J.V >.;- .'.,v_,- , ^ti." i- IT.. .■;. pfc^ • V . / a3tWTO« * • \\' ^.•^^s'^/c^T^ . .••;.^s>i -;. -\i Class _JPB_1S4A RnnV X %R4> Copight}*? CfiBfRIGHT DEPOSm Old Love-Letters y /-» ^Letters of Sentiment WRITTEN BY PERSONS EMINENT IN ENGLISH LITERATURE AND HISTORY COLLECTED AND/EDITED BY iND/E ABBY SAGE RICH 'Far more than kisses, letters mingle souls, For thus friends absent meet " ^DONNE ^ BOSTON 1883 V Copyright^ 1882, By James R. Osgood and Co. A II rights reserved. /'^.-ibToi University Press: John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. TO MY LOST FRIEND H IBfbicate tf)ts Uolume FILLED WITH UTTERANCES OF HEARTS ONCE WARM AND LIVING, NOW COLD AND DEAD. INTRODUCTORY. It was the fashion often, in daj's when literature was not so assured and independent a profession as now, to begin a book with a preface addressed to a being, half-shadowj^ and half-real, who existed in the author's mind as " The Gentle Reader." This reader, in whom the author embodied his pubhc, was entreated graciousl}^ to entertain that which had come from the heart of the writer, and to look with sympath}', or at least with criticism animated b}' kindh' interest, on that which was laid before him. It is to this same " Gentle Reader," almost extinct now and not often recalled, — to this shadow}' creature between whom and himself the author could fancy there existed a friendlj' bond, — that this little book is speciallj' commended ; in- deed, it is to him onh' that it is offered. The editor can say this with more earnestness because she feels herself in some sense the repository only of those secrets of the heart which are here revealed : vi Introductory, she has onh' jnst come from that past in which these hearts used to beat with passion and ten- derness ; she feels as if for a time she had found there the magic alchemy w^hich had recreated them from their dead ashes ; and their utterances have in them something so personal and so sacred that now, after having gathered them together from the obscure nooks and corners of literature where she found so man}' of them, she should hesitate to give them thus openl}' to any eye but that of the '' Gentle Reader." To him alone, then, are they given, — these records of passion, of foll}^ of mad- ness, as well as of lo^'alt}^, of devotion, and of noblest affection, — that under his eyes, beaming at once with S3'mpathy for human suffering and charit}" for human weakness, they may give up their inmost secrets, and he ma}' read here vrhat was long since written upon the '' red-leaved tab- lets of the heart," before they fail back again to dust. It is claimed by many that this age of ours is so sordid and practical that any depth of feeling such as is so frankly expressed in these old let- ters would awake to-day only wonder or laughter. If it were necessary to make any plea to the "Gentle Reader" in favour of sentiment, there would flock, at such need, a cloud of best and most Introductory. vii triurnpliant witnesses. But let us hope it is not necessary. If there are no such eloquent letters written now as in the sixteenth century-, none so elegant as in the eighteenth, the reason lies per- haps in the fact that steam and lightning have so annihilated distance that exDression is disreo-arded and action takes its place. The lover does not stop to write to his mistress when the steam brings him to her feet ; nor the husband pause over the page, writing long messages of tenderness, and as- surances of health and safety in absence, when the lightning will take ten words of reassurance to his wife's chamber. So the art of letter-writing has fallen into decay. But let us hope that none of the warmth or tenderness of human hearts is lost in the rapid movement of life. And if we grant that expression grows more reserved, and that the tenderest husband might hesitate to-da}' to write to his "• dearest life" in terms that even the stern Puritan Cromwell found natural and easy, it is not because he feels any less, but because he car- ries his heart more and more under cover. Let us cherish that hope ; because in the most golden age of the world true affection is so rare, and love is a plant of such delicate and beautiful growth. ^'' It is a talent to love^'' says one of George Eli- ot's strong- women characters, " hut I lacked it:' viii Introductory. "The woman who can love, constant!}' and trul}^" saj's Balzac, ''is as rare as tlie great general or the great poet. One must have the genius to love, and there are few such.'' If this be so, then the records of some of the hearts given here, who have loved and suffered, are all the more touching be- cause the}' are of the few. To suffer seems, in- deed, the fate of most of these hearts who are in earnest in their affection. Whether, after a brief season of happiness, some adverse circumstance comes in, or death divides, or whether (as often happens) offered love is unvalued and wasted, it is certain that in most cases there is something fatal to the long continuance of love's happiness. It is certain, too, that no person is more undis- criminating than the lover, and that neither virtue nor wit, nor any good qualit}', is the winning one, where passionate and most prodigal affection is concerned. Quite as often characters scheming, ambitious, selfish, cold-hearted, and quite devoid of tenderness, have won the largest loj'altj' and devotion. When we read the letters of Marv Wollstouecraft, or poor Otway, or Hester Van- homrigh, — when we see how such rich souls, passionate and loyal, can wreck themselves upon shallow natures with stony hearts, with neither the talent to love nor the sensibilit}' to value love, Introductory, ix — then we know why the ancient myths made love both cruel and bUnd. It is a subtle fact which we discover in studying these old letters, that they reveal not only the writer, whose soul, as Johnson says, '' lies naked in his letter," but that, by a sort of refracted light, the}' show us the soul of tlie person written to. When we read the passionate outpourings of Keats, and Vanessa, and Otway, the reverent ten- derness of Nelson, we see beyond them the shal- low and frivolous Fanny, the cold-hearted Swift, the selfish and mercenary Mrs. Barry, the voluptu- ous and ambitious Lady Hamilton. AVhen we read Lord Peterborough's epistles, we see not onl}^ the antique beau who writes the lines, but Lad}^ Howard as well, — the self-contained court beautv', calculating and a little precise, with whom he is pla3'ing at love-making. In John Winthrop's letters, Margaret Winthrop, the loyal and submis- sive Puritan wife, is as clear as in her own writing; and when Dorothy Sidney writes her lord, '^ If it he love to think on you sleeping and waking^ to dis- course on nothing with pleasure hut lohat concerns 3'OU, to wish myself every hour with you^ and to pray for you with as much devotion as for my own soul^ then certainly it may he said 1 am in love" we are as sure that the best blood of the noble line of X Tntroductm^y, the Sidnej^s stirs about that husband's heart when he reads her letter as if we had personally known the man. It is strange how little the expression of senti- ment varies from century to century. These lines above from Dorothy Sidney might have come from the pen of any loving wife yesterday. Pliny, born in the first century, writing in Rome, begs liis wife to write him every day, and tells her he is wretched till she returns, in very much the same phrase as the merchant on 'change wrote his wife to-day, who has just left him for a fortnight's visit. " My chief happiness is in yoursr '^ Believe, there is nothing I xoould not do if it woidd make you happy J^ '' Life is not life now you are awayT These phrases are never hackneyed in the letters of lovers, and the}' are found word for word in letters centuries old, or in those of the moment. Love, like Youth, belongs among the immortals ; and what he sa3's is forever old, yet forever new. No one will fancj^ that this little book claims to contain all the famous love-letters of the past, or that this collection is exhaustive. There is only an attempt to represent different types of affection and different st} les qf expression. The sentimen- talit}' of Sterne contrasts well with the real passion of Farquhar, half-hidden under a laugh ; and the i Introductory, xi lection, tempered with godliness, of John Win- throp is a good foil to the gallant coquetries of Lord Peterborough and the Countess of Suffolk. There are all sorts of guests at this banquet of Love, as in that other S3'mposium, described by Plato, at which the poetic Agathon, the calm Pausanias, the witty Aristophanes, even the hand- some Alcibiades, — a little disordered with wine, yet crowned with violets, — all sat to discourse on Love, each in his own fashion ; while above all their varjing voices rose that of the great Socra- tes, declaring, "Zore is the desire that good he for- ever present to us. Of necessity^ then, love must also he the desire for immortality,''^ NOTE. This little volume bears exactly ihe same name as a charming comedy by the dramatic author, Mr. Broxson Howard; and I take this opportunity of apologizing to him for what might otherwise seem like an unwarrantable appropriation of a title, and of urging in excuse that this book could not easily have been called anything else than Old Love-Letters, CONTENTS. PART I. LETTERS OF POETS AND MEN OF LETTERS. Page Thomas Otway to Mrs. Barry 3 The Same to the Same 7 Earl of Rocliester to Mrs. Barry 8 The Same to the Same 8 George Farquhar to Mrs. Oldfield 9 The Same to the Same 12 The Same to the Same 13 George Farquhar's Last Letter to Penelope .... 15 Alexander Pope to the Misses Blount 16 Alexander Pope to Martha Blount ........ 17 Alexander Pope to Teresa Blount 18 Alexander Pope to Martha Blount 20 The Same to the Same 22 Alexander Pope to Lady Mary Wortley Montagu . . 24 The Same to the Same 30 Lady Mary Pierrepont to Edward Wortley Montagu . 31 The Same to the Same 33 William Congreve to Mrs. Arabella Hunt 34 Stella and Vanessa 36 Dean Swift to Stella 41 The Same to the Same 43 xiv Contents. Page Hester Vanhomrigh to Dean Swift 45 The Same to tlie Same 46 Dean Swift's Answer to the Above 48 Hester Vanhomrigh to Dean Swift 49 Dean Swift to Hester Vanhomrigh 50 Lord Peterborough and the Countess of Suffolk . . 52 Lord Peterborough to Henrietta Howard 54 The Same to the Same 56 Mrs. Howard's Reply to the Foregoing 59 Letters of Richard Steele 61 Richard Steele to Mary Scurlock 63 The Same to the Same 64 Richard Steele to his Wife 64 The Same to the Same 65 The Same to the Same 66 The Same to the Same 66 The Letters of Laurence Sterne 70 Laurence Sterne to Elizabeth Lumley 71 Laurence Sterne to Kitty Tourmantelle 74 Laurence Sterne to Eliza Draper 75 The Same to the Same . . 75 The Same to the Same 79 Samuel Johnson to Mrs. Thrale 83 The Same to the Same 86 The Same to the Same 87 Letters of Horace Walpole and the Misses Berry . . 88 Horace Walpole to the Misses Berry 90 The Same to the Same 91 The Same to Miss Mary Berry 95 To the two Misses Berry in Yorkshire 96 Robert Burns to Ellison Begbie 98 Robert Burns to Mrs. McLehose 101 The Same to the Same 104 Contents, XV Page The Same to the Same 105 Robert Burns's Last Letter to Clarinda 107 Mary Wollstonecraft's Letters 108 Mary WoUstonecraft to Captain Imlay 113 The Same to the Same 114 The Same to the Same 115 The Same to the Same 117 The Same to the Same 119 The Same to the Same 121 The Same to tlie Same 122 Tlie Same to the Same 125 The Same to the Same 128 The Same to the Same 131 The Same to tlie Same 132 The Same to the Same 134 The Same to the Same 13(3 The Same to the Same 137 Percy Bysshe Shelley to Mary Shelley 139 The Same to the Same 141 The Same to the Same 142 Lord Byron to the Countess Guicciola 143 Cliarlotte Carpenter to Walter Scott 145 The Same to the Same 117' The Same to the Same 148 The Same to the Same 150 The Same to the Same 151 Leigh Hmit to his Betrothed 151 John Keats's Letters to Fanny Brawne 155 John Keats to Fanny Brawne 158 The Same to the Same 160 The Same to the Same 162 The Same to the Same 163 The Same to the Same 104 xvi Contents, Page The Sarae to the Same 166 The Sarae to the Same 167 The Sarae to the Same 170 William Hazlitt to Sarah L 173 PAET II. LETTERS OF ROYAL PERSONAGES. Letters of Henry VIIL to Anne Bolejn 179 The Same to the Same 180 Anne Boleyn to Hein-y VIII 182 Anne Boleyn's Last Letter to Henry VIII 183 Henry VIIL to Jane Seymour 187 Katherine of Arragon to Henry VIII 188 Katherine Parr to Henry VIII 190 Sir Christopher Hatton to Queen Ehzabeth .... 192 The Earl of Essex to Queen Elizabeth 195 Mary Queen of Scots to tlie Earl of Bothwell ... 196 James I. to the Duke of Buckingliam 200 Lady Arabella Stuart to her Husband 202 Charles I. to Henrietta Maria 204 The Same to the Same 206 Oliver Cromwell to his Wife -. 208 The Same to the Same 209 Charles 11. to Catherine of Braganza 210 Letters of Queen Mary to King William 211 The Same to the Same 213 The Same to the Same .214 The Same to the Same 215 The Same to the Same : ... 217 Prince Albert to Queen Victoria • . . . 219 Contents. xvii PAET III. LETTERS OF STATESMEN, MILITARY JVIEN, AND MEN OF AFFAIRS. Page The Paston Letters 223 Margaret Paston to her Husband 224 Sir John Paston to Anne Haute 226 Margery Brews to John Paston 228 The Same to the Same 231 Richard Calle to Margery Paston 233 Roger Ascliara to his Wife .....*.... 238 Sir William St. Lo to his Wife 242 The Earl of Shrewsbury to his Wife 244 The Same to tlie Same 248 Sir Walter Raleigh to his Wife 249 The Same to the Same 251 The Duchess of Buckingham to her Husband . . . 254 Endymion Porter to his Wife 258 The Same to tlie Same 261 The Winthrop Letters 264 Anne Winthrop to her Husband 265 John Winthrop to Margaret Tyndal 267 Margaret Winthrop to her Husband 272 John Winthrop to his Wife 274 The Same to the Same 276 The Sidney Letters 279 Lady Dorothy Sidney to her Husband 281 The Earl of Sunderland to his Wife 283 Lord and Lady Russell 288 Lord Russell to Lady Russell 292 Lady Russell to Lord Russell 292 xviii Contents. Page The Same to the Same 298 The Same to the Same 295 The Duke of Marlborough to the Duchess .... 296 The Same to the Same 298 'The Letters of Mr. and Mrs. John Adams .... 300 John Adams to his Wife 300 Mrs. Adams to her Husband 303 Warren Hastings to his Wife 305 Letters of Aaron and Theodosia Burr 309 Mrs. Burr to her Husband 310 The Same to the Same 311 Aaron Burr to his Wife 312 The Same to the Same 314 Lord Nelson and Lady Hamilton 316 Lord Nelson to Lady Hamilton 318 The Same to the Same 319 The Same to the Same 320 PART I. LETTERS OF POETS AXD MEN OF LETTERS. Eefelt the necessity of being beloved, which no noble mind can be without. — Colekidge. PART I. LETTEES OF POETS AND MEN OF LETTERS. Thomas Otway to Mrs. Barry. The following letters were written by Thomas Ot- way, the poet, to Mrs. Barry, one of the most popular of English actresses in the last quarter of the seventeenth century. Her personation of Monimia in The Orphan, by Otway, and of Belvidera in his play of Venice Preservedj raised her to the very highest rank in her profession. " In the gentle passions of Monimia and Belvidera," says one of her biographers, " she has never been excelled. In scenes of anger, despair, and resentment she was impetu- ous and terrible, and yet uttered the lines of sentiment with a most enchanting harmony." In spite of her power in depicting the softer passions, she was neither a tender nor an amiable woman. Tradi- tion shows her as heartless as she was mercenary, with plenty of admirers, each of whom ministered in some way to her ambition or her advantage. Otway's imagination and heart were both at once touched in seeing her act in the creations of his fancy. She seems to have known how to keep alive his affection, by an occasional favour, for seven years. He was a man of sensitive nature and 4 Letters of Poets mid Men of Letters. strong affections ; and this hopeless love, joined to other misfortune, drove him to excesses, finally to ruin. In his last days he was wretchedly poor, and there are varying accounts of the manner of his death, which was miserable enough in any case. One tradition relates that, finding himself without money or friends, he shut himself up in a tavern, resolved to die there ; but finally, forced by hunger, he rushed out, and, seeing a gentleman passing, begged for a shilling to buy bread. The man, recognizing in Otway the author of Venice Preserved, gave him a guinea. The poet went to the nearest shop and bought bread, and, eating ravenously in the agony of hunger, he was choked to death before he could swallow the first 'mouthful. He was only thirty-four years old at death. His mad passion for the heartless object of his love is best painted in his own words. No date ; between 1678-88. My Tyrant, — I endure too much torment to be silent, and have endured it too long not to make the severest complaint. I love 3'ou ; I dote on you ; mj love makes me mad when I am near you, and despair when I am from 3'ou. Sure, of all miseries love is to me the most intolerable ; it haunts me in my sleep, perplexes me when wak- ing; ever}^ melancholy thought makes my fears more powerful, and ever}" delightful one makes m}" wishes more unrul}'. In all other uneasy chances of a man's life, there 's an immediate re- course to some kind of succour or another: in Tlwmas Otway to Mrs. Barry. 5 want, we apply to our friends ; in sickness, to ph3'sicians ; but love — the sum, the total of all misfortunes — must be endured in silence ; no friend so dear to trust with such a secret, nor remedy in art so powerful to remove its anguish. Since the first day I saw you I have hardly en- joyed one day of perfect quiet. I loved you early ; and no sooner had I beheld that bewitching face of 3'ours than I felt in my heart the very founda- tion of all my peace give wa v ; A>nt when 3'ou became another's, I must confess that I did then rebel, — had foolish pride enough to promise ni}'- self that I would recover my libert}', in spite of my enslaved nature ; I swore against m} self I would not love 3'ou ; I affected a resentment, stifled my spirit, and would not let it bend so much as once to upbraid 3'ou. Each day it was ray chance to see or be near 3'ou ; with stubborn sufferance I resolved to bear and brave 3'our power, — naj^, did it too, often successfully. General!}', with wine or conversation I diverted or appeased the de- mon that possessed me ; but when at night, re- turning to my unhappy self, to give my heart an account why I had done it so unnatural a vio- lence, it was then I always paid a treble interest for the short moments of ease which I had bor- rowed ; then every treacherous thought rose up, 6 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters, nor left me till thej' had thrown me on my bed, and opened those sluices of tears that were to flow till morning. This has been for some jears m}^ best condition ; na^', time itself, that deca} s all things else, has but increased and added to m}^ longings. I tell j'ou, and charge you to be- lieve it as 3^ou are generous (which sure 3'ou must be, for everj'thing except 3'our neglect of me persuades me you are so), even at' this time, though other arms have held 3'ou, that 11 love 3'ou with that tenderness of spirit, that purity of truth, that sincerit}' of heart, that I could sacrifice the nearest friends or interests I have on earth barely to please you. If I had all the world, it should be 3'ours ; for with it I could but be mis- erable, w^ere 3'ou not mine. I appeal to 3'ourself for justice, if through the whole actions of m3' life I have done an3' one thing that might not let 3'ou see how absolute 3'our authorit3' was over me. Your commands have been sacred to me ; 3'our smiles have transported, 3'our frowns awed me. In short, 3^ou will quickly become to me the greatest blessing or the greatest curse that ever man was doomed to. I cannot so much as look on 3'ou without confusion. You onl3' can, with the healing cordial love^ assuage and calm m3' torments. Pity the man, then, that Thomas Otway to 3[rs. Barry. 7 would be proud to die for 3-ou, and cannot live without you, and allow him thus far to boast that you never were beloved by a creature that had a nobler or juster pretence to your heart than the Unfortunate Otway. The Same to the Same. Could I see 3'ou without passion, or be absent from you without pain, I need not beg your pardon for thus renewing my vows, that I love you more than health, or any happiness here or hereafter. Everything you do is a new charm to me ; and though I have languished for seven long 3'ears, jealousl}' despairing, 3'et ever}' minute I see you I still discover something more bewitch- ing. Consider how I love you. What would I not renounce or undertake for you? I must have 3'ou mine, or I am miserable ; and nothing but knowing which shall be the happ}' hour can make the rest of m}' life that is to come tolerable. Give me a word or two of comfort, or resolve never to look on me more ; for I cannot bear a kind look, and then a cruel repulse. T/iis minute my heart aches for you ; and if I cannot have a right in yours, I 8 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. wish it would ache till I could complain to 3'ou no longer. Remember poor Otway. Earl of Rocliester to Mr§. Barry. One of Mrs. Barry^s lovers, more fortunate than Otway, was the profligate Earl of Kochester ; and the following are two brief notes which he wrote to the actress. It would seem that his brevity was more potent with her than Otway's eloquence; but it must be remembered that Rochester was an earl, and Otway only a poor poet. Madam, — Nothing can ever be so dear to me as you are, and I am so convinced of this that I dare undertake to love you as long as I live. Believe all I say, for that is the kindest thing imaginable ; and when 3'ou can devise any way that will make me appear so to you, instruct me in it, for I need a better understanding than my own to show my love without wrong to it. This is a second letter from the Earl, written at a time when his hand was wounded or disabled. Madam, — This is the first service my hand has done me since my being a cripple, and I would not employ it in a lie so soon. Therefore George Farqidiar to Mrs. Oldficld. 9 pra}^ believe me sincere when I assure 3'ou that 3^ou are verj' dear to me, and as long as I live I will be kind to you. P. S. This is all my hand would write, but my heart thinks a great deal more. George FarquTiar to Mrs. OlJJield, George Fakquhai^ was one of the most brilUant writers of comedy during the first decade of the eighteenth century ; and Mrs. Oldfield, who played the leading parts in some of his plays, was one of the most charming actresses of that time. When a girl of sixteen or eighteen, she lived with an aunt who kept the Mitre Tavern in St. James's Market, which was the resort of authors, actors, and men of artistic professions. Farquhar, dining there one day, overheard a fresh, musical voice reading aloud with great zest and vivacity a scene from Beaumont and Fletcher's Scornful Lady. The reading seasoned his repast, and after it he sought out the reader, and found her young, hand- some, and clever. Through his influence, Anne Oldfield became an actress, and was for years one of the queens of the stage. Farquhar seems to have been seriously in love with her ; but, perhaps fortunately for them both, slie preferred a richer and more illustrious lover. As for Farquhar, he married a woman who, having lost her heart to him, caused the report to be carried to his ears that a lady of great fortune was dying of an unrequited attachment to 10 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters, him. Impelled either by pity or by self-interest, or both together, he married her to discover that she was as penniless as himself. Yet it is told to his credit that he never reproached her for the deceit about her fortune, but made her a kind and devoted husband as long as she lived. He died poor, and dying left this legacy to his friend Wilks, the actor, in the following laconic note : — Dear Bob, — I have not any tiling to leave thee to per- petuate my memory but two helpless girls. Look upon them sometimes, and think of him that was to the last moment of his life, thine. George Farquhar. It is not absolutely certain that the following letters are written to Mrs. Oldfield. They appear, however, in a col- lection of his writings in which are " letters to Penelope," and this seems to be the name under which he wrote to the fascinating actress.] No date. About 1700. Madam, — If I ha'n't begun thrice to write and as often thrown away my pen, may I never take it up again. My head and m}^ heart have been at cuffs about 3'ou these two long hours. Says my head, '' You're a coxcomb for troubling 3'our noddle about a lady whose beauty is as much above your pretensions as your merit is below her love." Then answers my heart, ''Good Mr. Head, 3'ou 're a blockhead ; I know Mr. Farquhar's merit George Farquhar to Mrs. Oldfield, 11 better than you. As for 3'our part, I know 3'ou to be as whimsical as the Devil, and changing with every new notion that oflers ; but for my share, I am fixed, and can stick to my opinion of a lady's merit forever ; and if the fair She can se- cure an interest in me. Monsieur Head, you ma}' go whistle." " Come, come," answered my head, " 3'ou, Mr. Heart, are always leading this gentleman into some inconvenience or other. Was it not you that first enticed him to talk to this lady ? Your confounded warmth made him like this lady, and your busy impertinence has made him write to her ; 3'our leaping and skipping disturbs his sleep by night and his good-humour by day. In short, sir, I will hear no more of it. I am head^ and I will be obeyed." '^ You lie," replied m}' heart, very angry. " I am head in matters of love ; and if you don't give 3'our consent, you shall be forced, for I am sure that in this case all the members will be on my side. What sa}^ you, gentlemen Hands?" '' Oh," saj' the hands, '' we would not forego the pleasure of pressing a delicious, white, soft hand for the world." '' Well, what say you, Mr. Tongue?" "Zounds!" says the linguist, "there is more 1 2 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. ecstas}' in speaking three soft words of Mr. Heart's suggesting than whole orations of Seign- ior Head's. So I am for the lady, and here's honest neighbour Lips will stick to it." "By the sweet power of kisses, that we will," replied the lips ; and thus all the worth}^ mem- bers standing up for the Heart, the}' laid violent hands {nemine contradicente) upon poor Head, and knocked out his brains. So now^. Madam, behold me as perfect a lover as any in Christendom, m}" heart purelj' dictating ever}' word I say ; the little rebel throws itself into your power, and if you don't support it in the cause it has taken up for your sake, think what will be the condition of The headless and heartless Farquhar. The Same to the Same, Monday, 12 o'clock at night. Give me leave to call you dear Madam, and tell you I am now stepping into bed, and that I speak with as much sincerity as if I were stepping into my grave. Sleep is so great an emblem of death, that my words ought to be as real as if I were sure never to awaken. Then may I never again be blest with the light of the sun and the joys of George Farquhar to Mrs. Oldfielcl 13\ last Wednesday, if you are not as dear to me as nn' hopes of waking in health to-morrow morning. Your charms lead me, my inclinations prompt me, and my reason confirms me. Your faithful and humble servant, Farquhar. The Same to the Same. TVht should I write to my dearest Penelope when I onh' trouble her with reading what she won't believe? I have told m}' passion, my eyes have spoke it, my tongue pronounced it, and my pen declared it ; I have sighed it, swore it, and subscribed it. Now m}' heart is full of you, my head raves of 3'ou, and m}' hand writes to you ; but all in vain. If you think me a dissembler, use me generoush^ like a villain, and discard me forever; but if 3'ou will be so just to my passion as to believe it sin- cere, tell me so and make me happ}' : 't is but justice, Madam, to do one or t' other. Your indisposition last night, when I left 3'ou, put me into such disorder that, not finding a coach, I missed mv way and never minded where I wandered till I found m^'self close by Tyhurn. When blind Love guides, who can forbear going astray ? Instead of laughing at myself, I fell to pity- 14 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. ing poor Mr. Farqnhar, who whilst he roved abroad among j'our whole sex was never out of his way, and now by a single She was led to the gallows. From the thought of hanging I was led to that of matrimony. I considered how many gentlemen have taken a liandsome swing to avoid some in- ward disquiets ; then wh}' should not I hazard the noose to ease me of m_y torment? Then I con- sidered whether I should send for the ordinar}^ of Newgate, or the parson of St. Anne's ; but, considering myself better prepared for dying in a fair lad} 's arms than on the three-legged tree, I was the most inclined to a parish priest. Besides, if I died in a fair lad3''s arms, I should be sure of Christian burial at last, and should have the most beautiful tomb in the universe. You may imagine. Madam, that these thoughts of mortality were ver}' melancholy, but who could avoid the thought of his own death, when j'ou were sick ? And if 3^our health be not dearer to me than m\ own, ma}^ the next news I hear be 3'our death, which would be as great a hell as your life and welfare is a heaven to the most de- voted of his sex, Farquhar. p. S. Pray let me know in a line whether you are better or. worse, whether I am honest or a knave, and whether I shall live or die. George Farqiiliar to Mrs, Oldjielcl. 15 Farquliars Last Letter to Penelope (Mrs. Ol(//ieId?). Madam, — 'T is a sad misfortune to begin a let- ter with an adieu ; but when my love is crossed, 'tis no wonder that my writing should be reversed. I would beg your pardon for the other offences of this nature which I have committed, but that I have so little reason to judge favourably of your mere}' ; though I can assure 3'ou, Madam, that I shall never excuse myself my own share of the trouble, no more than I can pardon myself the vanit}' of attempting your charms, so much above the reach of ni}^ pretensions, and which are re- served for some more worth}' admirer. If there be that man upon earth that can merit your esteem, I pity him, — for an obligation too great for a re- turn must, to any generous soul, be very uneasy, — though I still envy his misery. May you be as happy. Madam, in the enjo}^- ment of your desires as I am miserable in the disappointment of mine; and, as the greatest blessing of your life, may the person you most admire love you as sincerely and as passionately as he whom 3 ou scorn. Farquhar. 16 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters, Alexander Pope to the Misses Blount. Alexander Pope's friendship for the two sisters, Te- resa and Martha Blount, was as famous in its day as the friendship of Walpole for the two Misses Berry, half a century later. Poor, sickly, deformed little Pope was not framed by nature to excite a deeper feeling in his feminine contemporaries than pity, although he seems to have had an ambition to play his part in the gallant love-making of the age. He was so good and devoted a son, that it is sad he could not have had the opportunity to show the same virtues as a husband ; and, as one of his latest biographers feehngly says, ** The best prescription Pope's spiritual phy- sician could liave given, was the love of a good and sensible woman." The nearest approach to such an afLCCtion in his life was that between himself and Martha Blount, the younger of these two sisters. The Blounts were bright, vivacious young women whom Pope had known from boyhood, and who, in 1714, came to live near Pope's villa at Twickenham. At first he seems to have shared his regard about equally between the two, and, as he writes to Teresa, ** Even from my infancy I have been in love with one after the other of you." There was, however, on his part, a growing partiality for Martha, and after some jealousy on the part of Teresa, a falling off in his regard for her, which ended in quarrel and estrange- ment. For the last fifteen years of his life, Martha becanie his almost constant companion, and at his death he left lier the bulk of his fortune. In his last years he was piti- fully dependent on her for care and sympathy ; and he clung to her affection with most touching helplessness. Alexander Pope to Martha Blount. 17 He seems to have been desirous that she should separate lierself from her family, and lead a more independent life; and the last letter quoted below is one in which he remon- strates with her on her want of independence and resolution in her dealings with her family, who, he elsewhere plainly intimates, were unkind and tyrannical. In his later years he spent the greater part of the time with her, and he speaks of her in a letter to one of his friends, as '* a friend — a woman friend ! — \\\i\\ whom I have spent three or four hours a day for these last fifteen years." Pope to Martha Blount, May 25, 1712. Madam, — At last I do myself the honour to send you the ''Rape of the Lock;" which has been so long coming out that the lady's charms might have been half decayed while the poet was celebrating them and the printer publishing them. But j'ourself and 3'our fair sister must needs have been surfeited alreadj' with this trifle, and therefore you have no hopes of entertainment but from the rest of this book ; wherein (the}^ tell me) are some things that may be dangerous to be looked upon : however, I think 3'ou ma}^ venture, though 3'ou should blush for it ; since blushing becomes you the best of an}' lad}' in England, and then the most dangerous thing to be looked upon is yourself. Indeed, Madam, not to flatter you, our virtue will be sooner OA-er- 2 18 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. thrown by one glance of yours than by all the wicked poets can write in an age ; as has been too clearl}' experienced by the wickedest of them all, that is to say, by, Madam, Your most obedient, etc. Pope to Teresa Blount. Bath, 1714. You are to understand. Madam, that vc\y pas- sion for your fair self and sister has been divided with the most wonderful regularity in the world. Even from my infancy I haA'e been in love with one after the other of you, week b}' week, and my journe}' to Bath fell out in the three hundred and seventy-sixth week of the reign of mj' sover- eign Lady Sj'lvia. At the present writing hereof it is the three hundred and eight3'-ninth week of the reign of your most serene majesty, in whose service I was listed some weeks before I beheld 3'our sister. This information will account for m}' writing to either of 3'ou hereafter, as either shall happen to be queen-regent at that time. Pray tell your sister all the good qualities and virtuous inclinations she has, never gave me so much pleasure in her conversation as that one vice of her obstinacy will give me mortification this Alexander Pope to Teresa Blount, 19 month. Radcliff commands her to the Bath, and she refuses. Indeed, if I were in Berkshire, I should honour her for this obstinacy, and magnify her no less for disobedience than we do the Bar- celonians. But people change with the change of places (as we see of late), and virtues become vices when the}' cease to be for one's interest, with me, as with others. Yet let me tell her she will never look so finel}^ while she is upon earth as she would here in the water. It is not here as in most other instances ; for those ladies that would please extremel}', must go out of their own element. She does not make half so good a figure on horseback as Christina, Queen of Sweden ; but were she once seen in the Bath, no man would part with her for the best mermaid in Christendom. You know I have seen 3'ou often ; I perfectl}' know how you look in black and white, I have experienced the utmost 3'ou can do in colours ; but all your move- ments, all your graceful steps, deserve not half the glor}' 3'ou might here attain of a moving and eas}' behaviour in buckram — something between swimming and walking, free enough and more modestly half-naked than 3'ou can appear any- where else. You have conquered enough already by land ; show 3'our ambition and vanquish also by water. 20 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters, I could tell 3'ou a delightful stoiy of Dr. P., but want room to display it in all its shining cir- cumstances. He had heard it was an excellent cure for love to kiss the aunt of the person be- loved, who is generall}' of years and experience enough to damp the fiercest flame ; he tried this course in his passion, and kissed Mrs. E at Mr. D 's, but he says it will not do, and that he loves you as much as ever. Your, &c. Pope to Martlia Blount. 1714. Most Divine, — It is some proof of my sin- cerity toward 3'ou that I write when I am pre- pared b}' drinking to speak truth ; and sure a letter after twelve at night must abound with that noble ingredient. That heart must have abun- dance of flames which is at once w^ armed by wine and 3'ou. Wine awakens and refreshes the lurk- ing passions of the mind, as varnish does* the colours that are sunk in a picture, and brings them out in all their natural glo wings. M3" good qual- ities have been so frozen and locked up in a dull constitution at all my former sober hours, that it is very astonishing to me, now I am drunk, to find so much virtue in me. In these overflowings Alexander Pope to Martha Blount. 21 of m}^ heart I pa}^ you my thanks for those two obliging letters 3'oa favoured me with, of the 18th and 24th instant. That which begins w4th " M}^ charming Mr. Pope," was a delight to me beyond all expression : you have at last entirely gained the conquest over 3'our fair sister. It is true 3'ou are not handsome, for you are a woman, and think 3'ou are not ; but this good-humour tind ten- derness for me has a charm that cannot be re- sisted. That face must needs be irresistible which was adorned with smiles, even when it could not see the coronation. I do suppose 3'ou wdll not show this epistle out of vanit3', as I doubt not 3'our sister does all I write to her. Indeed, to correspond with Mr. Pope ma3^ make an3' one proud who lives under a- dejection of heart in the countr3\ Ever3^ one values Mr. Pope, but everv one for a different reason : one for his adherence to the Catholic faith, another for his neglect of Popish superstition ; one for his grave behaviour, another for his whimsical- ness ; Mr. Titcomb for his prett3' atheistical jests, Mr. Caryll for his moral and Christian sen- tences ; Mrs. Teresa for his reflections on Mrs. Patt3% and Mrs. Patt3' for his reflections on Mrs. Teresa. . . . Your most faithful admirer, friend, servant, an3^thing, &c. 22 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. The Same to the Same, Cirencester, no date. It is a true saying that misfortunes alone prove one's friendship ; they show us not only that of other people for us, but our own for them. We hardly know ourselves any otherwise. I feel my being forced to this Bath journey as a misfor- tune ; and to follow my own welfare, preferablj^ to those I love, is indeed a new thing to me — my health has not usually got the better of my ten- dernesses and affections. I set out with a heavy heart, wishing I had done this thing the last season, for ever}" day I defer it, the more I am in danger of that accident which I dread the most — my mother's death (especiall}' should it hap- pen while I am awa\^). And another reflection pains me, that I have never, since I knew 3'ou, been so long separated from you as I now must be. Methinks we live to be more and more strangers, and ever}" year teaches you to live without me. This absence may, I fear, make my return less welcome and less wanted to you than once it seemed even after but a fortnight. Time ought not in reason to diminish friendship when it confirms the truth of it by experience. The journey has a good deal disordered me, Alexander Pope to Alartha Blount. 23 notwithstanding m}' resting-place at Lord Bath- nrst's. My Lord is too mucli for me ; he walks, and is in spirits all day long ; I rejoice to see him so. It is a right distinction, that I am happier in seeing m}^ friends so man3^ degrees above me, be it in fortune, health, or pleasures, than I can be in sharing either with them ; for in these sort of en- jo3'ments I cannot keep pace with them any more than I can w^alk with a stronger man. I wonder to find I am a companion for none but old men, and forget that I am not a 3'oung fellow mj'self The w^orst is that reading and writing, which I have still the greatest relish for, are growing pain- ful to m}' CA^es. But if I can preserve the good opinion of one or two friends, to such a degree as to have their indulgence to m\ weaknesses, I will not complain of life ; and if I could live to see 3'ou consult your ease and quiet, b}^ becoming inde- pendent of those who will never help you to either, I doubt not of finding the latter part of mv life pleasanter than the former or present. M3' un- easiness of bod}' I can bear ; my chief uneasiness of mind is in your regard. You have a temper that would make you easy and beloved (which is all the happiness one needs to wish in this world) , and content with moderate things. All your point is not to lose that temper hy sacrificing 3'ourself 24 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. to others, out of a mistaken tenderness, which hurts 3'ou and profits not them. And this 3'ou must do soon, or it will be too late ; habit will make it as hard for }'ou to live independent, as for L to live out of a court. You must excuse me for observing what I think an}' defect in 3'ou ; 3'ou grow too indolent, and give things up too easily, which would be other- wise when 3'OU found and felt 3'ourself 3'our own ; spirits would come in as ill-usage went out. While 3'OU live under a kind of perpetual dejection and oppression, nothing at all belongs to 3'Ou — not 3'Our own humour^ nor 3'our own sense. You cannot conceive how much 3'ou would find resolution rise and cheerfulness gi^ow upon 3'Ou, if you would once tr3' to live independent for two or three months. I never think tenderly of 3'ou but this comes across me, and therefore excuse m3' repeating it ; for whenever I do not, I dissem- ble half that I think of you. Adieu ; pray write, and be particular about 3'our liealth. Pope to Lady Mary Worthy Montagu, Lady Montagu is one of the most prominent female figures in her time, wliich extends over the first lialf of tlie eighteenth century. We get our first glimpse of her at Alexander Pope to Lady Montacjit. 25 eight years of age, set up on the dining-tahle of tlie Kit Kat Club to be toasted as a reigning beauty ; and from tliat tiuje, till her death, she occupies a large space in the age which alternately admired and traduced her. She was married at twenty-two to Edward Wortley Montagu, and shortly after her marriage went with lier husband on an embassy to Constantinople, whence she wTote some of those letters which contributed to make her famous as a writer. Pope's correspondence with her began during this absence ; and after her return from the East she settled near him at Twickenliam, and their friend- ship was tlourishing. Even the Blounts were neglected for Lady Mary. Suddenly there was coldness, then an open quarrel, and finally bitter hostilities in which they lam- pooned each other with a vulgarity rarely to be found ex- cept in this elegant '* Augustan Age" of literature. Report says that the cause of the quarrel was the fact that Pope forgot his crooked back and deformed side and the still more important fact that Lady Mary had a husband, and made love to her seriously ; and that the lady, instead of repulsing him in earnest, only went into such convulsions of laughter that the vanity of the poet was wounded past cure. Pope w\is womanish enough to feel all the fury that the poets declare none but a woman wronged can feel, and the quarrels and the lampoons were the consequence. Tlie following was written while Lady Mary was in Constantinople. Madam, — If to live in the memory of others have an^'thing desirable in it, it is what yoii pos- sess with regard to me in the highest sense of the words. There is not a day in which your figure 26 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters, does not appear before me, your conversation re- turn to mj' thoughts ; and everj^ scene, place, or occasion, where I have enjoj'ed them, are as Hve- lily painted as an imagination equally warm and tender can be capable to represent them. Yet how little accrues to you from all this, when not only my wishes, but the very expressions of them, can hardl}' ever arrive to be known to 3'ou? I can- not tell whether you have seen half the letters I have writ ; but if you had, I have not said in them half of what I designed to say ; and 3'ou can have seen but a faint, slight, timorous echantillon of w^hat m}' spirit suggests, and my hand follows slowly and imperfectly, indeed unjustly, because discreetl}^ and reserved!}'. When 3'ou told me there was no way left for our correspondence but hj merchant ships, I watched ever since for any that set out, and this is the first I could learn of. I owe the knowledge of it to Mr. Congreve (whose letters, with my Lad}' Rich's, accompany this). However, I was impatient enougli to venture two from Mr. Methuen's office ; if they have miscarried you have lost nothing but such words and wishes as I repeat every day in yonr memory, and for your welfare. I have had thoughts of causing what I write for the future to be transcribed, and to send copies by more ways than one, that one at Alexander Pope to Lady Montagu. 27 least might have a chance to reach 3'ou. The letters themselves would be artless and natural enough to prove there could be no vanity in this practice, and to show it proceeded from the belief of their being- welcome to 3'ou, — not as they came from me, but from England. My e^'esight is grown so bad that I have left off all correspondence except with 3^our- self ; in which methinks I am like those people who abandon and abstract themselves from all that are about them (with whom they might have business and intercourse), to employ their addresses onh' to invisible and distant beings, whose good offices and favours cannot reach them in a long time, if at all. If I hear from you, I look upon it as little less than a miracle, or extraordinary visitation from another world ; it is a sort of dream of an agreeable thing, which subsists no more to me ; but, however, it is such a dream as exceeds most of the dull realities of m}^ life. Indeed, what with ill-health and ill- fortune, I am grown so stupidh' philosophical as to have no thought about me that deserves the name of warm or livel}', but that which sometimes awakens me into an imagination that I ma}' yet see you again. Compassionate a poet who has lost all manner of romantic ideas, except a few that hover about the Bosphorus and Hellespont, — not so much for the fine sound of their names as to raise up 28 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. images of Leander, who was drowned in crossing the sea to kiss the hand of fair Hero. This were a destiny less to be lamented than what we are told of the poor Jew, one of your interpreters, who was beheaded at Belgrade as a sp}'. I confess such a death would have been a great disappoint- ment to me ; and I believe Jacob Tonson will hard- ly venture to visit 3'ou after this news. You tell me the pleasure of being nearer the sun has a great effect upon your health and spirits. You have turned my affections so far eastward that I could almost be one of his worshippers ; for I think the sun has more reason to be proud of raising 3'our spirits than of raising all the plants and ripening all the minerals in the earth. It is my opinion a reasonable man might gladh' travel three or four thousand leagues to see your nature and your wit in their full perfection. What may we not expect from a creature that went out the most perfect of this part of the world, and is everj- day improving b}^ the sun in the other. If you do not now write and speak the finest things imagi- nable, you must be content to be involved in the same imputation with the rest of the East, and be concluded to have abandoned yourself to extreme effeminacy, laziness, and lewdness of life. I make not the least question but j^ou could give Alexander Pope to Lady Moiitarju. 