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.