I have forsworn being twice deceived by the same person.  For God’s sake do not say she has the spleen, I shall hate it worse than ever I did, nor that it is a disease of the wits, I shall think you abuse me, for then I am sure it would not be mine; but were it certain that they went together always, I dare swear there is nobody so proud of their wit as to keep it upon such terms, but would be glad after they had endured it a while to let them both go as they came.  I know nothing yet that is likely to alter my resolution of being in town on Saturday next; but I am uncertain where I shall be, and therefore it will be best that I send you word when I am there.  I should be glad to see you sooner, but that I do not know myself what company I may have with me.  I meant this letter longer when I begun it, but an extreme cold that I have taken lies so in my head, and makes it ache so violently, that I hardly see what I do.  I’ll e’en to bed as soon as I have told you that I am very much

Your faithful friend

and servant,

D. OSBORNE.

CHAPTER III

LIFE AT CHICKSANDS. 1653

Letter 9.—­Temple’s sister here mentioned was his only sister Martha, who married Sir Thomas Giffard in 1662, and was left a widow within two months of her marriage.  She afterwards lived with Temple and his wife, was a great favourite with them, and their confidential friend.  Lady Giffard has left a manuscript life of her brother from which the historian Courtenay deigned to extract some information, whereby we in turn have benefited.  She outlived both her brother and his wife, to carry on a warlike encounter with her brother’s amanuensis, Mr. Jonathan Swift, over Temple’s literary remains.  Esther Johnson, the unfortunate Stella, was Lady Giffard’s maid.

Cleopatre and Le Grand Cyrus appear to have been Dorothy’s literary companions at this date.  She would read these in the original French; and, as she tells us somewhere, had a scorn of translations.  Both these romances were much admired, even by people of taste; a thing difficult to understand, until we remember that Fielding, the first and greatest English novelist, was yet unborn, and novels, as we know them, non-existing.  Both the romances found translators; Cyrus, in one mysterious F.G. Gent—­the translation was published in this year; Cleopatre, in Richard Loveday, an elegant letter-writer of this time.

Artamenes, or Le Grand Cyrus, the masterpiece of Mademoiselle Madeleine de Scuderi, is contained in no less than ten volumes, each of which in its turn has many books; it is, in fact, more a collection of romances than a single romance. La Cleopatre, a similar work, was originally published in twenty-three volumes of twelve parts, each part containing three or four books.  It is but a collection of short stories.  Its author rejoiced in the romantic