29 me great eclaircissements upon manj' passages in Homer, since 3'on have been enlightened b\' the same sun that inspired the Father of Poetry. Yon are now glowing under the climate that animated him ; 3'ou ma}' see hi^ images rising more boldly about 3'ou in the very scenes of his stor}' and action ; }'ou may la}' the immortal work on some broken column of a hero's sepulchre, and read the fall of Troy in the shade of a Trojan ruin. But if, to visit the tomb of so many heroes, you have not the heart to pass ofer that sea where once a lover perished, you may at least, at ease in your own window, contemplate the fields of Asia in such a dim and remote prospect, as you have of Homer in my translation. I send you therefore, with this, the third volume of the Iliad, and as many other things as fill a wooden box, directed to Mr. Wortley. Among the rest you have all I am worth, — that is, my works ; there are few things in them but what you have already seen, except the epistle of Eloisa to Abe- lard, in which you will find one passage that I cannot tell whether to wish you should understand or not. The last I received from your hands was from Peterwaradin ; it gave me the joy of thinking you in good health and humor; one or two expres- 30 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. sions in it are too generous ever to be forgotten by me. I writ a very melancholy one just before, which was sent to Mr. Stan^an, to be forwarded through Hungar}'. It would have informed 3'ou how meanh' I thought of the pleasures of Italy without the qualification of 3'our company', and that mere statues and pictures are not more cold to me than I to them. I have had but four of your letters ; I have sent several, and wish I knew how many you have received. For God's sake, Madam, send to me as ^ften as you can ; in the dependence that there is no man breathing more constantly or more anxiously mindful of 3'ou. Tell me that 3'ou are well, tell me that vour little son is well, tell me that your ver}^ dog (if you have one) is well. Defraud me of no one thing that pleases 3'ou, for whatever that is, it will please me better than anything else can do. I am always vours. This brief note was written to Lady Mary Wortley IMontagu after her return from Constantinople, and was one of the last wliich passed between them. Pope to Lad]) Marij Wortlejj Montagu. I MIGHT be dead, or you in Yorkshire, for any- thing that I am the better for your being in town. Lady Mary Pierrepont to Mr. Montagu. 31 I have been sick ever since I saw you last, and have now a swelled face, and very bad. Nothing will do me so much good as the sight of dear Ladj^ Mary. When j'ou come this way, let me see you, for indeed I love 3'ou. Lady Mary Pierrepont to Edward Wortley Montagu. The lively Lady Mary Wortley Moxtagu, nee Pierre- pont, who had been the object of Pope's passion, was hardly twenty when she met Edward Wortley Montagu. They were married after a ratlier stormy courtship of two years. Her lover seems to have been rather uncertain in his wooing, and the course of their love was troubled from the outset. " When I foolishly fancied," she writes him, " that you loved me, there is no condition of life I could not have been happy in with you. But I w ill never see you more. If you write, be not displeased if I send it back un- opened." And in the very next post she acknowledges a letter from him in such terms as the following. No date. I THOUGHT to have returned no answer to 3'our letter, but I find I am not so wise as I thought myself. I cannot forbear fixing my mind a little on that expression, though perhaps the only in- sincere one in 3'our letter — ' ' I would die to be secure of your heart, though but for a moment." Were this but true, what is there I would not do to secure you? 32 Letters of Poets ami Men of Letters. I will state the case to jou as plainh' as I can ; and then ask 3'ourself if 3'ou use me well. I have showed in every action of my life an esteem for you that at least challenges a grateful regard. I have trusted my reputation in your hands ; I have made no scruple of giving 3'ou, under my own hand, an assui'ance of mj' friendship. After all this, I exact nothing from you. If 3'OU find it inconvenient for ^our affairs to take so small a fortune, I desire you to sacrifice nothing to me. I pretend no tie upon your honour ; but in recom- pense for so clear and so disinterested a proceed- ing, must I ever receive injuries and ill-usage? I have not the usual pride of my sex. I can bear being told I am in the wrong, but I must be told genth'. Perhaps I have been indiscreet : I came young into the hurry of the world ; a great innocence and an undesigning gaj^ety ma}' possi- bh' have been construed coquetry and a desire of being followed, though never meant by me. I cannot answer for the observations that may be made on me. All who are malicious attack the careless and defenceless. I own myself to be both. I know not anything I can say more to show m\' perfect desire of pleasing you and mak- ing 3^ou eas}', than to proffer to be confined with 3'ou in what manner 3'ou please. Would any Lady Mary Pierrcpont to Mr. Montagic. 33 woman but me renounce all the world for one ? or would an}' man but you be insensible of such a proof of sincerity? M. P. As might have been fancied from this stormy courtship, in whicii there does not seem to have been mutual confi- dence from the beginning, the marriage did not turn out altogether well. The pair made a runaway match, to es- cape the opposition of her friends ; but very soon after marriage Lady Mary begins to complain of her husband's coldness, of the frequenc}^ of his absence and the solitude to which he leaves her. He had frequently predicted dur- ing their courtship that their marriage would not prove happy, and seems to have taken no pains to prove this pre- diction untrue, while poor Lady Mary, who had all her life the power of attracting admirers, had not the skill, so much more rare, of holding the heart of a husband. The fol- lowing is the letter she sent him on the eve of their elope- ment. — ♦ — The Same to the Same, Friday Night, August, 1712. I TREMBLE for what we are doing. Are 3'ou sure \o\\ shall love me forever? Shall we never repent? I fear and I hope. I foresee all that will happen on this occasion. I shall incense my family to the highest degree. The generality of the world will blame my conduct, and the rela- tions and friends of will invent a thousand 34 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters, stories of rae. Yet 't is possible you may recom- pense everything to me. In this letter, which I am fond of, you promise me all I wish. Since I writ so far, I received 3'our Friday letter. I will be only 3'ours, and I will do what 3'ou please. M. P. William Congreve to Mrs. Arabella Hunt. AViLLiAM CoNGREV^E, whose tragedy of the ''Mourning Bride " Dr. Johnson thought contained some lines un- equalled in English poetry, was contemporary with Far- quhar as a dramatist, and was a friend of Pope, Lady Mary Montagu, Swift, and the other celebrated writers of this period. He had several affairs of the heart, the most notable among them his affection for Henrietta, Duchess of Marl- borough, to whom he left at his death most of his fortune. On her part, the Duchess erected a splendid tomb for him in Westminster Abbey, and had an ef^gj of the poet, dressed as in life, made exactly to resemble him ; and this image (so common report of the time averred), " she ordered brought to the table when she took her meals, and would talk to by the hour together." The force of devotion could no further go ! There is very little of Congreve's correspondence pre- served, and none of his letters to the Duchess of Marlbor- ough. The following note, Avhich gives very little idea of the wit and vivacity which flavour his comedies, is written to Arabella Hunt, a public singer of the time. Williani Conyreve to Mrs, Arabella Hunt. 35 Windsor ; no date. Angel, — There can be no stronger motive to bring me to Epsom, or to the North of Scotland, or to Paradise, than 3'our being in any of those places ; for 3'ou make everj^ place alike heavenly wherever you are. And I believe if anything could cure me of a natural infirmity, seeing and hearing you would be the surest reraedj' ; at least I should forget that I had anything to complain of, while I had so much more reason to rejoice. I should certainly, had I been at my own dispo- sal, have taken post for Epsom upon receipt of 3'our letter, but I have a nurse here who has do- minion over me, a most unmerciful she-ass. Ba- laam was allowed an angel to his ; I '11 pra}', if that will do any good, for the same grace. I am having great experience in the slowness of that animal ; for 3'ou must know I am making m}^ journey towards health upon that beast, and find I make such slow advances that I despair of ar- riving at you or any other blessing till I am capa- ble of using some more expeditious means. I could tell 3'ou of a great inducement to bring 3'ou to this place, but I am sworn to secrec3' ; how- ever, if you were here I would contrive to make you one of the part3\ I '11 expect you, as a good / 36 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. Christian may everything that he devoutlj' pra3's for. I am. Madam, Your everlasting adorer, W. CONGREVE. — « — Stella and Vanessa. However Jonathan Swift's biographers may explain or apologize for him, I liave never yet seen a woman who did not feel for his character both contempt and detesta- tion. A man who could deliberately and for years outrage tlie feelings and lacerate the hearts of two women whose worst weakness was in the fact that they devotedly loved him, can be looked at in no amiable light by any woman witli any chivalry for her sex. His sentimental experience is so interesting that the following letters could hardly be printed without a prefatory explanation, although the ac- count of Swift's relations with Stella and Vanessa has so often before been given. Earl}^ in life Swift was secretary in the family of Sir William Temple, then in the declining years of his states- manship. Here, at Moor Park, to quote Macaulay's words, " Swift attended Sir William, as amanuensis, for twenty pounds a year and his board, dined at the second table, wrote bad verses in praise of his empljoyer, and made love to a pretty, dark-eyed girl who waited on Lady Giffard'* (Sir William's sister). This pretty, dark-eyed girl was Esther Johnson, the "Stella" famous in Swift's corre- spondence. When Temple died, Swift, not long after, got his living at Laracor in Ireland, and went tlicre to enter upon his Stella and Vanessa. 37 duties as clergyman. Stella soon followed him, and took up her abode there. Slie was accompanied by Mrs. Ding- ley, a respectable elderly woman, with a small income, and the two lived together in lodgings, not far from Swift. When he went away they moved into his parsonage, va- cating it on his return, and going back to their lodgings again. After Swift's writings had made him famous as '' the great Dean Swift," he went more and more frequently to London. He was a power there in the world of literature and affairs, and knew intimately the most distinguislied men of his age. Pope, Atterbury, Gay, Congreve, Addison, Peterborough, Bolingbroke, Oxford, all these were his asso- ciates. In these absences from home he wrote Stella al- most daily, keeping a journal-letter which he despatched regularly, and giving the fullest account of all he said, lieard, or did. This is the Journal to Stella included in his works, from which extracts are given below. The letters are charming, gossiping love-letters, — charming enough for any man to write, a man even who had a sound, whole- some human heart in his bosom. One can fancy poor Stella gloating over them, extracting the fondness as a bee honey, sleeping with them at night under her pillow, and carrying them about with her by day. But with the ten- dency to hiding and secrecy, which makes love seem like a crime with this man, Swift never can write out plainly. Not content with calling Esther '• Stella," he calls her " M. D." in his letters. He speaks to her in the third person constantly. Although the letters are evidently exclusively hers, he writes in the plural to include Mrs. Dingley ; he calls him- self "Presto; " and all sorts of hidden allusions veil his let- ters. One ought to doubt a man who goes so into hiding when nobody seeks. 38 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters, After some dozen years of this life in Ireland, — years of absolute self-abnegation on Stella's part, — in one of bis absences to London Swift met Miss Hester Vanhomrigh, who lived there with her mother and sister, ladies of inde- pendent fortune. Swift began visits to them, and a special friendship sprang up between himself and Hester, a culti- vated, witty, spirited young woman. To believe (as Swift evidently would have us) that this attractive, clever girl would have given SNvift all her heart, and would have be- haved as she did all her life after, unless he had at the outset allowed her to suppose that he loved her, and that there was no barrier to his making her his wife, is a belief that outrages probability. At this time one notices that his letters to Stella are less frequent ; Stella complains a little of neglect ; he does not allude to Miss Yanliomrigli in his letters to Stella except very casually, although he goes almost daily to drink coffee with Miss Hester, whom he calls " Hessy " and " Missess}^ " and thinks no one ever made such coffee as she. This reserve about mentioning Miss Vanhomrigh to Stella furnishes a fair inference that Miss Vanhomrigh is kept in equal ignorance about " little M. D." . After a year or two of this. Swift, who is as cowardly as he is cold-hearted, begins to be alarmed at the state of affairs. Hester's mother dies, and she resolves to come to Ireland to live. Stella has begun to be jealous. Swift writes to Hester, "If you are in Ireland when I am, I shall see you but seldom. It is not a place for any free- dom. ... I will write you as soon as I can, but I shall always write under cover. If you write me, let some one else direct it." He has already given her the pseudonym of " Vanessa," and he is " Cadenus," or Cad. He is per- petually counselling her to secrecy. When she wishes to Stella and Vanessa. 39 write anything special to Cad, she must not use the name, but four dots, thus .... The poor girl writes, " I trust the last letter I wrote you was obscure and constrained enougli. I took pains to write it after your manner, although it li'ould have been much easier for me to hare icrote otherwise." Next, from fretting and jealousy, Stella fell seriously ill. It was urged the only thing the Dean could do was to marry her. The only reason he urged against marriage was that he did not mean to marry till he had a certain amount of fortune; but he finally consented on condition the marriage should be kept secret, and in 1716, in the garden of the Deaner}^ with Mrs. Dingley as witness, he married the woman who for sixteen years or more had devoted her life and soul to him. Some one tells the story of a friend's meeting Swift just after the ceremony, and how the great Dean looked pale and haggard, and rushing past said, *' You have just met a most wretched man, but on the subject of his wretchedness you must ask no question." Much time has been spent in guessing what this mysteri- ous cause of Swift's misery was. One would fancy that even to a cold-blooded and cold-hearted man like Swift, the tear-stained face of poor Vanessa looking out for him through t-he lonely shades of Marley Abbey must have floated beside him like a spectre, as he pronounced his vows to Stella in his sunny garden. One would think he needed no worse cause for wretchedness on his wedding- day than that ! After the marriage, Stella returned to her lodgings, and the Dean to his Deanery, where poor Stella was never ad- mitted to live as his wife to her dying day. Meantime, for seven years more, the visits to Vanessa continued, although he advises change of air, occupation, visits, evidently as distractions of her affection for him. 40 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. She lived at Marley Abbey, near Cellbridge, and her old servant pointed out to a visitor after lier death a clump of laurels, trained into a bower, where her writing-table and books were placed, and where, when the Dean came, she used to sit with him. Whenever he came it was her cus- tom to plant a laurel tree to liallow the day, and a clump of these trees marks the place where slie used to watch and long for his coming. If, as Boccaccio relates, the basil tree grew green and flourishing from the head of Isabella's murdered lover, surely these laurels drew their freshness and beauty from a woman's heart's-blood. At the last, worn out by years of such waiting, Vanessa took tlie fatal step of writing to Stella to ask what relation she bore to Swift. Was she his wife ? Stella, who seems gentleness itself, must have been stung by this question. She made no answer to Vanessa, but enclosed the letter to Swift. He took it, and at once set out for Marley Abbey. He entered, found Vanessa, and with one of those awful looks which she says struck her dumb, he threw the crum- pled letter before her, and went away. Vanessa never saw him again ; and in a few weeks slie died — died literally of heart-break. She left directions that her letters and Swift's should be published ; but the originals were destroyed. Tliose that are left are copies ; and there are not enough remaining to tell the whole of this sad story. Swift published the poem of Cademis and Vanessa, which is his account of the aifair; and it was much read and ad- mired. Somebody said to Stella, " Dr. Sw if t writes beau- tifully about Miss Vanliomrigh," to wliich she answered, ** Oh yes, Dr. Swift could write heauUfnlly about a broom- stick," — a speech whose little malice even poor Vanessa could forgive, for Stella too had suffered. Stella outlived her rival five years, and wiien she was Dean Sioift to Stella. 41 on her death-bed the great Dean wrote beautiful prayers to read to her; no doubt he read them too, beautifully. But a stor}^ (which some of his biograpliers have discred- ited) relates that, when at the last she pleaded to be allowed to die under the roof of the Deanery, where she had never lived as his wife, he strode away with one of the black frowns which smote Vanessa's life, and refused even that poor last comfort to the dying woman. This is the story of Stella and Vanessa w^hich has be- come almost as famous as the story of Abelard and Heloise, and which remains still untold to the depths. There is much in this sad episode on which neither these letters nor any written history throws a full light. Dean Swift to Stella, London, Sept. 10, 1710. Here I must begin another letter, on a whole sheet, for fear saucj' little M. D. should be angrj' and think that the paper is too little. I had 3'our letter last night, as I told you just and no more in my last ; for this must be taken up in answer- ing yours, saucebox. I believe I told you w^bere I dined to-day ; and to-morrow I go out of town for two days to dine with the same companj^ on Sunday. I heard that a gentlewoman from Lad}^ Giffard's house had been at the coffee-house to inquire for me. It was Stella's mother, I suppose. I shall send her a penm^-post letter to-morrow, and continue to see her without hazardins: seeins; 42 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. vny Lady Giffarcl, which I will not do until she begs my pardon. . . . Here is such a stir and bustle with this little M. D. of ours ; I must be writing ever}^ night. I cannot go to bed without a word to them ; I cannot put out my candle till I've bid them "good-night." O Lord! O Lord! . . . Well, you have had all vay land journey in m\ second letter, and so much for that. So you 've got into Presto's lodgings ; \evj fine trnlv. We have had a fortnight of the most glorious weather on earth, and still continues. I hope 3'ou have made the best of it. Stella writes like an emperor. I am afraid it hurts 3'our ej^es ; pra^^ take care of that, pra}^, Mrs. Stella. Cannot 3'ou do what you will with 3'our own horse ? Pray do not let that puppj' Parvisol sell him. Patrick is drunk about three times a week, and I bear it, and he has got the better of me ; but one of these da3's I shall positively turn him off into the wide world, when none of you are by to intercede for him. . . . "Write constantly!" Why, Sirrah, do I not write every day and twice a day to M. D. ? Now I have answered all 3^our letter, and the rest must be as it can be. I think this enough for one night ; and so farewell till this time to-morrow. Dean Sioift to Stella, 43 The Same to the Same. London, October, 1710. I GOT M. D.'s fourth to-day at the coffee-house. God Ahiiighty bless poor Stella and her eyes and head. What shall we do to cure them, poor dear life? Your disorders are a pull-back for your good qualities. Would to Heaven 1 were this minute shaving your poor dear head, either here or there. Pra}' do not write ; nor read this letter ; nor anything else, and I will write plain for Dingley to read from henceforward, though my pen is apt to ramble when I think who I am writing to. ... I know it is neither wit nor diversion to tell you every day where I dine ; neither do I w^rite it to fill my letter, but I fanc}' I shall some time or other have the curiosity of seeing some particulars of my life when I w^as absent from M. D. this time, and so I tell 3'ou now. ... I dined to-day with Mr. Addison and Steele, and a sister of Mr. Addison, w^ho is mar- ried to one Mons. Sartre, a Frenchman, prebend- ary of Westminster, who has a delicious house and garden. Addison's sister is a sort of wat, ver}^ like him. I am not fond of her. I was to-day to see Mr. Congreve, who is almost blind with cataracts growing on his e3'es. 44 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters, and his case is he must wait two or three 3'ears until the cataracts are riper, and till he is quite blind,' arid then he must have them couched, and besides he is never rid of the gout, 3'et he looks 3'oung and fresh, and is as cheerful as ever. ... I was to-day at Mr. Sterne's lodgings ; he was not within, and Mr. Leigh is not come to town, but I will do Mrs. Dingley's errand when I see him. What do I know wliether china be dear or no ? I once took the fanc}' of resolv- ing to grow mad for it, but it is now off. I sup- pose I told 3^ou so in some former letter. And so 3'ou onh' want some salad dishes, and plates, and etc. ? Yes, yes, you shall ; I suppose you have named as much as will cost five pounds. Now to Stella's little postscript, and I am almost crazed that 3'ou vex yourself for not writ- ing. Cannot you dictate to Dingley, and not strain 3'our dear little e3'es ? I am sure it is the grief of m3^ soul to think 3'ou are out of order. Pra3' be quiet, and if you will write, shut 3'our eyes and write just a line, and no more, thus, How do you do^ Mrs. Stella ? That was written with m3' e3'es shut. Faith, I think it is better than when they are open ; and then Dingley may stand b3', and tell you when you go too high or too low. . . . Hester Vanliomrigh to Dean Sicift. 45 I am sta3'ing before I can fold up this letter, till that wg\y D. is dr}^ in the last line but one. Do not 3'ou see it? O Lord, I am loath to leave you, faith, — but it must be so, till next time. Pox take that D! 1 will blot it, to dry it. [None of Stella's letters to Swift were preserved. The only memento of her found among his effects w^as a raven tress marked in his hand, " Only a woman's hair."} Hester Vanhoynrigh to Dean Sicift. Dublin, 1714. Well ! now I plainh' see how great a regard 3'ou have for me. You bid me be easy and you 'd see me as often as j'ou could ; 3'ou would better have said as often as 3'ou could get the better of 3^our inclination so much, or as often as you re- membered there w^as such a person in the world. If you continue to treat me as you do, you will not be made uneas}^ b}' me long. 'T is impossible to describe what I have suffered since I saw you last. I am sure I could have borne the rack much better than those killing, killing words of j^ours. Some- times I have resolved to die without seeing you more ; but those resolves, to your misfortune, did not last long, for there is something in human na- 46 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. tare that prompts one so to find relief in this world, I must give way to it, and beg 3-011 'd see me and speak kindl}' to me ; for I am sure 3'ou would not condemn au}^ one to suffer as I have done could 3'ou but know it. The reason I write 3'ou is be- cause I cannot tell it 3'ou should I see 3'ou ; for when I begin to complain, then you are angrj^, and there is something in 3'our look so awful that it strikes me dumb. Oh that you maj' but have so much regard for me left that this complaint may touch 3'our soul with pit}- ! I sa}- as little as ever I can. Did 3-ou but know what I felt, I am sure it would move 3-ou. Forgive me, and believe I cannot help telling 3-ou this, and live. The Same to the Same. No date. Is it possible that vou will do the ver3^ same thing I warned 3-ou of so latel3-? I believe 3'ou thought T onl3' rallied 3-ou when I told 3-ou the other night that I would pester 3-ou with letters. Did not I know 3'ou ver3^ well I should think 3-0U knew but little of the world, to imagine that a woman would not keep her word whenever she promised anything so malicious. Had not you better a thousand times throw awav one hour at Hester Vanhomrigh to Dean Siuift. 47 some time or other of the day than be interrupted in your business at this rate ; for I know 'tis as impossible for you to burn in}^ letters witliout read- ing them as 'tis for me to avoid reproving you when you behave yourself w^rong. Once more I advise you, if you have any regard for your own quiet, to alter your behaviour quickl}, for I do assure you I have too much spirit to sit down contented with this treatment. Because I love darkness extremely, I here tell you now that 1 have determined to tr}^ all manner of human ails to reclaim you, and if all these fail, I am resolved to have recourse to the black art, which, it is said, never does. Now see what inconveniences 3'ou will bring both me and yourself into. Pra}^ think calmly of it. Is it not better to come of yourself than to be brought b}" force, and that perhaps at a time when you have the most agreeable engage- ment in the world? for when I undertake to do anything I don't propose to do it by halves. But there is one thing falls out ver}' luckilj' for you, which is, that of all the passions, revenge hurries me least, so that 3'ou have it 3'et in your power to turn all this fxxvy into good humour, and depend on it, and more, I assure you. Come at what time you please you can never fail of being very well received. 48 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. Dean Swifs Answer to the Above. If you write as you do, I shall come the sel- domer on purpose to be pleased with 3^our letters, which I never look into without wondering how a brat who cannot read can possibl}' write so well. You are mistaken. Send me a letter without your hand on the outside and I hold 3'ou a crown I shall not read it. But, raillery apart, I think it inconvenient, for a hundred reasons, that I should make your house a sort of constant dwelling-place. I wall certainly come as often as I conveniently can ; but health and the perpetual run of ill- weather hinders me from going out in the morn- ing, and my afternoons are so taken up, I know now how, that I am in rebellion with a dozen people beside yourself for not seeing them. For the rest you need make use of no black art be- sides your wits. 'T is a pity your eyes are not black, or I should have said the same of them ; but you are a white witch and can do no mis- chief. If you have emplo^'ed any of 3'our arts on the black scarf I defj' it for one reason. Guess. Adieu, for Dr. P 's come in to see me. Hester Vanhomrigh to Dean Swift. 49 Hester VanJiomrigli to Dean Swift. Marley Abbey, Cellbridge, 1720. Believe me it is with the utmost regret that I now complain to you, because I know your good nature such that you cannot see an}' human creature miserable without being sensibh' touched ; yet what can I do? I must either unload m}- heart, and tell you its griefs, or sink under the inexpressible distress I now suffer by 3'our pro- digious neglect of me. 'T is now ten long weeks since I saw you, and in all that time I have never received but one letter from 3'ou, and a little note with an excuse. Oh, how have you forgot me ! You endeavour by severities to drive me from you ; nor can I blame 3'ou, for with the utmost dis- tress and confusion I behold myself the cause of uneasy reflections to 3'ou ; 3'et I cannot comfort you, but here declare that 'tis not in the power of time or of accident to lessen the inexpressi- ble passion which I have for .... Put my passion under the utmost restraint, send me as distant from 3'ou as the earth will allow, 3'et 3'ou cannot banish those charming- ideas which will ever stick by me whilst I have the use of memorv. Nor is the love I bear 3'OU only seated in my soul, for there is not a 4 50 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters, single atom of my frame that is not blended with it; therefore don't flatter 3'ourself that separation will ever change m}' sentiments, for I find myself unquiet in the midst of silence, and tl\\ heart at once pierced with sorrow and love. For Heaven's sake, tell me what has caused this prodigious change in you which I have found- of late. If you have the least remains of pity for me left, tell me tenderly. No ; don't tell it, so that it may cause my present death, and don't sutfer me to live a life like a languishing death, which is the onh' life I can lead if you have lost any of your tenderness for me. Dean Swift to Hester Yanhomrigh, Gallstowx, near Ejn'inegad, July 5, 1721. It was not convenient, hardly possible, to write to ^-ou before now, though I had more than ordinary mind to do it, considering the dis- position I found you in last, though I hope I left you in a better. I must here beg \on to take more care of your health, in compau}^ and exer- cise, or else the spleen will get the better of 3'ou, than which there is not a more foolish or trouble- some disease, and what jou have no pretences in the world to, if all the advantages in life can be Dean Siclft to Hester Vanhomricjh. 51 any defence against it. Cad assures me he con- tinues to esteem and love and value you above all things, and so will do to the end of his life, but at the same time entreats that 3'ou ^vould not make yourself or him unhappy by imaginations. The wisest men in all ages have thought it the best course to seize the minutes as they fl}' and to make every innocent action an amusement. If you knew how I struggle for a little health, what uneas- iness I am at in riding and walking, and refrain- ing from everything agreeable to my taste, you would think it a small thing to take a coach now and then, and converse with fools and im perti- nents, to avoid spleen and sickness. Without health 3'ou will lose all desire of drinking your coffee, and become so low as to have no spirits. . . . Pra}^ write me cheerfully without com- plaints or expostulation, or else Cad shall know it and punish you. What is this world without being as easy in it as prudence and fortune can make it? I find it ever}' day more silly and insig- nificant, and I conform myself to it for my own ease. I am here as deep emplo\'ed in other folks' plantations and ditching as if they were m}' own concern, and think of my absent friends with delight, and hopes of seeing them happ}' and of being happy with them. 52 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. Shall you, who have so much honour and good sense, act otherwise to make Cad and yourself miserable ? Settle 3'our affairs and quit this scoun- drel island, and things will be as you desire. I can sa}^ no more, being called away ; mais so^^ez assuree que jamais personne du monde a ete aimee, honoree, estimee, adoree par votre ami, que vous. I drank no coffee since I left 3'ou, nor intend to till I see you again ; there is none worth drinking but yours, if myself may be the judge. Adieu. —4 — Lord Peterborough and the Countess of Suffolk. The correspondence of Lord Peterborough and Hen- rietta Howard, the Countess of Suffolk, is one of the best examples of that kind of courtly gallantry, fashionable in the eighteenth century, which amused itself witli making love without much feeling of the passion. It is as pinch- beck and insincere as the age in which it was written. But those persons who were playing at love, like Lord Peterborough, learned how to theorize and reason very wisely upon what they could not feel ; and much of what they write miglit be accepted as very gospel in any of those courts of love held in mediaeval times, where the code of the passion was laid down to lovers as rigidly as a code in law. Lord Peterborough was one of the wittiest men of his time, — for so many years a gallant that he could not put aside that character, even with age. He must have been over sixty when this correspondence began. Lord Petcrhoroufjh and Countess of Suffolk. 53 Although the letters are couched in such high-flown terms, tlie ancient lover affected to himself and to others to be in dead earnest, and Mrs. Howard seems to have been somewhat embarrassed in what spirit to answer them. She is said to have called upon John Ga}', the poet, to help her compose some fitting replies ; but Gay, although clever enough at another sort of writing, was much too naive for this kind of retort, and the letters in which Mrs. Howard's feminine pen is plainest visible are by far the best. Henrietta Howard, the Countess of Suffolk, was one of the court beauties of her century, and for several years a favourite of George H. Later in life she married Sir George Berkeley, and the match turned out a very happy one. After this marriage Lord Peterborough wrote her and her husband very sensibly in the way of friendship. Horace Walpole, in his gossiping letters, thus describes her : " Lady Suffolk was of a just height, well made, ex- tremely fair, with the finest light brown hair ; was remark, ably genteel, and always well dressed with taste and simplicity. Those were her personal charms, for her face was regular and agreeable rather than beautiful, and those attractions she retained with little diminution till her death at the age of seventy-nine. Her mental qualifications were not so shining. Her eyes and countenance showed her character, which was grave and mild ; her strict love of truth and her accurate memory were always in unison. She was discreet without being reserved, and having no bad qualities and being constant to her connections, she preserved uncommon respect to the end of her life." A picture of the time shows her as " a tall figure in a green silk with rose-colored ribands, fair hair and skin, a white muslin apron with ruffles, a white round arm, and a 54 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. chip hat with flowers, which leaves her light blond hair and fair broad forehead exposed." It is said tliat although slie lived to tlie age of seventy-nine, she was singularl}^ young- looking always, for she was incapable of the keen feeling and passionate sorrow wliich fade the cheek and mark the brow with lines. The first of the following letters is that with which Lord Peterborough opened the correspondence ; then follows one written after it had fairly opened, with Mrs. Howard's reply. She was by no means an unpractised letter-writer, as might be inferred from the fact that she called Gay to her aid on this occasion, for she exchanged letters with such men as Dean Swift, Pope, Arbuthnot, Lord Chester- field, Walpole, and other distinguished men who were her contemporaries. The letters are not dated, but were prob- ably written between 1720 and 1725. Lord Peterhorougli to Henrietta Howard. As I can as well live without meat or sleep as without thinking of her who has possession of my soul, so, to find some relief in never having any conversation with this adored lad}^, I have been forced, when alone, to make many a dialogue between her and myself; but, alas! Madam, the conclusions are all in her favour, and I am often more cruelly condemned by myself, — nay, more, her indifferefice and almost all her rigour are approved. Permit me to give 3'ou an account of m}^ last duet with my partner ; and as by the original Lord PetcrhoTOiigli to Henrietta Howard. 55 articles of our scribbling treaty, you were sin- cerel}' to tell me your opinion, so remember your long silence, and give me an answer to this. On my part I was representing to her the violence, the sincerity of my passion ; but what I most insisted on was, that in most circumstances it was different from that of other men. It is true I confessed, with common lovers, she was the person I wished should grant, but with this ad- dition, that she was the only woman that I could allow to refuse. In a word, I am resolved, nay, content, to be only hers, though it ma}' be impos- sible she should ever be mine. To bear injuries or miseries insensibh^ were a vain pretence ; not to resent, not to feel, is im- possible ; but when I dare venture to think she is unjust or cruel, my revenge falls upon all of the sex but herself. I hate, detest, and renounce all other creatures in hoop petticoats, and, b}^ a strange weakness, can onl}' wish well to her who has the power and will to make me miserable. Commonly lovers are animated b}^ the ga}'' look, the blooming cheeks, and the red lips of the mistress ; but, heavens ! what do I feel when I see anguish and paleness invade that charming face? M}" soul is in a mutin}' against those powers that suffer it, and m}' heart perfectly- melts away in tenderness. But for whom have I such 56 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. concern? For that clear lady who scarce thinks of me, or scarce regretteth she makes me wretched. But alas ! it was in this last dialogue I found m}' miser}' complete ; for 3'ou must know, the lad}^ had Hstened with some attention. Mercy was in her looks, softness in her words, and gen- tleness in all her air. '' Were this all true," she asked, "what could you expect? — what do 3'ou think your due ? " Never was poor mortal so disma3'ed. Though she was absent I had not the courage to make one imaginary request ; had she been present I could onl}' have expressed my wishes by one trembling look. Oh, wretched prodigality, where one gives all and dare demand no return ! Oh, unfortunate avarice, which covets all and can merit nothing ! Oh, cruel ambition, which can be satisfied with nothing less but what no man can deserve ! It was long before I could recover from the terror and amaze into which I had thrown mjself. At last I ventured to make this answer : ' ^ If what I may pretend to be less than love, surely it is something more than friendship." The Same to the Same. LoYE is the general word, but upon many occa- sions verj^ improperly used ; for passions very Lord Peterhoroiigli to Henrietta Howard. 57 different, if not quite opposite, go under the same title. I have found love in so man}' disguises and false appearances in others, and even in m3'self, that I thought the true passion undiscoverable and impossible to be described ; but what I pretend to represent I have s>o frequenth' felt, that methinks I should be the better able to express it. The beginnings of this passion, whether true or false, are pleasing ; but if true, the progress is through mountains and rocks. The unhappy trav- eller goes through rugged wa^'s, and, what is most cruel, he is walking in the dark on the edge of precipices ; he labours under a thousand difficul- ties ; — success must cost him dear, and then, alas ! the acquisition is insecure. The greatest hardship is this : we seem bound to the same port, w^e sail in treacherous seas in quest of a woman's heart, but without a compass ; there is no beaten path or common road ; as many objects, so many humours ; what prevails with one ma}' displease the other in this fantas- tic pilgrimage of love ; he that goes out of his way may soonest arrive at his journey's end ; and the bold have better success than the faithful, the foolish than the wise. But I have undertaken to define this passion 58 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. which I allow to be called love. It is not the person who conlcl please me most, but her that I am most desirous to please, who is trul}' adored. To judge of this let us consider the character of a beauteous female coquette. This creatm'e seems designed to give a man pleasure, and pleasure without pain, though not qualified to give him love ; access is eas}', enjo3'ment sure. Free from restraint or obligations, not fettered with the chains of pretended constancy, you meet her with satisfaction and \o\\ part with ease ; and are warm enough for pleasure, not exposed to the heats of jealous^', and safe from the cold of de- spair. A true epicure (but not a lover) can con- tent himself with this, and this may be agreed to be the pleasure-giving lad}'. This is no unlively picture of a woman who can please, but far from that person to whom we re- sign our hearts in the delicate way of love. How shall I describe the woman capable of inspiring a true, respectful tenderness ? Who so fills the soul with herself that she leaves room for no other ideas but those of endeavouring to sen^e and please her? Self-interest, self-satisfaction, are too nat- ural, too powerful, to be quite destroyed, but they are in a manner laid asleep when at the same time we respect and fear her whom we love. Mrs. Hoivard to Lord Peterhorough. 59 I mast alwa3's more or less endeavour to main- tain bv proof what I assert, but lam not at libert}' to pursue a pleasure that may give you too much trouble at a time. I begin m}^ next with telling you what Amoret should be, or what I think she is. Mrs, Howarcfs Reply to the Foregoing. One would imagine, by observing upon the world, that every man thought it neeessarj^ to be in love — just as he does to talk — to show his superiorit}' to a brute ; but such pretenders have only convinced us that they w^ant that qualitj' thej' w^ould be thought to have. How few are there horn with soids capable of friendship ! then how much fewer must there he ca- p)ahJe of love., for love includes friendship and much more hesides ! That you might mistake love in others., I grant 3 ou ; but I w^onder how yoxx could mistake it in yourself I should have thought, if an3'bod3" else had said so, he had never been in love. Those rocks and precipices and those mights- difficulties which you sa\^ are to be undergone in the progress of love, can only be meant in the pursuit of a coquette, or where there is no hope of a sincere return. Or perhaps 3^ou ma^^ suppose all women incapable of being touched with so del- icate a passion. 60 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. In the voyage of love, 3'ou complain of great hardships, narrow seas, and no compass. You still think all women coquettes. He that can use art to subdue a woman is not in love ; for how can you suppose a man capable of acting by reason who has not one of his senses under command? Do you think a lover sees or hears his mistress like standers-by? Whatever her looks may be, or however she talks, he sees nothing but roses and lilies, and hears only an angel. The civilities of some women seem to me, like those of shop-keepers, to encourage a multitude of customers. Who is so obliging to all her lovers as a coquette ? She can express her civilities with the utmost ease and freedom to all her admirers alike ; while the person that loves, entirely neglects or forgets everybody for the sake of one. To a ivoman luho loves, every man is an impertirient who declares his passion, except the one man she loves. Your coquette or "pleasure-giving lady" that can part from 3'ou without regret, that cannot feel jealous}', and does not pretend to constanc}', I should think a ver}' undesirable thing. I have alwa3's imagined that they thought it necessar}^ at least to feign love in order to make themselves agreeable, and that the best dissemblers were the most admired. Letters of Richard Steele. 61 Every one that loves thinks his own mistress an Amoret, and therefore ask any lover who and what Amoret is, and he will describe his own mis- tress as she appears to himself; but the common practice of men of gallantry is to make an Amoret of every lady they write to. And, my lord, after vou have summed up all the fine qualities neces- sary to make an Amoret, I am under some ap- prehensions you will conclude with a compliment, by saying, I am she. Letters of Richard Steele, Dick Steele may have had many weaknesses and some vices, but we could forgive a good deal of both to a man who could write so tenderly to a woman as he writes to his '' dear Prue." His wife was Miss Mary Scurlock, and the first two of the following letters were written to her during courtship. It is said that she was at first averse to marriage, but surrendered after a month's wooing, and then erased the dates of their letters, that in showing them to a friend it might not appear she was so quickly won. After marriage Steele's gayety, his conviviality, and his recklessness about getting into debt, must often have made trouble for Mrs. Steele, and she must have had much cause to reproach him. Yet he almost disarms censure by his penitent acknowledgment of his faults and by his constant affection. He is frequently dining out and sleep- ing out, but he never fails to send Mrs. Steele a loving 62 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. word before dinner or bedtime. He goes to dine with Lord Halifax, and writes home : — 1 DINE with Halifax, but shall be home at half-after- six. For thee I die, for thee 1 languish. Dick Steele. P. S. Dress yourself well, and look beautifully to please your faithful husband. " All women especially,'' says Thackeray, " are bound to be grateful to Steele, for he was the first of our writers who seemed both to admire and respect them ; " and every woman who reads the last and longest letter quoted here from Steele's correspondence will, I think, feel both grati- tude and tenderness. This was a public letter to be used as a dedicatory epistle to the *' Ladies' Library," a work in three volumes, which Steele published in 1714, after they had been seven years married. Mrs. Steele's correspondence has not been preserved. I find only these few lines of prose and the dozen lines of verse following, to denote in what spirit she met his affec- tion. The first seems to have been written after a little tiff between the married lovers, probably concerning money matters. " It is but an addition to our uneasiness to be at variance Avith each other. I beg your pardon if I have offended you. God forgive you for adding to the sorrow of a heavy heart that is above all sorrow but for your sake." Mrs. Steele to her Husband, Ah, Dick Steele, that I were sure -Your love, like mine, would still endure; That time nor absence, which destroys The cares of lovers and their joys, May never rob me of that part Richard Steele to Mary Scurlock. 