Chapter XIX

OF CERTAIN ANCIENT FRIENDS OF MINE THAT WERE SUFFERERS FOR CONSCIENCE’ SAKE.

’Twas ever a merry jest of mine with Mrs Skipwith and Mrs Sternhold that I had done well to hurry on my marriage, so as it took place when it did, for but two or three days later come the news of the death of his majesty King Charles, so that all our festivities was broke up, and had we not been already married, we had been forced in all seemliness to have put it off. But this necessity happily escaped, we did take up our abode at Ellswether with great happiness and contentment, and cared, I fear (and may God forgive us for’t), only too little for public events, considering but our own good fortune. And in this way that year--viz., 1685--passed away, the tidings of the troubles in the West Country and in France reaching us but distantly as rumours, my wife being busied with her household economy and I with the managing my estate, and each of us with the other, for in Dorothy I did continue to discern fresh excellences, such as commended her to me more and more the longer I knew her, and not the least of these in my eyes, the kindness and forbearance that she did continually maintain and increase towards me, her unworthy spouse.

Now as time went on, we did engage together in a very weighty enterprise, namely, the writing that book of mine whereby my name (if remembered at all) is now known to the world of polite letters. In so great a work as this I durst not trust my own judgment, but read to my wife all that I had wrote, and took her counsel thereupon, and so made her (says she) near as learned as myself in all that hath respect to the Indies. For it had long seemed to me that there was a prodigious lack of a book that should set forth plainly, yet in full, all that was to be known touching the East that might prove of service either to gentlemen proceeding thither or to persons interested in the matter in England. And this object I flatter myself that my work aforesaid, ‘An Inquiry into the Present State of East India,’ hath attained, for not only doth it treat at length of the manners of the Indians, whether Moors, Gentues, Parsies, or Black Jews, but it hath also a considerable account of all the Europe garrisons and factories, whether English, Dutch, French, or Portuguese, beside the Mogul Empire and the Moorish kingdoms only now destroyed, and likewise of the Moratty power. And this book we did inscribe, as was only meet, to my lord Duke of London, son to him that had done so much to embark me upon my Indian enterprise, and prefaced it with a neat dedicatory epistle in Latin, full of conceits after the classical style, which gave my wife and me a world of pains to write.

Now this book, being in due course printed, brought upon me so much notice, and so many letters from several ingenious and erudite persons (many of ’em making me very handsome compliments both upon my style and matter) as filled my wife with pride, and made my name to be known even at the court, where his majesty King James II. was pleased to commend the work very prettily. And this, as I can’t but think, determined my lord Duke of London, that was lord lieutenant of the county at that time, to place me upon the commission of the peace for Northamptonshire. And in all these matters the time did pass so quickly away that ’twas three years after our marriage before I had either leisure or desire to give more than a passing thought to my former friends that I had known in the Indies, and this only because an unlooked-for accident did restore them suddenly to my mind. And the chief of these friends were, as you may well guess, Madam Heliodora and her spouse. Yet must you not believe that we had quite forgot them, for we were wont often to wonder how they had fared in those troubles that followed the undoing of that famous Edict that made sure to the Protestants of France their liberties, called after the city of Nantes. But on making inquiries concerning ’em of such of the fugitives as we had acquaintance with, and also of those that knew more of the great number of them than we were able to attain to, we could not find any that were come out of their neighbourhood. And this being so, we were content to hope that the persecution had not reached their province, and that they remained unmolested, and so satisfied ourselves with sending such help as we could furnish to the great company of these poor people, and sought no more for news from Galampré.

But a period was put to our comfortable security one evening in the month of April 1688, when, as my wife and I was sitting in the parlour talking by the firelight, there come in Miles and says to me, “If you please, sir, Mr Duss is returned from the town, and would be glad to speak with your honour.”

