University of Virginia Library

CROMWELL.
BOOK V.

Childe Harold.

1. CHAPTER I.

Childe Harold.

It was on the evening of the twenty-sixth of
June, some five years later than the date of Milton's
letter, urging upon Sir Edgar Ardenne the propriety
of his return to England—yet, since he had dictated
it, the poet had received no line or token from
his friend. After the peace which closed the long
and hard-fought struggle with the Hollanders, and
decided the supremacy of England on the seas,
throwing up his commission, Ardenne had left the
navy; nor, since that day, had any tidings been received
of one who had, a little time before, so occupied
the general mouth, and played a part so
eminent in that great drama—the World's History.
Such is renown!—such popular applause!—such
human gratitude! The man who had preserved
the life of Oliver on Winsley field!—who had secured
his victory on Marston Moor!—who had, to
the abandonment of all that could have rendered

his own life happy, laboured as the most strenuous
and faithful of that great being's followers, so long
as he believed him true—to England—and to himself!—who,
with a yet harder sacrifice, quitted his
side the very moment he perceived the dawning
symptoms of ambition in one whom he had loved
and honoured—as men but rarely love and honour!
This man was now forgotten—forgotten by the
land for which he had so deeply suffered—forgotten
by the friend he had so deeply served!

The past anniversary of this day had been a day
of splendour and rejoicing—the night had been one
of joy, festivity, and mirth. From every steeple in
the huge metropolis the merry bells had chimed
with their most jovial notes—from park and tower
the loud voice of the cannon thundered in noisy
concert—from every casement tapers, and lamps,
and torches sent forth unwonted radiance—and
from each court and square huge bonfires streamed
heavenward, while by their light the multitude sat
feasting and carousing, to the health of the Protector.
The past anniversary of this day had witnessed
the superb and solemn ceremonial of his installation
to that office which he had filled with so
much dignity and honour to himself, with so much
profit and advancement to his country, during the
four preceding years. With all the glorious preparation,
the pride, and pomp, and circumstance
which decks the coronation of a monarch, with proclamation
of the kings at arms, and homage of bareheaded
lords, and acclamations of the multitude,
and addresses from the delegates of foreign potentates,
Oliver had been decorated with a robe of purple
more splendidly elaborate than the attire of any
former king; he had been girded with the rich
sword of state; he had received a sceptre, massive
with solid gold, with which to sway the destinies

of England; a noble copy of the Holy Writ, whereby
to wield that sceptre rightly. Generals had
borne his train; the parliament had sanctioned his
investiture as performed by its speaker; the people
had assented! In all but name, that “feather in
the hat,” which adds not any thing to him who wears
it—that “toy and bawble,” which he had oftentimes
rejected, partly in politic accordance to the prejudices
of his more fanatical advisers, partly in superstitious,
although unconfessed, obedience to the
prophetic voice which had forewarned him of his
coming greatness—the citizen of Huntingdon was
now the King of England!

Great, powerful, triumphant, unresisted! His
every project splendidly successful! His every
wish fulfilled! His love of glory—thirst of power
—ambition to be First—all satisfied, if not, indeed,
insatiate! His boast, that he would make the name
of Englishman as potent and as far revered as ever
was the style of antique Roman, completed to the
letter! The country, which he governed, raised
from the deepest degradation to the loftiest fame!
His navies irresistible — his armies everywhere
victorious—his alliance courted—and his enmity
most humbly deprecated by dynasties which, but
one century before—and that, too, when the most
mighty of her former sovereigns, the manly-minded
virgin queen, had filled her throne—regarded
England as a mere speck on the bosom of the sea;
hard, it is true, of access, and difficult to conquer;
but powerless abroad, and exercising scarce a shadow
either of influence or power among the mightier
royalties of Europe! Was Cromwell happy?

In a high chamber of his more than royal residence,
while all without was rife with demonstrations
of respect for his affeered and legal dignity,
Oliver sat alone. Sumptuously, though still plainly