63 Which you have given me of your heart. Others, unenvied, may possess Whatever the}^ think happiness ; Grant this, God, my chief request, — In his dear arms may 1 forever rest. Steele to Mary Scurlock. Lord Sunderland's Office, 1707. Madam, — With what language shall I address my lovel}^ fair, to acquaint her with the senti- ments of a heart she delights to torture ? I have not a minute's quiet out of 3^our sight ; and when I am with 3'ou, 3'ou use me with so much distance that I am still in a state of absence, heightened with a view of the charms which I am denied to approach. In a word, you must give me either a fan, a mask, or a glove 3'ou have worn, or I cannot live ; otherwise 3'ou must expect that I'll kiss your hand, or, when I next sit b}' you, steal 3'our handkerchief. You 3'ourself are too great a bounty to be received at once ; therefore I must be prepared 113^ degrees, lest the might3^ gift distract me with jo3\ Dear Mrs. Scurlock, I am tired with calling 3 ou b3' that name ; therefore, sa3' the da3" in which 3'ou will take that of. Madam, Your most obedient, most devoted humble ser- vant, Rich. Steele. 64 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. The Same to (he Same. Madam, — It is the hardest thing in the world to be in love, and yet attend to business. As for me, all who speak to me find it out, and I must lock myself up, or other people will do it for me. A gentleman asked me this morning, " What news from Lisbon?" and I answered, '^ She is exquisitel}' handsome." Another desired to know when I had been last at Hampton Court. I re- plied, '' It will be on Tuesday' come se'nnight." Pr'ythee, allow me at least to kiss your hand before that day, that m}^ mind ma}' be in some composure. O love ! A thousand torments dwell about thee, Yet who would live to live without thee ? Methinks I could write a volume to you ; but all the language on earth would fail in sajing how much, and with what disinterested passion, I am ever yours, Rich. Steele. Steele to Ids Wife. Sept. 13, 1708. Dear Prue, — I write to 3'ou in obedience to what 3'ou ordered me, but there are not words to Richard Steele to Ms Wife. 65 express the tenderness I have for you. Love is too harsh a word for it ; but if yon knew how my heart aches when you speak an nnkind word to me, and springs with J03' when 3'ou smile upon me, I am sure 3'ou would place 3'our glor}- rather in preserving my happiness, like a good wife, than tormenting me like a peevish beanty. Good Prue, write me word 3'ou shall be overjoyed at my return to 3'ou, and pitj^ the awkward figure I make when I pretend to resist you, b}' complying alwa^'s with the reasonable demands of Your enamoured husband, Rich. Steele. — • — The Same to the Same. Sept. 21, 1708. Dear, dear Prue, — Your pretty letter, with so much good-nature and kindness, which I re- ceived yesterday, is a perfect treasure to me. I am at present very much out of humour upon an- other account, T3Ton having put off payment of my eight hundred, which I ought to have received yesterday, till further time. But I hope when Mr. Clay comes to town to-morrow, he will see me justified. I am, with the tenderest affection, Ever 3'ours, 5 Rich. Steele. 66 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. Tlie Same to the Same. Sept. 30, 1710. Dear Prue, — I am very sleepy and tired, but could not think of closing my eyes till I had told 3'ou I am, dearest creature, Your most affectionate and faithful husband, Rich. Steele. From the press, one in the morning. The Same to the Same. 1714. Dear Madam, — If great obligations received are just motives for addresses of this kind, you have an unquestionable pretension to my acknowl- edgments who have condescended to give me your very self. I can make no return for so inestima- ble a favour, but in acknowledging the generosit}' of the giver. To have either wealth, wit, or beauty is generally a temptation to a woman to put an unreasonable value upon herself; but with all these in a degree which drew upon you the addresses of men of the amplest fortunes, 3'ou bestowed j^ourself where you could have no ex- pectations but from the gratitude of the receiver, though you knew he could exert that gratitude in no other returns but esteem and love. For which Riclmrd Steele to his Wife. 67 must I first thank 3^011, — for what 3'ou have de- nied yourself or what 3'ou have bestowed upon me? I owe to 3'ou, that for my sake 3'ou have over- looked the prospect of living in pomp and plent}', and I have not been circumspect enough to pre- serve 3'ou from care and sorrow. I will not dwell upon this particular : you are so good a wife that I know 3'ou think I rob 3'ou of more than I can give, when I sa3' anything in your favour to m3^ own disadvantage. Whoever should see or hear you, w^ould think it were worth leaving all in the world for 3'ou ; while I, habituall3' possessed of that happiness, have been throwing awa3' impor- tant endeavours for the rest of mankind, to the neglect of her, for whom ever3' other man in his senses would be apt to sacrifice ever3'thing else. I know not b3" what unreasonable prepossession it is, but methinks there must be something aus- tere to give authorit3' to wisdom, and I cannot account for having onl3' rallied man3' reasonable sentiments of 3'ours, but that you are too beauti- ful to appear judicious. One may grow fond, but not wise, from what is said b3' so lovel3' a coun- sellor. Hard fate, that 3'ou have been lessened by 3 our perfections, and lost power b3' 3'our ver3' charms. 68 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. That ingenuous spirit in all 3'our behaviour, that familiar grace in 3'our words and actions, has for these seven 3'ears onl}' inspired admiration and love. But experience has taught me, the best counsel I ever have received has been pro- nounced b}' the fairest and softest lips, and con- vinced me that in you I am blessed with a wise friend, as well as a charming mistress. Your mind shall no longer suffer hy youv per- son ; nor shall your eyes for the future dazzle me into a blindness towards your understanding. I rejoice, in this public manner, to show mj esteem for you, and must do you the justice to say that there can be no virtue represented in all this col- lection for the female world, which I have not known 3'ou exert as far as the opportunities of your fortune have given you leave. Forgive me, that my heart overflows with love and gratitude for daily instances of 3'our prudent economy, the just disposition 3'ou make of 3'our little affairs, 3'our cheerfulness in dispatch of them, your pru- dent forbearance of any reflection that the3' might have needed less vigilance if 3'ou had disposed of 3'our fortune more suitabl3" ; in short, for all the arguments 3'ou every da3^ give me of a generous and sincere affection. It is impossible for me to look back on man3' Richard Steele to his Wife. 69 evils and pains which I have suffered since we came together, without a pleasure which is not to be expressed, from the proofs I have had in these circumstances of your unweaiied goodness. How often has your tenderness removed pam from my sick head ! how often anguish from my afflicted heart ! With how skilful patience have I known 3'ou comply with the vain projects which pain has suggested, to have an aching limb removed by journeying from one side of the room to another ! how often, the next instant, travelled the same ground again, without telling your patient it was to no purpose to change his situation ! If there are such beings as guardian angels, thus are they emplo3'ed. I will no more believe one of them more good in its inclinations, than I can conceive it more charming in form than my wife. But I offend, and forget what I w^rite to 3'Ou is to appear in public. You are so great a lover of home that I know it will be irksome to you to go into the world, even in an applause. I will end this without so much as mentioning 3'our little flock, or your own amiable figure at the head of it. That I think them preferable to all other children I know is the effect of passion and in- stinct ; that I belicA^e you the best of wives I know proceeds from experience and reason. 70 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. I am, Madam, 3'onr most obliged husband and most obedient, humble servant, Richard Steele. The Letters of Laurence Sterne. It is difficult to believe that a man so sentimental as Laurence Sterxe could have been born out of France. He was at every period of his life desperately in love with somebody or other. He says, frankly enough, in apolo- gizing for some one else's weakness, "I myself must ever have some Dulcinea in my heart; it harmonizes the soul." The first letter quoted below is written to his wife, Miss Lumley, before marriage. She seems to have been as sen- timental as himself, and to have held off for several years from marriage with Sterne, who was then a poor clergy- man, perhaps fearing he might be less devoted after mar- riage, as well as from other prudential reasons respecting marriage settlements. She was justified in her hesitation, poor lady, and was, no doubt, a much neglected wife. One of tlie affairs which '* harmonized " his selfish soul was with Miss Katherine Tourraantelle, a young French lady whom he seems to have known before his marriage, although the letter to her following was written after Miss Lumley became his wife. But his most remarkable letters were to Mrs. Elizabeth Draper, the wife of a merchant in India, who had come to England for her health, which had suffered from the east- ern climate. Their correspondence was published under the title of " Yorick to Eliza." He had introduced himself, in Tristram Shandy ^ as a clergyman by the name of Yorick, Laurence Sterne to Elizabeth Lumleij. 71 and retained tliis soubriquet in his letters. He also had addressed Mrs. Draper as his Brahmine, in allusion to her Indian residence, and so called himself her Brahmin. Their correspondence ended when Mrs. Draper returned to India, and the last letter from Sterne is written on her departure. Sterne's expression of feeling in his Sentimental Journey, in his sermons, even in Tristram Shandg, impresses me as hollow and insincere. If it had not been for his humour his books never would have become English classics. But his humour, sometimes just flavoured with sentiment, is delicious. It is the Attic salt which preserves his work, and has given such characters as Uncle Tolnj and Corporal Trim a place in English literature. Laurence Sterne to Elizabeth Lumley [afterwards his Wife\ No date You bid me tell you, my dear L., how I bore 3'oiir departure for S , and whether the valley where D'Estella stands retains still its looks, — or if I think the roses or jessamines smell as sweet as when you left it. Alas ! everything has lost its relish and look ! The hour you left D'Estella, I took to m V bed ; I was worn out by fevers of all kinds, but most by that fever of the heart with which thou knowest well I have been wasting these two 3'ears, and shall continue wasting till joxx quit S . The good Miss S , from the fore- bodings of the best of hearts, thinking I was ill, 72 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. insisted upon my going to her. What can be the cause, my dear L., that I never have been able to see the face of this mutual friend but I feel m}^- self rent to pieces? She made me sta}' an hour with her ; and in that short space I burst into tears a dozen different times, and in such affec- tionate gusts of passion that she was constrained to leave the room, and sympathize in her dressing- room. " I have been weeping for you both," said she, in a tone of the sweetest pity ; ''for poor L.'s heart, — I have long known it ; her anguish is as sharp as yours, her heart as tender, her con- stancy as great, her virtue as heroic. Heaven brought you not together to be tormented." I could onl}' answer her with a kind look and a beav}^ sigh, and returned home to your lodgings (which I have hired till your return) to resign myself to misery. Fanny had prepared me a sup- per, — she is all attention to me, — but I sat over it with tears : a bitter sauce, my L., but I could eat it with no other; for the moment she began to spread my little table, my heart fainted within me. One solitar}^ plate, one knife, one fork, one glass ! I gave a thousand pensive, penetrating looks at the chair thou hast so often graced in those quiet and sentimental repasts, then laid down my knife and fork, and took out my handkerchief and Laurence Sterne to Elizcibeth Lumley. 73 clapped it across my face, and wept like a child. I do so this veiy moment, my L. ; for, as I take up my pen, my poor pulse quickens, my pale face glows, and the tears are trickling down upon the paper as I trace the word L . O thou ! blessed in thyself and in thy virtues, — blessed to all that know thee, — to me most so, because more do I know of thee than all thy sex. This is the philter, my L., by which thou hast charmed me, and by which thou wilt hold me thine, whilst virtue and faith hold this w^orld together. This, my friend, is the plain and simple magic by which I told Miss I have won a place in that heart of thine, on which I depend so satisfied that time, or distance, or change of everything which might alarm the hearts of little men, create no uneas}' suspense in mine. Wast thou to stay in S these seven 3'ears, thj' friend, though he would grieve, scorns to doubt, or be doubted ; 't is the only exception where secu- rity is not the parent of danger. I told you poor Fann}- was all attention to me since your departure, — contrives every day bring- ing in the name of L. She told me last night (upon giving me some hartshorn) she had observed m^^ illness began the very day of 3'our departure for S ; that I had never held up my head, had seldom or scarce ever smiled, had fled from all 74 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. societ}", — that she verilj' beheved I was broken- hearted, for she had never entered the room, or passed b}^ the door, but she heard me sigh heavik, — that I neither eat, nor slept, nor took pleasure in an3'thing as before. Judge, then, my L., can the valley look so well, or the roses and jessa- mine smell so sweet, as heretofore ? Ah me ! — but adieu ! — the vesper-bell calls me from thee to m}^ God ! L. Sterne. Laurence Sterne to Kitty Tourmantelle. 1759(7). My dear Kitty, — I have sent 3'ou a pot of sweetmeats and a pot of honey, neither of them half so sweet as yourself ; but don't be vain upon this, or presume to grow sour upon this character of sweetness I give you ; for if you do I shall send you a pot of pickles by way of contraries to sweeten 30U up and bring 3'ou to 3'ourself again. What- ever changes happen to 3'ou, believe me I am unalterabl}' yours, and, according to 3'our motto, such a one, my dear Kitty, " Qui ne changera pas que en mourant.'' L. S. Laurence Sterne to Eliza Draper, 75 Sterne to Eliza Draper. These letters have no dates, but were written in March and April, 1707. I CANNOT rest, Eliza, though I shall call on you at half past twelve, till I know how you do. May thy dear face smile, as thou risest, like the sun of this morning. I was much grieved to hear of your alarming indisposition yesterday ; and disappointed, too, at not being let in. Remember, my dear, that a friend has the same right as a physician. The etiquettes of this town (3'ou '11 say) say other- wise. No matter ! Delicacy and propriety do not alwa3's consist in observing frigid doctrines. ' I am going out to breakfast, but shall be at m}' lodgings by eleven ; when I hope to read a single line under thine own hand, that thou art better, and will be glad to see th}' Brahmin. 9 o'clock. The Same to the Same. I GOT th}' letter last night, Eliza, on my return from Lord Bathurst's, where I was heard (as I talked of thee an hour without intermission) with so much pleasure and attention that the good old Lord toasted 3'our health three different times ; 76 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. and now he is in his eighty-fifth 3'ear, says he hopes to live long enough to be introduced as a friend to my fair Indian disciple, and to see her echpse all other Nabobesses as much in wealth as she does already in exterior and (what is far better) in interior merit. I hope so too. This nobleman is an old friend of mine. You know he was always the protector of men of wit and genius ; and he has had those of the last century, Addison, Steele, Pope, Swift, Prior, etc., etc., alwa3's at his table. The manner in which his notice began of me, was as singular as it was polite. He came up to me one daj^, as I was at the Princess of Wales's Court. '^ I want to know 3'ou, Mr. Sterne ; but it is fit 3'ou should know, also, who it is that wishes this pleasure. You have heard" (continued he) "of an old Lord Bathurst, of whom 3'our Popes and Swifts have sung and spoken so much. I have lived my life with geniuses of that cast, but have survived them ; and, despairing ever to find their equals, it is some 3'ears since I have closed my accounts and shut up m}' books, with thoughts of never opening them again ; but 3'ou have kindled a desire in me of opening them once more before I die ; which I now do : so go home and dine with me ! " This nobleman, I say, is a prodigj' ; for at eighty-five he has all the wit and promptness of a Laurence Sterne to Eliza Draper. 77 man of thirt}- ; a disposition to be pleased, and a power to please others beyond whatever I knew ; added to which, a man of learning, courtesy, and feeUng. He heard me talk of thee, Eliza, with uncommon satisfaction ; for there was only a third person, and of sensibilit}', with us ; and a most sentimental afternoon, till nine o'clock, have we passed ! But thou, EUza, w^ert the star that conducted and enUvened the discourse ; and when I talked not of thee, still didst thou fill my mind, and warmed every thought I uttered ; for I am not ashamed to acknowledge I greatly miss thee. Best of all good girls ! the sufferings I have sustained the whole night on account of thine, Eliza, are beyond m}' power of words. Assuredly does Heaven give strength proportioned to the weight he lays upon us ! Thou hast been bowed down, my child, with ever}' burden that sorrow of heart and pain of body could inflict upon a poor being ; and still thou tellest me thou art beginning to get ease, — thy fever gone, th}^ sickness, the pain in thy side, vanishing also. May every evil so vanish that thwarts Eliza's happiness, or but awakens thy fears for a moment ! Fear nothing, my dear ! Hope everything ; and the balm of this passion wdll shed its influence on thy health, and make thee enjoy a 78 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. spring of 3'oiith and cheerfulness, more than thou hast 3'et tasted. And so thou hast fixed th}^ Brahmhi's portrait over thy >vriting-desk, and will consult it in all difficulties. Grateful and good girl ! Yorick smiles contentedly over all thou dost ; his picture does not do justice to his own complacency. Th}^ sweet little plan and distribution of thy time — how worthy of thee ! Indeed, Eliza, thou lea vest me nothing to direct thee in, — thou leavest me nothing to require, nothing to ask, but a continuation of that conduct which won ni}^ es- teem and has made me th}' friend forever. Ma}' the roses come quick back to thy cheeks and the rubies to thy lips ! But trust my declara- tion, Eliza, that th}^ husband (if he is the good, feeling man that I wish him) will press thee to him with more honest warmth and affection, and kiss thy pale, poor, dejected face with more trans- port than he would be able to do in the best bloom of all thy beauty ; and so he ought, or I pit}' him. He must have strange feelings if he knows not the value of such a creature as thou art. I am glad Miss Light goes with you. She may relieve you from many anxious moments. I am glad your shipmates are friendly beings. You could least dispense with what is contrary to your Laurence Sterne to Eliza Draper, 79 own nature, which is soft and gentle, EHza. It would civilize savages ; though pity were it thou shouldst be tainted with the office ! How canst thou make apologies for thy last letter? 'tis most delicious to me, for the very reason you excuse it. Write to me, my child, only such. Let them speak the easy carelessness of a heart that opens itself, anyhow and everyhow, to a man you ought to esteem and trust. Such, Eliza, I write to thee ; and so I should ever Uve with thee, most artlessl}', most affectionately, if Providence per- mitted thy residence in the same section of the globe, for I am all that honor and affection can make me, Thy Brahmin. The Same to the Same. My dear Eliza, — I have been within the verge of the gates of death. I was ill the last time I wrote to you, and apprehensive of what would be the consequence. My fears were but too well founded ; for, in ten minutes after I dispatched my letter, this poor, fine-spun frame of Yorick's gave way, and I broke a vessel in my breast and could not stop the loss of blood till four this morning. I have filled all thy India 80 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. handkerchiefs with it. It came, I think, from my heart. I fell asleep through weakness. At six I woke with the bosom of m}' shirt steeped in tears. I dreamt I was sitting under the canopy of Indolence, and that thou earnest into the room with a shawl in thy hand, and told me m}' spirit had flown to thee in the Downs, with tidings of my fate ; and that 3'ou were come to administer what consolation filial affection could bestow, and to receive m}' parting breath and blessing. With that 3'ou folded the shawl about my waist, and, kneeling, supplicated my attention. I awoke, but in what a frame ! O my God! "But thou wilt number my tears, and put them all into thy bottle." Dear girl ! I see thee ; thou art forever present to my fancy, — embracing m}' feeble knees and raising thy fine eyes to bid me be of comfort ; and when I talk to Lydia ^ the words of Esau, as uttered by thee, perpetualh^ ring in my ears: "Bless me even also, my father!" Blessing attend thee, thou child of my heart ! My bleeding is quite stopped, and I feel the principle of life strong within me ; so be not alarmed, Eliza : I know I shall do well. I have eat my breakfast with hunger ; and I write to thee with a pleasure arising from that prophetic im- ^ Lydia was liis daughter. Laurence Sterne to Eliza Draper. 81 pression in my imagination, that "all will termi- nate to our heart's content." Comfort thj'self eternall}' with this persuasion, — "that the best of Beings (as thou hast sweeth' expressed it) could not, by a combination of accidents, produce such a chain of events merely to be the source of miser}' to the leading person engaged in them." The observation was verj' applicable, very good, and verj' eleganth' expressed. I wish mv memory did justice to the wording of it. Who taught you the art of writing so sweetly, Eliza? You have absolutely exalted it to a science. When I am in want of ready cash, and ill-health will not permit my genius to exert itself, I shall print 3*our letters as finished essa3's, " bj^ an unfortunate Indian Ladv." The style is new, and would almost be a sufficient recommendation for their selling well, without merit; but their natural ease and spirit is not to be equalled, I believe, in this section of the globe, nor, I will answer for it, by anv of your countrywomen in 3'ours. I have shown your letter to Mrs. B . and to half the literati in town. You shall not be angr}' with me for it, because I meant to do yon honour by it. You cannot imagine how many admirers your episto- lar}' productions have gained you, that have never viewed 3-our external merits. I only wonder 82 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. where thoa couldst acquire th}' graces, th}' good- ness, tb}' accomplishments, — so connected ! so educated ! Nature has surely studied to make thee her peculiar care, for thou art (and not in my eyes alone) the best and fairest of all her works. And this is the last letter thou art to receive from me ; because the " Earl of Chatham " (I read in the f>^pers) is got to Downs ; and the wind, I find, is fair. If so, blessed woman ! take my last, last farewell I Cherish the remembrance of me ; think how I esteem, nay, how affectionatelj' I love thee, and what a price I set upon thee ! Adieu, adieu ! and with my adieu let me give thee one straight rule of conduct, that thou hast heard from my lips in a thousand forms ; but I concen- trate it in one word, Reverence Thyself. Adieu, once more. Eliza I Ma}' no anguish of heart plant a wrinkle upon thy face till I behold it again ! May no doubt or misgivings disturb the serenit}' of tin' mind, or awaken a painful thought about thy children ; for they are Yorick's, and Yorick is thy friend forever. Adieu, adieu, adieu ! Samuel Johnson to Mrs. Thrale. Samuel Johnson to Mrs. Thrale. Samuel Johnson's long friendship with Mrs. Thrale is almost historical. When Mr. and Mrs. Thrale found him one day at his lodgings, in one of his terrible fits of gloom, they generously took him to their pleasant house at Streatham, and for seventeen years their home was quite as welcome to Johnson as if he had owned a share in it. There was always a room set apart for him, a place of honour at table, and Mrs. Thrale, clever and witty, was always ready to pour out unHmited cups of tea and, best of all, to bear with liis bursts of ill-temper with the same cheerful spirit with which slie seems to have borne every- thing in life. This friendship continued long after Mr. Thrale's death, and gossip has even whispered that John- son w^ould have gladly made the vivacious widow his wife if he had not received too decided a repulse. The friendship continued, however, till it ended in quar- rel, which seems to liave been no fault of Mrs. Thrale's. It was pretty well known that her first marriage had been one of convenience, with a man almost double lier years. She was still a very charming and agreeable woman of about forty, with an independent fortune. It is not strange that she should have felt she had still a right to make a love-match. Perhaps her friends might not have disputed this right as fiercely as they did if her affections had not fallen upon Mr. Piozzi, who was an Italian and a music- teacher residing in London. But on these grounds the mar- riage was opposed with a bitterness difficult to understand, and Johnson was one of the bitterest of its opponents. Mrs. Thrale, who seems to have felt sincere friendship for the old philosopher, rough and bearish as he was, en- deavoured in vain to placate him. He wrote her a most 84 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. violent remonstrance on the subject, and finally, when he found the marriage an accomplished fact, he sent her the letter — certainly eloquent and touching — which I have quoted third in this series. The end, however, did not justify his warning, or his comparison of Mrs. Thrale's fate to that of Queen Mary. Mr. Piozzi, who was an amiable, unpretentious man — well connected in his own country, although Johnson con- temptuously spoke of him as a "foreign fiddler" — made an excellent husband, and Mrs. Thrale enjoyed twenty- five years of happy wedlock as Mrs. Piozzi, under which name she published all her literary w^orks. Lichfield, Oct. 27, 1777. Dearest Madam, — You talk of writing and writing, as if 3'ou bad all the writing to 3'ourself. If our correspondence were printed, I am sure posterity — for posterit}^ is alwa^'s the authors' favourite — would say that I am a good writer too. To sit down so often w^ith nothing to sa}', — to say something so often, almost without conscious- ness of saying and without any remembrance of having said, — is a power of w^hich I will not vio- late my modesty by boasting ; but I do not be- lieve everybod}' has it. Some, when they write to their friends, are all affection, some are wise and sententious ; some strain their powers for efforts of gayety, some write news, and some write secrets ; but to make a letter without affection, without wisdom, with- Samuel Johnson to Mrs. Thrale. 85 out gay ety, without news, and without a secret, is, doubtless, the great epistoHc art. In a man's letters, you know, Madam, his soul lies naked. His letters are only the mirror of his breast, — whatever passes within him is there shown undisguised in its natural progress ; nothing is inverted, nothing distorted ; you see systems in their elements, you discover actions in their motives. Of this great truth, sounded b\' the knowing to the ignorant, and so echoed by the ignorant to the knowing, what evidence have 3 on now before you? Is not m}^ soul laid open before you in these veracious pages? Do you not see me re- duced to my first principles? This is the pleas- ure of corresponding with a friend, where doubt and distrust have no place, and everything is said as it is tl}Ought. These are the letters by which souls are united, and by which minds naturall}' in unison move each other as they are moved them- selves. I know, dearest Uxdv, that in the perusal of this — such is the consanguinit}' of our intel- lects — you will be touched as I am touched. I have indeed concealed nothing from you, nor do I ever expect to repent of having thus opened my heart. I am, &c., Samuel Johnson. 86 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. The Same to the Same. Written by Johnson to Mrs. Tlirale after her friendship for him liad begun to decline. Since you have written to me with the atten- tion and tenderness of ancient times, your letters give me a great part of the plieasure which a life of solitude admits. You will never bestow any share of your good-will on one who deserves bet- ter. Those icho have loved longest love best. A sudden blaze of affection may hy a single blast of coldness be extinguished ; but that fondness which length of time has connected with manj^ circum- stances and occasions, though it may for a while be depressed b}^ disgust or resentment, with or without a cause, is hourly revived by accidental recollection. To those that have been much to- gether, everything heard and everything seen re- calls some pleasure communicated, or some benefit conferred, some pett}' quarrel or some slight en- dearment. Esteem of great powers, or amiable qualities newh^ discovered, may embroider a day or a week, but a friendship of twenty years is interwoven with the texture of life. A friend may be often found and lost, but an old friend never can be found, and nature has provided that he cannot easily be lost. Samuel Johnson to Mrs. Tlirale. 87 The Same to the Same. After Mrs. Thrale's marriage to Mr. Piozzi was an- nounced, Johnson wrote her the following, — his last letter to her. London, July 8, 1784. Dear Madam, — What you have done, however 1 may lament it, I have no pretence to resent, as it has not been injurious to me. I, therefore, breathe out one sigh more of tenderness, perhaps useless, but at least sincere. I wish that God may grant you everj' blessing, that you may be happy in this world for its short continuance, and eternally happy in a better state ; and whatever I can contribute to 3'our happiness I am very read}' to repay for the kindness which soothed twenty years of a life radicall}' wretched. Do not think slight!}' of the advice which I now presume to offer. Prevail upon Mr. Piozzi to settle in England ; you may live here with more dignity than in Italy, and with more security ; your rank will be higher, and your fortune more under your own eye. I desire not to detail my reasons ; but every argument of prudence and in- terest is for England, and only some phantoms of imagination seduce you to Italy. I am afraid, however, that my counsel is vain, yet I have eased my heart by giving it. 88 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. When Queen Mary took the resokition of shel- tering herself in England, the Archbishop of St. Andrew's, attempting to dissuade her, attended her on her journey- ; and when the}' came to that irremeable stream that separated the two king- doms, walked by her side into the water, in the middle of which he seized her bridle, and with earnestness proportioned to her own danger and his own affection pressed her to return. The queen went forward. If the parallel reaches thus far, may it go no farther — the tears stand in my eyes. I am going into Derbyshire, and hope to be fol- lowed by your good wishes, for I am, with great affection, Yours, &c., Samuel Johnson. Letters of Horace Walpole and tlie Misses Berry, Walpole is well styled the " prince of letter- writers," and he is a most comfortahle one to read. One feels as if one were not getting into his confidence clandestinely in reading his letters, they are so evidently intended for any eye, in liis own time or later times, which would pe- ruse them with interest. He writes with unflagging viva- city through a lifetime which lasted almost eighty years, and his epistolary production fills nine stout octavos. If one wishes to know all the gossip, fashionable, political, theatrical, literary, and artistic, of the last three quarters Horace Walpole and the Misses Berry, 89 of the eighteentli century he can know it as intimately by reading Walpole as if he had taken tea every evening, during that long period, with the most loquacious news- monger of the day. Walpole was unmarried, and preserved to the last his bachelor estate. But if other gossips than he speak true, he offered himself to each of the Misses Berry in succession Miss Mary and Miss Agnes Berry were English girls who had been for some years residing in Paris before they came to live in England, near Walpole. He formed for them both a very tender friendship, and one gets a better idea of his heart from his letters to them, than from any- thing else he ever wrote. They became most valuable ad- juncts to his life, and one can fancy his existence would have become dreary without them. He writes to one of his correspondents shortly after meeting them : " I have made a to me precious acquisition. It is the acquaintance of two young ladies of the name of Berry, whom I first saw last winter, and who have taken a house here with their father for the summer/' They finally settled on a small estate of his, sometimes called " Little Strawberry," after his larger house *' Straw- berry Hill," and he often spoke of the two ladies as his ** Strawberries." The small house which they occupied, where beautiful Kitty Clive the actress had once lived, he bequeathed to the sisters in his will. Although he writes with equal affection to the two sis- ters, Miss Mary Berry was doubtless the favourite, and the one rumour most frequently assigned to liim as a wife. When one of his nieces used to ask him jestingly when she should *' call Miss Berry aunt," he answered, " Whenever Miss Berry chooses." Miss Martineau, who met Miss Berry 90 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. late in life (she lived to extreme age), says she could doubt- less, had she chosen, have been the Countess of Orford. But if the brilliant old peer ever desired such a marriage his letters rather disavow it, as we shall see in reading some of the following ; and his feeling may have been only the tender, half-paternal friendship which a man of seventy- three felt for two sensible and clever young women of twenty-five and six, who were charmed by his wit and knowledge of the world, and ready to cheer his latest years with a great deal of their pleasant society. Walpole to the Misses Berry. Feb. 2, 1789. I AM sorry — in the sense of the word before it meant, like a Hebrew word, glad or sorry — that I am engaged this evening ; and I am at 3'our command on Tuesday, as it is always my inclina- tion to be. It is a misfortune that words become so much the current coin of societ}^, that like King Wil- liam's shillings they have no impression left ; they are worn so smooth that they mark no more to whom the}' first belonged than to whom they do belong, and are not worth even the twelvepence into which the}' may be changed. But if the}' mean too little, they may seem to mean too much too ; especially when an old man (who is often synonymous for a miser) parts with them. I Horace Walpole and the Misses Berry. 91 am afraid of protesting how much I dehght in your soeietj', lest I should seem to affect being gallant ; but if two negatives make an affirmative, why ma}' not two ridicules compose one piece of sense ? and therefore, as I am in love with 3'ou both, I trust it is a proof of the good sense of your devoted H. Walpole. The Same to the Same. Not long after their tirst acquaintance the Misses Berry went to the Continent for a visit, and it was during tliis absence that most of Walpole's letters to them were written. Sunday, Oct. 10, 1790. (The day of your departure for tlie Continent.) Is it possible to write to mj' beloved friends, and refrain from speaking of my grief at losing you, though it is but the continuation of what I have felt ever since I was stunned by 3'our intention of going abroad this autumn? Still I will not tire you with it often. In happy days I smiled and called you my dear wives ; now I can only think of you as darling children of whom I am be- reaved. As such I have loved and do love you, and, charming as you both are, I have no occasion to remind myself that I am past seventy- three. Your hearts, your understandings, vour 92 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters, virtues, and the cruel injustice of \o\xv fate have interested me in everything that concerns you ; and so far from having occasion to blush for any unbecoming weakness, I am proud of m}' affec- tion for you, and \evy proud of your condescend- ing to pass so man}^ hours with an old man, when ever3^bod3' admires 3'ou, and the most insensible allow that your good sense and information have formed you to converse with the most intelligent of our sex as well as your own ; and neither can tax 30 u with airs of pretension or affectation. Your simplicit3" and natural ease set off all 3'our other merits ; all these graces are lost to me, alas ! when I have no time to lose. Sensible as I am to my loss, it will occup3' but part of my thoughts, till I know you safel3' landed, and arrived safely in Turin ; not till you are there, and I learn so, will m3' anxiet3' subside, and settle into stead3^, selfish sorrow. I looked at ever3" weathercock as I came along the road to-da3' and was happ3^ to see every one pointing northeast. May they do so to-morrow. Forgive me for writing nothing to-night but about 3'ou two and myself. Of what can I have thought else? I have not spoken to a single per- son but m3^ own servants since we parted last night. I found a message here from Miss Howe Horace Walpole and the Misses Berrij. 93 to invite me for this evening. Do 3'ou think I have not preferred staying at home to write to 3'ou, as this must go to London to-morrow morn- ing to be read}' for Tuesday's post ? My future letters shall talk of other things when I know of an3'thing worth repeating, or per- haps any trifle, for I am determined to forbid m}'- self lamentations that would weary 3'ou ; and the frequenc}^ of my letters will prove there is no for- getfulness. If I live to see you again, you will then judge whether I am changed ; but a friend- ship so rational and pure as mine is, and so equal for both, is not likel}-^ to have any of the fickleness of youth, when it has none of its other ingredients. It was such a sweet consolation to the short time I ma}' have left, to fall into such society ; no won- der, then, that I am unhapp}- at that consolation being abridged. I pique myself on no philosophy but what a long use and knowledge of the world has given me, — the philosophy' of indifference to most persons and events. 1 do pique myself on not being ridiculous at this ver}' late period of my life ; but when there is not a grain of passion in my affection for you two, and when you both have the good sense not to feel displeased at my telling you so (though I hope 3'ou would have despised me for the contrary) , I am not ashamed to say 94 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. your loss is heavy to me ; and that I am only rec- onciled to it b}' hoping that a winter in Itah^ and the journe3's and sea air will be ver}' beneficial to two constitutions so delicate as yours. Adieu, my dearest friends. It would be tautology to subscribe a name to a letter everj^ line of which would suit no other man in the world but the writer. It was after the Misses Berry returned from abroad, that tliey took up their abode at " Little Strawberry/' which AYalpole had prepared for them. Innocent and evidently disinterested as Avas the friendship of the two Ladies for the old peer, it was made the subject of scandal, even to a report in the newspaper that they had designs upon his fortune. It was to one of these scandalous newspaper reports that Miss Berry indignantly alludes in a letter to Walpole from which the following are extracts. I DID not like to show 3 ou, nor did I feel myself, while with 3'ou, how much I vyas hurt b}' the news- paper. To be long honoured by 3 our friendship and remain unnoticed I knew was impossible and laid my account with ; but to have it imagined, imphed, or even hinted, that the purest friendship that ever actuated human bosoms could have an3' possible foundation in, or view to, interested mo- tives ... all this I confess I cannot bear ; not even your society can make up to me for it. Horace Walpole and the Misses Berry. 95 Would to God we had remained abroad, where we might still have enjoyed as much of your con- fidence and friendship as ignorance and imperti- nence seem likelj' to allow us here. . . . Excuse the manner in which I write and in which I feel. My sentiments on newspapers have long been known to 3'ou, with regard to all who have not so honourabl}' distinguished themselves as to feel above such feeble but venomed shafts. Do not plague 3'ourself by answering this. The only consolation I can have is the knowledge of your sentiments, of whicli I need no conviction. I am relieved b}^ writing, and shall sleep sounder for having thus unburthened my heart. Good-, night. Miss Berry's letter was answered at once by Walpole in the following. Dec. 13, 1791. My dearest Angel, — I had two persons talk- ing law to me, and was forced to give an imme- diate answer, so that I could not even read your note till I had done ; and now I do read it, it .breaks m}' heart ! If ni}^ pure affection has brought grief and mortification on you I shall be the most miserable of men. M}^ nephew's death has brought a load upon me that I have not strength to bear, as I told General Conway this 96 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. morning. . . . You know I scarce wish to live, but to cany you to Cliveden ! But I talk of nwself when I should speak to 3011 r mind. Is all your felicity to be in the power of a newspaper? who is not so? Are your virtue and purity, and m}' inno- cence about 3 ou, — are our consciences, no shield against anon3'mous folly or envy? Would you only condescend to be my friend if I were a beg- gar? . . . For 3'our sake, for poor mine^ combat such extravagant delicac>', and do not poison the few last days of life, which you, and yoii only, can sweeten. I am too exhausted to write more, but let 3'our heart and 3'our strong understanding re- ,move such chimeras. How could 3'ou sa3' 3'ou wish 3'ou had not returned ? To Miss Mary Berry. From that time the friendship continued uninterrupted till Walpole's death in 1797. There is one slight allusion to the report of his being in love with them in this letter to the two ladies written iwo years after tlie date of the above. To the two Misses Berry in Yorkshire, Tuesday Night, 8 o'clock, Sept. 17, 1793. My beloved Spouses, — Whom I love better than Solomon loved his one spouse — or his one Horace Walpole and the Misses Berry. 97 thousand. I lament that the summer is over, not because of its uniquity, but because you two made it so delightful to me that six weeks of gout could not sour it. Pray take care of yourselves, not for 3'our own sakes, but for mine ; for as I have just had my quota of gout, I may possibly expect to see another summer ; and, as 3'ou allow that I do know my own, and when I wish for anj'thing and get it, am entirel}^ satisfied, 3'ou maj' depend upon it I shall be as happy with a third summer, if I reach it, as I have been with the two last. Consider, that I have been threescore years and ten looking for a societ}' that I perfect!}' like, and at last there dropped out of the clouds into Lady Herries's room, two young gentlewomen, who I so little thought were sent thither on pur- pose for me, that when I was told they were the charming Miss Berrys I would not even go to the side of the chamber where they sat. But as Fortune never throws anything at one's head with- out hitting one, I soon found that the charming Miss Berr3's were preciseh' ce qiCU me fallait, and that, though young enough to be my great-gi-and- daughters, and loveh' enough to turn the heads of all our youth, and sensible enough, if said 3'ouths have any brains, to set all their heads to rights again. Yes, sweet damsels, I have found that3'ou 98 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. can bear to pass half your time with an antedilu- vian without cliscoA^ering anj' ennui^ or an}' disgust, though his greatest merit towards you is, that he is not one of those old fools who fancy the}' are in love in their dotage. I have no such vagary, though I am not sorry that some folks think I am so absurd, since it frets their selfishness. I must repeat it, keep in mind that both of you are delicate, and not strong. If you return in better health I shall not repine at your journey. Good-nio-ht. Robert Burns to Ellison Beghle. The affections of Burns — always inclined to rove — were first seriously fixed on Ellison Begbie, a pretty ser- vant-lass in Lochlie, to whom he wrote the following offer of marriage. Not this letter, however, nor the beautiful verses of Mary Morrison, which he addressed to her, had any effect on her heart, and her refusal plunged him for a time into a deep melancholy. Years after he spoke of her as the one among all his early loves who would have made him the most suitable wife. Lochlie, 1780. My dear E., — I do not remember, in the course of your acquaintance and mine, ever to have heard your opinion on the ordinary way of falling in love, amongst people of our station of Robert Barns to Ellison Beyhie. 