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Providence, Fortune, and Gender in Margaret Cavendish’s
Life of William Cavendish
and Lucy Hutchinson’s
Life of John Hutchinson

Stephanie Sleeper
Claremont Graduate University

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The Life of William Cavendish and the Life of John Hutchinson have a great deal in common.  They were written within only a few years of each other, in the late 1660s to early 1670s.  Their authors, though they were of opposing political and differing social backgrounds, were educated in the fashion of gentlemen’s daughters.  Both Lives can roughly be considered “biographies,” and both defend men whose actions were considered indefensible by the Restoration court.  Yet in defending the actions of their husbands and providing a reason for each man’s misfortune, these women construct strikingly different explanations for their husbands’ suffering.  Whereas Margaret Cavendish creates the goddess fortuna as the foil for William Cavendish’s virtuous actions, Lucy Hutchinson gives us her interpretation of the mysterious actions of an all-powerful, male Calvinist God in John Hutchinson’s life. 

In this paper, I argue that a comparison of these two biographies yields two competing, yet complementary explanations for human suffering in late seventeenth-century England that are also explicitly gendered explanations.  I will further argue that these two explanations are directly linked to the way in which each woman constructs her own and her husband’s “selves” within the narratives:  both women “fashion” themselves in relation to the roles of fortune and providence in their texts.  Ultimately, the comparison of these texts evokes a relationship between providence and fortune that provides us with a portrait of two distinct mid seventeenth-century styles:  one “classically” Puritan, and the other even more classically “Royalist.” 

The authors of these texts clearly fit into accepted categories of “Puritan” and “Royalist”: Lucy Hutchinson was the wife of Colonel John Hutchinson, a confessed “godly” military leader and republican-leaning Parliamentary representative of Nottingham.  Margaret Cavendish’s husband, William Cavendish, the Duke of Newcastle, commanded an army for the king opposite John Hutchinson during the civil war.  Both of these biographies are replete with details of local aspects of the war and are commonly used by historians as source texts for the period.  But the commonalities between these texts extend beyond genre and the backgrounds of the authors.  Throughout these texts, both women evoke nostalgia for an earlier time in which their husbands’ particular characteristics were valued and respected. 

The Life of William Cavendish contains a dedication to Charles II that alludes to William Cavendish’s low standing at the Restoration court and gives immediate reason for the vindication of William’s character throughout the Life.  There is a sense in which the values and actions of William Cavendish were no longer in fashion in the court of Charles II, and the Life of William Cavendish is saturated with moments that evoke nostalgia for the “good old days” of the court of the first Charles.[1]   It is in this context of an aging, staunchly loyal, yet distastefully “old-fashioned” Duke of Newcastle that we can understand the style and rhetoric of the Life of William Cavendish.  The tone of the Life presents the actions of a noble, loyal, virtuous, yet unjustly suffering Duke, a man whose suffering did not end with the Restoration. 

Like Margaret Cavendish, Lucy Hutchinson also describes the suffering of her husband in a nostalgic and wistfully apologetic tone.  As the Life of William Cavendish is a catalog of William’s sufferings as well as his virtues, so is the Life of John Hutchinson a narrative of the blessings and sufferings meted out to God’s servant, John Hutchinson.  As in the Life of William Cavendish, John Hutchinson’s suffering forms the narrative structure for the text.  Lucy’s interpretation of the providential causes of her husband’s suffering forms an analytic structure for the chronological narrative that demonstrates and venerates John Hutchinson’s puritan republican virtue and his ultimate, time-honored martyr’s death in prison at Sandown castle in Kent in 1664.

The basic similarities between these texts bear repeating:  both function as “apologies” for the two men’s actions, both seek to establish (or reestablish) the “truth” in order to vindicate John’s and William’s actions.  These are defensive texts, meant to prevent counter-argument through rhetorical persuasion and argumentation.  Both texts thus construct “adversaries” upon whom blame is placed for injurious actions.  In Cavendish’s text, “fortune” personified battles William for his virtue and future happiness.  In the Life of John Hutchinson, however, the narrative is less clearly separated into the “wheat” and “tares,” to use a popular seventeenth-century idiom.  The plot of John’s life is thick with spies, hypocrites, “cunning men,” and traitors, who usually appear innocuous but later prove themselves to be truly reprobate, bringing suffering to the Hutchinsons as well as to the whole nation of England.  God’s ways are mysterious for the Hutchinsons, as for all ‘puritans.’  But in writing a narrative of her husband’s life, it is up to Lucy to discern who is who and to interpret divine agency throughout John’s life, as well as in recent English history. 

