where we talk together in a language that can have no earthly echo. articulate words are a harsh clamor and dissonance. when man arrives at his highest perfection, he will again be dumb!--for i suppose he was dumb at the creation, and must perform an entire circle in order to return to that blessed state. cousin christopher, by thy account, seems to be of the same opinion, and is gradually learning to talk without the use of his voice. jany. 15th. friday.--oh, belovedest, what a weary week is this! never did i experience the like. i went to bed last night, positively dismal and comfortless. wilt thou know thy husband's face, when we meet again? art thou much changed by the flight of years, my poor little wife? is thy hair turned gray? dost thou wear a day-cap, as well as a night cap? how long since didst thou begin to use spectacles? perhaps thou wilt not like to have me see thee, now that time has done his worst to mar thy beauty; but fear thou not, sweetest dove, for what i have loved and admired in thee is eternal. i shall look through the envious mist of age, and discern thy immortal grace as perfectly as in the light of paradise. as for thy husband, he is grown quite bald and gray, and has very deep wrinkles across his brow, and crowsfeet and furrows all over his face. his eyesight fails him, so that he can only read the largest print in the broadest day-light; but it is a singular circumstance, that he makes out to decypher the pygmy characters of thy epistles, even by the faintest twilight. the secret is, that they are characters of light to him, so that he could doubtless read them in midnight darkness. art thou not glad, belovedest, that thou wast ordained to be a heavenly light to thy husband, amid the dreary twilight of age? grandfather is very anxious to know what has become of his chair, and the famous old people who sat in it. i tell him that it will probably arrive in the course of to-day; and that he need not be so impatient; for the public will be very well content to wait, even were it till doomsday. he acquiesces, but scolds, nevertheless. i saw thy cousin mary tappan yesterday, and felt the better for it, because she is connected with thee in my mind. dearest, i love thee very much!!!! art thou not astonished? i wish to ask thee a question, but will reserve it for the extreme end of this letter. i trust that thou art quite well, belovedest. that headache took a very unfair advantage, in attacking thee while thou wast away from thy husband. it is his province to guard thee both from head-ache and heart-ache; and thou performest the same blessed office for him, so far as regards the heart-ache--as to the head-ache, he knows it not, probably because his head is like a block of wood. now good-bye, dearest, sweetest, loveliest, holiest, truest, suitablest little wife. i worship thee. thou art my type of womanly perfection. thou keepest my heart pure, and elevatest me above the world. thou enablest me to interpret the riddle of life, and fillest me with faith in the unseen and better land, because thou leadest me thither continually. god bless thee forever. dost thou love me? miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. to miss peabody _salem_, jany. 27th, 1841--â½ past 2 p.m. very dearest, what a dismal sky is this that hangs over us! thy husband doth but half live to-day--his soul lies asleep, or rather torpid. as for thee, thou hast been prating at a great rate, and has spoken many wonderful truths in to-day's conversation. belovedest, thou wast very sweet and lovely in our walk yesterday morning; and it gladdens me much that providence brought us together. dost thou not think that there is always some especial blessing granted us, when we are to be divided for any length of time? thou rememberest what a blissful evening came down from heaven to us, before our last separation; insomuch that our hearts glowed with its influence, all through the ensuing week. and yesterday there came a heavenly morning, and thou camest with it like a rosy vision, which still lingers with me, and will not quite fade away, till it be time for it to brighten into reality. surely, thou art beloved of heaven, and all these blessings are vouchsafed for thy sake; for i do not remember that such things used to happen to me, while i was a solitary sinner. thou bringest a rich portion to thy husband, dearest--even the blessing of thy heavenly father. whenever i return to salem, i feel how dark my life would be, without the light that thou shedst upon it--how cold, without the warmth of thy love. sitting in this chamber, where my youth wasted itself in vain, i can partly estimate the change that has been wrought. it seems as it the better part of me had been born, since then. i had walked those many years in darkness, and might so have walked through life, with only a dreamy notion that there was any light in the universe, if thou hadst not kissed mine eye-lids, and given me to see. thou, belovedest, hast always been positively happy. not so thy husband--he has only been not miserable. then which of us has gained the most? thy husband, assuredly. when a beam of heavenly sunshine incorporates itself with a dark cloud, is not the cloud benefitted more than the sunshine? what a happy image is this!--my soul is the cloud, and thine the sunshine--but a gentler, sweeter sunshine than ever melted into any other cloud. dearest wife, nothing at all has happened to me, since i left thee. it puzzles me to conceive how thou meetest with so many more events than thy husband. thou wilt have a volume to tell me, when we meet, and wilt pour thy beloved voice into mine ears, in a stream of two hours' long. at length thou wilt pause, and say--"but what has _thy_ life been?"--and then will thy stupid husband look back upon what he calls his life, for three or four days past, and behold a blank! thou livest ten times as much [as] he; because thy spirit takes so much more note of things. i met our friend mr. howes in the street, yesterday, and held a brief confabulation. he did not inquire how my wife's health is. was not this a sin against etiquette? dearest, thy husband's stupid book seems to meet more approbation here, than the former volume did--though _that_ was greeted more favorably than it deserved. there is a superfluity of newspaper puffs here, and a deficiency in boston, where they are much needed. i ought to love salem better than i do; for the people have always had a pretty generous faith in me, ever since they knew me at all. i fear i must be undeserving of their praise, else i should never get it. what an ungrateful blockhead thy husband is! miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. to miss peabody 54 pinckney st., 12 o'clock a.m. monday [1841] _truest heart_, i cannot come to thee this evening, because my friend bridge is in town, whom i hardly have seen for years past. alas! i know not whether i am a very faithful friend to him; for i cannot rejoice that he is here, since it will keep me from my dove. thou art my only reality--all other people are but shadows to me: all events and actions, in which thou dost not mingle, are but dreams. do thou be good, dearest love, and when i come, tomorrow night, let me find thee magnificent. thou didst make me very happy, yesterday forenoon--thou wast a south-west wind--or the sweetest and wholesomest wind that blows, whichever it may be. i love thee more than i can estimate; and last night i dreamed of thee. i know not exactly what; but we were happy. god bless thee. thine ownest husband, theodore de l'aubepine. a madame, madame sophie amelie de l'aubepine, rue d'ouest, a boston. miss sophia a. peabody, west-street, boston. to miss peabody 54 pinckney st., march 12th,--sunday [1841] _my life_, i have come back to thee! thy heart gives thee no warning of my presence; yet i am here--embracing thee with all the might of my soul. ah, forgetful dove! how is it that thou hast had no spiritual intelligence of my advent? i am sure that if yearnings and strivings could have brought my spirit into communion with thine, thou wouldst have felt me within thy bosom. thou truest-heart, thou art conscious of me, as much as a heavenly spirit can be, though the veil of mortality. thou has not forgotten me for a moment. i have felt thee drawing me towards thee, when i was hundreds of miles away. the farther i went, the more was i conscious of both our loves. i cannot write how much i love thee, and what deepest trust i have in thee. dearest, expect me at six o'clock this afternoon. i have not the watch, as thou knowest, and so it may be a few moments before or after six. oh, i need thee this very, very moment--my heart throbs, and so does my hand, as thou mayst see by this scribble. god bless thee! i am very well. thine ownest husband. miss sophia a. peabody, 13 west-street, boston. to miss peabody _salem_, march 18th, 1841 dearest wife, here is thy poor husband, enduring his banishment as best he may. methinks all enormous sinners should be sent on pilgrimage to salem, and compelled to spend a length of time there, proportioned to the enormity of their offenses. such a punishment would be suited to sinners that do not quite deserve hanging, yet are too aggravated for the states-prison. oh, thy naughty husband! if it be a punishment, he well deserves to suffer a life-long infliction of it, were it only for slandering his native town so vilely. thou must scold him well. but, belovedest, any place is strange and irksome to me, where thou art not; and where thou art, any place will be home. here i have made a great blot, as thou seest; but, sweetest, there is, at this moment, a portrait of myself in the mirror of that inkspot. is not that queer to think of? when it reaches thee, it will be nothing but a dull black spot; but now, when i bend over it, there i see myself, as at the bottom of a pool. thou must not kiss the blot, for the sake of the image which it now reflects; though, if thou shouldst, it will be a talisman to call me back thither again. thy husband writes thee nonsense, as his custom is. i wonder how thou managest to retain any respect for him. trust me, he is not worthy of thee--not worthy to kiss the sole of thy shoe. for the future, thou perfectest dove, let thy greatest condescension towards him, be merely an extension of the tip of thy forefinger, or of thy delicate little foot in its stocking. nor let him dare to touch it without kneeling--which he will be very ready to do, because he devoutly worships thee; which is the only thing that can be said in his favor. but, think of his arrogance! at this very moment.-march 19th. forenoon.--dearest soul, thou hast irrecoverably lost the conclusion of this sentence; for i was interrupted by a visitor, and have now forgotten what i meant to say. no matter; thou wilt not care for the loss; for, now i think of it, if does not please thee to hear thy husband spoken slightingly of. well, then thou shouldst not have married such a vulnerable person. but, to thy comfort be it said, some people have a much more exalted opinion of him than i have. the rev. mr. gannet delivered a lecture at the lyceum here, the other evening, in which he introduced an enormous eulogium on whom dost thou think? why, on thy respectable husband! thereupon all the audience gave a loud hiss. now is my mild little dove exceedingly enraged, and will plot some mischief and all-involving calamity against the salem people. well, belovedest, they did not actually hiss at the praises bestowed on thy husband--the more fools they! ownest wife, what dost thou think i received, just before i re-commenced this scribble? thy letter! dearest, i felt as thou didst about our meeting, at mrs. hillard's. it is an inexpressible torment. thy letter is very sweet and beautiful--an expression of thyself. but i do trust thou hast given mr. ripley a downright scolding for doubting either my will or ability to work. he ought to be ashamed of himself, to try to take away the good name of a laboring man, who must earn his bread (and thy bread too) by the sweat of his brow. sweetest, i have some business up in town; and so must close this letter--which has been written in a great hurry, and is not fit to be sent thee. say what thou wilt, thy husband is not a good letter-writer; he never writes, unless compelled by an internal or external necessity; and most glad would he be to think that there would never, henceforth, be occasion for his addressing a letter to thee. for would not that imply that thou wouldst always hereafter be close to his bosom? dearest love, expect me monday evening. didst thou expect me sooner? it may not be; but if longing desires could bear me to thee, thou wouldst straightway behold my shape in the great easy chair. god bless thee, thou sinless eve--thou dearest, sweetest, purest, perfectest wife. thine ownest. miss sophia a. peabody, care of dr. n. peabody, boston, mass. to miss peabody pinckney st., april 4th, [1841] _very dearest-est_, i have hitherto delayed to send these stories, because howes' masquerade was destroyed by the printers: and i have been in hopes to procure it elsewhere. but my own copy of the magazine, in salem, is likewise lost; so that i must buy the boston book and request mary's acceptance of it. belovedest, how dost thou do this morning? i am very well; and surely heaven is one with earth, this beautiful day. i met miss burley in the street, yesterday, and her face seemed actually to beam and radiate with kindness and goodness; insomuch that my own face involuntarily brightens, whenever i think of her. i thought she looked really beautiful. oh, dearest, how i wish to see thee! i would thou hadst my miniature to wear in thy bosom; and then i should feel sure that now and then thou wouldst think of me--of which now, thou art aware, there can be no certainty. sweetest, i feel that i shall need great comfort from thee, when the time of my journey to the far wilderness actually comes. but we will be hopeful--thou shalt fill thy husband with thy hopefulness, and so his toil shall seem light, and he shall sing (though i fear it would be a most unlovely sort of screech) as he drives the plough. now, belovedest, good-bye. my visit to salem will be so brief, that a letter would hardly reach thee, before i myself shall return; so it will not be best for me to write. god bless thee and keep thee; which he will do without my prayers, because the good and pure, of which class my dove is the best and purest, always dwell within the walls of heaven. i am in great haste, most beloved; so, embracing thee, i remain thy lovingest husband, nath. hawthorne. miss sophia a. peabody, 13 west street, boston. * * * * * transcriber's note: inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. obvious typographical errors have been corrected. on page 28, the parenthetical expression starting "(here i was interrupted," has no end parenthesis. on page 163, the comma after "somewhat less heavily" is possibly unnecessary. letters of abelard and heloise. letters of abelard and heloise. to which is prefix'd a particular account of their _lives, amours, and misfortunes._ by the late john hughes, esq. together with the _poem of eloisa to abelard._ by mr. pope. and, (to which is now added) the _poem of abelard to eloisa,_ by mrs. madan. ----------- london: printed for w. osborne, and t. griffin in holborn, and j. mozley, in gainsborough. mdcclxxxii. preface it is very surprising that the _letters of abelard and heloise_ have not sooner appeared in english, since it is generally allowed, by all who have seen them in other languages, that they are written with the greatest passion of any in this kind which are extant. and it is certain that the _letters from a nun to a cavalier_, which have so long been known and admired among us, are in all respects inferior to them. whatever those were, these are known to be genuine pieces occasioned by an amour which had very extraordinary consequences, and made a great noise at the time when it happened, being between two of the most distinguished persons of that age. these _letters_, therefore, being truly written by the persons themselves, whose names they bear, and who were both remarkable for their genius and learning, as well as by a most extravagant passion for each other, are every where full of sentiments of the heart, (which are not to be imitated in a feigned story,) and touches of nature, much more moving than any which could flow from the pen of a writer of novels, or enter into the imagination of any who had not felt the like emotions and distresses. they were originally written in latin, and are extant in a collection of the works of _abelard_, printed at paris in the year 1616. with what elegance and beauty of stile they were written in that language, will sufficiently appear to the learned reader, even by those few citations which are set at the bottom of the page in some places of the following history. but the book here mentioned consisting chiefly of school-divinity, and the learning of those times, and therefore being rarely to be met with but in public libraries, and in the hands of some learned men, the letters of _abelard_ and _heloise_ are much more known by a translation, or rather paraphrase of them, in french, first published at the hague in 1693, and which afterwards received several other more complete editions. this translation is much applauded, but who was the author of it is not certainly known. monsieur bayle says he had been informed it was done by a woman; and, perhaps, he thought no one besides could have entered so thoroughly into the passion and tenderness of such writings, for which that sex seems to have a more natural disposition than the other. this may be judged of by the letters themselves, among which those of _heloise_ are the most moving, and the master seems in this particular to have been excelled by the scholar. in some of the later editions in french, there has been prefixed to the letters an historical account of _abelard_ and _heloise_; this is chiefly extracted from the preface of the editor of _abelard's_ works in latin, and from the _critical dictionary_ of monsieur bayle*, who has put together, under several articles, all the particulars he was able to collect concerning these two famous persons; and though the first letter of _abelard to philintus_, in which he relates his own story, may seem to have rendered this account in part unnecessary; yet the reader will not be displeased to see the thread of the relation entire, and continued to the death of the persons whose misfortunes had made their lives so very remarkable. * _vide artic_. abelard, heloise, foulques, _and_ paraclete it is indeed impossible to be unmoved at the surprising and multiplied afflictions and persecutions which befel a man of _abelard's_ fine genius, when we see them so feelingly described by his own hand. many of these were owing to the malice of such as were his enemies on the account of his superior learning and merit; yet the great calamities of his life took their rise from his unhappy indulgence of a criminal passion, and giving himself a loose to unwarrantable pleasures. after this he was perpetually involved in sorrow and distress, and in vain sought for ease and quiet in a monastic life. the _letters_ between him and his beloved _heloise_ were not written till long after their marriage and separation, and when each of them was dedicated to a life of religion. accordingly we find in them surprising mixtures of devotion and tenderness, and remaining frailty, and a lively picture of human nature in its contrarieties of passion and reason, its infirmities, and its sufferings. contents. the history of abelard and heloise letters. i. abelard to philintus. ii. heloise to abelard. iii. abelard to heloise. iv. heloise to abelard. v. heloise to abelard. vi. abelard to heloise. vii. eloisa to abelard. a poem. by mr. pope. viii. abelard to eloisa. a poem. by mrs. madan. the history of abelard and heloise _peter abelard_ was born in the village of palais in britany. he lived in the twelfth century, in the reigns of _louis the gross_, and _louis the young_. his father's name was _beranger_, a gentleman of a considerable and wealthy family. he took care to give his children a liberal and pious education, especially his eldest son _peter_, on whom he endeavoured to bestow all possible improvements, because there appeared in him an extraordinary vivacity of wit joined with sweetness of temper, and all imaginable presages of a great man. when he had made some advancement in learning, he grew so fond of his books, that, lest affairs of the world might interrupt his proficiency in them, he quitted his birthright to his younger brothers, and applied himself entirely to the studies of philosophy and divinity. of all the sciences to which he applied himself, that which pleased him most, and in which he made the greatest progress, was logick. he had a very subtile wit, and was incessantly whetting it by disputes, out of a restless ambition to be master of his weapons. so that in a short time he gained the reputation of the greatest philosopher of his age; and has always been esteemed the founder of what we call the _learning of the schoolmen_. he finished his studies at paris, where learning was then in a flourishing condition. in this city he found that famous professor of philosophy william des champeaux, and soon became his favourite scholar; but this did not last long. the professor was so hard put to it to answer the subtle objections of his new scholar, that he grew uneasy with him. the school soon run into parties. the senior scholars, transported with envy against _abelard_, seconded their master's resentment. all this served only to increase the young man's presumption, who now thought himself sufficiently qualified to set up a school of his own. for this purpose he chose an advantageous place, which was the town of melun, ten leagues from paris, where the french court resided at that time. champeaux did all that he could to hinder the erecting of this school; but some of the great courtiers being his enemies, the opposition he made to it only promoted the design of his rival. the reputation of this new professor made a marvellous progress, and eclipsed that of champeaux. these successes swelled _abelard_ so much that he removed his school to corbeil, in order to engage his enemy the more closer in more frequent disputations. but his excessive application to study brought upon him a long and dangerous sickness, which constrained him to return to his own native air. after he had spent two years in his own country he made a second adventure to paris, where he found that his old antagonist champeaux had resigned his chair to another, and was retired into a convent of canons regular, among whom he continued his lectures. _abelard_ attacked him with such fury, that he quickly forced him to renounce his tenets. whereupon the poor monk became so despicable, and his antagonist in such great esteem, that nobody went to the lectures of champeaux, and the very man who succeeded him in his professorship, listed under _abelard_, and became his scholar. he was scarce fixed in his chair before he found himself exposed more than ever to the strokes of the most cruel envy. endeavours were used to do him ill offices by all those who were any ways disaffected to him. another professor was put into his place, who had thought it his duty to submit to _abelard_, in short so many enemies were raised against him that he was forced to retreat from paris to melun, and there revived his logick lectures. but this held not long; for hearing that champeaux with all his infantry was retired into a country village, he came and posted himself on mount st. genevieve, where he erected a new school, like a kind of battery against him whom champeaux had left to teach at paris. champeaux understanding that his substitute was thus besieged in his school, brought the regular canons attack again to their monastery. but this, instead of relieving his friend, caused all his scholars to desert him. at which the poor philosopher was so mortified, that he followed the example of his patron champeaux, and turned monk too. the dispute now lay wholly between abelard and champeaux, who renewed it with great warmth on both sides; but the senior had not the best on't. while it was depending, _abelard_ was obliged to visit his father and mother, who, according to the fashion of those times, had resolved to forsake the world, and retire into convents, in order to devote themselves more seriously to the care of their salvation. having assisted at the admission of his parents into their respective monasteries and received their blessing, he returned to paris, where during his absence, his rival had been promoted to the bishoprick of chalons. and now being in a condition to quit his school without any suspicions of flying from his enemy, he resolved to apply himself wholly to divinity. to this end he removed to laon, where one _anselm_ read divinity-lectures with good reputation. but _abelard_ was so little satisfied with the old man's abilities, who has he says, had a very mean genius, and a great fluency of words without sense, that he took a resolution for the future to hear no other master than the holy scriptures. a good resolution! if a man takes the spirit of god for his guide, and be more concerned to distinguish truth from falsehood, than to confirm himself in those principles into which his, own fancy or complexion, or the prejudices of his birth and education, have insensibly led him. _abelard_, together with the holy scriptures, read the ancient fathers and doctors of the church, in which he spent whole days and nights, and profited so well, that instead of returning to _anselm's_ lectures, he took up the same employment, and began to explain the prophet _ezekiel_ to some of his fellow-pupils. he performed this part so agreeably; and in so easy a method that he soon got a crowd of auditors. the jealous _anselm_ could not bear this; he quickly found means to get the lecturer silenced. upon this _abelard_ removed to paris once more, where he proceeded with his public exposition on ezekiel, and soon acquired the same reputation for his divinity he had before gained for his philosophy. his eloquence and learning procured him an incredible number of scholars from all parts; so that if he had minded saving of money, he might have grown rich with ease in a short time. and happy had it been for him, if, among all the enemies his learning exposed him to, he had guarded his heart against the charms of love. but, alas! the greatest doctors are not always the wisest men, as appears from examples in every age; but from none more remarkable than that of this learned man, whose story i am now going to tell you. _abelard_, besides his uncommon merit as a scholar, had all the accomplishments of a gentleman. he had a greatness of soul which nothing could shock; his passions were delicate, his judgment solid, and his taste exquisite. he was of a graceful person, and carried himself with the air of a man of quality. his conversation was sweet, complaisant, easy, and gentleman-like. it seemed as tho' nature had designed him for a more elevated employment than that of teaching the sciences. he looked upon riches and grandeur with contempt, and had no higher ambition than to make his name famous among learned men, and to be reputed the greatest doctor of his age: but he had human frailty, and all his philosophy could not guard him from the attacks of love. for some time indeed, he had defended himself against this passion pretty well, when the temptation was but slight; but upon a more intimate familiarity with such agreeable objects, he found his reason fail him: yet in respect to his wisdom, he thought of compounding the matter and resolved at first, that love and philosophy should dwell together in the same breast. he intended only to let out his heart to the former, and that but for a little while; never considering that love is a great ruiner of projects; and that when it has once got a share in a heart, it is easy to possess itself of the whole. he was now in the seven or eight and twentieth year of his age, when he thought himself completely happy in all respects, excepting that he wanted a mistress. he considered therefore of making a choice, but such a one as might be most suitable to his notions, and the design he had of passing agreeably those hours he did not employ in his study. he had several ladies in his eye, to whom as he says in one of his _letters_, he could easily have recommended himself. for you must understand, that besides his qualifications mentioned before, he had a vein of poetry, and made abundance of little easy songs, which he would sing with all the advantage of a gallant air and pleasant voice. but tho' he was cut out for a lover, he was not over-hasty in determining his choice. he was not of a humour to be pleased with the wanton or forward; he scorned easy pleasures, and sought to encounter with difficulties and impediments, that he might conquer with the greater glory. in short, he had not yet seen the woman he was to love. not far from the place where _abelard_ read his lectures lived one _doctor fulbert_, a canon of the church of notre-dame. this canon had a niece named _heloise_ in his house whom he educated with great care and affection. some writers say*, that she was the good man's natural daughter; but that, to prevent a public scandal, he gave out that she was his niece by his sister, who upon her death-bed had charged him with her education. but though it was well known in those times, as well as since, that the niece of an ecclesiastick is sometimes more nearly related to him, yet of this damsel's birth and parentage we have nothing very certain. there is reason to think, from one of her _letters to abelard_, that she came of a mean family; for she owns that great honour was done to her side by this alliance, and that he married much below himself. so that what francis d'amboise says, that she was of the name and family of montmorency has no manner of foundation. it is very probable she was really and truly fulbert's niece, as he affirmed her to be. whatever she was for birth, she was a very engaging woman; and if she was not a perfect beauty, she appeared such at least in _abelard's_ eyes. her person was well proportioned, her features regular, her eyes sparkling, her lips vermillion and well formed, her complexion animated, her air fine, and her aspect sweet and agreeable. she had a surprising quickness of wit, an incredible memory, and a considerable share of learning, joined with humility; and all these accomplishments were attended with something so graceful and moving, that it was impossible for those who kept her company not to be in love with her. * papyr. maffo. annal. 1. 3. "joannes canonicus pariflus, heloysiam naturalem filiam habehat prastanti ingenio formaque." as soon as _abelard_ had seen her, and conversed with her, the charms of her wit and beauty made such an impression upon his heart, that he presently conceived a most violent passion for her, and resolved to make it his whole endeavour to win her affections. and now, he that formerly quitted his patrimony to pursue his studies, laid aside all other engagements to attend his new passion. in vain did philosophy and reason importune him to return; he was deaf to their call, and thought of nothing but how to enjoy the sight and company of his dear _heloise_. and he soon met with the luckiest opportunity in the world. fulbert who had the greatest affection imaginable for his niece, finding her to have a good share of natural wit, and a particular genius for learning, thought himself obliged to improve the talents which nature had so liberally bestowed on her. he had already put her to learn several languages, which she quickly came to understand so well, that her fame began to spread itself abroad, and the wit and learning of _heloise_ was every where discoursed of. and though her uncle for his own share was no great scholar, he was very felicitous that his niece should have all possible improvements. he was willing, therefore, she should have masters to instruct her in what she had a mind to learn: but he loved his money, and this kept him from providing for her education so well as she desired. _abelard_, who knew _heloise's_ inclinations, and the temper of her uncle, thought this an opportunity favourable to his design. he was already well acquainted with fulbert, as being his brother canon in the same church; and he observed how fond the other was of his friendship, and what an honour he esteemed it to be intimate with a person of his reputation. he therefore told him one day in familiarity, that he was at a loss for some house to board in; and if you could find room for me, said he, in yours, i leave to you name the terms. the good man immediately considering that by this means he should provide an able master for his niece who, instead of taking money of him, offered to provide him well for his board, embraced his proposal with the joy imaginable, gave him a thousand caresses, and desired he would consider him for the future as one ambitious of the strictest friendship with him. what an unspeakable joy was this to the amorous _abelard_! to consider that he was going to live with her, who was the only object of his desires! that he should have the opportunity of seeing and conversing with her every day, and of acquainting her with his passion! however, he concealed his joy at present lest he should make his intention suspected. we told you before how liberal nature had been to our lover in making his person every way so agreeable; so that he flattered himself that it was almost impossible * that any woman should reject his addresses. perhaps he was mistaken: the sex has variety of humour. however, consider him as a philosopher who had therto lived in a strict chastity **, he certainly reasoned well in the business of love; when he concluded that _heloise_ would be an easier conquest to him than others because her learning gave him an opportunity of establishing a correspondence by letters, in which he might discover his passion with greater freedom than he dared presume to use in conversation. * _tanti quippe tune nominis eram & juventutis & forma gratia praeminebam, ut quamcunque foeminartn nostre dignarer amore nullam verer repulsam._ 1 epist. abel. p. 10. abel. ** _froena libidini coepi laxare, qui antea viveram continantissime._ ibid. some time after the canon had taken _abelard_ into his own house, as they were discoursing one day about things somewhat above fulbert's capacity, the latter turned the discourse insensibly to the good qualities of his niece; he informed _abelard_ of the excellency of her wit, and how strong a propensity she had to improve in learning; and withal made it his earnest request, that he would take the pains to instruct her. _abelard_ pretended to be surprised at a proposal of this nature. he told him that learning was not the proper business of women; that such inclinations in them had more of humour or curiosity than a solid desire of knowledge; and could hardly pass, among either the learned or ignorant, without drawing upon them the imputation of conceit and affectation. fulbert answered, that this was very true of women of common capacities; but he hoped, when he had discoursed with his niece, and found what progress she had made already, and what a capacity she had for learning, he would be of another opinion. _abelard_ assured him, he was ready to do all he could for her improvement, and if she was not like other women, who hate to learn any thing beyond their needle, he would spare no pains to make _heloise_ answer the hopes which her uncle had conceived of her. the canon was transported with the civility of the young doctor; he returned him thanks, and protested he could not do him a more acceptable service than to assist his niece in her endeavours to learn; he therefore entreated him once more to set apart some of his time, which he did not employ in public, for this purpose: and, (as if he had known his designed intrigue, and was willing to promote it) he committed her entirely to his care, and begged of him to treat her with the authority of a master; not only to chide her, but even to correct her whenever she was guilty of any neglect or disobedience to his commands. fulbert, in this, showed a simplicity without example but the affection which he had for his niece was so blind, and _abelard_ had so well established his reputation for wisdom, that the uncle never scrupled in the least to trust them together, and thought he had all the security in the world for their virtue. _abelard_ you may be sure, made use of the freedom which was given him. he saw his beautiful creature every hour, he set her lessons every day, and was extremely pleased to see what proficiency she made. _heloise_, for her part, was so taken with her master, that she liked nothing so well as what she learned from him; and the master was charmed with that quickness of apprehension with which his scholar learned the most difficult lessons. but he did not intend to stop here. he knew so well how to insinuate into the affections of this young person, he gave her such plain intimations of what was in his heart and spoke so agreeably of the passion which he had conceived for her, that he had the satisfaction of seeing himself well understood. it is no difficult matter to make a girl of eighteen in love; and _abelard_ having so much wit and agreeable humour, must needs make a greater progress in her affections than she did in the lessons which he taught her; so that in a short time she fell so much in love with him, that she could deny him nothing. fulbert had a country-house at corbeil, to which the lovers often resorted, under pretence of applying themselves more closely to their studies: there they conversed freely and gave themselves up entirely to the pleasure of a mutual passion. they took advantage of that privacy which study and contemplation require without subjecting themselves to the censure of those who observed it. in this retirement _abelard_ owns that more time was employ'd in soft caresses than in lectures of philosophy. sometimes he pretended to use the severity of a master; the better to deceive such as might be spies upon them, he exclaimed against _heloise_, and reproached her for her negligence. but how different were his menaces from those which are inspired by anger! never did two lovers give a greater loose to their delights than did these two for five or six months; they lived in all the endearments which could enter into the hearts of young beginners. this is _abelard's_ own account of the matter. he compares himself to such as have been long kept in a starving condition, and at last are brought to a feast. a grave and studious man exceeds a debauchee in his enjoyments of a woman whom he loves and of whom he is passionately beloved. _abelard_ being thus enchanted with the caresses of his mistress, neglected all his serious and important affairs. his performances in public were wretched. his scholars perceived it, and soon guessed the reason. his head was turned to nothing but amorous verses. his school was his aversion, and he spent as little time in it as he could. as for his lectures they were commonly the old ones served up again: the night was wholly lost from his studies; and his leisure was employed in writing songs, which were dispersed and sung in diverse provinces of france many years after. in short our lovers, who were in their own opinion the happiest pair in the world, kept so little guard, that their amours were every where talked of, and all the world saw plainly that the sciences were not always the subject of their conversation. only honest fulbert, under whose nose all this was done, was the last man that heard any thing of it; he wanted eyes to see that which was visible to all the world; and if any body went about to tell him of it, he was prepossessed with so good an opinion of his niece and her master, that he would believe nothing against them. but at last so many discoveries were daily made to him, that he could not help believing something; he therefore resolved to separate them, and by that means prevent the ill consequences of their too great familiarity. however, he thought it best to convict them himself, before he proceeded further; and therefore watched them so closely, that he had one day an opportunity of receiving ocular satisfaction that the reports he had heard were true. in short he surprised them together. and though he was naturally cholerick, yet he appeared so moderate on this occasion as to leave them under dismal apprehensions of something worse to come after. the result was, that they must be parted. who can express the torment our lovers felt upon this separation! however, it served only to unite their hearts more firmly; they were but the more eager to see one another. difficulties increased their desires, and put them upon any attempts without regarding what might be the consequence. _abelard_ finding it impossible to live without his dear _heloise_, endeavoured to settle a correspondence with her by her maid agaton, who was a handsome brown girl, well shaped, and likely enough to have pleased a man who was not otherwise engaged. but what a surprise was it to our doctor, to find this girl refuse his money, and in recompence of the services she was to do him with his mistress, demanded no less a reward than his heart, and making him at once a plain declaration of love! _abelard_ who could love none but _heloise_, turned from her abruptly, without answering a word. but a rejected woman is a dangerous creature. agaton knew well how to revenge the affront put upon her, and failed not to acquaint fulbert with _abelard's_ offers to her, without saying a word how she had been disobliged. fulbert thought it was time to look about him. he thanked the maid for her care, and entered into measures with her, how to keep _abelard_ from visiting his niece. the doctor was now more perplexed than ever: he had no ways left but to apply himself to _heloise's_ singing-master; and the gold which the maid refused prevailed with him. by this means _abelard_ conveyed a letter to _heloise_, in which he told her, that he intended to come and see her at night, and that the way he had contrived was over the garden-wall by a ladder of cords. this project succeeded, and brought them together. after the first transports of this short interview, _heloise_, who had found some more than ordinary symptoms within her, acquainted her lover with it. she had informed him of it before by a letter; and now having this opportunity to consult about it; they agreed that she should go to a sister of his in britany, at whose house she might be privately brought to bed. but before they parted, he endeavored to comfort her, and make her easy in this distress, by giving her assurances of marriage. when _heloise_ heard this proposal she peremptorily rejected it, and gave such reasons * for her refusal, as left _abelard_ in the greatest astonishment. * see _abelard's_ letter to _philintus_, and _heloise's_ first _letter to abelard_. indeed a refusal of this nature is so extraordinary a thing, that perhaps another instance of it is not to be found in history. i persuade myself, therefore, that i shall not offend my reader, if i make some few remarks upon it. it often happens, that the passion of love stifles or over-rules the rebukes of conscience; but it is unusual for it to extinguish the sensibility of honour. i don't speak of persons of mean birth and no education; but for others, all young women, i suppose, who engage in love-intrigues, flatter themselves with one of these views; either they hope they shall not prove with child, or they shall conceal it from the world, or they shall get themselves married. as for such as resolve to destroy the fruit of their amours, there are but few so void of all natural affections as to be capable of this greatest degree of barbarity. however, this shows plainly, that if love tyrannizes sometimes, it is such a tyrant as leaves honour in possession of its rights. but _heloise_ had a passion so strong, that she was not at all concerned for her honour or reputation. she was overjoyed to find herself with child, and yet she did her utmost not to be married. never fore was so odd an example as these two things made when put together. the first was very extraordinary; and how many young women in the world would rather be married to a disagreeable husband than live in a state of reproach? they know the remedy is bad enough, and will cost them dear; but what signifies that, so long as the name of husband hides the flaws made in their honour? but as for _heloise_, she was not so nice in this point. an excess of passion, never heard of before, made her chuse to be _abelard's_ mistress rather than his wife. we shall see, in the course of this history, how firm she was in this resolution, with what arguments she supported it, and how earnestly she persuaded her gallant to be of the same mind. _abelard_, who was willing to lose no time, least his dear _heloise_ should fall into her uncle's hands, disguised her in the habit of a nun, and sent her away with the greatest dispatch, hoping that after she was brought to bed, he should have more leisure to persuade her to marriage, by which they might screen themselves from the reproach which must otherwise come upon them, as soon as the business should be publickly known. as soon as _heloise_ was set forward on her journey, _abelard_ resolved to make fulbert a visit in order to appease him, if possible, and prevent the ill effects of his just indignation. the news that _heloise_ was privately withdrawn soon made a great noise in the neighbourhood; and reaching fulbert's ears, filled him with grief and melancholy. besides, that he had a very tender affection for his niece, and could not live without her, he had the utmost resentment of the affront which _abelard_ had put upon him, by abusing the freedom he had allowed him. this fired him with such implacable fury, as in the end fell heavy upon our poor lovers, and had very dreadful consequences. when fulbert saw _abelard_, and heard from him the reason why _heloise_ was withdrawn, never was man in such a passion. he abandoned himself to the utmost distractions of rage, despair, and thirst of revenge. all the affronts, reproaches, and menaces that could be thought of, were heaped upon _abelard_; who was, poor man, very passive, and ready to make the canon all the satisfaction he was able. he gave him leave to say what he pleased; and when he saw that he tired himself with exclaiming, he took up the discourse, and ingenuously confess'd his crime. then he had recourse to all the prayers, submissions, and promises, he could invent; and begged of him to consider the force of love, and what foils this tyrant has given to the greatest men: that the occasion of the present misfortunes was the most violent passion that ever was; that this passion continued still; and that he was ready to give both him and his niece all the satisfaction which this sort of injury required. will you marry her then? said fulbert, interrupting him. yes, replied _abelard_, if you please, and she will consent. if i please! said the canon, pausing a little; if she will consent! and do you question either? upon this he was going to offer him his reasons, after his hasty way, why they should be married: but _abelard_ entreated him to suppress his passion a while, and hear what he had to offer: which was, that their marriage might for some time be kept secret. no, says the canon, the dishonor you have done my niece is public, and the reparation you make her shall be so too, but _abelard_ told him, that since they were to be one family, he hoped he would consider his interest as his own. at last after a great many intreaties, fulbert seemed content it should be as _abelard_ desired; that he should marry _heloise_ after she was brought to bed, and that in the mean time the business should be kept secret. _abelard_, having given his scholars a vacation, returned into britany to visit his designed spouse, and to acquaint her with what had passed. she was not at all concerned at her uncle's displeasure; but that which troubled her was, the resolution which she saw her lover had taken to marry her, she endeavoured to dissuade him from it with all the arguments she could think of. she begun with representing to him the wrong he did himself in thinking of marriage: that as she never loved him but for his own sake, she preferred his glory, reputation, and interest, before her own. i know my uncle, said she, will never be pacified with any thing we can do, and what honour shall i get by being your wife, when at the same time i certainly ruin your reputation? what curse may i not justly fear, should i rob the world of so eminent a person as you are? what an injury shall i do the church? how much shall i disoblige the learned? and what a shame and disparagement will it be to you, whom nature has fitted for the public good, to devote yourself entirely to a wife? remember what st. _paul_ says, _art thou loosed from a wife? seek not a wife._ if neither this great man, not the fathers of the church, can make you change your resolution, consider at least what your philosophers say of it. socrates has proved, by many arguments, that a wife man ought not to marry. tully put away his wife terentia; and when hircius offered him his sister in marriage he told him, he desired to be excused, because he could never bring himself to divide his thoughts between his books and his wife. in short, said she, how can the study of divinity and philosophy comport with the cries of children, the songs of nurses, and all the hurry of a family? what an odd fight will it be to see maids and scholars, desks and cradles, books and distaffs, pens and spindles, one among another? those who are rich are never disturbed with the care and charges of housekeeping; but with you scholars it is far otherwise*. * _heloissa dehortabat me nuptiis. nuptia non conveniunt cum philosophia_, &c. oper. abel. p 14. he that will get an estate must mind the affairs of the world, and consequently is taken off from the study of divinity and philosophy. observe the conduct of the wife pagans in this point, who preferred a single life before marriage, and be ashamed that you cannot come up to them. be more careful to maintain the character and dignity of a philosopher. don't you know, that there is no action of life which draws after it so sure and long a repentance, and to so little purpose? you fancy to yourself the enjoyments you shall have in being bound to me by a bond which nothing but death can break: but know there is no such thing as sweet chains; and there is a thousand times more glory, honour, and pleasure, in keeping firm to an union which love alone has established, which is supported by mutual esteem and merit, and which owes its continuance to nothing but the satisfaction of seeing each other free. shall the laws and customs which the gross and carnal world has invented hold us together more surely than the bonds of mutual affection? take my word for it, you'll see me too often when you see me ev'ry day: you'll have no value for my love nor favours when they are due to you, and cost you no care. perhaps you don't think of all this at present; but you'll think of nothing else when it will be too late. i don't take notice what the world will say, to see a man in your circumstances get him a wife, and so throw away your reputation, your fortune and your quiet. in short, continued she, the quality of mistress is a hundred times more pleasing to me than that of a wife. custom indeed, has given a dignity to this latter name, and we are imposed upon by it; but heaven is my witness, i had rather be _abelard's_ mistress than lawful wife to the emperor of the whole world. i am very sure i shall always prefer your advantage and satisfaction before my own honour, and all the reputation, wealth, and enjoyments, which the most splendid marriage could bring me. thus _heloise_ argued, and added a great many more reasons, which i forbear to relate, lest i should tire my reader. it is enough for him to know, that they are chiefly grounded upon her preference of love to marriage, and liberty to necessity. we might therefore suppose that _heloise_ was afraid lest marriage should prove the tomb of love. the count de buffi, who passes for the translator of some of her letters, makes this to be her meaning, though cloathed in delicate language. but if we examine those which she writ to _abelard_ after their separation, and the expressions she uses to put him in mind, that he was indebted for the passion she had for him to nothing but love itself, we must allow that she had more refined notions, and that never woman was so disinterested. she loved _abelard_ 'tis true; but she declared it was not his sex that she most valued in him. some authors * are of opinion, that it was not an excess of love which made _abelard_ press _heloise_ to marriage, but only to quiet his conscience: but how can any one tell his reasons for marriage better than he himself? others say ** that if _heloise_ did really oppose _abelard's_ design of marrying her so earnestly, it was not because she thought better of concubinage than a married life, but because her affection and respect for her lover leading her to seek his honour and advantage in all things, she was afraid that by marrying him she should stand between him and a bishoprick, which his wit and learning well deserved. but there is no such thing in her letters, nor in the long account which _abelard_ has left us of the arguments which his mistress used to dissuade him from marriage. these are the faults of many authors, who put such words in the mouths of persons as are most conformable to their own ideas. it is often more advantageous, that a woman should leave her lover free for church dignities, than render him incapable of them by marriage: but is it just therefore to suppose that _heloise_ had any such motives? there is indeed a known story of a man that was possessed of a prebend, and quitted it for a wife. the day after the wedding, he said to his bride, my dear, consider how passionately i loved you, since i lost my preferment to marry you. you have done a very foolish thing, said she; you might have kept that, and have had me notwithstanding. * _d'ctionnaire de moreri_ ** _fran. d'amboise._ but to return to our lovers. a modern author, who well understood human nature, has affirmed, "that women by the favours they grant to men, grow she fonder of them; but, on the contrary, the men grow more indifferent*." this is not always true, _abelard_ was not the less enamoured with _heloise_ after she had given him the utmost proofs of her love; and their familiarity was so far from having abated his flame, that it seems all the eloquence of _heloise_ could not persuade _abelard_ that he wronged himself in thinking to marry her. he admired the wit, the passion, and the ingenuity of his mistress, but in these things he did not come short of her. he knew so well how to represent to her the necessity of marriage, the discourse which he had about it with fulbert, his rage if they declined it, and how dangerous it might be to both of them, that at last she consented to do whatever he pleased: but still with an inconceivable reluctance, which showed that she yielded for no other reason but the fear of disobliging him. * _m. de la bruyere._ _abelard_ was willing to be near his mistress till she was brought to bed, which in a short time she was of a boy. as soon as _heloise_ was fit to go abroad, _abelard_ carried her to paris, where they were married in the most private manner that could be, having no other company but fulbert, and two or three particular friends. however, the wedding quickly came to be known. the news of it was already whispered about; people soon began to talk of it more openly, till at last they mentioned it to the married pair. fulbert who was less concerned to keep his word than to cover the reproach of his family, took care to spread it abroad. but _heloise_, who loved _abelard_ a thousand times better than she did herself, and always valued her dear doctor's honour above her own, denied it with the most solemn protestations, and did all she could to make the world believe her. she constantly affirmed, that the reports of it were mere slanders; that _abelard_ never proposed any such thing; and if he had, she would never have consented to it. in short, she denied it so constantly, and with such earnestness, that she was generally believed. many people thought, and boldly affirmed, that the doctor's enemies had spread this story on purpose to lessen his character. this report came to fulbert's ears, who, knowing that _heloise_ was the sole author of it, fell into so outrageous a passion at her, that after a thousand reproaches and menaces, he proceeded to use her barbarously. but _abelard_, who loved her never the worse for being his wife, could not see this many days with patience. he resolved therefore to order matters so as to deliver her from this state of persecution. to this purpose they consulted together what course was to be taken; and agreed, that for setting them both free, her from the power and ill-humour of her uncle, and him from the persecuting reports which went about of him, _heloise_ should retire into a convent, where she should take the habit of a nun, all but the veil, that so she might easily come out again, when they should have a more favourable opportunity. this design was proposed, approved, and executed, almost at the same time. by this means they effectually put a stop to all reports about a marriage. but the canon was too dangerous a person to be admitted to this consultation; he would never have agreed to their proposal; nor could he hear of it without the utmost rage. 'twas then that he conceived a new desire of revenge, which he pursued till he had executed it in the most cruel manner imaginable. this retreat of _heloise_ gave him the more sensible affliction, because she was so far from covering her own reputation, that she completed his shame. he considered it as _abelard's_ contrivance, and a fresh instance of his perfidious dealing towards him. and this reflection put him upon studying how to be revenged on them both at one stroke; which, aiming at the root of the mischief, should forever disable them from offending again. while this plot was in agitation, the lovers, who were not apt to trouble their heads about what might happen, spent their time in the most agreeable manner that could be. _abelard_ could not live long without a sight of his dear wife. he made her frequent visits in the convent of argenteuil, to which she was retired. the nuns of this abbey enjoyed a very free kind of life: the grates and parlours were open enough. as for _heloise_, she had such excellent qualifications as made the good sisters very fond of her, and extremely pleased that they had such an amiable companion. and as they were not ignorant what reports there were abroad, that she was married to the famous _abelard_, (though she denied it to the last,) the most discerning among them, observing the frequent visits of the doctor, easily imagined that she had reasons for keeping herself private, and so they took her case into consideration, and expressed a wonderful compassion for her misfortunes. some of them, whom _heloise_ loved above the rest, and in whom she put great confidence, were not a little aiding and assisting in the private interviews which she had with _abelard_, and in giving him opportunities to enter the convent. the amorous doctor made the best use of every thing. the habit which _heloise_ wore the place where he was to see her, the time and seasons proper for his visit, the stratagems which must be used to facilitate his entrance, and carry him undiscovered to _heloise's_ chamber, the difficulties they met with, the reasons they had for not letting it be known who they were, and the fear they were in of being taken together; all this gave their amours an air of novelty, and added to their lawful embraces all the taste of stolen delights. these excesses had then their charms, but in the end had fatal consequences. the furious canon persisting in his design of being revenged on _abelard_, notwithstanding his marriage with his niece, found means to corrupt a domestic of the unfortunate doctor, who gave admittance into his master's chamber to some assassins hired by fulbert, who seized him in his sleep, and cruelly deprived him of his manhood, but not his life. the servant and his accomplices fled for it. the wretched _abelard_ raised such terrible outcries, that the people in the house and the neighbours being alarmed, hastened to him, and gave such speedy assistance, that he was soon out of a condition of fearing death. the news of this accident made great noise, and its singularity raised the curiosity of abundance of persons, who came the next day as in procession, to see, to lament and comfort him. his scholars loudly bewailed his misfortune, and the women distinguished themselves upon this occasion by extraordinary marks of tenderness. and 'tis probable among the great number of ladies who pitied _abelard_, there were some with whom he had been very intimate: for his philosophy did not make him scrupulous enough to esteem every small infidelity a crime, when it did not lessen his constant love of _heloise_. this action of fulbert was too tragical to pass unpunished: the traiterous servant and one of the assassins were seized and condemned to lose their eyes, and to suffer what they had done to _abelard_. but fulbert denying he had any share in the action saved himself from the punishment with the loss only of his benefices. this sentence did not satisfy _abelard_; he made his complaint to no purpose to the bishop and canons; and if he had made a remonstrance at rome, where he once had a design of carrying the matter, 'tis probable he would have had no better success. it requires too much money to gain a cause there. one _foulques_, prior of deuil, and intimate friend of _abelard_, wrote thus to him upon the occasion of his misfortune: "if you appeal to the pope without bringing an immense sum of money, it will be useless: nothing can satisfy the infinite avarice and luxury of the romans. i question if you have enough for such an undertaking; and if you attempt it, nothing will perhaps remain but the vexation of having flung away so much money. they who go to rome without large sums to squander away, will return just as they went, the expence of their journey only excepted*." but since i am upon foulques's letters which is too extraordinary to be passed over in silence, i shall give the reader some reflections which may make him amends for the trouble of a new digression. * _this letter is extant in_ latin _in _abelard's _works_. this friend of _abelard_ lays before him many advantages which might be drawn from his misfortune. he tells him his extraordinary talents, subtilty, eloquence and learning had drawn from all parts an incredible number of auditors, and so filled him with excessive vanity: he hints gently at another thing, which contributed not a little towards making him proud, namely, that the women continually followed him, and gloried in drawing him into their snares. this misfortune, therefore, would cure him of his pride, and free him from those snares of women which had reduced him even to indigence, tho' his profession got him a large revenue; and now he would never impoverish himself by his gallantries. _heloise_ herself, in some passages of her _letters_, says, that there was neither maid nor wife **, who in _abelard's_ absence did not form designs for him, and in his presence was not inflamed with love: the queens themselves, and ladies of the first quality, envied the pleasures she enjoyed with him. but we are not to take these words of _heloise_ in a strict sense; because as she loved _abelard_ to madness, so she imagined every one else did. besides, that report, to be sure, hath added to the truth. it is not at all probable that a man of _abelard's_ sense, and who according to all appearance passionately loved his wife, should not be able to contain himself within some bounds, but should squander away all his money upon mistresses, even to his not reserving what was sufficient to provide for his necessities. foulques owns, that he speaks only upon hearsay, and in that, no doubt, envy, and jealousy had their part. ** _qua conjugata, que virgo non concupiscebat absentem, & non exardescebat in presentem? qua regina, vel prapotens foemina gaudiis meis non invidebat, vel thalamis?_ foulques tells him besides, that the amputation of a part of his body, of which he made such ill use, would suppress at the same time a great many troublesome passions, and procure him liberty of reflecting on himself, instead of being hurried to and fro by his passions: his meditations would be no more interrupted by the emotions of the flesh, and therefore he would be more successful in discovering the secrets of nature. he reckons it as a great advantage to him, that he would no more be the terror of husbands, and might now lodge any where without being suspected. and forgets not to acquaint him, that he might converse with the finest women without any fear of those temptations which sometimes overpower even age itself upon the sight of such objects. and, lastly, he would have the happiness of being exempt from the illusions of sleep; which exemption, according to him is a peculiar blessing. it was with reason that foulques reckons all these as advantages very extraordinary in the life of an ecclesiastick. it is easy to observe, that, to a person who devotes himself to continence, nothing can be more happy than to be insensible to beauty and love, for they who cannot maintain their chastity but by continual combats are very unhappy. the life of such persons is uneasy, their state always doubtful. they but too much feel the trouble of their warfare; and if they come off victorious in an engagement, it is often with a great many wounds. even such of them as in a retired life are at the greatest distance from temptations, by continually struggling with their inclinations, setting barriers against the irruptions of the flesh, are in a miserable condition. their entrenchments are often forced, and their conscience filled with sorrow and anxiety. what progress might one make in the ways of virtue, who is not obliged to fight an enemy for every foot of ground? had _abelard's_ misfortune made him indeed such as foulques supposed, we should see him in his _letters_ express his motives of comfort with a better grace. but though he now was in a condition not able to satisfy a passion by which he had suffered so much, yet was he not insensible at the sight of those objects which once gave him so much pleasure. this discourse therefore of foulques, far from comforting _abelard_ in his affliction, seems capable of producing the contrary effect; and it is astonishing if _abelard_ did not take it so, and think he rather insulted him, and consequently resent it. as to dreams, st. austin informs us of the advantage foulques tells his friend he had gained. st. austin implores the grace of god to deliver him from this sort of weakness, and says, he gave consent to those things in his sleep which he should abominate awake, and laments exceedingly so great a regaining weakness. but let us go on with this charitable friend's letter; it hath too near a relation to this to leave any part of it untouched. matrimonial functions (continues foulques) and the cares of a family, will not now hinder your application to please god. and what a happiness is it, not to be in a capacity of sinning? and then he brings the examples of origen, and other martyrs, who rejoice now in heaven for their being upon earth in the condition _abelard_ laments; as if the impossibility of committing a sin could secure any one from desiring to do it. but one of the greatest motives of comfort, and one upon which he insists the most is, because his misfortune is irreparable. this is indeed true in fact, but the consequence of his reasoning is not so certain; _afflict not yourself_ (says he) _because your misfortune is of such a nature as is never to be repaired._ it must be owned, that the general topics of consolation have two faces, and may therefore be considered very differently, even so as to seem arguments for sorrow. as for instance, one might argue very justly, that a mother should not yield too much to grief upon the loss of a son, because her tears are unavailable; and tho' she should kill herself with sorrow, she can never, by these means, bring her son to life. yet this very thing, that all she can do is useless, is the main occasion of her grief; she could bear it patiently, could she any ways retrieve her loss. when solon lamented the death of his son, and some friend, by way of comfort, told him his tears were insignificant. _that_, said he, _is the very reason why i weep_. but foulques argues much better afterwards; he says, _abelard_ did not suffer this in the commission of an ill act, but sleeping peaceably in his bed; that is he was not caught in any open fact, such has cost others the like loss. this is indeed a much better topic than the former, though it must be allowed that _abelard_ had drawn this misfortune on himself by a crime as bad as adultery; yet the fault was over, and he had made all the reparation in his power, and when they maimed him he thought no harm to any body. _abelard's_ friend makes use likewise of other consolatory reasons in his letter, and represents to him, after a very moving manner, the part which the bishop and canons, and all the ecclesiasticks of paris, took in his disgrace, and the mourning there was among the inhabitants and especially the women, upon this occasion. but, in this article of consolation, how comes it to pass that he makes no mention of _heloise_? this ought not to appear strange: she was the most injured, and therefore questionless, her sorrows were sufficiently known to him; and it would be no news to tell the husband that his wife was in the utmost affliction for him. for as we observed before, though she was in a convent, she had not renounced her husband, and those frequent visits he made her were not spent in reading homilies. but let us make an end of our reflections on foulques's curious letter, foulques, after advising _abelard_ not to think of carrying the matter before the pope, by assuring him that it required too great expence to obtain any satisfaction at that court, concludes all with this last motive of consolation, that the imagined happiness he had lost was always accompanied with abundance of vexation; but if he persevered in his spirit of resignation, he would, without doubt, at the last day obtain that justice he had now failed of. 'tis great pity we have not _abelard's_ answer to this delicate letter, the matter then would look like one of job's dialogues with his friends. _abelard_ would generally have enough to reply, and foulques would often be but a sorry comforter. however, it is certain this letter was of some weight with _abelard_; for we find afterwards he never thought of making a voyage to rome. resolved to hear his calamity patiently, he left to god the avenging of the cruel and shameful abuse he had suffered. but let us return to _heloise_. 'tis probable her friends of the convent of argenteuil concealed so heavy a misfortune from her for some time; but at last she heard the fatal news. though the rage and fury of her uncle threatened her long since with some punishment, yet could she never suspect any thing of this nature. it will be saying too little to tell the reader she felt all the shame and sorrow that is possible. she only can express those violent emotions of her soul upon so severe an occasion. in all probability this misfortune of _abelard_ would have been a thorough cure of her passion, if we might argue from like cases: but there is no rule so general as not to admit of some exceptions; and _heloise's_ love upon this severe trial proved like queen stratonice's, who was not less passionate for her favourite combabus, when she discovered his impotence, than she had been before. shame and sorrow had not less seized _abelard_ than _heloise_, nor dared he ever appear in the world; so that he resolved, immediately upon his cure, to banish himself from the sight of men, and hide himself in the darkness of a monastick life avoiding all conversation with any kind of persons excepting his dear _heloise_, by whose company he endeavoured to comfort himself. but she at last resolved to follow his example, and continue forever in the convent of argenteuil where she was. _abelard_ himself confesses, that shame rather than devotion had made him take the habit of a monk; and that it was jealousy more than love which engaged him to persuade _heloise_ to be professed before he had made his vow. the letters which follow this history will inform us after what manner and with what resolution they separated. _heloise_ in the twenty-second year of her age generously quitted the world, and renounced all those pleasures she might reasonably have promised herself, to sacrifice herself entirely to the fidelity and obedience she owed her husband, and to procure him that ease of mind which he said he could no otherwise hope for. time making _abelard's_ misfortune familiar to him, he now entertained thoughts of ambition, and of supporting the reputation he had gained of the most learned man of the age. he began with explaining the _acts of the apostles_ to the monks of the monastery of st. _dennis_ to which he had retired; but the disorders of the abbey, and debauchees of the abbot, which equally with his dignity, were superior to those of the simple monks, quickly drove him hence. he had made himself uneasy to them by censuring their irregularity. they were glad to part with him, and he to leave them. as soon as he had obtained leave of the abbot, he retired to thinbaud in champaign, where he set up a school, persuading himself that his reputation would bring him a great number of scholars. and indeed they flocked to him, not only from the most distant provinces of prance, but also from rome, spain, england, and germany, in such number, that the towns could not provide accommodation, nor the country provisions, enough for them*, but _abelard_ did not foresee, that this success and reputation would at the same time occasion him new troubles. he had made himself two considerable enemies at laon, alberic of rheims, and lotulf of lombardy, who, as soon as they perceived how prejudicial his reputation was to their schools, sought all occasions to ruin him; and thought they had a lucky handle to do so from a book of his, intituled, _the mystery of the trinity_. this they pretended was heretical, and through the archbishop's means they procured a council at soissons in the year 1121; and without suffering _abelard_ to make any defence, ordered his book to be burnt by his own hands, and himself to be confined to the convent of st. medard. this sentence gave him such grief, that he says himself, the unhappy fate of his writing touched him more sensibly than the misfortune he had suffered through fulbert's means. nor was it only his fatherly concern for his own productions, but the indelible mark of heresy which by this means was fixed on him, which so exceedingly troubled him. * _ad quas scholas tanta scholarium multitudo confluxit ut nec locus hospitiis, nec terra sufficeret alimentis._ abel. oper. p. 19 that the curious reader may have a complete knowledge of this matter, i shall here give an account of that pretended heresy which was imputed to _abelard_. the occasion of his writing this book was, that his scholars demanded * philosophical arguments on that subject; often urging that it was impossible to believe what was not understood; that it was to abuse the world, to preach a doctrine equally unintelligible to the speaker and auditor; and that it was for the blind to lead the blind. these young men were certainly inclined to sabellinism. _abelard's_ enemies however did not accuse him of falling into this, but another heresy as bad, tritheism; though indeed he was equally free from both: he explained the unity of the godhead by comparisons drawn from human things but according to a passage of st. bernard**, one of his greatest enemies, he seemed to hold, that no one ought to believe what he could not give a reason for. however _abelard's_ treatise upon this subject pleased every one except those of his own profession, who, stung with envy that he should find out explanations which they could not have thought of, raised such a cry of heresy upon him, that he and some of his scholars had like to have been stoned by the mob***. by their powerful cabals they prevailed with conan bishop of preneste, the pope's legate, who was president of the council, to condemn his book, pretending that he asserted three gods, which they might easily suggest, when he was suffered to make no defence. 