“Bid him come hither,” says I, and laughed to myself, as I often did, to think of the esteem wherein Loll Duss was held by our servants and country-people, they verily conceiving him, as I believe, to be a prince in his own country, from all he told ’em touching the wearing of cotton stuffs every day and the like (though indeed calicut and muslin is as common with the Indosthans as linen and woollen with us). The villagers all called him _the ’Squire’s black gentleman_, though indeed he was but little blacker than themselves; and now that the maids had left off to hollow and run away if they chanced to meet him in the passages, the other servants did all take a pride in the air of distinction that he shed upon the household. These thoughts being in my mind, he came in, wearing a laced suit of my livery and a great _turbant_ of cambric, very neat, and saluting us after the Indian fashion (which I always had him use, it having so much more noble an air than the customary bowings of our servants), awaited my pleasure.

“Well, Loll Duss,” says I, “what is’t?”

“Master,” says he, “at the inn in the town is the Ferringhee lord that come from Agra to Surat with your honour, and his lady, that are come from London in my Lady Harmarthwaite’s coach, going on a visit to her ladyship. But the Ferringhee lord was took very sick on his journey, so as they was forced to tarry at the inn, and the gentleman physician from the town hath been attending upon him, so that he is by now somewhat eased.”

“The viscount and Madam Heliodora here!” says I, and was so much astonished at the news that I could say no more, but only looked at my wife, who answered Loll Duss for me--

“Is my lord viscount very sick, Loll Duss, or will he and his lady continue their journey to-morrow?”

“The Ferringhee lord is somewhat amended, mistress,” says Loll Duss; “but I heard say at the inn that he must needs abide there some two or three days.”

“Perhaps ’twould be well for me to go see whether I can be of any service, my dear?” says I.

“Not to-night, sir,” says Dorothy. “’Twould but incommode his lordship at this hour. Pray return to the inn, Loll Duss, and inquire whether this house can furnish aught that may contribute to his lordship’s recovery, and say that Mr Carlyon and I will do ourselves the honour of waiting upon my lady viscountess in the morning, if it suit with her convenience.”

Loll Duss saluted us again, and departed, and Dorothy and I sat silent for a while. At the last she looked up suddenly.

“Ned,” says she, “should you now be happier if Madam Heliodora had--had never rejected your vows at St Thomas?”

“Why, Dorothy!” says I, “jealous?” But seeing that her eyes was full of tears, I made haste to assure her with great solemnity. “My dearest life,” says I, “I can say but this one thing, that from the first day that I returned to Ellswether until now, I have thanked God night and morning that she did so reject ’em, and thus leave me free to return to that duty which is my highest pleasure, and to the best and dearest wife that ever a man had. And this thanksgiving I look to renew to-night, and likewise every day until my life’s end.”

“My dear Ned,” says she, coming behind me and kissing me, “forgive me. ’Twas but that my foolish heart would not rest content without a fresh assurance of your love. You had not thought me so timorous, had you?” But I felt a tear drop on my forehead. Then I took her in my arms, and said to her much more than I could set down, or than ’twould be profitable so to do, until Miles brought in the candles, and my wife said that she must needs go to see that the babes were asleep, and to inquire how Mrs Skipwith found herself, she being kept to her chamber with a rheumatic fit.

Now the next morning the coach come round with great magnificence for to convey us to the inn, and my wife appeared wearing her best brocado gown--a thing that made me laugh.

“We go prodigious fine to-day, madam,” says I, handing her into the coach.

“I trust, sir,” says she, “that I know what is decent better than to go pay my respects to her ladyship in a camlet gown with muslin tuckers. Though she be in misfortune, I han’t no desire to insult over her,” and with that I must needs be content.

We were not long before we come to the inn, and the landlord welcomed us at the door, and carried us up-stairs with extraordinary great respect. The chamber whereto he brought us was of a moderate size, but cheerful enough in its aspect, and furnished very decently. Upon the settle, which was drawn up close beside the fire, lay my friend the viscount, so wasted and thin as it made my heart bleed to behold him, being worn, indeed, into the very ghost and shadow of a man. Sitting with her back towards the door was a lady in a gown of some black stuff and a high _cornette_ cap, and she turning round, I saw it to be Madam Heliodora. At my first sight of her, her hair seemed to me to be powdered, and I wondered much that she should use so great ceremony thus early in the day; but coming into the light I saw that ’twas all turned grey, and her face was very thin. Yet in spite of this, and of the meanness of her attire, she still seemed one of the most beautiful women imaginable, and moved as queenly in that poor chamber as ever in my lord her father’s palace at St Thomas.