clad, in an entire suit of sable velvet, the jewelled
sword of state which had been, on that same day of
the foregoing year, buckled to his side, lying upon
the board before him, and bearing in his altered
mien—altered most strangely, and adapted to his
altered station—that grave majestic dignity which
had replaced the bluntness of his soldier-bearing—
musing in solitude and silence, the greatest man in
England passed the first anniversary of his assured
and titled greatness. There was, however, now no
glow of exultation on that pale cheek and careworn
brow—no curl of triumph on the lip—no flash of
gratified ambition in the downcast eye! Lines
deeper and sterner than the wrinkles of advancing
age were seared into that massive forehead—a
shadow gloomy and sad had veiled that hollow eye
—exhaustion, weariness of heart, sickness of spirit,
were written visibly in the pale caverns of that haggard
cheek! There was a trifling sound—a casual
rustling in the large apartment, a thousand such as
which each hour brings to unsuspicious ears—he
started to his feet!—he thrust his hand into his
bosom!—he bent a searching and disquiet eye into
each corner of the room, which was so strongly lighted
that not a shadow could be seen in its most distant
angle!—he listened as the condemned prisoner
listens for the foot of the law's last minister. The
sound came not again—and he resumed his seat;
but, as he did so, a sharp and jingling clash told
that beneath the civic garb there lurked a shirt
of steel; and the light glittered on the butt of a
concealed pistol, just rendered visible by the derangement
of his doublet. The soldier of a hundred
fields—the vanquisher and scorner of a thousand
perils—he who had ridden to the fray as to
the banquet—he who had stood all dauntless and
unflinching among a storm of bullets, that cut down
all around him—wore hidden armour—shook at an
empty sound! A pile of papers lay before him on
the table—threats from anonymous assassins—
hints from concealed and faithfull spies, dwellers
at every court in Europe—despatches intercepted
—private correspondence opened and searched—
and, on the top of all, a pamphlet, fresh from the
press, with the leaves partly cut, and a broad-bladed
dagger, which he had used to open them, lying
upon it, as if to mark the place! It bore the ominous
and fearful title, Killing no Murder!
After a long pause, during which, though seated,
he still watched with an acute and anxious ear for
a recurrence of the sound that had disturbed him,
he again took up the pamphlet, and with a painful
and intense fixedness of study, that marked the harrowing
interest he took in its minutest arguments,
perused its closely-printed pages. Midnight had
long passed ere he finished it—with a deep sigh he
closed and laid it down again—a sigh not of regret,
but of relieved suspense, such as men heave when
the catastrophe of some exciting tragedy is over!
“The villain!” he exclaimed; “the perilous and
subtle villain! Damnable arguments! Accursed
perversion of the talents and the intellect, which
God giveth unto man for good!” He rose, and
paced the apartment to and fro, with steps now
faltering and slow, now hurried, short, and rapid!
“ `And my own muster-roll'—he says—`contains
the names of those who burn to emulate the glory
of the younger Brutus—who do aspire to the honour
of delivering their country'—and by what—
what but my secret murder?”—his brow became
more gloomy than before; and yet again, after a
little space, it kindled with its ancient animation.
“A lie!” he cried, aloud, and in a tone of triumph;
“I do believe, a lie!—a wicked and malignant
lie! framed but to break my rest! It cannot be—
it cannot—that my brave fellows—my own ironsides—my
followers in a hundred battles can be but
true and loyal! and yet”—he went on, the momentary
gleam of spirit fading—“and yet it doth crave
wary walking!—ay! and, as Milton would say in
his classic tongue, fas est et ab hoste doceri! But
I will watch—yea! watch with my sword drawn
and my light burning—surely the Lord of Hosts
will shield his servant from the midnight dagger
as from the open-smiting sword! I will trust no
man!—no! not one! Harrison hath looked cold
on me of late, and prated much of Ehud and of
Saul! and Fleetwood thwarts me! Hacker, who
was my friend, is now my bitter foe! And they
have dared to liken me to Ahab, and to cry `Ha!
ha! Hast thou slain, and dost thou take possession?'
And Ormond hath come over, as I learn today—another
Syndercombe and Sexby business!
The snares are set—are set, I say, on every side!—
pitfalls are digged for my feet, and arrows whetted
privily against me! And wherefore? They cannot
say that I have wronged one man in England
—that I have wrung one penny from their purses,
or shed one drop of blood, save in due course of
law. They cannot charge me with bloodthirstiness,
for I have been long-suffering and merciful—ay!
even to a fault!—but I will be so now no longer—
Slingsby must come to trial, ay, and Hewet—and,
if condemned, as the Lord liveth, they shall die!
die as murderers and common stabbers—die, I say,
soul and body! They cannot say that England is
not free, and powerful, and happy as never was she
heretofore!—and yet they hate me!—ay, and take
counsel for my deatlr!—and poison all hearts—
even of my own friends—against me! `and I shall
perish,' this base fellow prophesieth, `like dung
from off the earth—and they that look upon my
greatness shall ask of me, `Where is he?' ” He
paused in his distempered walk, and, falling on his
knees, burst into a passion of loud sobs and tears
—“My God,” he cried—“my God, why hast thou
thus forsaken me? Oh yield not up thy servant to
the power of the ungodly, nor suffer the blashemers
to prevail against him. For surely it is thou—
thou, Lord—who hast thrust on me this undesired
greatness; who hast compelled me, though reluctant
and rebellious, to wear these trappings of authority—when,
as thou knowest—even thou, who
knowest all things—far rather I had dwelt by a
woodside and tended sheep, than been the ruler of
this stiff-necked and ungrateful generation. But
thou hast done this violence to my affections, thou
hast disposed of thy servant for the best in thine
own sight, as from the beginning it was written
down—yea! thou didst send thy minister to warn
him of thy pleasure when but a child, foolish and
unregenerate, and a slave to sin! Thou didst redeem
him from the power of Satan, and sure he was in
grace—and he that is in thy grace once can never
more relapse! Lo! by my hand thou didst strike
down the man Charles Stuart, putting it nightly
and by day into my soul, `thou shalt not suffer him
to live'—and thou hast set me up, not for my own
pleasure nor at my request, but at thine own singular
especial choice, for the advancement of thy cause,
the welfare and the safety of thy church!—and
thou hast made me, as thou promisedst of yore,
though not a king, THE First in England! And
yet thou dost abandon now thy servant—thou dost
yield up thy true and faithful one—who, for thy
cause, hath yielded up his all—to the delusions of
the enemy—the power of the Evil One! I ask not,
in this merciful?—but is this just, O Lord? Thou
knowest well how I have served thee, neither
grudgingly nor with eye service—but in all purity
and truth of spirit—and now, even now, Lord,
when thou hast, as it seems, forgotten me, I turn to
thee alone for aid, to thee for succour and for justice!
Let me not perish utterly—let not my blood, which
has flowed ever at thy bidding freely, be spilled by
a base stabber!—let me not be cast forth from the
high place whereon thou hast seated me, as a thing
worthless and despised; but let me die, when thou
hast done with me, in fulness of my fame, either
upon my deathbed, thence passing peaceably into
thy presence, or gallantly upon my charger's back
amid the blare of trumpets—”

A step was heard without—a low tap at the door
—instantly he rose from his knee, holding the Bible,
which he had opened as he commenced his
wild and almost impious prayer, in one hand, while
with the other he grasped the hilt of the short
massy sword beside him—“Enter!” he said, in a
stern calm voice; and, at the word, one of his bodyguards
stepped in, announcing that a stranger was
below, craving to speak privately on matters of
great import with his highness.

“What like is he?” Oliver asked, sharply—“a
stranger, ha! Is he a tall pale man, with a deep
scar on his right cheek—a mantle of blue broad
cloth with a red cape, a slouched hat and red
feather?”

“Even so, please your highness,” replied the
soldier.

“And doth he wear his right hand gloved, resting
upon the hilt of a long tuck, and three rings on
the fingers of his left?”

“Of a truth I observed not,” the messenger began.

“Begone then, instantly—demand his name—not

that it matters—but mark his hands, I tell thee—
they should be as I tell thee. On the forefinger
of the left a plain gold hoop, and a large seal-ring
of cornelian, with a small guard of jet upon the
second. If it be so, say to him I will go now no
farther in that matter, but will send one to confer
with him at three hours past noon to-morrow, at
the place which he wots of. If it be not as I say
to you, secure him on the peril of your life, and
have him away forthwith to the Gatehouse!—but
in neither case trouble me any more this night.
Begone!” and, as the soldier left the room, he
muttered something to himself inaudibly—drew
out no fewer than three pistols from different parts
of his attire, looked closely to the flints and priming,
extinguished all the lights save one, locked, double
locked, and barred the outer door—then raised the
tapestry in a corner of the room, opened a panel
in the wainscoting, and, gliding through it into a devious
passage in the thickness of the wall, stole
like a guilty thing to a remote bedchamber, different
from that in which he had slept the preceding
night, known only to one old and trusted servitor.

2. CHAPTER II.

Childe Harold.