'tis certain he was very orthodox in the doctrine of the trinity; and all this process against him was only occasioned by the malice of his enemies. his logical comparison (and logic was his masterpiece) proved rather the three divine persons one, than multiplied the divine nature into three. his comparison is, that as the three proportions * in a syllogism are but one truth, so the father, son, and holy ghost, are but one essence; and it is certain the inconveniences which may be drawn from this parallel are not more than what may be drawn from the comparison of the three dimensions of solids, so much insisted on by the famous orthodox mathematician dr. wallis of england. but great numbers of pious and learned divines, who have not been over-subtile in politics, have been persecuted and condemned as well as _abelard_ by the ignorance and malice of their brethren. * _humanas & philosophicas rationes requirebant & plus quae inteligi, quam quae dici poffenter, efflagitabant._ abel op. ** _benardi epist._ 190. *** _ita me in clero & populo diffamaverunt, ut pene me populos paucosque qui advenerant ex discipulis nostris prima die nostri anventus lapidarent; dicentes me tres deos praedicare & scripsisse, sicut ipsis persuasum fuerat._ abel oper. p. 20. * _sicut eadem oratio est, propositio, assumptio & conuclusio, ita eadem essentia est pater, filius, and spiritus sanctis._ ibid. a little after his condemnation, _abelard_ was ordered to return to st. dennis. the liberty he had taken to censure the vicious lives of the monks had raised him a great many enemies. amongst these was st. bernard, not upon the same motives as those monks, but because _abelard's_ great wit, joined with so loose and sensual a life, gave him jealousy, who thought it impossible the heart should be defiled without the head being likewise tainted. scarce had he returned to st. dennis, when one day he dropped some words, intimating he did not believe that the st. dennis their patron was the areopagite mentioned in the scripture, there being no probability that he ever was in france. this was immediately carried to the abbot, who was full of joy, that he had now a handle to heighten the accusations of heresy against him with some crime against the state; a method frequently used by this sort of gentlemen to make sure their revenge. in those times, too, the contradicting the notions of the monks was enough to prove a man an atheist, heretic, rebel, or any thing; learning signified nothing. if any one of a clearer head and larger capacity had the misfortune to be suspected of novelty, there was no way to avoid the general persecution of the monks but voluntarily banishing himself. the abbot immediately assembled all the house, and declared he would deliver up to the secular power a person who had dared to reflect upon the honour of the kingdom and of the crown. _abelard_ very rightly judging that such threatenings were not to be despised, fled by night to champaign, to a cloister of the monks of troies, and there patiently waited till the storm should be over. after the death of this abbot, which, very luckily for him happened soon after his flight, he obtained leave to live where he pleased, though it was not without using some cunning. he knew the monks of so rich a house had fallen into great excesses, and were very obnoxious to the court, who would not fail to make their profit of it: he therefore procured it should be represented to his council as very disadvantageous to his majesty's interest, that a person who was continually censuring the lives of his brethren should continue any longer with them. this was immediately understood, and orders given to some great men at court to demand of the abbot and monks why they kept a person in their house whose conduct was so disagreeable to them; and, far from being an ornament to the society, was a continual vexation, by publishing their faults? this being very opportunely moved to the new abbot, he gave _abelard_ leave to retire to what cloister he pleased. _abelard_, who indeed had all the qualities which make a great man, could not however bear, without repining, the numerous misfortunes with which he saw himself embarrassed, and had frequent thoughts of publishing a manifesto to justify himself from the scandalous imputations his enemies had laid upon him and to undeceive those whom their malice had prejudiced against him. but upon cooler thought he determined, that it was better to say nothing and to shew them by his silence how unworthy he thought them of his anger. thus being rather enraged than troubled at the injuries he had suffered, he resolved to found a new society, consisting chiefly of monks. to this purpose he chose a solitude in the diocese of troies, and upon some ground which was given by permission of the bishop, he built a little house and a chapel, which he dedicated to the most holy trinity. men of learning were then scarce, and the desire of science was beginning to spread itself. our exile was inquired after and found; scholars crowded to him from all parts: they built little huts, and were very liberal to their master for his lectures; content to live on herbs, and roots, and water, that they might have the advantage of learning from so extraordinary a man; and with great zeal they enlarged the chapel building that and their professor's house with wood and stone. upon this occasion _abelard_, to continue the memory of the comfort he had received in this desart, dedicated his new built chapel to the holy ghost, by the name of the paraclete, or comforter. the envy of alberic and lotulf, which had long since persecuted him, was strangely revived, upon seeing so many scholars flock to him from all parts, notwithstanding the inconvenience of the place, and in contempt of the masters who might so commodiously be found in the towns and cities. they now more than ever sought occasion to trouble him; the name of paraclete furnished them with one. they gave out that this novelty was a consequence of his former heresy, and that it was no more lawful to dedicate churches to the holy ghost than to god the father: that this title was a subtile art of instilling that poison which he durst not spread openly, and a consequence of his heretical doctrine which had been condemned already by a council. this report raised a great clamour among numbers of people, whom his enemies employed on all sides. but the persecution grew more terrible when st. bernard and st. norbet declared against him; two great zealots, fired with the spirit of reformation, and who declared themselves restorers of the primitive discipline, and had wonderfully gained upon the affections of the populace. they spread such scandal against him that they prejudiced his principal friends, and forced those who still loved him not to shew it any ways; and upon these accounts made his life so bitter to him that he was upon the point of leaving christendom*. but his unhappiness would not let him do a thing which might have procur'd his ease; but made him still continue with christians, and with monks (as himself expresses it) worse than heathens**. * _saepe autem (deus scit) in tantam lapsus sum desperationem ut christianorum finibus excessis, ad gentes transire disponerem, atque ibi quiete sub quacunque tributi pactione inter inimicos christi christiane vivere._ abel op. p. 32. ** _incedi in christianos atque monachos gentibus longe saeviores atque pejores._ abel op. p. 20. the duke of britany, informed of his misfortunes, and of the barbarity of his enemies, named him to the abbey of st. gildas, in the diocese of vannes, at the desire of the monks who had already elected him for their superior. here he thought he had found a refuge from the rage of his enemies, but in reality he had only changed one trouble for another. the profligate lives of the monks, and the arbitrariness of a lord, who had deprived them of the greater part of their revenues, so that they were obliged to maintain their mistresses and children at their own private expence, occasioned him a thousand vexations and dangers. they several times endeavoured to poison him in his ordinary diet, but proving unsuccessful that way, they cried to do it in the holy sacrament. excommunications, with which he threatened the most mutinous, did not abate the disorder. he now feared the poniard more than poison, and compared his case to his whom the tyrant of saracuse caused to be seated at his table, with a sword hanging over him, fastened only by a thread. whilst _abelard_ thus suffered in his abbey by his monks, the nuns of argenteuil, of whom _heloise_ was prioress, grew so licentious, that sugger, abbot of dennis, taking advantage of their irregularities, got possession of their monastery. he sent the original writings to rome; and having obtained the answer he desired, he expelled the nuns, and established in their place monks of his order. some censorious people upon reading this passage, will be apt to entertain strong suspicions of _heloise_, and judge it probable that a governor does not behave well when dissoluteness is known to reign in the society. i have never read that she was included by name in the general scandal of the society, and therefore am cautious not to bring any accusations against her. our saviour says, _no one hath condemned thee, neither do i condemn thee._ _heloise_, at her departure from the convent of argenteuil, applied to her husband; who by permission of the bishop troies, gave her the house and chapel of the _paraclete_, with its appendages; and placing there some nuns, founded a nunnery. pope innocent ii. confirmed this donation in the year 1131. this is the origin of the abbey of the _paraclete_, of which _heloise_ was the first abbess. whatever her conduct was among the licentious nuns of argenteuil, it is certain she lived so regular in this her new and last retreat, and behaved herself with that prudence, zeal, and piety, that she won the hearts of all the world, and in a small time had abundance of donations. _abelard_ himself says she had more in one year than he could have expected all his life, had he lived there. the bishops loved her as their child, the abbesses as their sister, and the world as their mother. it must be owned some women have had wonderful talents for exciting christian charity. the abbesses which succeeded _heloise_ have often been of the greatest families in the kingdom. there is a list of them in the _notes_ of _andrew du chene_ upon _abelard's_ works, from the time of the foundation in 1130, to 1615; but he has not thought fit to take notice of jane cabot, who died the 25th of june 1593, and professed the protestant religion, yet without marrying, or quitting her habit, though she was driven from her abbey. after _abelard_ had settled _heloise_ here, he made frequent journies from britany to champaign, to take care of the interest of this rising house, and to ease himself from the vexations of his own abbey. but slander so perpetually followed this unhappy man, that though his present condition was universally known, he was reproached with a remaining voluptuous passion for his former mistress. he complains of his hard usage in one of his letters; but comforts himself by the example of st. jerom, whose friendship with paula occasioned scandal too; and therefore he entirely confuted this calumny, by remarking that even the most jealous commit their wives to the custody of eunuchs. the thing which gives the greatest handle to suspect _heloise's_ prudence, and that _abelard_ did not think himself safe with her, is his making a resolution to separate himself forever from her. during his being employed in establishing this new nunnery, and in ordering their affairs, as well temporal as spiritual, he was diligent in persuading her, by frequent and pious admonitions, to such a separation; and insisted, that in order to make their retirement and penitence more profitable, it was absolutely necessary they should seriously endeavour to forget each other, and for the future think on nothing but god. when he had given her directions for her own conduct, and rules for the management of the nuns, he took his last leave of her and returned to his abbey in britany where he continued a long time without her hearing any mention of him. by chance, a letter he wrote to one of his friends, to comfort him under some disgrace, wherein he had given him a long account of all the persecutions he himself had suffered, fell into heloise's hands. she knew by the superscription from whom it came, and her curiosity made her open it. the reading the particulars of a story she was so much concerned in renewed all her passion, and she hence took an occasion to write to him, complaining of his long silence. _abelard_ could not forbear answering her. this occasioned the several letters between them which follow this history; and in these we may observe how high a woman is capable of railing the sentiments of her heart when possessed of a great deal of wit and learning, at well as a most violent love. i shall not tire the reader with any farther reflections on the letters of those two lovers, but leave them entirely to his own judgment; only remarking, that he ought not to be surprised to find _heloise's_ more tender, passionate, and expressive, than those of _abelard_. she was younger and consequently more ardent than he. the sad condition he was in had not altered her love. besides, she retired only in complaisance to a man she blindly yielded to; and resolving to preserve her fidelity inviolable, she strove to conquer her desires, and make a virtue of necessity. but the weakness of her sex continually returned, and she felt the force of love in spite of all resistance. it was not the same with _abelard_; for though it was a mistake to think, that by not being in a condition of satisfying his passion, he was as _heloise_ imagined, wholly delivered from the thorn of sensuality; yet he was truly sorry for the disorders of his past life, he was sincerely penitent, and therefore his letters are less violent and passionate than those of _heloise_. about ten years after _abelard_ had retired to his abbey, where study was his chief business, his enemies, who had resolved to persecute him to the last, were careful not to let him enjoy the ease of retirement. they thought he was not sufficiently plagued with his monks, and therefore brought a new process of heresy against him before the archbishop of sens. he desired he might have the liberty of defending his doctrine before a public assembly, and it was granted him. upon this account the council of sens was assembled, in which louis the vii, assisted in person, in the year 1140. st. bernard was the accuser, and delivered to the assembly some propositions drawn from _abelard's_ book, which were read in the council. this accusation gave _abelard_ such fears, and was managed with such inveterate malice by his enemies, and with such great unfairness, in drawing consequences he never thought of, that, imagining he had friends at rome who would protect his innocence, he made an appeal to the pope. the council notwithstanding his appeal, condemned his book, but did not meddle with his person; and gave an account of the whole proceeding to pope innocent ii. praying him to confirm their sentence. st. bernard had been so early in prepossessing the pontiff, that he got the sentence confirmed before _abelard_ heard any thing of it, or had any time to present himself before the tribunal to which he had appealed. his holiness ordered besides, that _abelard's_ books should be burnt, himself confined, and for ever prohibited from teaching. this passage of st. bernard's life is not much for the honour of his memory: and whether he took the trouble himself to extract the condemned propositions from _abelard's_ works, or intrusted it to another hand, it is certain the paper he gave in contained many things which _abelard_ never wrote, and others which he did not mean in the same sense imputed to him. when a few particular expressions are urged too rigidly, and unthought of consequences drawn from some assertions, and no regard is had to the general intent and scope of an author, it is no difficult matter to find errors in any book. for this reason, beranger of poitiers, _abelard's_ scholar defended his master against st. bernard, telling him he ought not to persecute others, whose own writings were not exempt from errors; demonstrating, that he himself had advanced a position which he would not have failed to have inserted in this extract as a monstrous doctrine, if he had found them in the writings of _abelard_. some time after _abelard's_ condemnation, the pope was appeased at the solicitation of the abbot of clugni, who received this unfortunate gentleman into his monastery with great humanity, reconciled him with st. bernard, and admitted him to be a religious of his society. this was _abelard's_ last retirement, in which he found all manner of kindness; he read lectures to the monks, and was equally humble and laborious. at last growing weak, and afflicted with a complication of diseases, he was sent to the priory of st. marcel upon the saone, near chalons, a very agreeable place, where he died the 21st of april 1142, in the 63d year of his age. his corpse was sent to the chapel of _paraclete_, to _heloise_, to be interred, according to her former request of him, and to his own desire. the abbot of clugni, when he sent the body to _heloise_ according to the custom of those times, sent with it an absolution, to be fixed, together with his epitaph, on his grave-stone, which absolution was at follows: "i peter, abbot of clugni, having received father _abelard_ into the number of my religions, and given leave that his body be privately conveyed to the abbey of the paraclete, to be disposed of by _heloise_ abbess of the same abbey; do, by the authority of god and all the saints, absolve the said _abelard_ from all his sins*." * _ego petrus cluniacensis abbas, qui pet. abselardum in monacum cluniacensem recepi, & corpus ejus surtim delatum heloissa abbatissae & monialibus paracleti concessi, authoritate omnipotentis dei & omnium sanctorum, absolvo eum pro officio ab omnibus peccatis suis._ _heloise_, who survived him twenty years, had all the leisure that could be to effect the cure of her unhappy passion. alas! she was very long about it! she passed the rest of her days like a religions and devout abbess, frequent in prayers, and entirely employed in the regulation of her society. she loved study; and being a mistress of the learned languages, the latin, greek, and hebrew, she was esteemed a miracle of learning. _abelard_, in a letter he wrote to the religious of his new house, says expressly, that _heloise_ understood these three languages. the abbot of clugni, likewise, in a letter he wrote to her, tells her, she excelled in learning not only all her sex, but the greatest part of men**. and in the calendar of the house of the paraclete she is recorded in these words: _heloise, mother and first abbess of this place, famous for her learning and religion._ i must not here pass by a custom the religious of the _paraclete_ now have to commemorate how learned their first abbess was in the greek, which is, that every year, on the day of pentecost, they perform divine service in the greek tongue. what a ridiculous vanity! ** _studio tuo & mulieres omnes eviciti, & pene viros universos suparasti._ abel op. francis d'amboise tells us how subtilely one day she satisfied st. bernard, upon asking her, why in her abbey, when they recited the lord's prayer, they did not say, _give us this day our_ daily _bread_, but _give us this day our_ supersubstantial _bread_, by an argument drawn from the originals, affirming we ought to follow the greek version of the gospel of st. _matthew_ wrote in _hebrew_. without doubt, it was not a little surprising to st. bernard, to hear a woman oppose him in a controversy, by citing a _greek_ text. 'tis true, some authors say, _abelard_ made this answer to st. bernard, after hearing from _heloise_ that objections were made to that form of prayer. however the case was, a woman with a small competency of learning might in those time pass for a miracle; and though she might not equal those descriptions which have been given of her, yet she may deservedly be placed in the rank of women of the greatest learning. nor was she less remarkable for her piety, patience, and resignation, during her sicknesses in the latter part of her life. she died the 17th of may 1163. 'tis said she desired to be buried in the same tomb with her _abelard_, though that probably was not executed. francis d'amboise says, he saw at the convent the tombs of the founder and foundress near together. however a manuscript of tours gives us an account of an extraordinary miracle which happened when _abelard's_ grave was opened for _heloise's_ body, namely that _abelard_ stretched out his arms to receive her, and embraced her closely, though there were twenty good years passed since he died. but that is a small matter to a writer of miracles. i shall conclude this history with an epitaph on _abelard_, which the abbot of clugni sent _heloise_, and which is now to be read on his tomb; it hath nothing in it delicate either for thought or language, and will scarcely bear a translation. it is only added here for the sake of the curious, and as an instance of the respect paid to the memory of so great a man, and one whom envy had loaded with the greatest defamations. "petrus in hac petra latitat, quem mundus homerum clamabat, fed jam sidera sidus habent. sol erat hic gallis, sed eum jam fata tulerunt: ergo caret regio gallica sole suo. ille sciens quid quid fuit ulli scibile, vicit artifices, artes absque docente docens. undecimae maij petrum rapuere calendae, privantes logices atria rege fuo. est fatis, in tumulo petrus hic jacit abaelardus, cui soli patuit scibile quid quid erat. gallorum socrates, plato maximus hesperianum noster aristoteles, logicis (quicumque fuerunt) aut par aut melior; studioium cognitus orbi princeps, ingeuio varius, subtilius & acer, omnia vi superans rationis & arte loquendi, abaelardus erat. sed nunc magis omnia vincit. cum cluniacensem monacum, moremque professus, ad christi veram transivit philosophiam, in qua longaevae bene complens ultima vitae, philosophis quandoque bonis se connumerandum spem dedit, undenas maio renovante calendas." -----------letters of abelard and heloise. -----letter i. _abelard to philintus._ it may be proper to acquaint the reader, that the following letter was written by _abelard_ to a friend, to comfort him under some afflictions which had befallen him, by a recital of his own sufferings, which had been much heavier. it contains a particular account of his amour with _heloise_, and the unhappy consequences of it. this letter was written several years after _abelard's_ separation from _heloise_. the last time we were together, _philintus_, you gave me a melancholy account of your misfortunes. i was sensibly touched with the relation, and, like a true friend, bore a share in your griefs. what did i not say to stop your tears? i laid before you all the reasons philosophy could furnish, which i thought might any ways soften the strokes of fortune: but all endeavours have proved useless: grief i perceive, has wholly seized your spirits: and your prudence, far from assisting, seems quite to have forsaken you. but my skilful friendship has found out an expedient to relieve you. attend to me a moment; hear but the story of my misfortunes, and yours, _philintus_, will be nothing, if you compare them with those of the loving and unhappy _abelard_. observe, i beseech you, at what expence i endeavour to serve you: and think this no small mark of my affection; for i am going to present you with the relation of such particulars, as it is impossible for me to recollect without piercing my heart with the most sensible affliction. you know the place where i was born; but not perhaps that i was born with those complexional faults which strangers charge upon our nation, an extreme lightness of temper, and great inconstancy. i frankly own it, and shall be as free to acquaint you with those good qualities which were observed in me. i had a natural vivacity and aptness for all the polite arts. my father was a gentleman, and a man of good parts; he loved the wars, but differed in his sentiments from many who followed that profession. he thought it no praise to be illiterate, but in the camp he knew how to converse at the same time with the muses and bellona. he was the same in the management of his family, and took equal care to form his children to the study of polite learning as to their military exercises. as i was his eldest, and consequently his favourite son, he took more than ordinary care of my education. i had a natural genius to study, and made an extraordinary progress in it. smitten with the love of books, and the praises which on all sides were bestowed upon me, i aspired to no reputation but what proceeded from learning. to my brothers i left the glory of battles, and the pomp of triumphs; nay more, i yielded them up my birthright and patrimony. i knew necessity was the great spur to study, and was afraid i should not merit the title of learned, if i distinguished myself from others by nothing but a more plentiful fortune. of all the sciences, logic was the most to my taste. such were the arms i chose to profess. furnished with the weapons of reasoning, i took pleasure in going to public disputations to win trophies; and wherever i heard that this art flourished, i ranged like another alexander, from province to province, to seek new adversaries, with whom i might try my strength. the ambition i had to become formidable in logic led me at last to paris, the centre of politeness, and where the science i was so smitten with had usually been in the greatest perfection. i put myself under the direction of one _champeaux_ a professor, who had acquired the character of the most skilful philosopher of his age, by negative excellencies only, by being the least ignorant. he received me with great demonstrations of kindness, but i was not so happy as to please him long: i was too knowing in the subjects he discoursed upon. i often confuted his notions: often in our disputations i pushed a good argument so home, that all his subtilty was not able to elude its force. it was impossible he should see himself surpassed by his scholar without resentment. it is sometimes dangerous to have too much merit. envy increased against me proportionably to my reputation. my enemies endeavoured to interrupt my progress, but their malice only provoked my courage; and measuring my abilities by the jealousy i had raised, i thought i had no farther occasion for champeaux's lectures, but rather that i was sufficiently qualified to read to others. i stood for a place which was vacant at melun. my master used all his artifice to defeat my hopes, but in vain; and on this occasion i triumphed over his cunning, as before i had done over his learning. my lectures were always crouded, and beginnings so fortunate, that i entirely obscured the renown of my famous master. flushed with these happy conquests, i removed to corbeil to attack the masters there, and so establish my character of the ablest logician, the violence of travelling threw me into a dangerous distemper, and not being able to recover my strength, my physician, who perhaps were in a league with champeaux, advised me to retire to my native air. thus i voluntarily banished myself for some years. i leave you to imagine whether my absence was not regretted by the better sort. at length i recovered my health, when i received news that my greatest adversary had taken the habit of a monk. you may think was an act of penitence for having persecuted me; quite contrary, it was ambition; he resolved to raise himself to some church-dignity therefore he fell into the beaten track, and took on him the garb of feigned austerity; for this is the easiest and and shortest way to the highest ecclesiastical dignities. his wishes were successful, and he obtained a bishoprick: yet did he not quit paris, and the care of the schools. he went to his diocese to gather in his revenues, but returned and passed the rest of his time in reading lectures to those few pupils which followed him. after this i often-engaged with him, and may reply to you as ajax did to the greeks; "if you demand the fortune of that day, when stak'd on this right hand your honours lay if i did not oblige the foe to yield, yet did i never basely quit the field." about this time my father beranger, who to the age of sixty had lived very agreeably, retired from the world and shut himself up in a cloister, where he offered up to heaven the languid remains of a life he could make no farther use of. my mother, who was yet young, took the same resolution. she turned a religious, but did not entirely abandon the satisfactions of life. her friends were continually at the grate; and the monastery, when one has an inclination to make it so, is exceeding charming and pleasant. i was present when my mother was professed. at my return i resolved to study divinity, and inquired for a director in that study. i was recommended to one _anselm_, the very oracle of his time; but to give you my own opinion, one more venerable for his age and wrinkles than for his genius or learning. if you consulted him upon any difficulty, the sure consequence was to be much more uncertain in the point. those who only saw him admired him, but those who reasoned with him were extremely dissatisfied. he was a great master of words, and talked much, but meant nothing. his discourse was a fire, which, instead of enlightening, obscured every thing with its smoke; a tree beautified with variety of leaves and branches, but barren. i came to him with a desire to learn, but found him like the fig-tree in the gospel, or the old oak to which lucan compares pompey. i continued not long underneath his shadow. i took for my guides the primitive fathers, and boldly launched into the ocean of the holy scriptures. in a short time i made such a progress, that others chose me for their director. the number of my scholars were incredible, and the gratuities i received from them were answerable to the great reputation i had acquired. now i found myself safe in the harbour; the storms were passed, and the rage of my enemies had spent itself without effect. happy, had i known to make a right use of this calm! but when the mind is most easy, it is most exposed to love, and even security here is the most dangerous state. and now, my friend, i am going to expose to you all my weaknesses. all men, i believe, are under a necessity of paying tribute, at some time or other, to love, and it is vain to strive to avoid it. i was a philosopher, yet this tyrant of the mind triumphed over all my wisdom; his darts were of greater force than all my reasoning, and with a sweet constraint he led me whither he pleased. heaven, amidst an abundance of blessings with which i was intoxicated, threw in a heavy affliction. i became a most signal example of its vengeance; and the more unhappy, because having deprived me of the means of accomplishing my satisfaction, it left me to the fury of my criminal desires. i will tell you, my dear friend, the particulars of my story, and leave you to judge whether i deserved so severe a correction. i had always an aversion for those light women whom it is a reproach to pursue; i was ambitious in my choice, and wished to find some obstacles, that i might surmount them with the greater glory and pleasure. there was in paris a young creature, (ah! _philintus_!) formed in a prodigality of nature, to show mankind a finished composition; dear _heloise_! the reputed niece of one _fulbert_ a canon. her wit and her beauty would have fired the dullest and most insensible heart; and her education was equally admirable. _heloise_ was a mistress of the most polite arts. you may easily imagine that this did not a little help to captivate me. i saw her; i loved her; i resolved to endeavour to gain her affections. the thirst of glory cooled immediately in my heart, and all my passions were lost in this new one. i thought of nothing but _heloise_; every thing brought her image to my mind. i was pensive, restless; and my passion was so violent as to admit of no restraint. i was always vain and presumptive; i flattered myself already with the most bewitching hopes. my reputation had spread itself every where; and could a virtuous lady resist a man that had confounded all the learned of the age? i was young;--could she show an infallibility to those vows which my heart never formed for any but herself? my person was advantageous enough and by my dress no one would have suspected me for a doctor; and dress you know, is not a little engaging with women. besides, i had wit enough to write a _billet doux_, and hoped, if ever she permitted my absent self to entertain her, she would read with pleasure those breathings of my heart. filled with these notions, i thought of nothing but the means to speak to her. lovers either find or make all things easy. by the offices of common friends i gained the acquaintance of fulbert. and, can you believe it, _philintus_? he allowed me the privilege of his table, and an apartment in his house. i paid him, indeed, a considerable sum; for persons of his character do nothing without money. but what would i not have given! you my dear friend, know what love is; imagine then what a pleasure it must have been to a heart so inflamed as mine to be always so near the dear object of desire! i would not have exchanged my happy condition for that of the greatest monarch upon earth. i saw _heloise_, i spoke to her: each action, each confused look, told her the trouble of my soul. and she, on the other side, gave me ground to hope for every thing from her generosity. fulbert desired me to instruct her in philosophy; by this means i found opportunities of being in private with her and yet i was sure of all men the most timorous in declaring my passion. as i was with her one day, alone, charming _heloise_, said i, blushing, if you know yourself, you will not be surprised with what passion you have inspired me with. uncommon as it is, i can express it but with the common terms;--i love you, adorable _heloise_! till now i thought philosophy made us masters, of all our passions, and that it was a refuge from the storms in which weak mortals are tossed and shipwrecked; but you have destroyed my security, and broken this philosophic courage. i have despised riches; honour and its pageantries could never raise a weak thought in me; beauty alone hath fired my soul. happy, if she who raised this passion kindly receives the declaration; but if it is an offence--no, replied _heloise_; she must be very ignorant of your merit who can be offended at your passion. but, for my own repose, i wish either that you had not made this declaration, or that i were at liberty not to suspect your sincerity. ah, divine _heloise_, said i, flinging myself at her feet, i swear by yourself--i was going on to convince her of the truth of my passion, but heard a noise, and it was fulbert. there was no avoiding it, but i must do a violence to my desire, and change the discourse to some other subject. after this i found frequent opportunities to free _heloise_ from those suspicions which the general insincerity of men had raised in her; and she too much desired what i said were truth, not to believe it. thus there was a most happy understanding between us. the same house, the same love, united our persons and our desires. how many soft moments did we pass together! we took all opportunities to express to each other our mutual affections, and were ingenious in contriving incidents which might give us a plausible occasion for meeting. pyramus and thisbe's discovery of the crack in the wall was but a slight representation of our love and its sagacity. in the dead of night, when fulbert and his domestics were in a sound sleep, we improved the time proper to the sweets of love. not contenting ourselves, like those unfortunate loves, with giving insipid kisses to a wall, we made use of all the moments of our charming interviews. in the place where we met we had no lions to fear, and the study of philosophy served us for a blind. but i was so far from making any advances in the sciences that i lost all my taste of them; and when i was obliged to go from the sight of my dear mistress to my philosophical exercises, it was with the utmost regret and melancholy. love is incapable of being concealed; a word, a look, nay silence, speaks it. my scholars discovered it first: they saw i had no longer that vivacity thought to which all things were easy: i could now do nothing but write verses to sooth my passion. i quitted aristotle and his dry maxims, to practise the precepts of the more ingenious ovid. no day passed in which i did not compose amorous verses. love was my inspiring apollo. my songs were spread abroad, and gained me frequent applauses. those whom were in love as i was took a pride in learning them; and, by luckily applying my thoughts and verses, have obtained favours which, perhaps, they could not otherwise have gained. this gave our amours such an _eclat_, that the loves of _heloise_ and _abelard_ were the subject of all conversations. the town-talk at last reached fulbert's ears. it was with great difficulty he gave credit to what he heard, for he loved his niece, and was prejudiced in my favour; but, upon closer examination, he began to be less incredulous. he surprised us in one of our more soft conversations. how fatal, sometimes, are the consequences of curiosity! the anger of fulbert seemed to moderate on this occasion, and i feared in the end some more heavy revenge. it is impossible to express the grief and regret which filled my soul when i was obliged to leave the canon's house and my dear _heloise_. but this separation of our persons the more firmly united our minds; and the desperate condition we were reduced to, made us capable of attempting any thing. my intrigues gave me but little shame, so lovingly did i esteem the occasion. think what the gay young divinities said, when vulcan caught mars and the goddess of beauty in his net, and impute it all to me. fulbert surprised me with _heloise_, and what man that had a soul in him would not have borne any ignominy on the same conditions? the next day i provided myself of a private lodging near the loved house, being resolved not to abandon my prey. i continued some time without appearing publickly. ah, how long did those few moments seem to me! when we fall from a state of happiness, with what impatience do we bear our misfortunes! it being impossible that i could live without seeing _heloise_, i endeavoured to engage her servant, whose name was _agaton_, in my interest. she was brown, well shaped, a person superior to the ordinary rank; her features regular, and her eyes sparkling; fit to raise love in any man whose heart was not prepossessed by another passion. i met her alone, and intreated her to have pity on a distressed lover. she answered, she would undertake any thing to serve me, but there was a reward.--at these words i opened my purse and showed the shining metal, which lays asleep guards, forces away through rocks, and softens the hearts of the most obdurate fair. you are mistaken, said she, smiling, and shaking her head--you do not know me. could gold tempt me, a rich abbot takes his nightly station, and sings under my window: he offers to send me to his abbey, which, he says, is situate in the most pleasant country in the world. a courtier offers me a considerable sum of money, and assures me i need have no apprehensions; for if our amours have consequences, he will marry me to his gentleman, and give him a handsome employment. to say nothing of a young officer, who patroles about here every night, and makes his attacks after all imaginable forms. it must be love only which could oblige him to follow me; for i have not like your great ladies, any rings or jewels to tempt him: yet, during all his siege of love, his feather and his embroidered coat have not made any breach in my heart. i shall not quickly be brought to capitulate, i am too faithful to my first conqueror--and then she looked earnestly on me. i answered, i did not understand her discourse. she replied, for a man of sense and gallantry you have a very slow apprehension; i am in love with you _abelard_. i know you adore _heloise_, i do not blame you; i desire only to enjoy the second place in your affections. i have a tender heart as well as my mistress; you may without difficulty make returns to my passion. do not perplex yourself with unfashionable scruples; a prudent man ought to love several at the same time; if one should fail, he is not then left unprovided. you cannot imagine, _philintus_, how much i was surprised at these words. so entirely did i love _heloise_ that without reflecting whether agaton spoke any thing reasonable or not, i immediately left her. when i had gone a little way from her i looked back, and saw her biting her nails in the rage of disappointment, which made me fear some fatal consequences. she hastened to fulbert, and told him the offer i had made her, but i suppose concealed the other part of the story. the canon never forgave this affront. i afterwards perceived he was more deeply concerned for his niece than i at first imagined. let no lover hereafter follow my example, a woman rejected is an outrageous creature. agaton was day and night at her window on purpose to keep me at a distance from her mistress, and so gave her own gallants opportunity enough to display their several abilities. i was infinitely perplexed what course to take; at last i applied to _heloise_ singing-master. the shining metal, which had no effect on agaton, charmed him; he was excellently qualified for conveying a billet with the greatest dexterity and secrecy. he delivered one of mine to _heloise_, who, according to my appointment was ready at the end of a garden, the wall of which i scaled by a ladder of ropes. i confess to you all my failings, _philintus_. how would my enemies, champeaux and anselm, have triumphed, had they seen the redoubted philosopher in such a wretched condition? well--i met my soul's joy, my _heloise_. i shall not describe our transports, they were not long; for the first news _heloise_ acquainted me with plunged me in a thousand distractions. a floating _delos_ was to be sought for, where she might be safely delivered of a burthen she began already to feel. without losing much time in debating, i made her presently quit the canon's house, and at break of day depart for britany; where, she like another goddess, gave the world another apollo, which my sister took care of. this carrying off _heloise_ was sufficient revenge upon fulbert. it filled him with the deepest concern, and had like to have deprived him of all the little share of wit which heaven had allowed him. his sorrow and lamentation gave the censorious an occasion of suspecting him for something more than the uncle of _heloise_. in short, i began to pity his misfortune, and think this robbery which love had made me commit was a sort of treason. i endeavoured to appease his anger by a sincere confession of all that was past, and by hearty engagements to marry _heloise_ secretly. he gave me his consent and with many protestations and embraces confirmed our reconciliation. but what dependence can be made on the word of an ignorant devotee. he was only plotting a cruel revenge, as you will see by what follows. i took a journey into britany, in order to bring back my dear _heloise_, whom i now considered as my wife. when i had acquainted her with what had passed between the canon and me, i found she was of a contrary opinion to me. she urged all that was possible to divert me from marriage: that it was a bond always fatal to a philosopher; that the cries of children, and cares of a family, were utterly inconsistent with the tranquility and application which the study of philosophy required. she quoted to me all that was written on the subject by theophrastus, cicero, and, above all, insisted on the unfortunate socrates, who quitted life with joy, because by that means he left xantippe. will it not be more agreeable to me, said she, to see myself your mistress than your wife? and will not love have more power than marriage to keep our hearts firmly united? pleasures tasted sparingly, and with difficulty, have always a higher relish, while every thing, by being easy and common, grows flat and insipid. i was unmoved by all this reasoning. _heloise_ prevailed upon my sister to engage me. lucille (for that was her name) taking me aside one day, said, what do you intend, brother? is it possible that _abelard_ should in earnest think of marrying _heloise_? she seems indeed to deserve a perpetual affection; beauty, youth, and learning, all that can make a person valuble, meet in her. you may adore all this if you please; but not to flatter you, what is beauty but a flower, which may be blasted by the least fit of sickness? when those features, with which you have been so captivated, shall be sunk, and those graces lost, you will too late repent that you have entangled yourself in a chain, from which death only can free you. i shall see you reduced to the married man's only hope of survivorship. do you think learning ought to make _heloise_ more amiable? i know she is not one of those affected females who are continually oppressing you with fine speeches, criticising books, and deciding upon the merit of authors, when such a one is in the fury of her discourse, husbands, friends, servants, all fly before her. _heloise_ has not this fault; yet it is troublesome not to be at liberty to use the least improper expression before a wife, that you bear with pleasure from a mistress. but you say, you are sure of the affections of _heloise_ i believe it; she has given you no ordinary proofs. but can you be sure marriage will not be the tomb of her love? the name of husband and master are always harsh, and _heloise_ will not be the phenix you now think her. will she not be a woman? come, come, the head of a philosopher is less secure than those of other men. my sister grew warm in the argument, and was going to give me a hundred more reasons of this kind; but i angrily interrupted her, telling her only, that she did not know _heloise_. a few days after, we departed together from britany, and came to paris, where i completed my project. it was my intent my marriage should be kept secret, and therefore _heloise_ retired among the nuns of argenteuil. i now thought fulbert's anger disarmed; i lived in peace: but, alas! our marriage proved but a weak defence against his revenge. observe, _philintus_, to what a barbarity he pursued it! he bribed my servants; an assassin came into my bed chamber by night with a razor in his hand, and found me in a deep sleep. i suffered the most shameful punishment that the revenge of an enemy could invent; in short without losing my life, i lost my manhood. i was punished indeed in the offending part; the desire was left me, but not the possibility of satisfying the passion. so cruel an action escaped not unpunished; the villain suffered the same infliction; poor comfort for so irretrievable an evil; i confess to you, shame, more than any sincere penitence; made me resolve to hide myself from my _heloise_. jealousy took possession of my mind; at the very expence of her happiness i decreed to disappoint all rivals. before i put myself in a cloister, i obliged her to take the habit, and retire into the nunnery of argenteuil. i remember somebody would have opposed her making such a cruel sacrifice of herself, but she answered in the words of cornelia, after the death of pompey the great; "--o conjux, ego te scelereta peremi, --te fata extrema petente vita digna fui? moriar----&c. o my lov'd lord! our fatal marriage draws on thee this doom, and i the guilty cause! then whilst thou go'st th' extremes of fate to prove, i'll share that fate, and expiate thus my love." speaking these verses, she marched up to the altar, and took the veil with a constancy which i could not have expected in a woman who had so high a taste of pleasure which she might still enjoy. i blushed at my own weakness; and without deliberating a moment longer, i buried myself in a cloister, resolving to vanquish a fruitless passion. i now reflected that god had chastised me thus grievously, that he might save me from that destruction in which i had like to have been swallowed up. in order to avoid idleness, the unhappy incendiary of those criminal flames which had ruined me in the world, i endeavoured in my retirement to put those talents to a good use which i had before so much abused. i gave the novices rules of divinity agreeable to the holy fathers and councils. in the mean while, the enemies which my fame had raised up, and especially alberic and lotulf, who after the death of their masters champeaux and anselm affirmed the sovereignty of learning, began to attack me. they loaded me with the falsest imputations, and, notwithstanding all my defence, i had the mortification to see my books condemned by a council and burnt. this was a cutting sorrow, and, believe me, _philintus_, the former calamity suffered by the cruelty of fulbert was nothing in comparison to this. the affront i had newly received, and the scandalous debaucheries of the monks, obliged me to banish myself, and retire near nogent. i lived in a desart, where i flattered myself i should avoid fame, and be secure from the malice of my enemies. i was again deceived. the desire of being taught by me, drew crowds of auditors even thither. many left the towns and their houses, and came and lived in tents; for herbs, coarse fare, and hard lodging, they abandoned the delicacies of a plentiful table and easy life. i looked like a prophet in the wilderness attended by his disciples. my lectures were perfectly clear from all that had been condemned. and happy had it been if our solitude had been inaccessible to envy! with the considerable gratuities i received i built a chapel, and dedicated it to the holy ghost, by the name of the paraclete. the rage of my enemies now awakened again, and forced me to quit this retreat. this i did without much difficulty. but first the bishop of troies gave me leave to establish there a nunnery, which i did, and committed the care of it to my dear _heloise_. when i had settled her here, can you believe it, _philintus_? i left her without taking any leave. i did not wander long without settled habitation; for the duke of britany, informed of my misfortunes, named me to the abbey of _guildas_, where i now am, and where i now suffer every day fresh persecutions. i live in a barbarous country, the language of which i do not understand. i have no conversation with the rudest people. my walks are on the inaccessible shore of a sea which is perpetually stormy. my monks are known by their dissoluteness, and living without rule or order. could you see the abbey _philintus_, you would not call it one. the doors and walls are without any ornament except the heads of wild boars and hinds' feet, which are nailed up against them, and the heads of frightful animals. the cells are hung with the skins of deer. the monks have not so much as a bell to wake them; the cocks and dogs supply that defect. in short, they pass their whole days in hunting; would to heaven that were their greatest fault, or that their pleasures terminated there! i endeavour in vain to recall them to their duty; they all combine against me, and i only expose myself to continual vexations and dangers. i imagine that every moment a naked sword hang over my head. sometimes they surround me and load me with infinite abuses; sometimes they abandon me, and i am left alone to my own tormenting thoughts. i make it my endeavour to merit by my sufferings, and to appease an angry god. sometimes i grieve for the house of the _paraclete_, and wish to see it again. ah, _philintus_! does not the love of _heloise_ still burn in my heart_?_ i have not yet triumphed over that happy passion. in the midst of my retirement i sigh, i weep, i pine, i speak the dear name of _heloise_, pleased to hear the sound, i complain of the severity of heaven. but, oh! let us not deceive ourselves: i have not made a right use of grace. i am thoroughly wretched. i have not yet torn from my heart deep roots which vice has planted in it. for if my conversion was sincere, how could i take a pleasure to relate my past follies? could i not more easily comfort myself in my afflictions? could i not turn to my advantage those words of god himself, _if they have persecuted me, they will also persecute you; if the world hate you, ye know that it hated me also_? come _philintus_, let us make a strong effort, turn our misfortunes to our advantage, make them meritorious, or at least wipe out our offences; let us receive, without murmuring, what comes from the hand of god, and let us not oppose our will to his. adieu. i give you advice, which could i myself follow, i should be happy. letter ii. _heloise to abelard._ the foregoing letter would probably not have produced any others, if it had been delivered to the person to whom it was directed; but falling by accident into _heloise's_ hands, who knew the character she opened it and read it; and by that means her former passion being awakened, she immediately set herself to write to her husband as follows. *to her lord, her father; her husband, her brother; his servant his child; his wife, his sister; and to express all that is humble, respectful and loving to her _abelard_, _heloise_ writes this. _domino suo, imo patri; conjugi suo, imo fratri; ancilla sua, imo filia; ipsius uxor, imo soror; abaelardo heloisa, &c. abel. op._ a consolatory letter of yours to a friend happened some days since to fall into my hands. my knowledge of the character, and my love of the hand, soon gave me the curiosity to open it. in justification of the liberty i took, i flattered myself i might claim a sovereign privilege over every thing which came from you nor was i scrupulous to break thro' the rules of good breeding, when it was to hear news of _abelard_. but how much did my curiosity cost me? what disturbance did it occasion? and how was i surprised to find the whole letter filled with a particular and melancholy account of our misfortunes? i met with my name a hundred times; i never saw it without fear: some heavy calamity always, followed it, i saw yours too, equally unhappy. these mournful but dear remembrances, puts my spirits into such a violent motion, that i thought it was too much to offer comfort to a friend for a few slight disgraces by such extraordinary means, as the representation of our sufferings and revolutions. what reflections did i not make, i began to consider the whole afresh, and perceived myself pressed with the same weight of grief as when we first began to be miserable. tho' length of time ought to have closed up my wounds, yet the seeing them described by your hand was sufficient to make them all open and bleed afresh. nothing can ever blot from my memory what you have suffered in defence of your writings. i cannot help thinking of the rancorous malice of alberic and lotulf. a cruel uncle and an injured lover, will be always present to my aking sight. i shall never forget what enemies your learning, and what envy your glory, raised against you. i shall never forget your reputation, so justly acquired, torn to pieces, and blasted by the inexorable cruelty of half-learned pretenders to science. was not your treatise of divinity condemned to be burnt? were you not threatened with perpetual imprisonment? in vain you urged in your defence, that your enemies imposed on you opinions quite different from your meaning; in vain you condemned those opinions; all was of no effect towards your justification; it was resolved you should be a heretic. what did not those two false prophets** accuse you of, who declaimed so severely against you before the council of sens? what scandals were vented on occasion of the name paraclete given to your chapel? what a storm was raised against you by the treacherous monks, when you did them the honour to be called their brother? this history of our numerous misfortunes, related in so true and moving a manner, made my heart bleed within me. my tears, which i could not restrain, have blotted half your letter: i wish they had effaced the whole and that i had returned it to you in that condition. i should then have been satisfied with the little time; kept it, but it was demanded of me too soon. ** st. bernard and st. norbet. i must confess i was much easier in my mind before i read your letter. sure all the misfortunes of lovers are conveyed to them thro' their eyes. upon reading your letter i felt all mine renewed, i reproached myself for having been so long without venting my sorrows, when the rage of our unrelenting enemies still burns with the same fury. since length of time, which disarms the strongest hatred, seems but to aggravate theirs; since it is decreed that your virtue shall be persecuted till it takes refuge in the grave, and even beyond that, your ashes perhaps, will not be suffered to rest in peace,--let me always meditate on your calamities, let me publish them thro' all the world, if possible, to shame an age that has not known how to value you. i will spare no one, since no one would interest himself to protect you, and your enemies are never weary of oppressing your innocence, alas! my memory is perpetually filled with bitter remembrances of past evils, and are there more to be feared still? shall my _abelard_ be never mentioned without tears? shall thy dear name be never spoken but with sighs? observe, i beseech you, to what a wretched condition you have reduced me: sad, afflicted, without any possible comfort, unless it proceed from you. be not then unkind, nor deny, i beg you that little relief which you can only give. let me have a faithful account of all that concerns you. i would know every thing, be it ever so unfortunate. perhaps, by mingling my sighs with yours, i may make your sufferings less, if that observation be true, that all sorrows divided are made lighter. tell me not, by way of excuse, you will spare our tears; the tears of women, shut up in a melancholy place, and devoted to penitence, are not to be spared. and if you wait for an opportunity to write pleasant and agreeable things to us, you will delay writing too long. prosperity seldom chuses the side of the virtuous; and fortune is so blind, that in a crowd in which there is perhaps but one wife and brave man, it is not to be expected she should single him out. write to me then immediately, and wait not for miracles; they are too scarce, and we too much accustomed to misfortunes to expect any happy turn. i shall always have this, if you please, and this will be always agreeable to me, that when i receive any letters from you, i shall know you still remember me. seneca, (with whose writings you made me acquainted,) as much a stoic as he was, seemed to be so very sensible of this kind of pleasure, that upon opening any letters from lucilius, he imagined he felt the same delight as when they conversed together. i have made it an observation, since our absence, that we are much fonder of the pictures of those we love, when they are at a great distance, than when they are near to us. it seems to me, as if the farther they are removed their pictures grow the more finished, and acquire a greater resemblance; at least, our imagination, which perpetually figures them to us by the desire we have of seeing them again, makes us think so. by a peculiar power, love can make that seem life itself, which, as soon as the loved object returns, is nothing but a little canvas and dead colours. i have your picture in my room; i never pass by it without stopping to look at it; and yet when you were present with me, i scarce ever cast my eyes upon it. if a picture, which is but a mute representation of an object, can give such pleasure, what cannot letters inspire? they have souls; they can speak; they have in them all that force which expresses the transports of the heart; they have all the fire of our passions; they can raise them as much as if the persons themselves were present; they have all the softness and delicacy of speech, and sometimes a boldness of expression even beyond it. we may write to each other; so innocent a pleasure is not forbidden us. let us not lose, through negligence, the only happiness which is left us, and the only one, perhaps, which the malice of our enemies can never ravish from us. i shall read that you are my husband, and you shall see me address you as a wife. in spite of all your misfortunes, you may be what you please in your letter. letters were first invented for comforting such solitary wretches as myself. having lost the substantial pleasures of seeing and possessing you, i shall in some measure compensate this loss by the satisfaction i shall find in your writing. there i shall read your most secret thoughts; i shall carry them always about me; i shall kiss them every moment: if you can be capable of any jealousy, let it be for the fond caresses i shall bestow on your letters, and envy only the happiness of those rivals. that writing may be no trouble to you, write always to me carelessly, and without study: i had rather read the dictates of the heart than of the brain. i cannot live if you do not tell me you always love me; but that language ought to be so natural to you, that i believe you cannot speak otherwise to me without great violence to yourself. and since, by that melancholy relation to your friend, you have awakened all my sorrows, it is but reasonable you should allay them by some marks of an inviolable love. i do not, however, reproach you for the innocent artifice you made use of to comfort a person in affliction, by comparing his misfortune to another much greater. charity is ingenious in finding out such pious artifices, and to be commended for using them. but do you owe nothing more to us than to that friend, be the friendship between you ever so intimate? we are called your sisters; we call ourselves your children; and if it were possible to think of any expression which could signify a dearer relation, or a more affectionate regard and mutual obligation between us, we would use them: if we could be so ungrateful as not to speak our just acknowledgments to you, this church, these altars, these walls, would reproach our silence, and speak for us, but without leaving it to that, it will be always a pleasure to me to say, that you only are the founder of this house; it is wholly your work. you, by inhabiting here, have given fame and function to a place known before only for robberies and murders. you have, in the literal sense, made the den of thieves a house of prayer. these cloisters owe nothing to public charities; our walls were not raised by the usury of publicans, nor their foundations laid in base extortion. the god whom we serve sees nothing but innocent riches and harmless votaries, whom you have placed here. whatever this young vineyard is, is owing all to you; and it is your part to employ your whole care to cultivate and improve it; this ought to be one of the principal affairs of your life. though our holy renunciation, our vows, and our manner of life, seem to secure us from all temptations; though our walls and grates prohibit all approaches, yet it is the outside only, the bark of the tree is covered from injuries; while the sap of original corruption may imperceptibly spread within, even to the heart, and prove fatal to the most promising plantation, unless continual care be taken to cultivate and secure it. virtue in us is grafted upon nature and the woman; the one is weak, and the other is always changeable. to plant the lord's vine is a work of no little labour; and after it is planted it will require great application and diligence to manure it. the apostle of the gentiles; as great a labourer as he was, says, _he hath planted, and apollo hath watered; but it is god that giveth the increase._ paul had planted the gospel among the corinthians, by his holy and earnest preaching; _apollos_, a zealous disciple of that great master, continued to cultivate it by frequent exhortations; and the grace of god, which their constant prayers, implored for that church, made the endeavours of both successful. this ought to be an example for your conduct towards us. i know you are not slothful; yet your labours are not directed to us; your cares are wasted upon a set of men whose thoughts are only earthly, and you refuse to reach out your hand to support those who are weak and staggering in their way to heaven, and who, with all their endeavours, can scarcely preserve themselves from falling. you fling the pearls of the gospel before swine, when you speak to those who are filled with the good things of this world, and nourished with the fatness of the earth; and you neglect the innocent sheep, who, tender as they are, would yet follow you thro' deserts and mountains. why are such pains thrown away upon the ungrateful, while not a thought is bestowed upon your children, whose souls would be filled with a sense of your goodness? but why should i intreat you in the name of your children? is it possible i should fear obtaining any thing of you, when i ask it in my own name? and must i use any other prayers than my own to prevail upon you? the st. austins, tertullians, and jeromes, have wrote to the eudoxas, paulas, and melanias; and can you read those names, though of saints, and not remember mine? can it be criminal for you to imitate st. jerome, and discourse with me concerning the scripture? or tertullian, and preach mortification? or st. austin, and explain to me the nature of grace? why should i only reap no advantage from your learning? when you write to me, you will write to your wife. marriage has made such a correspondence lawful; and since you can, without giving the least scandal, satisfy me, why will you not? i have a barbarous uncle, whose inhumanity is a security against any criminal desire which tenderness and the remembrance of our past enjoyments might inspire. there is nothing that can cause you any fear; you need not fly to conquer. you may see me, hear my sighs, and be a witness of all my sorrows, without incurring any danger, since you can only relieve me with tears and words. if i have put myself into a cloister with reason, persuade me to continue in it with devotion: you have been the occasion of all my misfortunes, you therefore must be the instrument of all my comforts. you cannot but remember, (for what do not lovers remember?) with what pleasure i have past whole days in hearing your discourse. how, when you were absent, i shut myself from everyone to write to you; how uneasy i was till my letter had come to your hands; what artful management it required to engage confidents. this detail, perhaps, surprises you, and you are in pain for what will fellow. but i am no longer ashamed that my passion has had no bounds for you; for i have done more than all this: i have hated myself that i might love you; i came hither to ruin myself in a perpetual imprisonment, that i might make you live quiet and easy. nothing but virtue, joined to a love perfectly disengaged from the commerce of the senses, could have produced such effect. vice never inspires any thing like this; it is too much enslaved to the body. when we love pleasures, we love the living, and not the dead; we leave off burning with desire for those who can no longer burn for us. this was my cruel uncle's notions; he measured my virtue by the frailty of my sex, and thought it was the man, and not the person, i loved. but he has been guilty to no purpose. i love you more than ever; and to revenge myself of him, i will still love you with all the tenderness of my soul till the last moment of my life. if formerly my affection for you was not so pure, if in those days the mind and the body shared in the pleasure of loving you, i often told you, even then, that i was more pleased with possessing your heart than with any other happiness, and the man was the thing i least valued in you. you cannot but be entirely persuaded of this by the extreme unwillingness i showed to marry you: tho' i knew that the name of wife was honourable in the world, and holy in religion, yet the name of your mistress had greater charms, because it was more free. the bonds of matrimony, however honourable, still bear with them a necessary engagement; and i was very unwilling to be necessitated to love always a man who, perhaps, would not always love me. i despised the name of wife, that i might live happy with that of mistress; and i find, by your letter to your friend, you have not forgot that delicacy of passion in a woman who loved you always with the utmost tenderness, and yet wished to love you more, you have very justly observed in your letter, that i esteemed those public engagements insipid which form alliances only to be dissolved by death, and which put life and love under the same unhappy necessity. but you have not added how often i have made protestations that it was infinitely preferable to me to live with _abelard_ as his mistress than with any other as empress of the world, and that i was more happy in obeying you, than i should have been in lawfully captivating the lord of the universe. riches and pomp are not the charms of love. true tenderness make us to separate the lover from all that is external to him, and setting aside his quality, fortune, and employments, consider him singly by himself. 'tis not love, but the desire of riches and honour, which makes women run into the embraces of an indolent husband. ambition, not affection, forms such marriages. i believe indeed they may be followed with some honours and advantages, but i can never think that this is the way to enjoy the pleasures of an affectionate union, nor to feel those secret and charming emotions of hearts that have long strove to be united. these martyrs of marriage pine always for large fortunes, which they think they have lost. the wife sees husbands richer that her own, and the husband wives better portioned than his. their interested vows occasion regret, and regret produces hatred. they soon part, or always desire it. this restless and tormenting passion punishes them for aiming at other advantages of love than love itself. if there is any thing which may properly be called happiness here below, i am persuaded it is in the union of two persons who love each other with perfect liberty, who are united by a secret inclination, and satisfied with each other's merit; their hearts are full and leave no vacancy for any other passion; they enjoy perpetual tranquillity, because they enjoy content. if i could believe you as truly persuaded of my merit as i am of yours, i might say there has been such a time when we were such a pair. alas! how was it possible i should not be certain of your merit? if i could ever have doubted it, the universal esteem would have made me determine in your favour. what country, what city, has not desired your presence? could you ever retire but you drew the eyes and hearts of all after you? did not every one rejoice in having seen you? even women, breaking through the laws of decorum, which custom had imposed upon them, showed manifestly they felt something more for you than esteem. i have known some who have been profuse in their husband's praises, who have yet envied my happiness, and given strong intimations they could have refused you nothing. but what could resist you? your reputation, which so much soothed the vanity of our sex; your air, your manner; that life in your eyes, which so admirably expressed the vivacity of your mind; your conversation with that ease and elegance which gave every thing you spoke such an agreeable and insinuating turn; in short, every thing spoke for you; very different from some mere scholars, who, with all their learning, have not the capacity to keep up an ordinary conversation, and with all their wit cannot win the affection of women who have a much less share than themselves. with what ease did you compose verses? and yet those ingenious trifles, which were but a recreation after your more serious studies, are still the entertainment and delight of persons of the best taste. the smallest song, nay, the least sketch of any thing you made for me, had a thousand beauties capable of making it last as long as there are love or lovers in the world. thus those songs will be sung in honour of other women which you designed only for me? and those tender and natural expressions which spoke your love will help others to explain their passion, with much more advantage than what they themselves are capable of. what rivals did your gallantries of this kind occasion me? how many ladies laid claim to them? 'twas a tribute their self-love paid to their beauty. how many have i seen with sighs declare their passion for you, when, after some common visit you had made them, they chanced to be complimented for the sylvia of your poems? others, in despair and envy, have reproached me, that i had no charms but what your wit bestowed on me, nor in any thing the advantage over them but in being beloved by you. can you believe if i tell you, that, notwithstanding the vanity of my sex, i thought myself peculiarly happy in having a lover to whom i was obliged for my charms, and took a secret pleasure in being admired by a man who, when he pleased, could raise his mistress to the character of a goddess? pleased with your glory only, i read with delight all those praises you offered me, and without reflecting how little i deserved, i believed myself such as you described me, that i might be more certain i pleased you. but oh! where is that happy time fled? i now lament my lover, and of all my joys there remains nothing but the painful remembrance that _they are past_. now learn, all you my rivals who once viewed my happiness with such jealous eyes, that he you once envied me can never more be yours or mine. i loved him, my love was his crime, and the cause of his punishment. my beauty once charmed him: pleased with each other, we passed our brightest days in tranquillity and happiness. if that was a crime, 'tis a crime i am yet fond of, and i have no other regret, than that against my will i must necessarily be innocent. but what do i say? my misfortune was to have cruel relations, whose malice disturbed the calm we enjoyed. had they been capable of the returns of reason, i had now been happy in the enjoyment of my dear husband. oh! how cruel were they when their blind fury urged a villain to surprise you in your sleep! where was i? where was your _heloise_ then? what joy should i have had in defending my lover! i would have guarded you from violence, though at the expence of my life; my cries and the shrieks alone would have stopped the hand.--! oh! whither does the excess of passion hurry me? here love is shocked, and modesty, joined with despair, deprive me of words. 'tis eloquence to be silent, where no expression can reach the greatness of the misfortune. but, tell me, whence proceeds your neglect of me since my being professed? you know nothing moved me to it but your disgrace, nor did i give any consent but yours. let me hear what is the occasion of your coldness, or give me leave to tell you now my opinion. was it not the sole view of pleasure which engaged you to me? and has not my tenderness, by leaving you nothing to wish for, extinguished your desires? wretched _heloise_! you could please when you wished to avoid it; you merited incense, when you could remove to a distance the hand that offered it; but since your heart has been softened, and has yielded; since you have devoted and sacrificed yourself, you are deserted and forgotten. i am convinced, by sad experience, that it is natural to avoid those to whom we have been too much obliged; and that uncommon generosity produces neglect rather than acknowledgement. my heart surrendered too soon to gain the esteem of the conqueror; you took it without difficulty, and give it up easily. but, ungrateful as you are, i will never content to it. and though in this place i ought not to retain a wish of my own, yet i have ever secretly preserved the desire of being beloved by you. when i pronounced my sad vow, i then had about me your last letter, in which you protested you would be wholly mine, and would never live but to love me. 