The following Letters, which require to be printed at once, with my explicit testimony to their authenticity, have come into my hands under singular circumstances and conditions, I am not allowed to say that the Originals are, or were, in the possession of Mr. So-and-so, as is usual in like cases; this, which would satisfy the reader's strict claims in the matter, Í have had to engage expressly not to do. "Why not?" all readers will ask, with astonishment, or perhaps with other feelings still more superfluous for our present object. The story is somewhat of an absurd one, what may be called a farce-tragedy; very ludicrous as well as very lamentable; not glorious to relate; nor altogether easy, under the conditions prescribed! But these Thirty-five Letters are Oliver Cromwell's; and demand, of me especially, both that they be piously preserved, and that there be no ambiguity, no avoidable mystery or other foolery, in presenting of them to the world. If the Letters are not to have, in any essential or unessential respect, the character of voluntary enigmas; but to be read, with undisturbed attention, in such poor twilight of intelligibility as belongs to them, some explanation, such as can be given, seems needful.

Let me hasten to say, then, explicitly once more, that these Letters are of indubitable authenticity: further, that the Originals, all or nearly all in Autograph, which existed in June last, in the possession of a private Gentleman whose name I am on no account to mention, have now irrecoverably perished; and, in brief, that the history of them, so far as it can be related under these conditions, is as follows:

-

Some eight or ten months ago, there reached me, as many had already done on the like subject, a letter from an unknown Correspondent in the distance; setting forth, in simple, rugged and trustworthy, though rather peculiar dialect, that he, my Unknown Correspondent, who seemed to have been a little astonished to find that Oliver Cromwell was actually not a miscreant, hypocrite &c. as heretofore represented, - had in his hands a stock of strange old Papers relating to Oliver: much consumed by damp, and other injury of time; in particular, much "eaten into by a vermin" (as my Correspondent phrased it), some moth, or body of moths, who had boarded there in past years. The Papers, he said, describing them rather vaguely, contained some things of Cromwell's own. but

appeared to have been mostly written by one SAMUEL SQUIRE, a subaltern in the famed Regiment of Ironsides, who belonged to "the Stilton Troop," and had served with Oliver "from the first mount" of that indomitable Corps, as Cornet, and then as "Auditor," of which latter office my Correspondent could not, nor could I when questioned, quite specificate the meaning, but guessed that it might be something like that of Adjutant in modern regiments. This Auditor Squire had kept some "Journal," or Diary of proceedings, from "the first mount" or earlier, from about 1642 till the latter end of 1645, as I could dimly gather; but again it was spoken of as "Journals," as "Old Papers," "Manuscripts," in the plural number, and one knew not definitely what to expect: moth-eaten, dusty, dreary old brown Papers; bewildered and bewildering; dreadfully difficult to decipher, as appeared, and indeed almost a pain to the eye, and too probably to the mind. Poring in which, nevertheless, my Unknown Correspondent, professed to have discovered various things. Strange unknown aspects of affairs, moving accidents, adventures, such as the fortune of war in the obscure Eastern Association (of Lincoln, Norfolk &c.), in the early obscure part of Oliver's career, hitherto entirely vacant and dark in all Histories, had disclosed themselves to my Unknown Correspondent, painfully spelling in the rear of that destructive vermin; onslaughts, seizures, surprises; endless activity, audacity, rapidity on the part of Oliver; strict general integrity too, nay,rhadamanthine justice, and traits of implacable severity connected therewith, which had rather shocked the otherwise strong but modern nerves of my Unknown Correspondent. Interspersed, as I could dimly gather, were certain Letters, from Oliver and others (known or hitherto unknown, was not said); kept, presumably, by Auditor Squire, the Ironside Subaltern, as narrative documents, or out of private fondness. As proof what curious and to me interesting matter lay in those old Papers, Journals or Journal, as my Unknown Correspondent indiscriminately named them, he gave me the following small Excerpt; illuminating completely a point on which I had otherwise sought light in vain. See, in Oliver Cromwell's Letters and Speeches, Letter of 5th July 1644; which gives account of Marston-Moor Battle, and contains an allusion to Oliver's own late loss, "Sir, you know my own trials this way, -touching allusion, as it now proves; dark hitherto for all

readers: - Meeting Colonel Cromwell again after some absence, just on the edge of Marston Battle (it is Auditor Squire that writes), 'I thought he looked sad and wearied; 'for he had 'had a sad loss; young Oliver got killed to death not long be'fore, I heard: it was near Knaresborough, and 30 more got killed.'*

