Letter 55.—­This sad letter, fully dated 18th March 1654, was written after Sir Peter Osborne was buried in Campton Church.  Even as Dorothy wrote this, the stone-mason might be slowly carving words that may be read to this day:  “The maintainer of divine exercises, the friend to the poor.”  Her father is no longer living, and she is now even more lonely than before.  To depend upon kindred that are not friends, to be under the protection of a brother who is her lover’s avowed enemy, this is her lot in life, unless Temple can release her from it.  Alas! poor Dorothy, who will now forbear to pity you?

March the 18th, 1654.

How true it is that a misfortune never comes single; we live in expectation of some one happiness that we propose to ourselves, an age almost, and perhaps miss it at the last; but sad accidents have wings to overtake us, and come in flocks like ill-boding ravens.  You were no sooner gone but (as if that had not been enough) I lost the best father in the world; and though, as to himself, it was an infinite mercy in God Almighty to take him out of a world that can be pleasing to none, and was made more uneasy to him by many infirmities that were upon him, yet to me it is an affliction much greater than people judge it.  Besides all that is due to nature and the memory of many (more than ordinary) kindnesses received from him, besides what he was to all that knew him, and what he was to me in particular, I am left by his death in the condition (which of all others) is the most unsupportable to my nature, to depend upon kindred that are not friends, and that, though I pay as much as I should do to a stranger, yet think they do me a courtesy.  I expect my eldest brother to-day; if he comes, I shall be able to tell you before I seal this up where you are likely to find me.  If he offers me to stay here, this hole will be more agreeable to my humour than any place that is more in the world.  I take it kindly that you used art to conceal our story and satisfy my nice apprehensions, but I’ll not impose that constraint upon you any longer, for I find my kind brother publishes it with more earnestness than ever I strove to conceal it; and with more disadvantage than anybody else would.  Now he has tried all ways to do what he desires, and finds it is in vain, he resolves to revenge himself upon me, by representing this action in such colours as will amaze all people that know me, and do not know him enough to discern his malice to me; he is not able to forbear showing it now, when my condition deserves pity from all the world, I think, and that he himself has newly lost a father, as well as I; but takes this time to torment me, which appears (at least to me) so barbarous a cruelty, that though I thank God I have charity enough perfectly to forgive all the injury he can do me, yet I am afraid I shall never look upon him as a brother more.  And now do you judge whether I am not very unhappy, and whether that sadness in my face you used to complain