'tis to you, therefore, i have offered myself; you had my heart, and i had yours; do not demand any thing back; you must bear with my passion as a thing which of right belongs to you, and from which you can no ways be disengaged. alas! what folly is it to talk at this rate? i see nothing here but marks of the deity, and i speak of nothing but man! you have been the cruel occasion of this by your conduct. unfaithful man! ought you at once to break off loving me. why did you not deceive me for a while, rather than immediately abandon me? if you had given me at least but some faint signs even of a dying passion, i myself had favoured the deception. but in vain would i flatter myself that you could be constant; you have left me no colour of making your excuse. i am earnestly desirous to see you; but if that be impossible, i will content myself with a few lines from your hand. is it so hard for one who loves to write? i ask for none of your letters filled with learning, and writ for reputation; all i desire is such letters as the heart dictates, and which the hand can scarce write fast enough. how did i deceive myself with the hopes that you would be wholly mine when i took the veil, and engaged myself to live for ever under your laws? for in being professed, i vowed no more than to be yours only, and i obliged myself voluntarily to a confinement in which you desired to place me. death only then can make me leave the place where you have fixed me; and then too, my ashes shall rest, here and wait for your, in order to shew my obedience and devotedness to you to the latest moment possible. why should i conceal from you the secret of my call? you know it was neither zeal nor devotion which led me to the cloister. your conscience is too faithful a witness to permit you to disown it. yet here i am, and here i will remain; to this place an unfortunate love, and my cruel relations, have condemned me. but if you do not continue your concern for me, if i lose your affection, what have i gained by my imprisonment? what recompense can i hope for? the unhappy consequence of a criminal conduit, and your disgraces, have put on me this habit of chastity, and not the sincere desire of being truly penitent. thus i strive and labour in vain. among those whose are wedded to god i serve a man: among the heroic supporters of the cross, i am a poor slave to a human passion: at the head of a religious community i am devoted to _abelard_ only. what a prodigy am i? enlighten me, o lord! does thy grace or my own despair draw these words from me? i am sensible i am in the temple of chastity, covered only with the ashes of that fire which hath consumed us. i am here, i confess, a sinner, but one who, far from weeping for her sins, weeps only for her lover; far from abhorring her crimes, endeavours only to add to them; and who, with a weakness unbecoming the state i am in, please myself continually with the remembrance of past actions, when it is impossible to renew them. good god! what is all this! i reproach myself for my own faults, i accuse you for yours, and to what purpose? veiled as i am, behold in what a disorder you have plunged me! how difficult is it to fight always for duty against inclination? i know what obligations this veil lays on me, but i feel more strongly what power a long habitual passion has over my heart. i am conquered by my inclination. my love troubles my mind, and disorders my will. sometimes i am swayed by the sentiments of piety which arise in me, and the next moment i yield up my imagination to all that is amorous and tender. i tell you to-day what i would not have said to you yesterday. i had resolved to love you no more; i considered i had made a vow, taken the veil, and am as it were dead and buried; yet there rises unexpectedly from the bottom of my heart a passion which triumphs over all these notions, and darkens all my reason and devotion. you reign in such inward retreats of my soul, that i know not where to attack you. when i endeavour to break those chains by which i am bound to you, i only deceive myself, and all the efforts i am able to make serve but to bind them the faster. oh, for pity's sake help a wretch to renounce her desires herself, and if it be possible, even to renounce you! if you are a lover, a father, help a mistress, comfort a child! these tender names, cannot they move you? yield either to pity or love. if you gratify my request i shall continue a religious without longer profaning my calling. i am ready to humble myself with you to the wonderful providence of god, who does all things for our sanctification; who, by his grace, pacifies all that is vicious and corrupt in the principle, and; by the inconceivable riches of his mercy, draws us to himself against our wishes, and by degrees opens our eyes to discern the greatness of his bounty, which at first we would not understand. i thought to end my letter here. but now i am complaining against you, i must unload my heart, and tell you all its jealousies, and reproaches. indeed i thought it something hard, that when we had both engaged to consecrate ourselves to heaven, you should insist upon doing it first. does _abelard_ then, said i, suspect he shall see renewed in me the example of lot's wife, who could not forbear looking back when she left sodom? if my youth and sex might give occasion of fear that i should return to the world, could not my behaviour, my fidelity, and this heart which you ought to know, could not banish such ungenerous apprehensions? this distrustful foresight touched me sensibly. i said to myself, there was a time when he could rely upon my bare word, and does he now want vows to secure himself of me? what occasion have i given him in the whole course of my life to admit the least suspicion? i could meet him at all his assignations, and would i decline following him to the feats of holiness? i who have not refused to be a victim of pleasure to gratify him, can he think i would refuse to be a sacrifice of honour to obey him? has vice such charms to well-born souls? and, when we have once drank of the cup of sinners, is it with such difficulty that we take the chalice of saints? or did you believe yourself a greater master to teach vice than virtue, or did you think it was more easy to persuade me to the first than the latter? no, this suspicion would be injurious to both. virtue is too amiable not to be embraced, when you reveal her charms; and vice too hideous not to be avoided, when you show her deformities. nay, when you please, any thing seems lovely to me, and nothing is frightful or difficult when you are by. i am only weak when i am alone and unsupported by you, and therefore it depends on you alone that i may be such as you desire. i wish to heav'n you had not such a power over me. if you had any occasion to fear, you would be less negligent. but what is there for you to fear? i have done too much, and now have nothing more to do but to triumph over your ingratitude. when we lived happy together, you might have made it doubt whether pleasure or affection united me more to you; but the place from whence i write to you must now have entirely taken away that doubt. even here i love you as much as ever i did in the world. if i had loved pleasures, could i not yet have found means to have gratified myself? i was not above twenty-two years old; and there were other men left though i was deprived of _abelard_ and yet did i not bury myself alive in a nunnery, and triumph over love, at an age capable of enjoying it in its full latitude? 'tis to you i sacrifice these remains of a transitory beauty, these widowed nights and tedious days which i pass without seeing you; and since you cannot possess them, i take them from you to offer them to heaven, and to make, alas! but a secondary oblation of my heart, my days, and my life! i am sensible i have dwelt too long on this head; i ought to speak less to you of your misfortunes, and of my own sufferings, for love of you. we tarnish the lustre of our most beautiful actions when we applaud them ourselves. this is true, and yet there is a time when we may with decency commend ourselves; when we have to do with those whom base ingratitude has stupefied, we cannot too much praise our own good actions. now, if you were of this sort of men, this would be a home-reflection on you. irresolute as i am, i still love you, and yet i must hope for nothing, i have renounced life, and stripped myself of every thing, but i find i neither have nor can renounce my _abelard_. though i have lost my lover, i still preserve my love. o vows! o convent! i have not lost my humanity under your inexorable discipline! you have not made me marble by changing my habit. my heart is not totally hardened by my perpetual imprisonment; i am still sensible to what has touched me, though, alas i ought not to be so. without offending your commands, permit a lover to exhort me to live in obedience to your rigorous rules. your yoke will be lighter, if that hand support me under it; your exercises will be amiable, if he shows me their advantage. retirement, solitude! you will not appear terrible, if i may but still know i have any place in his memory. a heart which has been so sensibly affected as mine cannot soon be indifferent. we fluctuate long between love and hatred before we can arrive at a happy tranquillity, and we always flatter ourselves with some distant hope that we shall not be quite forgotten. yes, _abelard_, i conjure you by the chains i bear here to ease the weight of them, and make them as agreeable as i wish they were to me. teach me the maxims of divine love. since you have forsaken me, i glory in being wedded to heaven. my heart adores that title, and disdains any other. tell me how this divine love is nourished, how it operates, and purifies itself. when we were tossed in the ocean of the world, we could hear of nothing but your verses, which published every where our joys and our pleasures: now we are in the haven of grace, is it not fit that you should discourse to me of this happiness, and teach me every thing which might improve and heighten it? shew me the same complaisance in my present condition as you did when we were in the world. without changing the ardour of our affections, let us change their object; let us leave our songs, and sing hymns; let us lift up our hearts to god, and have no transports but for his glory. i expect this from you as a thing you cannot refuse me. god has a peculiar right over the hearts of great men which he has created. when he pleases to touch them, he ravishes them, and lets them not speak nor breathe but for his glory. till that moment of grace arrives, o think of me----do not forget me;--remember my love, my fidelity, my constancy; love me as your mistress, cherish me as your child, your sister, your wife. consider that i still love you, and yet strive to avoid loving you. what a word, what a design is this! i shake with horror, and my heart revolts against what i say. i shall blot all my paper with tears--i end my long letter, wishing you, if you can desire it, (would to heaven i could,) for ever adieu. advertisement. that the reader may make a right judgment on the following letter, it is proper he should be informed of the condition _abelard_ was in when he wrote it. the duke of britany whose subject he was born, jealous of the glory of france, which then engrossed all the most famous scholars of europe, and being, besides, acquainted with the persecution _abelard_ had suffered from his enemies, had nominated him to the abbey of st. gildas, and, by this benefaction and mark of his esteem, engaged him to past the rest of his days in his dominions. he received this favour with great joy, imagining, that by leaving france he should lose his passion, and gain a new turn of mind upon entering into his new dignity. the abbey of st. gildas is seated upon a rock, which the sea beats with its waves. _abelard_, who had lain on himself the necessity of vanquishing a passion which absence had in a great measure weakened, endeavoured in this solitude to extinguish the remains of it by his tears. but upon his receiving the foregoing letter he could not resist so powerful an attack, but proves as weak and as much to be pitied as _heloise_. 'tis not then a master or director that speaks to her, but a man who had loved her, and loves her still: and under this character we are to consider _abelard_ when he wrote the following letter. if he seems, by some passages in it, to have begun to feel the motions of divine grace they appear as yet to be only by starts, and without any uniformity. letter iii. _abelard_ to _heloise._ could i have imagined that a letter not written to yourself could have fallen into your hands, i had been more cautious not to have inserted any thing in it which might awaken the memory of our past misfortunes. i described with boldness the series of my disgraces to a friend, in order to make him less sensible of the loss he had sustained. if by this well meaning artifice i have disturbed you, i purpose here to dry up those tears which the sad description occasioned you to shed: i intend to mix my grief with yours, and pour out my heart before you; in short, to lay open before your eyes all my trouble, and the secrets of my soul, which my vanity has hitherto made me conceal from the rest of the world, and which you now force from me, in spite of my resolutions to the contrary. it is true, that in a sense of the afflictions which had befallen us, and observing that no change of our condition was to be expected; that those prosperous days which had seduced us were now past, and there remained nothing but to eraze out of our minds, by painful endeavours, all marks and remembrance of them, i had wished to find in philosophy and religion a remedy for my disgrace; i searched out an asylum to secure me from love. i was come to the sad experiment of making vows to harden my heart. but what have i gained by this? if my passion has been put under a restraint, my ideas yet remain. i promise myself that i will forget you, and yet cannot think of it without loving you; and am pleased with that thought. my love is not at all weakened by those reflections i make in order to free myself. the silence i am surrounded with makes me more sensible to its impressions; and while i am unemployed with any other things, this makes itself the business of my whole vacation; till, after a multitude of useless endeavours, i begin to persuade myself that it is a superfluous trouble to drive to free myself; and that it is wisdom sufficient if i can conceal from every one but you my confusion and weakness. i removed to a distance from your person, with an intention of avoiding you as an enemy; and yet i incessantly seek for you in my mind; i recall your image in my memory; and in such different disquietudes i betray and contradict myself. i hate you: i love you. shame presses me on all sides: i am at this moment afraid lest i should seem more indifferent than you, and yet i am ashamed to discover my trouble. how weak are we in ourselves, if we do not support ourselves on the cross of christ? shall we have so little courage, and shall that uncertainty your heart labours with, of serving two masters, affect mine too? you see the confusion i am in, what i blame myself for, and what i suffer. religion commands me to pursue virtue, since i have nothing to hope for from love. but love still preserves its dominion in my fancy, and entertains itself with past pleasures. memory supplies the place of a mistress. piety and duty are not always the fruits of retirement; even in deserts, when the dew of heaven falls not on us, we love what we ought no longer to love. the passions, stirred up by solitude, fill those regions of death and silence; and it is very seldom that what ought to be is truly followed there, and that god only is loved and served. had i always had such notions as these, i had instructed you better. you call me your master 'tis true, you were intrusted to my care. i saw you, i was earnest to teach you vain sciences; it cost you your innocence, and me my liberty. your uncle, who was fond of you, became therefore me enemy, and revenge himself on me. if now, having lost the power of satisfying my passion, i had lost too that of loving you, i should have some consolation. my enemies would have given me that tranquillity which origen purchased by a crime. how miserable am i! my misfortune does not loose my chains, my passion grows furious by impotence; and that desire i still have for you amidst all my disgraces makes me more unhappy than the misfortune itself. i find myself much more guilty in my thoughts of you, even amidst my tears, than in possessing yourself when i was in full liberty. i continually think of you, i continually call to mind that day when you bestowed on me the first marks of your tenderness. in this condition, o lord! if i run to prostrate myself before thy altars, if i beseech thee to pity me, why does not the pure flame of thy spirit consume the sacrifice that is offered to thee? cannot this habit of penitence which i wear interest heaven to treat me more favourably? but that is still inexorable; because my passion still lives in me, the fire is only covered over with deceitful ashes, and cannot be extinguished but by extraordinary graces. we deceive men, but nothing is hid from god. you tell me, that it is for me you live under that veil which covers you; why do you profane your vocation with such words? why provoke a jealous god by a blasphemy? i hoped, after our separation, you would have changed your sentiments; i hoped too, that god would have delivered me from the tumult of my senses, and that contrariety which reigns in my heart. we commonly die to the affections of those whom we see no more, and they to ours: absence is the tomb of love. but to me absence is an unquiet remembrance of what i once loved, which continually torments me. i flattered myself, that when i should see you no more, you would only rest in my memory, without giving any trouble to my mind; that britany and the sea would inspire other thoughts; that my fasts and studies would by degrees eraze you out of my heart; but in spite of severe fasts and redoubled studies, in spite of the distance of three hundred miles which separates us, your image, such as you describe yourself in your veil, appears to me, and confounds all my resolutions. what means have i not used? i have armed my own hands against myself? i have exhausted my strength in constant exercises; i comment upon st. paul; i dispute with aristotle; in short, i do all i used to do before i loved you, but all in vain; nothing can be successful that opposes you. oh! do not add to my miseries by your constancy; forget, if you can, your favours, and that right which they claim over me; permit me to be indifferent. i envy their happiness who have never loved; how quiet and easy are they! but the tide of pleasures has always a reflux of bitterness. i am but too much convinced now of this; but though i am no longer deceived by love, i am not cured: while my reason condemns it, my heart declares for it. i am deplorable that i have not the ability to free myself from a passion which so many circumstances, this place, my person, and my disgraces, tend to destroy. i yield, without considering that a resistance would wipe out my past offences, and would procure me in their stead merit and repose. why should you use eloquence to reproach me for my flight, and for my silence? spare the recital of our assignations, and your constant exactness to them; without calling up such disturbing thoughts, i have enough to suffer. what great advantages would philosophy give us over other men, if by studying it we could learn to govern our passions? but how humbled ought we to be when we cannot master them? what efforts, what relapses, what agitations, do we undergo? and how long are we tossed in this confusion, unable to exert our reason, to possess our souls, or to rule our affections? what a troublesome employment is love! and how valuable is virtue even upon consideration of our own ease! recoiled your extravagances of passion, guess at my distractions: number up our cares, if possible, our griefs, and our inquietudes; throw these things out of the account, and let love have all its remaining softness and pleasure. how little is that? and, yet for such shadows of enjoyments, which at first appeared to us, are we so weak our whole lives that we cannot now help writing to each other, covered as we are with sackcloth and ashes! how much happier should we be, if, by our humiliation and tears, we could make our repentance sure! the love of pleasure is not eradicated out of the soul but by extraordinary efforts; it has so powerful a party in our breasts, that we find it difficult to condemn it ourselves. what abhorrence can i be said to have of my sins, if the objects of them are always amiable to me? how can i separate from the person i love the passion i must detest? will the tears i shed be sufficient to render it odious to me? i know not how it happens, there is always a pleasure in weeping for a beloved object. 'tis difficult in our sorrow to distinguish penitence from love. the memory of the crime, and the memory of the object which has charmed us, are too nearly related to be immediately separated: and the love of god in its beginning does not wholly annihilate the love of the creature. but what excuses could i not find in you, if the crime were excusable? unprofitable honour, troublesome riches, could never tempt me; but those charms, that beauty, that air, which i yet behold at this instant, have occasioned my fall. your looks were the beginning of my guilt; your eyes, your discourse, pierced my heart; and in spite of that ambition and glory which filled it, and offered to make defence, love soon made itself master. god, in order to punish me, forsook me. his providence permitted those consequences which have since happened. you are no longer of the world; you have renounced it; i am a religious, devoted to solitude; shall we make no advantage of our condition? would you destroy my piety in its infant-state? would you have me forsake the convent into which i am but newly entered? must i renounce my vows? i have made them in the presence of god; whither shall i fly from his wrath if i violate them? suffer me to seek for ease in my duty; how difficult it is to procure that! i pass whole days and nights alone in this cloister, without closing my eyes. my love burns fiercer, amidst the happy indifference of those who surround me, and my heart is at once pierced with your sorrows and its own. oh what a loss have i sustained, when i consider your constancy! what pleasures have i missed enjoying! i ought not to confess this weakness to you: i am sensible i commit a fault: if i could have showed more firmness of mind, i should, perhaps, have provoked your resentment against me, and your anger might work that effect in you which your virtue could not. if in the world i published my weakness by verses and love-songs, ought not the dark cells of this house to conceal that weakness, at least, under an appearance of piety? alas! i am still the same! or if i avoid the evil, i cannot do the good; and yet i ought to join both, in order to make this manner of living profitable. but how difficult is this in the trouble which surrounds me? duty, reason, and decency, which, upon other occasions have such power over me, are here entirely useless. the gospel is a language i do not understand, when it opposes my passion. those oaths which i have taken before the holy altar, are feeble helps when opposed to you. amidst so many voices which call me to my duty, i hear and obey nothing but the secret dictates of a desperate passion. void of all relish for virtue, any concern for my condition, or any application to my studies, i am continually present by my imagination where i ought not to be, and i find i have no power, when i would at any time correct it. i feel a perpetual strife between my inclination and my duty. i find myself entirely a distracted lover; unquiet in the midst of silence, and restless in this abode of peace and repose. how shameful is such a condition! consider me no more, i intreat you, as a founder, or any great personage; your encomiums do but ill agree with such multiplied weaknesses. i am a miserable sinner, prostrate before my judge, and, with my face pressed to the earth, i mix my tears and my sighs in the dust, when the beams of grace and reason enlighten me. come, see me in this posture, and solicit me to love you! come, if you think fit, and in your holy habit thrust yourself between god and me and be a wall of separation! come, and force from me those sighs, thoughts, and vows, which i owe to him only. assist the evil spirits, and be the instrument of their malice. what cannot you induce a heart to, whose weakness you so perfectly know? but rather withdraw yourself, and contribute to my salvation. suffer me to avoid destruction, i intreat you, by our former tenderest affection, and by our common misfortune. it will always be the highest love to show none. i here release you of all your oaths and engagements. be god's wholly, to whom you are appropriated; i will never oppose so pious a design. how happy shall i be if i thus lose you! then shall i be indeed a religious, and you a perfect example of an abbess. make yourself amends by so glorious a choice; make your virtue a spectacle worthy men and angels: be humble among your children, assiduous in your choir, exact in your discipline, diligent in your reading; make even your recreations useful. have you purchased your vocation at so slight a rate, as that you should not turn it to the best advantage? since you have permitted yourself to be abused by false doctrine, and criminal instructions, resist not those good-counsels which grace and religion inspire me with. i will confess to you, i have thought myself hitherto an abler master to instill vice than to excite virtue, my false eloquence has only set off false good. my heart drunk with voluptuousness, could only suggest terms proper and moving to recommend that. the cup of sinners overflows with so inchanting a sweetness and we are naturally so much inclined to taste it, that it needs only be offered to us. on the other hand, the chalice of saints is filled with a bitter draught, and nature starts from it. and yet you reproach me with cowardice for giving it you first; i willingly submit to these accusations. i cannot enough admire the readiness you showed to take the religious habit: bear, therefore, with courage the cross, which you have taken up so resolutely. drink of the chalice of saints, even to the bottom, without turning your eyes with uncertainty upon me, let me remove far from you, and obey the apostle, who hath said, _fly._ you intreat me to return, under a pretence of devotion, your earnestness in this point creates a suspicion in me, and makes me doubtful how to answer you. should i commit an error here, my words would blush, if i may say so, after the history of my misfortunes. the church is jealous of its glory, and commands that her children should be induced to the practice of virtue by virtuous means. when we have approached god after an unblameable manner, we may then with boldness invite others to him. but to forget _heloise_, to see her no more, is what heaven demands of _abelard_; and to expect nothing from _abelard_, to lose him even in idea, is what heaven enjoins _heloise_. to forget in the case of love is the most necessary penitence, and the most difficult. it is easy to recount our faults. how many through indiscretion have made themselves a second pleasure of this, instead of confessing them with humility. the only way to return to god is, by neglecting the creature which we have adored, and adoring god whom we have neglected. this may appear harsh, but it must be done if we would be saved. to make it more easy, observe why i pressed you to your vow before i took mine; and pardon my sincerity, and the design i have of meriting your neglect and hatred, if i conceal nothing from you of the particular you inquire after. when i saw myself so oppressed with my misfortune, my impotency made me jealous, and i considered all men as my rivals. love has more of distrust than assurance. i was apprehensive of abundance of things, because i saw i had abundance of defects; and being tormented with fear from my own example, i imagined your heart, which had been so much accustomed to love, would not be long without entering into a new engagement. jealousy can easily believe to most dreadful consequences, i was desirous to put myself out of a possibility of doubting you. i was very urgent to persuade you, that decency required you should withdraw from the envious eyes of the world; that modesty, and our friendship, demanded it; nay, that your own safety obliged you to it; and, that after such a revenge taken upon me, you could expect to be secure no where but in a convent. i will do you justice; you were very easily persuaded to it. my jealousy secretly triumphed over your innocent compliance; and yet, triumphant as i was, i yielded you up to god with an unwilling heart. i still kept my gift as much as was possible, and only parted with it that i might effectually put it out of the power of men. i did not persuade you to religion out of any regard to your happiness, but condemned you to it, like an enemy who destroys what he cannot carry off. and yet you heard my discourses with kindness; you sometimes interrupted me with tears, and pressed me to acquaint you which of the convents was most in my esteem. what a comfort did i feel in seeing you shut up! i was now at ease, and took a satisfaction in considering that you did not continue long in the world after my disgrace, and that you would return into it no more. but still this was doubtful. i imagined women were incapable of maintaining any constant resolutions, unless they were forced by the necessity of fixed vows. i wanted those vows, and heaven itself, for your security, that i might no longer distrust you. ye holy mansions, ye impenetrable retreats, from what numberless apprehensions have you freed me? religion and piety keep a strict guard round your grates and high walls. what a haven of rest is this to a jealous mind? and with what impatience did i endeavour it! i went every day trembling to exhort you to this sacrifice; i admired, without daring to mention it then, a brightness in your beauty which i had never observed before. whether it was the bloom of a rising virtue, or an anticipation of that great loss i was going to suffer, i was not curious in examining the cause, but only hastened your being professed. i engaged your prioress in my guilt by a criminal bribe, with which i purchased the right of burying you. the professed of the house were also bribed, and concealed from you, by my directions, all their scruples and disgusts. i omitted nothing, either little or great: and if you had escaped all my snares, i myself would not have retired: i was resolved to follow you every where. this shadow of myself would always have pursued your steps, and continually occasioned either your confusion or fear, which would have been a sensible gratification to me. but, thanks to heaven, you resolved to make a vow; i accompanied you with terror to the foot of the altar: and while you stretched out your hand to touch the sacred cloth, i heard you pronounce distinctly those fatal words which for ever separated you from all men. 'till then your beauty and youth seemed to oppose my design, and to threaten your return into the world. might not a small temptation have changed you? is it possible to renounce one's self entirely at the age of two and twenty? at an age which claims the most absolute liberty, could you think the world no longer worthy of your regard? how much did i wrong you, and what weakness did i impute to you? you were in my imagination nothing but lightness and inconstancy. might not a young woman, at the noise of the flames, and the fall of sodom, look back, and pity some one person? i took notice of your eyes, your motion, your air; i trembled at every thing. you may call such a self-interested conduct treachery, perfidiousness, murder. a love which was so like to hatred ought to provoke the utmost contempt and anger. it is fit you should know, that the very moment when i was convinced of your being entirely devoted to me, when i saw you were infinitely worthy of all my love and acknowledgement, i imagined i could love you no more; i thought it time to leave off giving you any marks of affection; and i considered, that by your holy espousals you were now the peculiar care of heaven, even in the quality of a wife. my jealousy seemed to be extinguished. when god only is our rival, we have nothing to fear: and being in greater tranquillity than ever before, i dared even to offer up prayers, and beseech him to take you away from my eyes: but it was not a time to make rash prayers; and my faith was too imperfect to let them be heard. he who sees the depth and secrets of all men's hearts, saw mine did not agree with my words. necessity and despair were the springs of this proceeding. thus i inadvertently offered an insult to heaven rather than a sacrifice. god rejected my offering and my prayers, and continued my punishment, by suffering me to continue my love. thus, under the guilt of your vows, and of the passion which preceded them, i must be tormented all the days of my life. if god spoke to your heart, as to that of a religious, whose innocence had first engaged him to heap on it a thousand favours, i should have matter of comfort; but to see both of us victims of a criminal love; to see this love insult us, and invest itself with our very habits, as with spoils it has taken from our devotion, fills me with horror and trembling. is this a state of reprobation? or are these the consequences of a long drunkenness in profane love? we cannot say love is a drunkenness and a poison till we are illuminated by grace; in the mean time, it is an evil which we dote on. when we are under such a mistake the knowledge of our misery is the first step towards amendment. who does not know that it is for the glory of god to find no other foundation in man for his mercy than man's very weakness? when he has shewed us this weakness, and we bewail it, he is ready to put forth his omnipotence to assist us. let us say for our comfort that what we suffer is one of those long and terrible temptations which have sometimes disturbed the vocations of the most holy. god can afford his presence to men, in order to soften their calamities, whenever he shall think fit. it was his pleasure when you took the veil, to draw you to him by his grace. i saw your eyes, when you spoke your last farewell, fixed upon the cross. it was above six months before you wrote me a letter, nor during all that time did i receive any message from you. i admired this silence, which i durst not blame, and could not imitate. i wrote to you; you returned me no answer. your heart was then shut; but this guardian of the spouse is now opened, he is withdrawn from it, and has left you alone. by removing from you, he has made trial of you; call him back and strive to regain him. we must have the assistance of god that we may break our chains; we have engaged too deeply in love to free ourselves. our follies have penetrated even into the most sacred places. our amours have been matter of scandal to a whole kingdom. they are read and admired; love which produced them has caused them to be described. we shall be a consolation for the failings of youth hereafter. those who offend after us will think themselves less guilty. we are criminals whose repentance is late. o may it be sincere! let us repair, as far is possible, the evils we have done; and let france, which has been the witness of our crimes, be astonished at our penitence. let us confound all who would imitate our guilt, let us take the part of god against ourselves, and by so doing prevent his judgment. our former irregularities require tears, shame, and sorrow to expiate them. let us offer up these sacrifices from our hearts; let us blush, let us weep. if in these weak beginnings, lord, our heart is not entirely thine, let it at least be made sensible that it ought to be so! deliver yourself, _heloise_, from the shameful remains of a passion which has taken too deep root. remember that the least thought for any other than god is adultery. if you could see me here, with my meagre face and melancholy air, surrounded with numbers of persecuting monks, who are alarmed at my reputation for learning, and offended at my lean visage, as if i threatened them with a reformation; what would you say of my base sighs, and of those unprofitable tears which deceive these credulous men? alas! i am humbled under love, and not under the cross. pity me, and free yourself. if your vocation be, as you say, my work, deprive me not of the merit of it by your continual inquietudes. tell me that you, will honour the habit which covers you, by an inward retirement. fear god, that you may be delivered from your frailties. love him, if you would advance in virtue. be not uneasy in the cloister, for it is the dwelling of saints. embrace your bands, they are the chains of christ jesus: he will lighten them, and bear them with you, if you bear them with humility. without growing severe to a passion which yet possesses you, learn from your own misery to succour your weak sisters; pity them upon consideration of your own faults. and if any thoughts too natural shall importune you, fly to the foot of the cross, and beg for mercy; there are wounds open; lament before the dying deity. at the head of a religious society be not a slave, and having rule over queens, begin to govern yourself. blush at the least revolt of your senses. remember, that even at the foot of the altar we often sacrifice to lying spirits, and that no incense can be more agreeable to them than that which in those places burns in the heart of a religious still sensible of passion and love. if, during your abode in the world, your soul has acquired a habit of loving, feel it now no more but for jesus christ, repent of all the moments of your life which you have wasted upon the world, and upon pleasure; demand them of me, it is a robbery which i am guilty of; take courage and boldly reproach me with it. i have been indeed your master, but it was only to teach you sin. you call me your father; before i had any claim to this title i deserved that of parricide. i am your brother, but it is the affinity of our crimes that has purchased me that distinction. i am called your husband, but it is after a public scandal. if you have abused the sanctity of so many venerable names in the superscription of your letters, to do me honour, and flatter your own passion, blot them out, and place in their stead those of a murtherer, a villain, an enemy, who has conspired against your honour, troubled your quiet, and betrayed your innocence. you would have perished thro' my means, but by an extraordinary act of grace, which that you might be saved, has thrown me down in the middle of my course. this is the idea that you ought to have of a fugitive, who endeavours to deprive you of the hope of seeing him any more. but when love has once been sincere, how difficult it is to determine to love no more? 'tis a thousand times more easy to renounce the world than love. i hate this deceitful faithless world; i think no more of it; but my heart, still wandering, will eternally make me feel the anguish of having lost you, in spite of all the convictions of my understanding. in the mean time tho' i so be so cowardly as to retract what you have read, do not suffer me to offer myself to your thoughts but under this last notion. remember my last endeavours were to seduce your heart. you perished by my means, and i with you. the same waves swallowed us both up. we waited for death with indifference, and the same death had carried us headlong to the same punishments. but providence has turned off this blow, and our shipwreck has thrown us into an haven. there are some whom the mercy of god saves by afflictions. let my salvation be the fruit of your prayers! let me owe it to your tears, or exemplary holiness! tho' my heart, lord! be filled with the love of one of thy creatures, thy hand can, when it pleases, draw out of it those ideas which fill its whole capacity. to love _heloise_ truly is to leave her entirely to that quiet which retirement and virtue afford. i have resolved it: this letter shall be my last fault. adieu. if i die here, i will give orders that my body be carried to the house of the paraclete. you shall see me in that condition; not to demand tears from you, it will then be too late; weep rather for me now, to extinguish that fire which burns me. you shall see me, to strengthen your piety by the horror of this carcase; and my death, then more eloquent than i can be, will tell you what you love when you love a man. i hope you will be contented, when you have finished this mortal life, to be buried near me. your cold ashes need then fear nothing, and my tomb will, by that means, be more rich and more renowned. letter iv. _heloise to abelard._ in the following letter the passion of _heloise_ breaks, out with more violence than ever. that which she had received from _abelard_, instead of fortifying her resolutions, served only to revive in her memory all their past endearments and misfortunes. with this impression she writes again to her husband; and appears now, not so much in the charter of a religious, striving with the remains of her former weakness, as in that of an unhappy woman abandoned to all the transport of love and despair. to _abelard_, her well beloved in christ jesus, from _heloise_, his well-beloved, in the same christ jesus. i read the letter i received from you with abundance of impatience. in spite of all my misfortunes, i hoped to find nothing in it besides arguments of comfort; but how ingenious are lovers in tormenting themselves! judge of the exquisite sensibility and force of my love by that which causes the grief of my soul; i was disturbed at the superscription of your letter! why did you place the name of _heloise_ before that of _abelard_? what means this most cruel and unjust distinction? 'twas your name only, the name of father, and of a husband, which my eager eyes sought after. i did not look for my own, which i much rather, if possible, forget, as being the cause of your misfortune. the rules of decorum, and the character of master and director which you have over me, opposed that ceremonious manner of addressing me; and love commanded you to banish it. alas! you know all this but too well. did you write thus to me before fortune had ruined my happiness? i see your heart has deserted me, and you have made greater advances in the way of devotion than i could wish. alas! i am too weak to follow you; condescend at least to stay for me, and animate me with your advice. will you have the cruelty to abandon me? the fear of this stabs my heart: but the fearful presages you make at the latter end of your letter, those terrible images you draw of your death, quite distracts me. cruel _abelard_! you ought to have stopped my tears, and you make them flow; you ought to have quieted the disorder of my heart, and you throw me into despair. you desire that after your death i should take care of your ashes, and pay them the last duties. alas! in what temper did you conceive these mournful ideas? and how could you describe them to me? did not the apprehension of causing my present death make the pen drop from your hand? you did not reflect, i suppose, upon all those' torments to which you were going to deliver me. heaven, as severe as it has been against me, is not in so great a degree so, as to permit me to live one moment after you. life without my _abelard_ is an unsupportable punishment, and death a most exquisite happiness, if by that means i can be united with him. if heaven hears the prayers i continually make for you, your days will be prolonged, and you will bury me. is it not your part to prepare me, by your powerful exhortations against that great crisis, which shakes the most resolute and confirmed minds? is it not your part to receive my last sighs; take care of my funeral, and give an account of my manners and faith? who but you can recommend us worthily to god; and by the fervour and merit of your prayers, conduct those souls to him which you have joined to his worship by solemn contracts? we expect these pious offices from your paternal charity. after this you will be free from those disquietudes which now molest you, and you will quit life with more ease, whenever it shall please god to call you away. you may follow us, content with what you have done, and in a full assurance of our happiness: but till then, write not to me any such terrible things. are we not already sufficiently miserable? must we aggravate our sorrows? our life here is but a languishing death? will you hasten it? our present disgraces are sufficient to employ our thoughts continually, and shall we seek new arguments of grief in futurities? how void of reason are men, said seneca, to make distant evils present by reflection, and to take pains before death to lose all the comforts of life? when you have finished your course here below, you say it is your desire that your body be carried to the house of the paraclete, to the intent that, being always exposed to my eyes, you may be for ever present to my mind; and that your dear body may strengthen our piety, and animate our prayers. can you think that the traces you have drawn in my heart can ever be worn out? or that any length of time can obliterate the memory we have here of your benefits? and what time shall i find for those prayers you speak of? alas! i shall then be filled with other cares. can so heavy a misfortune leave me a moment's quiet? can my feeble reason resist such powerful assaults? when i am distracted and raving, (if i dare to say it,) even against heaven itself, i shall not soften it by my prayers, but rather provoke it by my cries and reproaches! but how should i pray! or how bear up against my grief? i should be more urgent to follow you than to pay you the sad ceremonies of burial. it is for you for _abelard_, that i have resolved to live; if you are ravished from me, what use can i make of my miserable days? alas! what lamentations should i make, if heaven, by a cruel pity, should preserve me till that moment? when i but think of this last separation; i feel all the pangs of death; what shall i be then, if i should see this dreadful hour? forbear, therefore, to infuse into my mind such mournful thoughts, if not for love, at least for pity. you desire me to give myself up to my duty, and to be wholly god's, to whom i am consecrated. how can i do that when you frighten me with apprehensions that continually possess my mind day and night? when an evil threatens us, and it is impossible to ward it off, why do we give up ourselves to the unprofitable fear of it, which is yet even more tormenting than the evil itself? what have i to hope for after this loss of you? what can confine me to earth when death shall have taken away from me all that was dear upon it? i have renounced without difficulty all the charms of life, preserving only my love, and the secret pleasure of thinking incessantly of you, and hearing that you live; and yet alas! you do not live for me, and i dare not even flatter myself with the hopes that i shall ever enjoy a sight of you more. this is the greatest of my afflictions. merciless fortune! hast thou not persecuted me enough? thou dost not give me any respite? thou hast exhausted all thy vengeance upon me, and reserved thyself nothing whereby thou mayst appear terrible to others. thou hast wearied thyself in tormenting me, and others have nothing now to fear from thy anger. but to what purpose dost thou still arm thyself against me? the wounds i have already received leave no room for new ones; why cannot i urge thee to kill me? or dost thou fear, amidst the numerous torments thou heapest on me, dost thou fear that such a stroke would deliver me from all? therefore thou preservest me from death, in order to make me die every moment. dear _abelard_, pity my despair! was ever any thing so miserable! the higher you raised me above other women who envied me your love, the more sensible am i now of the loss of your heart. i was exalted to the top of happiness, only that i might have a more terrible fall. nothing could formerly be compared to my pleasures, and nothing now can equal my misery. my glory once raised the envy of my rivals; my present wretchedness moves the compassion of all that see me. my fortune has been always in extremes, she has heaped on me her most delightful favours, that she might load me with the greatest of her afflictions. ingenious in tormenting me, she has made the memory of the joys i have lost, an inexhaustible spring of my tears. love, which possest was her greatest gift, being taken away, occasions all my sorrow. in short, her malice has entirely succeeded, and i find my present afflictions proportionably bitter as the transports which charmed me were sweet. but what aggravates my sufferings yet more, is, that we began to be miserable at a time when we seemed the least to deserve it. while we gave ourselves up to the enjoyment of a criminal love, nothing opposed our vicious pleasures. but scarce had we retrenched what was unlawful in our passion, and taken refuge in marriage against that remorse which might have pursued us, but the whole wrath of heaven fell on us in all its weight. but how barbarous was your punishment? the very remembrance makes me shake with horror. could an outrageous husband make a villain suffer more that had dishonoured his bed? ah! what right had a cruel uncle over us? we were joined to each other even before the altar, which should have protected you from the rage of your enemies. must a wife draw on you that punishment which ought not to fall on any but an adulterous lover? besides, we were separated; you were busy in your exercises, and instructed a learned auditory in mysteries which the greatest geniuses before you were not able to penetrate; and i, in obedience to you, retired to a cloister. i there spent whole days in thinking of you, and sometimes meditating on holy lessons, to which i endeavoured to apply myself. in this very juncture you became the victim of the most unhappy love. you alone expiated the crime common to us both: you only were punished, though both of us were guilty. you, who were least so, was the object of the whole vengeance of a barbarous man. but why should i rave at your assassins? i, wretched i, have ruined you, i have been the original of all your misfortunes! good heaven! why was i born to be the occasion of so tragical an accident? how dangerous is it for a great man to suffer himself to be moved by our sex! he ought from his infancy to be inured to insensibility of heart, against all our charms. _hearken, my son_, (said formerly the wisest of men) _attend and keep my instructions; if a beautiful woman by her looks endeavour to intice thee, permit not thyself to be overcome by a corrupt inclination; reject the poison she offers, and follow not the paths which she directs. her house is the gate of destruction and death_. i have long examined things, and have found that death itself is a less dangerous evil than beauty. 'tis the shipwreck of liberty, a fatal snare, from which it is impossible ever to get free. 'twas woman which threw down the first man from that glorious condition in which heaven had placed him. she who was created in order to partake of his happiness, was the sole cause of his ruin. how bright had been the glory, _sampson_, if thy heart had been as firm against the charms of _dalilah_, as against the weapons of the _philistines_! a woman disarmed and betrayed thee, who hadst been a glorious conqueror of armies. thou saw'st thyself delivered into the hands of they enemies; thou wast deprived of thy eyes, those inlets of love into thy soul: distracted and despairing didst thou die, without any consolation but that of involving thy enemies in thy destruction. _solomon_, that he might please women, forsook the care of pleasing god. that king, whose wisdom princes came from all parts to admire, he whom god had chose to build him a temple, abandoned the worship of those very alters he had had defended, and proceeded to such a pitch of folly as even to burn incense to idols. _job_ had no enemy more cruel than his wife: what temptations did he not bear? the evil spirit, who had declared himself his persecutor, employed a woman as an instrument to shake his constancy; and the same evil spirit made _heloise_ an instrument to ruin _abelard_! all the poor comfort i have is, that i am not the voluntary cause of your misfortune. i have not betrayed you; but my constancy and love have been destructive to you. if i have committed a crime in having loved you with constancy, i shall never be able to repent of that crime. indeed i gave myself up too much to the captivity of those soft errors into which my rising passion seduced me. i have endeavoured to please you even at the expence of my virtue, and therefore deserve those pains i feel. my guilty transports could not but have a tragical end. as soon as i was persuaded of your love, alas! i scarce delayed a moment, resigning myself to all your protestations. to be beloved by _abelard_ was, in my esteem, too much glory, and i too impatiently desired it not to believe it immediately. i endeavoured at nothing but convincing you of my utmost passion. i made no use of those defences of disdain and honour; those enemies of pleasure which tyrannize over our sex, made in me but a weak and unprofitable resistance. i sacrificed all to my love, and i forced my duty to give place to the ambition of making happy the most gallant and learned person of the age. if any consideration had been able to stop me, it would have been without doubt the interest of my love. i feared, lest having nothing further for you to desire, your passion might become languid, and you might seek for new pleasures in some new conquest. but it was easy for you to cure me of a suspicion so opposite to my own inclination. i ought to have forseen other more certain evils, and to have considered, that the idea of lost enjoyments would be the trouble of my whole life. how happy should i be could i wash out with my tears the memory of those pleasures which yet i think of with delight? at least i will exert some generous endeavour, and, by smothering in my heart those desires to which the frailty of my nature may give birth, i will exercise torments upon myself, like those the rage of your enemies has made you suffer. i will endeavour by that means to satisfy you at least, if i cannot appease an angry god. for, to show you what a deplorable condition i am in, and how far my repentance is from being available, i dare even accuse heaven every moment of cruelty for delivering you into those snares which were prepared for you. my repinings kindle the divine wrath, when i should endeavour to draw down mercy. in order to expiate a crime, it is not sufficient that we bear the punishment; whatever we suffer is accounted as nothing, if the passions still continue, and the heart is inflamed with the same desires. it is an easy matter to confess a weakness, and to inflict some punishment upon ourselves; but it is the last violence to our nature to extinguish the memory of pleasures which, by a sweet habit, have gained absolute possession of our minds. how many persons do we observe who make an outward confession of their faults, yet, far from being afflicted for them, take a new pleasure in the relating them. bitterness of heart ought to accompany the confession of the mouth, yet that very rarely happens. i, who have experienced so many pleasures in loving you, feel, in spite of myself that i cannot repent of them, nor forbear enjoying them over again as much as is possible, by recollecting them in my memory. whatever endeavours i use, on whatever side i turn me, the sweet idea still pursues me and every object brings to my mind what i ought to forget. during the still night, when my heart ought to be in quiet in the midst of sleep, which suspends the greatest disturbances, i cannot avoid those illusions my heart entertains. i think i am still with my dear _abelard_. i see him, i speak to him, and hear him answer. charmed with each other, we quit our philosophic studies to entertain ourselves with our passion. sometimes, too, i seem to be a witness of the bloody enterprise of your enemies; i oppose their fury; i fill our apartment with fearful cries, and in a moment i wake in tears. even in holy places before the altar i carry with me the memory of our guilty loves. they are my whole business, and, far from lamenting for having been seduced, i sigh for having lost them. i remember (for nothing is forgot by lovers) the time and place in which you first declared your love to me, and swore you would love me till death. your words, your oaths, are all deeply graven in my heart. the disorder of my discourse discovers to everyone the trouble of my mind. my sighs betray me; and your name is continually in my mouth. when i am in this condition, why dost not thou, o lord, pity my weakness, and strengthen me by thy grace? you are happy, _abelard_; this grace has prevented you; and your misfortune has been the occasion of your finding rest. the punishment of your body has cured the deadly wounds of your soul. the tempest has driven you into the haven. god who seemed to lay his hand heavily upon you, fought only to help you: he is a father chastising, and not an enemy revenging; a wife physician, putting you to some pain in order to preserve your life. i am a thousand times more to be lamented than you; i have a thousand passions to combat with. i must resist those fires which jove kindles in a young heart. our sex is nothing but weakness, and i have the greater difficulty to defend myself, because the enemy that attacks me pleases. i dote on the danger which threatens me, how then can i avoid falling? in the midst of these struggles i endeavour at least to conceal my weakness from those you have entrusted to my care. all who are about me admired my virtue, but could their eyes penetrate into my heart, what would they not discover? my passions there are in a rebellion; i preside over others, but cannot rule myself. i have but a false covering, and this seeming virtue is a real vice. men judge me praise-worthy, but i am guilty before god, from whose all-seeing eye nothing is hid, and who views, through all their foldings, the secrets of all hearts. i cannot escape his discovery. and yet it is a great deal to me to maintain even this appearance of virtue. this troublesome hypocrisy is in some sort commendable. i give no scandal to the world, which is so easy to take bad impressions. i do not shake the virtue of these feeble ones who are under my conduct. with my heart full of the love of man, i exhort them at least to love only god: charmed with the pomp of worldly pleasures, i endeavour to show them that they are all deceit and vanity. i have just strength enough to conceal from them my inclinations, and i look upon that as a powerful effect of grace. if it is not sufficient to make me embrace virtue, it is enough to keep me from committing sin. and yet it is in vain to endeavour to separate those two things. they must be guilty who merit nothing; and they depart from virtue who delay to approach it. besides, we ought to have no other motive than the love of god. alas! what can i then hope for? i own, to my confusion, i fear more the offending of man than the provoking of god, and study less to please him than you. yes, it was your command only, and not a sincere vocation, as is imagined, that shut me up in these cloisters. i fought to give you ease, and not to sanctify myself. how unhappy am i? i tear myself from all that pleases me? i bury myself here alive, i exercise my self in the most rigid fastings; and such severities as cruel laws impose on us; i feed myself with tears and sorrows, and, notwithstanding this, i deserve nothing for all the hardships i suffer. my false piety has long deceived you as well as others. you have thought me easy, and yet i was more disturbed than ever. you persuaded yourself i was wholly taken up with my duty, yet i had no business but love. under this mistake you desire my prayers; alas! i must expect yours. do not presume upon my virtue and my care. i am wavering, and you must fix me by your advice. i am yet feeble, you must sustain and guide me by your counsel. what occasion had you to praise me? praise is often hurtful to those on whom it is bestowed. a secret vanity springs up in the heart, blinds us, and conceals from us wounds that are ill cured. a seducer flatters us, and at the same time, aims at our destruction. a sincere friend disguises nothing from us, and from passing a light hand over the wound, makes us feel it the more intensely, by applying remedies. why do you not deal after this manner with me? will you be esteemed a base dangerous flatterer; or, if you chance to see any thing commendable in me, have you no fear that vanity, which is so natural to all women, should quite efface it? but let us not judge of virtue by outward appearances, for then the reprobates as well as the elect may lay claim to it. an artful impostor may, by his address gain more admiration than the true zeal of a saint. the heart of man is a labyrinth, whose windings are very difficult to be discovered. the praises you give me are the more dangerous, in regard that i love the person who gives them. the more i desire to please you, the readier am i to believe all the merit you attribute to me. ah, think rather how to support my weaknesses by wholesome remonstrances! be rather fearful than confident of my salvation: say our virtue is founded upon weakness, and that those only will be crowned who have fought with the greatest difficulties: but i seek not for that crown which is the reward of victory, i am content to avoid only the danger. it is easier to keep off than to win a battle. there are several degrees in glory, and i am not ambitious of the highest; those i leave to souls of great courage, who have been often victorious. i seek not to conquer, out of fear lest i should be overcome. happy enough, if i can escape shipwreck, and at last gain the port. heaven commands me to renounce that fatal passion which unites me to you; but oh! my heart will never be able to consent to it. adieu. letter v. _heloise to abelard._ _heloise_ had been dangerously ill at the convent of the paraclete: immediately upon her recovery she wrote this letter to _abelard_, she seems now to have disengaged herself from him, and to have resolved to think of nothing but repentance; yet discovers some emotions, which make it doubtful whether devotion had entirely triumphed over her passion. dear _abelard_, you expect, perhaps, that i should accuse you of negligence. you have not answered my last letter; and thanks to heaven, in the condition i now am, it is a happiness to me that you show so much insensibility for the fatal passion which had engaged me to you. at last _abelard_, you have lost _heloise_ for ever. notwithstanding all the oaths i made to think of nothing but you only, and to be entertained with nothing but you, i have banished you from my thoughts, i have forgot you. thou charming idea of a lover i once adored, thou wilt no more be my happiness! dear image of _abelard_! thou wilt no more follow me every where; i will no more remember thee. o celebrated merit of a man, who, in spite of his enemies is the wonder of his age! o enchanting pleasures, to which _heloise_ entirely resigned herself, you, you have been my tormentors! i confess _abelard_, without a blush, my infidelity; let my inconstancy teach the world that there is no depending upon the promises of women; they are all subject to change. this troubles you, _abelard_; this news, without doubt, surprises you; you could never imagine _heloise_, should be inconstant. she was prejudiced by so strong an inclination to you, that you cannot conceive how time could alter it. but be undeceived; i am going to discover to you my falseness, though instead of reproaching me, i persuade myself you will shed tears of joy. when i shall have told you what rival hath ravished my heart from you, you will praise my inconstancy, and will pray this rival to fix it. by this you may judge that it is god alone that takes _heloise_ from you. yes, my dear _abelard_, he gives my mind that tranquillity which a quick remembrance of our misfortunes would not suffer me to enjoy. just heaven! what other rival could take me from you? could you imagine it possible for any mortal to blot you from my heart? could you think me guilty of sacrificing the virtuous and learned _abelard_ to any other but to god? no, i believe you have done me justice in this point. i question not but you are impatient to know what means god used to accomplish so great an end; i will tell you, and wonder at the secret ways of providence. some few days after you sent me your last letter i fell dangerously ill; the physicians gave me over; and i expected certain death. then it was that my passion, which always before seemed innocent, appeared criminal to me. my memory represented faithfully to me all the past actions of my life, and i confess to you my love was the only pain i felt. death which till then i had always considered as at a distance, now presented itself to me such as it appears to sinners. i began to dread the wrath of god, now i was going to experience it; and i repented i had made no better use of his grace. those tender letters i have wrote to you, and those passionate conversations i have had with you, gave me as much pain now as they formerly did pleasure. ah! miserable _heloise_, said i, if it is a crime to give one's self up to such soft transports, and if after this life is ended punishment certainly follows them, why didst thou not resist so dangerous an inclination? think on the tortures that are prepared for thee; consider with terror that store of torments, and recollect at the same time those pleasures which thy deluded soul thought so entrancing. ah! pursued i, dost thou not almost despair for having rioted in such false pleasure? in short, _abelard_, imagine all the remorse of mind i suffered, and you will not be astonished at my change. solitude is insupportable to a mind which is not easy, its troubles increase in the midst of silence, and retirement heightens them. since i have been shut up within these walls, i have done nothing but wept for our misfortunes. this cloister has resounded with my cries, and like a wretch condemned to eternal slavery, i have worn out my days in grief and sighing. instead of fulfilling god's merciful design upon me, i have offended him; i have looked upon this sacred refuge like a frightful prison, and have borne with unwillingness the yoke of the lord. instead of sanctifying myself by a life of penitence, i have confirmed my reprobation. what a fatal wandering! but _abelard_, i have torn off the bandage which blinded me, and if i dare rely upon the emotions which i have felt, i have made myself worthy of your esteem. you are no more that amorous _abelard_, who, to gain a private conversation with me by night, used incessantly to contrive new ways to deceive the vigilance of our observers. the misfortune, which happened to you after so many happy moments, gave you a horror for vice, and you instantly consecrated the rest of your days to virtue and seemed to submit to this necessity willingly. i indeed, more tender than you, and more sensible of soft pleasures, bore this misfortune with extreme impatience. you have heard my exclamations against your enemies; you have seen my whole resentment in those letters i wrote to you; it was this, without doubt, which deprived me of the esteem of my _abelard_. you were alarmed at my transport, and if you will confess the truth, you, perhaps, despaired of my salvation. you could not foresee that _heloise_ would conquer so reigning a passion; but you have been deceived, _abelard_; my weakness, when supported by grace, hath not hindered me from obtaining a complete victory. restore me, then, to your good opinion; your own piety ought to solicit you to this. but what secret trouble rises in my soul, what unthought-of motion opposes the resolution i formed of sighing no more for _abelard_? just heaven! have i not yet triumphed over my love? unhappy _heloise_! as long as thou drawest a breath it is decreed thou must love _abelard_: weep unfortunate wretch that thou art, thou never had a more just occasion. now i ought to die with grief. grace had overtaken me, and i had promised to be faithful to it, but i now perjure myself, and sacrifice even grace to _abelard_. this sacrilegious sacrifice fills up the measure of my iniquities. after this can i hope god should open to me the treasures of his mercy? have i not tired out his forgiveness? i began to offend him from the moment i first saw _abelard_; an unhappy sympathy engaged us both in a criminal commerce; and god raised us up an enemy to separate us. i lament and hate the misfortune which hath lighted upon us and adore the cause. ah! i ought rather to explain this accident as the secret ordinance of heaven, which disapproved of our engagement, and apply myself to extirpate my passion. how much better were it entirely to forget the object of it, than to preserve the memory of it, so fatal to the quiet of my life and salvation? great god! shall _abelard_ always possess my thoughts? can i never free myself from those chains which bind me to him? but, perhaps, i am unreasonably afraid; virtue directs all my motions, and they are all subject to grace, fear no more, dear _abelard_; i have no longer any of those sentiments which, being described in my letters, have occasioned you so much trouble. i will no more endeavour, by the relation of those pleasures our new-born passion gave us, to awaken that criminal fondness you may have for me; i free you from all your oaths; forget the names of lover and husband but keep always that of father. i expect no more from you those tender protestations, and those letters so proper to keep up the commerce of love. i demand nothing of you but spiritual advice and wholesome directions. the path of holiness, however thorny it may be, will yet appear agreeable when i walk in your steps. you will always find me ready to follow you. i shall read with more pleasure the letters in which you shall describe to me the advantages of virtue than ever i did those by which you so artfully instilled the fatal poison of our passion. you cannot now be silent without a crime. when i was possessed with so violent a love, and pressed you so earnestly to write to me, how many letters did i send you before i could obtain one from you? you denied me in my misery the only comfort which was left me, because you thought it pernicious. you endeavoured by severities to force me to forget you; nor can i blame you; but now you have nothing to fear. a lucky disease which providence seemed to have chastised me with for my sanctification, hath done what all human efforts, and your cruelty in vain attempted. i see now the vanity of that happiness which we had set our hearts upon, as if we were never to have lost it. what fears, what uneasiness, have we been obliged to suffer! no, lord, there is no pleasure upon earth but that which virtue gives! the heart, amidst all worldly delights, feels a sting; it is uneasy and restless till fixed on thee. what have i not suffered, _abelard_, while i kept alive in my retirement those fires which ruined me in the world? i saw with horror the walls which surrounded me; the hours seemed as long as years. i repented a thousand times the having buried myself here; but since grace has opened my eyes all the scene is changed. solitude looks charming, and the tranquillity which i behold here enters my very heart. in the satisfaction of doing my duty i feel a pleasure above all that riches, pomp, or sensuality, could afford. my quiet has indeed cost me dear; i have bought it even at the price of my love; i have offered a violent sacrifice, and which seemed above my power. i have torn you from my heart; and, be not jealous, god reigns there in your stead, who ought always to have possessed it entire. be content with having a place in my mind, which you shall never lose; i shall always take a secret pleasure in thinking of you and esteem it a glory to obey those rules you shall give me. this very moment i receive a letter from you: i will read it, and answer it immediately. you shall see, by my exactness in writing to you, that you are always dear to me.--you very obligingly reproach me for delaying so long to write you any news; my illness must excuse that. i omit no opportunities of giving you marks of my remembrance. i thank you for the uneasiness you say my silence caused you, and the kind fears you express concerning my health. yours, you tell me is but weakly, and you thought lately you should have died. with what indifference, cruel man! do you acquaint me with a thing so certain to afflict me? i told you in my former letter how unhappy i should be if you died; and if you loved me, you would moderate the rigour of your austere life. i represented to you the occasion i had for your advice, and consequently, the reason there was you should take care of yourself. but i will not tire you with the repetition of the same thing. _you desire us not to forget you in your prayers._ ah! dear _abelard_, you may depend upon the zeal of this society; it is devoted to you, and you cannot justly charge it with forgetfulness. you are our father, we your children; you are our guide, and we resign ourselves with assurance in your piety. we impose no pennance on ourselves but what you recommend, lest we should rather follow an indiscreet zeal than solid virtue. in a word, nothing is thought rightly done if without _abelard's_ approbation. you inform me of one thing that perplexes me, that you have heard that some of our sisters gave bad examples, and that there is a general looseness amongst them. ought this to seem strange to you, who know how monasteries are filled now-a-days? do fathers consult the inclinations of their children when they settle them? are not interest and policy their only rules? this is the reason that monasteries are often filled with those who are a scandal to them. but i conjure you to tell me what are the irregularities you have heard of, and to teach me a proper remedy for them. i have not yet observed that looseness you mention; when i have, i will take due care. i walk my rounds every night, and make those i catch abroad return to their chambers; for i remember all the adventures which happened in the monasteries near paris. you end your letter with a general deploring of your unhappiness, and wish for death as the end of a troublesome life. is it possible a genius so great as yours should never get above his past misfortunes? what would the world say should they read your letters as i do? would they consider the noble motive of your retirement, or not rather think you had shut yourself up only to lament the condition to which my uncle's revenge had reduced you? what would your young pupils say who came so far to hear you, and prefer your severe lectures to the softness of a worldly life, if they should see you secretly a slave to your passions, and sensible of all those weakness from which your rules can secure them? this _abelard_ they so much admire, this great personage which guides them, would lose his fame, and become the scorn of his pupils. if these reasons are not sufficient to give you constancy in your misfortunes, cast your eyes upon me, and admire my resolution of shutting myself up by your example. i was young when we were separated, and (if i dare believe what you were always telling me) worthy of any gentleman's affections. if i had loved nothing in _abelard_ but sensual pleasure, a thousand agreeable young men might have comforted me upon my loss of him. you know what i have done, excuse me therefore from repeating it. think of those assurances i gave you of loving you with the utmost tenderness. i dried your tears with kisses; and because you were less powerful i became less reserved. ah! if you had loved with delicacy the oaths i made, the transports i accompanied them with, the innocent caresses i profusely gave you, all this, sure, might have comforted you. had you observed me to grow by degrees indifferent to you, you might have had reason to despair; but you never received greater marks of my passion than after that cruel revenge upon you. let me see no more in your letters, dear _abelard_, such murmurs against fortune; you are not the only one she has persecuted, and you ought to forget her outrages. what a shame is it for a philosopher not to be comforted for an accident which might happen to any man! govern yourself by my example. i was born with violent passions; i daily strive with the most tender emotions, and glory in triumphing and subjecting them to reason. must a weak mind fortify one that is so much superior? but whither am i transported? is this discourse directed to my dear _abelard_? one that practices all those virtues he teaches? if you complain of fortune, it is not so much that you feel her strokes, as that you cannot show your enemies how much to blame they were in attempting to hurt you. leave them, _abelard_, to exhaust their malice, and continue to charm your auditors. discover those treasures of learning heaven seems to have reserved for you: your enemies, struck with the splendor of your reasoning, will do you justice. how happy should i be could i see all the world as entirely persuaded of your probity as i am! your learning is allowed by all the world; your greatest enemies confess you are ignorant of nothing that the mind of man is capable of knowing. my dear husband! (this is the last time i shall use that expression) shall i never see you again? shall i never have the pleasure of embracing you before death? what doth thou say, wretched _heloise_? dost thou know what thou desirest? canst thou behold those lovely eyes without recollecting those amorous glances which have been so fatal to thee? canst thou view that majestic air of _abelard_ without entertaining a jealousy of every one that sees so charming a man? that mouth, which cannot be looked upon without desire? in short all the person of _abelard_ cannot be viewed by any woman without danger. desire therefore no more to see _abelard_. if the memory of him has caused thee so much trouble, _heloise_, what will not his presence do? what desires will it not excite in thy soul? how will it be possible for thee to keep thy reason at the sight of so amiable a man? i will own to you what makes the greatest pleasure i have in my retirement: after having passed the day in thinking of you, full of the dear idea, i give myself up at night to sleep. then it is that _heloise_, who dares not without trembling think of you by day, resigns herself entirely to the pleasure of hearing you and speaking to you. i see you, _abelard_, and glut my eyes with the sight. sometimes you entertain me with the story of your secret troubles and grievances, and create in me a sensible sorrow; sometimes forgetting the perpetual obstacles to our desires, you press me to make you happy, and i easily yield to your transports. sleep gives you what your enemies rage has deprived you of; and our souls, animated with the same passion, are sensible of the same pleasure. but, oh! you delightful illusion, soft errors, how soon do you vanish away! at my awaking i open my eyes and see no _abelard_; i stretch out my arm to take hold of him, but he is not there; i call him, he hears me not. what a fool am i to tell you my dreams, who are sensible of these pleasures? but do you, _abelard_, never see _heloise_ in your sleep? how does she appear to you? do you entertain her with the same language as formerly when fulbert committed her to your care? when you awake are you pleased or sorry? pardon me; _abelard_, pardon a mistaken lover. i must no more expect that vivacity from you which once animated all your actions. 