99 life — I do not mean the persons who proceed in the wa}" of bargain, but those whose affection is really placed on the person. Though I be, as 3'ou know very well, but a very awkward lover myself, yet, as I have some opportunities of observing the conduct of others who are much better skilled in the affair of court- ship than I am, I often think it is owing to lucky chance more than to good management that there are not more unhappy marriages than usually are. It is natural for a young fellow to like the ac- quaintance of the females, and customary for him to keep their com pan}' when occasion serves. Some one of them is more agreeable to him than the rest ; there is something — he knows not what — pleases him — he knows not how — in her company. This I take to be what is called love with the greater part of us ; and I must own, my dear E., it is a hard game, such a one as you have to play when 3'ou meet with such a lover. You cannot admit but he is sincere ; and 3'et, though 3'ou use him ever so favourably, perhaps in a tew months, or, at farthest, a 3'ear or two, the same unaccountable fanc}' may make him as distract- edly fond of another, whilst 3'ou are quite forgot. I am aware that perhaps the next time I have the / 100 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. pleasure of seeing yon 3-011 may bid me take my own lesson home, and tell me that the passion I have professed for j'ou is perhaps one of those transient flashes I haA^e been describing ; bat I hope, my dear E., you will do me the justice to believe me when I assure 3'ou that the love I have for 3'ou is founded on the sacred principles of virtue and honour ; and, b3- consequence, so long- as you continue possessed of those amiable quali- ties which first inspired m3' passion for 3-ou, so long must I continue to love 3-ou. Believe me, my dear, it is love like this alone which can ren- der the married state happ3\ People ma3' talk of flames and raptures as long as they please, and a warm fanc3-, with a flow of 3'^outhful spirits, ma3' make them feel something like what they de- scribe ; but sure am I, the nobler faculties of the mind, with kindred feelings of the heart, can only be the foundation of friendship ; and it has alwa3's been my opinion that the married life is onl3^ friendship in a more exalted degree. If you will be so good as to grant m3' wishes, and it should please Providence to spare us to the latest periods of hfe, I can look forward and see that even then, though bent down with wrinkled age, — even then, when all other worldh" circumstances will be indifferent to me, I will Robert Burns to Mrs, McLehose, 101 regard my E. with the tenclerest affection, — and for this plain reason, because she is still possessed of those noble qualities, improved to a much higher degree, which first inspired my affection for her. " O happy state, when souls each other draw, Where love is liberty, and nature law." I know, were I to speak in such a style to many a girl who thinks herself possessed of no small share of sense, she would think it ridiculous ; but the language of the heart is, m}^ dear E., the onl}' courtship I shall ever use to 3'ou. When I look over what I have written I am sensible it is vastl}' different from the ordinary style of courtship ; but I make no apology. I know 3'our good nature will excuse what 3'our good sense may see amiss. Robert Barns to Mrs, McLeJiose. Burns's correspondence with Mrs. McLebose, under tlie title of " Letters of Sylvander and Clarinda," has been several times published. He met Mrs. McLehose on his second visit to Edinburgh, and a warm affection sprang up between them. But Burns's " marriage lines " to Jean Armour held him in a relation wliich the law considered binding, and Mrs. McLeliose had a husband in the West Indies, who liad cruelly left her to a life of poverty and 102 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. struggle with her children in Edinhurgh. Thus there was no hope of marriage between them ; and, after an ar- dent correspondence, from which the following letters are taken, tliey separated. Burns returned to Ayrshire and married Jean Armour, who had been turned out of doors by her father while Burns T^as writing to Clarinda in such rapturous terms in Edinburgh. \^ Syhander to Clarinda. Monday Evening, 11 o'clock, Jan. 14, 1788. Why have I not heard from 3-011, Clarinda? To-day I well expected it, and, before supper, when a letter to me was announced, vaj heart danced with rapture ; but behold, 't was some fool who had taken into his head to turn poet, and make me an offer of the first fruits of his nonsense. "It is not poetry, but prose run mad." Did I ever repeat to 3'on an epigram I made on a Mr. Elphinston, who has given a translation of Martial, a famous Latin poet? The poetry of Elphinston can only equal his prose notes. I was sitting in a merchant's shop of my acquaint- ance, waiting somebody' ; he put Elphinston into my hand, and asked my opinion of it ; I begged leave to write it on a blank leaf, which I did, as you shall see on a new page : — Sylvander to Clarinda. 103 To Mr. ElpUnston. O thou whom poesy abhors ! Whom poesy has turned out of doors ! Heard'st thou yon groan ? Proceed no further ! 'T was laureird Martial calling murther ! I am determined to see 3'ou, if at all possible, on Saturda}^ evening. Next week I must sing : — " The niglit is my departing night, The morn 's the day I must awa' : There 's neither friend nor foe o' mine But wishes that I were awa' ! What I hae done for lack o' wit I never, never can reca' ; I hope ye 're a' my friends as yet. Gude night, and joy be wi' you a' ! " If I could see you sooner, I would be so much the happier ; but I would not purchase the dearest gratijication on earth, if it must be at your expense in worldly censure ; far less, inward peace ! I shall certainly be ashamed of thus scrawling whole sheets of incoherence. The only unity (a sad word with poets and critics !) in m^' ideas is Clarinda. There m}' heart " reigns and revels." " What art thou, Love ? whence are those charms, That thus thou bear'st an universal rule ? For thee the soldier quits his arms, The king turns slave, the wise man fool. 104 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. In vain we chase thee from the field. And with vain thoughts resist the yoke : Next tide of blood, alas ! we yield ; * And all those high resolves are broke ! " I like to have quotations ready for every occa- sion. The}' give one's ideas so pat, and save the trouble of finding expressions adequate to one's feelings. I think it is one of the greatest pleas- ures attending a poetic genius, that we can give our woes, cares, jo3's, loves, &c., an embodied form in verse, which, to me, is ever immediate ease. Goldsmith finely says of his muse : — " Tliou source of all my bliss and all my woe : Who found me poor at first, and keep'st me so." My limb has been so well to-day that I have gone up and down stairs often without my staff. To-morrow I hope to walk once again on m}' own legs to dinner. It is only next street. Adieu ! Sylvaxder. — « — The Same to the Same. Monday, 21st January, 1788. ... I AM a discontented ghost, a perturbed spirit. Clarinda, if ever 3'ou forget Sylvander ma}' 3'ou be happy, but he will be miserable. Oh, what a fool I am in love ! what an extraor- dinary prodigal of affection ! Why are your sex Sijlvander to Clarinda. 105 called the tender sex, when I have never met with one who can repay me in passion? They are either not so rich in love as I am, or the}' are nig- gards where I am lavish. Thon whose I am, and whose are all my ways ! Thou seest me here, the hapless wreck of tides and tempests in m}' own bosom : do Thou direct to Thyself that ardent love for which I have so often sought a return, in vain, from my fellow- creatures ! If Thy goodness has yet such a gift in store for me, as an equal return of affection from her who, Thou knowest, is dearer to me than life, do Thou bless and hallow our bond of love and friendship ; watch over us in all our outgoings and incomings, for good ; and may the tie that unites our hearts be strong and indissoluble as the thread of man's immortal life ! 1 am just going to take your Blackbird, — the sweetest, I am sure, that ever sung, — and prune its wings a little. Sylvaxder. The Same to the Same. Glasgow, February 18, 1788, Monday Evening, 9 o'clock. The attraction of Love, J find, is in an inverse proportion to the attraction of the Newtonian phi- 106 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. losophj. In the system of Sir Isaac, the nearer objects are to one another the stronger is the at- tractive force : in ni}' S3'sten], ever}' milestone that marked my progress from Clarinda awakened a keener pang of attachment to her. How do yo\x feel, m}^ love ? is yonr heart ill at ease ? I fear it. God forbid that these persecutors should harass that peace which is more precious to me than my own ! Be assured I shall ever think of 3'ou, muse on 3'ou, and, in my hours of devotion, pray for 3'ou. The hour that 3'ou are not in all mj' thoughts — ''be that hour darkness ! let the shadows of death cover it ! let it not be numbered in the hours of day ! " " When I forget my darling theme, Be my tongue mute ! my fancy paint no more ! And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat ! " I have just met with my old friend, the ship- captain — guess my pleasure ! To meet 3-ou could alone have given me more. M3' brother William, too, the young saddler, has come to Glasgow to meet me ; and here are we three spending the evening. I arrived here too late to write by post; but I '11 wrap half a dozen sheets of blank paper to- gether, and send it hy the FI3', under the name of a parcel. You shall hear from me next post town. Burns s Last Letter to Clarinda. 107 I would write yoa a longer letter, but for the pres- ent circumstances of my friend. Adieu, my Clarinda ! I am just going to pro- pose your health by way of grace-drink. Sylvander. Burns'' s Last Letter to Clarinda. Friday, 9 o'clock, Night, 21st March, 1788. I AM just now come in, and have read your letter. The first thing I did was to thank the Divine Disposer of events that he has had such happiness in store for me as the connection I have had with 3^ou. Life, m}' Clarinda, is a wearj^, bar- ren path ; and woe be to him or her that ventures on it alone ! For me, I have my dearest partner of m}^ soul : Clarinda and I will make out our pilgrimage together. Wherever I am, I shall con- stantly let her know how I go on, what I observe in the world around me, and what adventures I meet with. Will it please 3^ou, my love, to get, every week, or at least every fortnight, a packet, two or three sheets, full of remarks, nonsense, news, rhj-mes, and old songs? Will you open, with satisfaction and clehght, a letter from a man who loves you, who has loved 108 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. 3'ou, and who will love you to death, through death, and forever? O Clarinda ! what do I owe to Heaven for blessing me with such a piece of exalted excellence as 3'ou ! I call over your idea, as the miser counts over his treasure ! Tell me, w^ere 3'ou studious to please me last night? I am sure you did it to transport. How rich am I who have such a treasure as 3'ou ! You know me ; you know how to make me happy, and 3'ou do it most effectuall}'. God bless 3 ou with " Long life, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend ! " To morrow-night, according to yonr own direc- tion, I shall watch the window : 'tis the star that guides me to Paradise. The great relish to all is — that Honour — that Innocence — that Religion, are the witnesses and guarantees of our happiness. '' The Lord God knoweth," and perhaps ''Israel, he shall know" my love and 3'our merit. Adieu, Clarinda ! I am going to remember you in m}^ prayers. c? Mary Wollstoiiecraffs Letters, The name of Mary Wollstonecraft is better known, perhaps, than any exact facts concerning her. That slie was the mother of Mary Shelley, the poet's wife, and that she advocated extreme views on Woman's Rights, are the Mary WollstonecrajV s Letters. 109 principal facts about lier as they exist in the minds of most who have ever heard of her at all. That she was a beau- tiful and gifted woman, romantic to excess, cruelly wronged in her affections, betrayed where she genuinely trusted, is almost entirely unknown. Tlie story of her life is a most pathetic one. Her childliood and girlhood were blighted by the cruelty and drunkenness of her father, whose brutal- ity at length sent Mary and her tw^o sisters from home, to struggle for a livelihood. To escape from a life too difficult to be borne by a soul less brave than that of Mary WoU- stonecraf t, one of the sisters married early and most unhap- pily, and returned upon Mary for support. All the poor girl's early experience of marriage was of the saddest and most revolting sort. To her, woman seemed forced by society to be the prey of man, the victim of brutality and injustice, and she longed, with the natural ardor of her disposition, to see her sex emancipated from what seemed a position of abject slavery. Thus she wrote A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, to claim for women superior oppor- tunities for education, and greater social and political rights, — a book embodying ideas then extremely radical, but which, for the most part, are hardly more advanced in sen- timent than most of the opinions held by the advocates of Woman's Rights in America or England to-day. This book set her apart as a woman. She was called a radical and an infidel, although in fact she shows in her works and letters a deep and sincere religious feeling. After she had begun her literary career the French Revolution broke out. She was a natural republican in sentiment, and she sympathized ardently with this revolu- tion, which was to her like the dawn of a new day for France. She went to Paris in '93, and when there found her position, as an Englishwoman, not altogether pleasant 110 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters, nor safe. There she met an American, Captain Gilbert Imlay, whose nationality was a protection to him in those excitmg days in Paris, as it was a sure passport to French favour to be a citizen of our new republic. Imlay extended some courtesy and protection to Mary Wollstonecraf t, and her feeling for him soon became one of the most trusting affection, — a feeling which he professed to return, and no doubt did return for a time. In the condition of things then existing, it would have been almost impossible for the pair to have been legally married in France. And Mary WoUstonecraf t's idea of marriage — generated by the bitter experience of mother, sister, and friends, in whose miseries she had shared — was that "a pure and mutual affection was marriage, and if love should die between a pair who had promised love, the marriage tie ought not and could not bind.'' The story that follows is an old one. Captain Imlay, whose name no generous mind Avho reads the following letters can ever hear mentioned without execration, took advantage of the ardent and tender heart which threw itself trustfully into his keeping. She con- sidered lierself his wife until death. He also addressed her, both in letters of affection and business, as his " beloved wife." But when absence, and other attractions which came during absence, asserted themselves over the shallow and base nature of the man, his affection began to wane. It is touching to trace the heart of the woman in these letters, and to see how it asserts itself over all her theories. She pours out to him her love, her reproaches, her fears, in words that seem written in " heart's blood turned to tears." It is touching also to read her first vague consciousness of the distinction between such a love as she felt and that of which he was only capable. She writes : **I have found I have more mind than you in one respect ; Mary Wollstonecraffs Letters. Ill 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, for- give me ! I think there is sometimes a shorter cut to yours." Two or three times they were parted and reunited. The birth of her cliild drew her more strongly to him, and for her child's sake she strove more ardently to draw him to her. As long as he professed to her that he had no other attachment she clung to him, even when almost hopeless of any affection from him, but at last, finding him engaged in a most unworthy intrigue under the roof which sheltered her and their child, she went out one night, in a state of madness, to put an end to her life. There is nothing out- side Hood's Bridge of Sighs which can parallel in sadness the description of the poor wretcli as she stood on Putney Bridge, in a soaking rain, waiting till her clothes should be so saturated that they would more quickly " drag her down to muddy death." She was rescued, however, by a Thames boatman before life was gone, and was restored to her misery. One year before her death she married William Godwin, one of the most remarkable men of his time, and died in giving birth to her daughter. For a nature like hers the happiest and most fortunate solution of life's problem is death. She was buried in St. Pancras Churchyard in London, and it was by this grave, where she was wont to sit and read, and commune with her departed mother, that Shelley sought out Mary Godwin and asked her to become his wife. It was in St. Pancras Church that this congenial pair were afterwards married, as near as possible to the grave of the mother, some of whose finest qualities had descended upon her happier and more fortunate child. Shelley wrote of 112 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. Mary Wollstonecraft thus — in the opening of the Revolt of Islam, which he dedicates to liis wife : — '' They sa^^ that thou wert lovely from thy birth, Of glorious parents, thou aspiring child. I wonder not — for One then left this earth Whose life was like a setting planet mild, Which clothed thee in the radiance undefiled Of its departing glorjM Still her fame Shines on thee, through the tempests dark and wild, Which shake these latter days, and thou canst claim The shelter from thy sire of an immortal name." These letters of Mary Wollstonecraft, which had been returned to her by Imlay, were published after her death by Godwin. He was severely criticised for making them public ; and indeed, like the letters of Vanessa to Swift, or of Keats to Fanny Brawne, they are too sacred for the vulgar eye, and ought to be read only by those who have hearts to feel for such suffering and such heart-break as is here made palpable upon the lifeless pages. I have selected a larger number from this collection of letters than usual, because the story they tell is so interesting and so touchingly told. As one letter follows another we see the falling off on the part of the lover, from passion to indifference, to neglect, and probably to dislike of his vic- tim. These poor time-worn letters, tear-stained doubtless, are, like a musical poem of Schumann, — a music full of passionate joy and passionate sadness, — the true story of a " Woman's Life and Love." Mary Wollstonecraft to Captain Imlay, 113 Mary Wollstonecraft to Captain Imlay, Past 12 o'clock, Monday, August, 1793. I OBEY an emotion of my heart which made me think of wishing. thee, my love, good-night, before I go to rest, witli 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 man}' plans of employ- ment I have in my head now that I am confident m}' heart has found peace in your bosom. Cher- ish me with that dignified tenderness which I have only found in 3'ou, and your own dear girl will tr^^ to keep under a quickness of feeling that has sometimes given 3'ou pain. Yes, I will be good^ that I may deserve to be happy, and whilst you love me, I cannot again fall into that miserable state which renders life a burden 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 grat- itude to Heaven and affection to you. I like the word affection because it signifies something 114 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. habitual, and we are soon to meet to try whether we have mind enough to keep our hearts warm. Yours, Mary Wollstonecraft. The Same to the Same. Wednesday Morx, August, 1793. I WILL never, if I am not entirely cured of quarrelling, begin to encourage " quick-coming fancies " when we are separated. Yesterda}", my love, I could not open 3'our letter for some time, and though it was not half so severe as I merited, it threw me into such a fit of trembling as seri- ouslj' alarmed me. I did not, as you may sup- pose, care for a little pain on my own account, but all the fears I had had for a few days past returned with fresh force. This morning I am better ; will you not be glad to hear it? You per- ceive 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, or else stifle them altogether, and it Mary Wollstonecraft to Captain Tinlay, 115 appears to me almost a dut}' to stifle them when I imagine that I am treated with coldness, I am afraid that I have vexed 3'ou, mj' own. I know the quickness of jour feelings, and let me, in the sincerity of m^' heart, assure you there is noth- ing I would not suffer to make you happy. M}' own happiness wholly depends on you, and, know- ing you as I do, when m}' reason is not clouded, I look forward to a rational prospect of as much felicity as the earth affords , with a dash of rapture into the bargain if 3'ou will look at me, when we meet again, with the look with which you liave sometimes greeted Your humbled 3'et most affectionate Mary. The Same to the Same. Paris, September, 1793, Friday Morning. A MAN whom a letter from Mr. previousl}" announced, called here yesterdav 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 he has settled the business. So much for business. Ma}^ I venture to talk a little longer about less weighty affairs? How 116 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters, are 3'oa? I have been following \om all along the road this comfortless weather ; for when I am absent from those I loAe, my imagination is as lively as if my senses had never been gratified by their presence — I was going to say caresses ; and wh}' should I not? I have found that I have more mind than 3'ou in one respect ; because I can, without an}' vio- lent effort of reason, find food for love in the same object much longer than 3'ou can. The way to m}' senses is through xny heart ; but, forgive me ! I think there is sometimes a shorter cut to 3'ours. With ninety-nine men out of a hundred, a very sufficient dash of foll}^ is necessary' to render a woman piqicante^ a soft word for desirable ; and, bej'ond these casual ebulUtions of sj^mpathy, few look for enjoj^ment hy fostering a passion in their hearts. One reason, in short, why I wish my whole sex to become wiser is, that the foolish ones ma}^ not, by their pretty foil}', 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 separat- Mary Wollstonecraft to Captain Imlay. 117 ing. Crack ! crack ! and aAvay you go I This joke wears the sallow cast of thought ; for, though I began to write cheerfully, some melancholy tears have found their w^ay into m}' e3'es that linger there, whilst a glow of tenderness at ra}' 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 mention my own, demands. Take care of 3'ourself, and write soon to 3'our own girl (you may add dear, if 3'ou please), who sincerely loves 3'ou, and will trj' to convince 30U of it by becoming happier. Mary. The Same to the Same. Paris, January, 1794, Mouday ^ight. I HAVE just received your kind and rational let- ter, and would fain hide m}' face, glowing with 118 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. shame for m}' foil}'. I would hide it in your bo- som if you would again open it to me, and nestle closel}^ till you bade my fluttering heart be still by saying that 3^0 n forgave me. With ej'es over- flowing with tears, and in the humblest attitude, I entreat joxx. Do not turn from me, for indeed I love you fondly, and have been ver}^ wretched since the night I was so cruell}' hurt b}^ thinking that 3'ou had no confidence in me. It is time for me to grow more reasonable ; a few more of these caprices of sensibilitv^ would destro}' me. . . . Write the moment you receive this. I shall count the minutes. But drop not an angry word. I cannot bear it. Yet, if 3 ou think I deserve a scolding (it does not admit of a question, I grant), wait till you come back, and then if 3'ou are angr3* one da3' I shall be sure of seeing 3'ou the next. did not write to 3'ou, I suppose, because he talked of going to Havre. Hearing that 1 was ill, he called ver3^ kindl3' on me, not dreaming that it was some words that he incautiousl3^ let fall which rendered me so. God bless you, m3' love ! Do not shut 3'our heart against a return of tenderness ; and as I now in fanc3^ cling to 3'ou, be more than ever m3^ Mary Wollstonecraft to Captain Imlay. 119 support. Feel bat as affectionate when you read this letter as I did writing it, and you will make happy your Mary. The Same to the Same. Written after the birth of their child. Havre, Aug. 10, 1794. I RECEIVED both your letters to-da}'. I had reckoned on hearing from you yesterdaj-, there- fore was disappointed, though I imputed your silence to the right cause. I intended answering 5'our kind letter immediately, that 3^ou 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 j'ou, what is sufficientl}' obvious, that the earnest desire I have shown to keep m}' place, or gain more ground in your heart, is a sure proof how necessarj' your affection is to my happiness. Still I do not think it false delicacy or foolish pride to wish that j'Our attention to mj' happiness should arise as much from love, which is always rather a selfish passion, as reason, — that is, I want 3'ou to pro- mote m}' felicity b}^ seeking your own. For, what- 120 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters, ever pleasure it may give me to discover your generosity of soul, I would not be dependent for 3'our affection on the very qualitj^ I most admire. No : there are qualities in joxxy heart which de- mand m}' affection ; but unless the attachment appears to me clearly mutual, I shall labour only to esteem your character instead of cherishing a tenderness for j^our 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 thej- become too strong for my peace, though they all afford me snatches of exquisite enjo3^ment. This for our little girl was at first very reasonable, — more the effect of reason, a sense of dut}^ 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 mj'self, tears rushed iuto my e3'es. Do not, however, suppose that I am melancholy, for when you are from me I not only wonder how I can find fault with 3'ou, but how I can doubt 3'Our affection. Mary Wollstonecraft to Captain Imlay. 121 I will not mix Viwy comments on the enclosed (it roused m}' indignation) with the effusion of ten- derness with w4iich I assure you that 3'ou are the friend of my bosom and the prop of my heart. Mary. -—4 — The Same to the Same, Paris, Dec. 26, 1794. I HAYE been, my love, for some da3's tormented b}^ fears that I would not allow to assume a form. I had been expecting 3^ou dail}', and I heard that many A^essels had been driven on shore during the late gale. Well, I now see 3'our letter, and find that 3'ou are safe ; I will not regret, then, that your exertions have hitherto been so unavailing. Be that as it may, return to me when 3'ou have arranged the other matters w^hich 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 3'ou wonder at my sometimes dread- ing 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 m}' eyes. With 3'ou an in- dependence is desirable, — and it is always within 122 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters, our reach, if affluence escapes us ; without yon the world again appears empty to me. But I am recurring to some of the melanchol}' thoughts that have flitted across my mind for some daj's past, and haunted my dreams. My httle daiiing 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 certainl}' no lover was ever more attached to his mistress than she is to me. Her ej'es follow me everj'where, and by affection I have the most despotic power over her. She is all vivacit}' or softness — yes, I love her more than I thought I should. When I have been hurt at yonv stay, I have embraced her as mj^ onl}' comfort — when pleased with 3'ou — for looking and laughing like 3'ou ; na}', I cannot, I find, long be angry with 3'ou, whilst I am kissing her for resembling 3'ou. But there would be no end to these details. Fold us both to your heart ; for I am truly and affec- tionately Yours, Mary. The Same to tfie Same. Paris, Dec. 30, 1794. Should you receive three or four of the letters at once, which I have written latelv, do not think Mary Wollstonecraft to Captain Imlay. 123 of Sir John Brute, for I do not mean to wife you. I onh' take advantage of every occasion, that one out of three of my epistles may reach 3'our hands, and inform you that I am not of 's opinion, who talks till he makes me angry, of the necessity of 3'Our 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 3 ou that, if you choose to run about the world to get a for- tune, it is for yourself; for the little girl and I will live without your assistance unless 3'ou 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 waj' of thinking, that, if they debauch their hearts and prostitute their persons, following perhaps a gust of inebriation, the}' 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 a hundred promiscuous amours during his absence. I consider fidelity and constancy as two dis- tinct things, yet the former is necessar}' to give life to the other ; and such a degree of respect do I think due to mj'self, that, if onl}' probit}', which 124 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. is a good thing in its place, brings 3'ou back, never return, — for if a wandering of the heart or even a caprice of the imagination detains 3'ou, there is an end of all ray hopes of happiness. I could not forgive it if I would. I have gotten into a melanchohMnood, you per- ceive. You know my opinion of men in general ; you know I think them sj'stematic tyrants, and that it is the rarest thing in the w^orld to meet with a man with sufficient delicacy of feeling to govern desire. When I am thus sad I lament that my little darling, fondh^ as I dote on her, is a girl. I am soriy 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 3'Ou must and ought to sta}', that it has inconceivabh' 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 3'ou than to me, search for them. Saj' but one word, and you shall never hear of me more. If not, for God's sake, let us struggle with poverty, — with an}' evil but these continual inquietudes of business, which Mary TVollstonecraft to Captain Imlay. 125 I have been told were to last but a few months, thongh eveiy da}' the end appears more distant. This is the first letter in this strain that I have determined to forward to you ; the rest lie b}', because I was unwilling to give 3'ou pain ; and I should not now write if I did not think that there would be no conclusion to 3^our schemes, which demand, as I am told, 3'our presence. The Same to the Same. Paris, Feb. 9, 1795. The melancholy presentiment has for some time hung on my spirits, that we are parted forever; 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 superscription excited. I mean not, however, to complain ; 3'et 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 cohe- rence. 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, 126 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. 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 w^ho did not know that the canker-worm was at work at the core, cautioned me about suckling m}' child too long. God preserve this poor child, and render her happier than her mother ! But I am wandering from my subject ; indeed m}' head turns giddy when I think that all the confidence I have had in the affection of others is come to this. I have done vay dut}' to you and m}' child ; and if I am not to have any return of affection to reward me, I have the sad consola- tion of knowing that I have deserved a better fate. M}' soul is wear}^, 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. Yon see how stupid I am, uttering declamation w^hen I meant simply to tell you that I consider 3'our requesting me to come to 3'ou as merel}^ dictated by honour. Indeed, I scarceh' understand you. You request me to come, and then tell me that you have not given up all thoughts of return- ing to this place. AVhen I determined to live with 3'ou, I was only governed by affection. I Avould share poverty Mary Wollstonecraft to Captain Imlay, 127 with joii, but I turn with affright from the sea of trouble on which 3'ou are entering. I have cer- tain principles of action ; I know what I look for to found m}' happiness on. It is not money. With 3'ou I wished for sufficient to procure the comforts of life ; as it is, less will do. I can still exert m3'self to obtain the necessaries of life for my child, and she does not want more at present. I have two or three plans in m}^ head to earn our subsistence ; for do not suppose that, neglected b}^ you, I will lie under obhgations of a pecuniary kind to 3'ou. No ; I w^ould sooner submit to menial service. I wanted the support of 30ur 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 3'ou into his schemes. I cannot write. I enclose a fragment of a let- ter written soon after 3'our departure, and another which tenderness made me keep back when it was written. You will see there the sentiments of a calmer, though not a more determined moment. Do not insult me by saying that '' our being to- gether is paramount to ever3^ other considera- tion." Were it, you would not be running after a bubble, at the expense of m3' peace of mind. Perhaps this is the last letter you will ever receive from me. 128 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. The Same to the Same. In the course of their correspondence Mary WoUstone- craft went to Sweden, whence she wrote a collection of letters, wliich are published, among her other works, under the title of Letters from Norwai/, Sweden, and Denmark. Sweden, July 3, 1795. There was a gloominess diffused through 3'our last letter, the impression of which still rests on m}' mind ; though, recollecting how quickly you throw off the forcible feelings of tlie moment, I flatter myself it has long since given place to your usual cheerfulness. Believe me (and my eyes fill with tears of ten- derness as I assure you), there is nothing I would not endure in the waj' of privation rather than dis- turb 3^our tranquillity. If I am fated to be un- happ}^, I will labour to hide my sorrows in m}^ own bosom, and 3^ou shall always find me a faith- ful, affectionate friend. I grow more and more attached to m}' little girl, and I cherish this affection without fear, be- cause it must be a long time before it can become bitterness of soul. She is an interesting crea- ture. On shipboard, how often, as I gazed at the sea, have I longed to bury my troubled bosom Mary Wollstonecraft to Captain Imlay. 129 in its less troubled deep, — asserting, with Bru- tus, "that the virtue I had followed too far was merely an emptj' name ; " and nothing but the sight of her — her pla^'ful smiles, which seemed to cling and twine round my heart — could have stopped me. What peculiar miser}' has fallen to my share ! To act up to n\y principles, I have laid the strict- est restraint on mj \ev\ thoughts. Yes ; not to sull}' the delicac}^ of m}' feelings, I have reined in my imagination, and started with affright from ever}" sensation that, stealing with balmy sweet- ness into my soul, led me to scent from afar the fragrance of reviving nature. My friend, I have paid dearly for one comic- tion. Love, in some minds, is an affair of senti- ment, 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 the 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 enei-gy of my soul, — almost rooted out 9 130 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters, what renders it estimable. Yes, I have damped that enthusiasm of character which converts the grossest materials into a fuel that imperceptibl}' feeds hopes which aspire above common enjo}- ment. Despair, since the birth of my child, has rendered me stupid ; soul and bod}^ seem fading away before the withering touch of disappoint- ment. I am now endeavouring to recover mj'self ; and such is the elasticity of my constitution and the purity of the atmosphere here, that health un- sought for begins to reanimate my countenance* I have the sincerest esteem and affection for 3'ou ; but the desire of regaining peace (do 3'ou under- stand 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 m}^ former conduct, and will not in future con- found m^'self with the beings whom I feel to be my inferiors. I will listen to delicacy or pride. Mary Wollstonecraft to Captain Imlay. 131 The Same to the Same. Sweden, July 4, 1795. I HOPE to hear from 3'ou b}' to-morrow's mail. My dearest friend ! I cannot tear my affections from you ; and though every remembrance stings me to my very soul, I think of you till I make allowance for the verj' defects of character that have given such a cruel stab to my peace. Still, however, I am more alive than 3'ou have seen me for a long, long time. I have a degree of vivacity, even in m^^ grief, which is preferable to the benumbing stupor that, for the last 3'ear, 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 surel}' I have had m}' share) , the purity of this air, and the being continualh' out in it, — for I sleep in the country every night, — has made an alteration in my appearance that reall}' surprises me. The rosy fingers of health already streak my cheeks, and I have seen a physical life in m}' eyes, after I have been climbing the rocks, that resembled the fond, credulous hopes of 3'outh. With what a cruel sigh have I recollected that I had forgotten to hope ! Reason, or rather experience, does not thus cruelly damp poor 132 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. Fann3''s pleasures ; she plays all day in the gar- den with 's children, and makes friends for herself. Do not tell me that yon are happier without us. Will you not come to us in Switzerland ? Ah, why do not 3'ou love us with more sentiment ? Why are you a creature of such sympathy that the warmth of your feelings, or rather the quick- ness of your senses, hardens 3^our heart? It is my misfortune that m}^ imagination is perpetually shading 3'our defects and lending 3'ou charms, whilst the grossness of your senses makes 3'ou (call me not vain) overlook graces in me that onl3^ dignit3' of mind and the sensibilit3' of an expanded heart can give. God bless you ! Adieu. The Same to the Same. ToNSBERG, July 30, 1795. I HAVE just received two of 3'our letters, dated the 26th and 30th of June, and 3'Ou must have received several from me, informing 3'ou of m3^ detention and how much I was hurt b3' 3'our silence. Write to me then, my friend, and write explic- itl3\ I have suffered, God knows, since I left 3'ou. Mary Wollstonecraft to Captain Imlay. 133 Ah, you have never felt this kind of sickness of heart ! M}' mind, however, is at present painfully active, and the sympath}' 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 \ov\ 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 onh' be protected hy 3'our 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 the}' ma}' 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 des- tined 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 134 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. even persuade myself, wretched as thej^ 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 seriousl}' employed in this way since I came to Tonsberg ; 3'et 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, Marguerite informs me, is well. I long to be with her. Write to me immediatel}'. Were I only to think of myself, I could wish you to return to me poor, with the simplicity of character, part of which 3'ou seem latelj- to have lost, that first attached me to you. Yours most aflTectionately, Mary Imlay. The Same to the Same. Copenhagen, Sept. 6, 1795. Gracious God ! it is impossible for me to stifle something like resentment when I receive fresh proofs of 3'our indifi'erence. What I have suffered this last 3'ear is not to be forgotten ! I have not that happy substitute for wisdom, insensibility; Mary Wollstonecraft to Captain Imlay, 135 and the lively S3'mpathies 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 rum, and only converse with people immersed in trade and sen- sualit3\ I am weary of travelling, 3'et seem to have no home — no resting-place to look to. I am strangely cast off. How often, passing through the rocks, 1 have thought, ''But for this child I would lay my head on one of them and never open m}^ 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 continu- ally, who are bound together by affection or prin- ciple ; and when I am conscious that I have ful- filled the duties of ni}' station, almost to a forget- fulness of mj'self, I am ready to demand, in a murmuring tone, of Heaven, ''Why am I thus abandoned?" 136 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. The Same to tlie Same. This letter is written on the night when, driven to mad- ness by Imlay's conduct, Mary Wollstonecraft went out and made the desperate attempt to drown herself in the Thames. The one following this is written soon after her rescue. LoxDOx, November, 1795. I WRITE 3'ou now on my knees, imploring you to send my child and the maid with , to Paris, to be consigned to the care of Madame , Eiie , Section de . Should they be removed, can give their direction. Let the maid have my clothes Avithout distinc- tion. Pra}^ pay the cook her wages, and do not men- tion the confession Tvliich I forced from her ; a little sooner or later is of no consequence. Noth- ing but m}^ extreme stupidit}" could have rendered me blind so long. Yet, whilst you assured me that you had no attachment, I thought we might still live together. I shall make no comments on your conduct, or any appeal to the world. Let my wrongs sleep with me ! Soon, very soon, I shall be at peace. When you receive this my burniug head will be cold. I would encounter a thousand deaths rather Mary Wollstonecraft to Captain Imlaij, 137 than a night like the last. Your treatment has thrown m}' mind into a state of chaos ; 3'et I am serene. I go to find comfort, and my onl}' fear is, that m}^ poor body will be insulted by an endeavour to recall mj' hated existence. But I shall plunge into the Thames where there is the least chance of m}' being snatched from the death I seek. God bless 3'ou ! Ma}' you never know by ex- perience what 3'ou have made me endure. Should 3'our sensibility ever awake, remorse will find its way to 3'our heart ; and, in the midst of business and sensual pleasure, I shall appear before 3'ou, the victim of your deviation from rectitude. The Same to the Same. liOXDOx, November, 1795, Sunday Morning. I HATE onl3' to lament that, when the bitterness of death was past, I was inbumanl3' brought back to life and miser3'. But a fixed determination is not to be baflied b3' 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 onl3' accountable to m3'self. Did I care for what is termed reputation, it is b3' other circum- stances that I should be dishonoured. 138 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters, 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 con- demned to live longer, it is a living death. It appears to me that 3'ou lay much more stress on delicac}^ than on principle ; for I am unable to discover what sentiment of delicac}" would have been violated b}' 3^our visiting a wretched friend, if indeed yon have any friendship for me. But since 3'our new attachment is the onl}^ sacred thing in your eyes, I am silent — . Be bappj^ ! My com- plaints shall never more damp your enjoj^ment ; perhaps I am mistaken in supposing that even my death could for more than a moment. This is what 3^ou call magnanimity. It is happy for your- self that you possess this quality in the highest degree. Your continually asserting that 3'ou will do all in your power to contribute to mj' comfort, when 3'ou onl}^ allude to pecuniar}^ assistance, appears to me a flagrant breach of delicac}^ I want not such vulgar comfort, nor will I accept it. I never wanted but 3'our heart. That gone, 3^ou have nothing more to give. Had I onlj^ poverty to fear, I should not shrink from life. Forgive me then, if I say that I shall consider any direct or Shelley to Mary Shelley. 139 indirect attempt to supply my necessities as an insult which I have not merited, and as rather done out of tenderness for 3 our own reputation than for me. Do not mistake me ; I do not think that you value mone}', 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 3'ourself will make you take care of the child. I write with difficulty — probably I shall never write to 3'ou again. Adieu. God bless 3'ou ! Shelley to Mary Shelley. There is very little that is characteristic of the poet Shelley to be found in any of his letters which liave yet been printed. In a collection of his prose writings edited by his wife, she gives a few letters written to her after they went to reside in Italy. They are printed somewhat fragmentarily, and I have copied them in fragments, leav- ing out portions which relate to business or uninteresting matters. Shelley does not pour out his heart in liis let- ters, like Keats, nor write to publisher or friends on every trivial occasion, like Byron ; and one feels in his letters a reticence of nature which did not unloose itself except in his poetry. Florence, Thursday, at 11 o'clock, 20 August, 1818. Dearest Mary, — We have been delayed in this city four hours for the Austrian minister's 140 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters, passports, but are now on the point of setting out with a vetturino, who engaged to take us on the third day to Padua ; that is, we shall only sleep three nights on the road. . . . We have now a comfortable carriage and three mules, and have made very decent bargains to Padua. I should tell 3'ou we had delightful fruit for breakfast, — figs ver}' fine, and peaches unfortunately gathered before the}' were ripe, — whose smell was like what one fancies of the wakening of Paradise flowers. Well, ni}' dearest Marj', are 3'ou verj' louely? Tell me the truth, my sweetest, do you ever cry? I shall hear from you in Venice, and once on my return here. If you love me 3'ou will keep up your spirits ; and, at all events, tell me the truth about them, for I assure 3'ou I am not of a dispo- sition to be flattered by your sorrow, though I should be by 3'our cheerfulness, and above all hy seeing such fruits of my absence as were pro- duced when we were at Geneva.^ What acquaintances have you made? I might have travelled to Padua with a German, who had just come from Rome, and has scarce recovered from a malarial fever caught in the Pontine marshes a week or two since, but I conceded to 's entreaties and your absent suggestions and ^ There Mrs. Shelley wrote her famous novel, "Frank- enstein." Shelley to Mary Shelley. 