The power, the wealth, and the prosperity of
England daily and almost hourly increased!—the
ravages of war had long since disappeared from her
deep velvet pastures and her happy homes! Every
religion was endured except when its professors
intermeddled in state matters—all parties, whether
cavalier, or Presbyterian, or fifth-monarchist, shared
equally the law's protection, alike relied on the protector's
evenhanded justice! The arts and sciences
were more encouraged; learned and polished scholars
were esteemed at the court of Oliver in higher
and more just repute; morality was more rewarded,
licentiousness and vice more frowned down
than ever they had been before. Nor, though the
court was rigid almost to excess in morals, was its
decorum chilled by any touch of jealous puritanical
moroseness! All innocent amusements were admitted
and enjoyed freely, Cromwell himself keeping
a stud of race-horses, and labouring to promote
in all things lawful—not the mere welfare, but the
happiness and comfort of his meanest subject! No
Christian sect was hindered in its worship or observances;
even the trampled and scorned Israelite
finding an advocate and friend in that great man,
who went so infinitely far in toleration, beyond,

not his own age alone, but the most liberal usages
of the most tolerant of modern nations. Still did
his cares, his griefs, and his perplexities but multiply!—no
success was enough to please—no general
prosperity enough to satiate the people—craving
eternally the something new—losing the tangible
realities of present in the dim longings after future
happiness—forgetting benefits conferred—ungrateful
for past merits—lightheaded, fickle, and false-hearted.
Day after day new plots broke out; and
though they burst all harmlessly—the veteran bearing
still, as it would seem, a charmed life—every
detected scheme, punished or pardoned, left its deep
sting behind. Cromwell's existence was no longer
healthful—his spirit was no longer, as of yore, elastic
and storm-riding as the eagle's pinion! His
days were spent in bitter, because thankless, labours—his
nights in agonizing apprehensions. It
was not that he trembled—it was not that a vile
and dastard fear of death shook his soul from its
eminence—it was not that he would have doubted
any more to hurl himself in open strife upon the
deadliest hazard now, when the monarch of the
land, than when he fought a simple colonel of the
ironsides—a theme of dread to others—himself
dreading nothing! But it was the suspense—the
doubt—the inability to harbour trust or confidence
in any of those nearest to his person. The gnawing
heart-consuming sense of being undervalued,
dealt with ungratefully, wronged, hated, and betrayed.
Still in the prime of intellectual manhood,
his strong form was bowed and feeble; his hair,
once sable as the raven's wing, thin, weak, and
gray; his piercing eye downcast and veiled, and
his whole aspect that of a man worn out, even by
his own success, spiritless and heartbroken. Parliament
after parliament, convoked to settle the provisions
of the nation, rebelled against his power,
running, as had their predecessors, wild on abstruse
religious doctrines, and anxious to plunge all things
once more into anarchy, by striving to work out
their frantic phantasies of perfect and unchangeable
republics. Each after each he was compelled, not
for his own sake merely, but for England's, which
else they would assuredly have hurled again into
the abyss of civil discord, to break up and dissolve
them. Nothing could crush the tameless hardihood
with which he bore up, nerved by their very pressure,
against burdens to a slighter intellect wholly
unbearable—conspiracies of enemies, false-heartedness
of friends!—treasons and anarchy at home,
insults and wars abroad! All yielded to the active
vigour with which he sprang to grapple them, but
by that very vigour was his own mighty spirit, like
a bow overstrained by too long tension, despoiled
of its own strength, its pliability, its power of renewed
exertion. The capture of the rich West
Indian isles—the persecutions of the Vaudois, remitted
at the first hint of his potential voice—the
all-important port of Dunkirk, so long the secret
aim of England's politic ambition, ceded to his victorious
arms—cast a bright gleam, indeed, on his
declining years; but it was like the last gleam of
the wintry sunshine, that gilds, but leaves no impress
of its glory on the snow-mantled earth. A
nearer sorrow, a more domestic grief, was destined
to wear through the last link of the corroding chain
—a mere affliction, such as befalls each father of a
family many times in a life, and, for the most,
leaves but slight traces even on minds less firmly
moulded, annihilated the gigantic energies of that
great master spirit which had, throughout its mortal
course, met nothing that could cope with it, nothing
that had not been subdued, enslaved, and
overwhelmed by its indomitable will. Elizabeth,
his best beloved daughter, a woman of invaluable
worth—modest, and delicate, and feminine, and
gentle; yet of a character the most decisive—a
principle the most undeviating—a permanence and
rectitude of purpose the most immoveable—and,
above all, an influence on her father the most peculiar
and impressive—lay wasting on a bed of
mortal sickness. Throughout the whole of his
broad realms—those realms wherein the sweet
calm home affections have ever flourished the most
greenly—there lived not any father more kind, solicitous,
forbearing, and devoted in his paternal love
than the unconquered victor—the merciless avenger
—the stern judge—the regicide—the ruler! Hard
as he was abroad, cold and unbending in all outward
show, in his domestic hours none were more warm
than he, more playful, or affectionate. Thus constituted
toward all his children, the dearest to his
feelings, as the most prized and valued in his judgment,
was Elizabeth, who now, consumed by an
unnatural and mortal malady, was waning hourly
before his eyes. She was the only one of all his
family—the only one of all his friends—save only
Edgar Ardenne, who had dared ever to remonstrate
with him during the upward course of his ambition.
She had confronted many a time his sophistry with
that most sound of all philosophies, the pure creed
of the Christian—she had rebuked his zealous and
fanatic superstitions with regulated and sincere religion—she
had accused him of that restless and
insatiate ambition, which she perceived, or fancied
she perceived, to be the instigator and the planner,
it might be unsuspected even by himself, of all his
darker actions. She had rebuked him during the
trial—she had besought him, on her bended knees
—before the execution of the king—to spare, not
his crowned victim only, but his own deathless
fame—his own immortal soul! Her wishes set at
naught, her prayers unheeded, she had not once—
no, not for one brief moment—complained, or murmured,
or revolted! She had not once reproached
him with that which it was now too late to remedy,
but she had ever been the soother of his disquiet
mind, when fits of his accustomed hypochondriasm
had overcome him with remorse, and terror, and,
visions ominous of wo—she had ever been his calm
monitress, inculcating a milder and a holier creed
—exhorting him to penitence, as the sole path to
pardon and to peace. And it was strange that now,
in his most lordly plenitude of power, the two sympathies
which he most keenly felt were toward the
only two of human beings who had seen through—
perceived the earliest, and opposed the latest, the
most darling objects of his soul. Abandoned now
by all—the leader, revered, but loved not by his followers—the
monarch, self-upheld above rebellious
subjects—the master, flattered, and courted, and,
perhaps, betrayed—he clung with a sharp painful
yearning, as to the only feelings of his heart entirely
pure and unmixed with aught worldly, to his
affection for Elizabeth and his regret for Ardenne!
Never, since he had fixed his firm seat on the
bloody throne of Charles, had his most cherished
daughter been what she was in his more innocent
and humbler days. Her smile was as sweet, yet
it was now no longer joyous; and her cheek lost
its roses, and her form its roundness; a glassy film
veiled her soft eye; and he—the father—saw it,
and knew, yet could not reconcile himself to the
approaching wo; and felt himself to be—unutterable
anguish—the slayer of his chosen child. And
seeing, knowing, feeling all this, it was his lot to
deal the last blow to her gentle being, to launch
the last shaft that should ever rankle in her bosom
with the envenomed barbs of mortal sorrow. Hewet,
who, with Sir Henry Slingsby, had, on most positive,
unquestionable proof, been condemned for conspiracy
against the power and life of Oliver—whom
party prejudice cannot deny to have been guilty of
the intent to kill—an intent hindered only by premature
discovery of their plot—nor the most jealous
scrutiny discover to have been otherwise than justly
executed—had been the preacher on whose ministry
she had for many years attended; had united
her to Claypole by the service of the church; had
been her friend, her comforter, her teacher; and,
looking on him only in these amiable and endearing
lights, Elizabeth forgot to view him as the intended
murderer of her father—argued in his behalf, half
justified his crime under the plea of loyalty to his
true king, prayed zealously and piteously for the
remission of his punishment, and, finding all her
supplications vain, mourned over him with so intense
and terrible a storm of grief, that it half overcome
her intellects, and quite wore out her frail
and fading body. With a dull apathy Oliver heard
at first that her life was despaired of—no sign of
sorrow was displayed, scarcely of sense or feeling
—but after a short space came the revulsion, the
breaking up of all the vain restraints of pride, and
stoicism, and man's affected hardihood—the loosing
of the floodgates of the soul—the awful, vehement
outpourings of a strong man's despair! From that
day forth he left not her bedside, neither by day nor
yet by night, tending her with all a woman's care,
and, more than all, a woman's love. Soothing her
every phantasy—feigning to be, or, it may be, persuading
himself also that he would be, all she could
wish him—praying and weeping with her. Nothing
could be more beautiful, more pious, or
more touching than the conduct of that gray-haired
usurper, mourning as one that had no hope beyond
her grave, beside his daughter's deathbed. But
wretched as the consolation would have been, to
have caught on his lips her last expiring sigh, to
have felt reflected on his own the last glance of her
glazing eyes—that wretched consolation was denied
to him; for, as the body of his sweet child wasted,
so did her mind wane likewise; and for many days
before the termination of her sufferings she would
at times burst into fits of the most frantic and insane
delirium. These, as the time of her decease
drew nearer, became more and more vehement and
frightful; and it was strange that she, whose pains
had ever seemed less bitter, or, at the least, more
easily endured when her hand rested in her father's
—now, at the sight of him she loved so dearly, nay,
at the mere tones of his voice, or his suppressed
and cautious footstep, started at once into the most
furious paroxysms. “Blood! blood!” she would
shriek, till the whole pile of Hampton court rang
with her awful ravings—“I float, I smother in a
sea—a sea of human blood! Who comes? who
comes? red with the gore of monarchs—red with
the slaughter of the saints? Father?—not father
—no—no—oh, not my father!” and then again
she would take up the cry, “Blood! blood!”
struggling and wrestling on her couch as if amid
the weltering waves, till those who watched about
her were wellnigh distraught with terror, and till the
boldest of her medical attendants, in the most positive
terms, insisted on the absence of the despairing
father from the sick chamber of his child. He
withdrew silently, and with a quiet patience, that
perfectly astonished those acquainted with the imperiousness
of Cromwell's will—but he withdrew
only from her deathbed to lie down upon his own.