In these texts, there are also similarities between the concepts of fortune and providence themselves.  Though the two authors characterize fortune and providence differently, their depictions share one common feature:  both are the shrouded actions of a mysterious God.  In describing the relationship between fortune and providence in the later seventeenth century, I would argue that classical and even popular notions of fortune begin to intersect with Calvinist providential theology.  Moreover, this complex overlap occurs in conjunction with the growth of the new philosophy.  Neither fortune nor Providence disappears from the minds of seventeenth century English men and women; rather, ideas of fortune in the form of probability and “secondary” causation merge with Calvinist notions of providence and even with Puritan forms of experimental providentialism.  It is thus to an illustration of these notions of providential theology and “fortune” in the seventeenth century that I now turn.

In the Calvinist theology articulated by Puritan divines such as William Perkins and William Ames, God directs even the fall of the littlest sparrow:  each atom is guided; each action of life is not only willed but foreseen by the “special” and “ordinary” providence of an omnipotent God.[2]  Though this finely-tuned mode of providential theology was out of fashion during the Restoration (as were puritans, so to speak),[3]  it continued to be the worldview of many English men and women, including Lucy Hutchinson.  But providence was not the only explanation for suffering in seventeenth-century England.  Though some scholars have argued that belief in fate declined in the aftermath of the Reformation, the prevalence of images of fortune in literature, the appearance of fortune’s wheel and the Goddess Fortuna in popular literature and iconography, and the use of lots and popular interest in probability demonstrates that belief in fortune, fate, and chance did not suffer any significant decline.  Most scholars now argue that the official Protestant campaign against fortune as a remnant of false, popish superstition was by no means thorough or even successful.[4]  Margo Todd even notes the appearance of philosophical doctrines of fortune in figures known for their ‘puritanism,’ like Samuel Ward, William Fulke, and William Ames.[5]  These Puritan theologians incorporated the notion of chance into a divinely-organized universe without detriment to divine omnipotence.

Similarly, rather than identifying a decline in providentialist theology after the Restoration in opposition to puritan Calvinist providentialism, it is clear that providential theology was prevalent throughout the Protestant culture of England, not merely with Puritans.  In her recent work on providence in early modern England, Alexandra Walsham argues persuasively that belief in providentialism linked puritans with those they claimed were less “godly” and helped to forge England’s identity as a Protestant nation.[6]  John Spurr also notes that the Restoration Anglican establishment relied on the preaching of providentialist theology to effect a reformation of manners in the 1660s.[7]  These Anglican theologians were also active in the Royal Society, investigating natural “chance” at the same time that they preached providential interpretations of events.  This lively existence—even convergence—of ideas of fortune and providence also guides the texts of Margaret Cavendish and Lucy Hutchinson. 

Cavendish, whose reputation as a natural philosopher is well known, expresses her views on fortune and providence most clearly in her works on natural philosophy.  Her investigations of these principles also demonstrate a link between the new science and classical notions of fortune.  In the Grounds of Natural Philosophy, published in 1668, Cavendish is most explicit about the relationship between God and Nature and the nature of Providence: 

GOD is an Eternal Creator; Nature, his Eternal Creature.  GOD, an Eternal Master:  Nature, GOD’s Eternal Servant[8]… In my opinion, though God is Inalterable, yet no ways bounded or limited:  for, though GOD’s Decrees are fixt, yet, they are not bound: but, as GOD hath an Infinite Fore-knowledg; and so, fore-knows Nature’s Actions, and what He will please to decree Nature to do....”[9]

This appears to be a straightforward doctrine of “ordinary” providence:  it allows for God’s foreknowledge and intervention in the world, yet does not bind God by the laws of creation.  In many points in the Grounds, Cavendish also articulates a primarily apophatic notion of God:  like Nature, we are God’s creatures, and we can never know him or his plans for the universe.  Like the Calvinists’ doctrine, providence is a mystery to humanity. 