“’Tis the ’Squire and Madam Carlyon, madam, come to wait upon your ladyship,” says the landlord that had carried us up hither, and departed, and Madam Heliodora came forward to us.

“I take this very kind in you, sir,” says she, “to remember our ancient friendship so punctually. Pray do me the honour to present me to your lady, though indeed I may almost pretend to know her already from your discourse. I have long desired the felicity of meeting with you, madam.”

My poor Dorothy was so much took aback by Madam Heliodora’s noble air and her graciousness that she could do little but curtsey in reply; but my lady kissed her on the cheek, and took her hand for to lead her to a seat.

“Won’t you present me also to Madam Carlyon, Edward, my friend?” says the viscount from his couch. “Though I can’t rise to salute her as I should, yet I would fain make shift to kiss her hand, if she’ll permit me that honour.”

“I am rejoiced to find your lordship so much recovered,” said I, when he had kissed my wife’s hand with prodigious gallantry, and she and Madam Heliodora were withdrawn a little to talk apart.

“I an’t like ever to be able for much again,” says he. “I fear I am a poor useless wreck, and yet, if there should be any fighting for the Faith, as men say there shall be, I trust I shall be permitted to take a part in’t. But how goes the world with you, Edward? Better than when we bid each other farewell at Surat, I trust?”

“I am the happiest man in the world, sir,” says I.

“Why, then, there’s two of us,” says he, “for so am I.”

“You don’t look to have overmuch that should make you say so, sir,” quoth I.

“Why,” says he, “sure I am free, and not a prisoner--in England, and not in France--in a certain ease, and not in pain--and, best of all, I have my wife with me, in the stead of only catching glimpses of her through prison-bars, and that in itself should suffice to make a joyful man out of the poorest wretch in the world.”

I could not but admire the excellent spirit of my friend in thus remaining contented in spite of all his troubles, and I had fain asked him to tell me somewhat more fully of the trials he had endured, but that I feared to move him too much, and so refrained myself to do no more than speak of current events. But chancing to cast a look now and then toward my wife and Madam Heliodora, I perceived that the discourse between ’em was begun with much ceremony, and with many _Your ladyships_ and _Dear madams_, but that as it went on, they did become much more free one towards the other, so that my wife laid her hand upon her ladyship’s, and they did mingle their tears together. Nay, when we come to depart, Dorothy did throw her arms about Madam Heliodora’s neck and kiss her, which seemed something to surprise my lady, but she kissed her on both cheeks very kindly in return.

“Madam,” says the viscount, as we were departing, “I trust yet to hold some discourse with you. I fear lest your spouse han’t never gave you a true relation of our escape from the Moguls. He saved my life with the risk of his own: you know so much?”

“Yes, my lord,” says Dorothy, looking upon me with her eyes shining.

“See now,” says he, “what a fine thing it is to be admired by one’s wife! For me, I can but content myself with admiring mine, but in that there’s so much to do as needs all my skill.”

“My friend!” says Madam Heliodora, laying her hand on his shoulder.

“An’t it true?” says he, kissing her hand, which was a very pretty sight, but seeing Madam Heliodora ready to chide him, we did withdraw.

“And your ladyship will send your servant to fetch the cordial water?” says Dorothy to Madam Heliodora, on her carrying us to the head of the stairs. “’Tis of my own distilling, and should, though I say it, be of much benefit to his lordship.”

“You are too good, madam,” said my lady. “Be assured that I will send for’t with much gratitude.”