Shattered before by the incessant cares which
he for many months had undergone, the whole
weight of the government resting upon his single
shoulders—relaxed by nervousness, suspicion, superstition,
and remorse—this last blow broke him
down. His old complaint, the ague—which had
attacked him first in Scotland, and shaken, if it had
not actually undermined, his constitution—returned
upon him with redoubled violence, and, in a few
days, brought him down to the very threshold of
that dark house—the grave. But it was not, in
truth, the ailment only of the corporeal shell—it
was the intolerable burden “of that perilous stuff
that weighs upon the heart!”—had the mind been
at ease, the sickness of the body had been of small
account! “The sorrows written on the brain
were not to be razed out, nor the stuffed bosom
cleansed!”—the scabbard, fretted long ago, was
now, at length, worn out by the keen weapon that
lay hid within it—the earthen jar was burst by the
inscrutable workings of the liquor it contained—
the pharos was consumed by the same fire which
had for many a year been the sole agent of its
glory!

3. CHAPTER III.

King Henry IV. Part II.

Shirley.

It was already twilight on a sweet August evening,
and the streets were fast growing thin, as the
many-tongued and busy crowd, that had chafed and
fretted throughout the day, like waves, in every
channel of the great metropolis, gradually passed
away, to seek for relaxation in their peaceful homes
from all the cares, anxieties, and sorrows which
had increased to them the heat and burden of their
daily labours. A few, however, might be still seen
studding in scattered groups the shadowy thoroughfares,
some hurrying, as belated men, with hasty
footsteps homeward, some loitering aimlessly along,
as if to catch the pleasant coolness of the evening
breeze. Among these groups was one, if it could
properly be termed so, consisting of two persons;
the one a man perhaps a little past the middle age,
with soft and pensive features, and long light brown
hair, waving in loose and scattered curls over the
collar of his plain gray doublet—the other a boy,
richly attired, as might beseem the page of a high
family, upon whose shoulder the elder person leaned

somewhat heavily with his left hand, while with
the right he moved a staff of ebony before him, as
if to feel his way, for he was blind, although no
scrutiny could have discovered any speck or blemish
in the clear but cold gray eyes which, seeming to
see all things, were, in truth, sealed up in rayless
night. No words were interchanged between the
pair as they passed onward to Whitehall at a pace
suitable to the infirmity of the chief personage; but,
when they reached the palace gate, the page spoke
shortly in a low voice to the sentinel on duty—who
was engaged in parleying with a gentleman on
horseback, of military air and noble bearing—and
was already passing in, when suddenly the stranger,
who, it seemed, had been refused admittance, cast
his eye on the boy's companion, and instantly addressed
him.

“Well met—and in good season,” he exclaimed;
“if my eyes play me not a trick, my excellent
friend Milton!” The blind man's countenance
flashed with a joyous light as he replied—“Well
met, indeed! well met, and welcome, after long
years of absence; for sure I am mine ears deceive
me not, though it be one whose accents I but little
counted should ever greet them more—Sir Edgar
Ardenne!”