'tis no more time to require from you a perfect correspondence of desires. we have bound ourselves to severe austerities, and must follow them, let them cost us ever so dear. let us think of our duties in these rigours, and make a good use of that necessity which keeps us separate. you _abelard_, will happily finish your course; your desires and ambition will be no obstacles to your salvation. _heloise_ only must lament, she only must weep, without being certain whether all her tears will be available or not to her salvation. i had like to have ended my letter without acquainting you with what happened here a few days ago. a young nun, who was one of those who are forced to take up with a convent without any examination. whether it will suit with their tempers or not, is by a stratagem i knew nothing of, escaped, and, as they say, fled with a young gentleman she was in love with into england. i have ordered all the house to conceal the matter. ah, _abelard_! if you were near us these disorders would not happen. all the sisters, charmed with seeing and hearing you, would think of nothing but practicing your rules and directions. the young nun had never formed so criminal a design as that of breaking her vows, had you been at our head to exhort us to live holily. if your eyes were witnesses of our actions, they would be innocent. when we slipt, you would lift us up, and establish us by your counsels; we should march with sure steps in the rough paths of virtue. i begin to perceive; _abelard_, that i take too much pleasure in writing to you. i ought to burn my letter. it shows you i am still engaged in a deep passion for you, though at the beginning of it i designed to persuade you of the contrary. i am sensible of the motions both of grace and passion, and by turns yield to each. have pity, _abelard_, of the condition to which you have brought me, and make, in some measure, the latter days of my life as quiet as the first have been uneasy and disturbed. letter vi. _abelard to heloise._ _abelard_, having at last conquered the remains of his unhappy passion, had determined to put an end to so dangerous a correspondence as that between _heloise_ and himself. the following letter therefore, though written with no less concern than his former, is free from mixtures of a worldly passion, and is full of the warmest sentiments of piety, and the most moving exhortations. write no more to me, _heloise_; write no more to me; it is a time to end a commerce which makes our mortifications of no advantage to us. we retired from the world to sanctify ourselves; and by a conduit directly contrary to christian morality, we become odious to jesus christ. let us no more deceive ourselves; by flattering ourselves with the remembrance of our past pleasures, we shall make our lives troublesome, and we shall be incapable of relishing the sweets of solitude. let us make a good use of our austerities, and no longer preserve the ideas of our crimes amongst the severities of penitence. let a mortification of body and mind, a strick fasting, continual solitude, profound and holy meditations, and a sincere love of god, succeed our former irregularities. let us try to carry religious perfection to a very difficult point. 'tis beautiful to find, in christianity minds so disengaged from the earth, from the creatures and themselves, that they seem to act independently of those bodies they are joined to, and to use them as their slaves. we can never raise ourselves to too great heights when god is the object. be our endeavours ever so great, they will always come short of reaching that exalted dignity, which even our apprehensions cannot reach. let us act for god's glory, independent of the creatures or ourselves, without any regard to our own desires, or the sentiments of others. were we in this temper of mind, _heloise_, i would willingly make my abode at the paraclete. my earnest care for a house i have founded would draw a thousand blessings on it. i would instruct it by my words, and animate it by my example. i would watch over the lives of my sisters, and would command nothing but what i myself would perform. i would direct you to pray, meditate, labour and keep vows of silence; and i would myself pray, meditate, labour and be silent. however, when i spoke, it should be to lift you up when you should fall, to strengthen you in your weaknesses, to enlighten you in that darkness and obscurity which might at any time surprise you. i would comfort you under those severities used by persons of great virtue. i would moderate the vivacity of your zeal and piety, and give your virtue an even temperament. i would point out those duties which you ought to know, and satisfy you in those doubts which the weakness of your reason might occasion. i would be your master and father; and, by a marvellous talent, i would become lively, flow, soft or severe, according to the different characters of those i should guide in the painful path of christian perfection. but whither does my vain imagination carry me? ah? _heloise_! how far are we from such a happy temper? your heart still burns with that fatal fire which you cannot extinguish, and mine is full of trouble and uneasiness. think not, _heloise_, that i enjoy here a perfect peace: i will, for the last time open my heart to you. i am not yet disengaged from you; i fight against my excessive tenderness for you; yet in spite of all endeavours, the remaining fraility makes me but too sensible of your sorrows, and gives me a share in them. your letters have indeed moved me; i could not read with indifference characters wrote by that dear hand. i sigh, i weep, and all my reason is, scarce sufficient to conceal my weakness from my pupils. this, unhappy _heloise_! is the miserable condition of _abelard_. the world, which generally errs in its notion, thinks i am easy, and as if i had loved only in you the gratification of sense, imagines i have now forgot you; but what a mistake is this! people, indeed, did not mistake in thinking, when we separated, that shame and grief for having been so cruelly used made me abandon the world. it was not, as you know, a sincere repentance for having offended god which inspired me with a design of retiring; however, i considered the accident which happened to us as a secret design of providence to punish our crimes; and only looked upon fulbert as the instrument of divine vengeance. grace drew me into an asylum, where i might yet have remained, if the rage of my enemies would have permitted. i have endured all their persecutions, not doubting but god himself raised them up in order to purify me. when he saw me perfectly obedient to his holy will, he permitted that i should justify my doctrine. i made its purity public, and showed in the end that my faith was not only orthodox, but also perfectly clear from even the suspicion of novelty. i should be happy if i had none to fear but my enemies, and no other hinderance to my salvation but their calumny: but, _heloise_, you make me tremble. your letters declare to me that you are enslaved to a fatal passion; and yet if you cannot conquer it you cannot be saved; and what part would you have me take in this case? would you have me stifle the inspirations of the holy ghost? shall i, to soothe you dry up those tears which the evil spirit makes you shed? shall this be the fruit of my meditations? no; let us be more firm in our resolutions. we have not retired but in order to lament our sins, and to gain heaven; let us then resign ourselves to god with all our heart. i know every thing in the beginning is difficult, but it is glorious to undertake the beginning of a great action, and that glory increases proportionably as the difficulties are more considerable. we ought upon this account to surmount bravely all obstacles which might hinder us in the practice of christian virtue. in a monastery men are proved as gold in the furnace. no one can continue long there unless he bear worthily the yoke of our lord. attempt to break those shameful chains which bind you to the flesh; and, if by the assistance of grace you are so happy as to accomplish this, i intreat you to think of me in your prayers. endeavour with all your strength to be the pattern of a perfect christian. it is difficult, i confess, but not impossible; and i expect this beautiful triumph from your teachable disposition. if your first endeavours prove weak, give not yourself up to despair; that would be cowardice: besides, i would have you informed, that you must necessarily take great pains; because you drive to conquer a terrible enemy, to extinguish raging fire, and to reduce to subjection your dearest affections. you must fight against your own desires; be not therefore pressed down with the weight of your corrupt nature: you have to do with a cunning adversary, who will use all means to seduce you; be always upon your guard; while we live we are exposed to temptations: this made a great saint say, that _the whole life of man was a temptation._ the devil, who never sleeps, walks continually around us, in order to surprise us on some unguarded side, and enters into our soul to destroy it. however perfect any one may be, yet he may fall into temptations, and, perhaps, into such as may be useful. nor is it wonderful that men should never be exempt from them, because he hath always within himself their force, concupiscence. scarce are we delivered from one temptation, but another attacks us. such is the lot of the posterity of adam, that they should always have something to suffer, because they have forfeited their primitive happiness. we vainly flatter ourselves that we shall conquer temptations by flying; if we join not patience and humility, we shall torment ourselves to no purpose. we shall more certainly compass our end by imploring god's assistance than by using any means drawn from ourselves. be constant, _heloise_; trust in god, and you will fall into few temptations: whenever they shall come, stifle them in their birth; let them not take root in your heart. apply remedies to a disease, said an ancient, in its beginning; for when it hath gained strength medicines will be unavailable. temptations have their degrees; they are at first mere thoughts, and do not appear dangerous; the imagination receives them without any fears; a pleasure is formed out of them; we pause upon it, and at last we yield to it. do you now, _heloise_, applaud my design of making you walk in the steps of the saints? do my words give you any relish for penitence? have you not remorse for your wanderings? and do you not wish you could like magdalen, wash our saviour's feet with your tears? if you have not these ardent emotions, pray that he would inspire them. i shall never cease to recommend you in my prayers, and always beseech him to assist you in your design of dying holily. you have quitted the world, and what object was worthy to detain you there? lift up your eyes always to him so whom you have consecrated the rest of your days. life upon this earth is misery. the very necessities to which our body is subject here are matter of affliction to a saint. _lord,_ said the royal prophet, _deliver me from my necessities_! they are wretched who do not know themselves for such, and yet they are more wretched who know their misery, and do not hate the corruption of the age. what fools are men to engage themselves to earthly things! they will be undeceived one day, and will know but too late how much they have been too blame in loving such false good. persons truly pious do not thus mistake, they are disengaged from all sensual pleasures, and raise their desires to heaven. begin _heloise_; put your design in execution without delay; you have yet time enough to work out your salvation. love christ, and despise yourself for his sake. he would possess your heart, and be the sole object of your sighs and tears; seek for no comfort but in him. if you do not free yourself from me, you will fall with me; but if you quit me, and give up yourself to him, you will be stedfast and immoveable. if you force the lord to forsake you, you will fall into distress; but if you be ever faithful to him, you will always be in joy. magdalen wept, as thinking the lord had forsaken her; but martha said, see, the lord calls you. be diligent in your duty, and obey faithfully the motions of his grace, and jesus will remain always with you. attend, _heloise_, to some instructions i have to give you. you are at the head of a society, and you know there is this difference between those who lead a private life and such as are charged with the conduct of others; that the first need only labour for their own sanctification, and, in acquitting themselves of their duties, are not obliged to practise all the virtues in such an apparent manner; whereas they who have the conduct of others intruded to them, ought by their example to engage them to do all the good they are capable of in their condition. i beseech you to attend to this truth, and so to follow it, as that your whole life may be a perfect model of that of a religious recluse. god, who heartily desires our salvation, hath made all the means of it easy to us; in the _old testament_ he hath written in the tables of the law what he requires of us, that we might not be bewildered in seeking after his will. in the _new testament_ he hath written that law of grace in our hearts, to the intent that it might be always present with us; and, knowing the weakness and incapacity of our nature, he hath given us grace to perform his will; and, as if this were not enough, he hath, at all times, in all dates of the church, raised up men who, by their exemplary life, might excite others to their duty. to effect this, he hath chosen persons of every age, sex, and condition. strive now to unite in yourself all those virtues which have been scattered in these different states. have the purity of virgins, the austerity of anchorites, the zeal of pastors and bishops, and the constancy of martyrs. be exact in the course of your whole life to fulfil the duties of a holy and enlightened superior, and then death, which is commonly considered as terrible, will appear agreeable to you. _the death of his saints_, says the prophet, _is precious in the sight of the lord._ nor is it difficult to comprehend why their death should have this advantage over that of sinners. i have remarked three things which might have given the prophet an occasion of speaking thus. first, their resignation to the will of god. secondly, the continuation of their good works. and, lastly, the triumph they gain over the devil. a saint, who has accustomed himself to submit to the will of god, yields to death without reluctance. he waits with joy (says st. gregory) for the judge who is to reward him; he fears not to quit this miserable mortal life, in order to begin an immortal happy one. it is not so with the sinner, says the same father; he fears, and with reason, he trembles, at the approach of the least sickness; death is terrible to him, because he cannot bear the presence of an offended judge; and having so often abused the grace of god, he sees no way to avoid the punishment due to his sins. the saints have besides this advantage over sinners that having made works of piety familiar to them during their life, they exercise them without trouble, and having gained new strength against the devil every time they overcome him, they will find themselves in a condition at the hour of death to obtain that victory over him, on which depends all eternity, and the blessed union of their souls with their creator. i hope, _heloise_, that after having deplored the irregularities of your past life, you will die (as the prophet prayed) the death of the righteous. ah! how few are there who make their end after this manner! and why? it is because there are so few who love the cross of christ. every one would be saved, but few will use those means which religion prescribes. and yet we can be saved by nothing but the cross, why then do we refuse to bear it? hath not our saviour borne it before us, and died for us, to the end that we might also bear it and desire to die also? all the saints have been afflicted; and our saviour himself did not pass one hour of his life without some sorrow. hope not, therefore to be exempted from sufferings. the cross, _heloise_, is always at hand, but take care that you do not bear it with regret; for by so doing you will make it more heavy, and you will be oppressed by it unprofitably. on the contrary, if you bear it with affection and courage, all your sufferings will create in you a holy confidence, whereby you will find comfort in god. hear our saviour who says: "my child renounce yourself, take up your cross and follow me." oh, _heloise_! do you doubt? is not your soul ravished at so saving a command? are you deaf to his voice? are you insensible to words so full of kindness? beware, _heloise_, of refusing a husband who demands you, and is more to be feared, if you slight his affection, than any profane lover. provoked at your contempt and ingratitude, he will turn his love into anger, and make you feel his vengeance, how will you sustain his presence when you shall stand before his tribunal? he will reproach you for having despised his grace; he will represent to you his sufferings for you. what answer can you make? he will then be implacable. he will say to you, go, proud creature, dwell in everlasting flames. i separated you from the world to purify you in solitude, and you did not second my design; i endeavoured to save you, and you took pains to destroy yourself; go wretch, and take the portion of the reprobates. oh, _heloise_, prevent these terrible words, and avoid by a holy course, the punishment prepared for sinners. i dare not give you a description of those dreadful torments which ere the consequences of a life of guilt. i am filled with horror when they offer themselves to my imagination: and yet _heloise_ i can conceive nothing which can reach the tortures of the damned. the fire which we see upon earth is but the shadow of that which burns them; and without enumerating their endless pains, the loss of god which they feel increases all their torments. can any one sin who is persuaded of this? my god! can we dare to offend thee? tho' the riches of thy mercy could not engage us to love thee, the dread of being thrown into such an abyss of misery would restrain us from doing any thing which might displease thee? i question not, _heloise_, but you will hereafter apply yourself in good earnest to the business of your salvation: this ought to be your whole concern. banish me, therefore, for ever from your heart; it is the best advice i can give you: for the remembrance of a person we have loved criminally cannot but be hurtful, whatever advances we have made in the ways of virtue. when you have extirpated your unhappy inclination towards me, the practice of every virtue will become easy; and when at last your life is conformable to that of christ, death will be desireable to you. your soul will joyfully leave this body, and direct its flight to heaven. then you will appear with confidence before your saviour. you will not read characters of your reprobation written in the book of life; but you will hear your saviour say, come, partake of my glory, and enjoy the eternal reward i have appointed for those virtues you have practised. farewell _heloise_. this is the last advice of your dear _abelard_; this is the last time, let me persuade you to follow the holy rules of the gospel. heaven grant that your heart, once so sensible of my love, may now yield to be directed by my zeal! may the idea of your loving _abelard_, always present to your mind, be now changed into the image of _abelard_ truly penitent! and may you shed as many tears for your salvation as you have done during the course of our misfortunes! ---------------eloisa to abelard by mr pope. in these deep solitudes and awful cells. where heav'nly-pensive contemplation dwells, and ever-musing melancholy reigns; what means this tumult in a vestal's veins? why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat? why feels my heart its long-forgotten beat? yet, yet i love!----from _abelard_ it came, and _eloisa_ yet must kiss the name. dear fatal name! rest ever onreveal'd, nor pass those lips in holy silence seas'd: hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, where mix'd with god's, his lov'd idea lyes; oh write it not, my hand--the name appears already written--wash it out, my tears! in vain lost _eloisa_ weeps and prays, her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys. relentless walls! whose darksome round contains repentant sighs, and voluntary pains: ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn; ye grotes and caverns shagg'd with horrid thorn! shrines! where their vigils pale-ey'd virgins keep, and pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep! tho' cold like you unmov'd and silent grown, i have not yet forgot myself to stone. heav'n claims me all in vain, while he has part, still rebel nature holds out half my heart; nor pray'rs nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain, nor tears, for ages taught to flow in vain. soon as thy letters, trembling, i unclose, that well-known name awakens all my woes. oh name for ever sad! for ever dear! still breath'd in sighs, still utter'd with a tear. i tremble too where'er my own i find, some dire misfortune follows close behind. line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow, led through a sad variety of woe: now warm in love, now with'ring in thy bloom, lost in a convent's solitary gloom! there stern religion quench'd th' unwilling flame. there died the best of passions, love and same. yet write, oh write me all, that i may join griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine. nor foes nor fortune take this pow'r away; and is my _abelard_ less kind than they? tears still are mine, and those i need not spare, love but demands what else were shed in pray'r; no happier talk these faded eyes pursue; to read and weep is all they now can do. then share thy pain, allow that sad relief; ah, more than share it! give me all thy grief. heav'n first taught letters for some wretch's aid, some banish'd lover, or some captive maid; they live they speak, they breathe what love inspires, warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires, the virgin's wish without her fears impart, excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart, speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul, and waft a sigh from indus to the pole. thou know'st how guiltless first i met thy flame, when love approach'd me under friendship's name; my fancy form'd thee of angelic kind, some emanations of th' all-beauteous mind. those smiling eyes, attemp'ring every ray, shone sweetly lambent with celestial day. guiltless i gaz'd; heav'n listen'd while you sung; and truths divine came mended from that tongue, from lip like those what precepts fail'd to move? too soon they taught me 'twas no sin to love: back through the paths of pleasing sense i ran, nor wish'd an angel whom i lov'd a man. dim and remote the joys of saints i see, nor envy them that heav'n i lose for thee. how oft', when prest to marriage, have i said, curse on all laws but those which love has made! love, free as air, at sight of human ties, spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies. let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame, august her deed, and sacred be her fame; before true passion all those views remove, fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to love? the jealous god, when we profane his fires, those restless passions in revenge inspires, and bids them make mistaken mortals groan, who seek in love for ought but love alone. should at my feet the world's great master fall, himself, his throne, his world, i'd scorn 'em all; not _ceasar's_ empress would i deign to prove; no, make me mistress to the man i love; if there be yet another name more free, more fond, than mistress, make me that to thee! oh happy state! when souls each other draw. when love is liberty, and nature law, all then is full possessing and possess'd, no craving void left akeing in the breast? ev'n thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part, and each warm wish springs mutual from the heart. this sure is bliss, (if bliss on earth there be,) and once the lot of _abelard_ and me. alas, how chang'd! what sudden horrors rise! a naked lover bound and bleeding lyes! where, where was _eloisa_? her voice, her hand, her poinard, had oppos'd the dire command. barbarian, stay! that bloody stroke restrain; the crime was common, common be the pain. i can no more; by shame, by rage, suppress'd, let tears and burning blushes speak the rest. canst thou forget that sad, that solemn day, when victims at yon altar's foot we lay? canst thou forget what tears that moment fell, when, warm in youth, i bade the world farewell? as, with cold lips i kiss'd the sacred veil, the shrines all trembled, and the lamps grew pale: heav'n scarces believ'd the conquest it survey'd, and saints with wonder heard the vows i made. yet then, to those dread altars as i drew, not on the cross my eyes were fix'd, but you: not grace, or zeal, love only was my call, and if i lose thy love, i lose my all. come! with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe; those still at least are left thee to bestow. still on that breast enamour'd let me lye, still drink delicious poison from thy eye, pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be press'd; give all thou canst----and let me dream the rest, ah, no! instruct me other joys to prize, with other beauties charm my partial eyes. full in my view set all the bright abode, and make my soul quit _abelard_ for god. ah! think at least thy flock deserves thy care, plants of thy hand, and children of thy pray'r. from the false world in early youth they fled, by thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led. you rais'd these hallow'd walls; the desart smil'd, and paradise was open'd in the wild. no weeping orphan saw his father's stores our shines irradiate, or emblaze the floors: no silver saints, by dying misers given, here brib'd the rage of ill-requited heav'n: but such plain roofs as piety could raise, and only vocal with the maker's praise. in these lone walls (their days eternal bound) these moss-grown domes with spiry turrets crown'd, where awful arches make a noon-day night, and the dim windows shed a solemn light; thy eyes diffus'd a reconciling ray, and gleams of glory brighten'd all the day, but now no face divine contentment wears, 'tis all blank sadness, or continual tears. see how the force of others' pray'rs i try, (oh pious fraud of am'rous charity!) but why should i on others' prayers depend? come thou, my father, brother, husband, friend! ah, let thy handmaid, sister, daughter, move, and all those tender names in one, thy love! the darksome pines, that o'er yon rocks reclin'd wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind, the wand'ring streams that shine between the hills, the grotes that echo to the tinkling rills, the dying gales that pant upon the trees, the lakes that quiver to the curling breeze; no more these scenes my meditation aid, or lull to rest the visionary maid. but o'er the twilight groves, and dusky caves, long founding aisles, and intermingled graves, black melancholy sits, and round her throws a death like silence, and a dread repose: her gloomy presence saddens all the scene. shades ev'ry flow'r, and darkens ev'ry green, deepens the murmur of the falling floods, and breathes a browner horror on the woods, yet here for ever, ever must i stay; sad proof how well a lover can obey! death, only death, can break the lasting chain; and here, ev'n then, shall my cold dust remain; here all its frailties, all its flames resign, and wait, till 'tis no sin to mix with thine. ah, wretch! believ'd the spouse of god in vain, confess'd within the slave of love and man. assist me, heav'n! but whence, arose that pray'r? sprung it from piety, or from despair? ev'n here, where frozen chastity retires, love finds an altar for forbidden fires. i ought to grieve, but cannot what i ought; i mourn the lover, not lament the fault; i view my crime, but kindle at the view, repent old pleasures, and solicit new; now turn'd to heav'n, i weep my past offence, now think of thee, and curse my innocence. of all affliction taught a lover yet, 'tis sure the hardest science to forget! how shall i lose the sin, yet, keep the sense. and love th' offender, yet detest th' offence? how the dear object from the crime remove, or how distinguish penitence from love? unequal talk! a passion to resign, for hearts so touched, so pierc'd, so lost as mine. ere such a soul regains its peaceful slate. how often must it love, how often hate! how often hope, despair, resent, regret. conceal, disdain--do all things but forget! but let heav'n seize it, all at once 'tis fir'd, not touched but rapt; not waken'd but inspir'd! oh come! oh teach me nature to subdue. renounce my love, my life, myself--and you. fill my fond heart with god alone, for he alone can rival, can succeed to thee. how happy is the blameless vestal's lot? the world forgetting, by the world forgot: eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd; labour and rest, that equal periods keep, 'obedient slumbers that can wake and weep; desires compos'd, affections ever even; tears that delight, and sighs that waft to heav'n. grace shines around her with serenest beams, and whisp'ring angels prompt her golden dreams, for her the house prepares the bridal ring, for her white virgins _hymeneals_ sing, for her th' unfading rose of eden blooms, and wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes; to sounds of heavenly harps she dies away, and melts in visions of eternal day. far other dreams my erring soul employ, far other raptures of unholy joy: when at the close of each sad sorrowing day fancy restores what vengeance snatch'd away, then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature free, all my loose soul unbounded springs to thee. o curs'd dear horrors of all-conscious night! how glowing guilt exalts the keen delight! provoking daemons all restraint remove, and stir within me ev'ry source of love, i hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms, and round thy phantoms glue my clasping arms. i wake----no more i hear, no more i view, the phantom flies me as unkind as you. i call aloud; it hears not what i say; i stretch my empty arms; it glides away. to dream once more i close my willing eyes; ye soft illusions, dear deceits, arise! alas no more!----methinks we wand'ring go, thro' dreary waftes, and weep each other's woe where round some moulding tow'r pale ivy creeps, and low-brow'd rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps. sudden you mount, you beckon from the skies: clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise. i shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find and wake to all the griefs i left behind. for thee the fates, severely kind, ordain a cool suspence from pleasure and from pain; thy life a long dead calm of fix'd repose; no pulse that riots, and no blood that glows; still as the sea, ere winds were taught to blow, or moving spirit bade the waters flow; soft as the slumbers of a saint forgiv'n, and mild as opening gleams of promis'd heav'n. come, _abelard_! for what hast thou to dread? the torch of venus burns not for the dead. nature stands check'd; religion disapproves; ev'n thou art cold----yet _eloisa_ loves. ah hopeless, lasting flames! like those that burn. to light the dead, and warm th' unfruitful urn. what scenes appear! where e'er i turn my view. the dear ideas where i fly pursue, rise in the grove, before the altar rise, stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes. i waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee, thy image steals between my god and me; thy voice i seem in ev'ry hymn to hear, with ev'ry bead i drop too soft a tear. when from the censer clouds of fragrance roll, and swelling organs lift the rising soul, one thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight, priests, tapers, temples; swim before my sight: in seas of flame my plunging soul is drown'd, while altars blaze, and angels tremble round. while prostrate here in humble grief i lye kind, virtuous drops, just gathering in my eye, while praying, trembling, in the dust i roll, and dawning grace is opening on my soul: come, if thou dar'st, all charming as thou art! oppose thyself to heav'n; dispute my heart; come, with one glance of those deluding eyes blot out each bright idea of the skies; take back that grace, those sorrows, and those tears; take back my fruitless penitence and prayers; snatch me, just mounting, from the blest abode; assist the fiend, and tear me from my god! no, fly me! fly me! far as pole from pole; rise alps between us, and whose oceans roll! ah, come not, write not, think not once of me, nor share one pang of all i felt for thee, thy oaths i quit, thy memory resign; forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine. fair eyes, and tempting looks, which yet i view! long-liv'd ador'd ideas, all adieu! o grace serene! oh virtue heav'nly fair! divine oblivion of low-thoughted care! fresh blooming hope, gay daughter of the sky! and faith, our early immortality! enter, each mild, each amicable guest; receive and wrap me in eternal rest! see in her cell sad _eloisa_ spread, propt on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead! in each low wind methinks a spirit calls, and more than echoes talk along the walls, here, as i watch'd the dying lamps around, from yonder shrine i heard a hollow sound: 'come, sister, come i (it said, or seem'd to say,) 'thy place is here, sad sister come away! 'once like thyself i trembled, wept, and pray'd, 'love's victim then, though now a sainted maid: 'but all is calm in this eternal sleep; 'here grief forgets to groan, and love to weep; 'ev'n superstition loses ev'ry fear: 'for god, not man, absolves our frailties here.' i come, i come! prepare your roseat bow'rs, celestial palm, and ever-blooming flow'rs. thither, were sinners may have rest, i go, where flames refin'd in breasts seraphic glow: thou, _abelard_! the last sad office pay, and smooth my passage to the realms of day; see my lips tremble, and my eye-balk roll, suck my last breath, and catch the flying soul! ah no----in sacred vestments may'st thou stand, the hallow'd taper trembling in thy hand, present the cross before my lifted eye, teach me at once, and learn of me to die. ah then, the once lov'd _eloisa_ see! it will be then no crime to gaze on me. see from my cheek the transient roses fly! see the last sparkle languish in my eye! 'till ev'ry motion, pulse, and breath be o'er; and ev'n my _abelard_. be lov'd no more. o death, all eloquent! you only prove what dust we dote on, when 'tis man we love. then too, when fate shall thy fair frame destroy? (that cause of all my guilt, and all my joy) in trance ecstatic may the pangs be drown'd, bright clouds descend, and angels watch thee round, from opening skies may streaming glories shine, and saints embrace thee with a love like mine. may one kind grave unite each hapless name, and graft my love immortal on thy fame! then, ages hence, when all my woes are o'er, when this rebellious heart shall beat no more. if ever chance two wand'ring lovers brings to _paraclete's_ white walls and silver springs, o'er the pale marble shall they join their heads. and drink the falling tears each other sheds; then sadly say, with mutual pity mov'd, "oh may we never love as these have lov'd!" from the full choir, when loud hosannas rise, and swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice, amid that scene, if some relenting eye glance on the stone where our cold relics lye, devotion's self shall steal a thought from heav'n, one human tear shall drop, and be forgiven. and sure, if fate some future bard shall join in sad similitude of griefs like mine, condemn'd whole years in absence to deplore, andimage charms he must behold no more; such if there be, who loves so long, so well; let him our sad, our tender, story tell; the well-sung woes will smooth my pensive ghost: he best can paint e'm, who shall feel 'em most. -----------------------abelard to eloisa by mrs madan. in my dark cell, low prostrate on the ground, mourning my crimes, thy letter entrance found; too soon my soul the well-known name confest, my beating heart sprang fiercely in my breast, thro' my whole frame a guilty transport glow'd, and streaming torrents from my eyes fast flow'd: o _eloisa_! art thou still the same? dost thou still nourish this destructive flame? have not the gentle rules of peace and heav'n, from thy soft soul this fatal passion driv'n? alas! i thought you disengaged and free; and can you still, still sigh and weep for me? what powerful deity, what hallow'd shrine, can save me from a love, a faith like thine? where shall i fly, when not this awful cave, whose rugged feet the surging billows lave; when not these gloomy cloister's solemn walls, o'er whose rough sides the languid ivy crawls, when my dread vews, in vain, their force oppose? oppos'd to live--alas!--how vain are vows! in fruitless penitence i wear away each tedious night, and sad revolving day; i fast, i pray, and, with deceitful art, veil thy dear image in my tortur'd heart; my tortur'd heart conflicting passions move. i hope despair, repent----yet still i love: a thousand jarring thoughts my bosom tear; for, thou, not god, o _eloise!_ art there. to the false world's deluding pleasures dead, nor longer by its wand'ring fires misled, in learn'd disputes harsh precepts i infuse, and give the counsel i want pow'r to use. the rigid maxims of the grave and wife have quench'd each milder sparkle of my eyes: each lovley feature of this once lov'd face, by grief revers'd, assumes a sterner grace; o _eloisa_! should the fates once more, indulgent to my view, thy charms restore, how from my arms would'st thou with horror start to miss the form familiar to thy heart; nought could thy quick, thy piercing judgment see, to speak me _abelard_--but love to thee. lean abstinence, pale grief, and haggard care. the dire attendants of forlorn despair, have _abelard_, the young, the gay, remov'd, and in the hermit funk the man you lov'd, wrapt in the gloom these holy mansions shed, the thorny paths of penitence i tread; lost to the world, from all its int'rests free, and torn from all my soul held dear in thee, ambition with its train of frailties gone, all loves and forms forget----but thine alone, amid the blaze of day, the dusk of night, my _eloisa_ rises to my sight; veil'd as in paraclete's secluded tow'rs, the wretched mourner counts the lagging hours; i hear her sighs, see the swift falling tears, weep all her griefs, and pant with all her cares. o vows! o convent! your stern force impart, and frown the melting phantom from my heart; let other sighs a worthier sorrow show, let other tears from sin repentance flow; low to the earth my guilty eyes i roll, and humble to the dust my heaving soul, forgiving pow'r! thy gracious call i meet, who first impower'd this rebel heart to heart; who thro' this trembling, this offending frame, for nobler ends inspir'd life's active flame. o! change the temper of this laboring breast, and form anew each beating pulse to rest! let springing grace, fair faith, and hope remove the fatal traces of destructive love! destructive love from his warm mansions tear, and leave no traits of _eloisa_ there! are these the wishes of my inmost soul? would i its soft, its tend'rest sense controul? would i, thus touch'd, this glowing heart refine, to the cold substance of this marble shrine? transform'd like these pale swarms that round me move, of blest insensibles--who know no love? ah! rather let me keep this hapless flame; adieu! false honour, unavailing fame! not your harsh rules, but tender love, supplies the streams that gush from my despairing eyes; i feel the traitor melt about my heart, and thro' my veins with treacherous influence dart; inspire me, heav'n! assist me, grace divine, aid me, ye saints! unknown to pains like mine; you, who on earth serene all griefs could prove, all but the tort'ring pangs of hopeless love; a holier rage in your pure bosoms dwelt, nor can you pity what you never felt: a sympathising grief alone can lure, the hand that heals, must feel what i endure. thou, _eloise_ alone canst give me ease, and bid my struggling soul subside to peace; restore me to my long lost heav'n of rest, and take thyself from my reluctant breast; if crimes like mine could an allay receive, that blest allay thy wond'rons charms might give. thy form, that first to love my heart inclin'd, still wanders in my lost, my guilty mind. i saw thee as the new blown blossoms fair, sprightly as light, more soft than summer's air, bright as their beams thy eyes a mind disclose, whilst on thy lips gay blush'd the fragrant rose; wit, youth, and love, in each dear feature shone; prest by my fate, i gaz'd--and was undone. there dy'd the gen'rous fire, whose vig'rous flame enlarged my soul, and urg'd me on to same; nor fame, nor wealth, my soften'd heart could move, dully insensible to all but love. snatch'd from myself, my learning tasteless grew; vain my philosophy, oppos'd to you; a train of woes succeed, nor should we mourn, the hours that cannot, ought not to return. as once to love i sway'd your yielding mind, too fond, alas! too fatally inclin'd, to virtue now let me your breast inspire, and fan, with zeal divine, the heav'nly fire; teach you to injur'd heav'n all chang'd to turn, and bid the soul with sacred rapture burn. o! that my own example might impart this noble warmth to your soft trembling heart! that mine, with pious undissembled care, could aid the latent virtue struggling there; alas! i rave--nor grace, nor zeal divine, burn in a heart oppress'd with crimes like mine, too sure i find, while i the tortures prove of feeble piety, conflicting love, on black despair my forc'd devotion's built; absence for me has sharper pangs than guilt. yet, yet, my _eloisa_, thy charms i view, yet my sighs breath, my tears pour forth for you; each weak resistance stronger knits my chain, i sigh, weep, love, despair, repent----in vain, haste, _eloisa_, haste, your lover free, amidst your warmest pray'r----o think on me! wing with your rising zeal my grov'ling mind, and let me mine from your repentance find! ah! labour, strife, your love, your self control! the change will sure affect my kindred soul; in blest consent our purer sighs shall breath, and heav'n assisting, shall our crimes forgive, but if unhappy, wretched, lost in vain, faintly th' unequal combat you sustain; if not to heav'n you feel your bosom rise, nor tears refin'd fall contrite from your eyes; if still, your heart its wonted passions move, if still, to speak all pains in one--you love; deaf to the weak essays of living breath, attend the stronger eloquence of death. when that kind pow'r this captive soul shall free, which only then can cease to doat on thee; when gently sunk to my eternal sleep, the paraclete my peaceful urn shall keep! then, _eloisa_, then your lover view, see his quench'd eyes no longer gaze on you; from their dead orbs that tender utt'rance flown, which first to thine my heart's soft fate made known, this breast no more, at length to ease consign'd, pant like the waving aspin in the wind; see all my wild, tumultuous passion o'er, and thou, amazing change! belov'd no more; behold the destin'd end of human love- but let the fight your zeal alone improve; let not your conscious soul, to sorrow mov'd, recall how much, how tenderly i lov'd: with pious care your fruitless griefs restrain, nor let a tear your sacred veil profane; not ev'n a sigh on my cold urn bestow; but let your breast with new-born raptures glow; let love divine, frail mortal love dethrone, and to your mind immortal joys make known; let heav'n relenting strike your ravish'd view, and still the bright, the blest pursuit renew! so with your crimes shall your misfortune cease, and your rack'd soul be calmly hush'd to peace. the end the love letters of dorothy osborne to sir william temple, 1652-54 edited by edward abbott parry new york, 1901 to my daughter helen this volume is dedicated exempli gratia editorial note it having been noted in the _athenaeum_, june 9, 1888, that rumours were afloat doubting the authenticity of these letters, and that these rumours would sink to rest if the history of the originals were published, i hasten to adopt my reviewer's suggestion, and give an outline of their story. they are at present in the hands of the rev. robert longe at coddenham vicarage, suffolk, where they have been for the last hundred years. at sir william temple's death in 1698, he left no other descendants than two grand-daughters--elizabeth and dorothy. elizabeth died without issue in 1772; dorothy married nicholas bacon, esq. of shrubland hall in the parish of coddenham. dorothy left a son, the rev. nicholas bacon, who was vicar of coddenham. this traces the letters to coddenham vicarage. the rev. nicholas bacon dying without issue, bequeathed coddenham vicarage, with the pictures and papers therein, to the rev. john longe, who had married his wife's sister. the rev. john longe, who died in 1835, was the father of the present owner. this satisfactorily accounts for the letters being in their present hands, and these stated facts will, i trust, set at rest the fears or hopes of sceptics. edward abbott parry. manchester, october 1888. contents i. introduction ii. early letters. winter and spring 1652-53 iii. life at chicksands. 1653 iv. despondency. christmas 1653 v. the last of chicksands. february and march 1654 vi. visiting. summer 1654 vii. the end of the third volume appendix--lady temple chapter i introduction "an editor," says dr. johnson, is "he that revises or prepares any work for publication;" and this definition of an editor's duty seems wholly right and satisfactory. but now that the revision of these letters is apparently complete, the reader has some right to expect a formal introduction to a lady whose name he has, in all probability, never heard; and one may not be overstepping the modest and johnsonian limits of an editor's office, when the writing of a short introduction is included among the duties of preparation. dorothy osborne was the wife of the famous sir william temple, and apology for her biography will be found in her own letters, here for the first time published. some of them have indeed been printed in a _life of sir william temple_ by the right honourable thomas peregrine courtenay, a man better known to the tory politician of fifty years ago than to any world of letters in that day or this. forty-two extracts from these letters did courtenay transfer to an appendix, without arrangement or any form of editing, as he candidly confesses; but not without misgivings as to how they would be received by a people thirsting to read the details of the negotiations which took place in connection with the triple alliance. if courtenay lived to learn that the world had other things to do than pore over dull excerpts from inhuman state papers, we may pity his awakening; but we can never quite forgive the apologetic paragraph with which he relegates dorothy osborne's letters to the mouldy obscurity of an appendix. when macaulay was reviewing courtenay's book in the _edinburgh review_, he took occasion to write a short but living sketch of the early history of sir william temple and dorothy osborne. and with this account so admirably written, ready at hand, it becomes the clear duty of the editor to quote rather than to rewrite; which he does with the greater pleasure, remembering that it was this very passage that first led him to read the letters of dorothy osborne. "william temple, sir john's eldest son, was born in london in the year 1628. he received his early education under his maternal uncle, was subsequently sent to school at bishop-stortford, and, at seventeen, began to reside at emmanuel college, cambridge, where the celebrated cudworth was his tutor. the times were not favourable to study. the civil war disturbed even the quiet cloisters and bowling-greens of cambridge, produced violent revolutions in the government and discipline of the colleges, and unsettled the minds of the students. temple forgot at emmanuel all the little greek which he had brought from bishop-stortford, and never retrieved the loss; a circumstance which would hardly be worth noticing but for the almost incredible fact, that fifty years later he was so absurd as to set up his own authority against that of bentley on questions of greek history and philology. he made no proficiency, either in the old philosophy which still lingered in the schools of cambridge, or in the new philosophy of which lord bacon was the founder. but to the end of his life he continued to speak of the former with ignorant admiration, and of the latter with equally ignorant contempt. "after residing at cambridge two years, he departed without taking a degree, and set out upon his travels. he seems to have been then a lively, agreeable young man of fashion, not by any means deeply read, but versed in all the superficial accomplishments of a gentleman, and acceptable in all polite societies. in politics he professed himself a royalist. his opinions on religious subjects seem to have been such as might be expected from a young man of quick parts, who had received a rambling education, who had not thought deeply, who had been disgusted by the morose austerity of the puritans, and who, surrounded from childhood by the hubbub of conflicting sects, might easily learn to feel an impartial contempt for them all. "on his road to france he fell in with the son and daughter of sir peter osborne. sir peter held guernsey for the king, and the young people were, like their father, warm for the royal cause. at an inn where they stopped in the isle of wight, the brother amused himself with inscribing on the windows his opinion of the ruling powers. for this instance of malignancy the whole party were arrested, and brought before the governor. the sister, trusting to the tenderness which, even in those troubled times, scarcely any gentleman of any party ever failed to show where a woman was concerned, took the crime on herself, and was immediately set at liberty with her fellow-travellers. "this incident, as was natural, made a deep impression on temple. he was only twenty. dorothy osborne was twenty-one. she is said to have been handsome; and there remains abundant proof that she possessed an ample share of the dexterity, the vivacity, and the tenderness of her sex. temple soon became, in the phrase of that time, her servant, and she returned his regard. but difficulties, as great as ever expanded a novel to the fifth volume, opposed their wishes. when the courtship commenced, the father of the hero was sitting in the long parliament; the father of the heroine was commanding in guernsey for king charles. even when the war ended, and sir peter osborne returned to his seat at chicksands, the prospects of the lovers were scarcely less gloomy. sir john temple had a more advantageous alliance in view for his son. dorothy osborne was in the meantime besieged by as many suitors as were drawn to belmont by the fame of portia. the most distinguished on the list was henry cromwell. destitute of the capacity, the energy, the magnanimity of his illustrious father, destitute also of the meek and placid virtues of his elder brother, this young man was perhaps a more formidable rival in love than either of them would have been. mrs. hutchinson, speaking the sentiments of the grave and aged, describes him as an 'insolent foole,' and a 'debauched ungodly cavalier.' these expressions probably mean that he was one who, among young and dissipated people, would pass for a fine gentleman. dorothy was fond of dogs, of larger and more formidable breed than those which lie on modern hearthrugs; and henry cromwell promised that the highest functionaries at dublin should be set to work to procure her a fine irish greyhound. she seems to have felt his attentions as very flattering, though his father was then only lord general, and not yet protector. love, however, triumphed over ambition, and the young lady appears never to have regretted her decision; though, in a letter written just at the time when all england was ringing with the news of the violent dissolution of the long parliament, she could not refrain from reminding temple with pardonable vanity, 'how great she might have been, if she had been so wise as to have taken hold of the offer of h.c.' "nor was it only the influence of rivals that temple had to dread. the relations of his mistress regarded him with personal dislike, and spoke of him as an unprincipled adventurer, without honour or religion, ready to render service to any party for the sake of preferment. this is, indeed, a very distorted view of temple's character. yet a character, even in the most distorted view taken of it by the most angry and prejudiced minds, generally retains something of its outline. no caricaturist ever represented mr. pitt as a falstaff, or mr. fox as a skeleton; nor did any libeller ever impute parsimony to sheridan, or profusion to marlborough. it must be allowed that the turn of mind which the eulogists of temple have dignified with the appellation of philosophical indifference, and which, however becoming it may be in an old and experienced statesman, has a somewhat ungraceful appearance in youth, might easily appear shocking to a family who were ready to fight or to suffer martyrdom for their exiled king and their persecuted church. the poor girl was exceedingly hurt and irritated by these imputations on her lover, defended him warmly behind his back, and addressed to himself some very tender and anxious admonitions, mingled with assurances of her confidence in his honour and virtue. on one occasion she was most highly provoked by the way in which one of her brothers spoke of temple. 'we talked ourselves weary,' she says; 'he renounced me, and i defied him.' "near seven years did this arduous wooing continue. we are not accurately informed respecting temple's movements during that time. but he seems to have led a rambling life, sometimes on the continent, sometimes in ireland, sometimes in london. he made himself master of the french and spanish languages, and amused himself by writing essays and romances, an employment which at least served the purpose of forming his style. the specimen which mr. courtenay has preserved of these early compositions is by no means contemptible: indeed, there is one passage on like and dislike, which could have been produced only by a mind habituated carefully to reflect on its own operations, and which reminds us of the best things in montaigne. "temple appears to have kept up a very active correspondence with his mistress. his letters are lost, but hers have been preserved; and many of them appear in these volumes. mr. courtenay expresses some doubt whether his readers will think him justified in inserting so large a number of these epistles. we only wish that there were twice as many. very little indeed of the diplomatic correspondence of that generation is so well worth reading." here macaulay indulges in an eloquent but lengthy philippic against that "vile phrase" the "dignity of history," which we may omit,--taking up the thread of his discourse where he recurs to the affairs of our two lovers. "thinking thus,"--concerning the "dignity of history,"--"we are glad to learn so much, and would willingly learn more about the loves of sir william and his mistress. in the seventeenth century, to be sure, louis the fourteenth was a much more important person than temple's sweetheart. but death and time equalize all things. neither the great king nor the beauty of bedfordshire, neither the gorgeous paradise of marli nor mistress osborne's favourite walk 'in the common that lay hard by the house, where a great many young wenches used to keep sheep and cows and sit in the shade singing of ballads,' is anything to us. louis and dorothy are alike dust. a cotton-mill stands on the ruins of marli; and the osbornes have ceased to dwell under the ancient roof of chicksands. but of that information, for the sake of which alone it is worth while to study remote events, we find so much in the love letters which mr. courtenay has published, that we would gladly purchase equally interesting billets with ten times their weight in state papers taken at random. to us surely it is as useful to know how the young ladies of england employed themselves a hundred and eighty years ago, how far their minds were cultivated, what were their favourite studies, what degree of liberty was allowed to them, what use they made of that liberty, what accomplishments they most valued in men, and what proofs of tenderness delicacy permitted them to give to favoured suitors, as to know all about the seizure of franche-comté and the treaty of nimeguen. the mutual relations of the two sexes seem to us to be at least as important as the mutual relations of any two governments in the world; and a series of letters written by a virtuous, amiable, and sensible girl, and intended for the eye of her lover alone, can scarcely fail to throw some light on the relations of the sexes; whereas it is perfectly possible, as all who have made any historical researches can attest, to read bale after bale of despatches and protocols, without catching one glimpse of light about the relations of governments. "mr. courtenay proclaims that he is one of dorothy osborne's devoted servants, and expresses a hope that the publication of her letters will add to the number. we must declare ourselves his rivals. she really seems to have been a very charming young woman, modest, generous, affectionate, intelligent, and sprightly; a royalist, as was to be expected from her connections, without any of that political asperity which is as unwomanly as a long beard; religious, and occasionally gliding into a very pretty and endearing sort of preaching, yet not too good to partake of such diversions as london afforded under the melancholy rule of the puritans, or to giggle a little at a ridiculous sermon from a divine who was thought to be one of the great lights of the assembly at westminster; with a little turn for coquetry, which was yet perfectly compatible with warm and disinterested attachment, and a little turn for satire, which yet seldom passed the bounds of good nature. she loved reading; but her studies were not those of queen elizabeth and lady jane grey. she read the verses of cowley and lord broghill, french memoirs recommended by her lover, and the travels of fernando mendez pinto. but her favourite books were those ponderous french romances which modern readers know chiefly from the pleasant satire of charlotte lennox. she could not, however, help laughing at the vile english into which they were translated. her own style is very agreeable; nor are her letters at all the worse for some passages in which raillery and tenderness are mixed in a very engaging namby-pamby. "when at last the constancy of the lovers had triumphed over all the obstacles which kinsmen and rivals could oppose to their union, a yet more serious calamity befell them. poor mistress osborne fell ill of the small-pox, and, though she escaped with life, lost all her beauty. to this most severe trial the affection and honour of the lovers of that age was not unfrequently subjected. our readers probably remember what mrs. hutchinson tells us of herself. the lofty cornelia-like spirit of the aged matron seems to melt into a long forgotten softness when she relates how her beloved colonel 'married her as soon as she was able to quit the chamber, when the priest and all that saw her were affrighted to look on her. but god,' she adds, with a not ungraceful vanity, 'recompensed his justice and constancy by restoring her as well as before.' temple showed on this occasion the same justice and constancy which did so much honour to colonel hutchinson. the date of the marriage is not exactly known, but mr. courtenay supposes it to have taken place about the end of the year 1654. from this time we lose sight of dorothy, and are reduced to form our opinion of the terms on which she and her husband were from very slight indications which may easily mislead us." when an editor is in the pleasant position of being able to retain an historian of the eminence of macaulay to write a large portion of his introduction, it would ill become him to alter and correct his statements wherever there was a petty inaccuracy; still it is necessary to say, once for all, that there are occasional errors in the passage,--as where macaulay mentions that chicksands is no longer the property of the osbornes,--though happily not one of these errors is in itself important. to our thinking, too, in the character that he draws of our heroine, macaulay hardly appears to be sufficiently aware of the sympathetic womanly nature of dorothy, and the dignity of her disposition; so that he is persuaded to speak of her too constantly from the position of a man of the world praising with patronizing emphasis the pretty qualities of a school-girl. but we must remember, that in forming our estimate of her character, we have an extended series of letters before us; and from these the reader can draw his own conclusions as to the accuracy of macaulay's description, and the importance of dorothy's character. it was this passage from macaulay that led the editor to courtenay's appendix, and it was the literary and human charm of the letters themselves that suggested the idea of stringing them together into a connected story or sketch of the love affairs of dorothy osborne. this was published in april 1886 in the _english illustrated magazine_, and happened, by good luck, to fall into the hands of an admirer of dorothy, who, having had access to the original letters, had made faithful and loving copies of each one,--accurate even to the old-world spelling. these labours had been followed up by much patient research, the fruits of which were now to be generously offered to the present editor on condition that he would prepare the letters for the press. the owner of the letters having courteously expressed his acquiescence, nothing remained but to give to the task that patient care that it is easy to give to a labour of love. a few words of explanation as to the arrangement of the letters. although few of them were dated, it was found possible, by minute analysis of their contents, to place them in approximately correct order; and if one could not date each letter, one could at least assign groups of letters to specific months or seasons of the year. the fact that new year's day was at this period march 25--a fact sometimes ignored by antiquarians of high repute--adds greatly to the difficulty of ascertaining exact dates, and as an instance of this we find in different chronicles of authority sir peter osborne's death correctly, yet differently, given as happening in march 1653 and march 1654. throughout this volume the ordinary new year's day has been retained. the further revision and preparation that the letters have undergone is shortly this. the spelling has been modernized, the letters punctuated and arranged in paragraphs, and names indicated by initials have been, wherever it was possible, written in full. a note has been prefixed to each letter, printed in a more condensed form than the letter itself, and dealing with all the allusions contained in it. this system is very fit to be applied to dorothy's letters, because, by its use, dorothy is left to tell her own story without the constant and irritating references to footnotes or appendix notes that other arrangements necessitate. the editor has a holy horror of the footnote, and would have it relegated to those "_biblia a-biblia_" from which class he is sure elia would cheerfully except dorothy's letters. in the notes themselves the endeavour has been to obtain, where it was possible, parallel references to letters, diaries, or memoirs, and the editor can only regret that his researches, through both mss. and printed records, have been so little successful. in the case of well-known men like algernon sydney, lord manchester, edmund waller, etc., no attempt has been made to write a complete note,--their lives and works being sufficiently well known; but in the case of more obscure persons,--as, for instance, dorothy's brother-in-law, sir thomas peyton,--all the known details of their history have been carefully collected. yet in spite of patience, toil, and the kindness of learned friends, the editor is bound to acknowledge that some names remain mere words to him, and but too many allusions are mysteriously dim. the division of the letters into chapters, at first sight an arbitrary arrangement, really follows their natural grouping. the letters were written in the years 1653 and 1654, and form a clear and connected story of the love affairs of the young couple during that time. the most important group of letters, both from the number of letters contained in it and the contents of the letters themselves, is that entitled "life at chicksands, 1653." the editor regards this group as the very mainland of the epistolary archipelago that we are exploring. for it is in this chapter that a clear idea of the domestic social life of these troublous times is obtainable, none the less valuable in that it does not tally altogether with our preconceived and too romantic notions. here, too, we find what macaulay longed for--those social domestic trivialities which the historians have at length begun to value rightly. here are, indeed, many things of no value to dryasdust and his friends, but of moment to us, who look for and find true details of life and character in nearly every line. and above all things, here is a living presentment of a beautiful woman, pure in dissolute days, passing quiet hours of domestic life amongst her own family, where we may all visit her and hear her voice, even in the very tones in which she spoke to her lover. and now the editor feels he must augment macaulay's sketch of dorothy osborne with some account of the osborne family, of whom it consisted, what part it took in the struggle of the day, and what was the past position of dorothy's ancestors. all that can be promised is, that such account shall be as concise as may be consistent with clearness and accuracy, and that it shall contain nothing but ascertained facts. there were osbornes--before there were osbornes of chicksands--who, coming out of the north, settled at purleigh in essex, where we find them in the year 1442. from this date, passing lightly over a hundred troubled years, we find peter osborne, dorothy's great-grandfather, born in 1521. he was keeper of the purse to edward vi., and was twice married, his second wife being alice, sister of sir john cheke, a family we read of in dorothy's letters. one of his daughters, named catharine,--he had a well-balanced family of eleven sons and eleven daughters,--afterwards married sir thomas cheke. peter osborne died in 1592; and sir john osborne, peter's son and dorothy's grandfather, was the first osborne of chicksands. it was he who settled at chicksands, in bedfordshire, and purchased the neighbouring rectory at hawnes, to restore it to that church of which he and his family were in truth militant members; and having generously built and furnished a parsonage house, he presented it in the first place to the celebrated preacher thomas brightman, who died there in 1607. it is this rectory that in 1653-54 is in the hands of the rev. edward gibson, who appears from time to time in dorothy's letters, and who was on occasions the medium through which temple's letters reached their destination, and avoided falling into the hands of dorothy's jealous brother. sir john osborne married dorothy barlee, granddaughter of richard lord rich, lord chancellor of england in the reign of henry viii. sir john was treasurer's remembrancer in the exchequer for many years during the reign of james i., and was also a commissioner of the navy. he died november 2, 1628, and was buried in campton church,--chicksands lies between the village of hawnes and campton,--where a tablet to his memory still exists. sir john had five sons: peter, the eldest, dorothy's father, who succeeded him in his hereditary office of treasurer's remembrancer; christopher, thomas, richard, and francis,--francis osborne may be mentioned as having taken the side of the parliament in the civil wars. he was master of the horse to the earl of pembroke, and is noticeable to us as the only known relation of dorothy who published a book. he was the author of an _advice to his son_, in two parts, and some tracts published in 1722, of course long after his death. of sir peter himself we had at one time thought to write at some length. the narrative of his defence of castle cornet for the king, embodied in his own letters, in the letters and papers of george carteret, governor of jersey, in the detailed account left behind by a native of guernsey, and in the state papers of the period, is one of the most interesting episodes in an epoch of episodes. but though the collected material for some short life of sir peter osborne lies at hand, it seems scarcely necessary for the purpose of this book, and so not without reluctance it is set aside. sir peter was an ardent loyalist. in his obstinate flesh and blood devotion to the house of stuart he was as sincere and thorough as sir henry lee, sir geoffrey peveril, or kentish sir byng. he was the incarnation of the malignant of latter-day fiction. "king charles, and who'll do him right now? king charles, and who's ripe for fight now? give a rouse; here's in hell's despite now, king charles." to this text his life wrote the comment. in 1621, james i. created him lieutenant-governor of guernsey. he had married dorothy, sister of sir john danvers. sir john was the younger brother and heir to the earl of danby, and was a gentleman of the privy chamber to the king. clarendon tells us that he got into debt, and to get out of debt found himself in cromwell's counsel; that he was a proud, formal, weak man, between being seduced and a seducer, and that he took it to be a high honour to sit on the same bench with cromwell, who employed him and contemned him at once. the earl of danby was the governor of guernsey, and sir peter was his lieutenant until 1643, when the earl died, and sir peter was made full governor. it would be in 1643 that the siege of castle cornet began, the same year in which the rents of the chicksands estate were assigned away from their rightful owner to one mr. john blackstone, m.p. sir peter was in his stronghold on a rock in the sea; he was for the king. the inhabitants of the island, more comfortably situated, were a united party for the parliament. thus they remained for three years; the king writing to sir peter to reduce the inhabitants to a state of reason; the parliament sending instructions to the jurats of guernsey to seize the person of sir peter; and the earl of warwick, prompted, we should suppose, by sir john danvers, offering terms to sir peter which he indignantly rejected. meanwhile lady osborne--dorothy with her, in all probability--was doing her best to victual the castle from the mainland, she living at st. malo during the siege. at length, her money all spent, her health broken down, she returned to england, and was lost to sight. sir peter himself heard nothing of her, and her sons in england, who were doing all they could for their father among the king's friends, did not know of her whereabouts. in 1646 he resigned his command. he was weary and heavy laden with unjust burdens heaped on him by those for whom and with whom he was fighting; he was worn out by the siege; by the characteristic treachery of the king, who, being unable to assist him, could not refrain from sending lying promises instead; and by the malice of his neighbour, george carteret, governor of jersey, who himself made free with the guernsey supplies, while writing home to the king that sir peter has betrayed his trust. betrayed his trust, indeed, when he and his garrison are reduced to "one biscuit a day and a little porrage for supper," together with limpets and herbs in the best mess they can make; nay, more, when they have pulled up their floors for firewood, and are dying of hunger and want in the stone shell of castle cornet for the love of their king. however, circumstances and sir george carteret were too much for him, and, at the request of prince charles, he resigned his command to sir baldwin wake in may 1646, remaining three years after this date at st. malo, where he did what he was able to supply the wants of the castle. sir baldwin surrendered the castle to blake in 1650. it was the last fortress to surrender. in 1649 sir peter, finding the promises of reward made by the prince to be as sincere as those of his father, returned to england, and probably through the intervention of his father-in-law, who was a strict parliament man, his house and a portion of his estates at chicksands were restored to him. to these he retired, disappointed in spirit, feeble in health, soon to be bereft of the company of his wife, who died towards the end of 1650, and, but for the constant ministering of his daughter dorothy, living lonely and forgotten, to see the cause for which he had fought discredited and dead. he died in march 1654, after a long, weary illness. the parish register of campton describes him as "a friend to the poor, a lover of learning, a maintainer of divine exercises." there is still an inscription to his memory on a marble monument on the north side of the chancel in campton church. sir peter had seven sons and five daughters. there were only three sons living in 1653; the others died young, one laying down his life for the king at hartland in devonshire, in some skirmish, we must now suppose, of which no trace remains. of those living, sir john, the eldest son and the first baronet, married his cousin eleanor danvers, and lived in gloucestershire during his father's life. henry, afterwards knighted, was probably the jealous brother who lived at chicksands with dorothy and her father, with whom she had many skirmishes, and who wished in his kind fraternal way to see his sister well--that is to say, wealthily--married. robert is a younger brother, a year older than dorothy, who died in september 1653, and who did not apparently live at chicksands. dorothy herself was born in 1627; where, it is impossible to say. sir peter was presumably at castle cornet at that date, but it is doubtful if lady osborne ever stayed there, the accommodation within its walls being straitened and primitive even for that day. dorothy was probably born in england, maybe at chicksands. her other sisters had married and settled in various parts of england before 1653. her eldest sister (not anne, as wotton conjectures) married one sir thomas peyton, a kentish royalist of some note. what little could be gleaned of his actions from amongst kentish antiquities and history, and such letters of his as lie entombed in the mss. of the british museum, is set down hereafter. he appears to have acted, after her father's death, as dorothy's guardian, and his name occurs more than once in the pages of her letters. so much for the osbornes of chicksands; an obstinate, sturdy, quick-witted race of cavaliers; linked by marriage to the great families of the land; aristocrats in blood and in spirit, of whom dorothy was a worthy descendant. let us try now and picture for ourselves their home. chixon, chikesonds, or chicksands priory, bedfordshire, as it now stands,--what a pleasing various art was spelling in olden time,--was, in the reign of edward iii., a nunnery, situated then, as now, on a slight eminence, with gently rising hills at a short distance behind, and a brook running to join the river ivel, thence the german ocean, along the valley in front of the house. the neighbouring scenery of bedfordshire is on a humble scale, and concerns very little those who do not frequent it and live among it, as we must do for the next year or more. the priory is a low-built sacro-secular edifice, well fitted for its former service. its priestly denizens were turned out in henry viii.'s monk-hunting reign (1538). to the joy or sorrow of the neighbourhood,--who knows now? granted then to one richard snow, of whom the records are silent; by him sold, in elizabeth's reign, to sir john osborne, knt., thus becoming the ancestral home of our dorothy. there is a crisp etching of the house in fisher's _collections of bedfordshire_. the very exterior of it is catholic, unpuritanical; no methodism about the square windows, set here and there at undecided intervals wheresoever they may be wanted. six attic windows jut out from the low-tiled roof. at the corner of the house is a high pinnacled buttress rising the full height of the wall; five buttresses flank the side wall, built so that they shade the lower windows from the morning sun,--in one place reaching to the sill of an upper window. at the further end of the wall are two gothic windows, claustral remnants, lighting now perhaps the dining-hall where cousin molle and dorothy sat in state, or the saloon where the latter received her servants. there are still cloisters attached to the house, at the other side of it maybe. yes, a sleepy country house, the warm earth and her shrubs creeping close up to the very sills of the lower windows, sending in morning fragrance, i doubt not, when dorothy thrust back the lattice after breakfast. a quiet place,--"slow" is the accurate modern epithet for it--"awfully slow;" but to dorothy a quite suitable home, at which she never repines. this etching by thomas fisher, of december 26, 1816, is the more valuable to us since the old chicksands priory no longer remains, having suffered martyrdom at the bloody hands of the restorer. for through this partly we have attained to a knowledge of dorothy's surroundings; and through the baronetages, peerages, and the invincible heaps of genealogical records, we have gathered some few actual facts necessary to be known of dorothy's relations, her human surroundings, their lives and actions. and we shall not find ourselves following dorothy's story with the less interest that we have mastered these details about the osbornes of chicksands. temple, too, claims the consideration at our hands of a few words concerning his near