So we two to our coach, the landlord bowing us out very officiously, and as soon as we were there, my wife fell a-weeping, to my much surprise. And I asking her what ailed her, she told me ’twas for Madam Heliodora that she wept.

“She is an angel,” says Dorothy, drying her eyes, though uselessly, “and she should by rights be dwelling in a palace, with all conveniences and luxuries secured to her. But she must needs wear a sorry camlet gown, and the lace of her ruffles all mended and darned. Yes, Ned, I saw ’em, though it han’t caught your eye. And she hath suffered such a quantity of misfortunes, with my lord in prison and sick, and near all their goods confiscate! And then, her babe died in Paris, so as she can’t even weep over its grave--think of that, Ned. Think if it had been our little Hal or Bob. Poor, poor lady!”

I did my best to comfort her, though indeed my own eyes wan’t free from tears, and asked her what it was that had brought so much sorrow upon our friends. But this she could not tell me particularly, and we resolved therefore to ask a full relation from their servant that was to be sent to fetch the cordial water. And he coming when we were gat home, we had him up, and found him a very honest fellow and a _Hugonot_, Andrew by name, and asked him of his master’s history since I had last beheld him.

“Sir and madam,” saith he in answer, “I’ll tell your honours what I can. You must know that when that evil deed was done of revoking the Edict, there was a permission granted to the Reformed to remain unmolested until they might convert, provided only that they did not exercise their worship in public, and my lord, confiding in the king’s honour, thought well to avail himself of this delay, at any rate until the spring. My lord’s estate is situate in a very remote part of the province, and we were left in peace all the winter. In the month of March was born the young lord, the heir that my lord and lady had so long desired, and it so chanced that just at that time my lord did give shelter in the castle to one of our pastors that was fleeing from the persecutors. This he did not tell to my lady, fearing to trouble her; but he had been wiser to do’t, for she suspected certain spies among the Popish servants, and would have warned him against ’em. But he suspected naught until there come a warning from one in authority that was friendly to my lord, bidding him beware, for that a troop of dragoons was about to be despatched against him. Now when my lady learned this she was very urgent with him to start immediately for the Swiss border. And she being so instant, the coach was had round and loaded with luggage, but my lord going into the village to bid farewell to his old nurse (that was of the Religion, like ourselves), the dragoons came upon us while he was away. And my lady receiving ’em with great civility (they not caring to hurt her, who was commonly reported to be yet a strong Papist), sent a boy into the village to bid my lord take a horse thence, and ride at once to the frontier. But my lady having no time to choose her messenger, she lit upon one that was scarce better than a fool, and he finding my lord, cried out to him in a prodigious terror that the castle was in the hands of the dragoons, and that my lady was keeping ’em in talk until he should escape. But he, not knowing that the commandant of the troop was an ancient comrade of his, and the one that had sent him warning of their coming (as afterwards appeared), would not hear of leaving my lady to their mercy, but returned at once, and was took prisoner.”

“Ah, noble heart!” cried I. “But prythee continue, Andrew.”

“My lady was permitted,” said Andrew, “to bear him company as far as to Thoulouse, and she was present through his trial, engaging in his defence the best advocates that might be obtained, and instructing ’em herself in their pleadings. But ’twas of no avail, as indeed it must in any case have been, unless some chance quibble in the law had turned to my lord’s advantage, as was little like to happen, and my lady, standing in the court, heard him sentenced to the galleys for his life, his preparations to escape being made much of against him, since they had found the coach ready loaded for to carry him to the Swiss border. My lady remained very firm and steadfast through it all, but their parting was so pitiful that even the officer that saw’t was moved at the sight, and Mary the nurse, that was suffered to bring the babe for his father to see, could never speak on’t without tears. But when my lord was carried to the city of Toulon, whither they would not suffer my lady to accompany him, she did set out at once for Paris, travelling almost night and day, and there besieged the king for at least a mitigation of his sentence. So instant was she in her entreaties as at last King Lewis was moved to cry out, _Remove from me this Mad. de Galampré! She wearies my sight_; and one of his councillors, whether impelled by kindness, or by the remembering that parable touching the Unjust Judge, advised that my lord’s sentence should be changed into imprisonment for life in one of the king’s fortresses. And this they did, so as my lady returned from Paris with that small grace, but leaving behind her her babe, that had fell sick and died in the city.”