141 omitted the opportunit}', though I have no great faith in that species of contagion. It is not very hot, not at all too much so for m}^ sensations, and the onl}^ thing that inconveniences me is the gnats at night, who roar like so many humming-tops in one's ear. How is Willmouse and little Clara ? They must be kissed for me ; and 3'ou must particu- larly remember to speak my name to William, and see that he does not quite forget me, before my return. Adieu, my dearest girl ; I think we shall soon meet. I shall write again from Venice. Adieu, dear Mary. The Same to tlie Same. Later from Venice he writes her to join him. I AM going to the bankers to send you money for 3'our journe}'. Pray come instantly to Este, where I shall be waiting with the utmost anxiet}' for your arrival. You can pack up directly you get this letter, and employ the next day on that. Then take a vetturino to Florence, to arrive the same evening. From Florence to Este is three days' vetturino journey, and 3'ou could not, I think, make it in less b}' post. I do not think 3'ou can, but try to get from Florence to Bologna in one 142 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters, day. Do not take the post, for it is not much faster, and yeiy expensive. I have been obliged to decide on all these things without 3'ou. I have done for the best ; and, my own beloved Mary, 3'ou must soon come and scold me if I have done wrong, and kiss me if I have done right ; for I am sure I do not know which, and only the event can show. We shall at least be saved the trouble of introduction. I have formed the ac- quaintance of a lady who is so good, so beautiful, so angelically mild, that were she wdse like 3'ou, she would be quite a . Her ej'es are like a reflection of }'ours. Her mayners are like yours when you know and like a person. Dearest love, be well, be happ}', come to me ; confide in 3'our own constant and affectionate P. B. S. Kiss the blue-eyed darhngs for me, and do not let William forget me. Clara cannot recollect me. — ^-— The Same to the Same. This little note, written a year before his death, when Mary sent him her picture, is among Shelley's latest letters to his wife. Ravenna, Aug. 15, 1821. My dearest Love, — I accept your present of your picture, and wish you would get it prettily Byron to the Countess Guicciola. 143 framed for me. I will wear for 3-0 iir sake upon my heart this image which is ever present to m}' mind. I have only two minutes to write ; the post is just setting off. I shall leave this place Thursday or Frida}'. You would forgive m}^ longer staj' if 3'ou knew the light I have had to make it so short. I need not say where my own feeling impels me. It still remains fixed that Lord Byron should come to Tuscan}', — if possible, Pisa. Your faithful and affectionate S. Byron to the Countess Guicciola. It was in the autumn of 1818 that Lord Byron met with Teresa Guicciola. She was a little more than eighteen years old, — a golden-haired Italian woman, such as Titian loved to paint, — and had recently been taken from the convent in which she was reared, to be married to Count Guicciola, a wealthy widower of sixty. Moore says, in his Life of Dijron : *' The love that sprung up between Byron and Madame Guicciola was instantaneous and mutual, though with the usual disproportion of sacri- fice between the two. . . . The fount of natural tenderness in his soul, which neither the world's efforts nor his own had been able to chill or choke up, was, with something of its first freshness, set flowing once more. He knew what it was to love and to be loved, — too late, it is true, for hap- piness and too wrongly for peace, but with devotion enough 144 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. on the part of the woman to satisfy even his thirst for affection, and on his own part with a sad earnestness, a foreboding fidelity, which made liim cling the more pas- sionately to this attachment from feeling it would be his last." In one of the Countess Guicciola's absences from home, he was fond of sitting alone in her garden ; and, finding there one day a copy of Corinne, which she had been read- ing, he wrote, in English, this letter on one of the fly-leaves of the book. BoLOGXA, Aug. 25, 1819. My dearest Teresa, — I have read this book in 3'our garden. My love, 3'ou were absent, or else I could not have read it. It is a favourite book of yours, and the writer was a friend of mine. You will not understand these English words, and others will not understand them, which is the reason I have not scrawled them in Italian ; but you will recognize the handwriting of him who passionateh' loved 3'ou, and yon will divine that over a book which was yours he could only think of love. In that word, beautiful in all languages, but most so in 3'ours, — Amor mio^ — is comprised my existence here and hereafter. I feel I exist here, and I fear that I shall exist hereafter — to what purpose you will decide ; my destiny rests with you, and you xire a woman, eighteen years of age, and two out of a convent. CharlotU Carpenter to Walter Scott. 145 I wish that yon had sta3'ed there, with all m}^ heart, — or, at least, that I had never met 3'on in 3'our married state. But all this is too late. I love you and yon love me, — at least, 3'ou sa}' so and act as if yon did so, which last is a great consolation in all events. But I more than love you, and cannot cease to love you. Think of me sometimes when the Alps and the ocean di\^de us ; but thej^ never will, unless you wish it. Byron. Charlotte Carpenter to Walter Scott, Walter Scott had had a disappointment in a love affair in which his feelings seem to have been deeply engaged, when his heart was caught in the rebound by Miss Char- lotte Carpenter, a lively brunette, of French birth and parentage, the ward of an English marquis, Lord Down- shire, wlio, in the spring of 1797, was travelling in Scot- land. Scott and Miss Carpenter were engaged in the fall of this year, and these letters are written by Miss Carpen- ter to her betrothed just before marriage. There was only a little delay after the engagement, to get Lord Down- shire's consent, and to settle the minds of Scott's family on the subject of the lady's fortune and birth. Mrs. Scott, without any great surplus of romance or sentiment, as would appear from her letters, was a lively and cheerful-tempered wife. She never seems to have had 10 146 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. any very deep appreciation of her husband's genius, and when his fame as tlie great novelist was widening, she is said to liave regarded his genius largely as a means for refurnishing the drawdng-room or adding a new wing to the house. She was, however, a faithful and capable help- meet, even if she lacked those finer sympathies which are so rare, even in the happiest lives. The following notes were written just before the marriage, and have a good deal of girlish vivacity, which w^as, no doubt, very capti- vating to the young Scottish lawyer. Carlisle, Oct. 25, 1797. Indeed, Mr. Scott, I am by no means pleased with all this writing. I have told you bow much I dislike it, and 3'et 3'ou still persist in asking me to write, and that by return of post. Oh, you realh' are quite out of 3'our senses ! I should not have indulged 3'ou in that whim of yours, had 3'ou not given me the hint that my silence gives an air of m vster3'. I have no reason that can detain me from acquainting you that m3^ father and mother were French, of the name of Charpentier. He had a place under government ; their residence was at L3'ons, where 3'ou w^ould find on inquiries that they lived in good repute, and in very good style. I had the misfortune of losing m3' father before I could know the value of such a parent. At his death we were left to the care of Lord Downshire, who was his very great friend, and Charlotte Carventer to Walter Scott, 147 very soon I had the affliction of losing my mother. Oar taking the name of Carpenter was on my brother's going to India, to prevent any little diffi- culties that might have occurred. I hope now you are pleased. Lord D. could have given everj' information, as he has been acquainted with all m}^ famil}'. You say 3'ou almost love him^ but until your almost becomes to a quite^ I cannot love you. Before I conclude this famous epistle, I will give you a little hint, — that is, not to put so many r}iusts in 3'our letters. It is beginning rather too soon ; and another thing is that I take the libert}^ not to mind them much, but I expect j'ou to mind me. You must take care of 3'ourself. You must think of me, and believe me Yours sincerel}" C. C. The Same to tlie Same. Carlisle, Nov. 14, 1797. Your letter never could have come in a more favourable moment. Anything you could have said would have been well received. You surprise me much at the regret you express you had before leaving CarUsle. Indeed, I can't believe it was on my account. I was so uncommonly stupid I 148 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. don't know what could be the matter with me ; I was so very low, and felt really ill. It was even a trouble to speak. The settling of our little plans, all looked so much in earnest, that I began reflecting more seriously than I generally do, or approve of I don't think that ver}' thoughtful people can ever be happy. As this is m}' maxim, adieu to all thoughts. I have made a determina- tion to be pleased with ever} thing and with every- body in Edinburgh, — a wise system for happiness, is it not? I enclose the lock. I have had almost all my hair cut off. Miss Nicholson has taken some, which she has sent to London to be made into something, but this you are not to know of, as she intends it as a present for 3'ou. I am happj^ to hear of your father's being better pleased as to monej' matters ; it will come at last, don't let that trifle disturb you. Adieu, Monsieur. J'ai I'honneur d'etre votre tres humble et tres Obeissante C. C. The Same to ilie Same. Carlisle, Xov. 27, 1797. You have made me verj' triste all day. Pra}', never more complain of being poor. Are 3'ou not ten times richer than I ? Depend upon yourself Charlotte Carpenter to Walter Scott, 149 and your iDrofession. I have no doubt 3'ou will rise verj' high, and be a great rich man^ but we should look down to be contented with our lot and banish all disagreeable thoughts. We shall do ver}' well. I am sorry to hear you have such a bad head ; I hope I shall nurse awa}' all your aches. I think you write too much ; when I am mistress I shall not allow it. How very angry I should be with you if you were to part with Leonore!'^ Do you really believe I should think it an unnecessary expense where your health and pleasure could be concerned ? I have a bet- ter opinion of 3'ou, and I am very glad 3'ou don't give up the cavahy, as I love anything that is stylish . Don't forget to find a stand for the old carriage, as I shall like to keep it in case we go on anj' jour- ney ; it is so much more convenient than the post- chaises, and will do very well till we can keep our carriage. What an idea of yours that was to mention where you wish to have 3'our hones laid ! If you were married I should think you were tired of me. A ver}' pretty compliment before marriage / I hope sincerely I shall not live to see that da}'. If 3'ou always have such cheerful thoughts, how 1 Scott's horse, named for Burger's ballad, which he had just translated. 150 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. veiT pleasant and gay j'ou must be ! Adieu, ni}^ dearest friend ; take care of 3'ourself if you love me, as I have no wish that 3'ou should visit that heaiitiful and romantic scene, the burj^ing-place. Adieu, once more, and believe that you are loved verv sincerely by C. C. The Same to tlie Same. Carlisle, Dec. 10, 1797. If I could but reall}' believe that ni}' letter onl}^ gave you half the pleasure 3'ou express, I almost think, my dearest Scott, that I should get ver}' fond of writing, just to indulge you, — that is saying a great deal. I hope you are sensible of the compliment I pa}' you, and don't expect I shall alwaj's be so pretty behaved. You may de- pend on me, my dearest friend, for fixing as early a da}' as I possibl}' can, and if it happens not to be so soon as you could wish, you must not be angry with me. It is very unluck}' joxx are such a bad housekeeper, as I am no better. I shall try. I hope very soon to have the pleasure of seeing you, and of telUng 3'ou how much I love you ; but I wish the first fortnight was over. With all my love, and all sorts of pretty things, adieu. Charlotte. Leigh Hunt to his Betrothed. 151 P. S. Etudiez votre Fran9ais. Remember you are to teach me Italian in return, but I shall be a stupid scholar, — I — The Same to the Same, Carlisle, Dec. 14, 1797. (A week before marriage.) ... I HEARD last night from my friends in Lon- don, and I shall certainl}' have the deed this week. I will send it to you directly ; but not to lose so much time as you have been reckoning, I will postpone any little delay that might happen by the post by fixing next Wednesday for your com- ing here, and on Thursday, the 21st, O mj' dear Scott, — on that day I shall be yours forever. C. C. P. S. Arrange so that we shall see none of your family the night of our arrival. I shall be so tired and such a fright, I shall not be seen to advantage. Leigh Hunt to hif Betrothed, This letter was written by Lbigh Huxt to his betrothed three or four years before their marriage, wlieii he was just beginning to be known in literary and journalistic circles. He was not more than twenty-two when he was engaged to be married, and his Marienne sit this date could not have i 152 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters, been more than sixteen, so that the faults of handwrithior and blotting about which he lectures her, may be pardoned in one who was still a school-girl. Gainsborough, Thursday, February, 1806. Dearest Girl, — My journey to Doncaster is deferred till next week, so I sit down to write joxx a day earlier than I intended, in order that you may have two letters instead of one this week to make up for former deficiencies. A ver^' heav}' rain last night has made the snow yanish from the fields, which look delightfully green this morn- ing. I walked out to enjo}' the lively air and the universal sunshine, and seated myself with a book on the gateway at the bottom of a little eminence covered with evergreens, a little wa}^ from Gains- borough. It seemed the return of spring ; a flock of sheep were grazing before me, and cast up every now and then their inquiring visages as much as to sa}', ''What singular being is that so intent upon the m3'sterious thin substance he is turning over with his hand ? " The crows at in- tervals came wheeling with long cawiugs above my head ; the herds lowed from the surrounding farms ; the windmills whirled to the breeze, fling- ing their huge and rapid shadows on the fields ; and the river Trent sparkled in the sun from east Leigh Hunt to his Betrothed, 153 to west. A delightful serenity diffused itself through my heart. I worshipped the magnificence and the love of the God of nature, and I thought of you. These two sensations always arise in my heart in the quiet of a rural landscape, and I have often considered it a proof of the purity and the reality of my affection for you, that it alwaj^s feels most powerful in my religious moments. And this is very natural. Are 3'ou not the greatest blessing Heaven has bestowed upon me? Your image at- tends m}' rural rambles not only in the healthful walks when, escaped from the clamour of streets and the glare of theatres, I am ready to exclaim with Cowper, '' God made the country, and man made the town." It is present with me even in the bustle of life ; it gives me a distaste to a friv- olous and riotous societj^ ; it excites me to im- prove mj'self in order to deserve 3^our affection, and it quenches the little flashes of caprice and impatience which disturb the repose of existence. If I feel my anger rising at trifles it checks me in- stantaneousl}- ; it seems to say to me, " Why do you disturb yourself ? Marienne loves you ; 3'ou deserve her love, and ought to be above these little marks of a little mind." Such is the power of love. I am naturall}' a man of violent passions, but 3'our affection has taught me to subdue them. 154 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. Whenever you feel any little inquietudes or impa- tiences arising in 3^our bosom, think of the hap- piness you bestow upon me, and real love will produce the same effect on xon that it produces on me. No reasoning person ougld to marry ^ who cannot say^ " My love has made me better^ and more desirous of improvement than I was before^ ... I do not write, I acknowledge, with the best hand in the world, but I endeavour to avoid blots or interpolations. I suppose 3'ou guess b3' this preamble that I am going to find fault with your letters. I would not dare, however, to find fault were I not sure that 3'ou would receive m}^ letters cheerfully. You have no false shame to in- duce you to conceal or deny 3'our faults, — quite the contrar}' ; you think sometimes too much of them, for I know of none which 3'ou cannot remed}'. Besides, mj' faithful and attentive aflS'ection would induce me to ask with confidence an}' little sacri- fice of 3'our time and care ; and as 3'ou have done so much for me in correcting the errors of m3' head you will not feel very unpleasant when I venture to correct the errors of your hand. Now, cannot 3'ou sit down on Sunda3', my sweet girl, and write me a fair, even-minded, honest hand, unvexed with desperate blots or skulking interlineations? Mind, I do not quarrel with the contents or with the sub- Keats's Letters to Fanny Brawne, 155 ject ; what you tell me of others amuses me, and what 3'ou tell me of 3'ourself delights me. It is mereh^ the fashion of 3'^our Imes ; in short, as St. Paul saith, ''It is the spirit giveth life, but the letter killeth." Present m}^ respects to Mrs. Hunter and tell her I have found the tune, the Scotch tune, which pleased her so much between the acts in Douglas ; it belongs to a song called Tweedside, beginning, ''What beauties does Flora disclose." I will pla}^ it to her when I return. I shall write Mrs. Hunter next week. ... It is astonishing I should ever be melancholj^ when I possess friends hke these ; and when, above all, I am able to tell my dearest Marienne how infinitely she is beloved by her Henry. Keats^s Letters to Fanny Brawne. Among the saddest of sad letters are those of John Keats to Fanny Brawne. These letters, written under the shadow that impended over the last two years of his life, are touched by the double sadness of love and of death. He met Eanny Brawne in the fall of 1818, and a little later he wrote to a friend : " I never was in love, and yet the shape of a woman has haunted me these two days. . . . This morning poetry has conquered. I have relapsed into those abstractions that are my only life. I feel escaped 156 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. from a new, strange, threatening sorrow, and I am thankful for it. There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality." It is difficult to infer, from what we can find out about Fanny Brawne, whether she was even in beauty the creature that the poet fancied, or whether his ideal was not created bodily out of his own poet's imagin- ings. That she was shallow-hearted, with sympathies and brain as shallow as her heart, a person with any of the in- tuitions of sentiment cannot fail to infer from everything that is to be learned of her. What can be said of a wo- man who, ten years after Keats's death, could write of him to a friend that " the kindest act would be to let him rest forever in the obscurity to which circumstances have con- demned him'"? — a woman who had neither love enough nor sense enough to guess at the greatness that had stooped so to idealize her ; who could speak thus flippantly of a poet whom Matthew Arnold and other critics name to-day in the same breath with Shakespeare, for the debt which is owed liim by English poetry. Keats could not escape the shape that haunted him, whether he would or no. In February, 1819, they were engaged, and for a year he either lived near her so as to see her almost daily, or he w^rote her every day such letters as these that follow, — letters in which his passion for her is blended with his passionate sense of beauty and his passionate longing for death. "I have two luxuries to brood over," he writes her, — " your loveUness and the hour of my death." In the winter of 1820 death came near enough for the poet to feel his presence. One night after a slight cough- ing-fit, feeling his mouth fill with blood, he said, '* Bring me the candle," then looked at the blood calmly with an Keats' s Letters to Fanny Braicne. 157 eye that had been trained by his medical studies to know the symptoms of disease. ** I know the colour of that blood," he said ; " it is arterial I cannot be deceived in that colour ; that drop is my death- warrant, — I must die." Yet at that moment, above all things, he thought other. " When I felt it possible I might not survive, at that moment I thought of nothing but you. When I said, ' This is unfortunate,' I thought of you." In his lonely and wakeful nights later in his illness, thoughts of her haunted him, mingled with other thoughts, — that he had done no immortal work such as he had hoped to do, that he had not made a name to be remembered ; only, he adds consolingly to liimself , " I have truly loved the spirit of beauty in all things." In the autumn of 1820 it was decided he should go to Italy, and his faithful friend Severn went with him and remained with him till he died. The letters to Fanny Brawne end with the two which are quoted last in this series, — the two he wrote before he went to Italy after their parting ; but his letters to his friends are filled with that anguish and longing of the heart that tears him when- ever he thinks of her. " I can bear to die ; I cannot bear to leave her," he cries. *' The very thing I want to live for will be a great occasion of my death. ... I wish for death every day and night to deliver me from these pains, and then I wish death away, for death would destroy these pains, which are better than nothing." Again, " Oh that I could be buried near where she lives ! I am afraid to write to her, to receive a letter from her; to see her handicriting ivould break my heart. Even to hear of her, to see her name written, would he more than I can bear. Where can I look for conso- lation or ease? If I had any chance of recovery, this 158 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. passion would kill me." Kot very long after these words, were written, the tortured, restless heart was still, and in a few months the daisies, wliose tender roots he had felt piercing his grave before lie lay asleep there, were cover- ing him over with their quietness and peace. Keats to Fanny Brawne, Newport, 10th July, 1819. My sweet Girl, — Your letter gave me more delight than anything in the world but 3'ourself could do; indeed, I am almost astonished that any absent one should have that luxurious power over my senses which I feel. Even when I am not thinking of 3'ou I receive 3'our influence and a tenderer nature stealing upon me. All my thoughts, mj' unhappiest days and nights, have, I find, not at all cured me of my love of Beaut}', but made it so intense that I am miserable that 3'ou are not with me ; or, rather, breathe in that dull sort of patience that cannot be called Life. I never knew before what such a love as 3'ou have made me feel was. I did not believe in it ; my fancy was afraid of it, lest it should burn me up. But if you will fully love me, though there maj^ be some fire, 'twill not be more than we can bear, when moistened and bedewed with Pleasures. You mention " horrid people/' and ask me whether it depend upon them w^hether I see you Keats' s Letters to Fanny Braione. 159 again. Do understand me, my love, in this. I have so much of you in m}' heart that I must turn Mentor Avhen I see a chance of harm befaUing j'ou. I would never see anything but Pleasure in your ej'es, love on 3'our lips, and Happiness in your steps. I would wish to see you among those amusements suitable to your inclinations and spirits ; so that our loves might be a delight in the midst of Pleasures agreeable enough, rather than a resource from vexations and cares. But I doubt much, in case of the worst, whether I shall be philosopher enough to follow my own Lessons ; if I saw my resolution give 3'ou pain, I could not. Why may I not speak of your Beauty, since with- out that I could never have loved 3'ou ? I can- not conceive any beginning of such love as I have for you but Beauty. There may be a sort of love for which, without the least sneer at it, I have the highest respect, and can admire it in others ; but it has not the richness, the bloom, the full form, the enchantment, of love after my own heart. So let me speak of your Beauty, though to my own endangering, if 3'ou could be so cruel as to try elsewhere its Power. You saj' you are afraid I shall think 3'ou do not love me ; in saying this 3'ou make me ache the more to be near 3'ou. I am at the diligent use of my faculties here, — 160 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. I do not pass a day without sprawling some blank verse or tagging some rhymes ; and here I must confess that (since I am on that subject) I love you the more in that I believe that you have liked me for m}^ own sake and for nothing else. I have met with women who I really think would like to be married to a Poem and to be given away by a Novel. I have seen 3'our Comet, and onlj' wish it was a sign that poor Rice would get well, whose illness makes him rather a melancholy companion ; and the more so as so to conquer his feelings and hide them from me with a forced Pun. I kissed 3'our writing over in the hope 3'ou had indulged me by leaving a trace of hone3^ What was your dream ? Tell it me and I will tell you the interpretation thereof. Ever yours, my love, John Keats. The Same to the Same. 25 College Street, 13 Oct., 1819. My dearest Girl, — This moment I have set myself to copy some verses out fair. I cannot proceed with any degree of content. I must write you a line or two, and see if that will assist in Keats' s Letters to Fanny Br atone. 161 dismissing you from m}' Mind for ever so short a time. Upon my Soul, I can think of nothing else. The time is past when I had power to advise and warn 3'OU against the unpromising morning of my Life. My love has made me selfish. I cannot exist without you. I am forgetful of everything but seeing you again ; my Life seems to stop there ; I see no further. You have absorbed me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving. I should be exquisitely misera- ble without the hope of soon seeing you. I should be afraid to separate myself far from 3'ou. My sweet Fanny, will 3'our heart never change ? My love, will it? I have no limit now to m}' love. . . . Your note came in just here. I cannot be happier away from 5^ou. 'Tis richer than an argosy of pearls. Do not threat me, even in jest. I have been astonished that men could die Mar- tjYS for religion, — I have shuddered at it. I shudder no more ; I could be martyred for mj- Religion, — love is my religion, — I could die for that. I could die for you. My Creed is Love, and you are its only tenet. You have ravished me away bj' a Power I cannot resist ; and 3'et I could resist till I saw 3'ou ; and even since I have seen 3^ou I have endeavoured often " to reason against the reasons of my Love.'* I can do that 11 162 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters, no more, — the pain would be too great. My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you. Yours forever, John Keats. The Same to the Same. Februaey, 1820 (?). My dearest Girl, — If illness makes such an agreeable variety in the manner of your eyes, I should wish you sometimes to be ill. I wish I had read 3'our note before you went last night, that I might have assured you how far I was from sus- pecting any coldness. You had a just right to be a little silent to one who speaks so plainly to 3'ou. You must believe — 3'ou shall, you will — that I can do nothing, say nothing, think nothing of you but what has its spring in the Love which has so long been my pleasure and torment. On the night I was taken ill — when so violent a rush of blood came to my Lungs that I felt nearly suffocated — I assure you I felt it possible I might not survive, and at that moment thought of nothing but 3'ou. When I said to Brown, "This is unfortunate," I thought of you. 'T is true that since the first two or three days other subjects have entered my head. I shall be looking forward to Health and the Spring and a regular routine of our old Walks. Your affectionate J. K. Keats s Letters to Fanny Braione. 163 The Same to the Same. 1820. My dear Fanny, — Do not let your mother suppose that you hurt me by writuig at night. For some reason or other 3'our last night's note was not so treasurable as former ones. I would fain that you call me Love still. To see you happy and in high spirits is a great consolation to me ; still let rae believe that you are not half so happy as m}" restoration would make you. I am nervous, I own, and may think m3'self worse than I really am ; if so, 3^ou must indulge me, and pamper with that sort of tenderness you have manifested to- wards me in different Letters. M}' sweet creature, when I look back upon the pains and torments I have suffered for 3^0 u from the da3^ I left you to go to the Isle of Wight, the ecstasies in which I have passed some da3's and the miseries in their turn, I wonder the more at the Beaut3^ which has kept up the spell so fervently. When I send this round I shall be in the front parlour watching to see 3'ou show 3'ourself for a minute in the garden. How illness stands as a barrier betwixt me and 3'ou ! Even if I was well — I must make myself as good a Philosopher as possible. Now I have had opportunities of passing nights anxious and 164 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. awake, I have found other thoughts intrude upon me. " If I should die," said I to myself, '' I have left no immortal work behind me, — nothing to make mj friends proud of m}' memory-, — but I have loved the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made m^^self remembered." Thoughts like these came A^ery feebly whilst I was in health, and every pulse beat for you ; now \'ou divide with this (maj^ /sa}^ it?) " last infirmity of noble minds" all my reflection. God bless you, love ! J. Keats. The Same to the Same. 1820. Sweetest Fanny, — You fear sometimes I do not love 3'ou so much as you wish ? My dear girl, I love you ever and ever and without reserve. The more I have known the more have I loved. In every wa}^, — even my jealousies have been agonies of Love ; in the hottest fit I ever had I would have died for you. I have vexed you too much. But for Love! Can I help it? You are always new. The last of your kisses was ever the sweetest, the last smile the brightest, the last movement the gracefulest. When you passed my window, home yesterday, I was filled with as much Keats s Letters to Fanny Bravjne. 165 admiration as if I had seen you for the first time. You uttered a half complaint once that I only loved your beaut}'. Have I notliing else, then, to love in you but that? Do not I see a heart naturally furnished with wings imprison itself with me? No ill prospect has been able to turn 3'our thoughts a moment from me. This perhaps should be as much a subject of sorrow as jo}', — but I will not talk of that. Even if you did not love me I could not help an entire devotion to 3'ou ; how much more deepl}', then, must I feel for you, know- ing 3'ou love me. My Mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it. I never felt my Mind repose upon anything with complete and undis- tracted enjo^'ment — upon no person but you. When you are in the room my thoughts never fly out of window ; you always concentrate my whole senses. The anxiety shown about our Loves in your last note is an immense pleasure to me ; how- ever you must not suffer such speculations to mo- lest 3'ou any more ; nor will I any more believe you can have the least pique against me. Brown is gone out, but here is Mrs. Wylie ; when she is gone I shall be awake for 3'ou. Remembrances to your Mother. Your aflfectionate J. Keats. 166 iijetters of Poets and Men of Letters. I The Same to the Same. My deakest Fanny, — I slept well last night, and am no worse this morning for it. Da}" by day, if I am not deceived, I get a more unrestrained use of my Chest. The nearer a racer gets to the Goal the more his anxiety becomes ; so 1, lingering upon the borders of health, feel my impatience increase. Perhaps on your account I have imag- ined my illness more serious than it is : how horrid was the chance of slipping into the ground instead of into 3'our arms — the difference is amazing, Love. Death must come at last ; Man must die as Shallow says ; but before that is my fate I fain would try what more pleasures than 3'ou have given, so sweet a creature as 3'ou can give. Let me have another opportunity of j^ears before me and I will not die without being remembered. Take care of yourself, dear, that we maj' both be well in the Summer. I do not at all fatigue my- self with writing, having merely put a line or two here and there, — a Task which would wony a stout state of the body and mind, but which just suits me, as I can do no more. Your affectionate J. K. Keats s Letters to Fanny Brawne. 167 The Same to ilie Same. September (?), 1820. My dearest Fanky, — M}' head is puzzled this morning, and I scarce know what I shall sa}', though I am full of a hundred things. 'Tis cer- tain I would rather be writing to 3^ou this morning, notwithstanding the alloy of grief in such an occupation, than enjoy any other pleasure, with health to boot, unconnected with you. Upon my soul I have loved 3'ou to the extreme. I wish 3'ou could know tiie tenderness with which I con- tinuall}' brood over your different aspects of countenance, action, and dress. I see you come down in the morning ; I see you meet me at the window, — I see everything over again eternallj^ that I ever have seen. If I get on the pleasant clue, I live in a sort of happ}^ misery ; if on the unpleasant, 't is misery. You complain of m}^ ill- treating 3'ou in word, thought, and deed. I am sorry ; at times I feel bitterly sorry that I ever made yoxx unhappy. My excuse is that those words have been wrung from me by the sharpness of my feelings. At all events and in an}- case I have been wrong ; could I believe that I did it without an}^ cause, I should be the most sincere of Penitents. I could give way to m}' repentant feelings now, I could recant all my suspicions, I 168 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. could mingle with 3^011 heart and Soul, though absent, were it not for some parts of j^our Letters. Do you suppose it possible I could ever leave you? You know what I think of myself and what of 3'ou. You know that I should feel how much it was my loss and how little j^ours. My friends laugh at you ? I know some of them ; when I know them all, I shall never think of them again as friends or even acquaintances. M}^ friends have behaved well to me in ever^^ instance but one, and there they have become tattlers and inquisitors into m}^ conduct ; spying upon a secret I would rather die than share it with anybody's confidence. For this I cannot wish them well, I care not to see any of them again. If I am the theme, I will not be the Friend of idle Gossips. Good gods, what a shame it is our Loves should be so put into the microscope of a Coterie ! Their laughs should not affect 3'ou (I may perhaps give you reasons some day for these laughs, for I suspect a few people to hate me well enough, for reasons I know of who have pretended a great friendship for me) when in competition with one who if he should never see 3'ou again would make you the saint of his memorj'. These Laughers, who do not like you, who env}^ you for 3'our beaut}', who would have God-blessed me from 3'ou forever ; who were plying me with disencourage- Keats s Letters to Fanny Brawne, 169 ments with respect to you eternall}'. People are revengeful ; do not mind them ; do nothing but love me. If I knew that for certain, life and health will in such event be a heaven, and death itself will be less painful. I long to believe in immor- tality. I shall never be able to bid you an entire farewell. If I am destined to be happy with 3'ou here, how short is the longest Life ! I wish to believe in immortalit}', I wish to live with you for- ever. Do not let my name ever pass between 3'ou and these laughers ; if I have no other merit than the great Love for you, that were sufficient to keep me sacred and un mentioned in such society. If I have been cruel and unjust, I swear m}' love has ever been greater than my cruelt}^ which lasts but a minute, whereas my Love, come wliat will, shall last forever. If concession to me has hurt 3'our Pride, God knows I have had little pride in my heart when thinking of you. Your name never passes m}' lips ; do not let mine pass yours. Those People do not like me. After reading m}" Letter 3'ou even then wish to see me. I am strong enough to walk over, but I dare not. I shall feel so much pain in parting with you again. M}^ dearest love, I am afraid to see you ; I am strong, but not strong enough to see you. Will my arm be ever round you again, and if so shall I be obliged to leave you again ? My 170 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. sweet Love ! I am happ}- whilst I believe 3'our first Letter. Let me be but certain that 3'ou are mine heart and soul, and I could die more hap- pily than I could otherwise live. If you think me cruel, if you think I have slighted you, do muse it over again and see into m\ heart. My love to you is '' true as truth's simplicity and simpler than the infancj" of truth," as I think I once said before. How could I slight youl How threaten to leave you ? not in the spirit of a Threat to you, — • no ; but in the spirit of Wretchedness in myself. M}^ fairest, my delicious, my angel Fanny ! do not believe me such a vulgar fellow. I will be as patient in illness and as believing in love as I am able. Yours forever, my dearest, John Keats, The Last Letter of Keats written before his Departure. September (?), 1820. I do not write this till the last, that no eye maj^ catch it.^ My dearest Girl, — I wish you could invent some means to make me happy without you. Every hour I am more and more concentrated in you ; everything else tastes like chaff in ni}' ^ He had added the words "My dearest Girl," after writing the letter. Keats s Letters to Fanny Braivne. 171 mouth. I feel it almost impossible to go to Italy ; the fact is I cannot leave 3^ou, and shall never taste one minute's content until it pleases chance to let me live with you for good. But I will not go on at this rate. A person in health as you are can have no conception of the horrors that nerves and a temper like mine go through. What Island do 3'our friends propose retiring to? I should be happy to go there with 3'ou alone, but in company I should object to it ; the backbitings and jealous- ies of new colonists who have nothing else to amuse themselves, is unbearable. Mr. Dilke came to see me jesterday, and gave me a great deal more pain than pleasure. I shall never be able any more to endure the society of any of those who used to meet at Elm Cottage and Wentworth Place. The last two years taste like brass upon my Palate. If I cannot live with you I w ill live alone. I do not think my health will improve much while I am separated from you. For all this I am averse to seeing you, — I cannot bear flashes of light and return into mj' gloom again. I am not so unhappy now as I should be if I had seen you yesterda3\ To be happ3' with you seems such an impossibility ! it requires a luckier star than mine ; it will never be. I enclose a passage from one of your letters which I want 3'ou to alter a little. I want (if 3'ou will have it so) the matter 172 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. expressed less coldl}^ to me. If my health would bear it, I could write a poem which I have in my head, which would be a consolation for people in such a situation as mine. I w^ould show some one in Love as I am, with a person living in such Lib- ert}' as you do. Shakespeare always sums up mat- ters in the most sovereign manner. Hamlet's heart was full of such miser}^ as mine is when he said to Ophelia, " Go to a nunnerj', go, go !" Indeed I should like to give up the matter at once, — I should like to die. I am sickened at the brute world which you are smiling with. I hate men, and women more. I see nothing but thorns for the future ; wherever I may be next winter, in Ital}' or nowhere. Brown will be living near you with his indecencies. I see no prospect of any rest. Suppose me in Rome — well, I should there see 3'ou as in a magic glass going to and from town at all hours. I wish 3'ou could infuse a little confidence of human nature into my heart. I can- not muster any ; the world is too brutal for me. I am glad there is such a thing as the grave ; I aih sure I shall never have an}' rest till I get there. At any rate I will indulge myself by never seeing anymore Dilke or Brown, or any of their Friends. I wish I was either in your arms full of faith or that a Thunderbolt would strike me. God bless you ! J. K. William Hazlitt to Sarah L. 173 William Hazlitt to Sarah L, William Hazlitt, the poet-essayist, and one of tlie finest critics of his time, was a man of keen sensibility, with the poetic tendency to idealize some of the common- est things of earth into visions of beauty and objects of rapturous adoration. In one of these moods he met with a young woman, the daughter of his lodging-house keeper, for whom he entertained an affection as mad as it was hopeless. He would have married her if she would have consented to become his wife, but she seems not to have been sensible of the honour he would have done her, and to have merely played with his feelings as the amusement of her unoccupied mornings, in which she would sometimes remain beside him while he ate the breakfast which she served him with her fair hands. Hazlitt paints her as a vision of rarest beauty, somewhat undeveloped and soul- less, but into whom, like Pygmalion, his devotion would infuse life and soul. The truth seems to be, that his statue was a vulgar young woman, accustomed to flirt with the lodgers who came under her mother's roof, and that she could no more understand the feeling with which she was regarded by a man of genius than she could have returned it if it had been comprehensible to her. The following, like some of Keats's letters, opens so deep the heart of the writer that it would seem too personal to print it, if Hazlitt had not himself published an account of this unhappy epi- sode in his life, and included in it the few letters which he wrote to Sarah L. March, 1822. You will be glad to learn that I have done my work, — a A^olume in less than a month. That is 174 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. one reason why I am better than when I came ; and another is, I have had two letters from Sarah. I walk out of an afternoon and hear the birds sing, as I told 3 ou, and think if I had 3 ou hanging on m}' arm, and that for life, how happ^' I should be, happier than I ever lioped to be, or had any conception of till I knew 3'ou. ''But that can never be," I hear 3'ou answer in a soft, low mur- mur. Well, let me dream of it sometimes. I am not happ3' too often, except when that favour- ite note, the harbinger of spring, recalling the hopes of m3" 3'outh, whispers thy name and peace together in my ear. I was reading something about Mr. Macread3^ to-da3', and this puts me in mind of that delicious night when I went with 3'our mother and 3'ou to see " Romeo and Juliet." Can I forget it for a moment ? — 3'our sweet, mod- est looks, 3'our infinite propriety of behaviour, all 3'our sweet, winning wavs, 3'our hesitating about taking my ann, as we came out, till 3'our mother did, 3'our laughing about nearly losing your cloak, 3'Our stepping into the coach, and oh, m3' sitting down beside 3'ou there, — yow, whom I had loved so long, so well, — and 3'our assuring me I had not lessened 3'our pleasure at the plav b3' being with 3'ou, and giving me 3"0ur dear hand to press in mine I William Hazlitt to Sarah L, 175 I thought I was in heaven ! That slender form contained my all of heaven upon earth ; and as I folded you — 3'es, you, m}' own Sarah — to my bosom, there was, as 3 ou say, a tie between us. You did seem to me, for those few short moments, to be mine in all truth, 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 all up between us. This letter is endorsed : — ''To this letter I received no answer, not a line. The rolling 3'ears of eternitj' will never fill up that blank." That Hazhtt suffered greatly from this melancholy passion is not to be doubted. He writes to one of his friends whom he makes his confidant : " 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 satisfac- tion now, nor the prospect of it in time to come. I wander by the seaside, and tlie eternal ocean, and lasting despair, and her face are ever 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 bo- som, cold, insensible, or struggling away from me ; and the worm gnaws me, anfl the sting of unrequited love, and the canker of a hopeless, endless sorrow. I have lost the 176 Letters of Poets and Men of Letters. taste of food by my feverish anxiety ;~ and my favourite beverage, which used to refresh me when I rose, has no moisture in it. Oh, cold, solitary, sepulchral breakfasts, compared to those which I had promised myself with her ; or which I made when she had been standing an hour by my side, my guardian angel, my wife, my sweet friend, my Eve, my all ! and had blessed me with her seraph kisses." PART II. LETTERS OP ROYAL PERSOMGES. What were life without affection ? Without Love, I can fancy no gentleman. — Thackeray. 12 PART II. LETTERS OF EOYAL PERSONAGES. Letters of Henry VIII. to Anne Boleyn, Among all the collections of old love-letters there is none which has elicited more interest and curiosity than that of Henry VIII. to his second queen, Anne Boleyn. These letters are supposed to have been stolen from her during her brief queenship, and were found, years after, in the library of the Vatican in Rome. Most of them were written in French, althougli one or two are in English. They are as ardent as anything in the history of courtship, and show the king as passionate in following his inclinations as he was earnest in annulling any ties he had formed, after his ardour had cooled. These letters were written while Anne was retired from court, under her father's protection, in the same year in which the king's marriage with her was celebrated. 1528. My Mistress and Friend, — My heart and I suiTender ourselves into your hands, beseeching you to hold us commended to your favour, and that by absence your affection to us ma}" not be 180 Letters of Royal Personages. lessened ; for it would be a great pitj^ 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 of astronomy, which is this, — the longer the daj^s are the more distant is the sun, and nevertheless the hotter ; so it is with our love, for by absence we are kept at a distance from one another, and yet it retains its fervour at least on my side. I hope the like on 3' ours, assuring 3'ou that on my part the pain of absence is ah^eady 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 personall}^ present with you, I now send 3'ou the nearest thing I can to that, nam el}', my picture set in bracelets with the whole of the device, which 3'ou abeady know, wish- ing I were in their place when it should please you. This is from the hand of your loyal servant and friend, _^ H., E. The Same to the Same. 1528. The approach of the time for which I have so long waited rejoices me so much, that it seems Henry VI I L to Anne Boleyn. 