passed, with prayers in all the churches; and then came that extraordinary Monday, August 30, which lovers of coincidence have taken care to remember as the day of most tremendous hurricane that ever blew over London and England. From morning to night the wind raged and howled, emptying the streets, unroofing houses, tearing up trees in the parks, foundering ships at sea, and taking even Flanders and the coasts of France within its angry whirl. The storm was felt, within England, as far as Lincolnshire, where, in the vicinity of an old manor-house, a boy of fifteen years of age, named Isaac Newton, was turning it to account, as he afterward remembered, by jumping first with the wind, and then against it, and computing its force by the difference of the distances. Through all this storm, as it shuddered round Whitehall, shaking the doors and windows, the sovereign patient had lain on, passing from fit to fit, but talking in the intervals. with the lady protectress, or with his physicians, while Owen, Thomas Goodwin, Sterry, or some other of the preachers that were in attendance, went and came between the chamber and an adjoining room. A certain belief that he would recover, which he had several times before expressed to the lady protectress and others, had not yet left him, and had communicated itself to the preachers as an assurance that their prayers were heard. Writing to Henry Cromwell at nine o'clock that night, Thurloe could say: "The doctors are yet hopeful that he may struggle through it, though their hopes are mingled with much fear." Even the next day, Tuesday, August 31, Cromwell was still himself, still consciously the lord protector. Through the storm of the preceding day, Ludlow had made a journey to London from Essex, on family business, beaten back in the morning by a wind against which two horses could not make way, but contriving late at night to push on as far as Epping. "By this means," he says, "I arrived not at Westminster till Tuesday about noon, when, passing by Whitehall, notice was imm.di

ately given to Cromwell that I was come to town. Whereupon he sent for Lieutenant-General Fleetwood, and ordered him to inquire concerning the reason of my coming at such haste and at such a time." At the end of the day, Fleetwood, writing to Henry Cromwell, reported: "The Lord is pleased to give some little reviving this evening; after few slumbering sleeps, his pulse is better." As near as can be guessed, it was that same night that Cromwell himself uttered the well-known short prayer, the words of which, or as nearly as possible the very words, were preserved by the pious care of his chamber-attendant, Harvey. It is to the same authority that we owe the most authentic record of the religious demeanor of the protector from the beginning of his illness. Very beautifully and simply Harvey tells us of his "holy expressions," his fervid references to Scripture texts, and his repetitions of some texts in particular, such repetitions "usually being very weighty, and with great vehemency of spirit." One of them was: "It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God." Three times he repeated this; but the texts of promise and of Christian triumph had all along been more frequently on his lips. All in all, his single short prayer, which Harvey places "two or three days before his end," may be read as the summary of all we need to know of the dying Puritan in these eternal respects. "Lord," he muttered, "though I am a miserable and wretched creature, I am in covenant with Thee through grace, and I may, I will, come to Thee. For Thy people, Thou hast made me, though very unworthy, a mean instrument to do them some good, and Thee service; and many of them have set too high a value upon me, though others wish and would be glad of my death. But, Lord, however Thou dost dispose of me, continue and go on to do good for them. Give them consi tency of judgment, one heart, and mutual love; and go on to deliver them, and with the work of reformation; and make the name of Christ glorious in the world. Teach those who look too

much upon Thy instruments to depend more upon Thyself; pardon such as desire to trample upon the dust of a poor worm, for they are Thy people too; and pardon the folly of this short prayer, even for Jesus Christ's sake; and give us a good night, if it be Thy pleasure."