“Alas, poor soul!” cried Dorothy. “Sure now she was desolate indeed, to have lost this also.”

“My lady turned her steps to Toulon,” went on Andrew, “and coming thither, was granted the favour to inform my lord her own self of the change in his sentence, when it fell to me to attend her to the dock-gates, that we might see pass us the galley-slaves on their return from a voyage. I won’t shock your ears, sir and madam, with the recital of the horrors we beheld that day, when we saw file after file of grey-clad slaves pass us, with here and there among ’em one of those scarlet doublets that proclaim the wearer to be, as we call it, a _felon for the faith’s sake_.[140] I could never have recognised my lord again, but my lady knew him the instant he came near, and thrust aside the soldiers, and threw herself upon him with tears of joy, knowing him in spite of his mean dress and his close-cropped hair, and the changes that his imprisonment had wrought. For you must know that the felons for the faith’s sake are worse entreated than any of their fellows, and their foul and heavy durance made harder than it need be, so as they die faster than the rest, but so many are the condemned that suffer for the Religion that the numbers are never too few. Then they took my lord out of that living death, where he had found the blasphemings and wickedness of the malefactors he was chained withal worse than any of the rest, but had supported it with meekness as his Master did, for his Master’s sake.”

“And sure his Master will reward him for’t!” cried Dorothy, the tears standing in her eyes.

“And before they took my lord to that fortress where he should be kept,” says Andrew, “they did tempt him with great promises to recant his faith (for the king, knowing his skill and training, desired much to confer upon him a place in his army, such as had made him rich and great at once), but he refused to listen to ’em, and even had he been otherwise minded, my lady had kept him firm. _Act as your conscience bids you, sir_ (says she): _if you can endure the sufferings that must follow, sure I can endure ’em for you_, and so upheld him until their parting with such nobleness and constancy as made the Papists ’emselves wonder. And even when he departed to his imprisonment, she would not consent to yield him up altogether, but followed him, and hired a lodging for herself in a high house, whence she might enjoy a view of a certain gallery in the prison. Here, by the kindness of the commandant of the place, my lord was allowed to walk for a few minutes in every day, and thus he and my lady exchanged signals, and had a distant sight one of the other. But they in the fortress had received orders to use my lord with great severity, to the intent that they might the more easily bring him to recant, and by reason of his late and present sufferings he soon fell sick, for his sojourn in the Indies hath caused him to be extreme sensible to cold. And through this sickness ’twas thought that he must die, so desponding was he through the not beholding my lady daily any longer. But she found means to send him a message by the hand of an ancient priest that visited the prison (a very kindly person, that was said by those that were unfriendly to him to be one of the people called Jansenists), and it was this, _Live for your God and for the Faith, my friend, and also for your wife, for they all need you_. And upon the receiving this, my lord took heart again, and grew better. Then all became as before until this last month, when King Lewis, finding that he had no success among those of the Reformed that he had shut up in his fortresses (these heroic confessors being chiefly persons of great birth and riches, or noted for their distinguished parts), gave ’em a general releasement, banishing ’em all from his kingdom for their lives. And among these my lady also did receive back her lord, as though indeed, as Holy Scripture saith, he had been raised to life from the dead. Then they did take ship as soon as they could come to Bourdeaux, this being a nearer way than through Roan[141] and Dieppe, and came into England by way of the city of Bristow. And upon their landing there, my lady says very suddenly to my lord, _Call me no more a Catholic, for I have seen too much their works. I am henceforth as thou art, thy people mine, and thy faith my faith_. And this, says my lord, was a sufficient comfort to him for all his pains, to know that my lady was at one with him in their religion.”