relatives and their position in the country. as macaulay tells us, he was born in 1628, the place of his birth being blackfriars in london. sir john temple, his father, was master of the rolls and a privy councillor in ireland; he was in the confidence of robert sidney, earl of leicester, the lord-lieutenant of ireland. algernon sydney, the earl's son, was well known to temple, and perhaps to dorothy. sir john temple, like his son in after life, refused to look on politics as a game in which it was always advisable to play on the winning side, and thus we find him opposing the duke of ormond in ireland in 1643, and suffering imprisonment as a partisan of the parliament. in england, in 1648, when he was member for chichester, he concurred with the presbyterian vote, thereby causing the more advanced section to look askance at him, and he was turned out of the house, or _secluded_, to use the elegant parliamentary language of the day. from that time he lived in retirement in london until 1654, when, as we read in dorothy's letters, he and his son go over to ireland. he resumed his office of master of the rolls, and in august of that year was elected to the irish parliament as one of the members for leitrim, sligo, and roscommon. temple's mother was a sister of dr. hammond, to whom one dr. john collop, a poetaster unknown in these days even by name, begins an ode- "seraphic doctor, bright evangelist." the "seraphic doctor" was rector of penshurst, near tunbridge wells, the seat of the sydneys. from hammond, who was a zealous adherent of charles i., temple received much of his early education. when the parliament drove dr. hammond from his living, temple was sent to school at bishop-stortford; and the rest of his early life, with an account of his meeting with dorothy, has been already set down for us by macaulay. anno domini sixteen hundred and fifty-three;--let us look round through historic mist for landmarks, so that we may know our whereabouts. the narrow streets of worcester had been but lately stained by the blood of heaped corpses. cromwell was meditating an abolition of the parliament, and a practical coronation of himself. the world had ceased to wonder at english democracy giving laws to their quondam rulers, and the democracy was beginning to be a little tired of itself, to disbelieve in its own irksome discipline, and to sigh for the flesh-pots of a modified presbyterian monarchy. cromwell, indeed, was at the height of his glory, his honours lie thick upon him, and now, if ever, he is the regal cromwell that victor hugo has portrayed, the uncrowned king of england, trampling under foot that sacred liberty, the baseless ideal for which so many had fought and bled. he is soon to be lord protector. he is second to none upon earth. england is again at peace with herself, and takes her position as one of the great powers of europe; cromwell is england's king. so much for our rulers and politics. now let us remember our friends, those whom we love on account of the work they have done for us and bequeathed to us, through which we have learned to know them. one of the best beloved and gentlest of these, who by the satire of heaven was born into england in these troublous times, was now wandering by brook and stream, scarcely annoyed by the uproar and confusion of the factions around him. and what he knew of england in these days he has left in perhaps the gentlest and most peaceful volume the world has ever read. i speak of master izaak walton, who in this year, 1653, published the first edition of his _compleat angler_, and left a comrade for the idle hours of all future ages. other friends we have, then living, but none so intimate or well beloved. mr. waller, whom dorothy may have known, mr. cowley, sir peter lely,--who painted our heroine's portrait,--and dr. jeremy taylor; very courtly and superior persons are some of these, and far removed from our world. milton is too sublime to be called our friend, but he was cromwell's friend at this time. evelyn, too, is already making notes in his journal at paris and elsewhere; but little prattling pepys has not yet begun diary-making. other names will come to the mind of every reader, but many of these are "people we know by name," as the phrase runs, mere acquaintances,--not friends. nevertheless even these leave us some indirect description of their time, from which we can look back through the mind's eye to this year of grace 1653, in which dorothy was living and writing. yes, if we cannot actually visualize the past, these letters will at least convince us that the past did exist, a past not wholly unlike the present; and if we would realize the significance of it, we have the word of one of our historians, that there is no lamp by which to study the history of this period that gives a brighter and more searching light than contemporary letters. thus he recommends their study, and we may apply his words to the letters before us: "a man intent to force for himself some path through that gloomy chaos called history of the seventeenth century, and to look face to face upon the same, may perhaps try it by this method as hopefully as by another. here is an irregular row of beacon fires, once all luminous as suns; and with a certain inextinguishable crubescence still, in the abysses of the dead deep night. let us look here. in shadowy outlines, in dimmer and dimmer crowding forms, the very figure of the old dead time itself may perhaps be faintly discernible here." * * * * * with this, i feel that i may cast off some of the forms and solemnities necessary to an editorial introduction, and, assuming a simpler and more personal pronoun, ask the reader, who shall feel the full charm of dorothy's bright wit and tender womanly sympathy, to remember the thanks due to my fellow-servant, whose patient, single-hearted toil has placed these letters within our reach. and when the reader shall close this volume, let it not be without a feeling of gratitude to the unknown, whose modesty alone prevents me from changing the title of fellow-servant to that of fellow-editor. chapter ii early letters. winter and spring 1652-53 this first chapter begins with a long letter, dated from chicksands some time in the autumn of 1652, when temple has returned to england after a long absence. it takes us up to march 1653, about the end of which time dorothy went to london and met temple again. the engagement she mentions must have been one that her parents were forcing upon her, and it was not until the london visit, i fancy, that her friendship progressed beyond its original limits; but in this matter the reader of dorothy's letters will be as well able to judge as myself. _letter i._--goring house, where dorothy and temple had last parted, was in 1646 appointed by the house of commons for the reception of the french ambassador. in 1665 it was the town house of mr. secretary bennet, afterwards lord arlington. its grounds stood much in the position of the present arlington street, and evelyn speaks of it as an ill-built house, but capable of being made a pretty villa. dorothy mentions, among other things, that she has been "drinking the waters," though she does not say at what place. it would be either at barnet, epsom, or tunbridge, all of which places are mentioned by contemporary letter-writers as health resorts. at barnet there was a calcareous spring with a small portion of sea salt in it, which, as we may gather from a later letter, had been but recently discovered. this spring was afterwards, in the year 1677, endowed by one john owen, who left the sum of £1 to keep the well in repair "as long as it should be of service to the parish." towards the end of last century, lyson mentions that the well was in decay and little used. one wonders what has become of john owen's legacy. the epsom spring had been discovered earlier in the century. it was the first of its kind found in england. the town was already a place of fashionable resort on account of its mineral waters; they are mentioned as of european celebrity; and as early as 1609 a ball-room was erected, avenues were planted, and neither bath nor tunbridge could rival epsom in the splendour of their appointments. towards the beginning of the last century, however, the waters gradually lost their reputation. tunbridge wells, the last of the three watering-places that dorothy may have visited, is still flourishing and fashionable. its springs are said to have been discovered by lord north in 1606; and the fortunes of the place were firmly established by a visit paid to the springs by queen henrietta maria, acting under medical advice, in 1630, shortly after the birth of prince charles. at this date there was no adequate accommodation for the royal party, and her majesty had to live in tents on the banks of the spring. an interesting account of the early legends and gradual growth of tunbridge wells is to be found in a guide-book of 1768, edited by one mr. j. sprange. the elderly man who proposed to dorothy was sir justinian isham, bart., of lamport in northamptonshire. he himself was about forty-two years of age at this time, and had lost his first wife (by whom he had four daughters) in 1638. the rev. w. betham, with that optimism which is characteristic of compilers of peerages, thinks "that he was esteemed one of the most accomplished persons of the time, being a gentleman, not only of fine learning, but famed for his piety and exemplary life." dorothy thinks otherwise, and writes of him as "the vainest, impertinent, self-conceited, learned coxcomb that ever yet i saw." peerages in dorothy's style would perhaps be unprofitable writing. the "emperor," as dorothy calls him in writing to temple, may feel thankful that his epitaph was in others hands than hers. he appears to have proposed to her more than once, and evidently had her brother's good offices, which i fear were not much in his favour with dorothy. he ultimately married the daughter of thomas lord leigh of stoneleigh, some time in the following year. sir thomas osborne, a yorkshire baronet, afterwards earl of danby, is a name not unknown in history. he was a cousin of dorothy; his mother, elizabeth danvers, being dorothy's aunt. he afterwards married lady bridget lindsay, the earl of lindsay's daughter, and the marriage is mentioned in due course, with dorothy's comments. his leadership of the "country party," when the reins of government were taken from the discredited cabal, is not matter for these pages, neither are we much concerned to know that he was greedy of wealth and honours, corrupt himself, and a corrupter of others. this is the conventional character of all statesmen of all dates and in all ages, reflected in the mirror of envious opposition; no one believes the description to be true. judged by the moral standard of his contemporaries, he seems to have been at least of average height. how near was dorothy to the high places of the state when this man and henry cromwell were among her suitors! had she been an ambitious woman, illustrious historians would have striven to do justice to her character in brilliant periods, and there would be no need at this day for her to claim her place among the celebrated women of england. sir,--there is nothing moves my charity like gratitude; and when a beggar is thankful for a small relief, i always repent it was not more. but seriously, this place will not afford much towards the enlarging of a letter, and i am grown so dull with living in't (for i am not willing to confess yet i was always so) as to need all helps. yet you shall see i will endeavour to satisfy you, upon condition you will tell me why you quarrelled so at your last letter. i cannot guess at it, unless it were that you repented you told me so much of your story, which i am not apt to believe neither, because it would not become our friendship, a great part of it consisting (as i have been taught) in a mutual confidence. and to let you see that i believe it so, i will give you an account of myself, and begin my story, as you did yours, from our parting at goring house. i came down hither not half so well pleased as i went up, with an engagement upon me that i had little hope of shaking off, for i had made use of all the liberty my friends would allow me to preserve my own, and 'twould not do; he was so weary of his, that he would part with it upon any terms. as my last refuge i got my brother to go down with him to see his house, who, when he came back, made the relation i wished. he said the seat was as ill as so good a country would permit, and the house so ruined for want of living in't, as it would ask a good proportion of time and money to make it fit for a woman to confine herself to. this (though it were not much) i was willing to take hold of, and made it considerable enough to break the engagement. i had no quarrel to his person or his fortune, but was in love with neither, and much out of love with a thing called marriage; and have since thanked god i was so, for 'tis not long since one of my brothers writ me word of him that he was killed in a duel, though since i have heard that 'twas the other that was killed, and he is fled upon 't, which does not mend the matter much. both made me glad i had 'scaped him, and sorry for his misfortune, which in earnest was the least return his many civilities to me could deserve. presently, after this was at an end, my mother died, and i was left at liberty to mourn her loss awhile. at length my aunt (with whom i was when you last saw me) commanded me to wait on her at london; and when i came, she told me how much i was in her care, how well she loved me for my mother's sake, and something for my own, and drew out a long set speech which ended in a good motion (as she call'd it); and truly i saw no harm in't, for by what i had heard of the gentleman i guessed he expected a better fortune than mine. and it proved so. yet he protested he liked me so well, that he was very angry my father would not be persuaded to give £1000 more with me; and i him so ill, that i vowed if i had £1000 less i should have thought it too much for him. and so we parted. since, he has made a story with a new mistress that is worth your knowing, but too long for a letter. i'll keep it for you. after this, some friends that had observed a gravity in my face which might become an elderly man's wife (as they term'd it) and a mother-in-law, proposed a widower to me, that had four daughters, all old enough to be my sisters; but he had a great estate, was as fine a gentleman as ever england bred, and the very pattern of wisdom. i that knew how much i wanted it, thought this the safest place for me to engage in, and was mightily pleased to think i had met with one at last that had wit enough for himself and me too. but shall i tell you what i thought when i knew him (you will say nothing on't): 'twas the vainest, impertinent, self-conceited, learned coxcomb that ever yet i saw; to say more were to spoil his marriage, which i hear is towards with a daughter of my lord coleraine's; but for his sake i shall take care of a fine gentleman as long as i live. before i have quite ended with him, coming to town about that and some other occasions of my own, i fell in sir thomas's way; and what humour took i cannot imagine, but he made very formal addresses to me, and engaged his mother and my brother to appear in't. this bred a story pleasanter than any i have told you yet, but so long a one that i must reserve it till we meet, or make it a letter of itself. the next thing i designed to be rid on was a scurvy spleen that i have been subject to, and to that purpose was advised to drink the waters. there i spent the latter end of the summer, and at my coming home found that a gentleman (who has some estate in this country) had been treating with my brother, and it yet goes on fair and softly. i do not know him so much as to give you much of his character: 'tis a modest, melancholy, reserved man, whose head is so taken up with little philosophic studies, that i admire how i found a room there. 'twas sure by chance; and unless he is pleased with that part of my humour which other people think the worst, 'tis very possible the next new experiment may crowd me out again. thus you have all my late adventures, and almost as much as this paper will hold. the rest shall be employed in telling you how sorry i am you have got such a cold. i am the more sensible of your trouble by my own, for i have newly got one myself. but i will send you that which was to cure me. 'tis like the rest of my medicines: if it do no good, 'twill be sure to do no harm, and 'twill be no great trouble to take a little on't now and then; for the taste on't, as it is not excellent, so 'tis not very ill. one thing more i must tell you, which is that you are not to take it ill that i mistook your age by my computation of your journey through this country; for i was persuaded t'other day that i could not be less than thirty years old by one that believed it himself, because he was sure it was a great while since he had heard of such a one as your humble servant. _letter 2._--this letter, which is dated, comes, i think, at some distance of time from the first letter. dorothy may have dated her letters to ordinary folk; but as she writes to her servant once a week at least, she seems to have considered dates to be superfluous. when temple is in ireland, her letters are generally dated with the day of the month. temple had probably returned from a journey into yorkshire,--his travels in holland were over some time ago,--and passing through bedford within ten miles of chicksands, he neglected to pay his respects to dorothy, for which he is duly called to account in letter 3. _december 24, 1652._ sir,--you may please to let my old servant (as you call him) know that i confess i owe much to his merits and the many obligations his kindness and civilities has laid upon me; but for the ten pound he claims, it is not yet due, and i think you may do well to persuade him (as a friend) to put it in the number of his desperate debts, for 'tis a very uncertain one. in all things else, pray say i am his servant. and now, sir, let me tell you that i am extremely glad (whosoever gave you the occasion) to hear from you, since (without compliment) there are very few persons in the world i am more concerned in; to find that you have overcome your long journey, and that you are well and in a place where 'tis possible for me to see you, is such a satisfaction as i, who have not been used to many, may be allowed to doubt of. yet i will hope my eyes do not deceive me, and that i have not forgot to read; but if you please to confirm it to me by another, you know how to direct it, for i am where i was, still the same, and always your humble servant, d. osborne. for mrs. paynter, in covent garden. (keep this letter till it be called for.) _letter 3._ _january 2nd, 1653._ sir,--if there were anything in my letter that pleased you i am extremely glad on't, 'twas all due to you, and made it but an equal return for the satisfaction yours gave me. and whatsoever you may believe, i shall never repent the good opinion i have with so much reason taken up. but i forget myself; i meant to chide, and i think this is nothing towards it. is it possible you came so near me as bedford and would not see me? seriously, i should not have believed it from another; would your horse had lost all his legs instead of a hoof, that he might not have been able to carry you further, and you, something that you valued extremely, and could not hope to find anywhere but at chicksands. i could wish you a thousand little mischances, i am so angry with you; for my life i could not imagine how i had lost you, or why you should call that a silence of six or eight weeks which you intended so much longer. and when i had wearied myself with thinking of all the unpleasing accidents that might cause it, i at length sat down with a resolution to choose the best to believe, which was that at the end of one journey you had begun another (which i had heard you say you intended), and that your haste, or something else, had hindered you from letting me know it. in this ignorance your letter from breda found me. but for god's sake let me ask you what you have done all this while you have been away; what you have met with in holland that could keep you there so long; why you went no further; and why i was not to know you went so far? you may do well to satisfy me in all these. i shall so persecute you with questions else, when i see you, that you will be glad to go thither again to avoid me; though when that will be i cannot certainly say, for my father has so small a proportion of health left him since my mother's death, that i am in continual fear of him, and dare not often make use of the leave he gives me to be from home, lest he should at some time want such little services as i am able to lend him. yet i think to be in london in the next term, and am sure i shall desire it because you are there. sir, your humble servant. _letter 4._--the story of the king who renounced the league with his too fortunate friend is told in the third book of herodotus. amasis is the king, and polycrates the confederate. dorothy may have read the story in one of the french translations, either that of pierre saliat, a cramped duodecimo published in 1580, or that of p. du ryer, a magnificent folio published in 1646. my lord of holland's daughter, lady diana rich, was one of dorothy's dearest and most intimate friends. dorothy had a high opinion of her excellent wit and noble character, which she is never tired of repeating. we find allusions to her in many of these letters; she is called "my lady," and her name is always linked to expressions of tenderness and esteem. her father, henry rich, lord holland, the second son of the earl of warwick, has found place in sterner history than this. he was concerned in a rising in 1648, when the king was in the isle of wight, the object of which was to rescue and restore the royal prisoner. this rising, like sir thomas peyton's, miscarried, and he suffered defeat at kingston-on-thames, on july 7th of that year. he was pursued, taken prisoner, and kept in the tower until after the king's execution. then he was brought to trial, and, in accordance with the forms and ceremonies of justice, adjudged to death. his head was struck off before the gate of westminster hall one cold march morning in the following year, and by his side died capel and the duke of hamilton. by marriage he acquired holland house, kensington, which afterwards passed by purchase into the hands of a very different lord holland, and has become famous among the houses of london. of his daughter, lady diana, i can learn nothing but that she died unmarried. she seems to have been of a lively, vivacious temperament, and very popular with the other sex. there is a slight clue to her character in the following scrap of letter-writing still preserved among some old manuscript papers of the hutton family. she writes to mr. hutton to escort her in the park, adding--"this, i am sure, you will do, because i am a friend to the tobacco-box, and such, i am sure, mr. hutton will have more respect for than for any other account that could be pretended unto by "your humble servant." this, with dorothy's praise, gives us a cheerful opinion of lady diana, of whom we must always wish to know more. _january 22nd_ [1653]. sir,--not to confirm you in your belief in dreams, but to avoid your reproaches, i will tell you a pleasant one of mine. the night before i received your first letter, i dreamt one brought me a packet, and told me it was from you. i, that remembered you were by your own appointment to be in italy at that time, asked the messenger where he had it, who told me my lady, your mother, sent him with it to me; then my memory failed me a little, for i forgot you had told me she was dead, and meant to give her many humble thanks if ever i were so happy as to see her. when i had opened the letter i found in it two rings; one was, as i remember, an emerald doublet, but broken in the carriage, i suppose, as it might well be, coming so far; t'other was plain gold, with the longest and the strangest posy that ever was; half on't was italian, which for my life i could not guess at, though i spent much time about it; the rest was "_there was a marriage in cana of galilee_," which, though it was scripture, i had not that reverence for it in my sleep that i should have had, i think, if i had been awake; for in earnest the oddness on't put me into that violent laughing that i waked myself with it; and as a just punishment upon me from that hour to this i could never learn whom those rings were for, nor what was in the letter besides. this is but as extravagant as yours, for it is as likely that your mother should send me letters as that i should make a journey to see poor people hanged, or that your teeth should drop out at this age. and to remove the opinions you have of my niceness, or being hard to please, let me assure you i am far from desiring my husband should be fond of me at threescore, that i would not have him so at all. 'tis true i should be glad to have him always kind, and know no reason why he should be wearier of being my master, than he was of being my servant. but it is very possible i may talk ignorantly of marriage; when i come to make sad experiments on it in my own person i shall know more, and say less, for fear of disheartening others (since 'tis no advantage to foreknow a misfortune that cannot be avoided), and for fear of being pitied, which of all things i hate. lest you should be of the same humour i will not pity you, lame as you are; and to speak truth, if you did like it, you should not have it, for you do not deserve it. would any one in the world, but you, make such haste for a new cold before the old had left him; in a year, too, when mere colds kill as many as a plague used to do? well, seriously, either resolve to have more care of yourself, or i renounce my friendship; and as a certain king (that my learned knight is very well acquainted with), who, seeing one of his confederates in so happy a condition as it was not likely to last, sent his ambassador presently to break off the league betwixt them, lest he should be obliged to mourn the change of his fortune if he continued his friend; so i, with a great deal more reason, do declare that i will no longer be a friend to one that's none to himself, nor apprehend the loss of what you hazard every day at tennis. they had served you well enough if they had crammed a dozen ounces of that medicine down your throat to have made you remember a quinzy. but i have done, and am now at leisure to tell you that it is that daughter of my lord of holland (who makes, as you say, so many sore eyes with looking on her) that is here; and if i know her at all, or have any judgment, her beauty is the least of her excellences. and now i speak of her, she has given me the occasion to make a request to you; it will come very seasonably after my chiding, and i have great reason to expect you should be in the humour of doing anything for me. she says that seals are much in fashion, and by showing me some that she has, has set me a-longing for some too; such as are oldest and oddest are most prized, and if you know anybody that is lately come out of italy, 'tis ten to one but they have a store, for they are very common there. i do remember you once sealed a letter to me with as fine a one as i have seen. it was a neptune, i think, riding upon a dolphin; but i'm afraid it was not yours, for i saw it no more. my old roman head is a present for a prince. if such things come in your way, pray remember me. i am sorry my new carrier makes you rise so early, 'tis not good for your cold; how might we do that you might lie a-bed and yet i have your letter? you must use to write before he comes, i think, that it may be sure to be ready against he goes. in earnest consider on't, and take some course that your health and my letters may be both secured, for the loss of either would be very sensible to your humble. _letter 5._--sir justinian is the lover here described. he had four daughters, and it is one of dorothy's favourite jests to offer temple a mother-in-law's good word if he will pay court to one of them when she has married the "emperor." sir,--since you are so easy to please, sure i shall not miss it, and if my idle dreams and thoughts will satisfy you, i am to blame if you want long letters. to begin this, let me tell you i had not forgot you in your absence. i always meant you one of my daughters. you should have had your choice, and, trust me, they say some of them are handsome; but since things did not succeed, i thought to have said nothing on't, lest you should imagine i expected thanks for my good intention, or rather lest you should be too much affected with the thought of what you have lost by my imprudence. it would have been a good strengthening to my party (as you say); but, in earnest, it was not that i aimed at, i only desired to have it in my power to oblige you; and 'tis certain i had proved a most excellent mother-in-law. oh, my conscience! we should all have joined against him as the common enemy, for those poor young wenches are as weary of his government as i could have been. he gives them such precepts, as they say my lord of dorchester gives his wife, and keeps them so much prisoners to a vile house he has in northamptonshire, that if but once i had let them loose, they and his learning would have been sufficient to have made him mad without my help; but his good fortune would have it otherwise, to which i will leave him, and proceed to give you some reasons why the other motion was not accepted on. the truth is, i had not that longing to ask a mother-in-law's blessing which you say you should have had, for i knew mine too well to think she could make a good one; besides, i was not so certain of his nature as not to doubt whether she might not corrupt it, nor so confident of his kindness as to assure myself that it would last longer than other people of his age and humour. i am sorry to hear he looks ill, though i think there is no great danger of him. 'tis but a fit of an ague he has got, that the next charm cures, yet he will be apt to fall into it again upon a new occasion, and one knows not how it may work upon his thin body if it comes too often; it spoiled his beauty, sure, before i knew him, for i could never see it, or else (which is as likely) i do not know it when i see it; besides that, i never look for it in men. it was nothing that i expected made me refuse these, but something that i feared; and, seriously, i find i want courage to marry where i do not like. if we should once come to disputes i know who would have the worst on't, and i have not faith enough to believe a doctrine that is often preach'd, which is, that though at first one has no kindness for _them_, yet it will grow strongly after marriage. let them trust to it that think good; for my part, i am clearly of opinion (and shall die in't), that, as the more one sees and knows a person that one likes, one has still the more kindness for them, so, on the other side, one is but the more weary of, and the more averse to, an unpleasant humour for having it perpetually by one. and though i easily believe that to marry one for whom we have already some affection will infinitely increase that kindness, yet i shall never be persuaded that marriage has a charm to raise love out of nothing, much less out of dislike. this is next to telling you what i dreamed and when i rise, but you have promised to be content with it. i would now, if i could, tell you when i shall be in town, but i am engaged to my lady diana rich, my lord of holland's daughter (who lies at a gentlewoman's hard by me for sore eyes), that i will not leave the country till she does. she is so much a stranger here, and finds so little company, that she is glad of mine till her eyes will give her leave to look out better. they are mending, and she hopes to be at london before the end of this next term; and so do i, though i shall make but a short stay, for all my business there is at an end when i have seen you, and told you my stories. and, indeed, my brother is so perpetually from home, that i can be very little, unless i would leave my father altogether alone, which would not be well. we hear of great disorders at your masks, but no particulars, only they say the spanish gravity was much discomposed. i shall expect the relation from you at your best leisure, and pray give me an account how my medicine agrees with your cold. this if you can read it, for 'tis strangely scribbled, will be enough to answer yours, which is not very long this week; and i am grown so provident that i will not lay out more than i receive, but i am just withal, and therefore you know how to make mine longer when you please; though, to speak truth, if i should make this so, you would hardly have it this week, for 'tis a good while since 'twas call'd for. your humble servant. _letter 6._--the journey that temple is about to take may be a projected journey with the swedish embassy, which was soon to set out. temple was, apparently, on the look-out for some employment, and we hear at different times of his projected excursions into foreign lands. as a matter of fact, he stayed in and near london until the spring of 1654, when he went to ireland with his father, who was then reinstated in his office of master of the rolls. whether the mr. grey here written of made love to one or both of the ladies--jane seymour and anne percy--it is difficult now to say. i have been able to learn nothing more on the subject than dorothy tells us. this, however, we know for certain, that they both married elsewhere; lady jane seymour, the duke of somerset's daughter, marrying lord clifford of lonesborough, the son of the earl of burleigh, and living to 1679, when she was buried in westminster abbey. poor lady anne percy, daughter of the earl of northumberland, and niece of the faithless lady carlisle of whom we read in these letters, was already married at this date to lord stanhope, lord chesterfield's heir. she died--probably in childbed--in november of next year (1654), and was buried at petworth with her infant son. lady anne wentworth was the daughter of the famous and ill-fated earl of strafford. she married lord rockingham. the reader will remember that "my lady" is lady diana rich. _march 5th_ [1653]. sir,--i know not how to oblige so civil a person as you are more than by giving you the occasion of serving a fair lady. in sober earnest, i know you will not think it a trouble to let your boy deliver these books and this enclosed letter where it is directed for my lady, whom i would, the fainest in the world, have you acquainted with, that you might judge whether i had not reason to say somebody was to blame. but had you reason to be displeased that i said a change in you would be much more pardonable than in him? certainly you had not. i spake it very innocently, and out of a great sense how much she deserves more than anybody else. i shall take heed though hereafter what i write, since you are so good at raising doubts to persecute yourself withal, and shall condemn my own easy faith no more; for me 'tis a better-natured and a less fault to believe too much than to distrust where there is no cause. if you were not so apt to quarrel, i would tell you that i am glad to hear your journey goes forwarder, but you would presently imagine that 'tis because i would be glad if you were gone; need i say that 'tis because i prefer your interest much before my own, because i would not have you lose so good a diversion and so pleasing an entertainment (as in all likelihood this voyage will be to you), and because the sooner you go, the sooner i may hope for your return. if it be necessary, i will confess all this, and something more, which is, that notwithstanding all my gallantry and resolution, 'tis much for my credit that my courage is put to no greater a trial than parting with you at this distance. but you are not going yet neither, and therefore we'll leave the discourse on't till then, if you please, for i find no great entertainment in't. and let me ask you whether it be possible that mr. grey makes love, they say he does, to my lady jane seymour? if it were expected that one should give a reason for their passions, what could he say for himself? he would not offer, sure, to make us believe my lady jane a lovelier person than my lady anne percy. i did not think i should have lived to have seen his frozen heart melted, 'tis the greatest conquest she will ever make; may it be happy to her, but in my opinion he has not a good-natured look. the younger brother was a servant, a great while, to my fair neighbour, but could not be received; and in earnest i could not blame her. i was his confidante and heard him make his addresses; not that i brag of the favour he did me, for anybody might have been so that had been as often there, and he was less scrupulous in that point than one would have been that had had less reason. but in my life i never heard a man say more, nor less to the purpose; and if his brother have not a better gift in courtship, he will owe my lady's favour to his fortune rather than to his address. my lady anne wentworth i hear is marrying, but i cannot learn to whom; nor is it easy to guess who is worthy of her. in my judgment she is, without dispute, the finest lady i know (one always excepted); not that she is at all handsome, but infinitely virtuous and discreet, of a sober and very different humour from most of the young people of these times, but has as much wit and is as good company as anybody that ever i saw. what would you give that i had but the wit to know when to make an end of my letters? never anybody was persecuted with such long epistles; but you will pardon my unwillingness to leave you, and notwithstanding all your little doubts, believe that i am very much your faithful friend and humble servant, d. osborne. _letter 7._--there seem to have been two carriers bringing letters to dorothy at this time, harrold and collins; we hear something of each of them in the following letters. those who have seen the present-day carriers in some unawakened market-place in the midlands,--heavy, rumbling, two-horse cars of huge capacity, whose three miles an hour is fast becoming too sluggish for their enfranchised clients; those who have jolted over the frozen ruts of a fen road, behind their comfortable flemish horses, and heard the gossip of the farmers and their wives, the grunts of the discontented baggage pig, and the encouraging shouts of the carrier; those, in a word, who have travelled in a lincolnshire carrier's cart, have, i fancy, a more correct idea of dorothy's postmen and their conveyances than any i could quote from authority or draw from imagination. lord lisle was the son of robert sidney, earl of leicester, and brother of the famous algernon. he sat in the long parliament for yarmouth, in the isle of wight, and afterwards became a member of the upper house. concerning his embassage to sweden this is again proposed to him in september 1653, but, as we read in the minutes of the council, "when he was desired to proceed, finding himself out of health, he desired to be excused, whereupon council still wishing to send the embassy--the queen of sweden being favourably inclined to the commonwealth--pitched upon lord whitelocke, who was willing to go." to lady sunderland and mr. smith there are several amusing references in these letters. lady sunderland was the daughter of the earl of leicester, and sister of algernon sydney. she was born in 1620, and at the age of nineteen married henry lord spencer, who was killed in the battle of newbury in 1642. after her husband's death, she retired to brington in northamptonshire, until, wearied with the heavy load of housekeeping, she came to live with her father and mother at penshurst. in the earl of leicester's journal, under date thursday, july 8th, 1652, we find:--"my daughter spencer was married to sir robert smith at penshurst, my wife being present with my daughters strangford, and lacy pelham, algernon and robin sydney, etc.; but i was in london." from this we may imagine the earl did not greatly approve the match. the ubiquitous evelyn was there, too, to see "ye marriage of my old fellow collegian mr. robt. smith;" and the place being full of company, he probably enjoyed himself vastly. lady sunderland was the sacharissa of waller the poet. sir,--i am so great a lover of my bed myself that i can easily apprehend the trouble of rising at four o'clock these cold mornings. in earnest, i'm troubled that you should be put to it, and have chid the carrier for coming out so soon; he swears to me he never comes out of town before eleven o'clock, and that my lady paynter's footman (as he calls him) brings her letters two hours sooner than he needs to do. i told him he was gone one day before the letter came; he vows he was not, and that your old friend collins never brought letters of my lady paynter's in his life; and, to speak truth, collins did not bring me that letter. i had it from this harrold two hours before collins came. yet it is possible all that he says may not be so, for i have known better men than he lie; therefore if collins be more for your ease or conveniency, make use of him hereafter. i know not whether my letter were kind or not, but i'll swear yours was not, and am sure mine was meant to be so. it is not kind in you to desire an increase of my friendship; that is to doubt it is not as great already as it can be, than which you cannot do me a greater injury. 'tis my misfortune indeed that it lies not in my power to give you better testimony on't than words, otherwise i should soon convince you that 'tis the best quality i have, and that where i own a friendship, i mean so perfect a one, as time can neither lessen nor increase. if i said nothing of my coming to town, 'twas because i had nothing to say that i thought you would like to hear. for i do not know that ever i desired anything earnestly in my life, but 'twas denied me, and i am many times afraid to wish a thing merely lest my fortune should take that occasion to use me ill. she cannot see, and therefore i may venture to write that i intend to be in london if it be possible on friday or saturday come sennight. be sure you do not read it aloud, lest she hear it, and prevent me, or drive you away before i come. it is so like my luck, too, that you should be going i know not whither again; but trust me, i have looked for it ever since i heard you were come home. you will laugh, sure, when i shall tell you that hearing that my lord lisle was to go ambassador into sweden, i remember'd your father's acquaintance in that family with an apprehension that he might be in the humour of sending you with him. but for god's sake whither is it that you go? i would not willingly be at such a loss again as i was after your yorkshire journey. if it prove as long a one, i shall not forget you; but in earnest i shall be so possessed with a strong splenetic fancy that i shall never see you more in this world, as all the waters in england will not cure. well, this is a sad story; we'll have no more on't. i humbly thank you for your offer of your head; but if you were an emperor, i should not be so bold with you as to claim your promise; you might find twenty better employments for't. only with your gracious leave, i think i should be a little exalted with remembering that you had been once my friend; 'twould more endanger growing proud than being sir justinian's mistress, and yet he thought me pretty well inclin'd to't then. lord! what would i give that i had a latin letter of his for you, that he writ to a great friend at oxford, where he gives him a long and learned character of me; 'twould serve you to laugh at this seven years. if i remember what was told me on't, the worst of my faults was a height (he would not call it pride) that was, as he had heard, the humour of my family; and the best of my commendations was, that i was capable of being company and conversation for him. but you do not tell me yet how you found him out. if i had gone about to conceal him, i had been sweetly serv'd. i shall take heed of you hereafter; because there is no very great likelihood of your being an emperor, or that, if you were, i should have your head. i have sent into italy for seals; 'tis to be hoped by that time mine come over, they may be of fashion again, for 'tis an humour that your old acquaintance mr. smith and his lady have brought up; they say she wears twenty strung upon a ribbon, like the nuts boys play withal, and i do not hear of anything else. mr. howard presented his mistress but a dozen such seals as are not to be valued as times now go. but _à propos_ of monsr. smith, what a scape has he made of my lady barbury; and who would e'er have dreamt he should have had my lady sunderland, though he be a very fine gentleman, and does more than deserve her. i think i shall never forgive her one thing she said of him, which was that she married him out of pity; it was the pitifullest saying that ever i heard, and made him so contemptible that i should not have married him for that reason. this is a strange letter, sure, i have not time to read it over, but i have said anything that came into my head to put you out of your dumps. for god's sake be in better humour, and assure yourself i am as much as you can wish, your faithful friend and servant. _letter 8._--the name of algernon sydney occurs more than once in these pages, and it is therefore only right to remind the reader of some of the leading facts in his life. he was born in 1622, and was the second son of robert earl of leicester. he was educated in paris and italy, and first served in the army in ireland. on his recall to england he espoused the popular cause, and fought on that side in the battle of marston moor. in 1651 he was elected a member of the council of state, and in this situation he continued to act until 1653. it is unnecessary to mention his republican sympathies, and after the dismissal of the parliament, his future actions concern us but little. he was arrested, tried, and executed in 1683, on the pretence of being concerned in the rye house plot. arundel howard was henry, second son of the earl of arundel. his father died july 12, 1652. dorothy would call him arundel howard, to distinguish him from the earl of berkshire's family. sir,--you have made me so rich as i am able to help my neighbours. there is a little head cut in an onyx that i take to be a very good one, and the dolphin is (as you say) the better for being cut less; the oddness of the figures makes the beauty of these things. if you saw one that my brother sent my lady diana last week, you would believe it were meant to fright people withal; 'twas brought out of the indies, and cut there for an idol's head: they took the devil himself for their pattern that did it, for in my life i never saw so ugly a thing, and yet she is as fond on't as if it were as lovely as she herself is. her eyes have not the flames they have had, nor is she like (i am afraid) to recover them here; but were they irrecoverably lost, the beauty of her mind were enough to make her outshine everybody else, and she would still be courted by all that knew how to value her, like _la belle aveugle_ that was philip the 2nd of france his mistress. i am wholly ignorant of the story you mention, and am confident you are not well inform'd, for 'tis impossible she should ever have done anything that were unhandsome. if i knew who the person were that is concern'd in't, she allows me so much freedom with her, that i could easily put her upon the discourse, and i do not think she would use much of disguise in it towards me. i should have guessed it algernon sydney, but that i cannot see in him that likelihood of a fortune which you seem to imply by saying 'tis not present. but if you should mean by that, that 'tis possible his wit and good parts may raise him to one, you must pardon if i am not of your opinion, for i do not think these are times for anybody to expect preferment in that deserves it, and in the best 'twas ever too uncertain for a wise body to trust to. but i am altogether of your mind, that my lady sunderland is not to be followed in her marrying fashion, and that mr. smith never appear'd less her servant than in desiring it; to speak truth, it was convenient for neither of them, and in meaner people had been plain undoing one another, which i cannot understand to be kindness of either side. she has lost by it much of the repute she had gained by keeping herself a widow; it was then believed that wit and discretion were to be reconciled in her person that have so seldom been persuaded to meet in anybody else. but we are all mortal. i did not mean that howard. 'twas arundel howard. and the seals were some remainders that showed his father's love to antiquities, and therefore cost him dear enough if that would make them good. i am sorry i cannot follow your counsel in keeping fair with fortune. i am not apt to suspect without just cause, but in earnest if i once find anybody faulty towards me, they lose me for ever; i have forsworn being twice deceived by the same person. for god's sake do not say she has the spleen, i shall hate it worse than ever i did, nor that it is a disease of the wits, i shall think you abuse me, for then i am sure it would not be mine; but were it certain that they went together always, i dare swear there is nobody so proud of their wit as to keep it upon such terms, but would be glad after they had endured it a while to let them both go as they came. i know nothing yet that is likely to alter my resolution of being in town on saturday next; but i am uncertain where i shall be, and therefore it will be best that i send you word when i am there. i should be glad to see you sooner, but that i do not know myself what company i may have with me. i meant this letter longer when i begun it, but an extreme cold that i have taken lies so in my head, and makes it ache so violently, that i hardly see what i do. i'll e'en to bed as soon as i have told you that i am very much your faithful friend and servant, d. osborne. chapter iii life at chicksands. 1653 _letter 9._--temple's sister here mentioned was his only sister martha, who married sir thomas giffard in 1662, and was left a widow within two months of her marriage. she afterwards lived with temple and his wife, was a great favourite with them, and their confidential friend. lady giffard has left a manuscript life of her brother from which the historian courtenay deigned to extract some information, whereby we in turn have benefited. she outlived both her brother and his wife, to carry on a warlike encounter with her brother's amanuensis, mr. jonathan swift, over temple's literary remains. esther johnson, the unfortunate stella, was lady giffard's maid. _cléopâtre_ and _le grand cyrus_ appear to have been dorothy's literary companions at this date. she would read these in the original french; and, as she tells us somewhere, had a scorn of translations. both these romances were much admired, even by people of taste; a thing difficult to understand, until we remember that fielding, the first and greatest english novelist, was yet unborn, and novels, as we know them, non-existing. both the romances found translators; _cyrus_, in one mysterious f.g. _gent_--the translation was published in this year; _cléopâtre_, in richard loveday, an elegant letter-writer of this time. _artamenes_, or _le grand cyrus_, the masterpiece of mademoiselle madeleine de scudéri, is contained in no less than ten volumes, each of which in its turn has many books; it is, in fact, more a collection of romances than a single romance. _la cléopâtre_, a similar work, was originally published in twenty-three volumes of twelve parts, each part containing three or four books. it is but a collection of short stories. its author rejoiced in the romantic title of gauthier de costes chevalier seigneur de la calprenède; he published _cléopâtre_ in 1642; he was the author of other romances, and some tragedies, noted only for their worthlessness. even richelieu, "quoiqu' admirateur indulgent de la médiocrité," could not stand calprenède's tragedies. _reine marguerite_ is probably the translation by robert codrington of the memorials of margaret of valois, first wife of henri iv. bussy is a servant of the duke of avenson, margaret's brother, with whom margaret is very intimate. of lady sunderland and mr. smith we have already sufficient knowledge. as for sir justinian, we are not to think he was already married; the reference to his "new wife" is merely jocular, meaning his new wife when he shall get one; for sir justinian is still wife-hunting, and comes back to renew his suit with dorothy after this date. "your fellow-servant," who is as often called jane, appears to have been a friend and companion of dorothy, in a somewhat lower rank of life. mrs. goldsmith, mentioned in a subsequent letter,--wife of daniel goldsmith, the rector of campton, in which parish chicksands was situated,--acted as chaperon or duenna companion to dorothy, and jane was, it seems to me, in a similar position; only, being a younger woman than the rector's wife, she was more the companion and less the duenna. the servants and companions of ladies of that date were themselves gentlewomen of good breeding. waller writes verses to mrs. braughton, servant to sacharissa, commencing his lines, "fair fellow-servant." temple, had he written verse to his mistress, would probably have left us some "lines to jane." there is in campton church a tablet erected to daniel goldsmith, "ecclesiae de campton pastor idem et patronus;" also to maria goldsmith, "uxor dilectissima." this is erected by maria's faithful sister, jane wright; and if the astute reader shall think fit to agree with me in believing temple's "fellow-servant" to be this jane wright on such slender evidence and slight thread of argument, he may well do so. failing this, all search after jane will, i fear, prove futile at this distant date. there are constant references to jane in the letters. "her old woman," in the same passage, is, of course, a jocular allusion to dorothy herself; and "the old knight" is, i believe, sir robert cook, a bedfordshire gentleman, of whom nothing is known except that he was knighted at ampthill, july 21st, 1621. we hear some little more of him from dorothy. note well the signature of this and following letters; it will help us to discover what passed between the friends in london. for my own part, i do not think dorothy means that she has ceased to be _faithful_ in that she has become "his _affectionate_ friend and servant." sir--i was so kind as to write to you by the coachman, and let me tell you i think 'twas the greatest testimony of my friendship that i could give you; for, trust me, i was so tired with my journey, so _dowd_ with my cold, and so out of humour with our parting, that i should have done it with great unwillingness to anybody else. i lay abed all next day to recover myself, and rised a thursday to receive your letter with the more ceremony. i found no fault with the ill writing, 'twas but too easy to read, methought, for i am sure i had done much sooner than i could have wished. but, in earnest, i was heartily troubled to find you in so much disorder. i would not have you so kind to me as to be cruel to yourself, in whom i am more concerned. no; for god's sake, let us not make afflictions of such things as these; i am afraid we shall meet with too many real ones. i am glad your journey holds, because i think 'twill be a good diversion for you this summer; but i admire your father's patience, that lets you rest with so much indifference when there is such a fortune offered. i'll swear i have great scruples of conscience myself on the point, and am much afraid i am not your friend if i am any part of the occasion that hinders you from accepting it. yet i am sure my intentions towards you are very innocent and good, for you are one of those whose interests i shall ever prefer much above my own; and you are not to thank me for it, since, to speak truth, i secure my own by it; for i defy my ill fortune to make me miserable, unless she does it in the persons of my friends. i wonder how your father came to know i was in town, unless my old friend, your cousin hammond, should tell him. pray, for my sake, be a very obedient son; all your faults will be laid to my charge else, and, alas! i have too many of my own. you say nothing how your sister does, which makes me hope there is no more of danger in her sickness. pray, when it may be no trouble to her, tell her how much i am her servant; and have a care of yourself this cold weather. i have read your _reine marguerite_, and will return it you when you please. if you will have my opinion of her, i think she had a good deal of wit, and a great deal of patience for a woman of so high a spirit. she speaks with too much indifference of her husband's several amours, and commends bussy as if she were a little concerned in him. i think her a better sister than a wife, and believe she might have made a better wife to a better husband. but the story of mademoiselle de tournon is so sad, that when i had read it i was able to go no further, and was fain to take up something else to divert myself withal. have you read _cléopâtre_? i have six tomes on't here that i can lend you if you have not; there are some stories in't you will like, i believe. but what an ass am i to think you can be idle enough at london to read romance! no, i'll keep them till you come hither; here they may be welcome to you for want of better company. yet, that you may not imagine we are quite out of the world here, and so be frighted from coming, i can assure you we are seldom without news, such as it is; and at this present we do abound with stories of my lady sunderland and mr. smith; with what reverence he approaches her, and how like a gracious princess she receives him, that they say 'tis worth one's going twenty miles to see it. all our ladies are mightily pleased with the example, but i do not find that the men intend to follow it, and i'll undertake sir solomon justinian wishes her in the indias, for fear she should pervert his new wife. your fellow-servant kisses your hands, and says, "if you mean to make love to her old woman this is the best time you can take, for she is dying; this cold weather kills her, i think." it has undone me, i am sure, in killing an old knight that i have been waiting for this seven year, and now he dies and will leave me nothing, i believe, but leaves a rich widow for somebody. i think you had best come a wooing to her; i have a good interest in her, and it shall be all employed in your service if you think fit to make any addresses there. but to be sober now again, for god's sake send me word how your journey goes forward, when you think you shall begin it, and how long it may last, when i may expect your coming this way; and of all things, remember to provide a safe address for your letters when you are abroad. this is a strange, confused one, i believe; for i have been called away twenty times, since i sat down to write it, to my father, who is not well; but you will pardon it--we are past ceremony, and excuse me if i say no more now but that i am _toujours le mesme_, that is, ever your affectionate friend and servant. _letter 10._--dorothy is suffering from _the spleen_, a disease as common to-day as then, though we have lost the good name for it. this and the ague plague her continually. my lord lisle's proposed embassy to sweden is, we see, still delayed; ultimately bulstrode whitelocke is chosen ambassador. dorothy's cousin molle, here mentioned, seems to have been an old bachelor, who spent his time at one country house or another, visiting his country friends; and playing the bore not a little, i should fear, with his gossip and imaginary ailments. temple's father was at this time trying to arrange a match for him with a certain mrs. ch. as dorothy calls her. courtenay thinks she may be one mistress chambers, an heiress, who ultimately married temple's brother john, and this conjecture is here followed. sir,--your last letter came like a pardon to one upon the block. i had given over the hopes on't, having received my letters by the other carrier, who was always [wont] to be last. the loss put me hugely out of order, and you would have both pitied and laughed at me if you could have seen how woodenly i entertained the widow, who came hither the day before, and surprised me very much. not being able to say anything, i got her to cards, and there with a great deal of patience lost my money to her;--or rather i gave it as my ransom. in the midst of our play, in comes my blessed boy with your letter, and, in earnest, i was not able to disguise the joy it gave me, though one was by that is not much your friend, and took notice of a blush that for my life i could not keep back. i put up the letter in my pocket, and made what haste i could to lose the money i had left, that i might take occasion to go fetch some more; but i did not make such haste back again, i can assure you. i took time enough to have coined myself some money if i had had the art on't, and left my brother enough to make all his addresses to her if he were so disposed. i know not whether he was pleased or not, but i am sure i was. you make so reasonable demands that 'tis not fit you should be denied. you ask my thoughts but at one hour; you will think me bountiful, i hope, when i shall tell you that i know no hour when you have them not. no, in earnest, my very dreams are yours, and i have got such a habit of thinking of you that any other thought intrudes and proves uneasy to me. i drink your health every morning in a drench that would poison a horse i believe, and 'tis the only way i have to persuade myself to take it. 'tis the infusion of steel, and makes me so horridly sick, that every day at ten o'clock i am making my will and taking leave of all my friends. you will believe you are not forgot then. they tell me i must take this ugly drink a fortnight, and then begin another as bad; but unless you say so too, i do not think i shall. 'tis worse than dying by the half. i am glad your father is so kind to you. i shall not dispute it with him, because it is much more in his power than in mine, but i shall never yield that 'tis more in his desire, since he was much pleased with that which was a truth when you told it him, but would have been none if he had asked the question sooner. he thought there was no danger of you since you were more ignorant and less concerned in my being in town than he. if i were mrs. chambers, he would be more my friend; but, however, i am much his servant as he is your father. i have sent you your book. and since you are at leisure to consider the moon, you may be enough to read _cléopâtre_, therefore i have sent you three tomes; when you have done with these you shall have the rest, and i believe they will please. there is a story of artemise that i will recommend to you; her disposition i like extremely, it has a great deal of practical wit; and if you meet with one brittomart, pray send me word how you like him. i am not displeased that my lord [lisle] makes no more haste, for though i am very willing you should go the journey for many reasons, yet two or three months hence, sure, will be soon enough to visit so cold a country, and i would not have you endure two winters in one year. besides, i look for my eldest brother and cousin molle here shortly, and i should be glad to have nobody to entertain but you, whilst you are here. lord! that you had the invisible ring, or fortunatus his wishing hat; now, at this instant, you should be here. my brother has gone to wait upon the widow homewards,--she that was born to persecute you and i, i think. she has so tired me with being here but two days, that i do not think i shall accept of the offer she made me of living with her in case my father dies before i have disposed of myself. yet we are very great friends, and for my comfort she says she will come again about the latter end of june and stay longer with me. my aunt is still in town, kept by her business, which i am afraid will not go well, they do so delay it; and my precious uncle does so visit her, and is so kind, that without doubt some mischief will follow. do you know his son, my cousin harry? 'tis a handsome youth, and well-natured, but such a goose; and she has bred him so strangely, that he needs all his ten thousand a year. i would fain have him marry my lady diana, she was his mistress when he was a boy. he had more wit then than he has now, i think, and i have less wit than he, sure, for spending my paper upon him when i have so little. here is hardly room for your affectionate friend and servant. _letter 11._--it is a curious thing to find the lord general's son among our loyal dorothy's servants; and to find, moreover, that he will be as acceptable to dorothy as any other, if she may not marry temple. henry cromwell was oliver cromwell's second son. how dorothy became acquainted with him it is impossible to say. perhaps they met in france. he seems to have been entirely unlike his father. good mrs. hutchinson calls him "a debauched ungodly cavalier," with other similar expressions of presbyterian abhorrence; from which we need not draw any unkinder conclusion than that he was no solemn puritanical soldier, but a man of the world, brighter and more courteous than the frequenters of his father's council, and therefore more acceptable to dorothy. he was born at huntingdon in 1627, the year of dorothy's birth. he was captain under harrison in 1647; colonel in ireland with his father in 1649; and married at kensington church, on may 10th, 1653, to elizabeth, daughter of sir francis russell of chippenham, cambridgeshire. he was made lord-deputy in ireland in 1657, but he wearied of the work of transplanting the irish and planting the new settlers, which, he writes, only brought him disquiet of body and mind. this led to his retirement from public life in 1658. two years afterwards, at the restoration, he came to live at spinney abbey, near isham, cambridgeshire, and died on the 23rd of march 1673. these are shortly the facts which remain to us of the life of henry cromwell, dorothy's favoured servant. 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. sir,--you have furnished me now with arguments to convince my brother, if he should ever enter on the dispute again. in earnest, i believed all this before, but 'twas something an ignorant kind of faith in me. i was satisfied myself, but could not tell how to persuade another of the truth on't; and to speak indifferently, there are such multitudes that abuse the names of love and friendship, and so very few that either understand or practise it in reality, that it may raise great doubts whether there is any such thing in the world or not, and such as do not find it in themselves will hardly believe 'tis anywhere. but it will easily be granted, that most people make haste to be miserable; that they put on their fetters as inconsiderately as a woodcock runs into a noose, and are carried by the weakest considerations imaginable to do a thing of the greatest consequence of anything that concerns this world. i was told by one (who pretends to know him very well) that nothing tempted my cousin osborne to marry his lady (so much) as that she was an earl's daughter; which methought was the prettiest fancy, and had the least of sense in it, of any i had heard on, considering that it was no addition to her person, that he had honour enough before for his fortune, and how little it is esteemed in this age,--if it be anything in a better,--which for my part i am not well satisfied in. beside that, in this particular it does not sound handsomely. my lady bridget osborne makes a worse name a great deal, methinks, than plain my lady osborne would do. i have been studying how tom cheeke might come by his intelligence, and i verily believe he has it from my cousin peters. she lives near them in essex, and in all likelihood, for want of other discourse to entertain him withal, she has come out with all she knows. the last time i saw her she asked me for you before she had spoke six words to me; and i, who of all things do not love to make secrets of trifles, told her i had seen you that day. she said no more, nor i neither; but perhaps it worked in her little brain. the best on't is, the matter is not great, for though i confess i had rather nobody knew it, yet 'tis that i shall never be ashamed to own. how kindly do i take these civilities of your father's; in earnest, you cannot imagine how his letter pleased me. i used to respect him merely as he was your father, but i begin now to owe it to himself; all that he says is so kind and so obliging, so natural and so easy, that one may see 'tis perfectly his disposition, and has nothing to disguise in it. 'tis long since that i knew how well he writ, perhaps you have forgot that you showed me a letter of his (to a french marquis, i think, or some such man of his acquaintance) when i first knew you; i remember it very well, and that i thought it as handsome a letter as i had seen; but i have not skill it seems, for i like yours too. i can pardon all my cousin franklin's little plots of discovery, if she believed herself when she said she was confident our humours would agree extremely well. in earnest, i think they do; for i mark that i am always of your opinion, unless it be when you will not allow that you write well, for there i am too much concerned. jane told me t'other day very soberly that we write very much alike. i think she said it with an intent to please me, and did not fail in't; but if you write ill, 'twas no great compliment to me. _à propos de_ jane, she bids me tell you that, if you liked your marmalade of quince, she would send you more, and she thinks better, that has been made since. 'twas a strange caprice, as you say, of mrs. harrison, but there is fate as well as love in those things. the queen took the greatest pains to persuade her from it that could be; and (as somebody says, i know not who) "majesty is no ill orator;" but all would not do. when she had nothing to say for herself, she told her she had rather beg with mr. howard than live in the greatest plenty that could be with either my lord broghill, charles rich, or mr. nevile,--for all these were dying for her then. i am afraid she has altered her opinion since 'twas too late, for i do not take mr. howard to be a person that can deserve one should neglect all the world for him. and where there is no reason to uphold a passion, it will sink of itself; but where there is, it may last eternally.