Wednesday, September 1, passed unmarked, unless it may be for the delivery to the lady protectress, in her watch over Cromwell, of a letter dated that day, and addressed to her and her children, from the Quaker, Edward Burrough. It was long and wordy, but substantially an assurance that the Lord had sent this affliction upon the protector's house, on account of the unjust sufferings of the Quakers. "Will not their sufferings lie upon you? For many hundreds have suffered cruel and great things, and some the loss of life (though not by, yet in the name of, the protector); and about a hundred at this present day lie in holes, and dungeons, and prisons, up and down the nation." The letter, we may suppose, was not read to Cromwell, and the Wednesday went by. On Thursday, September 2, there was an unusually full council meeting, close to his chamber, at which order was given for the removal of Lords Lauderdale and Sinclair from Windsor Castle to Warwick Castle, to make more room at Windsor for the duke of Buckingham. That night Harvey

sat up with his highness, and again noted some of his sayings. One was, "Truly, God is good; indeed He is; He will not-" He did not complete the sentence. "His speech failed him," says Harvey; "but, as I apprehended, it was, 'He will not "leave me.' This saying, that God was good, he frequently “used all along, and would speak it with much cheerfulness "and fervor of spirit in the midst of his pain. Again, he said, "I would be willing to live to be further serviceable to God "and His people; but my work is done.' He was very rest"less most part of the night, speaking often to himself. And, "there being something to drink offered him, he was desired to take the same, and endeavor to sleep; unto which he an

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swered, 'It is not my design to drink or to sleep, but my design is to make what haste I can to be gone.' Afterward, toward morning, using divers holy expressions, implying much inward consolation and peace, among the rest, he spake some exceeding self-debasing words, annihilating and judging himself." This is the last. The next day, Friday, was his twice victorious 3d of September, the anniversary of Dunbar and Worcester. That morning he was speechless; and, though the prayers in Whitehall, and in all London and the suburbs, did not cease for him, people in the houses and passers in the streets knew that hope was over, and Oliver at the point of death.

LXIV.

THE RESTORATION.--GUIZOT.

[Two troublous years came after Cromwell's death. Though his son Richard quietly succeeded to the office of protector, it soon became apparent that the protectorate must fall. Only another Oliver could have upheld it, and there was none at hand. The sentiment in favor of calling back the banished Stuarts was too strong to be resisted. For a few months Richard's tottering authority was upheld by the influence of his father's name. Then came a brief succession of factions, and then the inevitablethe Restoration. The tardy action of General Monk was scarcely more than incidental.]

Ar day-break the army, more than thirty thousand strong, was drawn out in battle-array on Blackheath, where it silently. awaited the coming of the king. It was sad and disquieted but resigned to its fate; it had seen all the governments that it loved--the commonwealth, Cromwell, and its own dominion-fall one after another; among its leaders, the majority, and those the greatest of them all, had gone over to the royal cause; others, still popular among the rank and file, were proscribed and compelled to fly, for having formerly maintained a deadly conflict against the king. The

republican spirit, military pride, and religious zeal were still powerful in the army; but it no longer had confidence either in those who commanded it or in itself; and bowing its head beneath the secret consciousness of its errors, it accepted the restoration of the monarchy as a necessity, regarded submission to the civil power as a duty, and devoted itself to the maintenance of public order and the preservation of private interests. The king arrived, accompanied by his brothers, and attended by his staff, with Monk at its head, and by a brilliant cavalcade of volunteers elegantly dressed, and adorned with plumes and scarfs. As they pranced about in every direction, an officer, bending toward Monk, whispered in his ear, "You had none of these at Coldstream; but grasshoppers and butterflies never come abroad in frosty weather." Many men in the ranks shared in this feeling of ill-humor. But Charles was young, vivacious, and affable; he presented himself gracefully to the army; and, singularly enough, it was the anniversary of his birthday; he was just thirty years of age. He was well received. Colonel Knight, on behalf of all the regiments, presented to him an address full of the utmost protestations of loyalty, which the soldiers confirmed rather by their submissive countenance than by their acclamations. The king left Blackheath, delighted at having got through this ordeal satisfactorily. On arriving at St. George's Fields, he met the lord mayor, aldermen, and common council of the city of London, who were awaiting him in a richly decorated tent, to offer him their address and a collation. He halted there for a few moments, and was more cordially received and felt more at his ease among the throng of citizens than among the ranks of the army. His road from St. George's Fields to Whitehall was one continued ovation. He was preceded and followed by numerous squadrons of mounted guards and volunteers, magnificently dressed and caparisoned; the train-bands of the city and of Westminster, and the various corporations with