“You’ve told us very handsomely all your tale,” says I to Andrew, when he was ended, and dismissed the good fellow with a present, while my wife dried her tears, saying that one ought rather praise God for such confessors than weep over ’em. And indeed, the more we saw of our friends, the more we learned to admire them, and could not but wonder both at their constancy in the past and their cheerfulness in the present. I made it my custom to go down every day to the inn and pass some time with the viscount, when we were wont to discourse very agreeably touching our former life in East India, while my wife carried Madam Heliodora for an airing in the coach. But of his own past trials would my friend never tell me, seeming to look back upon ’em with such aversion as he would not name them save to thank God that delivered him out of them, though he showed himself always ready to commend the virtues of my lady his wife. But though we did endeavour very earnestly to win them to leave the inn, and to take up their abode for the present with us, they refused constantly to do this, and we saw neither of them at Ellswether, until one forenoon Madam Heliodora walked up from the town, attended only by Andrew, and signified that she was come for to ask a favour.

“Lend me, dear madam,” says she to Dorothy, “your elder child for a few hours, if you’ll be so good, for the viscount do affect the company of children to an extraordinary great degree, and ’twould lighten his hours of pain to divert himself with your little son.”

“Madam,” says Dorothy, albeit none too gladly, for she feared letting her babes out of her sight for an hour, “sure you have but to desire, and if it lie in our power, the thing shall be done. My Harry shall wait on your ladyship home.”

But, nevertheless, my wife watched her Harry (named for my honoured father) depart on Andrew’s shoulder with no small uneasiness, and could not be happy until she had him home again, bringing in his hand a great cake for his little brother. She desired much to learn how he had fared, but though she set him on the table and questioned him particularly, yet she gat nothing but to hear that the pretty lady had wept, and that in the house where she took him there was a sick gentleman that did keep comfits in a gold box in his pocket, and that had promised to make him a coach and horses out of pasteboard. But when she heard tell of Madam Heliodora’s weeping, my wife looked at me.

“Sure our Harry must be near the same age as her babe that died should be by now,” saith she, as if conscience-smitten. “Well, if Harry’s company can avail anything to comfort either of these excellent persons, he shall visit upon ’em every day.”

But Dorothy’s compassion wan’t long tasked, for shortly afterwards the viscount was found sufficiently recovered to continue his journey, and he went on with his wife to my old Lady Harmarthwaite’s dower-house in the county of Cheshire. And here, as it chanced, they were thrown among those that were busy planning to preserve the Protestant faith in these realms by changing the then king for another, and were thus led to take a very forward part in their schemes. Nay, when his majesty that now is was securely established on the English throne, though not recognised save in this kingdom, the viscount, being now somewhat restored to health, and receiving the command of one of the regiments of French exiles then forming for service in Ireland, gained by his military exploits in that country the fame that now deservedly attends his name. For both at the battle of Boyne Water, and in numberless small engagements, he did win the reputation of a most valiant and redoubted soldier, and one no less artful and seen in his dispositions and stratagems, than brave in fighting. Yet through it all was he in almost perpetual bodily anguish, so that those that saw him marvelled at his hardihood in thus despising pain, and esteemed him as Christian in his fortitude as he was skilled in the military art. Now the war being ended, he was granted a decent estate in Ireland, the confiscated property of a rebel that was fled, but not being content to retire thither and live in idleness, he carried his regiment to the Low Countries in the war that there brake out, and duly supported his majesty in those campaigns that did bring us little glory but much honour. But at the battle of Landen he was struck by a cannon-shot and entirely disabled, so as he could never again mount his horse, and Madam Heliodora, hastening to his side, brought him to England, and so, borne in a litter by short stages, to his Irish estate, where he lives still, a shining model of contentment in spite of much adversity, her ladyship likewise, after all the changes of her life, completely happy in him.

But with regard to that change in our rulers whereof I spake but a few lines back, I must (though this be no chronicle of public events, but only my own history) devote some mention to’t, for ’twas a matter of moment to me, producing, as it did, the only quarrel I have ever had with my wife, or rather difference, since it never grew to a quarrel. And the ground of this difference was no light one, since I was desirous to take sword and horse for the Prince of Orange, while as Dorothy was hot for King James.