181 almost to have come already. However, the en- tire accomplishment cannot be till the two persons meet, which meeting is more desired by me than anything in this world ; for w^hat jo}^ can be greater npon 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 per- son must have on me, whose absence has grieved my heart more than either words or writing can express and which nothing 1690, ' 22 June ' half 11 at Night. The news which is come to-night of the French fleet being upon the coast makes it necessary to write to jou both waj s ; and I, that you maj- see how matters stand in my heart, prepare a letter for each. I think Lord Torrington has made no haste, and I cannot tell whether his being sick and sta}^- ing for Lord Pembroke's regiment, will be a suf- ficient excuse ; but I will not take up 3'our time with m}' reasonings. I shall only tell you that I am so little afraid that I begin to fear I have Letters of Queen Mary to King William, 213 not sense enough to apprehend the danger ; for whether it threatens Ireland or this place, to me 'tis much at one as to the fear; for as much a coward as 3'ou think me, I fear more for 3'our dear person than ni}^ poor carcass. I know who is most necessary in the world. What I fear most at present is not hearing from 3'ou. Love me, whatever happens, and be assured I am ever entirely yours till death. The Same to the Same. Whitehall, July ??, 1690. Lord Belmont torments me to write by his brother, which I do, though I have nothing to sa}" more than I wrote last night. I am alwaj's glad of an opportunit}" of putting you in mind of me, though I hope 'tis not absolutely necessary. All the news of the town yesterday was, that you were landed at Chester ; pra}^ God it were true, though I think there is no likelihood of it ; 3'et I thought it pleasing, and the more because they have really' said several things which have come to pass. I hope it may be so in this. I will not say more now, but that the Bishop of Salisbury has made a long thundering sermon this morning, which he has been with me to desire to print, 214 Letters of Boyal Personages. which I could not refuse, though I should not have ordered it, for reasons which I told him. I am extreme impatient of hearing from you, which I hope in God will be before I sleep this night. If not, I think I shall not rest ; but if I should meet with a disappointment of 3'our not coming, I don't know what I shall do ; for my desire of seeing 3'ou is equal to my love, which cannot end but with m}' life. Hie Same to the Same. Whitehall, July j^, 1690. Every hour makes me more impatient to hear from you, and everything I hear stir, I think brings me a letter. I shall not go about to ex- cuse mj'self. I know 'tis a folh^ to a great degree to be so uneasy as I am at present, when I have no reason to apprehend any ill cause, but onh' might attribute your silence to your marching farther from Dublin, which makes the wav longer. I have staj^ed until I am asleep, in hopes ; but thej^ are vain, and I must once more go to bed, and wish to be waked with a letter from jon^ — which I shall at last get, I hope. Till I know whether 3'ou come or no, I cannot resolve to write you all that has passed this day, till which time I Letters of Queen Mary to King William. 215 thought you had given me wrong characters of men, but now I see they answer my expectation of being as little of a mind as of a bod}'. Adieu ! do but love me and I can bear anything. The Same to the Same, These last two letters from Mary to her husband Avere written when she was impatiently awaiting his return from his Irisli campaign, and was hurrying forward the repairs upon the palace at Kensington, which she was fit- ting up and making ready for his return. Whitehall, ^n^, ^690. July 26' Last night I received 3'ours from Benit-bridge, by which I find 3'ou designed to summon Wa- terford last Monda3^ I beseech God give you good success, and send you safe and quickly home. There was order taken yesterday in coun- cil for the proroguing the parliament for three weeks. I have been this evening at Kensington ; for though I did believe 3'ou would not be willing to sta}' at Whitehall, yet I confess what you write me word makes me in a million of fears, especially since I must needs confess ni}' fault, that I have not been pressing enough till it was too late. The outside of the house is the fiddling work, which takes up more time than one can imagine, 216 Letters of Eoyal Personages. and while the scaffolds are up the windows must be boarded up, but as soon as tliat is done your own apartment may be furnished ; and though mine cannot possibly be ready 3'et awhile, I have found out a wa}' if you please : which is, that I may make use of Lord Portland's, and he lie in some of the other rooms. We ma}' lie in your chamber, and I go through the council-room down, or else dress me there. And as I sup- pose 3'our business will bring 3'ou often to town, so I ma}" take such times to see companj' here, and that part of the famil}" which can't come there must stay here ; for 't is no matter what incon- veniences any else suffers for your dear sake ; and this wa}' I think the only one yourself will have will be my lying in 3'our chamber, which you know I can make as eas}' to you as may be ; our being there will certainly forward the work. I hope this letter will not come to 3'our hands, but that you will be upon your way hither before this. M}' greatest fear is for your closets here ; but if 3'ou w411 consider how much sooner you come back than one durst have hoped, you will forgive me, and I can't but be extreme glad to be so deceived. God in his mercy send us a happy meeting and a quick one, for which I am much more impatient than I can possibly express. Letters of Queen Mary to King William. lYl The Same to the Same. Whitehall, Aug. ^, 1690. Unless I could express the joy I had at the thoughts of youv coming, it will be in vain that I undertake telling 3'ou of the disappointment 't is to me that you do not come so soon. I began to be in great pain lest 3'ou had been in the storm a Thursday night, which I am told was great (though its being at the other side of the house hindered my hearing it), but was sooa delivered by your letter of the 29th from Ch. I confess I deserve such a stop to my joj', since ma}' be it was too great; and I am not thankful enough to God, and we are all apt to be too vain upon so quick a success. But I have mortification enough to think 3'our dear person may be again exposed at the passage of the Shannon as it was at that of the Bo3'ne. This is what goes to m}' heart ; but yet I see the reasons for it so good that I will not murmur, for certain I3' 3'our glor3' would be the greater to terminate the war this summer, and the people here much better pleased than if the3' must furnish next vear for the same thing again. Upon these considerations I ought to be satisfied, and I will endeavour as much as mav be to sub- 218 Letters of Royal Personages, mit to the will of God and your judgment ; but 3'ou must forgive a poor wife, who loves you so dearl}^, if I can't do it with dry e3'es. Yet, since it hath pleased God so wonderfully to preserve 3'ou all your life, and so miraculously now, I need not doubt but he will still preserve 3'ou ; 3'et let me beg 3'ou not to expose yourself unnecessarily, — that will be too much tempting that Providence which I hope will still watch over you. Mr. Russel is gone down to the fleet last Thursda3% to hasten as much as ma}' be all things there, and will be back a Mondaj', when there is a great council appointed. I don't doubt but this Com- mission will find man}' obstacles ; and this naming Killigrew among such as don't like him will be called in question, as well as the other two, and I shall hear again that 'tis a thing agreed among two or three. I will not write now, no more than I used to do, what others can ; and indeed I am fit for nothing this day, my heart is so oppressed. I don't know what to do. I have been at Ken- sington for some hours quiet, to-morrow being the first Sunday of the month, and have made use of Lord Portland's closet, as I told you in my last I would. The house would have been ready by Tuesday night, and I hope will be in better order now ; Prince Albert to Queen Victoria. 219 at least, it shall not be my fault if 'tis not. I shall be veiy impatient to hear again from 3'ou, till when I shall be in perpetual pain and trouble ; which I think you can't wonder at, knowing that you are dearer to me than life. Prince Albert to Queen Victoria, This letter from Albert, Prince-Consort to Queen Vic- toria, closes this collection of royal letters. It was written by Prince Albert just after Iiis parting from the queen for a visit to Germany, his first absence from her after their marriage. "Princess Alice," in Dover Harbour, March 28, 1844. My own Darling, — We got over our journey thus far rapidly and well, but the tide has been so unmannerly as to be an hour later than the cal- culated time, so that I cannot sail before three. Nevertheless Smithett promises to deposit me at Ostend by half past seven. I have been here about an hour, and regret the lost time I might have spent with j^ou. Poor child ! 3'ou will, while I write, be getting read}^ for luncheon, and will find a place vacant where I sat yesterday. In your heart, however, I hope m}' place will not be vacant. I, at least, have you on board with me in spirit. 220 Letters of Royal Personages, I reiterate my entreaty, "bear up," and do not give wa}' to low spirits, but try to occup}' 3'ourself as much as possible. You are even now half a day nearer to seeing me again ; hy the time you get this letter it will be a whole da}' ; thirteen more, and I am again within j'our arms. The railroad is wonderful, especiall}" that part of it between this and Folkestone. I have gone through part of the fortifications with some of the commanding officers, and am now writing in a handsome cabin of the '^Princess Alice." The}' are on the point of raising the anchor, which makes a hideous clatter. Our caravan is complete. The sun shines brighth', and the sea is calm. To-morrow Sey- mour will bring you further news of me. Your most devoted Albert. PAET III. LETTERS or STATESMEN, MILITAEY MEN, AND MEN OF AEEAIES. / assert, then, that although all the gods are immortally happy J Love, if I dare trust my voice to express so awful a truth, is the happiest and most excellent and most beautiful of all. — Plato. PART III. LETTEKS OF STATESMEN, MILITARY MEN, AND MEN OF AFFAIRS. The Paston Letters.^ One of the most interesting collections of old letters wliicli has come down to us from the past is that of the Paston family, who were people of consequence in the fifteenth century. Their domestic correspondence, which was carefully preserved, throws a vivid light on the social and family life of the time. The head of the family about the middle of the century was John Paston, whose wife, Margaret, writes a large number of the letters in the collection. She was an affectionate wife as well as a true helpmeet. The following is one of her letters written in their early married life, when her husband had been ill away from home, in his lodgings in the Temple in London. Every woman will appreciate the tenderness with which she writes him, that she would rather he would have been at home, if he could have had there as good care as she knows he had received in London, than have had a new gown, even though it were of scarlet. 1 The spelling, and occasionally an old English word, of the Paston letters here transcribed, have been modernized, in order that thev might be more readilv understood bv the general reader. 224 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc. Margaret Paston to her Husband, To my right worshipful husband, John Paston, dwelling at the Inner Temple in London, in haste. OxNEAD, 28 Sept., 1443. Eight worshipful Husband, — I recommend me to you, desiring heartih^ to hear of 3'our wel- fare, thanking God of your mending of the great disease 3^e have had ; and I thank 3'ou for the letter that 3'e sent me, for by my troth m}' mother and I were not in heart's ease from the time that we wist of 3'our sickness till we wist A^erily of 3'our mending. My mother behested another image of wax of the weight of 3'ou, to Our Lad3' of Wal- singham, and she sent four nobles to the four orders of friars at Norwich to pra3' for 3'ou, and I have behested to go on a pilgrimage to Walsing- ham and to St. Leonard's for 3'ou. By my troth, I had never so heav3^ a season as I had from the time I wist of your sickness till I wist of 3'our mending ; and since, m3^ heart is not in great ease nor I wot shall be till I wot that ye be very hale. Your father and mine was this da3^ sevennight at Bekeleys for a matter for the prior of Bronholme, and he lay at Geii3'ston that night and was there till IX. of the clock and the other day. And I sent thither for a gown, and m3' mother said that Margaret Paston to her Husband. 225 I should have then, till I be there anon, and so they could none get. M}' father Garners sent me word that he should be here next week, and m}^ uncle also, and hunt here with their hawks, and the}" should take me home with them ; and so, God help me, I shall excuse me of my going thither if I ma}', for I sup- pose that I shall readilier have tidings from you here than I should have there. ... I pray you heartily that ye will vouchsafe to send me a letter as hastily as ye may, if writing be no disease to you ; and that ye will vouchsafe to send me word how your sore doeth. If I might have had my will I should have seen you ere this time. I would ye were at home — if it were your ease, and your sore might have been as well looked after here as there it has been — now, liever than a gown, though it were of scarlet. I pray you if your sore be healed, and so that ye may endure to ride, that ye will ask leave, and come home, when the horse shall be sent back again ; for I hope ye could be kept as tenderly here as ye have been in London. I may not liever have to do written a quarter as much as I should say to you if I might but speak to you. I shall send another letter as hastily as I may. I thank you that you would vouchsafe to remember my girdle, and that ye would write to 15 226 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc, me at the time, for I suppose that writing was not eas}' to 3'ou. Almighty God have 3^011 in his keep- ing, and send you health. Written at Oxnead, in right great haste on St. Michael's Eve. Yours, M. Paston. My mother greets you well, and sendeth ^'ou God's blessing and hers ; and she prayeth 3'ou, and I pray 3^ou also, that j'e be well dieted of meat and drink, for that is the greatest hope 3'e have now to your health-ward. Your son fareth well, blessed be God I Sir John Paston to Anne Haute, Madame Margaret Paston, who wrote the above letter, had several children, among them two sons named John, and a daughter named for herself, and familiarly known as " Margery." The oldest son, John, was made a knight when twenty-one years old, which made him a very de- sirable match for the young ladies of the time. He seems to have been difficult to suit and to have paid his addresses to several without result, for he died a bachelor in 1487. This letter was written by him to a lady of French birth but English family, residmg in Calais, with whom for some years he seems to have kept up a desultory courtship. Sir John Paston to Anne Haute. 227 21 July, 1468. Since it is so that I ma}^ not, as oft as I would, be where I might do my message m3'self, mine own fair mistress Anne, I pray 3'ou to accept this billet from my messenger to recommend me to you in m}" most faithful wise, as he that fainest of all others desireth to know of your welfare, which I pray God increase to your most pleasure. And, Mistress, though so be that I have as 3'et given you but little cause to remember me, for lack of acquaintance, I beseech you let me not be forgot when 3'ou reckon up all your servants, to set me among the number. I pra}' you, Mistress Anne, for that service that I owe you, that in as short time as ye goodl}' may, that I might be ascertained of 3'our intent and of your best friends in such matters as I have broken to you of, which both your and mine right trusty friends John Lee, or else my mistress his wife, promised before you and me, at our first and last being together, that as soon as the}', or either of them, knew 3'our intent and 3'our friend's, they should send me word. And if they do so I trust soon after to see 3'ou. And now farewell, mine own fair lad}', and God give you good rest, 228 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc. for in faith I trow j'e be in bed. Written on my way homeward, on St. Mary Magdalene's day at midnight. Your own John Paston. P. S. Mistress Anne, I am proud that ye can read Enghsh. Wherefore I pray 3'ou acquaint you with this my rude hand, for my purpose is ye should be more acquainted with it, or else it shall be against mj' will ; but 3'et, and when ye have read this billet, I pray 3'ou burn it, or keep it secret to 3'ourself, as my faithful trust is in you. Margery Brews to Jolin Paston. After the death of the first Sir John Paston, in 1487, his brother, the second John, succeeded him in the title and became the chief personage in the family. He seems to have been also difficult to suit in a wife, and was several years in search of one. Before the elder Sir John's death, this younger brother was constantly seeking the inter- cession and counsel of the head of the family regarding his marriage, often having two or three matches under con- sideration at about the same time. At last in 1477 he met his fate in the person of Mistress Margery Brews, who seems to have had the requisite decision of character to bring him to the point. John, the younger, had consulted the parents of Margery about the portion they proposed Margery Brews to John Paston. 229 to give with their daughter (a very important considera- tion with him, by the way), and the cautious fatlier of the girl had reserved his decision about the money settlemect. Dame Elizabeth Brews, the mother, invited young John to their house at Topcroft, to meet Margery, but cautioned him on no account to reveal to her that he stood in the posi- tion of a suitor till the money matter was settled. But it seems that John had neglected this caution, and only a little after his visit, just before Valentine's day, 1477, the mother writes to John in this wise : — " You promised me not to break the matter to Margery until such time as ye and I were at point. But ye have made her such an advocate for you that I may never have rest, day nor night, for her calling and crying me to bring the said matter to effect. " Now, cousin, upon Friday is St. Valentine's day, when every bird chooseth him a mate ; and if it like you to come Thursday at night and stay here till Monday, I trust to God ye shall speak to my husband, and I shall pray ye may bring the matter to a conclusion." In spite of this there must still have been some holding off about money matters, on the part of father Brews, and he was evidently unwilling to give as much dowry with his daughter as John desired, for the young lady herself felt obliged to follow up her mother's letter with these two ardent, yet business-like epistles. It is a comfortable thing to learn that these letters ended the affair, and the wavering John, who had one or two other ladies in his mind, settled it in favour of Margery, and she became his wife that year. The attempts at poetry in Mistress iVlar- gery's valentine may serve as a model for modern efforts in that line. 230 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc. Margery Breivs to John Paston, Unto my right well-beloved Valentine, John Paston, Esq., be this billet delivered. TopcROFT, Feb., 1477. Eight reverend and worshipful and my right well-beloved Valentine, I recommend me unto 3'ou, full heartily desiring to hear of 3'our wel- fare, which I beseech Almighty God long to pre- serve unto his pleasure and your heart's desire. And if it please you to hear of )ny welfare, I am not in good health of bod}^ or of heart, nor shall be till I hear from 3'Ou. For there wots no creature what pain I endure, And for to be deed, I dare not it discure [discover]. And my lad}^, m}^ mother, has laboured the mat- ter to m}^ father full diligentl}^ but she can no more get than }'e know of, for the which God knoweth I am full sorry. But if that ye love me, as I trust verily that 3 e do, ye will not leave me therefor ; for if ^e had not half the livelihood that 3^e have, for to do the greatest labour that an3^ woman alive might, I would not forsake you. And if ye command me to keep true wherever I go, I wis I will do all m}^ might j^ou to love and never no mo*; And if my friends say that I do amiss, They shall not prevent me so for to do. Margery Brews to John Paston. 231 My heart me bids evermore to love you Truly over all earthly thing. And if they be never so wroth I trust it shall be better in time coming. No more to 3'ou at this time, but the Holy Trinity have you in his keeping. And I beseech 3'ou that this billet be not seen of no earthl}' crea- ture save only 3'ourself, &c. And this letter was indite at Topcroft with full heavy heart B3' your own Margery Brews. The Same to the Same. To my right well-beloved cousin, John Pastox, Esq., be this letter delivered. February, 1477* Right worshipful and well-beloved Valentine, in m}^ most humble wise I recommend me to you, &c. And heartil}' I thank you for the let- ter which ye sent me b}' John Bekarton, whereby 1 understand and know that ye be purposing to come to Topcroft in short time, and with- out any errand or matter, but only to have a conclusion of the matter between my father and 3'ou. I would be most glad of an}' creature alive, so that this matter might grow to effect. And there as ye sa}', and yg come and find the matter 232 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc, no more towards 3'ou than ye did aforetime, ye would no more put my father and my lad}', m}^ mother, to no cost nor business for that cause, a good while after, which causeth mine heart to be right heavy ; and if that ye come, and the matter come to no result, then should I be much more soriT and full of heaviness. And as for mj'self I have done and understand in the matter all that I can or may, as God know- eth, and I let you plainly understand that my father will no mere money part withal in that be- half but 500/. and 507?2., which is right far from the accomplishment of 3'our desire. Wherefore, if that ye could be content with that good and my poor person, I would be the merri- est maiden on ground, and if 3'e think not your- self satisfied, or that ye might have much more good, as I have understood by you before, good, true, and loving Valentine, that 3'e take no such labour upon 3'e as to come more for that matter ; but let it pass, and never more be spoken of as I ma3" be 3'our true lover and bedwoman during my life. No more to 3'ou at this time, but Almighty Jesus preserve 3'Ou, both bod3' and soul! By your Valentine, Margery Brews. Richard Calk to Margery Paston. 233 Richard Calle to Margery Paston. There is so little sentiment to be found in the wooing of the two Sir Johns, that it is refreshing to find it green and flourishing in the heart of Margery Paston, the sister of these two gentlemen. That Margery felt a true affection is proved by the fact that she kept loyal through the course of a love that ran anything but smooth. It seems that Sir John, the elder brother, had a bailiff in charge of his estates named Richard Calle, who was a very valuable man of business in the family, a young man, and one who by his letters seems quite equal, if not supe- rior in mind, to the gentlemen of the Paston family. On him Lady Margery set her heart, and being, by all evi- dence, a young woman of strong will, " where she had set her heart, there it must abide." The wroth and opposition of lier family were extreme, and when we consider what an unusual thing it was in the fifteenth century for a young woman to breast the opposition of all her kinsfolk, we must have both sympathy and admiration for her as a brave and loyal girl. Before her family had quite found out the matter she had entered into a solemn troth-plight with Richard, — a phght the Church considered sacred, and which, if certain words were uttered, even her kinsfolk would not dare to annul, as they were binding in the eyes of the Church. If she had said this thing, her friends would not (as Richard Calle writes her), "if ye tell them solemnly the truth, damn tlieir souls for us," as they would be in danger of doing if they annulled a troth-plight. So Margery was carried before the Bishop of Norwich, who was the nearest dignitary of the Church, to be examined as to the validity of her contract. The Bishop began by 234 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc. reminding lier of her high birth and the friends she had and would have if she allowed herself to be ruled by them, and then asked her if she had said words to Calle that meant matrimony. Then Margery stood up bravely and repeated her words, and said, "if these words were not sure, she would make them still surer ere she went home, for she knew in her conscience she was bound, whatever the words she said." On which her mother and brothers waxed so much more wroth that they refused even to let her enter their doors while the Bishop was deciding the case, and the reverend judge was obliged to find a shelter in Norwich for her. He finally decided in favour of the lovers, and she became Mistress Richard Calle, who still continued his services in the family as bailiff, being too valuable a man to part with, although he seems never to have been received as a member of the family. Thus ends this romance of 1469, and here is one of its remains in the letter of Richard to Margery, written before she had her trial of love before the good Bishop of Norwich. Of Margery's letters we have none preserved ; very likely they were destroyed by her family. 1469 (May?). MixE own lad}^ and mistress, and before God very true wife, I with heart full sorrowful recom- mend me to you, as he that cannot be merrj', nor nought shall be till it is otherw^ise with us than it is yet, for this life that we lead now is neither pleas- ure to God nor to the world, considering the great bond of matrimon\' that is betwixt us, and also the great love that hath been and, as I trust, is yet betwixt us, and on my part never greater. Where- Richard Calle to Margery Paston. 235 fore I beseech Almighty God comfort us as soon as it pleases him, for we that ought of very right to be most together are most asunder : meseemeth it is a thousand years ago since I spake with you. I had liever than all the good in the world I might be with you. Alas, alas, good lady, full little re- member they what they do that keep us asunder ; four times in the year are they cursed that hinder matrimon}' ; it causeth many men to deem they have large conscience in other matters as well as herein. But what lad}' suffers as ye have done? Make ye as merry as ye can, for I wis, lad}', at the long way, God will of his right wiseness help his servants that mean truly and would live ac- cording to his laws. I understand, lady, that ye have made as much sorrow for me as an}' gentlewoman hath had in the world. Would God all the sorrow 3'e have had, had rested upon me, so that ye had been dis- charged of it, for I wis, dear ladv, it is to me a death that ye be treated otherwise than 3'e ought to be. This is a painful life that we lead. I cannot live thus without it be a great displeasure to God. Also like you to wit that I sent you a letter by my lad, from London, and he told me that he might not speak with you, there was made so great await upon him and upon you both. He 236 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men^ etc. told me John Thresher came to him in your name, and said that ye sent him to my lad for a ring or a token which I should have sent j^ou, but he trusted him not ; he would not deliver him none. After that he brought him a ring saying that ye sent it him, commanding him that he should de- liver the letter or token to him, which I conceive was not b}' j'our sending ; it was by my mistress's and Sir James's advice. Alas I what mean they ? I suppose the}^ deem we be not ensured together, and if tlie}^ do so I marvel, for then they are not well advised, remembering the plainness that I break to mj' mistress in the beginning, and I sup- pose \}\ jou both, and ye did as ye ought to do of very right; and if you have done the contrar}', as I am informed 3^e have done, 3'e did neither conscientiously nor to the pleasure of God, unless ye did it for fear, and for the time to please such as were at that time about you, and if 3'e so did it for this service it was for a reasonable cause, considering the great and unbearable calling upon that 3'e had, and man3' an untrue tale was told 3'ou of me, which God knows I was never guiltN' of. My lad told me that my mistress, 3'our mother, asked him if he had brought an v letter to 3'ou ; and raan3' other things she bear him on hand, and among all other, at the last she said to him that I BicJiard Calle to Margery Paston. 237 would not make her acquainted with the beginning, but she supposed I would at the ending ; and as to that, God knows she knew first of me and none other. I wot not what her mistresship meant ; for, by my troth, there is no gentlewoman alive that mj' heart tendereth more than it doth her, nor is loather to displease, saving onl}' your person, which of ver}" right I ought to tender and love best, for I am bound thereto by the law of God, and so will do while I live, whatsoever befalls. I sup- pose, and ye tell them solemnly the truth, they will not damn their souls for us ; though I tell them the truth, the}^ will not believe me as well as the}' will do 3'ou ; and therefore, good lady, at the reverence of God, be plain to them and tell them the truth, and if the}' will in no wise agree thereto, betwixt God, the Devil, and them be it ; and that peril that we should be in, I beseech God it may lie upon them and not upon us. . . . Madame, I am afraid to write you, for I under- stand 3'e have showed the letters that I have sent 3'ou before this time, but I pray you let no creature see this letter. As soon as ye have read it, let it be burnt, for I would no man should see it in no wise. Ye had no writing from me this two 3'ears, nor I w^ould not send ye no more ; therefore I remit all this matter to your wisdom. 238 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc. Almighty Jesu preserve, keep, and give 3'ou 3'onr heart's desire, which I wot w^ell would be to God's pleasure. This letter was written with as great pain as ever wrote I thing in my life ; for in good faith I have been right sick, and yet am not very w^ell at ease. God amend it, &c. Roger AscJiam to Ids Wife Margaret , in Consolation for the Death of their Son, Stwm Ascham, The following letter was written by Eoger Ascham, the famous schoolmaster of the sixteenth century. He was the teacher of Queen Elizabeth in her girlliood,, and of Lady Jane Grey; and these two princesses seem to have been favourite pupils of his, for he cannot speak too highly in praise of their learning and studiousness. His marriage, which took place rather late in life, when he was nearly forty, seems to have been a very happy one. At tlie time of his marriage he wrote thus to his friend John Sturm : — *' You w^ish to know about my wife. In face she is like her aunt, the wife of Sir R. Walop. She is just such a wife as John Sturm would desire for his friend Roger As- cham. Her name is Margaret; our wedding-day was the 1st of June, 1554, if there be anything lucky in that name or that day." November, 1568. Mine owk good Margaret, — The more I think on your sweet babe, as I do man}' times, Roger Ascham to Ids Wife. 239 both day and night, the greater cause I alwa^'s find of giving thanks continually to God for his singular goodness besto^yed at this time upon the child, yourself, and me, even because it has rather pleased him to take the child to himself in heaven than to leave it here with us still on earth. When I mused on the matter as nature, flesh, and fa- therh^ fantasy did carr}' me, I found nothing but sorrows and care, which did very much vex and trouble me ; but at last, forsaking these worldly thoughts, and referring me whollj' to the will and order of God in the matter, I found such a change, such a cause of joy, such a plent}' of God's grace towards the child, and of his good- ness towards 3'ou and me, as neither my heart can comprehend nor yet my tongue express the twentieth part thereof. Nevertheless, because God and good-will hath so joined me and 3'ou together as we must not only be the one a comfort to the other in sorrow, but also partakers together in any jo}', I could not but declare unto you what just cause I think we both have of comfort and gladness, by that God hath so graciousl}' dealt with us as he hath. M}' first step from care to comfort was this ; I thought God had done his will with our child, and because God by his wisdom knoweth what is best, 240 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc, and by his goodness will do best, I was by and b}' fully persuaded the best that can be is done with our sweet child ; but seeing God's wisdom is unsearchable with any man's heart, and his good- ness unspeakable with any man's tongue, I will come down from such high thoughts and talk more sensibly with you, and k}^ before j'ou such matter as may be both a full comfort for our cares past, and also a just cause of rejoicing as long as we live. You well remember our continual wish and desire, our nightlj' pra3'er together, that God would vouchsafe to us to increase the number of the world ; we wished that nature should beautifully perform the work b}' us ; we did talk together how to bring up our child in learning and virtue ; we had care to provide for it, so as honest fortune should favour and follow it. And see, sweet wife, how mercifully God hath dealt with us in all points ; for what wish could desire, what pra3'er could crave, what nature could perform, what A'ir- tue could deserve, what fortune could perform, both we have received and our child doth enjo}' al- read3^ And because our desire (thanked be God) was alwaj's joined with honest}' and our prayers mingled with fear, the will and pleasure of God hath given us more than we wished, and that is better for us now than we could hope to think Pioger AscJiam to his Wife. 241 upon ; but you desire to bear and know bow, many, even tbus wc desired to be made vessels to increase tbe eartb, and God batb made us ves- sels to increase beaven, wbicb is tbe greatest bonour to man, tbe greatest joy to beaven, the greatest spite to tbe devil, tbe greatest sorrow to bell, tbat anj' man can imagine. Secondarily, wben nature bad performed wbat she would, grace stepped fortb and took our cbild from nature, as wbere it could not creep in eartb b}' nature, it was straigbtway able to soar to beaven by grace. It could not tben speak by nature, and now it does praise God by grace ; it could not tben com- fort tbe sick and careful mother by nature, and now, tbrougb praj'er, is able to belp father and mother by grace ; and yet, thanked be nature, tbat batb done all sbe could do, and blessed be grace, that hath done more and better than we would wish sbe sbould have done. Peradventure 3'ou do wisb that nature bad kept it from death a little longer ; yea, but grace bas carried it wbere now no sickness can follow nor any deatb here- after meddle with it ; and instead of a short life witb troubles on earth, it doth live a life tbat shall never end, witb all manner of jo3's in beaven. And now, Margaret, go to, I pray 3'ou, and tell IG 242 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc, me as you think, do 3^011 love 3^our sweet babe so little, do 3'ou env}^ his happ^^ state so much, 3'ea, once to wish that nature should have followed A^our pleasure in keeping your child in this miser- able world, than that grace should have purchased such profit for your child as bringing him to felic- ity in heaven? Thirdly', you ma}' say to me, — if the child had lived in this world, it might have come to such goodness by grace and virtue as might have turned to great comfort to us, to good service to our countr}', and served to have deserved as high a place in heaven as he doth now. To this in short, I answer, ought we not in all things to submit to God's good will and pleasure, and thereafter to rule our affections, which I doubt not but 3'ou will endeavour to do. And therefore I will say no more, but with all comfort to you here, and a blessing hereafter, which I doubt not but is prepared for 3'ou, Your dearly loving husband, Roger Ascham. To my dear wife, Margaret Ascham, these. 8ir William St. Lo to his Wife. The Countess of Shrewsbury was one of the most remark- able women of the reign of Queen Elizabeth; beautiful in person, though masculine in character, and by all evidence Sir William SL Lo to Ms Wife, 243 utterly selfish and without heart. Yet her fascination lielped her to four husbands, each of whom seems to have been equally in love with her, and each of whom she ruled with imperious sway. This letter from her third husband, William St. Lo, a bluff soldier of Elizabeth's guard, was written while he was stationed at the queen's palace in Windsor. 4 Septemrer (about 15G0?). My O'^TX, — More clearer to me than I am to ni3'seif, thou shalt understand that it is no small fear nor grief to me of thy well-doing than I should presently see what I dowgst, not only for that my continual nigbth' dreams beside my ab- sence have troubled me, but also chiefly that Hugh Alsop cannot certify me in what estate tliou nor thine is, whom I tender more than I do William St. Lo. Therefore I pra}' thee, as thou dost love me, let me shortly hear from thee, for the quieting of my unquieted mind, how thine own sweet self with all thine doeth, trusting shortly I may be among you. All my friends here salutelh thee. Harry Skipwith desired me to make thee and none other privy that he is sure of Mistress Nell, with whom he is by this time. He hath sent ten thousand thanks unto th3'self for the same. She hath opened all her heart unto him. To-morrow, Sir Richard Sackville and I ride to London together ; upon Saturday next we re- 244 Letters of Statesmen^ Military Men, etc, turn hither again. The Queen \_Elizahetli'\ 3'ester- daj' her own self riding upon the waj' craved my horse, unto whom I gave him, receiving openh' for the same man}' goodly words. Thus wishing m3'self with th^'self, I bid thee, my own good servant and chief overseer of my works, most heartily farewell. From thine who is wholly and onl}' thine, yea, and for all thine while life lasteth. From Windsor, the 4th of September, b^' thy right worshipful master and most honest hus- band, Master Sir William St. Lo., Esq. Earl of Shrew shury to the Countess. After the deatli of AVilliam St. Lo his lady married George Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, who was as much enamoured of her as any of the three husbands who had preceded him. As in her previous marriages, she schemed very cleverly to get the lion's share of the property into her hands and a controlling influence over his affairs. But in some of her scheming she overreached herself. Not long after her marriage wuth the Earl, Mary Queen of Scots threw herself upon the protection of Elizabetli, " her cousin and sister-queen." As soon as Mary's coming to England was made certain, the Countess of Shrewsbury began to seek for her husband the dangerous honour of custodian to the person of the Scottish queen. In this she succeeded. Eo.rl of Shrewsbicrij to the Countess. 245 Elizabeth placed her charge in the keeping of tlie Earl and Countess, and their castle was turned, in a manner, into a prison to hold the royal guest. It was not long after, that trouble began in the family of the Earl of Shrewsbury. Whether Mary Stuart used her fascination to excite the Earl's compassion and alleviate her captivity, is not cer- tain, though not unlikely. It is certain that for once the managing Countess found her rival, if not her match. She could not conceal lier discontent with the affairs in her household, and when Queen Elizabeth one day inquired how her prisoner fared, she made answer : *' She cannot fare ill while she is with my Imsband; and I begin to grow jealous, they are so groat together." Queen Mary herself writes to one of her friends in France : " I have twice informed you minutely of the scandalous reports which have been circulated of my inti- macy with the Earl of Shrewsbury. These have originatetl with no one hut his good lady herself. If the Queen of Eng- land doth not have this calumny cleared up, I shall be obliged openly to attack the Countess of Shrewsbury her- self." It was not long after this that Elizabeth compelled the Earl to relinquish his charge, but not before lie and his Countess had fallen into such disagreement as was never wholly removed, although at last a peace was patched up between them. The Earl died some time before his wife, who spent her latest days in bickering and contentions with different members of her family, and in building and repairing the castles in her possession, — an occupation which seemed to gratify the ambition of her restless old age. The following letters were written to her by the Earl in the days of their early wedded life before she had begun 246 Letters of Statesmen, Militanj Men, etc. to be jealous of Queen Mary, at the time even when she was planning to secure the office of custodian to the queen for her husband. Hampton Court, 1568. Mr DEAR One, — Having received a letter of the 1st of December, which came in very good time, else had I sent one of the few remaining with me, to have bronght me vv^ord of 3'oui* health, which I doubted of, for that I heard not from 3-011 of ail this time till now, which drove me in the dumps, but now relieved again hy youv writing unto me. I thank you, sweet one, for your puddings and venison. The puddings I have disposed in this wise : dozen to my Lady Cobham, and as many to ni}' Lad^' Stuard and unto my Lad}' of Leices- ter, and the rest I have reserved to myself to eat in my chamber. The venison is j'et in London, but I have sent for it thither. I perceive Ned Talbot hath been sick, and now past danger. I thank God I have such a one that is so careful over me and mine. God send me soon home to possess m}^ greatest ]o\. If you think that is you.^ \o\\ are not deceived. ... I live in hope to be with you before you can return answer again. You shall under- stand that this present Monday', in the morn- Earl of Shrewsbury to the Countess, 247 ing, finding the queen in the garden at good leisure, I gave her majest}' thanks that she Iiad so little regard to the clamorous people of Bolsor in my absence ! She declared unto me what evil speech had been said against me, and m}' nearness and state in housekeeping, and as much as was told her which she nowise believed, with as good words from her as I could wish, declaring that ere it were long I should well perceive she did trust me as she did few. She would not tell me wherein, but I doubt it was about the custodj' of the Queen of Scots. ... I think before Sunday these matters will come to some pass that we shall know how long our abode shall be, but howsoever it falls out I will not fail but be with 3'ou at Christ- mas, or else 3'ou shall come to me. The plague is dispersed far abroad in London, so the queen keeps her Christmas here and goeth not to Greenwich, as it was meant. My Lady Cobham wishes your presence here ; she loves 3'ou well. I tell her I have cause to love her best for that she washed me well speed with you, and I did. And as the pen writes^ so the hear't thinks^ that of all earthly joys I thanlc God chiefest for you^ for with you 1 have joys and contentation of mind,, and with- out you death is more pleasant to me than life if 1 thought I should be long from you,, and therefore,^ 248 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc. good wife^ do as 1 will do^ hope shortly of our meet- ing^ and farewell^ dear^ sweet one! From Hampton Court this Monday at midnight, for it is ever}' night so late before I go to bed, being at play in the privy chamber at Primers, ^'here I have lost almost one hundred pounds and lacked m}' sleep besides. Your faithful husband till death, G. Shrewsbury. The Same to the Same. My dear One, — Of all joys I have under God the greatest is j^ourself. To think I possess one so faithful and one that I know loves me so dearl}^ is all, and the greatest comfort, that this earth can give. Therefore, God give me grace to be thankful to him for his good showed upon me a vile sinner. \^Part of the letter here is effaced and the meaning ol)scure,~\ I thank 3'ou, sweet heart, that you are so read}" to come when I will ; therefore, dear heart, send me word how I might send for you, and till I ma}' have your company I shall think it long, my onh' joy, and therefore appoint a day, and in the meantime I shall content me with 3'our will, and long dail}' for 3'our coming. Walter Raleigh to Us Wife. 249 I 3'our letters con very well, and I like them so well they could not be amended, and 1 have sent them up to Gilbert. I have written him how happy he is to have such a mother as 3'ou are. Farewell, my only joy. This Tuesda}^ eve. Your faithful one. To MY Wife. Shrewsbury. Walter Raleigh to his Wife. The following beautiful letter was written by Sir Walter Raleigh to his wife after his trial for treason and con- demnation to death in 1603. His sentence was afterwards reprieved and he Avas committed to imprisonment in the Tower, where he remained more than twelve years, his captivity during much of that time softened by the society and affection of his wife. During his imprisonment he wrote his History of the World, and he occupied himself also in experiments in chemistry and in medicine. The queen of James L, it is said, often sent for his remedies when she or any one of the royal children was ill, and Prince Henry, the eldest son of James I., w^as so much in sympathy with Raleigh that he said openly that no king but his father '* would keep so rare a bird in so ill a cage.'' You shall now receive, dear wife, my last words in these my last lines. My love I send you, that 30U ma}' keep it when I am dead ; and my counsel, that you may remember it when I am 250 Letters of Statesmen ^ Military Men, etc. no more. I would not by ni}' will present j'ou with sorrows, dear Bess ; let them go to the grave and be buried with me in dust. And seeing it is not the will of God that I shall ever see j'ou more in this life, bear it patiently and with a heart like thyself. Firstlj^, I send you all the thanks my heart can conceive, or my words can express, for your many troubles and cares taken for me ; which, though they have not taken effect as 3^ou wished, 3'et the debt is nathless, and pay it I never shall in this world. Secondly, I beseech you b}' the love you bare me living, do not hide yourself in grief man}^ days, but seek to help the miserable fortunes of our poor child. Thy mourning cannot avail me ; I am but dust. . . . Remember 3'our poor child for his father's sake, who chose and loved you in his happiest time. God is my witness it is for you and yours T desired life ; but it is true I dis- dain mj'self for begging of it. For know, dear wife, that 3'our son is the son of a true man, and one who in his own respect despiseth death, and all his misshapen grisl3' forms. I cannot write much. God knows how hardl3' I stole the time, when all sleep ; and it is time to separate m3' thoughts from the world. Beg m3' dead bod3'. Walter Raleigh to his Wife. 251 which living is denied thee, and either la}^ it at Sherbourne or in Exeter, by my father and mother. I can write no more. Time and Death call me away. The everlasting God, Infinite, Powerful, In- scrutable ; the Almighty God, which is Goodness itself, Mercy itself; the true light and life, — keep thee and thine, have mere}' on me and teach me to forgive my persecutors and false witnesses, and send us to meet again in His Glorious King- dom. My own true wife, farewell. Bless my poor boy. Pray for me, and let the good God fold 3'ou both in His arms. Written with the djing hand of sometime th}^ husband, but now, alas ! ov^er thrown. Yours that was, but not now m}' own, W. Ralegh. The Same to the Same. During the last years of Kaleigli's captivity the interest in American discovery was strongly aroused and there were rumours of rich mines discovered in Guiana. No man in England knew so much about America as Sir Wal- ter ; and the king, as mercenary as he was cowardly, finally concluded to send Sir Walter on an expedition, although his sentence was unrevoked and he was still held a pris- oner to the crown. He sailed in 1617 for the Orinoco region, and anchored near some Spanish settlements there. 