Cavendish also links fortune with providence in the Grounds of Natural Philosophy:

Fortune is various Corporeal Motions of several Creatures, design’d to one Creature, or more Creatures; either to that Creature, or those Creatures Advantage, or Disadvantage:  If Advantage, Man names it Good Fortune; if Disadvantage, Man names it Ill Fortune.  As for Chance, it is the visible Effects of some hidden Cause; and Fortune, a sufficient Cause to produce such Effects....[10] 

In keeping with Cavendish’s understanding of providence, the “designer” of causes is probably God.  It is within these “causes” that divine providence hides:  the motions of matter and the wonders of Nature are often impenetrable, but are meant to be obscured.  God’s plan is outside our natural capacity to understand—it is an arcana divina.  Therefore, providence cannot be interpreted because it can never be understood—it exists outside of nature.  However, fortune, the “executrix” of providence, as it were, can be investigated.  Nature has laws that can be observed and defined.  As a natural philosopher, Cavendish investigates a regularized fortune, not an inscrutable deity.

This description of fortune as an intermediary between creation and God, a regular law of secondary causes, is not what Cavendish presents to us in the Life of William Cavendish.  Throughout the text, Cavendish uses fortune as a literary device:  she dramatizes fortune as not only William’s enemy, but God’s as well.  She seldom uses an overt notion of providence as an explanation for events and rarely mentions individual sins as the cause of misfortune.  Instead, Cavendish uses the general statement, “it pleased God,” throughout the text to describe instances in which William or his family survived adversity.  God is always passive in these statements, never active.  God did not intervene in a storm that threatened the queen but was “pleased” when the natural occurrence did not end her life.[11]   Providence exists in this text, yet it is not an active, “special” providence in which God’s hand is clearly present in all events.  God’s plan remains ultimately mysterious—His “pleasure” only illustrates that his plan has been fulfilled.  This plan includes William Cavendish; however, God’s “blessings” save William from certain disaster, thwarting the schemes of his enemies and “Fortune’s malice.”[12] 

Indeed, God favored William Cavendish.  William received rewards for his loyalty throughout the Interregnum period—often the king would pay him back or give him special privileges, like allowing him to bestow knighthood and to mint money, a distinction never before given to a subject.[13]   But these descriptions of his virtuous character, his loyal service to the king, and his deserved rewards do not explain the extensive sufferings and losses that Margaret lists in infinite detail in the end of book two.[14]  In God’s plan, only the wicked should be punished.[15]  So, in order to protect the Duke’s character and God’s benevolence, Margaret often cites “fortune” as the cause of his suffering.  Fortune is a fully developed character in this narrative who is not the obscured working of the divine will, but God’s true enemy.  Lady Fortune appears spiteful in her desire to thwart William:

Although Nature had favoured my Lord, and endued him with the best qualities and perfections she could inspire into his soul; yet Fortune hath ever been such an inveterate enemy to him, that she invented all the spite and malice against him that lay in her power….[16] 

Instead of assigning blame to particular individuals or relating any of William’s troubles to his character or his own actions, Margaret Cavendish casts “fortune” as the counterpoint to William’s goodness, an adversary who can never be bested except with the assistance of God. 

In addition to protecting divine agency and William’s character, this personification of fortune as William’s enemy allows Cavendish to exemplify William’s virtuous character in contrast to a wicked female enemy instead of with a vengeful, yet inescapably just God.  There is a distinct conflict in this text between classical male virtue––which consists of loyalty, constancy, civic duty, and even medieval virtues like humility, submission, and piety––and fickle and powerful female fortune.  This conflict is also characteristic of literary accounts of fortune in Renaissance humanism.[17]  The juxtaposition of classical male virtue with a version of ‘perverted’ female virtue in the figure of fortune provides a way in which Margaret can praise William’s actions and character without detriment to king, god, or country.  William seems even more virtuous, and, indeed, God more just in contrast to inconstant fortune.

But William’s classical virtue is a relic of an earlier time in which chivalric honor and duty drove loyalty to a monarch.  In the Life of William Cavendish, William emerges as an almost pathetic caricature of a loyal, patient, suffering knight.  His loyalty does not even cease when the king no longer has need of him and he retires from court into the country, “like Scipio.”[18]  His financial troubles, greatly exaggerated by his wife in the text,[19] still left him able to lead a lavish lifestyle, with estates, servants, and horses for his favorite sport, manege.  Margaret glosses over his early departure to the continent after the battle at Marston Moor in 1644, as it detracts from William’s classical civic and knightly duty.  Fickle female fortune provides the antidote for this dilemma––as fortune’s enemy, William had no choice but to make a dignified departure.