“My dear,” says I to her, when we were speaking of the matter, “I have seen so much of Popery as I am determined never to support it here. Sure you’ll have heard from the French fugitives what should have armed you against it. Had King James followed his own religion in peace, I had never murmured, but when he shows himself desirous to thrust it upon us, we have a right to resist him.” In which I was coming much nearer to the politics of my old acquaintance Substitution Darrell than ever I had at one time thought likely, but we live and learn.

“Alas!” cried Dorothy, the tears running down her face, “that I should live to hear my husband, my dear Sir Harry’s own son, speak thus! Sure ’tis enough to disturb your father in his grave, sir. If God will, can’t He protect us Protestants without any help of ours? and if it ben’t His will to save us, let us suffer, but don’t let us sin in rebelling against the Lord’s anointed.”

“I will have no hand in bringing in Popery,” says I in a great heat.

“Let us do the right, and care naught for what may come after,” says she.

“But sure that can’t be the right which should enslave our country, and bring over again the days of Bloody Mary,” says I.

“That can’t be the right which would take part against our lawful king, and set a stranger over us,” says Dorothy.

“Dorothy,” says I, after much further talk, “if you’ll agree, I’ll consent with you to meet you half-way. I won’t offer my sword to King James, but neither will I at present raise a troop for the Prince. Yet if we see the Protestant cause in danger, sure you must even let me go. Are we to have a Bloody Assize throughout all England?”

With this she was forced to be content, and I did my best to be so too, though I had fain joined the Prince’s standard even at Tor Bay, but refrained, being persuaded that I had no right altogether to dispose of myself without my wife’s consent. But by this course I pleased no one, neither the friends that advised me I was playing the part of Meroz in Holy Writ, for not seeking the Prince so soon as he landed, nor Dorothy, that would with the best heart imaginable have packed up for to go into exile with King James. I can only hope that by as much as this middle course was distasteful to me, by so much was it right and profitable, for ’twas altogether abhorrent to me thus to remain idle when I might have borne a part in this, the second and, as it seems to me, the only justifiable revolution of this age; but, as you know, the Protestant cause was saved without my help. But through all this time I was enabled not only to abstain from all wrangling or quarrelling with my wife, knowing that no talking should ever displace that loyalty that was grown up with her growth, and had been nourished in her mind during her lonely youth, but I also strove in all things to show her an increased honour and affection, to the end she might perceive that ’twas no caprice nor unkindness, but love of right, that moved me. For indeed it did cost me much to forsake the old cause, for the which my father and my uncles had fought so long and suffered such grievous loss, and that I myself also had loved so much, and for no other reason could I have done so but for this one--viz., that the safety of the Protestant Religion must be set before the advancement of a party, or even of a royal house. And although I had this grief, namely, to abandon my old party, and not to join myself to that one which did commend itself to me, yet the cause triumphed, and there come no dissension between my wife and myself. For she, perceiving the hardness of my case, came by degrees to respect, though she might not accept, my principle of action, and our opinions did not come between us. Nay, ’tis my belief that now (though no torments should bring her to confess this) she rejoices in the victory of the Protestant cause, though her heart still yearn over the House of Stewart.

Thus, then, I have set before you (as I trust, without malice or colouring) the history of my life, not hiding those things that reflect ill upon myself, but desiring to give a true relation of all that has befell me. Sure if any man had ever cause to render most sincere and hearty thanks to Almighty God for the mercies of a whole lifetime, I have more, for my situation is far above my deserts, and in nothing have I more cause to be thankful than for the dissipation in the course of time of that midsummer madness and raging fever of love that did once consume me for Madam Heliodora, to the temporary, though all too long, obscuration of my true love for her whose faithful spouse and servant I have the happiness to be, and do purpose to remain so long as life shall last,--my dear wife, Dorothy Carlyon.