To Parliament again today; where Gratified to learn that Anglia Rediviva of the 10^th instant, the story on the matter of Mr Fountaine, has been declared an Obnoxious Publication by some fool of a committeeman, I assume because I refused to name Fountaine a Malignant for declining to Contribute to the War Fund on the basis of the Petition of Right. A veritable Bacchanal of trouble for the poor man; yesterday he was stripped of his Arms, and remanded to the Gatehouse, and otherwise held up for public Censure and calumny. At any rate, extant copies of that Number of A.R. to be Burned publicly at Cheapside, tonight, or perhaps Tomorrow. I believe I shall attend; half-suspecting that this may be the most Significant recognition my poor Scribblings ever receive.

Hewitt had a letter from Halpenny, demanding that my House in London, and Ivinghoe too, be open to Search, for Funds with which he can be made whole in terms of the Contract. Hewitt’s reply was quite well-done, inviting Halpenny to Storm my property, if he felt himself capable thereof – all in very lawyerly language that could mean any any number of things. Yet it’s no long-run remedy; he does mean to ruin me by hook or by crook; I have noticed Men lurking nearby my House, and grinning at me evilly; thank Providence for the gift of the Stageless actors, who present themselves as aggressive Men at Arms quite convincingly.Parliament is nearing a bill – I think it goes before Lords tomorrow, or the nest day – that calls foran Assembly of Divines, Scots and English, at Westminster, there to settle the issues of Church government – in a Presbyterian manner, of course, thereby to secure the support of the Scots against the King.

Our great hope of course is that God will soften the heart of this King; that he will take down his standard, disband his army, and agree to govern according to the laws of the land. For this I pray; yet God speaks to my Conscience that this will not be the case, ever. So then our prayer is for a swift victory on the field of battle; that the King’s heart is softened by sword, and pike, and pistol. For this I pray too. Yet deep in my Conscience is a small silent voice such as Elijah heard, saying, not, this will not be, either; that this Distempered time will be a forty years in the Desert, which must needs be supported with Alliances with the Scots, Alliances paid with the Coin of England, collected through Taxation, and it may be that poor Mr Fountaine won’t be the only voice raised in a Howl of protest.

Yet worst would be a stumbling return to things as they were: the King ruling by Whim, and trade constrained by the Merchant Adventurers and the monopolists; the Great robbing the Industrious and Enterprising and bribing the Rabble with Bread and Circuses. It’s my fear that there’s a plurality in the Parliament, and in England, that would accept this; though Evil, it’s a Sufferable one.

Perhaps I’m wrong – I pray that I am – but Essex seems less vigorous than one might hope. The reports are that the King is advancing toward London along the Severn, while our Captain-General is still bumbling around Worcester and Kidderminster. Mother said Edmund and that tiny little troop of her brother are with Essex now. I wonder if Capt Cromwell, as believe he’s styled now, yet wears that red kerchief around his beck to guard against that non-existent cough. Or has visions of the cross in Huntington, or whatever he saw that doctor about. I should not mock; every bit helps, even the smallest. Firth seems to having a grand time with Rupert, and those gentlemen to their credit seem to enjoy a fight. Increasingly I’m thinking of riding to Col Hampden and seeing for myself how matters stand.