This portrait of a loyal, suffering knight also stands in contrast to the masculine, classical republican, and specifically puritan virtue that Lucy Hutchinson depicts in her husband’s character.  There is no fickle fortune in the Life of John Hutchinson, only the mystery of an all-powerful, male Calvinist God.  John Hutchinson’s life follows a familiar, even formulaic pattern for readers of seventeenth-century Puritan diaries, memoirs, and autobiographies.[20]  From John’s earliest youth, God singled him out for special attention.  In narrating his youth, Lucy describes how God often saved him from harm and promoted his spiritual growth: 

But God, that designed him to do much in a short time, began early with him; and his maid reading to him The Practice of Piety...he began to apprehend, even before he could read, something of eternity and of sin, and as he hath lain waking in the night, would be exercised with trouble for sin, and often weep in those considerations.[21] 

The rest of John’s youth falls into a predictable pattern:  not satisfied with his unlearned maid’s teachings, he sought out godly sermons and education.  As he moved from boarding house to school and finally to Peterhouse College, Cambridge, he found his company wanting.  Lazy schoolmates, “supercilious pedants,” “Pharisees,” and miscellaneous “vain young persons” tempted John Hutchinson without success.[22]   Especially at Peterhouse, where his masters were of “Arminian principles,” John “came away, after five years’ study there, untainted with those principles or practices, though not yet enlightened to discern the spring of them in the rites and usages of the English church.”[23]  As author, Lucy foreshadows John’s future spiritual development with such commentary. 

Lucy’s authorial voice is principally present in these providential passages.  In describing the way in which John came to understand that the doctrines of the Church of England were superstitious and false, Lucy’s interpretation of the work of providence in John’s life is especially evident: 

It is only a remarkable providence of the Lord in his life, which must not be passed over without special notice, how God took this time to instruct him... If small things may be compared with great, it seems to me not unlike the preparation of Moses in the wilderness with his father-in-law, where it is thought he writ the book of Genesis....[24] 

This passage stems not from John Hutchinson’s own personal experiences, but from Lucy’s application of Scripture to her husband’s life.  In writing this narrative of John’s life, Lucy thought about the two years he spent studying divinity, saw how they resembled the study of Moses in the wilderness, and creates John Hutchinson as a typology of Moses for her readers.  Lucy, not John Hutchinson, creates the similarity between John and Moses through her interpretation of providence. 

Lucy’s voice is in fact the most striking characteristic of the narrative, as it is alternately told in the first and third persons.  In describing events, she consistently refers to herself as “the Colonel’s wife,” or “she.”  But the narrative is not entirely third person, as Lucy maintains an authorial “I” at many points throughout the text.  For example, Lucy fills her narration of John’s conversion to a “purer profession” with references to herself as author:  “if we may allegorize the eminent place of suffering into which God called him up at last”; and “I say it was remarkable providence that the Lord gave him this two years’ leisure.”[25]  Lucy follows this passage with a return to the events of John’s life, and, fittingly, a return to the third person.  She almost always introduces the first-person sections as “digressions” that are necessary for understanding John’s life.

I would argue that Lucy’s separation of her authorial self from her self-as-subject certainly tells us that Lucy wanted her readers to see her as a dutiful wife, especially in the context of the reinscription of patriarchal norms following the Restoration.  But the split between author and subject, which occurs in her diary as well, serves a different purpose.  This narrative strategy—conscious or not—allowed Lucy a more authoritative, even divine control over the interpretation of her husband’s life.  Lucy Hutchinson’s narrative is successful and compelling because it separates author and subject, a strategy that is especially powerful in a providentially driven narrative.  In order to realize one’s sins, it is often necessary to step back—to see one’s life and actions as God would see them.  This would seem to necessitate a split between the conscious “I” that is inspecting and the subject “I” that sins.  Finding one’s true self or discerning one’s estate can be a very dichotomizing project—it causes one to step back from oneself in order to examine that very self.  It is this same type of project—looking “impartially” upon the events of the life of her husband in order to discern the actions of God in his life—that causes Lucy to see herself as an author who is separate from the role she plays as the “colonel’s wife.” 

Lucy’s authorial self is also a fundamentally masculine persona, with divine masculine agency and authority.  Because the puritan imagery and understanding of God were overwhelmingly male, Lucy’s “impartial” look at the events of her husband’s life as God himself would is a powerfully masculine enterprise.  Lucy’s narrative strategy thus allows her to reinscribe her femininity as “the colonel’s wife” at the same time that she constructs herself as the divine masculine author of her husband’s life, and, most importantly, constructs his identity and her own as God’s elect children. 