“It is, indeed!” answered the horseman. “After
long years of wandering in the transatlantic
wilds, I have at length turned my feet homeward;
I landed only three days since at Portsmouth, and,
riding with all diligence, have but this hour arrived
in London. Right glad am I to see one of the two
sole persons with whom I have now any ties on
earth, so early, and, if I may judge from appearances,
so well in health.”

“I thank you!” answered the poet, grasping affectionately
his friend's hand; “I thank you heartily;

by His great mercy, and beside my one infirmity,
I am sound, as I trust, both mind and body!
But, tell me—for, in that I see you here, I judge
who is the other person with whom you still esteem
yourself united—can I do aught for you? I am,
you know, his secretary?”

“I would, if it were possible,” Sir Edgar answered,
“see the protector—I owe him some
amends, and would fain tell him how highly I esteem
the fruits of his good government at home
and his wise policy abroad. The soldier here on
duty tells me that he is ill at ease, and has denied
me entrance. I trust he is not seriously diseased.”

The Latin secretary shook his head, and the expression
of his countenance, so joyful at the recognition
of his friend, altered perceptibly. “He is,
indeed, much ailing—we trust not mortally; but
his old ague hath returned on him, and what with
that, and deep anxiety for Lady Claypole's health,
and over-labouring in the service of the state, he is
reduced so greatly that his physicians fear. Yet
is he marvellously held up by faith in the Lord;
and all his chaplains have assurance strongly impressed
upon their hearts that he shall live, not
die! I doubt not he will see you, and forthwith;
for often hath he spoken of you recently, and as of
one whom he once cherished greatly, and greatly
regrets alway.”

And, without farther words, he bade the page
send some one straightway to lead hence Sir Edgar's
horse, and to desire the chamberlain acquaint
his highness that John Milton was below, with an
old friend and comrade, even Sir Edgar Ardenne.
After a few minutes, which the friends consumed
pleasantly in slight though interesting conversation,
a private of the guard relieved Sir Edgar of his
horse, and shortly afterward an officer of the protector's

household made his appearance, and, informing
them that his highness was engaged at
present in his meditations with worthy Master
Peters and others of his chaplains, but that he
shortly would find leisure to receive them, ushered
them with no little courtesy into an antechamber,
as Milton whispered to his friend, of the same suite
which Oliver at present occupied. Nearly an hour
passed away'before they received any farther word;
but each of those congenial spirits had so much to
hear and narrate to the other, that the moments
did not lag, and it was with a feeling nearly akin to
wonder that they heard the clocks striking ten just
as the chamberlain announced to them the wish of
the protector to see them in his chamber.

They entered; and, propped up by cushions on
his feverish bed, careworn, and hollow-cheeked,
and heavy-eyed, and with a wild expression of anxiety
and pain on his thin features, there lay the
mighty being from whom Sir Edgar had last parted
in the pride of manhood, in the plenitude of power,
in the indomitable confidence of his own unresisted
faculties. On one side of his pillow sat Hugh
Peters, his familiar chaplain, a stern and gloomy-looking
fanatic, intently occupied, as it would seem,
in studying his pocket Bible; and on the other
his wife, a lady of majestic bearing, although wanting
somewhat in the easy dignity which is acquired
only by residence from childhood upward in courtly
circles, and two of her daughters, the ladies Falconbridge
and Rich, who had been summoned from
their sister's deathbed by an express, bearing tidings
of their father's dangerous seizure. An air
of deep gloom pervaded the apartment, and melancholy
sat like a cloud upon the comely faces of
the younger ladies, his wife repressing all outward
demonstrations of disquiet in obedience to the wish

of Oliver, who pertinaciously maintained that full
assurance had been vouchsafed him from on high
that he should yet be spared, until his usefulness
should be completed to the Lord and to the people
whom he had been placed in trust to govern for
their good. Calm as he was, and self-restrained at
all times, Ardenne could not so far command his
voice as to prevent it trembling as he addressed
his old commander, and a large tear rolled slowly
down his cheek as he beheld the ravages which grief,
and time, and terror had wrought on his expressive
features and Herculean form. But Cromwell saw
not the tear nor noticed the unusual tone of Edgar's
salutation. As he perceived his chosen officer,
a mighty gleam of exultation flashed over his worn
lineaments, and his pale lip was curled with honest
triumph. He well remembered, and had often
pondered on the last words he had heard from the
sincere and conscientious man who stood beside
him; he knew his former doubts; he had interpreted
aright his silence, his protracted absence; and
now, that he had sought him out unsummoned, he
felt the proud conviction that this man's mind was
altered—that this late visit was a confession of his
error—a token of his approbation and good-will.
All this rushed on the dying sovereign's soul at
once—and in the midst of pain, and doubt, and
peril, he exulted! Exulted, that the only man in
his whole realm whose disapproval he had dreaded,
and whose applause he valued, had, by this
long-delayed approach to reconciliation, sealed his
avowal, that, in ruling England, he had ruled, not for
his own aggrandizement, but for his people's welfare.

“Ha! Edgar Ardenne!” he cried, in tones resembling
more his ancient voice of power than any
which, for many a mournful day, he had sent forth.

“Though late, I greet thee—I rejoice to see thee
—yea, as a trusty friend—a valued and long-lost
companion! Varily hath it relieved me of well-nigh
half my ailment to grasp this honest hand of
thine, to hear once more the accents of a voice
which no man ever heard to utter aught save words
of truth and honour. I thank thee, good John Milton,
that thou hast brought to me this—I had well-nigh
said—this son. Surely, though not a prodigal,
for him shall there be slain a fatted calf, and that
right early.”

Again Ardenne was much affected, so much that
Oliver perceived it; and pressing Edgar's hand,
which he had still retained in his own burning
grasp, “Think not,” he said, “so gravely of this
matter. 'Tis but a little sickness—a paltry fever.
Surely we two have ridden on such real perils, and
ridden, though I say it, with an unblenching heart
and a calm brow, that it is not for us to quake and
tremble in the soul if that a petty ague shake these
our mortal sinews. I tell thee, man, the Lord hath
heard our prayer—mine, and these holy men's—He

hath yet need of me in mine appointed place on
earth—nor will he yet yield up his servant into the
jaws of death. I tell thee, years are yet before us
—years full of usefulness, and happiness, and glory
—and we will part no more. Thou wilt not leave
me any more, Sir Edgar?”

“Not on this side the grave,” Ardenne replied.
“When last we parted, I was—I own it—blinded!
blinded by wrongful and unmerited suspicion. I
thought you selfish and ambitious—I foresaw that
you must be the ruler of this land, and I fancied
that to be so had been the aim and object of your
life! that you had wrested circumstance to your
advantage—made time and tide your slaves. I own
I was in error—and, with me, to own is to repair.