--i am yours. _letter 26._ sir,--the day i should have received your letter i was invited to dine at a rich widow's (whom i think i once told you of, and offered my service in case you thought fit to make addresses there); and she was so kind, and in so good humour, that if i had had any commission i should have thought it a very fit time to speak. we had a huge dinner, though the company was only of her own kindred that are in the house with her and what i brought; but she is broke loose from an old miserable husband that lived so long, she thinks if she does not make haste she shall not have time to spend what he left. she is old and was never handsome, and yet is courted a thousand times more than the greatest beauty in the world would be that had not a fortune. we could not eat in quiet for the letters and presents that came in from people that would not have looked upon her when they had met her if she had been left poor. i could not but laugh to myself at the meanness of their humour, and was merry enough all day, for the company was very good; and besides, i expected to find when i came home a letter from you that would be more a feast and company to me than all that was there. but never anybody was so defeated as i was to find none. i could not imagine the reason, only i assured myself it was no fault of yours, but perhaps a just punishment upon me for having been too much pleased in a company where you were not. after supper my brother and i fell into dispute about riches, and the great advantages of it; he instanced in the widow that it made one respected in the world. i said 'twas true, but that was a respect i should not at all value when i owed it only to my fortune. and we debated it so long till we had both talked ourselves weary enough to go to bed. yet i did not sleep so well but that i chid my maid for waking me in the morning, till she stopped my mouth with saying she had letters for me. i had not patience to stay till i could rise, but made her tie up all the curtains to let in light; and among some others i found my dear letter that was first to be read, and which made all the rest not worth the reading. i could not but wonder to find in it that my cousin franklin should want a true friend when 'tis thought she has the best husband in the world; he was so passionate for her before he had her, and so pleased with her since, that, in earnest, i did not think it possible she could have anything left to wish for that she had not already in such a husband with such a fortune. but she can best tell whether she is happy or not; only if she be not, i do not see how anybody else can hope it. i know her the least of all the sisters, and perhaps 'tis to my advantage that she knows me no more, since she speaks so obligingly of me. but do you think it was altogether without design she spoke it to you? when i remember she is tom cheeke's sister, i am apt to think she might have heard his news, and meant to try whether there was anything of truth in't. my cousin molle, i think, means to end the summer there. they say, indeed, 'tis a very fine seat, but if i did not mistake sir thomas cheeke, he told me there was never a good room in the house. i was wondering how you came by an acquaintance there, because i had never heard you speak that you knew them. i never saw him in my life, but he is famous for a kind husband. only 'twas found fault with that he could not forbear kissing his wife before company, a foolish trick that young married men are apt to; he has left it long since, i suppose. but, seriously, 'tis as ill a sight as one would wish to see, and appears very rude, methinks, to the company. what a strange fellow this goldsmith is, he has a head fit for nothing but horns. i chid him once for a seal he set me just of this fashion and the same colours. if he were to make twenty they should be all so, his invention can stretch no further than blue and red. it makes me think of the fellow that could paint nothing but a flower-de-luce, who, when he met with one that was so firmly resolved to have a lion for his sign that there was no persuading him out on't, "well," says the painter, "let it be a lion then, but it shall be as like a flower-de-luce as e'er you saw." so, because you would have it a dolphin, he consented to it, but it is like an ill-favoured knot of ribbon. i did not say anything of my father's being ill of late; i think i told you before, he kept his chamber ever since his last sickness, and so he does still. yet i cannot say that he is at all sick, but has so general a weakness upon him that i am much afraid their opinion of him has too much of truth in it, and do extremely apprehend how the winter may work upon him. will you pardon this strange scribbled letter, and the disorderliness on't? i know you would, though i should not tell you that i am not so much at leisure as i used to be. you can forgive your friends anything, and when i am not the faithfullest of those, never forgive me. you may direct your letters how you please, here will be nobody to receive it but your. _letter 27._--althorp, in northamptonshire, was the seat of lady sunderland's first husband, robert lord spencer. sir,--your last came safe, and i shall follow your direction for the address of this, though, as you say, i cannot imagine what should tempt anybody to so severe a search for them, unless it be that he is not yet fully satisfied to what degree our friendship is grown, and thinks he may best inform himself from them. in earnest, 'twould not be unpleasant to hear our discourse. he forms his with so much art and design, and is so pleased with the hopes of making some discovery, and i [who] know him as well as he does himself, cannot but give myself the recreation sometimes of confounding him and destroying all that his busy head had been working on since the last conference. he gives me some trouble with his suspicions; yet, on my conscience, he is a greater to himself, and i deal with so much _franchise_ as to tell him so; and yet he has no more the heart to ask me directly what he would so fain know, than a jealous man has to ask (one that might tell him) whether he were a cuckold or not, for fear of being resolved of that which is yet a doubt to him. my eldest brother is not so inquisitive; he satisfies himself with persuading me earnestly to marry, and takes no notice of anything that may hinder me, but a carelessness of my fortune, or perhaps an aversion to a kind of life that appears to have less of freedom in't than that which at present i enjoy. but, sure, he gives himself another reason, for 'tis not very long since he took occasion to inquire for you very kindly of me; and though i could then give but little account of you, he smiled as if he did not altogether believe me, and afterwards maliciously said he wondered you did not marry. and i seemed to do so too, and said, if i knew any woman that had a great fortune, and were a person worthy of you, i should wish her you with all my heart. "but, sister," says he, "would you have him love her?" "do you doubt it?" did i say; "he were not happy in't else." he laughed, and said my humour was pleasant; but he made some question whether it was natural or not. he cannot be so unjust as to let me lose him, sure, i was kind to him though i had some reason not to take it very well when he made that a secret to me which was known to so many that did not know him; but we shall never fall out, i believe, we are not apt to it, neither of us. if you are come back from epsom, i may ask you how you like drinking water? i have wished it might agree as well with you as it did with me; and if it were as certain that the same thing would do us good as 'tis that the same thing would please us, i should not need to doubt it. otherwise my wishes do not signify much, but i am forbid complaints, or to express my fears. and be it so, only you must pardon me if i cannot agree to give you false hopes; i must be deceived myself before i can deceive you, and i have so accustomed myself to tell you all that i think, that i must either say nothing, or that which i believe to be true. i cannot say but that i have wanted jane; but it has been rather to have somebody to talk with of you, than that i needed anybody to put me in mind of you, and with all her diligence i should have often prevented her in that discourse. were you at althorp when you saw my lady sunderland and mr. smith, or are they in town? i have heard, indeed, that they are very happy; but withal that, as she is a very extraordinary person herself, so she aimed at doing extraordinary things, and when she had married mr. smith (because some people were so bold as to think she did it because she loved him) she undertook to convince the world that what she had done was in mere pity to his sufferings, and that she could not go a step lower to meet anybody than that led her, though when she thought there were no eyes on her, she was more gracious to him. but perhaps this might not be true, or it may be she is now grown weary of that constraint she put upon herself. i should have been sadder than you if i had been their neighbour to have seen them so kind; as i must have been if i had married the emperor. he used to brag to me always of a great acquaintance he had there, what an esteem my lady had for him, and had the vanity (not to call it impudence) to talk sometimes as if he would have had me believe he might have had her, and would not; i'll swear i blushed for him when i saw he did not. he told me too, that though he had carried his addresses to me with all the privacy that was possible, because he saw i liked it best, and that 'twas partly his own humour too, yet she had discovered it, and could tell that there had been such a thing, and that it was broke off again, she knew not why; which certainly was a lie, as well as the other, for i do not think she ever heard there was such a one in the world as your faithful friend. _letter 28._--dorothy's allusion to the "seven sleepers" refers to a story which occurs in the _golden legend_ and other places, of seven noble youths of ephesus, who fled from persecution to a cave in mount celion. after two hundred and thirty years they awoke, but only to die soon afterwards. the fable is said to have arisen from a misinterpretation of the text, "they fell asleep in the lord." sir,--i did not lay it as a fault to your charge that you were not good at disguise; if it be one, i am too guilty on't myself to accuse another. and though i have been told it shows an unpractisedness in the world, and betrays to all that understand it better, yet since it is a quality i was not born with, nor ever like to get, i have always thought good to maintain that 'twas better not to need it than to have it. i give you many thanks for your care of my irish dog, but i am extremely out of countenance your father should be troubled with it. sure, he will think i have a most extravagant fancy; but do me the right as to let him know i am not so possessed with it as to consent he should be employed in such a commission. your opinion of my eldest brother is, i think, very just, and when i said maliciously, i meant a french malice, which you know does not signify the same with an english one. i know not whether i told it you or not, but i concluded (from what you said of your indisposition) that it was very like the spleen; but perhaps i foresaw you would not be willing to own a disease that the severe part of the world holds to be merely imaginary and affected, and therefore proper only to women. however, i cannot but wish you had stayed longer at epsom and drunk the waters with more order though in a less proportion. but did you drink them immediately from the well? i remember i was forbid it, and methought with a great deal of reason, for (especially at this time of year) the well is so low, and there is such a multitude to be served out on't, that you can hardly get any but what is thick and troubled; and i have marked that when it stood all night (for that was my direction) the bottom of the vessel it stood in would be covered an inch thick with a white clay, which, sure, has no great virtue in't, and is not very pleasant to drink. what a character of a young couple you give me! would you would ask some one who knew him, whether he be not much more of an ass since his marriage than he was before. i have some reason to doubt that it alters people strangely. i made a visit t'other day to welcome a lady into this country whom her husband had newly brought down, and because i knew him, though not her, and she was a stranger here, 'twas a civility i owed them. but you cannot imagine how i was surprised to see a man that i had known so handsome, so capable of being made a pretty gentleman (for though he was no proud philosopher, as the frenchmen say, he was that which good company and a little knowledge of the world would have made equal to many that think themselves very well, and are thought so), transformed into the direct shape of a great boy newly come from school. to see him wholly taken up with running on errands for his wife, and teaching her little dog tricks! and this was the best of him; for when he was at leisure to talk, he would suffer no one else to do it, and what he said, and the noise he made, if you had heard it, you would have concluded him drunk with joy that he had a wife and a pack of hounds. i was so weary on't that i made haste home, and could not but think of the change all the way till my brother (who was with me) thought me sad, and so, to put me in better humour, said he believed i repented me i had not this gentleman, now i saw how absolutely his wife governed him. but i assured him, that though i thought it very fit such as he should be governed, yet i should not like the employment by no means. it becomes no woman, and did so ill with this lady that in my opinion it spoiled a good face and a very fine gown. yet the woman you met upon the way governed her husband and did it handsomely. it was, as you say, a great example of friendship, and much for the credit of our sex. you are too severe to walker. i'll undertake he would set me twenty seals for nothing rather than undergo your wrath. i am in no haste for it, and so he does it well we will not fall out; perhaps he is not in the humour of keeping his word at present, and nobody can blame him if he be often in an ill one. but though i am merciful to him, as to one that has suffered enough already, i cannot excuse you that profess to be my friend and yet are content to let me live in such ignorance, write to me every week, and yet never send me any of the new phrases of the town. i could tell you, without abandoning the truth, that it is part of your _devoyre_ to correct the imperfections you find under my hand, and that my trouble resembles my wonder you can let me be dissatisfied. i should never have learnt any of these fine things from you; and, to say truth, i know not whether i shall from anybody else, if to learn them be to understand them. pray what is meant by _wellness_ and _unwellness_; and why is _to some extreme_ better than _to some extremity_? i believe i shall live here till there is quite a new language spoke where you are, and shall come out like one of the seven sleepers, a creature of another age. but 'tis no matter so you understand me, though nobody else do, when i say how much i am your faithful. _letter 29._ sir,--i can give you leave to doubt anything but my kindness, though i can assure you i spake as i meant when i said i had not the vanity to believe i deserv'd yours, for i am not certain whether 'tis possible for anybody to deserve that another should love them above themselves, though i am certain many may deserve it more than me. but not to dispute this with you, let me tell you that i am thus far of your opinion, that upon some natures nothing is so powerful as kindness, and that i should give that to yours which all the merit in the world besides would not draw from me. i spake as if i had not done so already; but you may choose whether you will believe me or not, for, to say truth, i do not much believe myself in that point. no, all the kindness i have or ever had is yours; nor shall i ever repent it so, unless you shall ever repent yours. without telling you what the inconveniences of your coming hither are, you may believe they are considerable, or else i should not deny you or myself the happiness of seeing one another; and if you dare trust me where i am equally concerned with you, i shall take hold of the first opportunity that may either admit you here or bring me nearer you. sure you took somebody else for my cousin peters? i can never believe her beauty able to smite anybody. i saw her when i was last in town, but she appear'd wholly the same to me, she was at st. malo, with all her innocent good nature too, and asked for you so kindly, that i am sure she cannot have forgot you; nor do i think she had so much address as to do it merely in compliment to me. no, you are mistaken certainly; what should she do amongst all that company, unless she be towards a wedding? she has been kept at home, poor soul, and suffered so much of purgatory in this world that she needs not fear it in the next; and yet she is as merry as ever she was, which perhaps might make her look young, but that she laughs a little too much, and that will bring wrinkles, they say. oh, me! now i talk of laughing, it makes me think of poor jane. i had a letter from her the other day; she desired me to present her humble service to her master,--she did mean you, sure, for she named everybody else that she owes any service to,--and bid me say that she would keep her word with him. god knows what you have agreed on together. she tells me she shall stay long enough there to hear from me once more, and then she is resolved to come away. here is a seal, which pray give walker to set for me very handsomely, and not of any of those fashions he made my others, but of something that may differ from the rest. 'tis a plain head, but not ill cut, i think. my eldest brother is now here, and we expect my youngest shortly, and then we shall be altogether, which i do not think we ever were twice in our lives. my niece is still with me, but her father threatens to fetch her away. if i can keep her to michaelmas i may perhaps bring her up to town myself, and take that occasion of seeing you; but i have no other business that is worth my taking a journey, for i have had another summons from my aunt, and i protest i am afraid i shall be in rebellion there; but 'tis not to be helped. the widow writes me word, too, that i must expect her here about a month hence; and i find that i shall want no company, but only that which i would have, and for which i could willingly spare all the rest. will it be ever thus? i am afraid it will. there has been complaints made on me already to my eldest brother (only in general, or at least he takes notice of no more), what offers i refuse, and what a strange humour has possessed me of being deaf to the advice of all my friends. i find i am to be baited by them all by turns. they weary themselves, and me too, to very little purpose, for to my thinking they talk the most impertinently that ever people did; and i believe they are not in my debt, but think the same of me. sometimes i tell them i will not marry, and then they laugh at me; sometimes i say, "not yet," and they laugh more, and would make me believe i shall be old within this twelvemonth. i tell them i shall be wiser then. they say 'twill be to no purpose. sometimes we are in earnest and sometimes in jest, but always saying something since my brother henry found his tongue again. if you were with me i could make sport of all this; but "patience is my penance" is somebody's motto, and i think it must be mine. i am your. _letter 30._--here is lord lisle's embassage discussed again! we know that in the end it comes to nothing; whitelocke going, but without temple. the statute commanding the marriage ceremony to be conducted before justices of the peace was passed in august 1653; it is to some extent by such references as these that the letters have been dated and grouped. the marriage act of 1653, with the other statutes of this period, have been erased from the statute book; but a draft of it in somers' tracts remains to us for reference. it contained provisions for the names of those who intended being joined together in holy matrimony to be posted, with certain other particulars, upon the door of the common meeting-house, commonly called the parish church or chapel; and after the space of three weeks the parties, with two witnesses, might go before a magistrate, who, having satisfied himself, by means of examining witnesses on oath or otherwise, that all the preliminaries commanded by the act had been properly fulfilled, further superintended the proceedings to perfect the said intended marriage as follows:--the man taking the woman by the hand pronounced these words, "i, a.b., do hereby in the presence of god take thee c.d. to be my wedded wife, and do also in the presence of god, and before these witnesses, promise to be unto thee a loving and faithful husband." then the woman in similar formula promises to be a "loving, faithful, and obedient wife," and the magistrate pronounced the parties to be man and wife. this ceremony, and this only, was to be a legal marriage. it is probable that parties might and did add a voluntary religious rite to this compulsory civil ceremony, as is done at this day in many foreign countries. sir,--you cannot imagine how i was surpris'd to find a letter that began "dear brother;" i thought sure it could not belong at all to me, and was afraid i had lost one by it; that you intended me another, and in your haste had mistook this for that. therefore, till i found the permission you gave me, i had laid it by with a resolution not to read it, but to send it again. if i had done so, i had missed a great deal of satisfaction which i received from it. in earnest, i cannot tell you how kindly i take all the obliging things you say in it of me; nor how pleased i should be (for your sake) if i were able to make good the character you give me to your brother, and that i did not owe a great part of it wholly to your friendship for me. i dare call nothing on't my own but faithfulness; that i may boast of with truth and modesty, since 'tis but a simple virtue; and though some are without it, yet 'tis so absolutely necessary, that nobody wanting it can be worthy of any esteem. i see you speak well of me to other people, though you complain always to me. i know not how to believe i should misuse your heart as you pretend; i never had any quarrel to it, and since our friendship it has been dear to me as my own. 'tis rather, sure, that you have a mind to try another, than that any dislike of yours makes you turn it over to me; but be it as it will, i am contented to stand to the loss, and perhaps when you have changed you will find so little difference that you'll be calling for your own again. do but assure me that i shall find you almost as merry as my lady anne wentworth is always, and nothing shall fright me from my purpose of seeing you as soon as i can with any conveniency. i would not have you insensible of our misfortunes, but i would not either that you should revenge them on yourself; no, that shows a want of constancy (which you will hardly yield to be your fault); but 'tis certain that there was never anything more mistaken than the roman courage, when they killed themselves to avoid misfortunes that were infinitely worse than death. you confess 'tis an age since our story began, as is not fit for me to own. is it not likely, then, that if my face had ever been good, it might be altered since then; or is it as unfit for me to own the change as the time that makes it? be it as you please, i am not enough concerned in't to dispute it with you; for, trust me, if you would not have my face better, i am satisfied it should be as it is; since if ever i wished it otherwise, 'twas for your sake. i know not how i stumbled upon a news-book this week, and, for want of something else to do read it; it mentions my lord lisle's embassage again. is there any such thing towards? i met with somebody else too in't that may concern anybody that has a mind to marry; 'tis a new form for it, that, sure, will fright the country people extremely, for they apprehend nothing like going before a justice; they say no other marriage shall stand good in law. in conscience, i believe the old one is the better; and for my part i am resolved to stay till that comes in fashion again. can your father have so perfectly forgiven already the injury i did him (since you will not allow it to be any to you), in hindering you of mrs. chambers, as to remember me with kindness? 'tis most certain that i am obliged to him, and, in earnest, if i could hope it might ever be in my power to serve him i would promise something for myself. but is it not true, too, that you have represented me to him rather as you imagine me than as i am; and have you not given him an expectation that i shall never be able to satisfy? if you have, i can forgive you, because i know you meant well in't; but i have known some women that have commended others merely out of spite, and if i were malicious enough to envy anybody's beauty, i would cry it up to all that had not seen them; there's no such way to make anybody appear less handsome than they are. you must not forget that you are some letters in my debt, besides the answer to this. if there were not conveniences of sending, i should persecute you strangely. and yet you cannot wonder at it; the constant desire i have to hear from you, and the satisfaction your letters give me, would oblige one that has less time to write often. but yet i know what 'tis to be in the town. i could never write a letter from thence in my life of above a dozen lines; and though i see as little company as anybody that comes there, yet i always met with something or other that kept me idle. therefore i can excuse it, though you do not exactly pay all that you owe, upon condition you shall tell me when i see you all that you should have writ if you had had time, and all that you can imagine to say to a person that is your faithful friend. _letter 31._--dorothy is in mourning for her youngest brother, robert, who died about this time. as she does not mention his death to temple, we may take it that he was, though her brother, practically a stranger to her, living away from chicksands, and rarely visiting her. general monk's brother, to whom dorothy refers, was mr. nicholas monk, vicar of kelkhampton, in cornwall. general monk's misfortune is no less a calamity than his marriage. the following extract from guizot's _life of monk_ will fully explain the allusion: "the return of the new admiral [monk] was marked by a domestic event which was not without its influence on his public conduct and reputation. unrefined tastes, and that need of repose in his private life which usually accompanies activity in public affairs, had consigned him to the dominion of a woman of low character, destitute even of the charms which seduce, and whose manners did not belie the rumour which gave her for extraction a market stall, or even, according to some, a much less respectable profession. she had lived for some time past with monk, and united to the influence of habit an impetuosity of will and words difficult to be resisted by the tranquil apathy of her lover. it is asserted that she had managed, as long since as 1649, to force him to a marriage; but this marriage was most certainly not declared until 1653." m. guizot then quotes a letter, dated september 19, 1653, announcing the news of general monk's marriage, and this would about correspond with the presumed date of dorothy's letter. greenwich palace was probably occupied by monk at this time, and dorothy meant to say that ann clarges would be as much at home in greenwich palace as, say, the lord protector's wife at whitehall. sir,--it was, sure, a less fault in me to make a scruple of reading your letter to your brother, which in all likelihood i could not be concerned in, than for you to condemn the freedom you take of giving me directions in a thing where we are equally concerned. therefore, if i forgive you this, you may justly forgive me t'other; and upon these terms we are friends again, are we not? no, stay! i have another fault to chide you for. you doubted whether you had not writ too much, and whether i could have the patience to read it or not. why do you dissemble so abominably; you cannot think these things? how i should love that plain-heartedness you speak of, if you would use it; nothing is civil but that amongst friends. your kind sister ought to chide you, too, for not writing to her, unless you have been with her to excuse it. i hope you have; and pray take some time to make her one visit from me, and carry my humble service with you, and tell her that 'tis not my fault that you are no better. i do not think i shall see the town before michaelmas, therefore you may make what sallies you please. i am tied here to expect my brother peyton, and then possibly we may go up together, for i should be at home again before the term. then i may show you my niece; and you may confess that i am a kind aunt to desire her company, since the disadvantage of our being together will lie wholly upon me. but i must make it my bargain, that if i come you will not be frighted to see me; you think, i'll warrant, you have courage enough to endure a worse sight. you may be deceived, you never saw me in mourning yet; nobody that has will e'er desire to do it again, for their own sakes as well as mine. oh, 'tis a most dismal dress,--i have not dared to look in the glass since i wore it; and certainly if it did so ill with other people as it does with me, it would never be worn. you told me of writing to your father, but you did not say whether you had heard from him, or how he did. may not i ask it? is it possible that he saw me? where were my eyes that i did not see him, for i believe i should have guessed at least that 'twas he if i had? they say you are very like him; but 'tis no wonder neither that i did not see him, for i saw not you when i met you there. 'tis a place i look upon nobody in; and it was reproached to me by a kinsman, but a little before you came to me, that he had followed me to half a dozen shops to see when i would take notice of him, and was at last going away with a belief 'twas not i, because i did not seem to know him. other people make it so much their business to gape, that i'll swear they put me so out of countenance i dare not look up for my life. i am sorry for general monk's misfortunes, because you say he is your friend; but otherwise she will suit well enough with the rest of the great ladies of the times, and become greenwich as well as some others do the rest of the king's houses. if i am not mistaken, that monk has a brother lives in cornwall; an honest gentleman, i have heard, and one that was a great acquaintance of a brother of mine who was killed there during the war, and so much his friend that upon his death he put himself and his family into mourning for him, which is not usual, i think, where there is no relation of kindred. i will take order that my letters shall be left with jones, and yours called for there. as long as your last was, i read it over thrice in less than an hour, though, to say truth, i had skipped some on't the last time. i could not read my own confession so often. love is a terrible word, and i should blush to death if anything but a letter accused me on't. pray be merciful, and let it run friendship in my next charge. my lady sends me word she has received those parts of _cyrus_ i lent you. here is another for you which, when you have read, you know how to dispose. there are four pretty stories in it, "_l'amant absente_," "_l'amant non aimé_," "_l'amant jaloux_," _et_ "_l'amant dont la maitresse est mort_." tell me which you have most compassion for when you have read what every one says for himself. perhaps you will not think it so easy to decide which is the most unhappy, as you may think by the titles their stories bear. only let me desire you not to pity the jealous one, for i remember i could do nothing but laugh at him as one that sought his own vexation. this, and the little journeys (you say) you are to make, will entertain you till i come; which, sure, will be as soon as possible i can, since 'tis equally desired by you and your faithful. _letter 32._--things being more settled in that part of the world, sir john temple is returning to ireland, where he intends taking his seat as master of the rolls once again. temple joins his father soon after this, and stays in ireland a few months. lady ormond was the wife of the first duke of ormond. she had obtained her pass to go over to ireland on august 24th, 1653. the ormonds had indeed been in great straits for want of money, and in august 1652 lady ormond had come over from caen, where they were then living, to endeavour to claim cromwell's promise of reserving to her that portion of their estate which had been her inheritance. after great delays she obtained £500, and a grant of £2000 per annum out of their irish lands "lying most conveniently to dunmore house." it must have been this matter that dorothy had heard of when she questions "whether she will get it when she comes there." francis annesley, lord valentia, belonged to an ancient nottinghamshire family, though he himself was born in newport, buckinghamshire. of his daughter's marriage i can find nothing. lord valentia was at this time secretary of state at dublin. sir justinian has at length found a second wife. her name is vere, and she is the daughter of lord leigh of stoneleigh. thus do dorothy's suitors, one by one, recover and cease to lament her obduracy. when she declares that she would rather have chosen _a chain to lead her apes in_ than marry sir justinian, she refers to an old superstition as to the ultimate fate of spinsters- women, dying maids, lead apes in hell, runs the verse of an old play, and that is the whole superstition, the origin of which seems somewhat inexplicable. the phrase is thrice used by shakespeare, and constantly occurs in the old burlesques and comedies; in one instance, in a comedy entitled "love's convert" (1651), it is altered to "lead an ape in _heaven_." many will remember the fate of "the young mary anne" in the famous ingoldsby legend, "bloudie jacke:"- so they say she is now leading apes- bloudie jack, and mends bachelors' smallclothes below. no learned editor that i am acquainted with has been able to suggest an explanation of this curious expression. sir,--all my quarrels to you are kind ones, for, sure, 'tis alike impossible for me to be angry as for you to give me the occasion; therefore, when i chide (unless it be that you are not careful enough of yourself, and hazard too much a health that i am more concerned in than my own), you need not study much for excuses, i can easily forgive you anything but want of kindness. the judgment you have made of the four lovers i recommended to you does so perfectly agree with what i think of them, that i hope it will not alter when you have read their stories. _l'amant absente_ has (in my opinion) a mistress so much beyond any of the rest, that to be in danger of losing her is more than to have lost the others; _l'amant non aimé_ was an ass, under favour (notwithstanding the _princesse cleobuline's_ letter); his mistress had caprices that would have suited better with our _amant jaloux_ than with anybody else; and the _prince artibie_ was much to blame that he outlived his _belle leontine_. but if you have met with the beginning of the story of _amestris and aglatides_, you will find the rest of it in this part i send you now; and 'tis, to me, one of the prettiest i have read, and the most natural. they say the gentleman that writes this romance has a sister that lives with him, a maid, and she furnishes him with all the little stories that come between, so that he only contrives the main design; and when he wants something to entertain his company withal, he calls to her for it. she has an excellent fancy, sure, and a great wit; but, i am sorry to tell it you, they say 'tis the most ill-favoured creature that ever was born. and 'tis often so; how seldom do we see a person excellent in anything but they have some great defect with it that pulls them low enough to make them equal with other people; and there is justice in't. those that have fortunes have nothing else, and those that want it deserve to have it. that's but small comfort, though, you'll say; 'tis confessed, but there is no such thing as perfect happiness in this world, those that have come the nearest it had many things to wish; and,--bless me, whither am i going? sure, 'tis the death's head i see stand before me puts me into this grave discourse (pray do not think i meant that for a conceit neither); how idly have i spent two sides of my paper, and am afraid, besides, i shall not have time to write two more. therefore i'll make haste to tell you that my friendship for you makes me concerned in all your relations; that i have a great respect for sir john, merely as he is your father, and that 'tis much increased by his kindness to you; that he has all my prayers and wishes for his safety; and that you will oblige me in letting me know when you hear any good news from him. he has met with a great deal of good company, i believe. my lady ormond, i am told, is waiting for a passage, and divers others; but this wind (if i am not mistaken) is not good for them. in earnest, 'tis a most sad thing that a person of her quality should be reduced to such a fortune as she has lived upon these late years, and that she should lose that which she brought, as well as that which was her husband's. yet, i hear, she has now got some of her own land in ireland granted her; but whether she will get it when she comes there is, i think, a question. we have a lady new come into this country that i pity, too, extremely. she is one of my lord of valentia's daughters, and has married an old fellow that is some threescore and ten, who has a house that is fitter for the hogs than for her, and a fortune that will not at all recompense the least of these inconveniences. ah! 'tis most certain i should have chosen a handsome chain to lead my apes in before such a husband; but marrying and hanging go by destiny, they say. it was not mine, it seems, to have an emperor; the spiteful man, merely to vex me, has gone and married my countrywoman, my lord lee's daughter. what a multitude of willow garlands i shall weave before i die; i think i had best make them into faggots this cold weather, the flame they would make in a chimney would be of more use to me than that which was in the hearts of all those that gave them me, and would last as long. i did not think i should have got thus far. i have been so persecuted with visits all this week i have had no time to despatch anything of business, so that now i have done this i have forty letters more to write; how much rather would i have them all to you than to anybody else; or, rather, how much better would it be if there needed none to you, and that i could tell you without writing how much i am yours. _letter 33._--sir thomas peyton, we must remember, had married dorothy's eldest sister; she died many years ago, and sir thomas married again, in 1648, one dame cicely swan, a widow, whose character dorothy gives us. lord monmouth was the eldest son of the earl of monmouth, and was born in 1596. he was educated at exeter college, oxford. his literary work was, at least, copious, and included some historical writing, as well as the translations mentioned by dorothy. he published, among other things, _an historical relation of the united provinces_, a _history of the wars in flanders_, and a _history of venice_. sir john suckling, in the following doggerel, hails our noble author with a flunkey's enthusiasm,- it is so rare and new a thing to see aught that belongs to young nobility in print, but their own clothes, that we must praise you, as we would do those first show the ways to arts or to new worlds. in such strain writes the author of _why so pale and wan, fond lover?_ and both the circumstance and the doggerel should be very instructive to the snobologist. the literary work of lord broghill is not unknown to fame, and mr. waller's verse is still read by us; but i have never seen a history of the civil wars from mr. waller's pen, and cannot find that he ever published one. _prazimene_ and _polexander_ are two romances translated from the french,--the former, a neat little duodecimo; the latter, a huge folio of more than three hundred and fifty closely-printed pages. the title-page of _prazimene_, a very good example of its kind, runs as follows:--"two delightful novels, or the unlucky fair one; being the amours of milistrate and prazimene, illustrated with variety of chance and fortune. translated from the french by a person of quality, london. sold by eben tracy, at the three bibles on london bridge." _polexander_ was "done into english by william browne, gent.," for the benefit and behoof of the earl of pembroke. william fiennes, lord say and sele, was one of the chiefs of the independent party, a republican, and one of the first to bear arms against the king. he had, for that day, extravagant notions of civil liberty, and on the disappointment of his hopes, he appears to have retired to the isle of lundy, on the coast of devon, and continued a voluntary prisoner there until cromwell's death. after the restoration he was made lord chamberlain of the household, and lord privy seal. he published some political tracts, none of which are now in existence; and anthony wood mentions having seen other things of his, among which, maybe, was the romance that dorothy had heard of, but which is lost to us. sir,--pray, let not the apprehension that others say fine things to me make your letters at all the shorter; for, if it were so, i should not think they did, and so long you are safe. my brother peyton does, indeed, sometimes send me letters that may be excellent for aught i know, and the more likely because i do not understand them; but i may say to you (as to a friend) i do not like them, and have wondered that my sister (who, i may tell you too, and you will not think it vanity in me, had a great deal of wit, and was thought to write as well as most women in england) never persuaded him to alter his style, and make it a little more intelligible. he is an honest gentleman, in earnest, has understanding enough, and was an excellent husband to two very different wives, as two good ones could be. my sister was a melancholy, retired woman, and, besides the company of her husband and her books, never sought any, but could have spent a life much longer than hers was in looking to her house and her children. this lady is of a free, jolly humour, loves cards and company, and is never more pleased than when she sees a great many others that are so too. now, with both these he so perfectly complied that 'tis hard to judge which humour he is more inclined to in himself; perhaps to neither, which makes it so much the more strange. his kindness to his first wife may give him an esteem for her sister; but he was too much smitten with this lady to think of marrying anybody else, and, seriously, i could not blame him, for she had, and has yet, great loveliness in her; she was very handsome, and is very good (one may read it in her face at first sight). a woman that is hugely civil to all people, and takes as generally as anybody that i know, but not more than my cousin molle's letters do, but which, yet, you do not like, you say, nor i neither, i'll swear; and if it be ignorance in us both we'll forgive it one another. in my opinion these great scholars are not the best writers (of letters, i mean); of books, perhaps they are. i never had, i think, but one letter from sir justinian, but 'twas worth twenty of anybody's else to make me sport. it was the most sublime nonsense that in my life i ever read; and yet, i believe, he descended as low as he could to come near my weak understanding. 'twill be no compliment after this to say i like your letters in themselves; not as they come from one that is not indifferent to me, but, seriously, i do. all letters, methinks, should be free and easy as one's discourse; not studied as an oration, nor made up of hard words like a charm. 'tis an admirable thing to see how some people will labour to find out terms that may obscure a plain sense. like a gentleman i know, who would never say "the weather grew cold," but that "winter began to salute us." i have no patience for such coxcombs, and cannot blame an old uncle of mine that threw the standish at his man's head because he writ a letter for him where, instead of saying (as his master bid him), "that he would have writ himself, but he had the gout in his hand," he said, "that the gout in his hand would not permit him to put pen to paper." the fellow thought he had mended it mightily, and that putting pen to paper was much better than plain writing. i have no patience neither for these translations of romances. i met with _polexander_ and _l'illustre bassa_ both so disguised that i, who am their old acquaintance, hardly know them; besides that, they were still so much french in words and phrases that 'twas impossible for one that understands not french to make anything of them. if poor _prazimene_ be in the same dress, i would not see her for the world. she has suffered enough besides. i never saw but four tomes of her, and was told the gentleman that writ her story died when those were finished. i was very sorry for it, i remember, for i liked so far as i had seen of it extremely. is it not my good lord of monmouth, or some such honourable personage, that presents her to the english ladies? i have heard many people wonder how he spends his estate. i believe he undoes himself with printing his translations. nobody else will undergo the charge, because they never hope to sell enough of them to pay themselves withal. i was looking t'other day in a book of his where he translates _pipero_ as piper, and twenty words more that are as false as this. my lord broghill, sure, will give us something worth the reading. my lord saye, i am told, has writ a romance since his retirement in the isle of lundy, and mr. waller, they say, is making one of our wars, which, if he does not mingle with a great deal of pleasing fiction, cannot be very diverting, sure, the subject is so sad. but all this is nothing to my coming to town, you'll say. 'tis confest; and that i was willing as long as i could to avoid saying anything when i had nothing to say worth your knowing. i am still obliged to wait my brother peyton and his lady coming. i had a letter from him this week, which i will send you, that you may see what hopes he gives. as little room as i have left, too, i must tell you what a present i had made me to-day. two of the finest young irish greyhounds that e'er i saw; a gentleman that serves the general sent them me. they are newly come over, and sent for by henry cromwell, he tells me, but not how he got them for me. however, i am glad i have them, and much the more because it dispenses with a very unfit employment that your father, out of his kindness to you and his civility to me, was content to take upon him. _letter 34._ sir,--jane was so unlucky as to come out of town before your return, but she tells me she left my letter with nan stacy for you. i was in hope she would have brought me one from you; and because she did not i was resolv'd to punish her, and kept her up till one o'clock telling me all her stories. sure, if there be any truth in the old observation, your cheeks glowed notably; and 'tis most certain that if i were with you, i should chide notably. what do you mean to be so melancholy? by her report your humour is grown insupportable. i can allow it not to be altogether what she says, and yet it may be very ill too; but if you loved me you would not give yourself over to that which will infallibly kill you, if it continue. i know too well that our fortunes have given us occasion enough to complain and to be weary of her tyranny; but, alas! would it be better if i had lost you or you me; unless we were sure to die both together, 'twould but increase our misery, and add to that which is more already than we can well tell how to bear. you are more cruel than she regarding a life that's dearer to me than that of the whole world besides, and which makes all the happiness i have or ever shall be capable of. therefore, by all our friendship i conjure you and, by the power you have given me, command you, to preserve yourself with the same care that you would have me live. 'tis all the obedience i require of you, and will be the greatest testimony you can give me of your faith. when you have promised me this, 'tis not impossible that i may promise you shall see me shortly; though my brother peyton (who says he will come down to fetch his daughter) hinders me from making the journey in compliment to her. yet i shall perhaps find business enough to carry me up to town. 'tis all the service i expect from two girls whose friends have given me leave to provide for, that some order i must take for the disposal of them may serve for my pretence to see you; but then i must find you pleased and in good humour, merry as you were wont to be when we first met, if you will not have me show that i am nothing akin to my cousin osborne's lady. but what an age 'tis since we first met, and how great a change it has wrought in both of us; if there had been as great a one in my face, it could be either very handsome or very ugly. for god's sake, when we meet, let us design one day to remember old stories in, to ask one another by what degrees our friendship grew to this height 'tis at. in earnest, i am lost sometimes with thinking on't; and though i can never repent the share you have in my heart, i know not whether i gave it you willingly or not at first. no, to speak ingenuously, i think you got an interest there a good while before i thought you had any, and it grew so insensibly, and yet so fast, that all the traverses it has met with since has served rather to discover it to me than at all to hinder it. by this confession you will see i am past all disguise with you, and that you have reason to be satisfied with knowing as much of my heart as i do myself. will the kindness of this letter excuse the shortness on't? for i have twenty more, i think, to write, and the hopes i had of receiving one from you last night kept me writing this when i had more time; or if all this will not satisfy, make your own conditions, so you do not return it me by the shortness of yours. your servant kisses your hands, and i am your faithful. _letter 35._--this is written on the back of a letter of sir thomas peyton to dorothy, and is probably a postscript to _letter 34_. sir thomas's letter is a good example of the stilted letter-writing in vogue at that time, which dorothy tells us was so much admired. the affairs that are troubling him are legal matters in connection with his brother-in-law henry oxenden's estate. there is a multitude of letters in the mss. in the british museum referring to this business; but we are not greatly concerned with oxenden's financial difficulties. sir edward hales was a gentleman of noble family in kent. there is one of the same name who in 1688 declares himself openly to be a papist, and is tried under the test act. he is concerned in the same year in the escape of king james, providing him with a fishing-boat to carry him into france. this is in all probability the sir edward hales referred to by sir thomas peyton, unless it be a son of the same name. here is the letter:-"good sister,--i am very sorry to hear the loss of our good brother, whose short time gives us a sad example of our frail condition. but i will not say the loss, knowing whom i write to, whose religion and wisdom is a present stay to support in all worldly accidents. "'tis long since we resolved to have given you a visit, and have relieved you of my daughter. but i have had the following of a most laborious affair, which hath cost me the travelling, though in our own country style, fifty ...; and i have been less at home than elsewhere ever since i came from london; which hath vext me the more in regard i have been detained from the desire i had of being with you before this time. such entertainment, however, must all those have that have to do with such a purse-proud and wilful person as sir edward hales. this next week being michaelmas week, we shall end all and i be at liberty, i hope, to consider my own contentments. in the meantime i know not what excuses to make for the trouble i have put you to already, of which i grow to be ashamed; and i should much more be so if i did not know you to be as good as you are fair. in both which regards i have a great honour to be esteemed, "my good sister, "your faithful brother and servant, "thomas peyton. "knowlton, _sept. 22, 1653_." _on the other side of sir t. peyton's letter._ nothing that is paper can 'scape me when i have time to write, and 'tis to you. but that i am not willing to excite your envy, i would tell you how many letters i have despatched since i ended yours; and if i could show them you 'twould be a certain cure for it, for they are all very short ones, and most of them merely compliments, which i am sure you care not for. i had forgot in my other to tell you what jane requires for the satisfaction of what you confess you owe her. you must promise her to be merry, and not to take cold when you are at the tennis court, for there she hears you are found. because you mention my lord broghill and his wit, i have sent you some of his verses. my brother urged them against me one day in a dispute, where he would needs make me confess that no passion could be long lived, and that such as were most in love forgot that ever they had been so within a twelvemonth after they were married; and, in earnest, the want of examples to bring for the contrary puzzled me a little, so that i was fain to bring out those pitiful verses of my lord biron to his wife, which was so poor an argument that i was e'en ashamed on't myself, and he quickly laughed me out of countenance with saying they were just such as a married man's flame would produce and a wife inspire. i send you a love letter, too; which, simple as you see, it was sent me in very good earnest, and by a person of quality, as i was told. if you read it when you go to bed, 'twill certainly make your sleep approved. i am yours. _letter 36._--my lady carlisle was, as dorothy says, "an extraordinary person." she was the daughter of henry percy, earl of northumberland, and at the age of eighteen, against her father's will and under somewhat romantic circumstances, married james hay, earl of carlisle. her sister married the earl of leicester, and she is therefore aunt to lady sunderland and algernon sydney. she was a favourite attendant of queen henrietta, and there are evil rumours connecting her name with that of strafford. on strafford's death, it is asserted that she transferred her affections to pym, to whom she is said to have betrayed the secrets of the court. there seems little doubt that it was she who gave notice to pym of the king's coming to the house to seize the five members. in 1648 she appears, however, to have assisted the royalists with money for the purpose of raising a fleet to attack england, and at the restoration she was received at court, and employed herself in intriguing for the return of queen henrietta to england, which was opposed at the time by clarendon and others. soon after this, and in the year of the restoration, she died suddenly. poets of all grades, from waller downwards, have sung of her beauty, vivacity, and wit; and sir toby matthew speaks of her as "too lofty and dignified to be capable of friendship, and having too great a heart to be susceptible of love,"--an extravagance of compliment hardly satisfactory in this plain age. my lord paget, at whose house at marlow mr. lely was staying, was a prominent loyalist both in camp and council chamber. he married frances, the eldest daughter of the earl of holland, my lady diana's sister. whether or not dorothy really assisted young sir harry yelverton in his suit for the hand of fair lady ruthin we cannot say, but they were undoubtedly married. sir harry yelverton seems to have been a man of superior accomplishments and serious learning. he was at this time twenty years of age, and had been educated at st. paul's school, london, and afterwards at wadham college, oxford, under the tutorship of dr. wilkins, cromwell's brother-in-law, a learned and philosophical mathematician. he was admitted gentleman commoner in 1650, and it is said "made great proficiency in several branches of learning, being as exact a latin and grecian as any in the university of his age or time." he succeeded to his father's title soon after coming of age, and took a leading part in the politics of the day, becoming knight of the shire of northampton in the restoration parliament. he was a high tory, and a great defender of the church and its ejected ministers, one of whom, dr. thomas morton, the learned theologian, bishop of coventry and lichfield, died in his house in 1659. he wrote a discourse on the "truth and reasonableness of the religion delivered by jesus christ," a preface to dr. morton's work on episcopacy, and a vindication of the church of england against the attacks of the famous edward bagshawe. in this letter dorothy describes some husbands whom she could _not_ marry. see what she expects in a lover! have we not here some local squires hit off to the life? could george eliot herself have done more for us in like space? sir,--why are you so sullen, and why am i the cause? can you believe that i do willingly defer my journey? i know you do not. why, then, should my absence now be less supportable to you than heretofore? nay, it shall not be long (if i can help it), and i shall break through all inconveniences rather than deny you anything that lies in my power to grant. but by your own rules, then, may i not expect the same from you? is it possible that all i have said cannot oblige you to a care of yourself? what a pleasant distinction you make when you say that 'tis not melancholy makes you do these things, but a careless forgetfulness. did ever anybody forget themselves to that degree that was not melancholy in extremity? good god! how you are altered; and what is it that has done it? i have known you when of all the things in the world you would not have been taken for a discontent; you were, as i thought, perfectly pleased with your condition; what has made it so much worse since? i know nothing you have lost, and am sure you have gained a friend that is capable of the highest degree of friendship you can propound, that has already given an entire heart for that which she received, and 'tis no more in her will than in her power ever to recall it or divide it; if this be not enough to satisfy you, tell me what i can do more? there are a great many ingredients must go to the making me happy in a husband. first, as my cousin franklin says, our humours must agree; and to do that he must have that kind of breeding that i have had, and used that kind of company. that is, he must not be so much a country gentleman as to understand nothing but hawks and dogs, and be fonder of either than his wife; nor of the next sort of them whose aim reaches no further than to be justice of the peace, and once in his life high sheriff, who reads no book but statutes, and studies nothing but how to make a speech interlarded with latin that may amaze his disagreeing poor neighbours, and fright them rather than persuade them into quietness. he must not be a thing that began the world in a free school, was sent from thence to the university, and is at his furthest when he reaches the inns of court, has no acquaintance but those of his form in these places, speaks the french he has picked out of old laws, and admires nothing but the stories he has heard of the revels that were kept there before his time. he must not be a town gallant neither, that lives in a tavern and an ordinary, that cannot imagine how an hour should be spent without company unless it be in sleeping, that makes court to all the women he sees, thinks they believe him, and laughs and is laughed at equally. nor a travelled monsieur whose head is all feather inside and outside, that can talk of nothing but dances and duets, and has courage enough to wear slashes when every one else dies with cold to see him. he must not be a fool of no sort, nor peevish, nor ill-natured, nor proud, nor covetous; and to all this must be added, that he must love me and i him as much as we are capable of loving. without all this, his fortune, though never so great, would not satisfy me; and with it, a very moderate one would keep me from ever repenting my disposal. i have been as large and as particular in my descriptions as my cousin molle is in his of moor park,--but that you know the place so well i would send it you,--nothing can come near his patience in writing it, but my reading on't. would you had sent me your father's letter, it would not have been less welcome to me than to you; and you may safely believe that i am equally concerned with you in anything. i should be pleased to see something of my lady carlisle's writing, because she is so extraordinary a person. i have been thinking of sending you my picture till i could come myself; but a picture is but dull company, and that you need not; besides, i cannot tell whether it be very like me or not, though 'tis the best i ever had drawn for me, and mr. lilly [lely] will have it that he never took more pains to make a good one in his life, and that was it i think that spoiled it. he was condemned for making the first he drew for me a little worse than i, and in making this better he has made it as unlike as t'other. he is now, i think, at my lord pagett's at marloe [marlow], where i am promised he shall draw a picture of my lady for me,--she gives it me, she says, as the greatest testimony of her friendship to me, for by her own rule she is past the time of having pictures taken of her. after eighteen, she says, there is no face but decays apparently; i would fain have had her excepted such as had never been beauties, for my comfort, but she would not. when you see your friend mr. heningham, you may tell him in his ear there is a willow garland coming towards him. he might have sped better in his suit if he had made court to me, as well as to my lady ruthin. she has been my wife this seven years, and whosoever pretends there must ask my leave. i have now given my consent that she shall marry a very pretty little gentleman, sir christopher yelverton's son, and i think we shall have a wedding ere it be long. my lady her mother, in great kindness, would have recommended heningham to me, and told me in a compliment that i was fitter for him than her daughter, who was younger, and therefore did not understand the world so well; that she was certain if he knew me he would be extremely taken, for i would make just that kind of wife he looked for. i humbly thanked her, but said i was certain he would not make that kind of husband i looked for,--and so it went no further. i expect my eldest brother here shortly, whose fortune is well mended by my other brother's death, so as if he were satisfied himself with what he has done, i know no reason why he might not be very happy; but i am afraid he is not. i have not seen my sister since i knew she was so; but, sure, she can have lost no beauty, for i never saw any that she had, but good black eyes, which cannot alter. he loves her, i think, at the ordinary rate of husbands, but not enough, i believe, to marry her so much to his disadvantage if it were to do again; and that would kill me were i as she, for i could be infinitely better satisfied with a husband that had never loved me in hopes he might, than with one that began to love me less than he had done. i am yours. _letter 37._ sir,--you say i abuse you; and jane says you abuse me when you say you are not melancholy: which is to be believed? neither, i think; for i could not have said so positively (as it seems she did) that i should not be in town till my brother came back: he was not gone when she writ, nor is not yet; and if my brother peyton had come before his going, i had spoiled her prediction. but now it cannot be; he goes on monday or tuesday at farthest. i hope you did truly with me, too, in saying that you are not melancholy (though she does not believe it). i am thought so, many times, when i am not at all guilty on't. how often do i sit in company a whole day, and when they are gone am not able to give an account of six words that was said, and many times could be so much better pleased with the entertainment my own thoughts give me, that 'tis all i can do to be so civil as not to let them see they trouble me. this may be your disease. however, remember you have promised me to be careful of yourself, and that if i secure what you have entrusted me with, you will answer for the rest. be this our bargain then; and look that you give me as good an account of one as i shall give you of t'other. in earnest, i was strangely vexed to see myself forced to disappoint you so, and felt your trouble and my own too. how often i have wished myself with you, though but for a day, for an hour: i would have given all the time i am to spend here for it with all my heart. you could not but have laughed if you had seen me last night. my brother and mr. gibson were talking by the fire; and i sat by, but as no part of the company. amongst other things (which i did not at all mind), they fell into a discourse of flying; and both agreed it was very possible to find out a way that people might fly like birds, and despatch their journeys: so i, that had not said a word all night, started up at that, and desired they would say a little more on't, for i had not marked the beginning; but instead of that, they both fell into so violent a laughing, that i should appear so much concerned in such an art; but they little knew of what use it might have been to me. yet i saw you last night, but 'twas in a dream; and before i could say a word to you, or you to me, the disorder my joy to see you had put me into awakened me. just now i was interrupted, too, and called away to entertain two dumb gentlemen;--you may imagine whether i was pleased to leave my writing to you for their company;--they have made such a tedious visit, too; and i am so tired with making of signs and tokens for everything i had to say. good god! how do those that live with them always? they are brothers; and the eldest is a baronet, has a good estate, a wife and three or four children. he was my servant heretofore, and comes to see me still for old love's sake; but if he could have made me mistress of the world i could not have had him; and yet i'll swear he has nothing to be disliked in him but his want of tongue, which in a woman might have been a virtue. i sent you a part of _cyrus_ last week, where you will meet with one doralise in the story of abradah and panthée. the whole story is very good; but the humour makes the best part of it. i am of her opinion in most things that she says in her character of "_l'honnest homme_" that she is in search of, and her resolution of receiving no heart that had been offered to anybody else. pray, tell me how you like her, and what fault you find in my lady carlisle's letter? methinks the hand and the style both show her a great person, and 'tis writ in the way that's now affected by all that pretend to wit and good breeding; only, i am a little scandalized to confess that she uses that word faithful,--she that never knew how to be so in her life. i have sent you my picture because you wished for it; but, pray, let it not presume to disturb my lady sunderland's. put it in some corner where no eyes may find it out but yours, to whom it is only intended. 'tis not a very good one, but the best i shall ever have drawn of me; for, as my lady says, my time for pictures is past, and therefore i have always refused to part with this, because i was sure the next would be a worse. there is a beauty in youth that every one has once in their lives; and i remember my mother used to say there was never anybody (that was not deformed) but were handsome, to some reasonable degree, once between fourteen and twenty. it must hang with the light on the left hand of it; and you may keep it if you please till i bring you the original. but then i must borrow it (for 'tis no more mine, if you like it), because my brother is often bringing people into my closet where it hangs, to show them other pictures that are there; and if he miss this long thence, 'twould trouble his jealous head. you are not the first that has told me i knew better what quality i would not have in a husband than what i would; but it was more pardonable in them. i thought you had understood better what kind of person i liked than anybody else could possibly have done, and therefore did not think it necessary to make you that description too. those that i reckoned up were only such as i could not be persuaded to have upon no terms, though i had never seen such a person in my life as mr. temple: not but that all those may make very good husbands to some women; but they are so different from my humour that 'tis not possible we should ever agree; for though it might be reasonably enough expected that i should conform mine to theirs (to my shame be it spoken), i could never do it. and i have lived so long in the world, and so much at my own liberty, that whosoever has me must be content to take me as they find me, without hope of ever making me other than i am. i cannot so much as disguise my humour. when it was designed that i should have had sir jus., my brother used to tell he was confident that, with all his wisdom, any woman that had wit and discretion might make an ass of him, and govern him as she pleased. i could not deny that possibly it might be so, but 'twas that i was sure i could never do; and though 'tis likely i should have forced myself to so much compliance as was necessary for a reasonable wife, yet farther than that no design could ever have carried me; and i could not have flattered him into a belief that i admired him, to gain more than he and all his generation are worth. 'tis such an ease (as you say) not to be solicitous to please others: in earnest, i am no more concerned whether people think me handsome or ill-favoured, whether they think i have wit or that i have none, than i am whether they think my name elizabeth or dorothy. i would do nobody no injury; but i should never design to please above one; and that one i must love too, or else i should think it a trouble, and consequently not do it. i have made a general confession to you; will you give me absolution? methinks you should; for you are not much better by your own relation; therefore 'tis easiest to forgive one another. when you hear anything from your father, remember that i am his humble servant, and much concerned in his good health. i am yours. _letter 38._--lady isabella is lady isabella rich, my lady diana's eldest sister. she married sir james thynne. many years ago she had an intrigue with the duke of ormond, by whom she had a son, but dorothy speaks, i think, of some later scandal than this. my lady pembroke was the daughter of the earl of cumberland. she first married richard earl of dorset, and afterwards the earl of pembroke. she is described as a woman whose mind was endowed by nature with very extraordinary attributes. lord pembroke, on the other hand, according to clarendon, pretended to no other qualification "than to understand horses and dogs very well, and to be believed honest and generous." his stables vied with palaces, and his falconry was furnished at immense expense; but in his private life he was characterized by gross ignorance and vice, and his public character was marked by ingratitude and instability. the life of lady pembroke was embittered by this man for near twenty years, and she was at length compelled to separate from him. she lived alone, until her husband's death, which took place in january 1650. one can understand that they were entirely unsuited to each other, when lady pembroke in her memorials is found to write thus of her husband: "he was no scholar, having passed but three or four months at oxford, when he was taken thence after his father's death. he was of quick apprehension, sharp understanding, very crafty withal; of a discerning spirit, but a choleric nature, increased by the office he held of chamberlain to the king." why, then, did the accomplished lady anne clifford unite herself to so worthless a person? does she not answer this question for us when she writes that he was "the greatest nobleman in england"? it is of some interest to us to remember that francis osborne, dorothy's uncle (her father's youngest brother), was master of the horse to this great nobleman. whether lord and lady leicester were, as dorothy says, "in great disorder" at this time, it is impossible to say. lady leicester is said to have been of a warm and irritable temper, and lord leicester is described by clarendon as "staggering and irresolute in his nature." however, nothing is said of their quarrels; but, on the other hand, there is a very pathetic account in lord leicester's journal of his wife's death in 1659, which shows that, whatever this "disorder" may have been, a complete reconciliation was afterwards effected. sir,--you would have me say something of my coming. alas! how fain i would have something to say, but i know no more than you saw in that letter i sent you. how willingly would i tell you anything that i thought would please you; but i confess i do not like to give uncertain hopes, because i do not care to receive them. and i thought there was no need of saying i would be sure to take the first occasion, and that i waited with impatience for it, because i hoped you had believed all that already; and so you do, i am sure. say what you will, you cannot but know my heart enough to be assured that i wish myself with you, for my own sake as well as yours. 'tis rather that you love to hear me say it often, than that you doubt it; for i am no dissembler. i could not cry for a husband that were indifferent to me (like your cousin); no, nor for a husband that i loved neither. i think 'twould break my heart sooner than make me shed a tear. 'tis ordinary griefs that make me weep. in earnest, you cannot imagine how often i have been told that i had too much _franchise_ in my humour, and that 'twas a point of good breeding to disguise handsomely; but i answered still for myself, that 'twas not to be expected i should be exactly bred, that had never seen a court since i was capable of anything. yet i know so much,--that my lady carlisle would take it very ill if you should not let her get the point of honour; 'tis all she aims at, to go beyond everybody in compliment. but are you not afraid of giving me a strong vanity with telling me i write better than the most extraordinary person in the world? if i had not the sense to understand that the reason why you like my letters better is only because they are kinder than hers, such a word might have undone me. but my lady isabella, that speaks, and looks, and sings, and plays, and all so prettily, why cannot i say that she is free from faults as her sister believes her? no; i am afraid she is not, and sorry that those she has are so generally known. my brother did not bring them for an example; but i did, and made him confess she had better have married a beggar than that beast with all his estate. she cannot be excused; but certainly they run a strange hazard that have such husbands as makes them think they cannot be more undone, whatever course they take. oh, 'tis ten thousand pities! i remember she was the first woman that ever i took notice of for extremely handsome; and, in earnest, she was then the loveliest lady that could be looked on, i think. but what should she do with beauty now? were i as she, i should hide myself from all the world; i should think all people that looked on me read it in my face and despised me in their hearts; and at the same time they made me a leg, or spoke civilly to me, i should believe they did not think i deserved their respect. i'll tell you who he urged for an example though, my lord pembroke and my lady, who, they say, are upon parting after all his passion for her, and his marrying her against the consent of all his friends; but to that i answered, that though he pretended great kindness he had for her, i never heard of much she had for him, and knew she married him merely for advantage. nor is she a woman of that discretion as to do all that might become her, when she must do it rather as things fit to be done than as things she inclined to. besides that, what with a spleenatick side and a chemical head, he is but an odd body himself. but is it possible what they say, that my lord leicester and my lady are in great disorder, and that after forty years' patience he has now taken up the cudgels and resolved to venture for the mastery? methinks he wakes out of his long sleep like a froward child, that wrangles and fights with all that comes near it. they say he has turned away almost every servant in the house, and left her at penshurst to digest it as she can. what an age do we live in, where 'tis a miracle if in ten couples that are married, two of them live so as not to publish to the world that they cannot agree. i begin to be of your opinion of him that (when the roman church first propounded whether it were not convenient for priests not to marry) said that it might be convenient enough, but sure it was not our saviour's intention, for he commanded that all should take up their cross and follow him; and for his part, he was confident there was no such cross as a wife. this is an ill doctrine for me to preach; but to my friends i cannot but confess that i am afraid much of the fault lies in us; for i have observed that formerly, in great families, the men seldom disagree, but the women are always scolding; and 'tis most certain, that let the husband be what he will, if the wife have but patience (which, sure, becomes her best), the disorder cannot be great enough to make a noise; his anger alone, when it meets with nothing that resists it, cannot be loud enough to disturb the neighbours. and such a wife may be said to do as a kinswoman of ours that had a husband who was not always himself; and when he was otherwise, his humour was to rise in the night, and with two bedstaves labour on the table an hour together. she took care every night to lay a great cushion upon the table for him to strike on, that nobody might hear him, and so discover his madness. but 'tis a sad thing when all one's happiness is only that the world does not know you are miserable. for my part, i think it were very convenient that all such as intend to marry should live together in the same house some years of probation; and if, in all that time, they never disagreed, they should then be permitted to marry if they please; but how few would do it then! i do not remember that i ever saw or heard of any couple that were bred up so together (as many you know are, that are designed for one another from children), but they always disliked one another extremely; parted, if it were left in their choice. if people proceeded with this caution, the world would end sooner than is expected, i believe; and because, with all my wariness, 'tis not impossible but i may be caught, nor likely that i should be wiser than anybody else, 'twere best, i think, that i said no more on this point. what would i give to know that sister of yours that is so good at discovering; sure she is excellent company; she has reason to laugh at you when you would have persuaded her the "moss was sweet." i remember jane brought some of it to me, to ask me if i thought it had no ill smell, and whether she might venture to put it in the box or not. i told her as i thought, she could not put a more innocent thing there, for i did not find it had any smell at all; besides, i was willing it should do me some service in requital for the pains i had taken for it. my niece and i wandered through some eight hundred acres of wood in search of it, to make rocks and strange things that her head is full of, and she admires it more than you did. if she had known i had consented it should have been used to fill up a box, she would have condemned me extremely. i told jane that you liked her present, and she, i find, is resolved to spoil your compliment, and make you confess at last that they are not worth the eating; she threatens to send you more, but you would forgive her if you saw how she baits me every day to go to london; all that i can say will not satisfy her. when i urge (as 'tis true) that there is a necessity of my stay here, she grows furious, cries you will die with melancholy, and confounds me so with stories of your ill-humour, that i'll swear i think i should go merely to be at quiet, if it were possible, though there were no other reason for it. but i hope 'tis not so ill as she would have me believe it, though i know your humour is strangely altered from what it was, and am sorry to see it. melancholy must needs do you more hurt than to another to whom it may be natural, as i think it is to me; therefore if you loved me you would take heed on't. can you believe that you are dearer to me than the whole world beside, and yet neglect yourself? if you do not, you wrong a perfect friendship; and if you do, you must consider my interest in you, and preserve yourself to make me happy. promise me this, or i shall haunt you worse than she does me. scribble how you please, so you make your letter long enough; you see i give you good example; besides, i can assure you we do perfectly agree if you receive not satisfaction but from my letters, i have none but what yours give me. _letter 39._--dorothy has been in london since her last letter, but unfortunately she has either not met with temple, or he has left town suddenly whilst she was there, on some unexplained errand. this would therefore seem a natural place to begin a new chapter; but as we have very shortly to come to a series of unhappy letters, quite distinct in their character from these, i have thought fit to place in this long chapter yet a few more letters after dorothy's autumn visit to london. stephen marshall was, like hugh peters, one of those preachers who was able to exchange the obscurity of a country parish for the public fame of a london pulpit, by reason of a certain gift of rhetorical power, the value of which it is impossible to estimate to-day. such of his sermons as are still extant are prosy, long-winded, dogmatic absurdities, overloaded with periphrastic illustrations in scriptural language. they are meaningless to a degree, which would make one wonder at the docility and patience of a seventeenth century congregation, if one had not witnessed a similar spirit in congregations of to-day. there is no honest biography of stephen marshall. in the news-books and tracts of the day we find references to sermons preached by him, by command, before the army of the parliament, and we have reprints of some of these. i have searched in vain to find the sermon which dorothy heard, but it was probably not a sermon given on any great occasion, and we may believe it was never printed. there is an amusing scandalous tract, called the _life and death of stephen marshall_, which is so full of "evil speaking, lying, and slandering," as to be quite unworthy of quotation. from this we may take it, however, that he was born at gormanchester, in cromwell's county, was educated at emmanuel college, cambridge, and that before he came to london his chief cure of souls was at finchingfield in essex. these, and the records of his london preaching, are the only facts in his life's history which have come to my notice. my lord whitelocke did go to sweden, as dorothy surmises; setting sail from plymouth with one hundred honest men, on october 26, 1653, or very soon afterwards, as one may read in his journal of the progress of the embassy. that he should fill this office, appears to have been proposed to him by cromwell in september of this year. an act of parliament to abolish the chancery was indeed passed in the august of this year. well may lord keble sore lament, and the rest of the world rejoice, at such news. joseph keble was a well-known law reporter, a son of serjeant richard keble. he was a fellow of all souls, and a bencher of gray's inn; and, furthermore, was one of the lords commissioners of the great seal from 1648-1654. there was "some debate," says whitelocke, "whether they should be styled 'commissioners' or 'lords commissioners,'" and though the word _lords_ was far less acceptable at this time than formerly, yet that they might not seem to lessen their own authority, nor the honour of their office constituted by them, they voted the title to be "lords commissioners." sir,--if want of kindness were the only crime i exempted from pardon, 'twas not that i had the least apprehension you could be guilty of it; but to show you (by excepting only an impossible thing) that i excepted nothing. no, in earnest, i can fancy no such thing of you, or if i could, the quarrel would be to myself; i should never forgive my own folly that let me to choose a friend that could be false. but i'll leave this (which is not much to the purpose) and tell you how, with my usual impatience, i expected your letter, and how cold it went to my heart to see it so short a one. 