252 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc. Almost immediately the old feud broke out, which rankled in the heart of every English sailor whenever the name Spaniard was spoken. The town was attacked and burned, the Spanish governor was killed, and also Raleigh's son Walter, who had gone with him on this expedition. It was upon his return, when he could clearly foresee his doom, that Sir Walter wrote the following to his wife to console her for the death of their son. March 22, 1618. Sweet Heart, — I was loath to write, because I knew not bow to comfort 3^ou ; and God knows I never knew wbat sorrow meant till now. All tbat I can say to 3'Ou is, that you must obej' tbe will and providence of God ; and remember that the Queen's Majestj^ bare the loss of Prince Henr}^ with a magnanimous heart, and the Lady Harring- ton of her onl}' son. Comfort 3'our heart, dearest Bess, I shall sorrow for us both ; I shall sorrow the less because I have not long to sorrow, because not long to live. I refer you to Secretary Win- hord's letter, who will give you a copj" of it if 3'ou send for it. Therein 3'ou shall know what has passed. I have written but that letter, for my brains are broken, and it is a torment for me to w^rite, and especiallj^ of miserj'. I have desired Mr. Secretary to give my Lord Carew a cop}^ of his letter. . . . You shall hear from me if I live, from the Newfoundland, where I mean to make Walter Raleigh to his Wife. 253 clean my ships and revictual, for I have tobacco enough to pa}^ for it. The Lord bless and com- fort you, that you may bear patiently the death of 3'our valiant son. Yours, W. Ralegh. Kaleigh was arrested immediately after landing, and, without any new trial, was condemned to death mider the old sentence which for fourteen years had been hanging over his head. His wife, always devoted, made ineffectual efforts to save him. After his execution she wrote her brother, Sir Nicholas Carew : — "I desire, good brother, that you will be pleased to let me bury the worthy body of my noble husband in your church at Beddington, where I desire to be buried also. They have given me his dead body, though they de- nied me his life. This night he shall be brought you with two or three of my men. Let me hear presently. God hold me in my wits. ''Elizabeth Ralegh." Sir Walter was not buried in Beddington notwithstand- ing this request. His remains are in St. Margaret^s Church just over the way from Westminster Abbey, and his faith- ful wife is not buried beside him. Her brief letter, with its supplication, " God hold me in my wits,^' is worth volumes of lamentation. 254 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc. From Kate, Duchess of Buckingham, to her Husband, George VUliers, Duke of Buckingham. The following letter was written by Kate Yilliers, Duchess of Buckingham, to her handsome and profligate husband, when he was absent in Spain, as friend and com- panion to Prince Charles, afterwards Charles I. It is to this same Duke of Buckingham, familiarly called "Steenie" by James I. and the prince, that King James wrote the let- ter quoted on page 200. The negotiations for Charles's marriage with the In- fanta, which took the Prince and his suite to Madrid, at the time tlie following letters were written, were carried on for some time, but the alliance was so obnoxious to the English people that it was finally given up. That the Duke of Buckingham was very attractive in person, and capable of inspiring most ardent attachments, is proved by the affection the king and prince felt for him as well as by the extravagant terms of his wife's letters. 1623. My dear Lord, — I humbly thank you that 3'ou were pleased to write so many letters to me, which was so great a comfort to me as 3'ou cannot imagine, for I protest to God I have had a griev- ous time of this our grievous parting, for I am sure it has been so to me, and my heart has felt enough more than I hope it ever shall do again ; and I pray God release me out of it bj' 3'our speedy coming hither again to her that doth as dearly love Ducliess of Buckingham to her Husband. 255 3'ou as ever woman did man ; and if everybod}' did love you but a quarter as well. 3'ou were the hap- piest man that ever was born, but that is impos- sible. But I protest I think you are the best beloved that ever favourite was, for all that have true worth in them cannot but love 3'our sweet disposition. If I were not so near to you as I thank God I am, I could say no less, if I said truth, for I think there never was such a man born as you are ; and how much am I bound to God that I must be that happy woman, to enjoy you from all other women, — I, the unworthiest of all, to have so great a blessing ! Onlj^ this I can say for my- self, 3'ou could never have had one that could love 3'ou better than 3'our poor, true loving Kate doth, poor now in 3'our absence, but else the happiest and richest woman in the world. I thank you for your long letter ; I think I must give Sir Francis Cottington thanks for it too, because 3'ou sa3' he bade 3'ou write long letters. I am beholden to him for that, because I am sure he knew the3' could never be too long for me, for it is all the comfort I have now to read often over your letters. My reason that I desired 3011 not to do it was for fear of troubling 3'ou too much ; but, since 3'ou think it none, I am much bound to you for it, and I be- seech you to continue it. 256 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc. I hope 3'ou see by this, I have not omitted writing by any that went, for this is the sixteenth letter, at the least, I have written 3 ou since 3^011 'went, whereof two of them I sent b}" the common post ; but I hope the3^ will all come safely to your hands. I thank 3011 for sending me so good news of our 3'oung mistress.^ I am ver3^ glad she is so deli- cate a creature, and of so sweet a disposition ; indeed, m3' Lad3^ Bristow sent me word she was a ver3^ fine lad3^ and as good as fine. I am very glad of it, and that the Prince likes her so well, for the King sa3^s he is wonderfully taken with her. That is a wonderful good hearing, for it were a great pity but the Prince should have one he could love, because I think he vnll make a ver3' honest husband, which is the greatest comfort in this world, to have man and wife love truly. I told the King of the private message the Infanta sent the Prince, to wear a great ruff; he laughed heartily at it, and said it was a good sign. I am ver3' glad you sent to hasten the ships. I hope you mean not to stay long, which I am very glad of. . . . I thank God, Moll is very well with her wean- 1 The Infanta of Spain, the proposed wife of Charles I. Duchess of Buckingham to her Husband, 257 ing. Thus, with my daily prayers for our happy meeting, I take m}' leave. Your loving and obedient wife, Kate Buckingham. I pray send me word when you come. The little Moll mentioned above was the daughter of the Duke, of whose baby ways the Duchess gives the fol- lowing lively description in another of her letters while the Duke is at this time absent. Moll is very well, I thank God, and when she is set upon her feet and held b}' the sleeves, she will not go slowly, but stamp and set one foot afore another very fast, that I think she wall run before she can go. She loves dancing extremely, and when the saraband be plaj^ed, she will get her finger and her thumb together, offering to snap ; and then when 2om Duff is sung, then will she shake her apron, and when she hears the tune of the clapping dance my Ladj' Frances Hubert taught the Prince, she will clap both her hands together and on her heart ; and she can tell the tunes as well as anj' of us can, and, as they change the tunes, she will change her dancing. I would 3^ou were but here to see her, for 3'oa would take much delight in her now she is so full of pretty plaj's and tricks ; and she has gotten 17 258 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc. a trick that when the}" dance her, she will cry " Ha ! ha I " and ]Sicholas will dance with his legs, and she will imitate him as well as she can. If one lay her down, she will kick her legs over her head ; but I hope as she grows older she will grow more modest. Everybody says she is more like 3'on than an}' other. You shall have her picture veiT shortly. I am very glad you have the pearls and that you like them so well ; and I am sure the}' do not help you to win the ladies' hearts. Yourself is a jewel that will win the hearts of all the women in the world ^ but I am confident it is not in their power to win your heart from a heart that is, was, and ever shall be yours till death. Kate. Endymion Porter to his Wife^ Olive Porter, Another compaDion of Prince Charles on this embassy'' to Spain for the wooing of the Infanta, was Mr. Endymion Porter, who had been, in early life, resident in Spain, and in later years attached to the family of the great Duke of Buckingham. He was himself of good family, and is a most picturesque figure of a cavalier of this age. His marriage with his wife, Olive, to whom these letters are addressed, was purely a love-match, and it seems to have been a very happy one, although somewhat troubled by Olive's jealousy during his frequent absences, — a jeal- ousy which the free manners of the age and the society in Endymion Porter to his Wife, 259 which he lived made not unreasonable. A great number of his early letters are devoted to soothing her jealous alarms and protesting his affection. In one of his letters he says : — " If you did but know how truly I love you, you would never be jealous of me, and had you such reports of me as you credited for truths, yet, if you loved me half as well as I desire, you would not so easily give credit to them." That he loved Olive one has little doubt, in re-reading his letters, yet for his fidelity he protests too much ; and when he writes that tlie Diike of Buckingham and himself " think of nothing but our wives," we suspect him of being in league with the Duke, and of writing for the eye of Kate Villiers as well as the jealous Olive. Even the sober Prince Charles seems to have been some- what infected by absence from home and by the climate of Spain, and there are authentic reports of a dewy morn- ing's adventure, in wliicli Endymion Porter helped the prince to clamber a garden wall that he might catch sight of the Infanta m her early walk in the palace gardens, and thus have a more undisturbed sight of his intended bride than the etiquette of the Spanish court afforded. I should like to hope that this was the least culpable adven- ture in which Endymion engaged, but there is some men- tion (in letters not intended for Olive's eye) of an " angel/' also referred to as the " mistress of his heart," whom he seems to have met during this journey abroad, which would give some colour to Olive's jealousy. When Endymion's fortunes in later years were clouded by his devotion to the royal family, his wife dropped all jealous reproaches and became a most helpful and noble wife. He went to France with Queen Henrietta Maria, 260 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc. and Olive Porter, remaining in England, used great address and courage in protecting and preserving his fortunes and interests at home. No date (probably 1622). > My dearest Olive, — Th}' care in sending to me shows me how trplj' thou lovest me, and tliy fear of my inconstancy argues no want of affection, onl}^ of faith, which, if any good works of mine ma}^ strengthen, I will come on my knees to see thee, and put out my ej'es rather than look with unchaste desire upon any creature while I breathe ; and to be more secure of me, I would have thee inquire if ever I was false to 2iny friend^ and then to consider what a traitor I should be, if to a wife (and to such a wife !) so virtuous and good, I should prove false, and not to my friends. Dear Olive, be assured that I strive to make my- self happy in nothing but in thee, and therefore I charge 3'ou to be meny, and to cherish your health and life, the more because I live in you. But what can I sa}^, or what in the least little can I do? Love you'^ That I do and ever shall, as he who vows never to be anybody's but your true husband. Endymion Porter. Endymion Porter to his Wife. 261 The Same to the Same, Written during his absence in Spain with Prince Charles and the Duke of Buckingham. Madrid, April 17, 1623, N. S. My dearest Oltye, — Since mj^ coming into Spain I have received four letters from 3'ou, and the two first with so much kindness in them that I thought my love rewarded ; bat the two last are so full of mistrust and falsehood that I rather fear you have changed j'our affection than that you have an}' sure ground for what 30U accuse me of in them ; for, as I hope for mercy at God's hands, I neither kissed nor touched any woman since I left you ; and for the inn-keeper's daughter at BuUen, I was so far from kissing her, that, as I hope to be saved ^ I cannot remember if I saio any such woman. No, Olive, I am not a dissembler, for I assure you the grief I suffered at parting with you gave me no leave to entertain such base thoughts, but rather lasted in me like a consumption, in- creasing daily more and more. But seeing 3'ou have taken a resolution (without hearing what I could say) " never to be confident of me again," I will procure how to be worthy of j'our best 262 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc, thoughts and stud}' how to have patience for an}^ neglect from you. I understood that 3'ou sent me two kisses bj a gentleman. God reward 3'ou for them ; and, since 3 our bounty increases, I think it unfit my thanks shoukl diminish. I perceive 3'ou Would be glad to hear of my kissing of inn-keepers' daugh- ters every day, that you might have some excuse to do that which nothing but m}' unworthiness and misfortune can deserve. Alas ! sweet Olive, why should 3'ou go about to afflict me? Know that I Hve like a dying man, and one that cannot live long without you. My eyes grow weary in looking upon anj'thing, as wanting that rest they took in the company and the sight of thine, nor can I take pleasure in sports, for there is none that seems not a monster to m}' understanding where Olive is wanting. With thee I only enter- tain myself, and were it not for the force of re- membering thee, I know not how my life should have maintained itself so long. You have a great deal of advantage over me in this absence ; your two little babes and their af- fection, they serve to entertain you, and it teaches 3'ou to forget me ; yet for pity in this banishment and miser}', let me hear of 3'our health and theirs, for I assure j'ou it will be no small comfort to Eiidymion Porter to his Wife. 263 rae. Good Olive, let me receive no more quarrel- ling letters from you, for I desire nothing but your love, it being the only thing that affords me pleas- ure in this vile world. Send me word how the children do, and whether Cliarles be black or fair, and who he is like. But I am sure your nurse will swear that he hath ni}' eyes and nose, and 3'ou may perchance be angrv and say you never saw anything so like some brother of yours. I would to God I could hear the discourse. I would never come to Bullen to kiss my host's daughter, although you should entreat me to. The Prince visited the Infanta yesterda}', whose beauty gave him a just occasion to like her. The marriage will be I know not when, but if my de- sires to see 3'ou would hasten it I assure 3'ou I would make bold to trouble you before the two months which you allow me in 3'our last letter. I have sent my Lady Villiers a tobacco-box. I hope she will esteem it a token of my love, and that 3'ou will deliver it with the best grace 3'our father taught 3'ou, which was, '' Hold up j'our head, Olive." Now I am sure 3'ou laugh and think I have for- got the just cause I have to be angrj^ at 3'ou, but till I receive more kisses from 3'ou I shall not be w^ell pleased. I pra3^ yon remember my humble 2 6 J: Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc. service to 1113' Lady/ and tell her that tn}^ Lord and I wish 3^ou both here A^ery often. We both live very honest, and think of nothing but our wives. I thought to have sent 3'on a token of some value, but found nn' purse and my good-will could not agree, and considering m}' letter would be welcome unto 3'ou I leave to do it, onl}' this ring which I hope you will esteem, if not for love, I think for charity. The conceit is, that it seems two, as 3'ou turn it, but is onl3' one. God Almighty bless you, and George, and Charles, and give 3 ou his grace, and I pra3^ you remember to pra3' for him who will ever be Your true, loving husband, Endymion Porter. The JViniJirop Letters. One does not look for much sentiment, or any very fer- vent expression of it, among the Puritan founders of New England ; so that when one finds it in the letters or literature of tliese stern and severe people, it is like finding a flower in the cleft of a rock. John Winthrop, the first governor of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, was a man cast in a 1 "My Lady *' was Kate Buckingham, Tvhose letter to her lord I have before quoted. History does not quite testify to the truth cf the avowal that thev thought of nothing but their wives. Anne JFinthrojJ to her Husband. 265 somewliat tenderer mould than some of his contemporary Puritan bretliren, and his letters to his wife Margaret are full of affection, while her replies not only breathe most perfect womanly submission, but are as ardent as the ten- derest lover could desire. I have quoted, as a prefix to some of the letters of John Wintlirop and his wife, the following letter from Anne WiNTHROP, his mother, to her husband, which is a very quaint wifely epistle of the sixteenth century. Anne WintJirop to lier Husband, Ko date. I HAVE received (right dear and well-beloved) from 3'ou this week a letter, though short, 3'et very sweet, which gave me a livel}' taste of those sweet and comfortable words which always, when 3'ou be present with me, are wont to flow most abundantly from 3'our loving heart, — w^hereb}^ I perceive that whether you be present with me or absent from me, you are ever one towards me, and 3'our heart remaineth always with me. Wherefore, laying up this persuasion of you in mv breast, I will most assuredl}', the Lord assisting me b}' his grace, bear always the like loving heart unto 3'ou again, until such time as I may more fullj' enjoy your loving presence ; but in the meantime I will remain as one having a great inheritance, or rich treasure, and it being b}' force kept from him, or he being in a strange country and cannot enjoy 266 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc, it, longeth continually after it, sighing and sor- rowing that he is so long bereft of it, yet rejoiceth that he hath so great treasure pertaining to him, and hopeth that one da}^ the time will come that he shall enjo}' it and have the whole benefit of it. So I, having a good hope of the time to come, do more patiently bear the time present, and I pray send me word if 3'ou be in health, and what suc- cess you have with j'our letters. I sent to Cokynes (?) for the capones, and the}' are not yet fat ; as soon as they be ready I will send them. I send you this week, hy my father's man, a shirt and fiA^e pair of hose. I praj^ sell all these ; if ye would anj^ for your own wearing I have more a-knitting. I praj^ send me a pound of starch by m}' father's man. You maj^ yerj' well send my Bible if it be read}'. Thus, with m}' very heart}' commendations, I bid you farewell, committing you to Almighty God, to whom I commend you in my daily prayers, as I am sure you do me ; the Lord keep us now and ever. Amen. Your loving wife, Anne Winthrop. Je vous rende grace de la bien souvenance que vous avez de moi Bible Fran9ois. Je vous prie de Tenvoyer en bref par le Roullier. John Winthrop to Margaret Tyndal, 267 If mj^ brother Winthrop be at London, I pray forget not to say my ver}' hearty commendations unto him. John Wintlirop to Margaret Tyndal. The following letter is from John Wintlirop to his be- trothed wife Margaret Tyndal shortly before their mar- riage. She was his third wife, although he was barely thirty at the time of his marriage with her. Tliis is as miique a love-letter as can be found in the annals of court- ship, and its mixture of ardent affection with religious devotion, its adaptation of scripture to the language of passionate wooing, is not equalled by anything in litera- ture. To my best beloved, Mrs. Margaret Tyndal, at Great Maplestead, Essex. Grace, mercy, and peace, etc. My own beloved spouse, my most sweet friend and faithful companion of my pilgrimage, the happy and hopeful suppl}' (next Christ Jesus) of my greatest losses, I wish thee a most plenti- ful increase of all true comfort in the love of Christ, with a large and prosperous addition of whatsoever happiness the sweet estate of holy wedlock, in the kindest societ}^ of a loving hus- band, ma}^ afford thee. Being filled with the joy of thy love, and wanting opportunity- of more famiUar communion with thee, which my heart 268 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc. fervently desires, I am constrained to ease the burthen of mj" mind h\ this poor help of m}- scribbling pen, being sufficiently assured that, although my presence is that which thou desirest, yet in the want thereof these lines shall not be unfruitful of comfort nnto thee. And now, ni}' sweet love, let me awhile solace m^'self in the re- membrance of our love, of which this springtime of our acquaintance can put forth as j'ct no more but the leaves and blossoms, whilst the fruit lies wrapped up in the tender bud of hope ; a little more patience will disclose this good fruit, and bring it to some maturit3\ Let it be our care and labour to preserve these hopeful buds from the beasts of the field, and from frosts and other in- juries of the air, lest our fruit fall off ere it be ripe, or lose aught in the beauty and pleasantness of it. Let us pluck up such nettles and thorns as would defraud our plants of their due nourish- ment ; let us prune off superfluous branches ; let us not stick at some labour in watering and ma- nuring them : the plent\' and goodness of our fruit shall recompense us abundantly. Our trees are planted in a fruitful soil ; the ground and pattern of our love is no other but that between Christ and his dear spouse, of whom she speaks as she finds him. "- Mv well-beloved is mine and I am John Winthrop to Margaret TyndaL 269 bis." Love was their banqueting-liouse, love was their wine, love was their ensign ; love was his invitings, love was her faintings ; love was his apples, love was her comforts ; love was his em- bracings, love was her refreshing ; love made him see her, love made her seek him ; love made him wed her, love made her follow him ; love made him her saviour, love made her his servant. Love bred our fellowship, let love continue it, and love shall increase it until death dissolve it. . . . Now, my dear heart, let me parley a little with thee about trifles, for when I am present with thee my speech is prejudiced by ihy presence, which draws my mind from itself. I suppose now, ' upon thy uncle's coming, there will be advising and counselling of all hands ; and amongst many I know there will be some that will be provoking thee in these indifferent things, — as matter of apparel, fashions, and other circumstances, rather to give content to their vain minds, savouring too much of the flesh, &c., than to be guided by the rule of God's word, which must be the light and the Rule. ... I confess that there be some ornaments which, for virgins and knight's daugh- ters, &c., ma}^ be comely and tolerable, which 3'et, in so great a change as thine is, may well ad- mit a change also. I will meddle with no partic- 270 Letters of Statesmen, Militanj Men, ete. ulars, neither do I think it shall be needful ; thine own wisdom and godliness shall teach thee suffi- ciently what to do in such things, and the good assurance which I have of thy unfeigned love towards me makes me persuaded that thou wilt have care of ni v contentment, seeing it must be a chief stay to thy comfort ; and with all the great and sincere desire which I have that there might be no discouragement to daunt the edge of my affections, while they are trulj' labouring to settle and repose themselves in thee, makes me thus watchful and jealous of the least occasion that Satan might stir up to our discomfort. He that is faithful in the least will be faithful in the great- est, but I am too fearful I do thee wrong ; I know thou wilt not grieve me for trifles. Let me en- treat thee (nn^ sweet love) to take all in good part, for it is all of my love to thee, and in my love I shall requite thee. . . . Lastly, for m}' farewell (for thou seest my loth- ness to part with thee makes me tedious), take courage unto thee, and cheer up thy heart in the Lord, for thou knowest that Christ, the best of husbands, can never fail thee : he never dies, so as there can be no grief at i^artiug ; he never changes, so as once beloved and ever the same ; his abilit}^ is ever infinite, so as the dowry and John Winthrop to Margaret Tynclal. 271 inheritance of his sons and danghters can never be diminished. As for me, a poor worm, dust and ashes, a man full of infirmities, subject to all sins, changes, and chances which befall the sons of men, how should I promise thee anything of my- self, or, if I should, w^hat credence couldst thou give thereto, seeing God onl}^ is true and ever}' man a liar? Yet so far as a man ma}' presume upon some experience, I may tell thee that my hope is, that such comfort as thou hast already conceived of my love towards thee shall (through God's blessing) be happily continued ; his grace shall be sufficient for me, and his power shall be made perfect in my greatest weakness ; only let thy godly, kind, and sweet carriage towards me be as fuel to the fire, to minister a constant supply of meet matter to the confirming and quickening of my dull atfections. This is one end why I write so much unto thee, that if there should be any decay in kindness, &c., through my default and slackness hereafter, thou might have some pat- terns of our first love by thee, to help the recovery of such disease. Yet let our trust be wholly in God, and let us constantly follow him by our prayers, complaining and moaning unto him of our poverty, imperfections, and unworthiness, until his fatherly affection break forth upon us, and he 272 Letters of States7nen, Military Men, etc, speak kindly to the hearts of his poor seiTant and handmaid, for the full assurance of grace and peace through Christ Jesus, to whom I now leaA-e thee (my sweet spouse and only beloved) . God send us a safe and comfortable meeting on Mon- day morning. Farewell. Remember my love and duty to m}' Lady, thy good mother, with all kind and due salutations to thy uncle E. and all thy brothers and sisters. Thy husband by promise, John "Wixthrop. Geoton, where I wish thee, April 4, 1618. M3' father and mother salute thee heartily, with my Lady and the rest. If I had thought my letter would have run to half this length I would have made choice of a larger paper. Margaret Wintlirop to her Husband. The next letter is from Margaret Tyndal, now become Mrs. Winthrop written in their early wedded life, before her husband had departed for the home in the New World. It is rather more submissive than the more modern ideas of woman's dependence upon man would warrant, but Margaret Winthrop to her Husharcd: 273 Margaret Tyndal was probably bred up in Milton's ideas of the relations of the man and woman, •' He for God only, she for God in him." Groton, Nov. 22, 1627. My most sweet Husband, — How dearly wel- come thy kind letter was to me I am not able to express. The sweetness of it did much refresh me. What can be more pleasing to a wife than to hear of the welfare of her best beloved, and how he is pleased with her poor endeavours? I blush to hear m^'self commended, knowing my own wants. But it is \o\xv love that conceives the best, and makes all things seem better than they are. I wish that I may always be pleasing to thee, and that those comforts we have in each other ma}' be daih' increased, as far as thej' be pleasing to God. I will use that speech to thee that Abigail did to David ; I will be a servant to wash the feet of my lord. I will do any service wherein I may please my good husband. I con- fess I cannot do enough for thee ; but thou art pleased to accept the will for the deed, and rest contented. I have many reasons to make me love thee, w^hereof I will name two : first, because thou lovest God; and secondly, because thou lovest me. If these two were wanting, all the rest would 18 274 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc, be eclipsed. But I must leave this discourse, and go about my household affairs. I am a bad house- wife to be so long from them ; but I must needs borrow a little time to talk with thee, mj sweet heart. The term is more than half done. I hope thy business draws to an end. It will be but two or three weeks before I see thee, though they be long ones. God will bring us together in his good time ; for which I shall pray. I thank the Lord we are all in good health. We are very glad to hear so good news of our son Henrj'. The Lord make us thankful for all his mercies to us and ours. And thus, with m}' mother's and m}" own best love to yourself and all the rest, I shall leave this scribbling. The weather being cold makes me make haste. Farewell, my good husband ; the Lord keep thee. Your obedient wife, Margaret Winthrop. John Winthrop to his Wife. To my very loving wife, Mus. Wikthrop, at Groton, in Suffolk. Childerditch, Jan. 1, 1623. My sweet Spouse, — I praise our good God, and do heartily rejoice in th}* welfare and of the John Winthrop to Ms Wife. 275 rest of our family, longing greatly to be with thee, whom my soul delights in above all earthV things ; these times of separation are harsh and grievous while they last, but they shall make onr meeting more comfortable. It will be Monday at night before I can come home. In the meantime my heart shall be with thee, as it is always, and as th}' love deserves. I am now at Childerditch, from whence I cannot go till Saturday, and it will be too far to come home ; so as I intend to keep the Lord's da}' at Sir Harr}' Mildmaies. The news here is of a Parliament, to begin the 12th of February next. The Earl of Oxford came out of the Tower upon Tuesda}^ last. Other things I shall relate to thee when we meet ; only I thought good to write lest thou shouldst be troubled at m}' not coming on Saturday night. Thus commending thee and all ours to the gra- cious blessing and holy providence of our Heav- enly Father, I heartily embrace my sweet wife in the arms of my best affections, ever resting. Thy faithful husband, J. Winthrop. 276 Letters of Statesmen , Military Men, etc. The Same to the Same, The following letter was written by John Winthrop after he had parted from his family and embarked on the " Arbella " for Massachusetts. It seems to have been agreed upon between them that they should think of each other at "five of the clock Mondays and Fridays." Ko lovers could have been more devoted in the first hour of troth-plight than these two who had then been twelve years wedded. To Mrs. Margaret Winthrop, the elder, at Groton. From aboard the " Arbella," riding at the CowES, March 28, 1630. My faithful and dear Wife, — It pleaseth God that thou shouldst once again hear from me before our departure, and I hope this shall come safe to th}^ hands. I know it will be a great refreshing to thee. And blessed be his mercy, that I can write thee so good news, that we are all in very good health, and, having tried our ship's entertainment now more than a week, we find it agree very well with us. Our boys are well and cheerful, and have no mind of home. They lie both with me, and sleep as soundly in a rug (for we use no sheets here) as ever they did at Groton, and so I do myself, I praise God. The wind hath been against us this week and more ; but this daj^ it is come fair to the north, so John Winthrop to his Wife. 277 as we are preparing, by God's assistance, to set sail in the morning. We have only four ships ready, and sonae two or three Hollanders go along with us. The rest of our fleet, being seven ships, will not be ready this sennight. We have spent now tw^o Sabbaths on shipboard very comfortably, God be praised, and are daily more and more encouraged to look for the Lord's presence to go along with us. Hemy Kingsbury hath a child or two in the '-'- Talbot" sick of the measles, but Hke to do well. One of my men had them at Hampton, but he was soon well again. We are, in all our eleven ships, about seven hundred persons, pas- sengers, and two hundred and forty cows, and about sixt}' horses. The ship which wxnt from Plymouth carried about one hundred and forty persons, and the ship which goes from Bristowe carrieth about eight}' persons. And now (my sweet soul) I must once again take my last fare- well of thee in Old England. It goeth very near to my heart to leave thee ; but I know to whom I have committed thee, even to Him who loves thee much better than any husband can, who hath taken account of the hairs of thy head, and puts all th}' tears in his bottle, who can and (if it be for his gior}') will bring us together again with peace and comfort. Oh, how it refresheth my 278 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc, heart to think that I shall yet again see thy sweet face in the land of the living ! — that lovely countenance, that I have so much delighted in, and beheld with so great content. I have hitherto been so much taken up with business, as I could seldom look back to my former happiness ; but now, when I shall be at some leisure, I shall not avoid the remembrance of thee, nor the grief for thy absence. Thou hast thy share with me, but I hope the course we have agreed upon will be some ease to us both. Mondays and Frida3's, at ^\e of the clock at night, we shall meet in spirit till we meet in person. Yet, if all these hopes should fail, blessed be our God that we are assured we shall meet one day, if not as husband and wife, yet in a better condition. Let that staj^ and comfort th}' heart. Neither can the sea drown th}' husband, nor enemies destro}', nor any adversity deprive thee of thy husband or children. Therefore I will onlj^ take thee now and m}' sweet children in mine arms, and kiss and embrace you all, and so leave you with m}' God. Farewell, farew ell. I bless jou all in the name of the Lord Jesus. I salute m}' daughter Winth., Matt., Nan., and the rest, and all my good neighbours and friends. Pray all for us. Farewell. Commend my blessing to my son John. I cannot now write The Sidney Letters. 279 to him ; but tell him I have committed thee and thine to him. Labour to draw him yet nearer to God, and he will be the surer staff of comfort to thee. I cannot name the rest of xny good friends, but thou canst supph' it. I wrote, a week since, to thee and Mr. Leigh, and divers others. Thine wheresoever, Jo. WlXTHROP. The Sidney Letters. One of the most interesting families in English history is the SiD-VEY family, of which two such rare characters as Pliilip Sidney, in Elizabeth's reign, and Algernon Sid- ney, in the reign of Charles I., are scions. The first illus- trious member of this house was Sir Henry Sidney, the father of Philip, a broad-minded and noble-hearted gentle- man, a patron of literature and interested in the advance- ment of all that was good for his country and for mankind. His sons were the famous Sir Philip Sidney, and Kobert, a younger son, whose son Robert became the second Earl of Leicester, and the father of Algernon Sidney. This Rob- ert, the second Earl of Leicester, married Dorothy Percy, the eldest daughter of the Earl of Northumberland. Their union seems to have been from first to last a profoundly happy one. The Earl outlived his wife several years, and in his journal, which he kept regularly, he gives the following account of her death and her last farewell to him : — '■ On Saturday, the 20th of August, 1659, between six 280 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc. and seven o'clock in the morning, my wife sent one of her women, who came in some haste, to tell me she desired to speak to me. I was not yet out of bed, but I put on my clothes as fast as I could, and came and kneeled by her bedside, where she liad caused herself to be raised, and sat up, being stayed by one of her women. I took her by the liand and kissed it. She inclined her face toward me, and said, ' My dearest heart, I find that I must very quickly leave you, but before I die I desire to say a few words unto you, and many I cannot say. Love God above all; fear liim and serve him. My love has been great and constant unto you,' — then she wept gently, — 'and I beseech you pardon my anger, my angry words, my passions, and what- soever wlierein I have oifended you, even all my faults and failings towards you. Pray for me in this my weak estate and near approach of death. Commend me to my dear boy. I should have been glad to see him before I die. . . . Keep all your promises, and trouble not yourself for me. I pray God you may live happily when I am gone, and that God will be pleased to take you at that time when he shall find it best for you. Fear God, love God, serve God. Remember me and love my memory. Think continually upon eternity. I can say no more, so, my dear lord, farewell.' Then, inclining her face to mine as well as she could, and gently pressing my hand, she said, *God bless you, and now lay me down to rise no more.' " Some of Lady Dorothy's letters to her husband and to her son, Algernon Sidney, are preserved among the papers of the Sidney family. The following, which is written in the sixteenth year of their wedded life, is evidently in an- swer to a letter in which the Earl has reproved her for complaining that his letters did not reach her promptly. Lady Dorothy Sidney to her Husband, 281 Lady Dorothy Sidney to lier Husband. Penshurst, Feb. 7, 1636. My dearest Heart, — For m}^ exceptions to your silence I humblj' ask 3'our pardon, for since I have received three letters from 3^00, — the one hy Mr. Auger, who I have not yet seen, but he writes to me with much civilit}^ and I hear that he speaks of you with all the honour, estimation, and affection that can be, which should make him as welcome to me as any of my brothers. Two letters more have I had since his arrival ; but that which was first written came last to my hands, for vay Lord of Holland sent it to me 3'es- terday, and the other, which was dated the 27th Jan., w^as received by me the 4th of Feb. The}' all brought such contentment to me as nothing but 3'our own person can give me a jo}' bej'ond it ; and though you reproach me for chid- ing, yet I hope the consideration of the cause shall free me from any further punishment than the gentle rebuke you have already given me. B}^ the two letters here enclosed you will find a change from w^hat I heretofore declared to 3'ou ; and besides the good success which is now expected of your negotiations, I find there is a 282 Letters of Statesmen^ Military Men, etc. general applause of 3^our proceedings, which is no small delight to me and I hope will be a great encouragement to you ; for though I confess your labours to be very great, 3'et I trust the conclusion will be verj^ good, and then all the pains will be remembered with pleasure and ad- vantage to yon. ... I hope the three hundred pounds 3'ou commanded shall be returned to 3'ou at the time appointed, and when more is received it shall be disposed of according to your direc- tion. The present, also, for the Queen of France I will be ver3' careful to provide ; but it cannot be handsome for that proportion of mone3' which 3^ou do mention ; for those bone laces, if they be good, are dear, and -I will send of the best, for the honour of the nation and m3' own credit. You persuade m3' going to London, and there I shall play the ill huswife, which I perceive 3'ou are content to suffer rather than I shall remain in this solitariness ; and 3'et m3' intention is now to- remain till the beginning of next month, unless Mr. Auger's going awaA' cany me up sooner. All the children I will leave here, according to 3'our advice ; and if you can spare Daniel, I de- sire that 3'ou will send him to me for the time of m3' being in London. Earl of Sunderland to his Wife. 283 Mr. Seladine comes in with 3'our letter, whom I am engaged to entertain a httle ; besides, it is supper-time, or else I should bestow one side of this paper in making love to you ; and since I may with modesty express it^ I will say that if it he love to think on you sleeping and waking., to dis- course on nothing with pleasure hut what concerns you., to wish myself every hour with you\ and to pray for you with as much devotion as for my own soul, then certainly it may he said I am in love ; and this is all you shall hear at this time from Your Dorothy Leicester. The Earl of Sunderland to Lady Dorothy^ his Wfe. The daugliter of Lady Dorothy Sidney, who wrote the beautiful letter given above, also named Dorothy, was married to Robert Spenser, Earl of Sunderland. She had been wooed by Edmund Waller in his verses, as the ^' in-^ comparable Saccharissa,'' and on the occasion of her mar- riage with Spenser, the poet wrote her sister, Lady Lucy Sidney, a letter which is famous for its wit and playful irony. In it he says : — "May my Lady Dorothy, if we may yet call her so, suffer as much, and have the like passion for this young lord whom she has preferred to the rest of mankind, as others have had for her. And may his love, before the 284 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc, year go about, make her taste the first curse imposed on niankmd, the i)ain of becoming a mother. May lier first- born be none of her own sex, nor so like her, but that he may resemble her lord as much as herself. May she, that always affected silence and retirement, have the house filled with the noise and number of her children, and here- after of her grandchildren, and then may she arrive at tliat great curse, so much declined by fair ladies, old age ; may she live to be very old, and yet seem young, — be told so by her glass, yet have no aches to inform her of the truth; and when she shall appear to be mortal, may her lord not mourn for her, but go hand in hand with her to that place where we are told there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage, so that, being there divorced, we may all have an equal interest in her again. My revenge being immor- tal, I wish all this may befall her posterity to the world's ends and afterwards. "Edmund Waller." The happiness of Lady Dorothy and her husband was of brief duration! The Earl of Sunderland was killed in the battle of ^S'ewbury, fighting for a cause in which he felt his honour more than his heart was enlisted. The letter which follows was written at Oxford, then the headquarters of King Charles, four days before the battle in which the Earl met his death. Oxford, Sept. 16, 1643. My dearest Heart, — Since I wrote 3^011 last from Sulbej^ we had some hopes one day to fight with m}^ Lord of Essex's arm}', we receiving cer- tain intelligence of his being in a field convenient enougli, called Riffle field, toward which we ad- Earl of Sunderland to his Wife, 285 vaneed with all possible speed. Upon which he returned with the bod}' of his army to Tewksbnrj, where, b}' the advantage of the bridge, he was able to make good his quarter with five hundred men against twent}^ thousand. So that though we were at so near a distance as that we could have been with him in two hours, his quarter be- ing so strong, it was resolved on Thursda}'^ that we, seeing for the present he would not fight with us, we should endeavour to force him to it b}' cut- ting off his provisions ; for which purpose the best waj^ was for the body of our arm}' to go back to Everholme, and for our horse to distress him. Upon w^hich I and many others resolved to come for a few days hither, there being no possibility of fighting very suddenly, where w^e arrived very late on Thursday night. As soon as I came I went to your father's, w^here I found AUibone, with whose face I was better pleased than with any of the ladies here. This expression is so much a bolder thing than charging my Lord Essex, that should the letter miscarry, and come to the knowledge of our dames, I should, by hav- ing my eyes scratched out, be cleared of coming away from the army from fear, where, if I had stayed, it is odds I should not have lost more than one. 285 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc. Last night very gooc] news came to court, that we, A'esterclaj' morning, fell upon a horse quarter of the enemy's and cut oif a regiment, and that my Lord of Newcastle hath killed and taken pris- oners two whole regiment of horse and foot that issued out of Hull, which place he hath great hope to take ere long. B3' the same messenger last night the King sent the Queen word that he would come hither Monday or Tuesday, upon one of which days, if he alter not his intention, I shall not fail to return to the army. I am afraid our dela}^ before Gloucester has hindered us from making an end of the war this 3'ear, which noth- ing could keep us from doing if we had a month's more time, which we lost there, for we were never in a more prosperous condition ; and yet the division does not at all diminish, especially between 142 and 412,^ bj^ which we receive preju- dice. I never saw the King use anybody with greater neglect than 100; and we say he is not used much better by the Queen. Mrs. Jermyn met my Lord Jermyn, with whom I came, at Woodstock with a coach, who told me she would write to aou ; which I hope she has done, for since I came here I have seen no crea- 1 These figures are ciphers to denote proper names which it was not politic to write in full. Earl of Sunderland to his Wife. 287 tiire but 3'our father and m}' uncle, so that I am altogether ignorant of the intrigue of this place. Before I go hence I hope somebody ^viil come from 3'ou ; however, I shall leaA^e a letter here for you. I have taken the best care I can of my economical affairs. 1 am afraid I shall not be able to get you a better house, — everybod}' thinks me mad for speaking about it. Pray bless Pop- pet^ for me, and tell her I would have writ to her, but that, upon mature deliberation, I found it to be uncivil to return an answer to a lad}' in an- other character [writing] than her own, which I am not 3'et learned enough to do. I cannot, hj walking m}' chamber, call to mind an3'thing to set down here, and really I have made you no small compliment in writing you this much, for I have so great a cold that I cannot do anything but sneeze, and mine eyes do nothing but water all the while I am in this posture of hanging down my head. I ])eseech you to present his service to my lad}^, who is most passionately and perfectlj^ yours, Sunderland. 