The elder Charles was, I confess, unfit to reign,
unfit to live! for, had he lived, we must have warred
with him for ever. He dead—there was no choice
save between you and a republic! and pardon me
that I believed it your intent to seize the reins of
government at once on the king's death; and that,
believing so, I deemed your agency in that great
trial as mere deceit and fraud. Justly, however—
honestly—you suffered the experiment to work;
and had the people been—as in my poor opinion
never people were nor will be while this universe
exists—capable of self-government, fit to elect their
rulers, or willing to submit to laws of their own
making, they had been still self-governed, and, as
they term it, free! I thank God that they are so
no longer. Better, far better—if it must be so—one

tyrant than ten thousand. But you, sir, are no
tyrant; but the sagest, boldest, and most prosperous
monarch that ever yet has governed Britons.
Dreaded abroad, honoured at home, you have indeed,
as you did prophecy to me long years ago—
you have indeed caused the mere name of Englishman
to be as greatly and as widely honoured as
ever was the style of antique Roman. You know
that I nor flatter nor deceive, but always speak
straight onward. I owed you reparation for unjust
suspicion, and I have made it. So far, then, we
are quits! Now, then, as to the man who has made
England mightier, freer, happier than ever she has
been before—as to the undisputed and only fitting
ruler of the soil, I tender you my service and allegiance!”

“True friend! true friend!” cried Cromwell.
“You, and you only, have judged of me, and have
judged aright—the boldness of your former censure
confirms the frankness of your present praise!
You only dared upbraid me with ambition—you

only envy not the greatness which has been thrust
upon me. Surely, could England have been free,
and tranquil, and at peace, never had I sat on this
thorny eminence; but the Lord willed it so; and,
as he wills, it must be. I thank you, and most cordially
do I accept your service, and frankly do I tell
you it will avail me much—for you I may trust, and,
save only you and excellent John Milton, I know
not any other. The heathen have come round
about me, and digged pits, and wove snares on every
side!—traitors are in my guard!—false prophets in
my chamber!—spies and assassins everywhere!—
daggers around my pillow!—and ratsbane in my
cup! Yet, by the Lord's help, have I set them all
at naught; and confident am I that he will not
abandon me. Truly, of all his mercies, none do I
esteem more wonderful than this, that he hath given
me once more in you a friend after mine own heart
and a faithful coadjutor!” The veteran's eye kindled
as he spoke, and his cheek wore a healthful
colour, and his voice sounded with all its wonted
firmness; it was, indeed, as he himself had worded
it, as if one half his ailment had been banished
by this most opportune and unexpected visit from
the man whom, perhaps alone, he truly loved and
honoured.

There is no truth more certain, than that those
most practised in deceit themselves most sensibly
perceive and fully honour the absence of deceit in
others; and it may be that Cromwell, who was unquestionably,
in some sort, though, for the most part,
self-deceived, a deceiver of the world, admired Ardenne
for that very frankness of bold honour which
he himself possessed not. It may be, also, that,
misguided by his wild fanatical opinions, he at one
time, believing himself the object of immediate inspiration,
looked on his own worst actions as his

brightest deeds; and at another, when the dark fit
succeeded to the fancied vision, brooded despairingly
over his own misdoings, till he conceived himself
entirely reprobate and outcast. Doubtful and
wavering, then, in his own sense of right in his
own conscience, how natural that he should draw
deep comfort to his unquiet soul from the assurance
that a man, whom he knew to have perused his
heart more narrowly than any living being, and to
have judged of him at one time with such harshness
as to abandon him, now looked on his career
with an approving eye—now bade him hail as the
protector of his country's honour—now tendered his
allegiance, and professed his willingness to follow
wherever he should lead. How natural that he
should feel this as a confirmation of that which he
would fain believe—as a proof to himself of his
own half-suspected honesty. Such were, it is
most probable, the causes of the almost supernatural
effect produced on Oliver by the return of
Ardenne; and, truly, it was wellnigh supernatural!
Till a late hour of the night he kept him by his
side, conversing cheerfully, nay, almost joyously, on
his own future prospects, on the advancement of
his country's interest abroad, on the diffusion of intelligence
and of religion, which is philosophy, at
home! And Ardenne, who—feeling that he had
wronged Cromwell in his first suspicion, when he
expected him to seize the sceptre immediately upon
the death of Charles; convinced that, when he
had usurped that sceptre, he was entirely justified
in wresting it from the vile faction which was
plunging England into misery and madness; perceiving
that he had in all things used his acquired
power with wisdom, justice, and moderation, for
the present welfare and the future glory of his people—had
rushed, perhaps, too hastily to the conclusion
that he had acted in all things, and from the first,
on motives purely patriotic—Ardenne responded to
his cheerful mood; and amid pleasant memories of
those past evils, which it is often pleasurable to
contemplate when we are safe and happy, and
high anticipations for the future, the hours wore
onward, and midnight was announced from many
a steeple, and yet that friendly conclave thought
not of separation.

At that dead hour of the night a guarded step
was heard without the door, and an attendant, entering,
called out the Lady Cromwell; and she, after
an absence of some small duration, returned
far paler than before, and with the traces of fresh
tears upon her cheek, and whispered Lady Falconbridge,
who, in turn, left the chamber for a while,
and, coming back, again called out her sister. It
was most strange that this dumb show continued
for so long a time, that Ardenne, and even the blind
poet, perceived that something must be seriously
amiss, ere Cromwell noticed it. He was, however,
so much reinvigorated, his spirits had so wondrously
regained their elasticity, that he talked on,
and smiled, and even jested, until so deep a gloom
had fallen on his auditors, infected by the evident
and hopeless sorrow engraved in characters so
legible upon the wo-begone and pallid face of Lady
Cromwell, that he could not continue longer in his
happy ignorance.

“Ha! What is this?” he cried, looking around
from face to face in blank bewilderment. “What
is to do? Speak out, I say,” he gasped; his voice,
which had but lately been so strong, now scarcely
audible—“Ardenne, speak out—you never have deceived
me;” and then, before he could receive an
answer, had it been possible for Edgar to have
answered, as his eye met his wife's, “I see,” he

said, “I see,” in tones resigned, but inexpressibly
sad and heartbroken. “Elizabeth is dead! my
daughter, oh my daughter!” Gradually he sank
down from the pillows, upon which he had been
raised in a half-sitting posture, and, though he
struggled hard still to maintain his wonted and severe
composure, the effort was too great for his enfeebled
frame. For a few seconds' space he was
successful; then stretching out his wasted arms
while his teeth chattered in his head, and all his
limbs shook as if palsied, and the large scalding
tears poured down his hollow cheeks—“My God,”
he cried, “my God—why—why hast thou forsaken
me!” He pulled the coverlet about his temples,
turned his face to the wall, and burst into an
agony of sobs, and groans, and fierce convulsions,
that haunted Edgar's ears long after he had left the
apartment of the bereaved and dying parent.