'twas so great a pain to me that i am resolv'd you shall not feel it; nor can i in justice punish you for a fault unwillingly committed. if i were your enemy, i could not use you ill when i saw fortune do it too, and in gallantry and good nature both, i should think myself rather obliged to protect you from her injury (if it lay in my power) than double them upon you. these things considered, i believe this letter will be longer than ordinary,--kinder i think it cannot be. i always speak my heart to you; and that is so much your friend, it never furnishes me with anything to your disadvantage. i am glad you are an admirer of telesile as well as i; in my opinion 'tis a fine lady, but i know you will pity poor amestris strongly when you have read her story. i'll swear i cried for her when i read it first, though she were but an imaginary person; and, sure, if anything of that kind can deserve it, her misfortunes may. god forgive me, i was as near laughing yesterday where i should not. would you believe that i had the grace to go hear a sermon upon a week day? in earnest, 'tis true; a mr. marshall was the man that preached, but never anybody was so defeated. he is so famed that i expected rare things of him, and seriously i listened to him as if he had been st. paul; and what do you think he told us? why, that if there were no kings, no queens, no lords, no ladies, nor gentlemen, nor gentlewomen, in the world, 'twould be no loss to god almighty at all. this we had over some forty times, which made me remember it whether i would or not. the rest was much at this rate, interlarded with the prettiest odd phrases, that i had the most ado to look soberly enough for the place i was in that ever i had in my life. he does not preach so always, sure? if he does, i cannot believe his sermons will do much towards bringing anybody to heaven more than by exercising their patience. yet, i'll say that for him, he stood stoutly for tithes, though, in my opinion, few deserve them less than he; and it may be he would be better without them. yet you are not convinced, you say, that to be miserable is the way to be good; to some natures i think it is not, but there are many of so careless and vain a temper, that the least breath of good fortune swells them with so much pride, that if they were not put in mind sometimes by a sound cross or two that they are mortal, they would hardly think it possible; and though 'tis a sign of a servile nature when fear produces more of reverence in us than love, yet there is more danger of forgetting oneself in a prosperous fortune than in the contrary, and affliction may be the surest (though not the pleasantest) guide to heaven. what think you, might not i preach with mr. marshall for a wager? but you could fancy a perfect happiness here, you say; that is not much, many people do so; but i never heard of anybody that ever had it more than in fancy, so that will not be strange if you should miss on't. one may be happy to a good degree, i think, in a faithful friend, a moderate fortune, and a retired life; further than this i know nothing to wish; but if there be anything beyond it, i wish it you. you did not tell me what carried you out of town in such haste. i hope the occasion was good, you must account to me for all that i lost by it. i shall expect a whole packet next week. oh, me! i have forgot this once or twice to tell you, that if it be no inconvenience to you, i could wish you would change the place of direction for my letters. certainly that jones knows my name, i bespoke a saddle of him once, and though it be a good while agone, yet i was so often with him about it,--having much ado to make him understand how i would have it, it being of a fashion he had never seen, though, sure, it be common,--that i am confident he has not forgot me. besides that, upon it he got my brother's custom; and i cannot tell whether he does not use the shop still. jane presents her humble service to you, and has sent you something in a box; 'tis hard to imagine what she can find here to present you withal, and i am much in doubt whether you will not pay too dear for it if you discharge the carriage. 'tis a pretty freedom she takes, but you may thank yourself; she thinks because you call her fellow-servant, she may use you accordingly. i bred her better, but you have spoiled her. is it true that my lord whitlocke goes ambassador where my lord lisle should have gone? i know not how he may appear in a swedish court, but he was never meant for a courtier at home, i believe. yet 'tis a gracious prince; he is often in this country, and always does us the favour to send for his fruit hither. he was making a purchase of one of the best houses in the county. i know not whether he goes on with it; but 'tis such a one as will not become anything less than a lord. and there is a talk as if the chancery were going down; if so, his title goes with it, i think. 'twill be sad news for my lord keble's son; he will have nothing left to say when "my lord, my father," is taken from him. were it not better that i had nothing to say neither, than that i should entertain you with such senseless things. i hope i am half asleep, nothing else can excuse me; if i were quite asleep, i should say fine things to you; i often dream i do; but perhaps if i could remember them they are no wiser than my wakening discourses. good-night. _letter 40._--a letter has been lost; whether harrold or collins, the two carriers, were either or both of them guilty of carelessness in the delivery of these letters, it is quite impossible to say now. dorothy seems to think harrold delivered the letter, and it was mislaid in london. perhaps it was this letter, and what was written about it, that caused all those latent feelings of despair and discontent to awaken in the breasts of the two lovers. was this the spark that loneliness and absence fanned into flame? you shall judge for yourself, reader, in the next chapter. sir,--that you may be at more certainty hereafter what to think, let me tell you that nothing could hinder me from writing to you (as well for my own satisfaction as yours) but an impossibility of doing it; nothing but death or a dead palsy in my hands, or something that had the same effect. i did write it, and gave it harrold, but by an accident his horse fell lame, so that he could not set out on monday; but on tuesday he did come to town; on wednesday, carried the letter himself (as he tells me) where 'twas directed, which was to mr. copyn in fleet street. 'twas the first time i made use of that direction; no matter and i had not done it then, since it proves no better. harrold came late home on thursday night with such an account as your boy gave you: that coming out of town the same day he came in, he had been at fleet street again, but there was no letter for him. i was sorry, but i did not much wonder at it because he gave so little time, and resolved to make my best of that i had by collins. i read it over often enough to make it equal with the longest letter that ever was writ, and pleased myself, in earnest (as much as it was possible for me in the humour i was in), to think how by that time you had asked me pardon for the little reproaches you had made me, and that the kindness and length of my letter had made you amends for the trouble it had given you in expecting it. but i am not a little annoyed to find you had it not. i am very confident it was delivered, and therefore you must search where the fault lies. were it not that you had suffered too much already, i would complain a little of you. why should you think me so careless of anything that you were concerned in, as to doubt that i had writ? though i had received none from you, i should not have taken that occasion to revenge myself. nay, i should have concluded you innocent, and have imagined a thousand ways how it might happen, rather than have suspected your want of kindness. why should not you be as just to me? but i will not chide, it may be (as long as we have been friends) you do not know me so well yet as to make an absolute judgment of me; but if i know myself at all, if i am capable of being anything, 'tis a perfect friend. yet i must chide too. why did you get such a cold? good god! how careless you are of a life that (by your own confession) i have told you makes all the happiness of mine. 'tis unkindly done. what is left for me to say, when that will not prevail with you; or how can you persuade me to a cure of myself, when you refuse to give me the example? i have nothing in the world that gives me the least desire of preserving myself, but the opinion i have you would not be willing to lose me; and yet, if you saw with what caution i live (at least to what i did before), you would reproach it to yourself sometimes, and might grant, perhaps, that you have not got the advantage of me in friendship so much as you imagine. what (besides your consideration) could oblige me to live and lose all the rest of my friends thus one after another? sure i am not insensible nor very ill-natured, and yet i'll swear i think i do not afflict myself half so much as another would do that had my losses. i pay nothing of sadness to the memory of my poor brother, but i presently disperse it with thinking what i owe in thankfulness that 'tis not you i mourn for. well, give me no more occasions to complain of you, you know not what may follow. here was mr. freeman yesterday that made me a very kind visit, and said so many fine things to me, that i was confounded with his civilities, and had nothing to say for myself. i could have wished then that he had considered me less and my niece more; but if you continue to use me thus, in earnest, i'll not be so much her friend hereafter. methinks i see you laugh at all my threatenings; and not without reason. mr. freeman, you believe, is designed for somebody that deserves him better. i think so too, and am not sorry for it; and you have reason to believe i never can be other than your faithful friend. chapter iv 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? chapter v the last of chicksands. february and march 1654 the quarrel is over, happily over, and dorothy and temple are more than reconciled again. temple has been down to chicksands to see her, and some more definite arrangement has been come to between them. dorothy has urged temple to go to ireland and join his father, who has once again taken possession of his office of master of the rolls. as soon as an appointment can be found for temple they are to be married--that is, as far as one can gather, the state of affairs between them; but it would seem as if nothing of this was as yet to be known to the outer world, not even to dorothy's brother. _letter 48._ sir,--'tis but an hour since you went, and i am writing to you already; is not this kind? how do you after your journey; are you not weary; do you not repent that you took it to so little purpose? well, god forgive me, and you too, you made me tell a great lie. i was fain to say you came only to take your leave before you went abroad; and all this not only to keep quiet, but to keep him from playing the madman; for when he has the least suspicion, he carries it so strangely that all the world takes notice on't, and so often guess at the reason, or else he tells it. now, do but you judge whether if by mischance he should discover the truth, whether he would not rail most sweetly at me (and with some reason) for abusing him. yet you helped to do it; a sadness that he discovered at your going away inclined him to believe you were ill satisfied, and made him credit what i said. he is kind now in extremity, and i would be glad to keep him so till a discovery is absolutely necessary. your going abroad will confirm him much in his belief, and i shall have nothing to torment me in this place but my own doubts and fears. here i shall find all the repose i am capable of, and nothing will disturb my prayers and wishes for your happiness which only can make mine. your journey cannot be to your disadvantage neither; you must needs be pleased to visit a place you are so much concerned in, and to be a witness yourself of your hopes, though i will believe you need no other inducements to this voyage than my desiring it. i know you love me, and you have no reason to doubt my kindness. let us both have patience to wait what time and fortune will do for us; they cannot hinder our being perfect friends. lord, there were a thousand things i remembered after you were gone that i should have said, and now i am to write not one of them will come into my head. sure as i live it is not settled yet! good god! the fears and surprises, the crosses and disorders of that day, 'twas confused enough to be a dream, and i am apt to think sometimes it was no more. but no, i saw you; when i shall do it again, god only knows! can there be a romancer story than ours would make if the conclusion prove happy? ah! i dare not hope it; something that i cannot describe draws a cloud over all the light my fancy discovers sometimes, and leaves me so in the dark with all my fears about me that i tremble to think on't. but no more of this sad talk. who was that, mr. dr. told you i should marry? i cannot imagine for my life; tell me, or i shall think you made it to excuse yourself. did not you say once you knew where good french tweezers were to be had? pray send me a pair; they shall cut no love. before you go i must have a ring from you, too, a plain gold one; if i ever marry it shall be my wedding ring; when i die i'll give it you again. what a dismal story this is you sent me; but who could expect better from a love begun upon such grounds? i cannot pity neither of them, they were both so guilty. yes, they are the more to be pitied for that. here is a note comes to me just now, will you do this service for a fine lady that is my friend; have not i taught her well, she writes better than her mistress? how merry and pleased she is with her marrying because there is a plentiful fortune; otherwise she would not value the man at all. this is the world; would you and i were out of it: for, sure, we were not made to live in it. do you remember arme and the little house there? shall we go thither? that's next to being out of the world. there we might live like baucis and philemon, grow old together in our little cottage, and for our charity to some shipwrecked strangers obtain the blessing of dying both at the same time. how idly i talk; 'tis because the story pleases me--none in ovid so much. i remember i cried when i read it. methought they were the perfectest characters of a contented marriage, where piety and love were all their wealth, and in their poverty feasted the gods when rich men shut them out. i am called away,--farewell! your faithful. _letter 49._--the beginning of this letter is lost, and with it, perhaps, the name of dorothy's lover who had written some verses on her beauty. however, we have the "tag" of them, with which we must rest content. ... 'tis pity i cannot show you what his wit could do upon so ill a subject, but my lady ruthin keeps them to abuse me withal, and has put a tune to them that i may hear them all manner of ways; and yet i do protest i remember nothing more of them than this lame piece,- a stately and majestic brow, of force to make protectors bow. indeed, if i have any stately looks i think he has seen them, but yet it seems they could not keep him from playing the fool. my lady grey told me that one day talking of me to her (as he would find ways to bring in that discourse by the head and shoulders, whatsoever anybody else could interpose), he said he wondered i did not marry. she (that understood him well enough, but would not seem to do so) said she knew not, unless it were that i liked my present condition so well that i did not care to change it; which she was apt to believe, because to her knowledge i had refused very good fortunes, and named some so far beyond his reach, that she thought she had dashed all his hopes. but he, confident still, said 'twas perhaps that i had no fancy to their persons (as if his own were so taking), that i was to be looked upon as one that had it in my power to please myself, and that perhaps in a person i liked would bate something of fortune. to this my lady answered again for me, that 'twas not impossible but i might do so, but in that point she thought me nice and curious enough. and still to dishearten him the more, she took occasion (upon his naming some gentlemen of the county that had been talked of heretofore as of my servants, and are since disposed of) to say (very plainly) that 'twas true they had some of them pretended, but there was an end of my bedfordshire servants she was sure there were no more that could be admitted into the number. after all this (which would have satisfied an ordinary young man) did i this last thursday receive a letter from him by collins, which he sent first to london that it might come thence to me. i threw it into the fire; and do you but keep my counsel, nobody shall ever know that i had it; and my gentleman shall be kept at such a distance as i hope to hear no more of him. yet i'll swear of late i have used him so near to rudely that there is little left for me to do. fye! what a deal of paper i have spent upon this idle fellow; if i had thought his story would have proved so long you should have missed on't, and the loss would not have been great. i have not thanked you yet for my tweezers and essences; they are both very good. i kept one of the little glasses myself; remember my ring, and in return, if i go to london whilst you are in ireland, i'll have my picture taken in little and send it you. the sooner you despatch away will be the better, i think, since i have no hopes of seeing you before you go; there lies all your business, your father and fortune must do all the rest. i cannot be more yours than i am. you are mistaken if you think i stand in awe of my brother. no, i fear nobody's anger. i am proof against all violence; but when people haunt me with reasoning and entreaties, when they look sadly and pretend kindness, when they beg upon that score, 'tis a strange pain to me to deny. when he rants and renounces me, i can despise him; but when he asks my pardon, with tears pleads to me the long and constant friendship between us, and calls heaven to witness that nothing upon earth is dear to him in comparison of me, then, i confess, i feel a stronger unquietness within me, and i would do anything to evade his importunity. nothing is so great a violence to me as that which moves my compassion. i can resist with ease any sort of people but beggars. if this be a fault in me, 'tis at least a well-natured one; and therefore i hope you will forgive it me, you that can forgive me anything, you say, and be displeased with nothing whilst i love you; may i never be pleased with anything when i do not. yet i could beat you for writing this last strange letter; was there ever anything said like? if i had but a vanity that the world should admire me, i would not care what they talked of me. in earnest, i believe there is nobody displeased that people speak well of them, and reputation is esteemed by all of much greater value than life itself. yet let me tell you soberly, that with all my vanity i could be very well contented nobody should blame me or any action of mine, to quit all my part of the praises and admiration of the world; and if i might be allowed to choose, my happiest part of it should consist in concealment, there should not be above two persons in the world know that there was such a one in it as your faithful. stay! i have not done yet. here's another good side, i find; here, then, i'll tell you that i am not angry for all this. no, i allow it to your ill-humour, and that to the crosses that have been common to us; but now that is cleared up, i should expect you should say finer things to me. yet take heed of being like my neighbour's servant, he is so transported to find no rubs in his way that he knows not whether he stands on his head or his feet. 'tis the most troublesome, busy talking little thing that ever was born; his tongue goes like the clack of a mill, but to much less purpose, though if it were all oracle, my head would ache to hear that perpetual noise. i admire at her patience and her resolution that can laugh at his fooleries and love his fortune. you would wonder to see how tired she is with his impertinences, and yet how pleased to think she shall have a great estate with him. but this is the world, and she makes a part of it betimes. two or three great glistening jewels have bribed her to wink at all his faults, and she hears him as unmoved and unconcerned as if another were to marry him. what think you, have i not done fair for once, would you wish a longer letter? see how kind i grow at parting; who would not go into ireland to have such another? in earnest now, go as soon as you can, 'twill be the better, i think, who am your faithful friend. _letter 50._--wrest, in bedfordshire, where dorothy met her importunate lover, was the seat of anthony grey, earl of kent. there is said to be a picture there of sir william temple,--a copy of lely's picture. wrest park is only a few miles from chicksands. sir,--who would be kind to one that reproaches one so cruelly? do you think, in earnest, i could be satisfied the world should think me a dissembler, full of avarice or ambition? no, you are mistaken; but i'll tell you what i could suffer, that they should say i married where i had no inclination, because my friends thought it fit, rather than that i had run wilfully to my own ruin in pursuit of a fond passion of my own. to marry for love were no reproachful thing if we did not see that of the thousand couples that do it, hardly one can be brought for an example that it may be done and not repented afterwards. is there anything thought so indiscreet, or that makes one more contemptible? 'tis true that i do firmly believe we should be, as you say, _toujours les mesmes_; but if (as you confess) 'tis that which hardly happens once in two ages, we are not to expect the world should discern we were not like the rest. i'll tell you stories another time, you return them so handsomely upon me. well, the next servant i tell you of shall not be called a whelp, if 'twere not to give you a stick to beat myself with. i would confess that i looked upon the impudence of this fellow as a punishment upon me for my over care in avoiding the talk of the world; yet the case is very different, and no woman shall ever be blamed that an inconsolable person pretends to her when she gives no allowance to it, whereas none shall 'scape that owns a passion, though in return of a person much above her. the little tailor that loved queen elizabeth was suffered to talk out, and none of her council thought it necessary to stop his mouth; but the queen of sweden's kind letter to the king of scots was intercepted by her own ambassador, because he thought it was not for his mistress's honour (at least that was his pretended reason), and thought justifiable enough. but to come to my beagle again. i have heard no more of him, though i have seen him since; we met at wrest again. i do not doubt but i shall be better able to resist his importunity than his tutor was; but what do you think it is that gives him his encouragement? he was told i had thought of marrying a gentleman that had not above two hundred pound a year, only out of my liking to his person. and upon that score his vanity allows him to think he may pretend as far as another. thus you see 'tis not altogether without reason that i apprehend the noise of the world, since 'tis so much to my disadvantage. is it in earnest that you say your being there keeps me from the town? if so, 'tis very unkind. no, if i had gone, it had been to have waited on my neighbour, who has now altered her resolution and goes not herself. i have no business there, and am so little taken with the place that i could sit here seven years without so much as thinking once of going to it. 'tis not likely, as you say, that you should much persuade your father to what you do not desire he should do; but it is hard if all the testimonies of my kindness are not enough to satisfy without my publishing to the world that i can forget my friends and all my interest to follow my passion; though, perhaps, it will admit of a good sense, 'tis that which nobody but you or i will give it, and we that are concerned in't can only say 'twas an act of great kindness and something romance, but must confess it had nothing of prudence, discretion, nor sober counsel in't. 'tis not that i expect, by all your father's offers, to bring my friends to approve it. i don't deceive myself thus far, but i would not give them occasion to say that i hid myself from them in the doing it; nor of making my action appear more indiscreet than it is. it will concern me that all the world should know what fortune you have, and upon what terms i marry you, that both may not be made to appear ten times worse than they are. 'tis the general custom of all people to make those that are rich to have more mines of gold than are in the indies, and such as have small fortunes to be beggars. if an action take a little in the world, it shall be magnified and brought into comparison with what the heroes or senators of rome performed; but, on the contrary, if it be once condemned, nothing can be found ill enough to compare it with; and people are in pain till they find out some extravagant expression to represent the folly on't. only there is this difference, that as all are more forcibly inclined to ill than good, they are much apter to exceed in detraction than in praises. have i not reason then to desire this from you; and may not my friendship have deserved it? i know not; 'tis as you think; but if i be denied it, you will teach me to consider myself. 'tis well the side ended here. if i had not had occasion to stop there, i might have gone too far, and showed that i had more passions than one. yet 'tis fit you should know all my faults, lest you should repent your bargain when 'twill not be in your power to release yourself; besides, i may own my ill-humour to you that cause it; 'tis the discontent my crosses in this business have given me makes me thus peevish. though i say it myself, before i knew you i was thought as well an humoured young person as most in england; nothing displeased, nothing troubled me. when i came out of france, nobody knew me again. i was so altered, from a cheerful humour that was always alike, never over merry but always pleased, i was grown heavy and sullen, froward and discomposed; and that country which usually gives people a jolliness and gaiety that is natural to the climate, had wrought in me so contrary effects that i was as new a thing to them as my clothes. if you find all this to be sad truth hereafter, remember that i gave you fair warning. here is a ring: it must not be at all wider than this, which is rather too big for me than otherwise; but that is a good fault, and counted lucky by superstitious people. i am not so, though: 'tis indifferent whether there be any word in't or not; only 'tis as well without, and will make my wearing it the less observed. you must give nan leave to cut a lock of your hair for me, too. oh, my heart! what a sigh was there! i will not tell you how many this journey causes; nor the fear and apprehensions i have for you. no, i long to be rid of you, am afraid you will not go soon enough: do not you believe this? no, my dearest, i know you do not, whate'er you say, you cannot doubt that i am yours. _letter 51._--lady newport was the wife of the earl of newport, and mother of lady anne blunt of whom we heard something in former letters. she is mentioned as a prominent leader of london society. in march 1652 she is granted a pass to leave the country, on condition that she gives security to do nothing prejudicial to the state; from which we may draw the inference that she was a political notability. my lady devonshire was christian, daughter of lord bruce of kinloss. she married william cavendish, second earl of devonshire. her daughter anne married lord rich, and died suddenly in 1638. pomfret, godolphin, and falkland celebrated her virtues in verse, and waller wrote her funeral hymn, which is still known to some of us,- the lady rich is dead. heartrending news! and dreadful to those few who her resemble and her steps pursue, that death should license have to range among the fair, the wise, the virtuous, and the young. it was the only son of lady rich who married frances cromwell. lord warwick was the father of robert, lord rich, and we may gather from this letter that, at lady devonshire's instigation, he had interfered in a proposed second marriage between his son and some fair unknown. _parthenissa_ is only just out. it is the latest thing in literary circles. we find it advertised in _mercurius politicus_, 19th january 1654:--"_parthenissa_, that most famous romance, composed by the lord broghill, and dedicated to the lady northumberland." it is a romance of the style of _cléopâtre_ and _cyrus_, to enjoy which in the nineteenth century would require a curious and acquired taste. _l'illustre bassa_ was a romance of scudéri; and the passage in the epistle to which dorothy refers,--we quote it from a translation by one henry cogan, 1652,--runs as follows: "and if you see not my hero persecuted with love by women, it is not because he was not amiable, and that he could not be loved, but because it would clash with civility in the persons of ladies, and with true resemblance in that of men, who rarely show themselves cruel unto them, nor in doing it could have any good grace." sir,--the lady was in the right. you are a very pretty gentleman and a modest; were there ever such stories as these you tell? the best on't is, i believe none of them unless it be that of my lady newport, which i must confess is so like her that if it be not true 'twas at least excellently well fancied. but my lord rich was not caught, tho' he was near it. my lady devonshire, whose daughter his first wife was, has engaged my lord warwick to put a stop to the business. otherwise, i think his present want of fortune, and the little sense of honour he has, might have been prevailed on to marry her. 'tis strange to see the folly that possesses the young people of this age, and the liberty they take to themselves. i have the charity to believe they appear very much worse than they are, and that the want of a court to govern themselves by is in great part the cause of their ruin; though that was no perfect school of virtue, yet vice there wore her mask, and appeared so unlike herself that she gave no scandal. such as were really discreet as they seemed to be gave good example, and the eminency of their condition made others strive to imitate them, or at least they durst not own a contrary course. all who had good principles and inclinations were encouraged in them, and such as had neither were forced to put on a handsome disguise that they might not be out of countenance at themselves. 'tis certain (what you say) that where divine or human laws are not positive we may be our own judges; nobody can hinder us, nor is it in itself to be blamed. but, sure, it is not safe to take all liberty that is allowed us,--there are not many that are sober enough to be trusted with the government of themselves; and because others judge us with more severity than our indulgence to ourselves will permit, it must necessarily follow that 'tis safer being ruled by their opinions than by our own. i am disputing again, though you told me my fault so plainly. i'll give it over, and tell you that _parthenissa_ is now my company. my brother sent it down, and i have almost read it. 'tis handsome language; you would know it to be writ by a person of good quality though you were not told it; but, on the whole, i am not very much taken with it. all the stories have too near a resemblance with those of other romances, there is nothing new or _surprenant_ in them; the ladies are all so kind they make no sport, and i meet only with one that took me by doing a handsome thing of the kind. she was in a besieged town, and persuaded all those of her sex to go out with her to the enemy (which were a barbarous people) and die by their swords, that the provisions of the town might last the longer for such as were able to do service in defending it. but how angry was i to see him spoil this again by bringing out a letter this woman left behind her for the governor of the town, where she discovers a passion for him, and makes _that_ the reason why she did it. i confess i have no patience for our _faiseurs de romance_ when they make a woman court. it will never enter into my head that 'tis possible any woman can love where she is not first loved, and much less that if they should do that, they could have the face to own it. methinks he that writes _l'illustre bassa_ says well in his epistle that we are not to imagine his hero to be less taking than those of other romances because the ladies do not fall in love with him whether he will or not. 'twould be an injury to the ladies to suppose they could do so, and a greater to his hero's civility if he should put him upon being cruel to them, since he was to love but one. another fault i find, too, in the style--'tis affected. _ambitioned_ is a great word with him, and _ignore_; _my concern_, or of _great concern_, is, it seems, properer than _concernment_: and though he makes his people say fine handsome things to one another, yet they are not easy and _naïve_ like the french, and there is a little harshness in most of the discourse that one would take to be the fault of a translator rather than of an author. but perhaps i like it the worse for having a piece of _cyrus_ by me that i am hugely pleased with, and that i would fain have you read: i'll send it you. at least read one story that i'll mark you down, if you have time for no more. i am glad you stay to wait on your sister. i would have my gallant civil to all, much more when it is so due, and kindness too. i have the cabinet, and 'tis in earnest a pretty one; though you will not own it for a present, i'll keep it as one, and 'tis like to be yours no more but as 'tis mine. i'll warrant you would ne'er have thought of making me a present of charcoal as my servant james would have done, to warm my heart i think he meant it. but the truth is, i had been inquiring for some (as 'tis a commodity scarce enough in this country), and he hearing it, told the baily [bailiff?] he would give him some if 'twere for me. but this is not all. i cannot forbear telling you the other day he made me a visit, and i, to prevent his making discourse to me, made mrs. goldsmith and jane sit by all the while. but he came better provided than i could have imagined. he brought a letter with him, and gave it me as one he had met with directed to me, he thought it came out of northamptonshire. i was upon my guard, and suspecting all he said, examined him so strictly where he had it before i would open it, that he was hugely confounded, and i confirmed that 'twas his. i laid it by and wished that they would have left us, that i might have taken notice on't to him. but i had forbid it them so strictly before, that they offered not to stir farther than to look out of window, as not thinking there was any necessity of giving us their eyes as well as their ears; but he that saw himself discovered took that time to confess to me (in a whispering voice that i could hardly hear myself) that the letter (as my lord broghill says) was of _great concern_ to him, and begged i would read it, and give him my answer. i took it up presently, as if i had meant it, but threw it, sealed as it was, into the fire, and told him (as softly as he had spoke to me) i thought that the quickest and best way of answering it. he sat awhile in great disorder, without speaking a word, and so ris and took his leave. now what think you, shall i ever hear of him more? you do not thank me for using your rival so scurvily nor are not jealous of him, though your father thinks my intentions were not handsome towards you, which methinks is another argument that one is not to be one's own judge; for i am very confident they were, and with his favour shall never believe otherwise. i am sure i have no ends to serve of my own in what i did,--it could be no advantage to me that had firmly resolved not to marry; but i thought it might be an injury to you to keep you in expectation of what was never likely to be, as i apprehended. why do i enter into this wrangling discourse? let your father think me what he pleases, if he ever comes to know me, the rest of my actions shall justify me in this; if he does not, i'll begin to practise on him (what you so often preached to me) to neglect the report of the world, and satisfy myself in my own innocency. 'twill 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 compliments, i never saw finer hair, nor of a better colour; but cut no more on't, i would not have it spoiled for the world. if you love me, be careful on't. i am combing, and curling, and kissing this lock all day, and dreaming on't all night. the ring, too, is very well, only a little of the biggest. send me a tortoise one that is a little less than that i sent for a pattern. i would not have the rule so absolutely true without exception that hard hairs be 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 yours. _letter 52._--it is interesting to find dorothy reading the good jeremy taylor's _holy living_, a book too little known in this day. for amidst its old-fashioned piety there are many sentiments of practical goodness, expressed with clear insistence, combined with a quaint grace of literary style which we have long ago cast aside in the pursuit of other things. dorothy loved this book, and knew it well. compare the following extract from the chapter on christian justice with what dorothy has written in this letter. has she been recently reading this passage? perhaps she has; but more probably it is the recollection of what is well known that she is reproducing from a memory not unstored with such learning. thus writes dr. taylor: "there is very great peace and immunity from sin in resigning our wills up to the command of others: for, provided our duty to god be secured, their commands are warrants to us in all things else; and the case of conscience is determined, if the command be evident and pressing: and it is certain, the action that is but indifferent and without reward, if done only upon our own choice, is an action of duty and of religion, and rewardable by the grace and favour of god, if done in obedience to the command of our superiors." little and great brickhill, where temple is to receive a letter from dorothy, kindly favoured by mr. gibson, stand due west of chicksands some seventeen miles, and about forty-six miles along the high-road from london to chester. temple would probably arrange to stay there, receive dorothy's letter, and send one in return. dorothy has apparently tired of calprenède and scudéri, of _cléopâtre_ and _cyrus_, and has turned to travels to amuse her. fernando mendez pinto did, i believe, actually visit china, and is said to have landed in the gulf of pekin. what he writes of china seems to bear some resemblance to what later writers have said. it is hard to say how and where his conversations with the chinese were carried on, as he himself admits that he did not understand one word of the language. lady grey's sister, mrs. pooley, is unknown to history. of mr. fish we know, as has already been said, nothing more than that he was dorothy's lover, and a native of bedfordshire, probably her near neighbour. james b---must be another lover, and he is altogether untraceable. mrs. goldsmith is, as you will remember, wife of the vicar of campton. the valentine stories will date this letter for us as written in the latter half of february. sir,--they say you gave order for this waste-paper; how do you think i could ever fill it, or with what? i am not always in the humour to wrangle and dispute. for example now, i had rather agree to what you say, than tell you that dr. taylor (whose devote you must know i am) says there is a great advantage to be gained in resigning up one's will to the command of another, because the same action which in itself is wholly indifferent, if done upon our own choice, becomes an act of duty and religion if done in obedience to the command of any person whom nature, the laws, or ourselves have given a power over us; so that though in an action already done we can only be our own judges, because we only know with what intentions it was done, yet in any we intend, 'tis safest, sure, to take the advice of another. let me practise this towards you as well as preach it to you, and i'll lay a wager you will approve on't. but i am chiefly of your opinion that contentment (which the spanish proverb says is the best paint) gives the lustre to all one's enjoyment, puts a beauty upon things which without it would have none, increases it extremely where 'tis already in some degree, and without it, all that we call happiness besides loses its property. what is contentment, must be left to every particular person to judge for themselves, since they only know what is so to them which differs in all according to their several humours. only you and i agree 'tis to be found by us in a true friend, a moderate fortune, and a retired life; the last i thank god i have in perfection. my cell is almost finished, and when you come back you'll find me in it, and bring me both the rest i hope. i find it much easier to talk of your coming back than your going. you shall never persuade me i send you this journey. no, pray let it be your father's commands, or a necessity your fortune puts upon you. 'twas unkindly said to tell me i banish you; your heart never told it you, i dare swear; nor mine ne'er thought it. no, my dear, this is our last misfortune, let's bear it nobly. nothing shows we deserve a punishment so much as our murmuring at it; and the way to lessen those we feel, and to 'scape those we fear, is to suffer patiently what is imposed, making a virtue of necessity. 'tis not that i have less kindness or more courage than you, but that mistrusting myself more (as i have more reason), i have armed myself all that is possible against this occasion. i have thought that there is not much difference between your being at dublin or at london, as our affairs stand. you can write and hear from the first, and i should not see you sooner if you continued still at the last. besides, i hope this journey will be of advantage to us; when your father pressed your coming over he told you, you needed not doubt either his power or his will. have i done anything since that deserves he should alter his intentions towards us? or has any accident lessened his power? if neither, we may hope to be happy, and the sooner for this journey. i dare not send my boy to meet you at brickhill nor any other of the servants, they are all too talkative. but i can get mr. gibson, if you will, to bring you a letter. 'tis a civil, well-natured man as can be, of excellent principles and exact honesty. i durst make him my confessor, though he is not obliged by his orders to conceal anything that is told him. but you must tell me then which brickhill it is you stop at, little or great; they are neither of them far from us. if you stay there you will write back by him, will you not, a long letter? i shall need it; besides that, you owe it me for the last being so short. would you saw what letters my brother writes me; you are not half so kind. well, he is always in the extremes; since our last quarrel he has courted me more than ever he did in his life, and made me more presents, which, considering his humour, is as great a testimony of his kindness as 'twas of mr. smith's to my lady sunderland when he presented mrs. camilla. he sent me one this week which, in earnest, is as pretty a thing as i have seen, a china trunk, and the finest of the kind that e'er i saw. by the way (this puts me in mind on't), have you read the story of china written by a portuguese, fernando mendez pinto, i think his name is? if you have not, take it with you, 'tis as diverting a book of the kind as ever i read, and is as handsomely written. you must allow him the privilege of a traveller, and he does not abuse it. his lies are as pleasant harmless ones, as lies can be, and in no great number considering the scope he has for them. there is one in dublin now, that ne'er saw much farther, has told me twice as many (i dare swear) of ireland. if i should ever live to see that country and be in't, i should make excellent sport with them. 'tis a sister of my lady grey's, her name is pooley; her husband lives there too, but i am afraid in no very good condition. they were but poor, and she lived here with her sisters when i knew her; 'tis not half a year since she went, i think. if you hear of her, send me word how she makes a shift there. and hark you, can you tell me whether the gentleman that lost a crystal box the 1st of february in st. james' park or old spring gardens has found it again or not, i have strong curiosity to know? tell me, and i'll tell you something that you don't know, which is, that i am your valentine and you are mine. i did not think of drawing any, but mrs. goldsmith and jane would need make me some for them and myself; so i writ down our three names, and for men mr. fish, james b., and you. i cut them all equal and made them up myself before them, and because i would owe it wholly to my good fortune if i were pleased. i made both them choose first that had never seen what was in them, and they left me you. then i made them choose again for theirs, and my name was left. you cannot imagine how i was delighted with this little accident, but by taking notice that i cannot forbear telling you it. i was not half so pleased with my encounter next morning. i was up early, but with no design of getting another valentine, and going out to walk in my night-cloak and night-gown, i met mr. fish going a hunting, i think he was; but he stayed to tell me i was his valentine; and i should not have been rid on him quickly, if he had not thought himself a little too _negligée_; his hair was not powdered, and his clothes were but ordinary; to say truth, he looked then methought like other mortal people. yet he was as handsome as your valentine. i'll swear you wanted one when you took her, and had very ill fortune that nobody met you before her. oh, if i had not terrified my little gentleman when he brought me his own letter, now sure i had had him for my valentine! on my conscience, i shall follow your counsel if e'er he comes again, but i am persuaded he will not. i writ my brother that story for want of something else, and he says i did very well, there was no other way to be rid on him; and he makes a remark upon't that i can be severe enough when i please, and wishes i would practise it somewhere else as well as there. can you tell where that is? i never understand anybody that does not speak plain english, and he never uses that to me of late, but tells me the finest stories (i may apply them how i please) of people that have married when they thought there was great kindness, and how miserably they have found themselves deceived; how despicable they have made themselves by it, and how sadly they have repented on't. he reckons more inconveniency than you do that follows good nature, says it makes one credulous, apt to be abused, betrays one to the cunning of people that make advantage on't, and a thousand such things which i hear half asleep and half awake, and take little notice of, unless it be sometimes to say that with all these faults i would not be without it. no, in earnest, nor i could not love any person that i thought had it not to a good degree. 'twas the first thing i liked in you, and without it i should never have liked anything. i know 'tis counted simple, but i cannot imagine why. 'tis true some people have it that have not wit, but there are at least as many foolish people i have ever observed to be fullest of tricks, little ugly plots and designs, unnecessary disguises, and mean cunnings, which are the basest qualities in the world, and makes one the most contemptible, i think; when i once discover them they lose their credit with me for ever. some will say they are cunning only in their own defence, and that there is no living in this world without it; but i cannot understand how anything more is necessary to one's own safety besides a prudent caution; that i now think is, though i can remember when nobody could have persuaded me that anybody meant ill when it did not appear by their words and actions. i remember my mother (who, if it may be allowed me to say it) was counted as wise a woman as most in england,--when she seemed to distrust anybody, and saw i took notice on't, would ask if i did not think her too jealous and a little ill-natured. "come, i know you do," says she, "if you would confess it, and i cannot blame you. when i was young as you are, i thought my father-in-law (who was a wise man) the most unreasonably suspicious man that ever was, and disliked him for it hugely; but i have lived to see it is almost impossible to think people worse than they are, and so will you." i did not believe her, and less, that i should have more to say to you than this paper would hold. it shall never be said i began another at this time of night, though i have spent this idly, that should have told you with a little more circumstance how perfectly i am yours. _letter 53._--dorothy's brother seems to have got hold of a new weapon of attack in temple's religious opinions, which might have led to a strategic success in more skilful hands. he only manages to exasperate dorothy with himself, not with temple. as for temple, he has not altogether escaped the censure of the orthodox. gossiping bishop burnet, in one of his more ill-natured passages, tells us that temple was an epicurean, thinking religion to be fit only for the mob, and a corrupter of all that came near him. unkind words these, with just, perhaps, those dregs of truth in them which make gossip so hard to bear patiently. was it true, as courtenay thinks, that jealousy of king william's attachment to temple disturbed the episcopal equipoise of soul, rendering his lordship slanderous, even a backbiter? robin c. is probably one of the cheeke family. bagshawe is edward bagshawe the elder, b.a. of brasenose, oxford, and of the middle temple, barrister-at-law. in the early part of the century he had been a puritan among puritans, and in the old hall of the middle temple had delivered two lectures to show that bishops may not meddle in civil affairs, and that a parliament may be held without bishops; questions still unsettled. laud appears to have prohibited these lectures. bagshawe in after life joined the king at oxford, and suffered imprisonment at the hands of his former friends in the king's bench prison from 1644 to 1646. young sir harry yelverton, lady ruthin's husband, broke a theological lance with his son, the younger edward bagshawe, to vindicate the cause of the church of england. the elder bagshawe died in 1662, and was buried at morton pinckney, in northamptonshire. how and why he railed at love and marriage it is impossible now to know. edward bagshawe the younger published in 1671 an _antidote against mr. baxter's treatise of love and marriage_. the preaching woman at somerset house was, in all probability, mrs. hannah trupnel. she, that in april of this year is spoken of, in an old news-book, as having "lately acted her part in a trance so many days at whitehall." she appears to have been full of mystical, anti-puritan prophecies, and was indicted in cornwall as a rogue and vagabond, convicted and bound over in recognizances to behave herself in future. after this she abandoned her design of passing from county to county disaffecting the people with her prophecies, and we hear no more of her. sir,--'tis well you have given over your reproaches; i can allow you to tell me of my faults kindly and like a friend. possibly it is a weakness in me to aim at the world's esteem, as if i could not be happy without it; but there are certain things that custom has made almost of absolute necessity, and reputation i take to be one of these. if one could be invisible i should choose that; but since all people are seen or known, and shall be talked of in spite of their teeth, who is it that does not desire, at least, that nothing of ill may be said of them, whether justly or otherwise? i never knew any so satisfied with their own innocence as to be content that the world should think them guilty. some out of pride have seemed to contemn ill reports when they have found they could not avoid them, but none out of strength of reason, though many have pretended to it. no, not my lady newcastle with all her philosophy, therefore you must not expect it from me. i shall never be ashamed to own that i have a particular value for you above any other, but 'tis not the greatest merit of person will excuse a want of fortune; in some degree i think it will, at least with the most rational part of the world, and, as far as that will read, i desire it should. i would not have the world believe i married out of interest and to please my friends; i had much rather they should know i chose the person, and took his fortune, because 'twas necessary, and that i prefer a competency with one i esteem infinitely before a vast estate in other hands. 'tis much easier, sure, to get a good fortune than a good husband; but whosoever marries without any consideration of fortune shall never be allowed to do it, but of so reasonable an apprehension the whole world (without any reserve) shall pronounce they did it merely to satisfy their giddy humour. besides, though you imagine 'twere a great argument of my kindness to consider nothing but you, in earnest i believe 'twould be an injury to you. i do not see that it puts any value upon men when women marry them for love (as they term it); 'tis not their merit, but our folly that is always presumed to cause it; and would it be any advantage to you to have your wife thought an indiscreet person? all this i can say to you; but when my brother disputes it with me i have other arguments for him, and i drove him up so close t'other night that for want of a better gap to get out at he was fain to say that he feared as much your having a fortune as your having none, for he saw you held my lord l't's [? lieutenant's] principles. that religion and honour were things you did not consider at all, and that he was confident you would take any engagement, serve in employment, or do anything to advance yourself. i had no patience for this. to say you were a beggar, your father not worth £4000 in the whole world, was nothing in comparison of having no religion nor no honour. i forgot all my disguise, and we talked ourselves weary; he renounced me, and i defied him, but both in as civil language as it would permit, and parted in great anger with the usual ceremony of a leg and a courtesy, that you would have died with laughing to have seen us. the next day i, not being at dinner, saw him not till night; then he came into my chamber, where i supped but he did not. afterwards mr. gibson and he and i talked of indifferent things till all but we two went to bed. then he sat half-an-hour and said not one word, nor i to him. at last, in a pitiful tone, "sister," says he, "i have heard you say that when anything troubles you, of all things you apprehend going to bed, because there it increases upon you, and you lie at the mercy of all your sad thought, which the silence and darkness of the night adds a horror to; i am at that pass now. i vow to god i would not endure another night like the last to gain a crown." i, who resolved to take no notice what ailed him, said 'twas a knowledge i had raised from my spleen only, and so fell into a discourse of melancholy and the causes, and from that (i know not how) into religion; and we talked so long of it, and so devoutly, that it laid all our anger. we grew to a calm and peace with all the world. two hermits conversing in a cell they equally inhabit, ne'er expressed more humble, charitable kindness, one towards another, than we. he asked my pardon and i his, and he has promised me never to speak of it to me whilst he lives, but leave the event to god almighty; until he sees it done, he will always be the same to me that he is; then he shall leave me, he says, not out of want of kindness to me, but because he cannot see the ruin of a person that he loves so passionately, and in whose happiness he has laid up all his. these are the terms we are at, and i am confident he will keep his word with me, so that you have no reason to fear him in any respect; for though he should break his promise, he should never make me break mine. no, let me assure you this rival, nor any other, shall ever alter me, therefore spare your jealousy, or turn it all into kindness. i will write every week, and no miss of letters shall give us any doubts of one another. time nor accidents shall not prevail upon our hearts, and, if god almighty please to bless us, we will meet the same we are, or happier. i will do all you bid me. i will pray, and wish, and hope, but you must do so too, then, and be so careful of yourself that i may have nothing to reproach you with when you come back. that vile wench lets you see all my scribbles, i believe; how do you know i took care your hair should not be spoiled? 'tis more than e'er you did, i think, you are so negligent on't, and keep it so ill, 'tis pity you should have it. may you have better luck in the cutting it than i had with mine. i cut it two or three years agone, and it never grew since. look to it; if i keep the lock you give me better than you do all the rest, i shall not spare you; expect to be soundly chidden. what do you mean to do with all my letters? leave them behind you? if you do, it must be in safe hands, some of them concern you, and me, and other people besides us very much, and they will almost load a horse to carry. does not my cousin at moor park mistrust us a little? i have a great belief they do. i am sure robin c---told my brother of it since i was last in town. of all things, i admire my cousin molle has not got it by the end, he that frequents that family so much, and is at this instant at kimbolton. if he has, and conceals it, he is very discreet; i could never discern by anything that he knew it. i shall endeavour to accustom myself to the noise on't, and make it as easy to me as i can, though i had much rather it were not talked of till there were an absolute necessity of discovering it, and you can oblige me in nothing more than in concealing it. i take it very kindly that you promise to use all your interest in your father to persuade him to endeavour our happiness, and he appears so confident of his power that it gives me great hopes. dear! shall we ever be so happy, think you? ah! i dare not hope it. yet 'tis not want of love gives me these fears. no, in earnest, i think (nay, i'm sure) i love you more than ever, and 'tis that only gives me these despairing thoughts; when i consider how small a proportion of happiness is allowed in this world, and how great mine would be in a person for whom i have a passionate kindness, and who has the same for me. as it is infinitely above what i can deserve, and more than god almighty usually allots to the best people, i can find nothing in reason but seems to be against me; and, methinks, 'tis as vain in me to expect it as 'twould be to hope i might be a queen (if that were really as desirable a thing as 'tis thought to be); and it is just it should be so. we complain of this world, and the variety of crosses and afflictions it abounds in, and yet for all this who is weary on't (more than in discourse), who thinks with pleasure of leaving it, or preparing for the next? we see old folks, who have outlived all the comforts of life, desire to continue in it, and nothing can wean us from the folly of preferring a mortal being, subject to great infirmity and unavoidable decays, before an immortal one, and all the glories that are promised with it. is this not very like preaching? well, 'tis too good for you; you shall have no more on't. i am afraid you are not mortified enough for such discourse to work upon (though i am not of my brother's opinion, neither, that you have no religion in you). in earnest, i never took anything he ever said half so ill, as nothing, sure, is so great an injury. it must suppose one to be a devil in human shape. oh, me! now i am speaking of religion, let me ask you is not his name bagshawe that you say rails on love and women? because i heard one t'other day speaking of him, and commending his wit, but withal, said he was a perfect atheist. if so, i can allow him to hate us, and love, which, sure, has something of divine in it, since god requires it of us. i am coming into my preaching vein again. what think you, were it not a good way of preferment as the times are? if you'll advise me to it i'll venture. the woman at somerset house was cried up mightily. think on't. dear, i am yours. _letter 54._--temple has really started on his journey, and is now past brickhill, far away in the north of england. the journey to ireland was made _via_ holyhead in those days as it is now. it was a four days' journey to chester, and no good road after. the great route through wales to holyhead was in such a state that in 1685 the viceroy going to ireland was five hours in travelling the fourteen miles from st. asaph to conway; between conway and beaumaris he walked; and his lady was carried in a litter. a carriage was often taken to pieces at conway, and carried to the menai straits on the peasants' shoulders round the dangerous cliff of penmaenmawr. mr. b. and mr. d. remain mysterious symbolic initials of gossip and scandalmongering. st. gregory's near st. paul's, was a church entirely destroyed by the great fire. sir john tufton of "the mote," near maidstone, married mary, the third daughter and co-heiress of thomas lord wotton. for your master [seal with coat-of-arms], when your mistress pleases. sir,--you bid me write every week, and i am doing it without considering how it will come to you. let nan look to that, with whom, i suppose, you have left the orders of conveyance. i have your last letter; but jane, to whom you refer me, is not yet come down. on tuesday i expect her; and if she be not engaged, i shall give her no cause hereafter to believe that she is a burden to me, though i have no employment for her but that of talking to me when i am in the humour of saying nothing. your dog is come too, and i have received him with all the kindness that is due to anything you send. i have defended him from the envy and malice of a troop of greyhounds that used to be in favour with me; and he is so sensible of my care over him, that he is pleased with nobody else, and follows me as if we had been of long acquaintance. 'tis well you are gone past my recovery. my heart has failed me twenty times since you went, and, had you been within my call, i had brought you back as often, though i know thirty miles' distance and three hundred are the same thing. you will be so kind, i am sure, as to write back by the coach and tell me what the success of your journey so far has been. after that, i expect no more (unless you stay for a wind) till you arrive at dublin. i pity your sister in earnest; a sea voyage is welcome to no lady; but you are beaten to it, and 'twill become you, now you are a conductor, to show your valour and keep your company in heart. when do you think of coming back again? i am asking that before you are at your journey's end. you will not take it ill that i desire it should be soon. in the meantime, i'll practise all the rules you give me. who told you i go to bed late? in earnest, they do me wrong: i have been faulty in that point heretofore, i confess, but 'tis a good while since i gave it over with my reading o' nights; but in the daytime i cannot live without it, and 'tis all my diversion, and infinitely more pleasing to me than any company but yours. and yet i am not given to it in any excess now; i have been very much more. 'tis jane, i know, tells all these tales of me. i shall be even with her some time or other, but for the present i long for her with some impatience, that she may tell me all you have told her. never trust me if i had not a suspicion from the first that 'twas that ill-looked fellow b---who made that story mr. d---told you. that which gave me the first inclination to that belief was the circumstance you told me of their seeing me at st. gregory's. for i remembered to have seen b---there, and had occasion to look up into the gallery where he sat, to answer a very civil salute given me from thence by mr. freeman, and saw b---in a great whisper with another that sat next him, and pointing to me. if mr. d---had not been so nice in discovering his name, you would quickly have been cured of your jealousy. never believe i have a servant that i do not tell you of as soon as i know it myself. as, for example, my brother peyton has sent to me, for a countryman of his, sir john tufton,--he married one of my lady wotton's heirs, who is lately dead,--and to invite me to think of it. besides his person and his fortune, without exception, he tells me what an excellent husband he was to this lady that's dead, who was but a crooked, ill-favoured woman, only she brought him £1500 a year. i tell him i believe, sir john tufton could be content, i were so too upon the same terms. but his loving his first wife can be no argument to persuade me; for if he had loved her as he ought to do, i cannot hope he should love another so well as i expect anybody should that has me; and if he did not love her, i have less to expect he should me. i do not care for a divided heart; i must have all or none, at least the first place in it. poor james, i have broke his. he says 'twould pity you to hear what sad complaints he makes; and, but that he has not the heart to hang himself, he would be very well contented to be out of the world. that house of your cousin r---is fatal to physicians. dr. smith that took it is dead already; but maybe this was before you went, and so is no news to you. i shall be sending you all i hear; which, though it cannot be much, living as i do, yet it may be more than ventures into ireland. i would have you diverted, whilst you are there, as much as possible; but not enough to tempt you to stay one minute longer than your father and your business obliges you. alas! i have already repented all my share in your journey, and begin to find i am not half so valiant as i sometimes take myself to be. the knowledge that our interests are the same, and that i shall be happy or unfortunate in your person as much or more than in my own, does not give me that confidence you speak of. it rather increases my doubts, and i durst trust your fortune alone, rather than now that mine is joined with it. yet i will hope yours may be so good as to overcome the ill of mine, and shall endeavour to mend my own all i can by striving to deserve it, maybe, better. my dearest, will you pardon me that i am forced to leave you so soon? the next shall be longer, though i can never be more than i am yours. _letter 55._--this sad letter, fully dated 18th march 1654, was written after sir peter osborne was buried in campton church. even as dorothy wrote this, the stone-mason might be slowly carving words that may be read to this day: "the maintainer of divine exercises, the friend to the poor." her father is no longer living, and she is now even more lonely than before. to depend upon kindred that are not friends, to be under the protection of a brother who is her lover's avowed enemy, this is her lot in life, unless temple can release her from it. alas! poor dorothy, who will now forbear to pity you? _march the 18th, 1654._ how true it is that a misfortune never comes single; we live in expectation of some one happiness that we propose to ourselves, an age almost, and perhaps miss it at the last; but sad accidents have wings to overtake us, and come in flocks like ill-boding ravens. you were no sooner gone but (as if that had not been enough) i lost the best father in the world; and though, as to himself, it was an infinite mercy in god almighty to take him out of a world that can be pleasing to none, and was made more uneasy to him by many infirmities that were upon him, yet to me it is an affliction much greater than people judge it. besides all that is due to nature and the memory of many (more than ordinary) kindnesses received from him, besides what he was to all that knew him, and what he was to me in particular, i am left by his death in the condition (which of all others) is the most unsupportable to my nature, to depend upon kindred that are not friends, and that, though i pay as much as i should do to a stranger, yet think they do me a courtesy. i expect my eldest brother to-day; if he comes, i shall be able to tell you before i seal this up where you are likely to find me. if he offers me to stay here, this hole will be more agreeable to my humour than any place that is more in the world. i take it kindly that you used art to conceal our story and satisfy my nice apprehensions, but i'll not impose that constraint upon you any longer, for i find my kind brother publishes it with more earnestness than ever i strove to conceal it; and with more disadvantage than anybody else would. now he has tried all ways to do what he desires, and finds it is in vain, he resolves to revenge himself upon me, by representing this action in such colours as will amaze all people that know me, and do not know him enough to discern his malice to me; he is not able to forbear showing it now, when my condition deserves pity from all the world, i think, and that he himself has newly lost a father, as well as i; but takes this time to torment me, which appears (at least to me) so barbarous a cruelty, that though i thank god i have charity enough perfectly to forgive all the injury he can do me, yet i am afraid i shall never look upon him as a brother more. and now do you judge whether i am not very unhappy, and whether that sadness in my face you used to complain of was not suited to my fortune. you must confess it; and that my kindness for you is beyond example, all these troubles are persecutions that make me weary of the world before my time, and lessen the concernment i have for you, and instead of being persuaded as they would have me by their malicious stories, methinks i am obliged to love you more in recompense of all the injuries they have done you upon my score. i shall need nothing but my own heart to fortify me in this resolution, and desire nothing in return of it but that your care of yourself may answer to that which i shall always have for your interests. i received your letter of the 10th of this month; and i hope this will find you at your journey's end. in earnest, i have pitied your sister extremely, and can easily apprehend how troublesome this voyage must needs be to her, by knowing what others have been to me; yet, pray assure her i would not scruple at undertaking it myself to gain such an acquaintance, and would go much farther than where (i hope) she now is to serve her. i am afraid she will not think me a fit person to choose for a friend, that cannot agree with my own brother; but i must trust you to tell my story for me, and will hope for a better character from you than he gives me; who, lest i should complain, resolves to prevent me, and possess my friends first that he is the injured party. i never magnified my patience to you, but i begin to have a good opinion on't since this trial; yet, perhaps, i have no reason, and it may be as well a want of sense in me as of passion; however, you will not be displeased to know that i can endure all that he or anybody else can say, and that setting aside my father's death and your absence, i make nothing an affliction to me, though i am sorry, i confess, to see myself forc'd to keep such distances with one of his relations, because religion and nature and the custom of world teaches otherwise. i see i shall not be able to satisfy you in this how i shall dispose of myself, for my brother is not come; the next will certainly tell you. in the meantime, i expect with great impatience to hear of your safe arrival. 'twas a disappointment that you missed those fair winds. i pleased myself extremely with a belief that they had made your voyage rather a diversion than a trouble, either to you or your company, but i hope your passage was as happy, if not as sudden, as you expected it; let me hear often from you, and long letters. i do not count this so. have no apprehensions from me, but all the care of yourself that you please. my melancholy has no anger in it; and i believe the accidents of my life would work more upon any other than they do upon me, whose humour is always more prepared for them than that of gayer persons. i hear nothing that is worth your knowing; when i do, you shall know it. tell me if there's anything i can do for you, and assure yourself i am perfectly yours. _letter 56._--temple has reached dublin at last, and begins to write from there. this letter also is dated, and from this time forth there is less trouble in arranging the letters in order of date, as many of them have, at least, the day of the month, if nothing more. the marquis of hertford was the duke of somerset's great-grandson. he married lady arabella stuart, daughter of charles stuart, earl of lennox, uncle of king james i, for which matrimonial adventure he was imprisoned in the tower. his second wife was frances, daughter of robert, earl of essex, and sister to the great general of the parliamentary army. she was the mother of young lord beauchamp, whose death dorothy deplores. he was twenty-eight years of age when he died. he married mary, daughter of lord capel of hadham, who afterwards married the duke of beaufort. baptist noel, viscount camden, was a noted loyalist. after the restoration we find him appointed lord-lieutenant of rutland. of his duel with mr. stafford there seems to be no account. it did not carry him into the king's bench court, like lord chandos' duel, so history is silent about it. _april the 2nd, 1654._ sir,--there was never any lady more surprised than i was with your last. i read it so coldly, and was so troubled to find that you were so forward on your journey; but when i came to the last, and saw dublin at the date, i could scarce believe my eyes. in earnest, it transported me so that i could not forbear expressing my joy in such a manner as had anybody been by to have observed me they would have suspected me no very sober person. you are safe arrived, you say, and pleased with the place already, only because you meet with a letter of mine there. in your next i expect some other commendation on't, or else i shall hardly make such haste to it as people here believe i will. all the servants have been to take their leaves on me, and say how sorry they are to hear i am going out of the land; some beggar at the door has made so ill a report of ireland to them that they pity me extremely, but you are pleased, i hope, to hear i am coming to you; the next fair wind expect me. 'tis not to be imagined the ridiculous stories they have made, nor how j.b. cries out on me for refusing him and choosing his chamber-fellow; yet he pities me too, and swears i am condemned to be the miserablest person upon earth. with all his quarrel to me, he does not wish me so ill as to be married to the proudest, imperious, insulting, ill-natured man that ever was; one that before he has had me a week shall use me with contempt, and believe that the favour was of his side. is not this very comfortable? but, pray, make it no quarrel; i make it none, i assure you. and though he knew you before i did, i do not think he knows you so well; besides that, his testimony is not of much value. i am to spend this next week in taking leave of this country, and all the company in't, perhaps never to see it more. from hence i must go into northamptonshire to my lady ruthin, and so to london, where i shall find my aunt and my brother peyton, betwixt whom i think to divide this summer. nothing has happened since you went worth your knowledge. my lord marquis hertford has lost his son, my lord beauchamp, who has left a fine young widow. in earnest, 'tis great pity; at the rate of our young nobility he was an extraordinary person, and remarkable for an excellent husband. my lord cambden, too, has fought with mr. stafford, but there's no harm done. you may discern the haste i'm in by my writing. there will come a time for a long letter again, but there will never come any wherein i shall not be yours. [sealed with black wax, and directed] for mr. william temple, at sir john temple's home in damask street, dublin. thus dorothy leaves chicksands, her last words from her old home to temple breathing her love and affection for him. it is no great sorrow at the moment to leave chicksands, for its latest memories are scenes of sickness, grief, and death. and now the only home on earth for dorothy lies in the future; it is not a particular spot on earth, but to be by his side, wherever that may be. chapter vi visiting. summer 1654 this chapter opens with a portion of a letter written by sir william temple to his mistress, dated ireland, may 18, 1654. it is the only letter, or rather scrap of letter which we have of his, and by some good chance it has survived with the rest of dorothy's letters. it will, i think, throw great light on his character as a lover, showing him to have been ardent and ecstatic in his suit, making quite clear dorothy's wisdom in insisting, as she often does, on the necessity of some more material marriage portion than mere love and hope. his reference to the "unhappy differences" strengthens my view that the letters of the former chapter belong all to one date. _letter 57._--letter of sir william temple. _may 18th, 1654._ ... i am called upon for my letter, but must have leave first to remember you of yours. for god's sake write constantly while i am here, or i am undone past all recovery. i have lived upon them ever since i came, but had thrived much better had they been longer. unless you use to give me better measure, i shall not be in case to undertake a journey to england. the despair i was in at not hearing from you last week, and the belief that all my letters had miscarried (by some treachery among my good friends who, i am sorry, have the name of yours), made me press my father by all means imaginable to give me leave to go presently if i heard not from you this post. but he would never yield to that, because, he said, upon your silence he should suspect all was not likely to be well between us, and then he was sure i should not be in condition to be alone. he remembered too well the letters i writ upon our last unhappy differences, and would not trust me from him in such another occasion. but, withal, he told me he would never give me occasion of any discontent which he could remedy; that if you desired my coming over, and i could not be content without, he would not hinder me, though he very much desired my company a month or two longer, and that in that time 'twas very likely i might have his as well. now, in very good earnest, do you think 'tis time for me to come or no? would you be very glad to see me there, and could you do it in less disorder, and with less surprise, than you did at chicksands? i ask you these questions very seriously; but yet how willingly would i venture all to be with you. i know you love me still; you promised me, and that's all the security i can have in this world. 