1 The Earl's Utile daughter. 288 Letters of Statesmen^ Military Men, etc. Lord and Lady Russell The love of Lady Rachel Russell for her husband, their happy wedded life and her devotion to him unto death, are famous even in the annals of woman's devotion. Guizot in his U Amour dans le Manage has taken Lady Russell's marriage as a type of the best and finest union, and cites her letters to her husband as a proof that the most roman- tic sentiment may be preserved in marriage when what is usually considered the age of romance is past. Before her marriage with Lord Russell (then simply Mr. William Russell) Lady Rachel had been married to Lord Vaughan, and was left, when still young, a widow with large fortune. The estate of Stratton, often referred to in their letters, was Lady Vaughan's own estate, which had become hers through her first marriage. But whatever the advantage of wealth and position on Lady Vaughan's part, the marriage was undoubtedly a love-match on both sides. It would be difficult to find any record of affection more reciprocal, or two hearts more fully at one than these two. After twelve years of wedlock she ends one of her letters thus : " I have nothing new to write you, but I know, as certainly as I live, that I liave been for twelve years as passionate a lover as ever woman was, and hope to be so one twelve years more, happy still and entirely yours." For more than twelve years this perfect union continued without clouds. Lord Russell's great abilities, his patriot- ism, his unblemished purity of character, gave him a high place in public affairs. He was a devoted servant of King Charles IL but he was also a devoted Protestant, and as such inclined to oppose the succession of James, Lord and Lady Russell. 289 the Duke of York, fearing that he was too much in sym- pathy with Catholics for the safety of the government. Tlirough this fear, Russell was drawn into a cabal with five others, — men so differing in their motives and char- acter that they form a group unique enough to be noted here. They were the Duke of Monmouth, the Earl of Essex, Algernon Sidney, Lord Howard, John Hampden (a grandson of the great Hampden of Cromwell's time), and Lord Russell. The most treasonable among them was Monmouth, a son of Charles IL by Lucy Waters, who aspired to the crown and was beheaded for treason in the following feign of James II. Sidney and Essex were republicans and desired a new form of government; while Russell and Hampden entered into no plots against the crown or the state, but simply advocated a reform of some griev- ances and wished to make sure that the succession was not Catholic in its tendencies. As soon as suspicion was aroused against the party, the dastardly Howard turned state's evidence and so escaped all penalty. Monmouth was warned of his danger on ac- count of his relationship to the king, and the Duchess of Monmouth herself went to Charles II. to implore him to spare his son. This he easily promised ; but as the Stuart promises were not held at high value, it was thought best that Monmouth should seek safety by flight to the Conti- nent. The event proved his wisdom, for when the conspira- tors were arrested the Duchess of Monmouth's apartments were the first to be entered and searched. Essex, who was a friend of Russell's, was found with his throat cut in prison shortly after his arrest, and is supposed to have committed suicide. Hampden, strangely enough, was let off with a 19 290 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc, fine of £40,000; and of the six, only Algernon Sidney and Lord Russell, the two noblest of them all, suffered death on the scaffold. It was in these last days, when her husband was on trial for his life, that Lady Russell's character showed its most heroic features. Every effort which she could make for his safety and defence she made with a clear-headed- ness and a calmness which kept all useless emotion under control. When he was put on trial Russell asked the judge: — "Am I permitted a secretary, my lord, to set down what I sliall say 1 " The judge answered, " If any of your servants are present they may act in that office." *^My wife is here," answered Russell, "and will do it." A thrill ran through the whole court as, at the assent of the judge. Lady Russell came quietly forward and took the place beside her husband. She was a daughter of Southampton, who had risked his life in the king's service when the Cromwell party was in power, and had many times filled Charles's empty pockets with supplies of Eng- lish gold when the young king was in exile and in poverty. Even the sternest royalists were moved to pity by the sight of this daughter of a loyal house, as she sat quietly day after day beside her husband, doing the work of his secre- tary with an ability that made her indispensable to him. But no efforts, either personal or legal, could save Russell. He himself made some vain appeals and concessions, urged thereto, as he said, not by fear of death, but to satisfy his noble wife, and leave her with the feeling that all possible effort had been made to save him. When sentence was passed and the day of execution fixed, Lady Russell took leave of him in prison the night Loi\i and Lady Russell. 291 before his death. Each of them controlled all emotion, that the other might not be grieved or disturbed by the sight of tears or lamentations. When the time came to part, they clasped each other in a long, close embrace, and separated without the utterance of a word or the shed- ding of a tear. Then Lady Russell went away into her long and lonely widowhood, in which her memories of her husband and her hope of sometime joining him in a blessed future were her chief comforts. One outburst of the heart in one of her letters is most touchingly eloquent. She writes : — " My heart mourns too sadly, I fear, and cannot be com- forted, because I have not the dear companion and sharer of my joys and sorrows. I want him to walk with, to talk with, to eat and sleep with. All these things are now irk- some to me, the day unwelcome, the night so too ; all com- pany and meals I would avoid if it might be. Yet all this is, that I enjoy not the world in my own way, and this hinders my comfort. AYhen I see my children I remember the pleasure he took in them and this makes my heart shrink. Can I regret his quitting a lesser good for a big- ger? Oh, if I did steadfastly believe, I could not be so dejected, for I will not injure myself to say, I offer my mind any inferior consolation to supply his loss." Lady Russeirs letters would in no way be remarkable if they were not written so directly from the heart. She speaks sometimes apologetically of her powers as a letter- writer, but the simple feeling with which she writes lends her often an eloquence which is better than that of more famous writers, and the tender domestic atmospJiere in which she writes is very beautiful. I add to the fol- lowing letters by Lady Russell one little note from her husband, written when he was away for a few days on 292 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc. business, which expresses a tenderness as ardent as her letters reveal for him. It will be noticed that Lady RusseU's early letters to her husband are signed " R. Vaughan." She retained this signature till her husband gained his title, and thenceforth signed herself " Russell." Lord Russell to Lady Russell^ written ten Years after Marriage, Basing, Feb. 8, 1679. I AM stole from a great many gentlemen in the drawing-room at Basing for a moment, to tell my dearest I have thought of her being here the last time, and wished for her a thousand times ; but in vain, alas, for I am just going now to Stratton and want the chariot, and my dearest dear in it. I hope to be with you on Saturday. We have had a very troublesome journej^ of it, and insig- nificant enough b}' the fairness and excess of civility of somebod}^ but more of that when I see 3'OU. I long for that time, and am, more than you can imagine, -^ ^^^^ EUSSELL. Lady Russell to Lord Russell. TiCHFiELD, Aug. 22, 1675. I WRITE this to m}^ dear Mr. Russell, because I love to be busied in either speaking of him or to him, but the pretence I take is lest the letter Lady Bussell to Lord Russell. 293 I wrote j'esterda}' should miscarry ; so this may again inform you at London, that 3'our coach shall be at Harford Bridge (if God permit) upon Thursday, to wait 3'our coming, and on Saturday I hope to be at Stratton and m}' sister also. This da}^ she resolved it, so her coach will bring us all. ... It is an inexpressible joy to consider I shall see the person in the world I most and onlj' long to be with, before another week is past. I should condemn my sense of this happiness as weak and pitiful if I could tell it to you. No, my best life, I can say little, but think all 3'ou can, and you cannot think too much. My heart makes it all good. I perfectly know my infinite obligations to Mr. Russell, and in it is the delight of her life, who is as much yours as j'ou desire she should be. Rachel Yaughan. The Same to the Same, London, Sept. 6, 1680. My girls and I being just risen from dinner, Miss Rachel followed me into my chamber, and seeing me take pen and ink asked me what I was going to do. I told her I was going to write to her papa. " So will I," said she, " and while you write I will think what I have to say," and truly, 294 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc. before I could write one word, she came and told me she had done. So I set down her words, and she is hard at the business, as I am not, one would conclude, by the pertinence of this beginning, but m}^ dear man has taken me for better or worse in all conditions, and knows my soul to him. So expressions are but a pleasure to m3-self, not to him who believes better things of me than my ill rhetoric will induce him to by mj' words. To this minute I am not one jot wiser as to intelligence (whatever other improvements m}^ study has made me), but I hope this afternoon's conversation will better me that ^vaj. Lady Shaftesbury sends me word if her lord continues as well as he was this morning I shall see her, and ni}' sister was visiting there 3'esterday. I shall suck the hone}' from them all, if the}' be communicative. . . . Later. I have stayed till Mr. Cheke came in, and he helps me to nothing but a few half-crowns, I expect, at backgammon. Unless I let him read my letter he vows he would tell me no news, if he knew any, and doubting this is not worth his perusal I hasten to shut it np. Lord Shaftesbury was alone, so his lady came not. Your birds came safe to feed us to-morrow. I am yours, my dear love, R. Russell. Lady Russell to Lord BussclL 295 The Same to the Same. Strattox, Sept. 30, 1681. To see an3'body preparing and taking their way to see what I long to do a thousand times more than the}', uiakes me not endure to suffer their going without saying something to m}' best life, though it is a kind of anticipating m}' joy when we shall meet, to allow myself so much be- fore that time ; but I confess I feel a great deal that although I left London with great reluctance (as it is easy to persuade men that a woman does), yet I am not like to leave Stratton with greater. They will tell you how well I got hither, and how well I found our dear treasure here. Your boy will please 3'ou ; you will, I think, find him improved, though I tell you so beforehand. Thej^ fancy he wanted you, for, as soon as I alighted, he followed, calling ''Papa;" but I suppose it is the word he has most command of, so was not disobliged by the little fellow. The girls were fine in remembrance of the happy 29th of Sept. [Lord Russell's birthday], and we drank your health after a red-deer pie, and at night your girls and I supped on a sack-posset ; na}'. Master [their son] would have his share, and for haste burnt his fingers in the posset, but he does but rub his hands for it. 296 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc. It is the most glorious weather that ever was seen. The coach shall meet you at the cabbage- garden ; it will be there by eight or a little after, although I hardh^ guess 3'ou will be there so soon, day breaks so late, and indeed the mornings are so mist}" it is not wholesome to be in the air so earl}'. I do propose going to m}' neighbour Worslej' to-day. I would fain be telling my dear heart more things, — anj'thing to be in a kind of talk with him, — but I believe Spenser stays for me to de- spatch this ; he was willing to go earl}', but this writing to 3'ou was to be the delight of this morn- ing and the support of the day. It is j^erformed in bed, thj' pillow at mj back, where th}' dear head shall lie, I hope, to-morrow night, and many more, I trust in his mercy, notwithstanding all our enemies or evil-wishers. Love, and be will- ing to be loved by, thy R. Russell. The Dule of Marlborough to the Duchess. The greatest mihtary leader of England in the eighteenth century, John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough, was under the domination of a ruler more powerful than he. For years the Duchess of Marlborough, imperious, bril- liant, ambitious, was the most powerful person in Eng- Dithe of Marlborough to the Duchess. 297 land, ruling even the queen by the ascendancy she had gained through their long friendship. It is difficult to see now how she held such power, with so little that seems attractive, and with nothing that is amiable, in her character ; but that she must have been in youth a woman capable of attaching others to her with hooks of steel is incontrovertible. Marlborough married her for love, and loved her absolutely. His affection breaks through all his letters to her. He writes, '* I am heart and soul yours/' " I can have no hapi)iness till I am with you ; " and his fear of her displeasure or tempers comes in such plainiive bursts as *' I am never so happy as when I think you are kind." His motive of life was to please her, and his ambition to conquer all fields that were before him, that he might settle down at home with " the blessing of living quietly with her my soul longs for.'* Perhaps fortunately for this much-wished-for peace, the Duke died long before the Duchess, who lived to great old age ; a virago whose last days remind us not a little of those of the Countess of Shrewsbury,^ in Elizabeth's reign, who spent her last days not only at variance with those about her, but even with her nearest of kin, and who died exe- crated by those to whom she should have been an object of reverence and love. Hague, April 23, 1706. I AM very uneasy at not having beard from you since my being in this countr}' ; and, the wind con- tinuing in the east, I am afraid I shall not have the satisfaction of receiving any letter from my 1 See letters to Countess of Shrewsbury, p. 242. 298 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc. dearest soul before I leave this place, which will be the next week. I am j'et in uncertainty where I shall serve this summer, for Cadogan is not 3'et returned from Hanover ; but b}^ a letter I have received from the King of Denmark, and that I send by this post to Lord Treasurer, I see that I must not depend upon anj^ of the Danish troops ; so that if Hanover should persist in doing the same, though these people should consent to what I propose, it will not be in our power to find the troops necessar}', which gives me, as 3'ou may imagine, a good deal of vexation. I hope m}" next will let 3'ou know the certaintj' of what I shall be able to do. My dearest soul, my desire of being with 3'ou is so great that I am not able to express the im- patience I am in to have this campaign over. I pra3^ God it nia3' be so happy that there may be no more occasion of my coming, but that I maj- ever sta3^ with 3'ou, m3' dearest soul. The Same to the Same, icritien just after the Battle of Ramillies. Ramillies, Monday, May 24, 11 o'clock, 1706. I DID not tell m3' dearest soul the design I had of engaging the enem3^ if possible, to a battle, Duke of Marlborough to the Duchess. 299 fearing the concern she has for me might make her uneasy ; but I can now give her the satisfac- tion of letting her know that on Sunday last we fought, and that God Ahuighty has been pleased to give us a victory. I must leave the particu- lars to this bearer, Colonel Richards, for, having been on horseback all Sunday, and after the bat- tle marching all night, my head aches to that degree that it is ver}' iineas}' to me to write. Poor Bingfield, holding my stirrup for me and helping me on horseback, was killed. I am told that he leaves his wife and mother in a poor con- dition. I can't write to any of my children, so 3'ou will let them know I am well, and that I desire the}' will thank God for preserving me. And pra}' give my duty to the Queen, and let her know the truth of m}' heart, that the greatest pleasure I have in this success is, that it may be a great service to her affairs ; for I am sincerely sensible of all her goodness to me and mine. VYf\\ believe me when I assure yon that I love you more than I can express. 300 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc. The Letters of Mr. and Mrs. John Adams, Especially interesting to Americans are the letters of John Adams and his wife, which Avere written when the American conflict began which made the United States a nation, and in the course of which correspondence we may trace many of the events that attended the formation of the young nation. Mrs. Adams's letters have been deservedly famous among her countrywomen. They are homely, sensible, and not without the eloquence of the heart. She was a tower of strength to her husband, and deserved the name of Portia he seems to have given her, and which she often signs herself in writing to him. Like Brutus's Portia, she was well fathered and well husbanded, and has much of the stuff of the Roman matron in her composition. The letters of the pair breathe little of the romance of passion, but they are among ihe best specimens of letters which spring from a union based on harmony of opinion and highest esteem for each other's virtues, — a union of real friendship as well as of love, — and most of their letters appropriately begin, " My dearest fi leud." John Adams to his Wife. Ppiiladelphia, 22 May, 1776. When a man is seated in the midst of forty people, some of whom are talking and others whispering, it is not eas}' to think what is proper to write. I shall send you the neAvspapers, which will inform you of public affairs and the particular bickerings of parties in this colony. I am happy John Adams to his Wife, 301 to learn from your letter that a flame is at last raised among the people for the fortification of the harbour. Whether Nantasket or Point Alder- ton would be proper posts to be taken, I can't say. But I would fortify ever}' place which is proper, and which cannon could be obtained for. Generals Gates and Mifflin are now here. Gen- eral Washington will be here to-morrow, when w^e shall consult and deliberate concerning the opera- tions of the ensuing campaign. We have dismal accounts from Europe of the preparations against us. Tliis summer will be very important to us. We shall have a severe trial of our patience, fortitude, and perseverance. But I hope we shall do valianth' and tread down our enemies. I have some thoughts of petitioning the Gen- eral Court for leave to bring my family here. I am a lonely, forlorn creature here. It used to be some comfort to me that I had a servant and some horses. They composed a soil of family for me. But now there is not one creature here that I seem to have any kind of relation to. It is a cruel reflection, which very often comes across me, that I should be separated so far from those babes whose education and welfare lie so near m}^ heart. But greater misfortunes than these must not divert us from superior duties. 302 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc. Your sentiments of the duties we owe to our country are such as become the best of women and the best of men. Among all the disappoint- ments and perplexities which have fallen to my share in life, nothing has contributed so much to support my mind as the choice blessing of a wife, whose eapacit}' enabled her to comprehend, and whose pure virtue obliged her to approve, the views of her husband. This has been the cheer- ing consolation of m}' heart in my most solitarj', gloomy, and disconsolate hours. In this remote situation I am deprived in a great measure of this comfort. Yet I read and read again yonr charming letters, and the}' serve me, in some faint - degree, as a substitute for the company and con- versation of the writer. I want to take a walk with you in the garden, to go over to the common, the plain, the meadow. I want to take Charles in one hand and Tom in the other, and walk with you. Abb}' on your right hand and John upon my left, to view the cornfields, the orchards, &c. Alas, poor imagination ! how faintly and im- perfectly do you supply the want of originality and reality. But instead of these pleasing scenes of domestic life, I hope you will not be disturbed with the alarms of war. I hope, yet I fear. Mrs. Adams to her Husband. Mrs. Adams to her Husband. 23 December, 1782. My dearest Friend, — I have omitted writing b}' the last opportunity to Holland, because I had but small faith in the designs of the owners or passengers, and I had just written so largely by a vessel bound to France, that I had nothing new to saj'. There are few occurrences in this north- ern climate at this season of the 3'ear to divert or entertain you, and in the domestic way should I draw you the picture of ni}' heart it would be what I hope you would still love though it con- tained nothing new. The early possession 3'ou obtained there, and the absolute power you have obtained over it, leaves not the smallest space unoccupied. I look back to the earh' days of our acquaintance and friendship as to the days of love and innocence, and, with an indescribable pleasure, I have seen near a score of years roll over our heads wdth an affection heightened and improved b}' time, nor have the drear}' 3'ears of absence in the smallest degree effaced from my mind the image of the dear untitled man to whom I gave my heart. I cannot sometimes refrain considering the honours with w^hich he is invested as badges of m}' unhappiness. The unbounded 304 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc. confidence I have in your attachment to me and to the dear pledges of our affection, has soothed the solitary hours and rendered j'our absence more supportable, for had I loved you with the same* affection, it must have been misery to have doubted. Yet a cruel world too often injures my feelings by wondering how a person, possessed of domestic attachments, can sacrifice them by ab- senting himself for 3'ears. " If you had known," said a person to me the other da}^, ''that Mr. Adams would have re- mained so long abroad, would you have consented that he should have gone ? " I recollected mj'self a moment, and then spoke the real dictates of my heart. ''If I had known, sir, that Mr. Adams could have effected what he has done, I would not only have submitted to the absence I have endured, painful as it has been, but I would not have opposed it even though three 3'ears more should be added to the number (which Heaven avert) . I feel a pleasure in being able to sacri- fice my selfish passions to the general good, and in imitating the example which has taught me to consider myself and familj' but as the small dust in the balance when compared with the great community." It is now, m}' dear friend, a long, long time Warren Hastings to his Wife. 305 since I have had a line from you. Tlie Me o * Gibraltar leads me to fear that a peace is far distant, and that I shall see you — God only knows when. I shall sa}^ little about my former request ; not that mj' desire is less, but, before this can reach 30U, 'tis probable I may receive 3'our opinion : if in favour of my coming to 3'ou, 1 shall have no occasion to urge it further ; if against it, I will not embarrass you by again re- questing it. I will endeavour to sit down and consider it as the portion allotted to me. Adieu, m}' dear friend. Why is it that I hear so seldom from m}' dear John? But one letter have I ever received from him since he arrived in Petersburg. I wrote him b}' the last opportunity. Ever remember me, as I do you, with all the ten- derness which it is possible for one object to feel for another, which no time can obliterate, no distance alter, but which is always the same in the bosom of Portia. Letter of Warren Hastings to his Wfe, To those wlio have been interested in the history of Warren Hastings as Governor-General of India, this letter to his wife will be doubly interesting as showing the man more intimately than we can find liim in any record of his 20 306 Letters of Statesmen ^ MilitaQy Men, etc, public life, as we see it through the mist of accusation and defence that arises from his famous trial, made more famous by the triple eloquence of Burke, Eox, and Sheri- dan, all directed against him. Hastings's life with his wife, who was always his ** beloved Marian," was a peculiarly happy one, and their union more perfect than is usual in a world whose best harmony is likely to be full of discords. Their married life was pre- ceded by what is called, in novels and plays, '' a romance." When Hastings left England for India, to take his place as member of the council at Madras, he found, as fellow- passengers on board his ship, a Baron Imhoff and his wife, also on their way to India. Imholf was a German portrait- painter in needy circumstances, who hoped to find patron- age and money at Madras. No evidence is other than that he was a base fellow unworthy of respect and loyalty. That Madame Imhoff was worthy of a good man's affec- tion is proved by the after devotion and life-long love she won from such a man as Hastings. The disparity between the married pair and the unhappiness of the wife were ap- parent. Hastings became interested in JMadame Imhoff, and finally, after he had been ill during the voyage and had recovered under her tender nursing, he found himself deeply in love with her. Perfect frankness seems to have prevailed between himself and Imhoff, and an arrangement was made between them that the unvalued wife should apply for a divorce in a German court, and on receiving her freedom should become the wife of Hastings. The application for divorce was made, Imhoff favouring it; after five years of waiting and litigation the marriage was annulled ; Madame Imhoff was free. Hastings at once married her, and the Baron left India a much richer man than he could have hoped to become by portrait-painting. Warren Hastings to his Wife. 307 Mrs Hastings had two cliildren by her first marriage, whom Hastings adopted, and who seem to have loved him as a father. On his death, at an advanced age, the Baron- ess Charles Imhoff, wife of one of his adopted children, attended him like a daughter and mourned his loss as if she had lost a parent by tie of blood rather than adoption. In every way the marriage formed with the neglected and misprized wife of Imhoff was fruitful of happiness to all concerned. The letter following was written to Mrs. Hastings after she had left him to go to England in 1784, where he joined her a year later, to enter upon the anx- ieties of a trial which clouded him for many years with obloquy from which he emerged so completely that the House which impeached him, and from whose decision he appealed to the Lords, rose uncovered to receive him when he appeared before them, twenty years after their decision had been given against him. Warren Hastings to Ids Wife. Benares, Oct. 1, 1784. My dearest Marian, — I am indeed a fortu- nate man, and am tempted to adopt the term even to superstition ; and no wonder, for the belief has seized others long since, and universall}'. Last night, at about nine o'clock. Major Sands brought me the news of Pipps's arrival at Cal- cutta, and (ma}' God bless them both for it !) a short but blessed letter from j'ou, dated the loth of Ma}', the day of your departure from St. 308 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc. Helena, and written on board the "Atlas." It tells me only that 3^011 were safe on board and well, but it tells enough, and it is written in the language of cheerfulness and of affection. . . . All m}^ past doubts and the fixed gloom which has so long overspread m}' imagination are dissi- pated, like the darkness before the equinoctial sun rising on the plains of Suckrowl (do, my dear Marian, allow me to talk nonsense), and have given place to the confident hope that ever}' dreaded obstruction will follow them, and that I am once more destined to happiness. I am alread}' happ}' ; for, as God is m}^ witness that I prefer 3'our happiness to my own, I feel the meas- ure of m}^ present J03' full, with the information that I have recentlj^ received. . . . At what a time will you have arrived in Eng- land ! If nothing has happened between the '' Surprise's " departure and 3'our landing to change the public opinion of 3'our husband (and I think it not likel3^ that it should have been changed) , 3'ou will find his name standing in high and universal credit ; and what a welcome will it be to 3'ou I I have now but one wish remaining (3'es, one more), viz., to be able to leave the stage of active life while m3' fortune is in the zenith of its prospcrit3^, and while I have a con- stitution 3'et repairable. Letters of Aaron and Theodosia Burr. 309 I must repress inyself, for if I ^vrite all that the fulness of my heart is ready to dictate, I shall never come to an end, and I have this to cop}'. IJow it is to go I know not. I shall trust one to Mr. Boddam, and the other to Mr. Hay in Cal- cutta, to be despatched as each shall find means. Adieu, m\' beloved, my most deserving and lovely Marian. May the God whose goodness I have so wonderfully experienced bless you with health, safet}^ and comfort, and me with the repossession of my sweet Marian ! Amen ! Amen ! Amen ! I never loved you so much as I do at this instant, and as I have loved you since the delightful news of last night. . . . Adieu, my most beloved, adieu! Letters of Aaron and Theodosia Burr, A truly amiable and interesting side of Aarox Burr's character is tliat which we find when we look at his do- mestic relations with liis wife, Theodosia. All the misfor- tunes of his life came after he was bereft of the loving and intellectual woman who gave purpose and balance to that gifted but erratic nature. He met his wife, Tlieodosia Prevost, when he was a young officer in the Revolutionary army. She was a widow with two children, and was ten years Burr's senior. Tlie only hesitation about the marriage was the disparity in 310 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc. years. But Mrs. Burr was a beautiful and charming wo- man, then thirty-two or thirty-three. Burr was a man of intellect developed far beyond his years. He was an im- petuous lover, and married lier in spite of reason. The marriage turned out most happily, and Mrs. Prevost proved a wife lovable enough to retain till tlie last the heart she had won, which was faithful only to her. He said of her, " She was the only perfect, ladij I ever knew.'^ High praise from a man so fastidious ! And he writes to her in one of his latest letters, after they had been nearly twelve years wedded : " It was a knowledge of if our mind which first inspired me with a respect for that of ijoiir sex, and with some regret ^ I confess, that the ideas which yoa have often heard me express in favour of female intellectual powers are founded on what I have imagined more than on what I have seen, except in 7/ou.'' The letters of Mrs. Burr to her husband are full of sen- timent. Her husband's are no less affectionate, and when lie is away from her his letters are full of longings for the time when he shall return. He seems to have been equally devoted to their daughter, Theodosia, and writes to her ■ with fatherly care and tenderness blended with most charming humour. Mrs, Burr to her Husband. New York, Saturday, April, 1785 I PERSUADE myself this is the last daj^ yoii spend ill Philadelphia ; that to-morrow's stage will bring j^ou to Elizabethtown : that Tuesday morning 3^011 will breakfast with those who pass tedious hours in regretting your absence and counting the time till your return. Even little Mrs. Burr to her Husband, 311 Theo gives up her place on mamma's lap, to tell dear papa ^' come homey Tell Augustine lie does not know how much he owes me. 'T is a sacri- fice I would not make to an}' human being lout himself, nor even to him again. It is the last time in my life I submit to 3'our absence, except from the calls of 3'our profession. All is well at home : Ireson gone on his intended journey ; the boys very attentive and industrious ; not a loud word spoken b}' the servantj^ All in silent expectation await the return of the much-loved lord, but all faintly when compared to thy Theo. The Same to the Same. New York, May, 1785. I AM vexed that I did not inquire your route more particularh'. I cannot follow 3'ou in imagi- nation, nor find your spirit when at rest ; nor dare I count the hours till your return. The}' are still too numerous, and add to my impatience. I ex- pect my reward in the health you will acquire. If it should prove otherwise, how I shall hate my ac- quiescence to your departure. I anticipate good or evil as my spirits rise or fall, but I know no medium ; my mind cannot reach that stage of 312 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc. indifference. I fancy all my actions directed by you ; this tends to spur my industry and give calm to my leisure. The family as 3'ou left it. Barton never quits the office, and is perfectlj^ obliging. Your dear little daughter seeks you twenty times a day ; calls 3'ou to 3 our meals, and will not suffer your chair to be filled hy any of the famil3\ Judge Hobart called 3'esterday ; says 3'ou are absent for a month. I do not admit that among possi- bilities, therefore am not alarmed. I feel obliged to Mr. Wickham for his delay, though I dare not give scope to m3' pen ; m3^ heart dictates too freel3'. O m3' Aaron, how man3' tender, grateful things rush to m3' mind at this moment ; how much for- titude do I summon to suppress them ! You will do justice to m3' silence, to the inexpressible affection of 3'our plus tendre amie^ Theodosia. Aaron Burr to his Wife. Albany, 2 Nov., 1785. I HAVE lived these three da3's upon the letters I expected this evening, and behold the stage without a line from 3'OU. I have been through the rain and dark and mud, hunting up every Aaron Burr to his Wife. 313 passenger to catechise them for letters, and can scarce yet believe I am so totally forgotten. Our trial, of which I wrote you Sunday, goes on moderately. It will certainl}^ last till twelve o'clock Saturda}^ night ; longer it cannot, that being the last hour of court. Of course I leave this place on Sunday. Shall be detained at Westchester till about Thursday noon, and be home on Frida}'. This is my present prospect. A gloomy one, I confess, rendered more so by your unpardonable silence. I have a thousand questions to ask, but wh}^ ask of the dumb? I am quite recovered. The trial in which I am engaged is a fatiguing one, in some respects vexa- tious. But it puts me in better humour to reflect that you have just received my letter of Sunda}^ and are saying and thinking some good-natured things of me, determining to write anything that can amuse or interest me, everj^thing that can atone for the late silence or compensate for the hard fate that divides us. Since being here I have resolved that in future you accompan}^ me on such excursions, and I am provoked that I yielded to 3'our idle fears on this occasion. I have told here frequently, within a day or two, that I was never so long from home before, till upon counting the days I find I have 314 Letters of Statesmen^ Military Men, etc. been frequentl}^ longer. I am so constantty an- ticipating the duration of this absence, that when I speak of it I realize the whole of it. Let me find that you have done justice to 3'Our- self and me. I shall forgive none, the smallest omission on that head. Do not write by the Monda}^ stage, or, rather, do not send the letter you write, as it is possible I shall leave the stage road in my wa}^ to Bedford. Affectiouatel}^ adieu, A. Burr. The Same to the Same. This is among the later letters of Burr to his wife, who was then in failing health. She died the following year, after twelve years of happy "^vedded life. Philadelphia, 15 Feb., 1793. I RECEIVED with jo}' and astonishment, on en- tering the Senate this minute, your two elegant and affectionate letters. The mail closes in a few minutes, and will scarce allow me to acknowledge 3'our goodness. The roads and femes have been for some days almost impassable, so that till now no post has arrived since Moncia}'. It was a knowledge of 3'our mind which first inspired me with a respect for that of 3'oiir sex, and with some regret, I confess, that the ideas Aaron Burr to his Wife, 315 which* 3011 have often heard me express in favour of female intellectual powers are founded on what I have imagined more than on what I have seen, except in you, I have endeavoured to trace the causes of this rare display' of genius in women, and find them in the errors of education, of preju- dice, and of habit. I admit that men are equally, nay more, much more to blame than women. Boys and girls are generallj' educated much in the same way till they are eight or nine years of age, and it is admitted the girls make at least equal progress with the boys ; generalh', indeed, the}' make better. Why, then, has it never been thought worth the at' npt to discover, by fair experiment, the partidu'ar age at which the male superiorit}' becomes so evident? But this is not in answer to 3'our letter ; neither . is it possible now to answer it. Some parts of it I shall never answer. . . . Your plan and embellishment of my mode of life are fanciful, are flattering and in- viting ; we will endeavour to realize some of it. Pra}^ continue to write, if 3'ou can do so with im- punity. I bless Sir J., who, with the assistance of Heaven, has thus far restored 3'ou. In the course of this scrawl I have been sev- eral times called to vote, and must apologize to 3'ou for its incoherence. Adieu. A. Burr. 316 Letters of Statesmen ^ Military Men, etc. Lord Nelson and Lady Hamilton. The love of Lord Nelson for Lady Hamilton is so insep- arable a part of his history that it has become an episode in English history as well. There are few characters in the naval annals of England that excite such personal sympathy and interest as Lord Nelson. The enthusiasm which was felt for him by every sailor under his command communicates itself to all who read his life. He was a man perfectly brave, yet tender to excess; his men said of him that " he was brave as a lion yet as gentle as a lamb." His feelings were so acute that when any harsh discipline was enforced on board his ship he suffered from it as much as if he had been a woman. Such a nature as this was likely to be strongly swayed by the passion which seized him in the prime of manhood, at the height of his fame. That his love for Lady Hamilton was most genuine and sincere, no one can doubt. It was so sweeping and abso- lute that nothing in his life could stand against it. He felt it a part of his life, his loyalty, and his religion. The career of Lady Hamilton is one of the most excep- tional in all the accounts of women of strange and adven- turous fortunes. Whatever had been her history before her meeting with Nelson, her devotion to him seems as sincere and absolute as his for her. She was faithful to her affection from first to last, and remained faithful to his memory after death. That she was a person of almost irresistible charm, we have overwhelming testimony. Even Southey, who touches lightly on her history, says, '* She was a woman whose per- sonal attractions have scarcely been equalled, and whose powers of mind were not less fascinating than her person."' Lord Nelson and Lady LLamilton. 317 At the court of Naples she had carried all hearts before her. The queen, who was a sister of Marie Antoinette, wrote to her as her dearest friend. It was at Naples that Nelson first met her, and his affec- tion, begun then, ceased only with his death at the battle of Trafalgar. She was to him " his saint," " his guardian angel." When he was dead they found her picture on liis heart. He regarded her with a reverence almost supersti- tious. When he had his ship cleared for action on the morning of his last battle, and the pictures of Lady Ham- ilton and liis daughter Horatia were taken from the walls of his cabin, where they always hung, he told his men to "take care of his guardian angel." Almost his last words were, *' Take care of Lady Hamilton." '' I leave Lady Hamilton and my daughter to my country." The yearn- ing of the tender-hearted hero for affection burst out in his last w^ords to Captain Hardy, — " Kiss me, Hardy ; " and he died, as he had promised Lady liamilton, with the last sigh upon his lips for her felicity. It seems as if England should have regarded his reouest to " take care of Lady Hamilton." Not only his country, but his brother, who inherited his title, ignored his will and refused to acknowledge any claims. The estate of Merton, where Lady Hamilton had resided during Nelson^s ab- sences from home, was loaded with debts, which she made vain efforts to have cleared off, so as to preserve it. She Avas arrested for debt, actually imprisoned, and finally left England to live in France, in a little town near the sea- coast. Here, one day, an English lady, Mrs. Hunter, was buying some meat at the butcher's for her pet dog, when the shopman said to her, " My lady is English, and there is another lady in town, English too, who would be glad of the meat you buy for your little dog." 318 Letters of Statesmen^ Military Men, etc. Mrs. Hunter, shocked at what she heard, Avent to seek this English lady. It was Lady Hamilton, then in a dying condition. Mrs. Hunter succoured her and ministered to her, and soon saw her breathe her last. The letters of Nelson are very numerous, and are writ- ten on every occasion on which a letter could be transmit- ted. When there was danger that they would be opened they are more guarded than those sent by private means, but all breathe most absolute devotion and confidence. Tiie following is written just before his return from sea in 1801, before the death of Sir William Hamilton. Lord Nelson to Lady Hamilton, St. George, Kioge Bay, Apr. 25, 1801. My dearest FfvIENd, — Sir Hyde has just sent me word that the sloop "Arrow " sails for England this day, and I have only time to sa}^ that I hope in a fortnight to be in London. I am in expecta- tion ever}' moment of the removal of the fleet from the Baltic. Be that as it may, I will not remain ; no, not if I were sure of being made a duke with fifty thousand pounds a 3'ear. I wish for happiness to be m}- reward, not titles or money. To-morrow is the birthday of Saint Emma. She is my guardian angel. It is not in m}^ power to do much honour to her in this place, but I have invited all the admirals and all the captains who have the happiness of knowing jou, and, of course, Lord Nelson to Lady Hamilton. 319 of experiencing 3'our kindness while in the Medi- terranean. You ma}' rel}' that m}' saint is more adored in this fleet than all the saints in the Ro- man Calendar. I know 3'ou pra3'ed for me at the Nile and here, and if the prayers of the good, as we are taught to believe, are of avail at the Throne of Grace, wh}' may not 3'ours have saved m}' life ? I own m3'self a believer in God ; and if I have an3^ merit in not fearing death, it is because I feel his power can shelter me when he pleases, and that I must fall when it is his good pleasure. Ma3^ the God of heaven and earth bless and preserve 3'ou, m3" dearest friend, for the greatest happiness you can wish for in this w-orld, is the constant prayer of your real, sincere, affectionate friend till death, Nelson & Bronte. The Same to the Same. At Sea, Aug. 21, 1803. TYe have had, my dearest Emma, two days prett3" strong gales. The "Canopus" has lost her fore-3'ard, but we shall put her in order again. This is the fourth gale we have had since July 6-, but the *'Victor3'" is so eas3' at sea that I trust we shall never receive an3' material damage. It is never m3^ intention, if I can help it, to go 320 Letters of Statesmen, Military Men, etc, into an}' port ; my business is at sea, and to get hold of the French fleet ; and so I shall, by pa- tience and perseverance. . . . I entreat that 3'ou will let nothing fret you oxAy believe, once for all, that I am ever your own Nelson. I have not a thought, except on 3'ou and the French fleet. All iq}' thoughts, plans, and toils tend to those two objects, and I will em- brace them both so close, when I can lay hold of either one or the other, that the Devil himself should not separate us. Don't laugh at my put- ting the French fleet and you together, but 3'ou cannot be separated. I long to see you both in your proper places, — the French fleet at sea, you at dear Merton, which, in every sense of the word, I expect to find a paradise. I send you a cop3' of Gibb's letter, my answer, and a letter to Mr. Noble about 3'our things, and I will take all care that the}- shall get home safe. Ever 3'ours Nelson. The Same to the Same. This, Nelson's last letter to Ladv Hamilton, was found on his desk after death. It is now in4he British Museum, and is indorsed with these words in Lady Hamilton's handwriting : " This letter was found open on his desk and Lord Nelson to Lady Hamilton, 321 brought to Lady Hamilton by Captain Hardy. Oh miser- able wretched Emma ! Oh glorious and happy Nelson ! " This letter also enclosed a brief one for his daughter, Horatia. " Victory/' Oct. 19, 1805, Noon. Cadiz, E. S. E. 16 leagues. My dearest beloved Emma, the dear friend of my bosom. The signal has been made that the enemy's combined fleet are coming out of port. We have very little wind, so that I have no hopes of seeing them before to-morrow. May the God of battles crown my endeavours with success ; at all events I will take care that my name shall ever be most dear to you and to Horatia, both of whom I love as much as m}^ own life. And as my last writing before the battle will be to 3'ou, so I hope in God that I shall live to finish my letter after the battle. May Heaven bless you, pra3's Your Nelson & Bronte. Oct. 20. In the morning we were close to the mouth of the straits, but the wind had not come far enough to the westward to allow the combined fleets to weather the shoals of Trafal- gar ; but they were counted as far as fortj' sail of 21 322 Letters of Statesmen, ^lilitary Men, etc. ships of war, which I suppose to be thirty-four of the line and six frigates. A group of them was seen off the Ught-house at Cadiz this morning ; but it blows so very fresh and thick weather that I rather believe they will go into harbour before night. May God Almighty give us success over these fellows and enable us to get a peace. "? University Press : John Wilson & Son, Cambridge. JAN 2 ^ ^^n 7*t> X LIBRARY OF CONGRESS