4. CHAPTER IV.

Childe Harold.

It was the third day of September—the anniversary
of Worcester, of Dunbar—the lucky day
of Cromwell—the day marked out, as he believed, by
planetary influence—the day whereon he never yet
had undertaken aught but he therefrom had reaped
a golden harvest! and it would have appeared, indeed,
to any who beheld the conflict of the elements
that day, that something of great import to

the nations was portended. For, at the earliest
dawn, the skies were overspread with a deep lurid
crimson, and the sun rose, although there was no
mist on the horizon, like a huge ball of heated
metal, dim, rayless, and discoloured; and, as he
rose, the unchained winds went forth, raving and
howling through the skies with such strange fury,
as not the oldest men could liken or compare to
aught they had themselves beheld or heard of from
their fathers. The largest trees were uptorn from
their earthfast roots, and hurled like straws before
the whirlwind; chimneys and turrets toppled and
crashed incessantly; cattle were killed in open
fields by the mere force of the elements; the seas
were strewn with wrecks; the lands were heaped
with ruin. Nor did these prodigies occur in one
realm only, or in one degree of latitude; from
north to south, from east to west, the same strange
tempest swept over every shore of Europe, and at
the selfsame hour, marking its path with desolation.
The same blast dashed the vessels of the
hardy Norsemen against their steril rocks, and
plunged Italian argosies into the vexed depths of
the Adriatic!—the same blast shivered the pine-tree
on the Dofrafells, and the cypress by the blue
waves of the Bosphorus!

Thunder, and rain, and hail, and the contending
fury of the winds, shifting and veering momently
from point to point round the whole compass, and
the incessant streams of “fire from heaven,” united
to make up a scene of horror such as the Christian
world had never perhaps beheld either before or
since; and, amid that strange din and warfare, the
parting soul of him who had so swayed the mightier
influence of human passions to his will, who
had so ridden fearlessly through the more murderous,
if less appalling, strife of human warfare, was

struggling to take wing—to flee away and be at
rest!

On the preceding night all his physicians had
pronounced his cure impossible—his dissolution
speedy and certain; for, since the death of his beloved
daughter, he had not closed an eye by night,
or enjoyed any intermission from the recurring fits
of ague and of fever—yet still his preachers buoyed
him up with their insane and impious blasphemies,
asserting that the Lord, even the Lord who cannot
lie, had promised them that this his servant should
recover—and even when the mortal pains had
yielded to the weakness of approaching death, they
still forbade him to fear aught or to make any
preparation. On the preceding evening, seeing the
tribulation and alarm depicted on the anxious features
of his wife, he took her kindly by the hand,
and said, “Fear not for me, my love, nor think that
I shall die; I am sure of the contrary.”

“Oh, sir,” said Ardenne, in reply, who, since their
reconciliation, had scarcely left his pillow for a moment,
“oh, sir, believe it not—they are no friends
to you who would deceive you any longer—your
trust must be on High, for you have wellnigh done
with earth. Not one of your physicians believes
you can outlive to-morrow. They that would tell
you otherwise have lost their reason.”

“Say not,” he instantly replied, “that I have
lost my reason; I tell you the plain truth. I know
it from authority far better than any you can have
from Galen or Hippocrates. It is the answer of
the Lord himself to our prayers; not to mine only,
but to those of others—others who have an interest
with Him more close and intimate than I have.
Go on, then, cheerfully, and, banishing all sorrow
from your looks, deal with me as with a serving
man. Ye may have skill in the nature of

things, yet nature can do more than all physicians
put together; and God is far more above nature!”

It was in vain that Edgar, who could not endure
that he should go hence in this wild and terrible
delusion, argued with him, professing his sincerity
with tears, and urging on him the necessity of immediate
preparation, unless he would rush headlong
into his Maker's presence, unhouselled and unshriven!
It was in vain that he remonstrated with
the fanatical and blinded monitors, who, to the last,
assured their victim of speedy restoration. By
Peters, Sterry, and the rest, he was rebuked as an
unthinking carnal-minded person, setting at naught
the intimations of the Holy One, a scoffer, and blasphemer!—and
Cromwell was admonished to put
from him one whose presence in his chamber
might well draw down upn its inmate some dread
maifestation of Divine displeasure; but to this Oliver
objected so decidedly that they dared urge it
no farther.

“He is sincere,” he answered to their exhortations;
“sincere, but in much error! The Lord
hath not vouchsafed to him the light which guides
our footsteps—yet he is most sincere, and pure according
to his lights, and so—although those lights
be darkened—more justified, it may well be, than we,
who have more opportunities of grace and less excuse
for sin! He shall not leave me. Tush!
Tell me not—I say he shall not! Begone, all ye
—he shall alone be near me!” His will was instantly
obeyed, and through the livelong night
Sir Edgar watched beside his bed; and on that
night, for the first time since Lady Claypole's
death, did sleep visit his weary eyes—but sleep
how terrible—not the “soft nurse of nature,” but
its convulsion! As his eyes closed in slumber