'tis that which makes all things else seem nothing to it, so high it sets me; and so high, indeed, that should i ever fall 'twould dash me all to pieces. methinks your very charity should make you love me more now than ever, by seeing me so much more unhappy than i used, by being so much farther from you, for that is all the measure can be taken of my good or ill condition. justice, i am sure, will oblige you to it, since you have no other means left in the world of rewarding such a passion as mine, which, sure, is of a much richer value than anything in the world besides. should you save my life again, should you make me absolute master of your fortune and your person too, i should accept none of all this in any part of payment, but look upon you as one behindhand with me still. 'tis no vanity this, but a true sense of how pure and how refined a nature my passion is, which none can ever know except my own heart, unless you find it out by being there. how hard it is to think of ending when i am writing to you; but it must be so, and i must ever be subject to other people's occasions, and so never, i think, master of my own. this is too true, both in respect of this fellow's post that is bawling at me for my letter, and of my father's delays. they kill me; but patience,--would anybody but i were here! yet you may command me ever at one minute's warning. had i not heard from you by this last, in earnest i had resolved to have gone with this, and given my father the slip for all his caution. he tells me still of a little time; but, alas! who knows not what mischances and how great changes have often happened in a little time? for god's sake let me hear of all your motions, when and where i may hope to see you. let us but hope this cloud, this absence that has overcast all my contentment, may pass away, and i am confident there's a clear sky attends us. my dearest dear, adieu. yours. pray, where is your lodging? have a care of all the despatch and security that can be in our intelligence. remember my fellow-servant; sure, by the next i shall write some learned epistle to her, i have been so long about it. _letter 58._--dorothy is now in london, staying probably with that aunt whom she mentioned before as one who was always ready to find her a husband other than temple. of the plot against the protector in which my lord of dorchester is said to be engaged, an account is given in connection with _letter 59_; that is, presuming it to be the same plot, and that lord dorchester is one of the many persons arrested under suspicion of being concerned in it. i cannot find anything which identifies him with a special plot. lady sandis [sandys], who seems so fond of race meetings and other less harmless amusements, was the wife of william lord sandys, and daughter of the earl of salisbury. lord sandys' country house was motesfont or mottisfont priory, in hampshire, "which the king had given him in exchange for chelsea, in westminster." so says leland, the antiquary and scholar, in his _itinerary_; but it is a little puzzling to the modern mind with preconceived notions of chelsea, to hear it spoken of as a seat or estate in westminster. colonel tom paunton is to me merely a name; and j. morton is nothing more, unless we may believe him to be sir john morton, bart. of milbourne, st. andrew, in nottinghamshire. this addition of a local habitation and a name gives us no further knowledge, however, of the scandal to which dorothy alludes. mistress stanley and mistress witherington have left no trace of their identity that i can find, but mistress philadelphia carey is not wholly unknown. she was the second daughter of thomas carey, one of the earl of monmouth's sons, and readers may be pleased to know that she did marry sir henry littleton. of the scandal concerning lord rich i am not sorry to know nothing. _may 25th_ [1654]. this world is composed of nothing but contrarieties and sudden accidents, only the proportions are not at all equal; for to a great measure of trouble it allows so small a quantity of joy, that one may see 'tis merely intended to keep us alive withal. this is a formal preface, and looks as if there were something of very useful to follow; but i would not wish you to expect it. i was only considering my own ill-humour last night, i had not heard from you in a week or more, my brother had been with me and we had talked ourselves both out of breath and patience too, i was not very well, and rose this morning only because i was weary of lying in bed. when i had dined i took a coach and went to see whether there was ever a letter for me, and was this once so lucky as to find one. i am not partial to myself i know, and am contented that the pleasure i have received with this, shall serve to sweeten many sad thoughts that have interposed since your last, and more that i may reasonably expect before i have another; and i think i may (without vanity) say, that nobody is more sensible of the least good fortune nor murmurs less at an ill than i do, since i owe it merely to custom and not to any constancy in my humour, or something that is better. no, in earnest, anything of good comes to me like the sun to the inhabitants of greenland, it raises them to life when they see it, and when they miss it, it is not strange they expect a night of half a year long. you cannot imagine how kindly i take it that you forgive my brother, and let me assure you i shall never press you to anything unreasonable. i will not oblige you to court a person that has injured you. i only beg that whatsoever he does in that kind may be excused by his relation to me, and that whenever you are moved to think he does you wrong, you will at the same time remember that his sister loves you passionately and nobly; that if he values nothing but fortune, she despises it, and could love you as much a beggar as she could do a prince; and shall without question love you eternally, but whether with any satisfaction to herself or you is a sad doubt. i am not apt to hope, and whether it be the better or the worse i know not. all sorts of differences are natural to me, and that which (if your kindness would give you leave) you would term a weakness in me is nothing but a reasonable distrust of my own judgment, which makes me desire the approbation of my friends. i never had the confidence in my life to presume anything well done that i had nobody's opinion in but my own; and as you very well observe, there are so many that think themselves wise when nothing equals their folly but their pride, that i dread nothing so much as discovering such a thought in myself because of the consequences of it. whenever you come you must not doubt your welcome, but i can promise you nothing for the manner on't. i am afraid my surprise and disorder will be more than ever. i have good reason to think so, and none that you can take ill. but i would not have you attempt it till your father is ready for the journey too. no, really he deserves that all your occasions should wait for his; and if you have not much more than an ordinary obedience for him, i shall never believe you have more than an ordinary kindness for me; since (if you will pardon me the comparison) i believe we both merit it from you upon the same score, he as a very indulgent father, and i as a very kind mistress. don't laugh at me for commending myself, you will never do it for me, and so i am forced to it. i am still here in town, but had no hand, i can assure you, in the new discovered plot against the protector. but my lord of dorchester, they say, has, and so might i have had if i were as rich as he, and then you might have been sure of me at the tower;--now a worse lodging must serve my turn. 'tis over against salisbury house where i have the honour of seeing my lady m. sandis every day unless some race or other carry her out of town. the last week she went to one as far as winchester with col. paunton (if you know such a one), and there her husband met her, and because he did so (though it 'twere by accident) thought himself obliged to invite her to his house but seven miles off, and very modestly said no more for it, but that he thought it better than an inn, or at least a crowded one as all in the town were now because of the race. but she was so good a companion that she would not forsake her company. so he invited them too, but could prevail with neither. only my lady grew kind at parting and said, indeed if tom paunton and j. morton and the rest would have gone she could have been contented to have taken his offer. thus much for the married people, now for those that are towards it. there is mr. stanley and mrs. witherington; sir h. littleton and mrs. philadelphia carey, who in earnest is a fine woman, such a one as will make an excellent wife; and some say my lord rich and my lady betty howard, but others that pretend to know more say his court to her is but to countenance a more serious one to mrs. howard, her sister-in-law, he not having courage to pretend so openly (as some do) to another's wife. oh, but your old acquaintance, poor mr. heningham, has no luck! he was so near (as he thought at least) marrying mrs. gerherd that anybody might have got his whole estate in wagers upon't that would have ventured but a reasonable proportion of their own. and now he looks more like an ass than ever he did. she has cast him off most unhandsomely, that's the truth on't, and would have tied him to such conditions as he might have been her slave withal, but could never be her husband. is not this a great deal of news for me that never stir abroad? nay, i had brought me to-day more than all this: that i am marrying myself! and the pleasantness on't is that it should be to my lord st. john. would he look on me, think you, that had pretty mrs. fretcheville? my comfort is, i have not seen him since he was a widower, and never spoke to him in my life. i found myself so innocent that i never blushed when they told it me. what would i give i could avoid it when people speak of you? in earnest, i do prepare myself all that is possible to hear it spoken of, yet for my life i cannot hear your name without discovering that i am more than ordinarily concerned in't. a blush is the foolishest thing that can be, and betrays one more than a red nose does a drunkard; and yet i would not so wholly have lost them as some women that i know has, as much injury as they do me. i can assure you now that i shall be here a fortnight longer (they tell me no lodger, upon pain of his highness's displeasure, must remove sooner); but when i have his leave i go into suffolk for a month, and then come hither again to go into kent, where i intend to bury myself alive again as i did in bedfordshire, unless you call me out and tell me i may be happy. alas! how fain i would hope it, but i cannot, and should it ever happen, 'twould be long before i should believe 'twas meant for me in earnest, or that 'twas other than a dream. to say truth, i do not love to think on't, i find so many things to fear and so few to hope. 'tis better telling you that i will send my letters where you direct, that they shall be as long ones as possibly my time will permit, and when at any time you miss of one, i give you leave to imagine as many kind things as you please, and to believe i mean them all to you. farewell. _letter 59._--it is a little astonishing to read, as one does in this and the last letter, of race meetings, and dorothy, habited in a mask, disporting herself at new spring gardens or in the park. it opens one's eyes to the exaggerated gloom that has been thrown over england during the puritan reign by those historians who have derived their information solely from state papers and proclamations. it is one thing to proclaim amusements, another to abolish them. the first was undoubtedly done, but we doubt if there was ever any long-continued effort to do the last; and in the latter part of cromwell's reign the gloom, and the strait-laced regulations that caused it, must have almost entirely disappeared. spring gardens seems at one time to have had no very good reputation. lady alice halkett, writing in 1644, tells us that "so scrupulous was i of giving any occasion to speak of me as i know they did of others, that though i loved well to see plays, and to walk in the spring gardens sometimes (before it grew something scandalous by the abuses of some), yet i cannot remember three times that ever i went with any man besides my brother." however, fashions change in ten years, and spring gardens is, doubtless, now quite demure and respectable, or we should not find dorothy there. spring gardens was enclosed and laid out towards the end of the reign of james i. the clump of houses which still bears its name is supposed to indicate its position with tolerable exactness. evelyn tells us that cromwell shut up the spring gardens in 1600, and knight thinks they were closed until the restoration, in which small matter we may allow dorothy to correct him. the fact of the old gardens having been closed may account for dorothy referring to the place as "new spring gardens." knight also quotes at second hand from an account of spring gardens, complaining that the author is unknown to him. this quotation is, however, from one of somers' tracts entitled "a character of england as it was lately represented in a letter to a nobleman of france, 1659." the frenchman by whom the letter is written--probably an english satirist in disguise--gives us such a graphic account of the parks before the restoration, that as the matter is fresh and bears upon the subject, i have no hesitation in quoting it at length:-"i did frequently in the spring accompany my lord n. into a field near the town which they call hyde park,--the place not unpleasant, and which they use as our '_course_,' but with nothing that order, equipage, and splendour; being such an assembly of wretched jades and hackney coaches, as, next to a regiment of car-men, there is nothing approaches the resemblance. the park was, it seems, used by the late king and nobility for the freshness of the air and the goodly prospect, but it is that which now (besides all other exercises) they pay for here in england, though it be free in all the world beside; every coach and horse which enters buying his mouthful and permission of the publican who has purchased it, for which the entrance is guarded with porters and long staves. "the manner is, as the company returns, to stop at the spring gardens so called, in order to the park as our _thuilleries_ is to the _course_; the inclosure not disagreeable for the solemnness of the groves, the warbling of the birds, and as it opens into the spacious walks of st. james. but the company walk in it at such a rate as you would think all the ladies were so many atalantas contending with their wooers, and, my lord, there was no appearance that i should prove the hippomenes, who could with very much ado keep pace with them. but, as fast as they run, they stay there so long, as if they wanted not to finish the race, for it is usual here to find some of the young company till midnight, and the thickets of the garden seem to be contrived to all the advantages of gallantry after they have refreshed with the collation, which is here seldom omitted, at a certain cabaret in the middle of this paradise, where the forbidden fruits are certain trifling tarts, neats' tongues, salacious meats, and bad rhenish, for which the gallants pay sauce, as indeed they do at all such houses throughout england; for they think it a piece of frugality beneath them to bargain or account for what they eat in any place, however unreasonably imposed upon." dorothy is quite right in her correction concerning will spencer. he was the first earl of sunderland, and married elizabeth, daughter of lord gerard. _june the 6th, 1654._ i see you know how to punish me. in earnest, i was so frightened with your short letter as you cannot imagine, and as much troubled at the cause on't. what is it your father ails, and how long has he been ill? if my prayers are heard, he will not be so long. why do you say i failed you? indeed, i did not. jane is my witness. she carried my letter to the white hart, by st. james's, and 'twas a very long one too. i carried one thither since, myself, and the woman of the house was so very angry, because i desired her to have a care on't, that i made the coachman drive away with all possible speed, lest she should have beaten me. to say truth, i pressed her too much, considering how little the letter deserved it. 'twas writ in such disorder, the company prating about me, and some of them so bent on doing me little mischiefs, that i know not what i did, and believe it was the most senseless, disjointed thing that ever was read. i remember now that i writ robin spencer instead of will. 'tis he that has married mrs. gerherd, and i admire their courage. she will have eight hundred pounds a year, 'tis true, after her mother's death; but how they will live till then i cannot imagine. i shall be even with you for your short letter. i'll swear they will not allow me time for anything, and to show how absolutely i am governed i need but tell you that i am every night in the park and at new spring gardens, where, though i come with a mask, i cannot escape being known, nor my conversion being admired. are you not in some fear what will become on me? these are dangerous courses. i do not find, though, that they have altered me yet. i am much the same person at heart i was in being yours. _letter 60._ _june 13th_ [1654]. you have satisfied me very much with this last long letter, and made some amends for the short one i received before. i am convinced, too, happiness is much such a kind of thing as you describe, or rather such a nothing. for there is no one thing can properly be called so, but every one is left to create it to themselves in something which they either have or would have; and so far it's well enough. but i do not like that one's happiness should depend upon a persuasion that this is happiness, because nobody knows how long they shall continue in a belief built upon no grounds, only to bring it to what you say, and to make it absolutely of the same nature with faith. we must conclude that nobody can either create or continue such a belief in themselves; but where it is there is happiness. and for my part at this present, i verily believe i could find it in the long walk at dublin. you say nothing of your father's sickness, therefore i hope he is well again; for though i have a quarrel to him, it does not extend so far as to wish him ill. but he made no good return for the counsel i gave you, to say that there might come a time when my kindness might fail. do not believe him, i charge you, unless you doubt yourself that you may give me occasion to change; and when he tells you so again, engage what you please upon't, and put it upon my account. i shall go out of town this week, and so cannot possibly get a picture drawn for you till i come up again, which will be within these six weeks, but not to make any stay at all. i should be glad to find you here then. i would have had one drawn since i came, and consulted my glass every morning when to begin; and to speak freely to you that are my friend, i could never find my face in a condition to admit on't, and when i was not satisfied with it myself, i had no reason to hope that anybody else should. but i am afraid, as you say, that time will not mend it, and therefore you shall have it as it is as soon as mr. cooper will vouchsafe to take the pains to draw it for you. i am in great trouble to think how i shall write out of suffolk to you, or receive yours. however, do not fail to write, though they lie awhile. i shall have them at last, and they will not be the less welcome; and, though you should miss of some of mine, let it not trouble you; but if it be by my fault, i'll give you leave to demand satisfaction for it when you come. jane kisses your hands, and says she will be ready in all places to do you service; but i'll prevent her, now you have put me into a jealous humour. i'll keep her in chains before she shall quit scores with me. do not believe, sir, i beseech you, that the young heirs are for you; content yourself with your old mistress. you are not so handsome as will spencer, nor i have not so much courage nor wealth as his mistress, nor she has not so much as her aunt says by all the money. i shall not have called her his mistress now they have been married almost this fortnight. i'll write again before i leave the town, and should have writ more now, but company is come in. adieu, my dearest. _letter 61._--lady talmash was the eldest daughter of mr. murray, charles i.'s page and whipping boy. she married sir lionel talmash of suffolk, a gentleman of noble family. after her father's death, she took the title of countess of dysart, although there was some dispute about the right of her father to any title. bishop burnet says: "she was a woman of great beauty, but of far greater parts. she had a wonderful quickness of apprehension, and an amazing vivacity in conversation. she had studied not only divinity and history, but mathematics and philosophy. she was violent in everything she set about,--a violent friend, but a much more violent enemy. she had a restless ambition, lived at a vast expense, and was ravenously covetous; and would have stuck at nothing by which she might compass her ends. she had been early in a correspondence with lord lauderdale, that had given occasion to censure. when he was a prisoner after worcester fight, she made him believe he was in great danger of his life, and that she saved it by her intrigues with cromwell, which was not a little taken notice of. cromwell was certainly fond of her, and she took care to entertain him in it; till he, finding what was said upon it, broke it off. upon the king's restoration she thought that lord lauderdale made not those returns she expected. they lived for some years at a distance. but upon her husband's death she made up all quarrels; so that lord lauderdale and she lived so much together that his lady was offended at it and went to paris, where she died about three years after." this was in 1672, and soon afterwards lady dysart and lord lauderdale were married. she had great power over him, and employed it in trafficking with such state patronage as was in lord lauderdale's power to bestow. cousin hammond, who was going to take ludlow's place in ireland, would be the colonel robert hammond who commanded carisbrooke when the king was imprisoned there. he was one of a new council formed in august and sent into ireland about the end of that month. lady vavasour was ursula, daughter of walter gifford of chillington, staffordshire. her husband was sir thomas vavasour, bart. the vavasours were a roman catholic family, and claimed descent from those who held the ancient office of king's valvasour; and we need not therefore be surprised to find lady vavasour engaged in one of the numerous plots that surrounded and endangered the protector's power. the plot itself seems to have created intense excitement in the capital, and resulted in three persons being tried for high treason, and two executed,--john gerard, gentleman, peter vowel, schoolmaster of islington, and one summerset fox, who pleaded guilty, and whose life was spared. "some wise men," writes one thomas gower in a contemporary letter (still unprinted), "believe that a couple of coy-ducks drew in the rest, then revealed all, and were employed to that purpose that the execution of a few mean persons might deter wiser and more considerable persons." this seems not improbable. on june 6th the official _mercurius politicus_ speaks of this plot as follows:--"the traitorous conspiracy mentioned heretofore it appears every day more desperate and bloody. it is discovered that their design was to have destroyed his highness's person, and all others at the helm of government that they could have laid hands on. immediately upon the villainous assassination, they intended to have proclaimed charles stuart by the assistance of a tumult," etc. etc. this with constant accounts of further arrests troubles the public mind at this time. the passage of cowley which dorothy refers to is in the second book of cowley's _davideis_. it opens with a description of the friendship between david and jonathan, and, upon that occasion, a digression concerning the nature of love. the poem was written by cowley when a young man at cambridge. one can picture dorothy reading and musing over lines like these with sympathy and admiration: what art thou, love, thou great mysterious thing? from what hid stock does thy strange nature spring? 'tis thou that mov'st the world through ev'ry part, and hold'st the vast frame close that nothing start from the due place and office first ordained, by thee were all things made and are sustained. sometimes we see thee fully and can say from hence thou took'st thy rise and went'st that way, but oft'ner the short beams of reason's eye see only there thou art, not how, nor why. his lines on love, though overcharged with quaint conceits, are often noble and true, and end at least with one fine couplet: thus dost thou sit (like men e'er sin had framed a guilty blush), naked but not ashamed. i promised in my last to write again before i went out of town, and now i'll be as good as my word. they are all gone this morning, and have left me much more at liberty than i have been of late, therefore i believe this will be a long letter; perhaps too long, at least if my letters are as little entertaining as my company is. i was carried yesterday abroad to a dinner that was designed for mirth, but it seems one ill-humoured person in the company is enough to put all the rest out of tune; for i never saw people perform what they intended worse, and could not forbear telling them so: but to excuse themselves and silence my reproaches, they all agreed to say that i spoiled their jollity by wearing the most unreasonable looks that could be put on for such an occasion. i told them i knew no remedy but leaving me behind next time, and could have told them that my looks were suitable to my fortune, though not to a feast. fye! i am got into my complaining humour that tires myself as well as everybody else, and which (as you observe) helps not at all. would it would leave me, and then i could believe i shall not always have occasion for it. but that's in nobody's power, and my lady talmash, that says she can do whatsoever she will, cannot believe whatsoever she pleases. 'tis not unpleasant, methinks, to hear her talk, how at such a time she was sick and the physicians told her she would have the small-pox, and showed her where they were coming out upon her; but she bethought herself that it was not at all convenient for her to have them at that time; some business she had that required her going abroad, and so she resolved she would not be sick; nor was not. twenty such stories as these she tells; and then falls into discoveries of strength of reason and the power of philosophy, till she confounds herself and all that hear her. you have no such ladies in ireland? oh me, but i heard to-day your cousin hammond is going thither to be in ludlow's place. is it true? you tell me nothing what is done there, but 'tis no matter. the less one knows of state affairs i find it is the better. my poor lady vavasour is carried to the tower, and her great belly could not excuse her, because she was acquainted by somebody that there was a plot against the protector, and did not discover it. she has told now all that was told her, but vows she will never say from whence she had it: we shall see whether her resolutions are as unalterable as those of my lady talmash. i wonder how she behaved herself when she was married. i never saw any one yet 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. you cannot apprehend the formalities of a treaty more than i do, nor so much the success on't. yet in earnest, your father will not find my brother peyton wanting in civility (though he is not a man of much compliment, unless it be in his letters to me), nor an unreasonable person in anything, so he will allow him out of his kindness to his wife to set a higher value upon her sister than she deserves. i know not how he may be prejudiced as to the business, but he is not deaf to reason when 'tis civilly delivered, and is as easily gained with compliance and good usage as anybody i know, but by no other way. when he is roughly dealt with, he is like me, ten times the worse for't. i make it a case of conscience to discover my faults to you as fast as i know them, that you may consider what you have to do. my aunt told me no longer agone than yesterday that i was the most wilful woman that ever she knew, and had an obstinacy of spirit nothing could overcome. take heed! you see i give you fair warning. i have missed a letter this monday: what is the reason? by the next, i shall be gone into kent, and my other journey is laid aside, which i am not displeased at, because it would have broken our intercourse very much. here are some verses of cowley's. tell me how you like them. 'tis only a piece taken out of a new thing of his; the whole is very long, and is a description of, or rather a paraphrase upon the friendship of david and jonathan. 'tis, i think, the best i have seen of his, and i like the subject because 'tis that i would be perfect in. adieu. _je suis vostre._ _letter 62._ _june the 26th_ [1654]. i told you in my last that my suffolk journey was laid aside, and that into kent hastened. i am beginning it to-day; and have chosen to go as far as gravesend by water, though it be very gloomy weather. if i drown by the way, this will be my last letter; and, like a will, i bequeath all my kindness to you in it, with a charge never to bestow it all upon another mistress, lest my ghost rise again and haunt you. i am in such haste that i can say little else to you now. when you are come over, we'l' think where to meet, for at this distance i can design nothing; only i should be as little pleased with the constraint of my brother's house as you. pray let me know whether your man leaves you, and how you stand inclined to him i offer you. indeed, i like him extremely, and he is commended to me, by people that know him very well and are able to judge, for a most excellent servant, and faithful as possible. i'll keep him unengaged till i hear from you. adieu. my next shall make amends for this short one. [_p.s._]--i received your last of june 22nd since i sealed up my letter, and i durst not but make an excuse for another short one, after you have chid me so for those you have received already; indeed, i could not help it, nor cannot now, but if that will satisfy i can assure you i shall make a much better wife than i do a husband, if i ever am one. _pardon, mon cher coeur, on m'attend. adieu, mon ame. je vous souhait tout ce que vous desire._ _letter 63._ _july the 4th_ [1654]. because you find fault with my other letters, this is like to be shorter than they; i did not intend it so though, i can assure you. but last night my brother told me he did not send his till ten o'clock this morning, and now he calls for mine at seven, before i am up; and i can only be allowed time to tell you that i am in kent, and in a house so strangely crowded with company that i am weary as a dog already, though i have been here but three or four days; that all their mirth has not mended my humour, and that i am here the same i was in other places; that i hope, merely because you bid me, and lose that hope as often as i consider anything but yours. would i were easy of belief! they say one is so to all that one desires. i do not find it, though i am told i was so extremely when i believed you loved me. that i would not find, and you have only power to make me think it. but i am called upon. how fain i would say more; yet 'tis all but the saying with more circumstance than i am yours. [directed.] for your master. _letter 64._ i see you can chide when you please, and with authority; but i deserve it, i confess, and all i can say for myself is, that my fault proceeded from a very good principle in me. i am apt to speak what i think; and to you have so accustomed myself to discover all my heart that i do not believe it will ever be in my power to conceal a thought from you. therefore i am afraid you must resolve to be vexed with all my senseless apprehensions as my brother peyton is with some of his wife's, who is thought a very good woman, but the most troublesome one in a coach that ever was. we dare not let our tongues lie more on one side of our mouths than t'other for fear of overturning it. you are satisfied, i hope, ere this that i 'scaped drowning. however, 'tis not amiss that my will made you know now how to dispose of all my wealth whensoever i die. but i am troubled much you should make so ill a journey to so little purpose; indeed, i writ by the first post after my arrival here, and cannot imagine how you came to miss of my letters. is your father returned yet, and do you think of coming over immediately? how welcome you will be. but, alas! i cannot talk on't at the rate that you do. i am sensible that such an absence is misfortune enough, but i dare not promise myself that it will conclude ours; and 'tis more my belief that you yourself speak it rather to encourage me, and to your wishes than your hopes. my humour is so ill at present, that i dare say no more lest you chide me again. i find myself fit for nothing but to converse with a lady below, that is fallen out with all the world because her husband and she cannot agree. 'tis the pleasantest thing that can be to hear us discourse. she takes great pains to dissuade me from ever marrying, and says i am the veriest fool that ever lived if i do not take her counsel. now we do not absolutely agree in that point, but i promise her never to marry unless i can find such a husband as i describe to her, and she believes is never to be found; so that, upon the matter, we differ very little. whensoever she is accused of maintaining opinions very destructive of society, and absolutely prejudicial to all the young people of both sexes that live in the house, she calls out me to be her second, and by it has lost me the favour of all our young gallants, who have got a custom of expressing anything that is nowhere but in fiction by the name of "mrs. o----'s husband." for my life i cannot beat into their heads a passion that must be subject to no decay, an even perfect kindness that must last perpetually, without the least intermission. they laugh to hear me say that one unkind word would destroy all the satisfaction of my life, and that i should expect our kindness should increase every day, if it were possible, but never lessen. all this is perfect nonsense in their opinion; but i should not doubt the convincing them if i could hope to be so happy as to be yours. _letter 65._--of william lilly, a noted and extraordinary character of that day, the following account is taken from his own _life and times_, a lively book, full of amusing lies and astrological gossip, in which the author describes himself as a student of the black art. he was born in 1602 at diseworth, an obscure town in the north of leicestershire. his family appear to have been yeomen in this town for many generations. passing over the measles of his infancy, and other trivial details of childhood, which he describes minutely, we find him as a boy at ashby-de-la-zouche, where he is the pupil of one mr. john brinsley. here he learned latin and greek, and began to study hebrew. in the sixteenth year of his age he was greatly troubled with dreams concerning his damnation or salvation; and at the age of eighteen he returned to his father's house, and there kept a school in great penury. he then appears to have come up to london, leaving his father in a debtor's prison, and proceeded in pursuit of fortune with a new suit of clothes and seven shillings and sixpence in his pocket. in london he entered the service of one gilbert wright, an independent citizen of small means and smaller education. to him lilly was both man-servant and secretary. the second mrs. wright seems to have had a taste for astrology, and consulted some of the quacks who then preyed on the silly women of the city. she was very fond of young lilly, who attended her in her last illness, and, in return for his care and attention, she bequeathed to him several "sigils" or talismanic seals. probably it was the foolishness of this poor woman that first suggested to lilly the advantages to be gained from the profession of astrology. mr. wright married a third wife, and soon afterwards died, leaving his widow comfortably off. she fell in love with lilly, who married her in 1627, and for five years, until her death, they lived happily together. lilly was now a man of means, and was enabled to study that science which he afterwards practised with so much success. there were a good many professors of the black art at this date, and lilly studied under one evans, a scoundrelly ex-parson from wales, until, according to lilly's own account, he discovered evans to be the cheat he undoubtedly was. lilly, when he set up for himself, wrote many astrological works, which seem to have been very successful. he was known and visited by all the great men of the day, and probably had brains enough only to prophesy when he knew. his description of his political creed is beautifully characteristic of the man: "i was more cavalier than round-head, and so taken notice of; but afterwards i engaged body and soul in the cause of the parliament, but still with much affection to his majesty's person and unto monarchy, which i ever loved and approved beyond any government whatsoever." lilly was, in a word, a self-seeking but successful knave. people who had been robbed, women in love, men in debt, all in trouble and doubt, from the king downwards, sought his aid. he pretended to be a man of science, not a man gifted with supernatural powers. whether he succeeded in believing in astrology and deceiving himself, it is impossible to say; he was probably too clever for that, but he deceived others admirably, and was one of the noted and most successful of the old astrologers. how long this letter will be i cannot tell. you shall have all the time that is allowed me, but upon condition that you shall not examine the sense on't too strictly, for you must know i want sleep extremely. the sun was up an hour before i went to bed to-day, and this is not the first time i have done this since i came hither. 'twill not be for your advantage that i should stay here long; for, in earnest, i shall be good for nothing if i do. we go abroad all day and play all night, and say our prayers when we have time. well, in sober earnest now, i would not live thus a twelvemonth to gain all that the king has lost, unless it were to give it him again. 'tis a miracle to me how my brother endures it. 'tis as contrary to his humour as darkness is to light, and only shows the power he lets his wife have over him. will you be so good-natured? he has certainly as great a kindness for her as can be, and, to say truth, not without reason; but all the people that ever i saw, i do not like his carriage towards her. he is perpetually wrangling and finding fault, and to a person that did not know him would appear the worst husband and the most imperious in the world. he is so amongst his children too, though he loves them passionately. he has one son, and 'tis the finest boy that e'er you saw, and has a noble spirit, but yet stands in that awe of his father that one word from him is as much as twenty whippings. you must give me leave to entertain you thus with discourses of the family, for i can tell you nothing else from hence. yet, now i remember. i have another story for you. you little think i have been with lilly, and, in earnest, i was, the day before i came out of town; and what do you think i went for? not to know when you would come home, i can assure you, nor for any other occasion of my own; but with a cousin of mine that had long designed to make herself sport with him, and did not miss of her aim. i confess i always thought him an impostor, but i could never have imagined him so simple a one as we found him. in my life i never heard so ridiculous a discourse as he made us, and no old woman who passes for a witch could have been more puzzled to seek what to say to reasonable people than he was. he asked us more questions than we did him, and caught at everything we said without discerning that we abused him and said things purposely to confound him; which we did so perfectly that we made him contradict himself the strangest that ever you saw. ever since this adventure, i have had so great a belief in all things of this nature, that i could not forbear laying a peas-cod with nine peas in't under my door yesterday, and was informed by it that my husband's name should be thomas. how do you like that? but what thomas, i cannot imagine, for all the servants i have got since i came hither i know none of that name. here is a new song,--i do not send it to you but to your sister; the tune is not worth the sending so far. if she pleases to put any to it, i am sure it will be a better than it has here. adieu. _letter 66._--"the lost lady" is a tragi-comedy by sir william berkely, and is advertised to be sold at the shop of the holy lamb in the year 1639, which we may take as the probable date of its publication. dorothy would play hermione, the heroine. we can imagine her speaking with sympathetic accent lines such as these: with what harsh fate does heaven afflict me that all the blessings which make others happy, must be my ruin? the five portugals to whom dorothy refers as being hanged were the portuguese ambassador's brother, don pantaleon sa, and four of his men. the _mercurius politicus_ of november 1653 gives the following account of the matters that led to the execution; and as it is illustrative of the manners of the day, the account is here quoted at length:-"new exchange in the strand. _november 21._--in the evening there happened a quarrel between the portugal ambassador's brother and two or three others of that nation with one mr. gerard, an english gentleman, whom they all fell upon; but he being rescued out of their hands by one mr. anstruther, they retired home, and within an hour after returned with about twelve more of their nation, armed with breastplates and headpieces; but after two or three hours taken there, not finding anstruther, they went home again for that night. "_november 22._--at night the ambassador's brother and the rest returned again, and walking the upper exchange, they met with one col. mayo, who, being a proper man, they supposed him to have been the same anstruther that repelled them the night before; and so shooting off a pistol (which was as the watchword), the rest of the portugals (supposed about fifty) came in with drawn swords, and leaving a sufficient number to keep the stairs, the rest went up with the ambassador's brother, and there they fell upon col. mayo, who, very gallantly defending himself, received seven dangerous wounds, and lies in a mortal condition. they fell also upon one mr. greenway, of lincoln's inn, as he was walking with his sister in one hand and his mistress in the other (to whom, as i am informed, he was to have been married on tuesday next), and pistoled him in the head, whereof he died immediately. they brought with them several earthen jars stuffed with gunpowder, stopped with wax, and fitted with matches, intending, it seems, to have done some mischief to the exchange that they might complete their revenge, but they were prevented." there is an account of their trial in the _state trials_, of some interest to lawyers; it resulted in the execution of don pantaleon sa and four of his servants. by one of those curious fateful coincidences, with which fact often outbids fiction, mr. gerard, who was the first englishman attacked by the portuguese, suffers on the same scaffold as his would-be murderers, his offence being high treason. vowel, the other plotter, is also executed, but the third saves himself, as we know, by confession. _july 20th_ [1654 in pencil]. i am very sorry i spoke too late, for i am confident this was an excellent servant. he was in the same house where i lay, and i had taken a great fancy to him, upon what was told me of him and what i saw. the poor fellow, too, was so pleased that i undertook to inquire out a place for him, that, though mine was, as i told him, uncertain, yet upon the bare hopes on't he refused two or three good conditions; but i shall set him now at liberty, and not think at all the worse of him for his good-nature. sure you go a little too far in your condemnation on't. i know it may be abused, as the best things are most subject to be, but in itself 'tis so absolutely necessary that where it is wanting nothing can recompense the miss on't. the most contemptible person in the world, if he has that, cannot be justly hated, and the most considerable without it cannot deserve to be loved. would to god i had all that good-nature you complain you have too much of, i could find ways enough to dispose on't amongst myself and my friends; but 'tis well where it is, and i should sooner wish you more on't than less. i wonder with what confidence you can complain of my short letters that are so guilty yourself in the same kind. i have not seen a letter this month which has been above half a sheet. never trust me if i write more than you that live in a desolated country where you might finish a romance of ten tomes before anybody interrupted you--i that live in a house the most filled of any since the ark, and where, i can assure [you], one has hardly time for the most necessary occasions. well, there was never any one thing so much desired and apprehended at the same time as your return is by me; it will certainly, i think, conclude me a very happy or a most unfortunate person. sometimes, methinks, i would fain know my doom whatever it be; and at others, i dread it so extremely, that i am confident the five portugals and the three plotters which were t'other day condemned by the high court of justice had not half my fears upon them. i leave you to judge the constraint i live in, what alarms my thoughts give me, and yet how unconcerned this company requires i should be; they will have me at my part in a play, "the lost lady" it is, and i am she. pray god it be not an ill omen! i shall lose my eyes and you this letter if i make it longer. farewell. i am, yours. _letter 67._--elizabeth, queen of bohemia, was the daughter of james i. she married the elector frederick, who was driven from his throne owing to his own misconduct and folly, when his wife was forced to return and live as a pensioner in her native country. she is said to have been gifted in a superlative degree with all that is considered most lovely in a woman's character. on her husband's death in 1632 she went to live at the hague, where she remained until the restoration. there is a report that she married william, earl of craven, but there is no proof of this. he was, however, her friend and adviser through her years of widowhood, and it was to his house in drury lane that she returned to live in 1661. she is said to have been a lover of literature, and francis quarles and sir henry wotton were her intimate friends. the latter has written some quaint and elegant verses to his mistress; the last verse, in which he apostrophizes her as the sun, is peculiarly graceful. it runs thus: you meaner beauties of the night, that poorly satisfy our eyes, more by your number than your light,- you common people of the skies, what are you when the sun shall rise? but the sun is set, and the beautiful queen's sad, romantic story almost forgotten. sir john grenvile was a son of the valiant and loyal cavalier, sir bevil grenvile, of kelkhampton, cornwall. he served the king successfully in the west of england, and was dangerously wounded at newbury. he was entrusted by charles ii. to negotiate with general monk. monk's brother was vicar of kelkhampton, so that grenvile and monk would in all probability be well acquainted before the time of the negotiation. we may remember, too, that dorothy's younger brother was on intimate terms with general monk's relations in cornwall. there must be letters missing here, for we cannot believe more than a month passed without dorothy writing a single letter. i wonder you did not come before your last letter. 'twas dated the 24th of august, but i received it not till the 1st of september. would to god your journey were over! every little storm of wind frights me so, that i pass here for the greatest coward that ever was born, though, in earnest, i think i am as little so as most women, yet i may be deceived, too, for now i remember me you have often told me i was one, and, sure, you know what kind of heart mine is better than anybody else. i am glad you are pleased with that description i made you of my humour, for, though you had disliked it, i am afraid 'tis past my power to help. you need not make excuses neither for yours; no other would please me half so well. that gaiety which you say is only esteemed would be insupportable to me, and i can as little endure a tongue that's always in motion as i could the click of a mill. of all the company this place is stored with, there is but two persons whose conversation is at all easy; one is my eldest niece, who, sure, was sent into the world to show 'tis possible for a woman to be silent; the other, a gentleman whose mistress died just when they should have married; and though 'tis many years since, one may read it in his face still. his humour was very good, i believe, before that accident, for he will yet say things pleasant enough, but 'tis so seldom that he speaks at all, and when he does 'tis with so sober a look, that one may see he is not moved at all himself when he diverts the company most. you will not be jealous though i say i like him very much. if you were not secure in me, you might be so in him. he would expect his mistress should rise again to reproach his inconstancy if he made court to anything but her memory. methinks we three (that is, my niece, and he and i) do become this house the worst that can be, unless i should take into the number my brother peyton himself too; for to say truth his, for another sort of melancholy, is not less than ours. what can you imagine we did this last week, when to our constant company there was added a colonel and his lady, a son of his and two daughters, a maid of honour to the queen of bohemia, and another colonel or a major, i know not which, besides all the tongue they brought with them; the men the greatest drinkers that ever i saw, which did not at all agree with my brother, who would not be drawn to it to save a kingdom if it lay at stake and no other way to redeem it? but, in earnest, there was one more to be pitied besides us, and that was colonel thornhill's wife, as pretty a young woman as i have seen. she is sir john greenvil's sister, and has all his good-nature, with a great deal of beauty and modesty, and wit enough. this innocent creature is sacrificed to the veriest beast that ever was. the first day she came hither he intended, it seems, to have come with her, but by the way called in to see an old acquaintance, and bid her go on, he would overtake her, but did not come till next night, and then so drunk he was led immediately to bed, whither she was to follow him when she had supped. i blest myself at her patience, as you may do that i could find anything to fill up this paper withal. adieu. _letter 68._--in this scrap of writing we find that temple is again in england with certain proposals from his father, and ready to discuss the "treaty," as dorothy calls it, with her brother peyton. the few remaining letters deal with the treaty. temple would probably return to london when he left ireland, and letters would pass frequently between them. there seems to have been some hitch as to who should appear in the treaty. dorothy's brother had spoken of and behaved to temple with all disrespect, but, now that he is reconciled to the marriage, dorothy would have him appear, at least formally, in the negotiations. the last letter of this chapter, which is dated october 2nd, calls on temple to come down to kent, to peyton's house; and it is reasonable to suppose that at this interview all was practically settled to the satisfaction of those two who were most deeply concerned in the negotiation. i did so promise myself a letter on friday that i am very angry i had it not, though i know you were not come to town when it should have been writ. but did not you tell me you should not stay above a day or two? what is it that has kept you longer? i am pleased, though, that you are out of the power of so uncertain things as the winds and the sea, which i never feared for myself, but did extremely apprehend for you. you will find a packet of letters to read, and maybe have met with them already. if you have, you are so tired that 'tis but reasonable i should spare you in this. for, [to] say truth, i have not time to make this longer; besides that if i had, my pen is so very good that it writes an invisible hand, i think; i am sure i cannot read it myself. if your eyes are better, you will find that i intended to assure you i am yours. _letter 69._ i am but newly waked out of an unquiet sleep, and i find it so late that if i write at all it must be now. some company that was here last night kept us up till three o'clock, and then we lay three in a bed, which was all the same to me as if we had not gone to bed at all. since dinner they are all gone, and our company with them part of the way, and with much ado i got to be excused, that i might recover a little sleep, but am so moped yet that, sure, this letter will be nonsense. i would fain tell you, though, that your father is mistaken, and that you are not, if you believe that i have all the kindness and tenderness for you my heart is capable of. let me assure you (whatever your father thinks) that had you £20,000 a year i could love you no more than i do, and should be far from showing it so much lest it should look like a desire of your fortune, which, as to myself, i value as little as anybody 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 £4000, to not £400 a year, and i thank god i never felt the change in anything that i thought necessary. i never wanted, nor 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,--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. if ever this comes to a treaty, i shall declare that in my own choice i prefer you much before any other person in the world, and all that this inclination in me (in the judgment of any persons of honour and discretion) will bear, i shall desire may be laid upon it to the uttermost of what they can allow. and if your father please to make up the rest, i know nothing that is like to hinder me from being yours. but if your father, out of humour, shall refuse to treat with such friends as i have, let them be what they will, it must end here; for though i was content, for your sake, to lose them, and all the respect they had for me, yet, now i have done that, i'll never let them see that i have so little interest in you and yours as not to prevail that my brother may be admitted to treat for me. sure, when a thing of course and so much reason as that (unless i did disclose to all the world he were my enemy), it must be expected whensoever i dispose of myself he should be made no stranger to it. when that shall be refused me, i may be justly reproached that i deceived myself when i expected to be at all valued in a family that i am a stranger to, or that i should be considered with any respect because i had a kindness for you, that made me not value my own interests. i doubt much whether all this be sense or not; i find my head so heavy. but that which i would say is, in short, this: if i did say once that my brother should have nothing to do in't, 'twas when his carriage towards me gave me such an occasion as could justify the keeping that distance with him; but now it would look extremely unhandsome in me, and, sure, i hope your father would not require it of me. if he does, i must conclude he has no value for me, and, sure, i never disobliged him to my knowledge, and should, with all the willingness imaginable, serve him if it lay in my power. good god! what an unhappy person am i. all the world is so almost. just now they are telling me of a gentleman near us that is the most wretched creature made (by the loss of a wife that he passionately loved) that can be. if your father would but in some measure satisfy my friends that i might but do it in any justifiable manner, you should dispose me as you pleased, carry me whither you would, all places of the world would be alike to me where you were, and i should not despair of carrying myself so towards him as might deserve a better opinion from him. i am yours. _letter 70._ my doubts and fears were not at all increased by that which gives you so many, nor did i apprehend that your father might not have been prevailed with to have allowed my brother's being seen in the treaty; for as to the thing itself, whether he appears in't or not, 'twill be the same. he cannot but conclude my brother peyton would not do anything in it without the others' consent. i do not pretend to any share in your father's kindness, as having nothing in me to merit it; but as much a stranger as i am to him, i should have taken it very ill if i had desired it of him, and he had refused it me. i do not believe my brother has said anything to his prejudice, unless it were in his persuasions to me, and there it did not injure him at all. if he takes it ill that my brother appears so very averse to the match, i may do so too, that he was the same; and nothing less than my kindness for you could have made me take so patiently as i did his saying to some that knew me at york that he was forced to bring you thither and afterwards to send you over lest you should have married me. this was not much to my advantage, nor hardly civil, i think, to any woman; yet i never so much as took the least notice on't, nor had not now, but for this occasion; yet, sure, it concerns me to be at least as nice as he in point of honour. i think 'tis best for me to end here lest my anger should make me lose that respect i would always have for your father, and 'twere not amiss, i think, that i devoted it all towards you for being so idle as to run out of your bed to catch such a cold. if you come hither you must expect to be chidden so much that you will wish that you had stayed till we came up, when perhaps i might have almost forgot half my quarrel to you. at this present i can assure you i am pleased with nobody but your sister, and her i love extremely, and will call her pretty; say what you will, i know she must be so, though i never saw more of her than what her letters show. she shall have two "spots" [carriage dogs] if she please (for i had just such another given me after you were gone), or anything else that is in the power of yours. _letter 71._ _monday, october the 2nd_ [1654]. after a long debate with myself how to satisfy you and remove that rock (as you call it), which in your apprehensions is of so great danger, i am at last resolved to let you see that i value your affections 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 apprehension you would make me believe you had that i do not care to see you, pray come hither and try whether you shall be welcome or not! in sober earnest now i must speak with you; and to that end if your occasions will [serve] come down to canterbury. send some one when you are there, and you shall have further directions. you must be contented not to stay here above two or three hours. i shall tell you my reason when you come. and pray inform yourself of all that your father will do on this occasion, that you may tell it me only; therefore let it be plainly and sincerely what he intends and all. i will not hinder your coming away so much as the making this letter a little longer might take away from your time in reading it. 'tis enough to tell you i am ever yours. chapter vii the end of the third volume this short series of notes was written, i think, during a visit to london after the formal betrothal and before the marriage. these notes were evidently written upon the trivial occasions of the day, more perhaps for the sake of writing something than for any more serious reason. the note in french is somewhat of a curiosity on account of its quaint orthography, which is purposely left uncorrected. was dorothy in london to purchase her _trousseau_? where did she and jane spend their days, if that was the case, when regent street was green fields? these questions cannot be satisfactorily answered; but the notes themselves, without any history or explanation, are so full of interest, so fresh and vivacious, even for dorothy, that they place themselves from the freedom and joy of their style and manner at the end of the third volume. you are like to have an excellent housewife of me; i am abed still, and slept so soundly, nothing but your letter could have waked me. you shall hear from me as soon as we have dined. farewell; can you endure that word? no, out upon't. i'll see you anon. fye upon't i shall grow too good now, i am taking care to know how your worship slept to-night; better i hope than you did the last. send me word how you do, and don't put me off with a bit of a note now; you could write me a fine long letter when i did not deserve it half so well. you are mistaken if you think i am in debt for both these days. saturday i confess was devoted to my lady; but yesterday, though i ris with good intentions of going to church, my cold would not suffer me, but kept me prisoner all the day. i went to your lodging to tell you that visiting the sick was part of the work of the day, but you were gone, and so i went to bed again, where your letter found me this morning. but now i will rise and despatch some visits that i owe, that to-morrow may be entirely yours. i find my conscience a little troubled till i have asked your pardon for my ill-humour last night. will you forgive it me; in earnest, i could not help it, but i met with a cure for it; my brother kept me up to hear his learned lecture till after two o'clock, and i spent all my ill-humour upon him, and yet we parted very quietly, and look'd as if a little good fortune might make us good friends; but your special friend, my elder brother, i have a story to tell you of him. will my cousin f. come, think you? send me word, it maybe 'twas a compliment; if i can see you this morning i will, but i dare not promise it. sir,--this is to tell you that you will be expected to-morrow morning about nine o'clock at a lodging over against the place where charinge crosse stood, and two doors above ye goate taverne; if with these directions you can find it out, you will there find one that is very much your servant. now i have got the trick of breaking my word, i shall do it every day. i must go to roehampton to-day, but 'tis all one, you do not care much for seeing me. well, my master, remember last night you swaggered like a young lord. i'll make your stomach come down; rise quickly, you had better, and come hither that i may give you a lesson this morning before i go. je n'ay guere plus dormie que vous et mes songes n'ont pas estres moins confuse, au rest une bande de violons que sont venu jouer sous ma fennestre, m'out tourmentés de tel façon que je doubt fort si je pourrois jamais les souffrire encore, je ne suis pourtant pas en fort mauvaise humeur et je m'en-voy ausi tost que je serai habillée voire ce qu'il est posible de faire pour vostre sattisfaction, après je viendre vous rendre conte de nos affairs et quoy qu'il en sera vous ne scaurois jamais doubté que je ne vous ayme plus que toutes les choses du monde. i have slept as little as you, and may be allowed to talk as unreasonably, yet i find i am not quite senseless; i have a heart still that cannot resolve to refuse you anything within its power to grant. but, lord, when shall i see you? people will think me mad if i go abroad this morning after having seen me in the condition i was in last night, and they will think it strange to see you here. could you not stay till they are all gone to roehampton? they go this morning. i do but ask, though do what you please, only believe you do a great injustice if you think me false. i never resolv'd to give you an eternal farewell, but i resolv'd at the same time to part with all the comfort of my life, and whether i told it you or not i shall die yours. tell me what you will have me do. here comes the note again to tell you i cannot call on you to-night; i cannot help it, and you must take it as patiently as you can, but i am engaged to-night at the three rings to sup and play. poor man, i am sorry for you; in earnest, i shall be quite spoiled. i see no remedy; think whether it were not best to leave me and begin a new adventure. and now we have finished. dorothy osborne is passing away, will soon be translated into dorothy temple; with the romance of her life all past history, and fast becoming as much a romance to herself, as it seems to us, looking back at it after more than two centuries. something it is becoming to her over which she can muse and dream and weave into tales for the children who will gather round her. something the reality of which will grow doubtful to her, if she find idle hours for dreaming and doubting in her new name. her last lover's letter is written. we are ready for the marriage ceremony, and listen for the wedding march and happy jingle of village bells; or if we may not have these in puritan days, at least we may hear the pompous magistrate pronounce the blessing of the state over its two happy subjects. but no! there is yet a moment of suspense, a last trial to the lover's constancy. the bride is taken dangerously ill, so dangerously 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 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 the 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 we, too, may have seen something, mirrowed darkly in these letters; which we, too, as well as temple, may know existed in dorothy. for it is not beauty of face and form, but of what men call the soul, that made dorothy to temple, in fact as she was in name,--the gift of god. appendix lady temple of lady temple there is very little to be known, and what there is can be best understood by following the career of her husband, which has been written at some length, and with laboured care, by mr. courtenay. after her marriage, which took place in london, january 31st, 1655, they lived for a year at the home of a friend in the country. they then removed to ireland, where they lived for five years with temple's father; lady giffard, temple's widowed sister, joining them. in 1663 they were living in england. lady giffard continued to live with them through the rest of their lives, and survived them both. in 1665 temple was sent to brussels as english representative, and his family joined him in the following year. in 1668 he was removed from brussels to the hague, where the successful negotiations which led to the triple alliance took place, and these have given him an honourable place in history. there is a letter of lady temple's, written to her husband in 1670, which shows how interested she was in the part he took in political life, and how he must have consulted her in all state matters. it is taken from courtenay's _life of sir william temple_, vol. i. p. 345. he quotes it as the only letter written after lady temple's marriage which has come into his hands. the hague, _october 31st, 1670_. my dearest heart,--i received yours from yarmouth, and was very glad you made so happy a passage. 'tis a comfortable thing, when one is on this side, to know that such a thing can be done in spite of contrary winds. i have a letter from p., who says in character that you may take it from him that the duke of buckingham has begun a negotiation there, but what success in england he may have he knows not; that it were to be wished our politicians at home would consider well that there is no trust to be put in alliances with ambitious kings, especially such as make it their fundamental maxim to be base. these are bold words, but they are his own. besides this, there is nothing but that the french king grows very thrifty, that all his buildings, except fortifications, are ceased, and that his payments are not so regular as they used to be. the people here are of another mind; they will not spare their money, but are resolved--at least the states of holland--if the rest will consent, to raise fourteen regiments of foot and six of horse; that all the companies, both old and new, shall be of 120 men that used to be of 50, and every troop 80 that used to be of 45. nothing is talked of but these new levies, and the young men are much pleased. downton says they have strong suspicions here you will come back no more, and that they shall be left in the lurch; that something is striking up with france, and that you are sent away because you are too well inclined to these countries; and my cousin temple, he says, told him that a nephew of sir robert long's, who is lately come to utrecht, told my cousin temple, three weeks since, you were not to stay long here, because you were too great a friend to these people, and that he had it from mr. williamson, who knew very well what he said. my cousin temple says he told it to major scott as soon as he heard it, and so 'tis like you knew it before; but there is such a want of something to say that i catch at everything. i am my best dear's most affectionate d.t. in the summer of 1671 there occurred an incident that reminds us considerably of the dorothy osborne of former days. the triple alliance had lost some of its freshness, and was not so much in vogue as heretofore. charles ii. had been coquetting with the french king, and at length the government, throwing off its mask, formally displaced temple from his post in holland. "the critical position of affairs," says courtenay, "induced the dutch to keep a fleet at sea, and the english government hoped to draw from that circumstance an occasion of quarrel. a yacht was sent for lady temple; the captain had orders to sail through the dutch fleet if he should meet it, and to fire into the nearest ships until they should either strike sail to the flag which he bore, or return his shot so as to make a quarrel! "he saw nothing of the dutch fleet in going over, but on his return he fell in with it, and fired, without warning and ceremony, into the ships that were next him. "the dutch admiral, van ghent, was puzzled; he seemed not to know, and probably did not know, what the english captain meant; he therefore sent a boat, thinking it possible that the yacht might be in distress; when the captain told his orders, mentioning also that he had the ambassadress on board. van ghent himself then came on board, with a handsome compliment to lady temple, and, making his personal inquiries of the captain, received the same answer as before. the dutchman said he had no orders upon the point, which he rightly believed to be still unsettled, and could not believe that the fleet, commanded by an admiral, was to strike to the king's pleasure-boat. "when the admiral returned to his ship, the captain also, 'perplexed enough,' applied to lady temple, who soon saw that he desired to get out of his difficulty by her help; but the wife of sir william temple called forth the spirit of dorothy osborne. 'he knew,' she told the captain, 'his orders best, and what he was to do upon them, which she left to him to follow as he thought fit, without any regard to her or her children.' the dutch and english commanders then proceeded each upon his own course, and lady temple was safely landed in england." there is an account of this incident in a letter of sir charles lyttelton to viscount hatton, in the hatton correspondence. he tells us that the poor captain, captain crow of _the monmouth_, "found himself in the tower about it;" but he does not add any further information as to the part which dorothy played in the matter. after their retirement to sheen and moor park, surrey, we know nothing distinctively of lady temple, and little is known of their family life. they had only two children living, having lost as many as seven in their infancy. in 1684 one of these children, their only daughter, died of small-pox; she was buried in westminster abbey. there is a letter of hers written to her father which shows some signs of her mother's affectionate teaching, and which we cannot forbear to quote. it is copied from courtenay, vol. ii. p. 113. sir,--i deferred writing to you till i could tell you that i had received all my fine things, which i have just now done; but i thought never to have done giving you thanks for them. they have made me so very happy in my new clothes, and everybody that comes does admire them above all things, but yet not so much as i think they deserve; and now, if papa was near, i should think myself a perfect pope, though i hope i should not be burned as there was one at nell gwyn's door the 5th of november, who was set in a great chair, with a red nose half a yard long, with some hundreds of boys throwing squibs at it. monsieur gore and i agree mighty well, and he makes me believe i shall come to something at last; that is if he stays, which i don't doubt but he will, because all the fine ladies will petition for him. we are got rid of the workmen now, and our house is ready to entertain you. come when you please, and you will meet nobody more glad to see you than your most obedient and dutiful daughter, d. temple. temple's son, john temple, married in 1685 a rich heiress in france, the daughter of monsieur duplessis rambouillet, a french protestant; he brought his wife to live at his father's house at sheen. after king william and queen mary were actually placed on the throne, sir william temple, in 1689, permitted his son to accept the office of secretary at war. for reasons now obscure and unknowable, he drowned himself in the thames within a week of his acceptance of office, leaving this writing behind him:-"my folly in undertaking what i was not able to perform has done the king and kingdom a great deal of prejudice. i wish him all happiness and abler servants than john temple." the following letter was written on that occasion by lady temple to her nephew, sir john osborne. the original of it is at chicksands:-_to sir john osborne, thanking him for his consolation on the death of her son._ sheen, _may 6th, 1689_. dear nephew,--i give you many thanks for your kind letter and the sense you have of my affliction, which truly is very great. but since it is laid upon me by the hand of an almighty and gracious god, that always proportions his punishments to the support he gives with them, i may hope to bear it as a christian ought to do, and more especially one that is conscious to herself of having many ways deserved it. the strange revolution we have seen might well have taught me what this world is, yet it seems it was necessary that i should have a near example of the uncertainty of all human blessings, that so having no tie to the world i may the better prepare myself to leave it; and that this correction may suffice to teach me my duty must be the prayer of your affectionate aunt and humble servant, d. temple. during the remaining years of her life, lady temple was honoured, to use the conventional phrase, by the friendship of queen mary, and there is said to have been a continuous correspondence between them, though i can find on inquiry no trace of its existence at the present day. early in the year 1695, after forty years of married life, and in the sixty-seventh year of her age, she died. she lies, with her husband and children, on the north side of the nave of westminster abbey, close to the little door that leads to the organ gallery. her body sleeps in capel's monument, and her immortal part with angels lives. 