Sir Thomas Peyton, “Brother Peyton,” was born in 1619, being, I believe, the second baronet of that name; his seat was at Knowlton, in the county of Kent.  Early in the reign of Charles I. we find him as Member of Parliament for Sandwich, figuring in a Committee side by side with the two Sir Harry Vanes; the Committee having been sent into Kent to prevent the dispersal of rumours to the scandal of Parliament,—­no light task, one would think.  In 1643 he is in prison, charged among other things with being a malignant.  An unjust charge, as he thinks; for he writes to his brother, “If to wish on earth peace, goodwill towards men, be a malignant, none is greater than your affectionate brother, Thomas Peyton.”  But in spite of these peaceful thoughts in prison, in May 1648 he is heading a loyalist rising in Kent.  The other counties not joining in at the right moment, in accordance with the general procedure at Royalist risings, it is defeated by Fairfax.  Sir Thomas’s house is ransacked, he himself is taken prisoner near Bury St. Edmunds, brought to the House of Commons, and committed to the Tower.  A right worthy son-in-law of good Sir Peter.  We are glad to find him at large again in 1653, his head safe on his shoulders, and do not grudge him his grant of duties on sea-coal, dated 1660; nor are we sorry that he should once again grace the House of Commons with his presence as one of the members for loyal Kent in the good days when the King enjoyed his own again.

SIR,—­I have been reckoning up how many faults you lay to my charge in your last letter, and I find I am severe, unjust, unmerciful, and unkind.  Oh me, how should one do to mend all these!  ’Tis work for an age, and ’tis to be feared I shall be so old before I am good, that ’twill not be considerable to anybody but myself whether I am so or not.  I say nothing of the pretty humour you fancied me in, in your dream, because ’twas but a dream.  Sure, if it had been anything else, I should have remembered that my Lord L. loves to have his chamber and his bed to himself.  But seriously, now, I wonder at your patience.  How could you hear me talk so senselessly, though ’twere but in your sleep, and not be ready to beat me?  What nice mistaken points of honour I pretended to, and yet could allow him room in the same bed with me!  Well, dreams are pleasant things to people whose humours are so; but to have the spleen, and to dream upon’t, is a punishment I would not wish my greatest enemy.  I seldom dream, or never remember them, unless they have been so sad as to put me into such disorder as I can hardly recover when I am awake, and some of those I am confident I shall never forget.