In Renaissance Self-Fashioning, Stephen Greenblatt argues that self-fashioning “crosses boundaries between the creation of literary characters, the shaping of one’s own identity, the experience of being moulded by forces outside one’s control, and the attempt to fashion other selves.”[26]  In interpreting Greenblatt’s “self-fashioning” for two women authors of the later seventeenth century, I would argue that Lucy Hutchinson and Margaret Cavendish “fashion” themselves through their biographical “husband-fashioning.”  By comparing the narrative styles of these two texts, we learn not only how each woman constructs the life—the “self”—of her husband in accordance with political, religious, and social concerns, but also how her own life reflects and is reflected by that of her husband.  Margaret Cavendish fashions herself as a philosopher and author in relation to her explication of a classical fortune-inflected providence in the Life of William Cavendish.  Lucy Hutchinson emerges not as the oppressed “colonel’s wife,” but as the active forger of ultimate divine meaning for the life of her godly husband. 

In conclusion, I would like to suggest that these two texts can tell us not only how women chose to inscribe authority in the “fashioning” of their husbands’ lives, but how the slippery categories, or “styles,” of “puritanism” and “royalism” were fundamental forces in how each woman shaped her own and her husband’s lives.  “Puritanism” provided Lucy Hutchinson with a strategy for understanding and narrating her husband’s life, a life that gains profound meaning because of her description of God’s providential role in the universe.  In describing the working of God in her husband’s life, Lucy Hutchinson transfers the masculine self-introspection that is characteristic of Puritan diary keeping and memoirs to the narration of her husband’s life. 

Margaret Cavendish’s “royalism” is somewhat trickier to define and interpret.  In describing the structure and style of the Life of William Cavendish,  I have attempted to delineate a relationship between gendered notions of providence and fortune in Cavendish’s philosophy, classical notions of masculine virtue, and the classical “style” of the royal court and natural scientific community in which both Cavendishes participated.  Cavendish’s own “husband-fashioning” tells us that her views of female fortune, and, perhaps, the views of the emerging scientific community, are not merely philosophical, as “accidental causes,” but are linked to classical notions of male civic virtue and Calvinist notions of providence.  Female fortune becomes the foil for William’s virtue, an enemy that does not detract from the power or goodness of king, God, or country.  It is in the “fashioning” of her husband’s life that we can see how Cavendish’s social background, religious views, and particular circumstances as the wife of an exiled loyal subject express a style that participates in the “new philosophy” while simultaneously evoking a bygone era.

[1]See J.S.A. Adamson, “Chivalry and Political Culture in Caroline England” in Culture and Politics in Early Stuart England, ed. Peter Lake and Kevin Sharpe (Stanford:  Stanford University Press, 1993): 161-197, for a discussion of the classical virtues of honor and loyalty prized by the Caroline court of which Cavendish was a part.  Also see P.R. Newman, “The King’s Servants:  Conscience, Principle, and Sacrifice in Armed Royalism” in Public Duty and Private Conscience, ed. John Morrill, et al. (Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 1993):  225-242 on the principle and ideology of loyalty as the supreme motivating factor for Royalists in the civil war. 

[2] On Calvin’s doctrine of providence, see Institutes (1559), Book I: 16-17: “...having found him Creator of all...he is also everlasting Governor and Preserver--not only in that he drives the celestial frame as well as its several parts by a universal motion, but also in that he sustains, nourishes, and cares for, everything he has made, even to the least sparrow [cf. Mark 10:29].” (197-198, Westminster edition)  The distinction between God’s “universal motion” and care of the “least sparrow” is the doctrine of “ordinary” and “special” providence. Ordinary providence is the guidance of the universe by natural laws, yet this does not mean that God does not also guide individual events as well by his “special” providence.  On the particular English formulations of providence, see Margo Todd, “Providence, Chance, and the New Science in Early Stuart Cambridge.” Historical Journal 29:3 (1986): 697-711, and for a thorough and persuasive reading, see Alexandra Walsham, Providence in Early Modern England (Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 1999).

[3]See John Spurr, “Virtue, Religion, and Government:  the Anglican Uses of Providence” in Tim Harris, Paul Seaward, and Mark Goldie, eds. The Politics of Religion in Restoration England.  (London:  Basil Blackwell, 1990) on differences between an “anglican” and “puritan” interpretation of providence.

[4]See Lorraine Daston, “Fortuna and the Passions” in Chance, Culture, and the Literary Text, ed. Thomas Kavanaugh (Ann Arbor, MI:  Michigan Romance Studies, 1994); and Hanna Fenichel Pitkin, Fortune is a Woman:  Gender and Politics in the Thought of Niccolo Machiavelli (Berkeley:  UC Press, 1984).