the delusions which he cherished while awake forsook
him, and death, in all its terrors, glared on him
face to face! His features, bold still and firm,
though pallid and emaciate, were frightfully distorted
by the agonies of terror and despair—the sweat
stood in dark beaded bubbles on his brow, and his
thin hair seemed, to the sight of the excited watcher,
to bristle on his head—his hands were cast
abroad like those of a man drowning, and the whole
bed was shaken by the convulsive shivering of his
limbs. “Keep them away!” he cried, in words
painfully clear and thrilling, “keep them away!
What would they with me? No! no! I am not
ready—I will not—do they not hear me say, I
will not die?” and he ground his teeth violently,
and struggled as with persons striving to drag
him down. Appalled beyond expression, Sir Edgar
touched him gently, and he awoke; but, still
unconscious and bewildered, he continued for a
moment to resist and utter, “Avaunt! Get thee
behind me! for what have I to do with thee, thou
Evil One?” Then, recognising Ardenne, he forced
a feeble smile, and muttering something of a fearful
dream, composed himself again to rest, and,
after a few moments, was again asleep. But instantly
again the vision came upon him; and this
time his eyes were opened wide, and stared abroad
as if awake. “Away with it,” he gasped; “away
with that bloodstained and headless trunk! Why
dost thou glare on me, thou discrowned spirit; thou
canst not say I judged thee? King! king!—there
be no kings in England—the man, the man Charles
Stuart! Beseech me not, I say—I cannot save
thee! It falls! it falls! that deadly-gleaming axe!
Ha! ha! said I not so—there be no kings in England?”
Again he woke, and once again, after a little
time, sunk into a perturbed and restless slumber,
which lasted, although fitful and uneasy, until the
morning cocks had crown. Then, with a start that
raised him from his pillow, “Devil!” he muttered,
through his clinched teeth; “ha, devil, was it thou?
thou that didst break my childish sleep, telling me
I should be the First in England? thou that didst
plunge my stainless soul in blood—oceans of blood?
my king's—my people's—my own child's? Blood!
blood!” he shrieked aloud, and once more Edgar
touched him; but, as he was aroused, unwilling to
encounter or abash him, he feigned himself to sleep,
and heard him say, “Happy! Oh! how innocent
and happy! Lo! how serene he slumbers. But
it was a dream—a foul dream only.” For a time
he kept silence, but once or twice groaned deeply:
and, after a little while, Ardenne beheld him through
his half shut lids raise himself on his knees, and, with
clasped hands, pour forth a prayer befitting rather,
as Ludlow afterward observed when it was found
transcribed among his papers, “a mediator's than a
sinner's deathbed!” “Lord,” he exclaimed, “although
I am a wretched and a miserable creature, I
am in convenant with thee through grace; and I may,
I will come unto thee for thy people. Thou hast
made me a mean instrument to do them some good
and thee service; and many of them have set too
high a value on me, though others wish and would
be glad of my death. But, Lord, however thou dost
dispose of me, continue to go on to do good for
them. Give them consistency 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 throughout 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, for Jesus Christ his sake, and
give us a good night if it be thy pleasure.” Having,
to the unspeakable astonishment of Ardenne—
who, when he saw him rise, expected a confession
of his crimes and an appeal for pardon—poured forth
these strange ejaculations, he laid him down, and
slept a calm, and, as it seemed, refreshing sleep,
until the first beams of the lurid sun shone into
the apartment; then, starting up again, “Hell!'
he shrieked out; “hell hath gat hold upon me;
the pains of hell have compassed me!” and would
have leaped out of bed upon the floor if Edgar had
not caught him in his arms. At the same moment
the awful uproar of the tempest burst suddenly and
without warning upon the terrified and reeling world.
But the storm fell unheeded on the ears of Oliver
and of his sole attendant; both were too deeply
moved, the one by the remembrance of his tremendous
dreams, the other by compassion, pity, and
dismay, to think of any thing external. In a short
time, however, Oliver regained his wonted calmness;
and, making no allusion to the occurrences
of the past night, Edgar disturbed him not by
speaking of them. As the day now advanced, his
wife, his children, some of his officers, and all his
chaplains crowded into his chamber; he spoke to
all kindly and cheerfully; but Edgar saw that all
the overweening confidence of the preceding day
had left him; and though the fanatics continued to
rave in his ears, promising present health and future
glory, he listened with indifference, and his eye no
longer flashed at their bold prophecies, nor did he
answer any thing, nor prophesy at all himself, though
called on frequently throughout the day by Peters
to say something to the Lord, and to make intercession.
For the most part he lay still upon his
back, with his hands folded on his breast, and his
face perfectly composed and calm; but twice or
thrice a short quick spasm twitched the muscles of
his mouth—and once he wrung his hands, perhaps
unconsciously. He spoke but seldom, and then
only in short sentences, evidently growing weaker
every moment. Once he remarked upon the day
—his anniversary—but, strange to tell, he noticed
not at all the furious tempest which shook the very
palace-roof above him, and, saving in its lulls,
drowned every sound of voice or motion. Toward
noon he dozed a little while, and on his waking
called to Peters.

“Tell me,” he said, “I pray you—and, on your
life here and hereafter, I charge you tell me truly
—for, look you, 'tis a grievous thing to lie unto a
man situate like to me—can one who hath been
once in grace fall off by any means, and ever become
reprobate thereafter, so as to peril his salvation?”

“Surely he cannot!” answered the fanatic.
“He that is once in grace can never more back-slide,
nor fall, nor even falter! All that he doth
thereafter is of grace, and, therefore, holy!—his life
is precious—his salvation certain!”

“Soh!” answered the dying man; “I then am
safe—for sure I am that once I was in grace!”

Shocked beyond all expression, Edgar would fain
have once again renewed his exhortations; but, just
as he began, Cromwell asked for his family; embraced
them one by one, and almost instantly sank
into a state of lethargic stupor, from which no efforts
of his now alarmed attendants could rouse him.
At length, just as the clock was striking three, a
louder crash of thunder than any of the claps which
had rolled almost incessantly throughout the day
broke on the melancholy silence! “Cannon!” he
muttered, faintly, as he woke, the sound commingling

with his recollections of the day. “Lambert,
bring up the cannon! Charge there—charge with
your pikes, valiant and trusty Goff!”

“His mind is at Dunbar,” whispered one of the
military men to Ardenne; “but, lo! wherefore do
they torment him?”

The question was produced by a late effort on
the part of some about his person to induce the
dying ruler to declare who should succeed him.
To a direct straightforward question he gave no
answer; then he was asked, should Richard be the
next protector, and a faint motion of his head—
casual, as it seemed to Ardenne, and unmeaning—
was construed to imply assent. A little longer he
gasped feebly, without speaking. Another crash
of thunder appeared to split the very firmament,
and the blue flickering lightning fearfully glanced
upon the dying soldier's pale stern features. They
kindled in the glare, and the eye flashed, and the
hand was waved aloft. “Oh!” he exclaimed;
“on, Ironsides! Down with the sons of Zeruiah!”
Then, in a feebler tone, “Ha!” he continued,
“have at thee! What, again? Dismounted—
oh! dismounted! Ho! rescue—help—help! Ardenne—lost!
lost!—Ardenne!—help!—resc—”
The sharp death-rattle cut short the unfinished
word—the eyeballs glazed—the lifted hand sank
nerveless—the jaw dropped! The strife was over.
Ambition, energy, sagacity, and valour won for the
great usurper naught but a broken heart and an untimely
grave!

There was a deep hush in the chamber, awfully
solemn and impressive! A woman's sob first broke
the spell—and then the voice of his first follower
—last friend! “There passed the spirit of the
greatest man England has ever seen! Peace to
his soul! His faults die with him! but never—

never, while the round world endures, shall his
fame be forgotten, or the good he hath done his
country pass away! Weep, England, weep—your
benefactor is no more—and I foresee much strife,
much anarchy, much blood!—but he who hath
gone hence hath sown the seed—the seed of thy
prosperity, thy freedom, and thy glory—and thou
shalt reap the harvest, thou and thy sons, for many
a deathless age, when he who now is nothing—and
I who mourn above him—shall be dust unto dust,
and ashes unto ashes!”