Mr. Courtenay proclaims that he is one of Dorothy Osborne’s devoted servants, and expresses a hope that the publication of her letters will add to the number.  We must declare ourselves his rivals.  She really seems to have been a very charming young woman, modest, generous, affectionate, intelligent, and sprightly; a royalist, as was to be expected from her connections, without any of that political asperity which is as unwomanly as a long beard; religious, and occasionally gliding into a very pretty and endearing sort of preaching, yet not too good to partake of such diversions as London afforded under the melancholy rule of the Puritans, or to giggle a little at a ridiculous sermon from a divine who was thought to be one of the great lights of the Assembly at Westminster; with a little turn of coquetry, which was yet perfectly compatible with warm and disinterested attachment, and a little turn for satire, which yet seldom passed the bounds of good-nature.  She loved reading; but her studies were not those of Queen Elizabeth and Lady Jane Grey.  She read the verses of Cowley and Lord Broghill, French Memoirs recommended by her lover, and the Travels of Fernando Mendez Pinto.  But her favourite books were those ponderous French romances which modern readers know chiefly from the pleasant satire of Charlotte Lennox.  She could not, however, help laughing at the vile English into which they were translated.  Her own style is very agreeable; nor are her letters at all the worse for some passages in which raillery and tenderness are mixed in a very engaging namby-pamby.

When at last the constancy of the lovers had triumphed over all the obstacles which kinsmen and rivals could oppose to their union, a yet more serious calamity befell them.  Poor Mistress Osborne fell ill of the small-pox, and, though she escaped with life, lost all her beauty.  To this most severe trial the affection and honour of the lovers of that age was not unfrequently subjected.  Our readers probably remember what Mrs. Hutchinson tells of herself.  The lofty Cornelia-like spirit of the aged matron seems to melt into a long-forgotten softness when she relates how her beloved Colonel “married her as soon as she was able to quit the chamber, when the priest and all that saw her were affrighted to look on her.  But God,” she adds, with a not ungraceful vanity, “recompensed his justice and constancy, by restoring her as well as before.”  Temple showed on this occasion the same justice and constancy which did so much honour to Colonel Hutchinson.  The date of the marriage is not exactly known.  But Mr. Courtenay supposes it to have taken place about the end of the year 1654.  From this time we lose sight of Dorothy, and are reduced to form our opinion of the terms on which she and her husband were from very slight indications which may easily mislead us.