[5]See Margo Todd, “Providence, Chance, and the New Science in Early Stuart Cambridge.” Historical Journal 29:3 (1986): 697-711.

[6] See Alexandra Walsham, Providence in Early Modern England (Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 1999), Introduction.

[7] See John Spurr, “Virtue, Religion, and Government:  the Anglican Uses of Providence” in Tim Harris, Paul Seaward, and Mark Goldie, eds. The Politics of Religion in Restoration England.  (London:  Basil Blackwell, 1990) on differences between an “anglican” and “puritan” interpretation of providence.

[8]Margaret Cavendish, The Grounds of Natural Philosophy [1668], ed. and intro. Colette V. Michael,  Women in the Sciences, vol. 2,  Colette V. Michael, general editor  (West Cornwall, CT:  Locust Hill Press, 1996), 241. Hereafter referred to as GNP.

[9]GNP, 242.

[10]GNP, 16.

[11] Margaret Cavendish, The Life of William Cavendish, Duke of Newcastle [1667] ed. C.H. Firth  (London:  Routledge, 1908 [2nd. ed.]), 18.  Hereafter referred to as LWC.

[12]LWC, 101.

[13]LWC, 86.

[14]N.H. Keeble notes that many Royalist women’s memoirs tend to describe suffering in terms of material loss. See “Obedient Subjects:  The Loyal Self in Some Later Seventeenth-Century Royalist Women’s Memoirs”  in  Culture and Society in the Stuart Restoration:  Literature, Drama, History,  ed. Gerald MacLean (London:  Cambridge, 1995),  203.

[15] See Walsham, chapter 2.

[16]LWC, 89.

[17]See Hanna Fenichel Pitkin, Fortune is a Woman:  Gender and Politics in the Thought of Niccolo Machiavelli (Berkeley:  UC Press, 1984), 140-142, on the transformation of medieval images of fortune in the writings of Petrarch, Dante, Boccaccio, and Machiavelli.  See Blair Worden, The Sound of Virtue:  Philip Sidney’s Arcadia and Elizabethan Politics (New Haven:  Yale University Press, 1996), 32-35, on fortune as the enemy of virtue in Sidney’s Arcadia.  

[18]LWC, preface, xliii.

[19]See Keeble, “Obedient Subjects,” 203.

[20]By ‘puritan,’ I mean the group of people, men and women, who were not only branded with the term by enemies but accepted it as a fitting definition of their religious “zeal,” as Lucy Hutchinson does in the Life of John Hutchinson.  This category is complicated by the existence of a “puritan” faction in Parliament in Lucy’s narrative, but is not exclusive of it or defined by it.  I follow the identification of a “puritan style of “piety” or “temperament” that is found in the biographical and autobiographical writings of these “godly professors,” as in Geoffrey Nuttall’s The Holy Spirit in Puritan Faith and Experience.  Though the splitting of a Puritan “movement” into different sects after the events of the 1640s makes “Puritanism” difficult to define, especially after the Restoration, its traditions and culture remained important for the writing styles of ‘puritan’ writers.  As Owen Watkins notes, “Puritan culture provided a body of theory, a technique, and a language with which to...develop and analyse and communicate their religious experience.” (Watkins, The Puritan Experience, 2).  I would extend this “religious” experience to an experience of one’s life in a turbulent world, as Lucy Hutchinson does in her narrative.  In using “Royalist,” I describe not only those whose support of the monarchy spanned the period from the 1630s to `60s, but those whose political loyalties were linked to their class, education, religion, and gender.  The “royalist” style belongs not to all royalists but to the aristocracy whose religious affiliations tended to be Laudian or crypto-Catholic (or who were at the very least supporters of episcopacy and monarchical church leadership) and who were participants in Charles I’s court culture and politics.

[21]Lucy Hutchinson, , “The Life of John Hutchinson,” in Memoirs of the Life of Colonel Hutchinson, ed. and intro., N.H. Keeble  (London:  Everyman, 1995), 38.  The Life, written between 1664-71,  was first published in 1806.  It will hereafter be referred to as LJH.

[22]LJH, 39-40.

[23]LJH, 42-43.

[24]LJH, 54 (Italics mine).

[25]LJH, 55-56 (Italics mine).

[26]Stephen Greenblatt, Renaissance Self-Fashioning:  From More to Shakespeare (Chicago:  University of Chicago Press, 1980), 3.



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