Part 11 (1/2)
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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 pa.s.sage?
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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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 Calprenede and Scuderi, of _Cleopatre_ 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 Bedfords.h.i.+re, 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 l.u.s.tre 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 G.o.d 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 n.o.bly. 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 s.h.i.+ft 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 _negligee_; 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 n.o.body 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 n.o.body 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 circ.u.mstance 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 pa.s.sages, 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 Lords.h.i.+p 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 Northamptons.h.i.+re. 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 pa.s.sing 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 p.r.o.nounce 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.