Interesting Papers beyond doubt, my Unknown Correspondent thought. On one most essential point, however, he professed himself at a painful pause: How far, or whether at all, these Papers ought to be communicated to the Public, or even to myself? Part of my Correspondent's old kindred had been Roundheads, part had been Royalists; of both which sorts plentiful representatives yet remained, at present all united in kindly oblivion of those old sorrows and animosities; but capable yet, as my Correspondent feared, of blazing up into one knew not what fierce contradictions, should the question be renewed. That was his persuasion, that was his amiable fear, I could perceive, indeed, that my Correspondent, evidently a simple and honourable man, felt obscurely as if, in his own new conviction about Oliver's character, he possessed a dangerous secret, which ought in nowise to be lightly divulged. Should he once inconsiderately blab it, this heterodox almost criminal secret, like a fire-spark among tinder and dry flax; how much more if, by publishing those private Papers, confirmatory of the same, he deliberately shot it forth as mere flame! Explosion without limit, in the family and still wider circles, might ensue. On the whole, he would consider of it; was heartily disposed to do for me, and for the interests of truth (with what peril soever) all in his power; hoped, for the rest, to be in London soon, where, it appeared, the Papers were then lying in some repository of his; would there see me, and do as good will guided by wise caution might direct.

To all which I could only answer with thanks for the small valuable hint concerning young Oliver's death; with a desire to know more about those old Papers; with astonishment at my Correspondent's apprehension as to publishing them, which I professed was inconceivable, and likely to fly away as a nightdream if he spoke of it in intelligent circles; and finally with an eager wish for new light of any authentic kind on Oliver Cromwell and his acts or sayings, and an engage* But see antea, p. 37, n. (Note of 1857.)

ment that whatever of that sort my Correspondent did please to favour me with, should be thankfully turned to use, under such conditions as he might see good to prescribe. And here, after a second or perhaps even a third letter and answer (for several of these missives, judged at first to be without importance, are now lost), which produced no new information to me, nor any change in my Correspondent's resolutions, the matter had to rest. To an intelligent Friend, partly acquainted in my Correspondent's country, I transmitted his letters; with request that he would visit this remarkable possessor of old Manuscripts; ascertain for me, more precisely,' what he was, and what they were; and, if possible, persuade him that it would be safe, for himself and for the universe, to let me have some brief perusal of them! This Friend unfortunately did not visit those my Correspondent's localities at the time intended: so, hearing nothing more of the affair, I had to wait patiently its ulterior developments; the arrival, namely, of my Correspondent in Town, and the opening of his mysterious repositories there. Not without surmises that perhaps, after all, there might be little, or even nothing of available, in them; for me nothing, but new dreary labour, ending in new disappointment and disgust; tragic experience being already long and frequent, of astonishingly curious old Papers on Oliver, vouchsafed me, with an effort and from favour, by ardent patriotic correspondents, which, after painful examination, proved only to be astonishing old bundles of inanity, dusty desolation and extinct stupidity, worthy of oblivion and combustion: surmises tending naturally to moderate very much my eagerness, and render patience easy.

So had some months passed, and the affair been pretty well forgotten, when, one afternoon in June last, a heavy Packet came by Post; recognisable even on the exterior as my Unknown Correspondent's: and hereby, sooner than anticipation, and little as I could at first discern it, had the catastrophe arrived. For within there lay only, in the meanwhile, copied accurately in my Correspondent's hand, those Fiveand-thirty Letters of Oliver Cromwell which the Public are now to read: this, with here and there some diligent though rather indistinct annotation by my Correspondent, where needful; and, in a Note from himself, some vague hint of his having been in Town that very day, and even on the point of

calling on me, had not haste and the rigour of railways hindered; hints too about the old dangers from Royalist kindred being now happily surmounted, formed the contents of my heavy Packet.

The reading of these old Cromwell Letters, by far the most curious that had ever come to me from such a source, produced an immediate earnest, almost passionate request to have sight of that old "Journal by Samuel Squire," under any terms, on any guarantee I could offer. Why should my respectable obliging Correspondent still hesitate? These Letters,

him, if he but sold the Originals as Autographs, were worth hundreds of pounds; the old Journal of an Ironside, since such it really seemed to be, for he had named it definitely in the singular, not "Journals" and "Papers" as heretofore, . I prized as probably the most curious document in the Archives of England, a piece not to be estimated in tens of thousands. It had become possible, it seemed probable and almost certain, that by diligent study of those old Papers, by examination of them as with microscopes, in all varieties of lights, the veritable figure of Cromwell's Ironsides might be called into day, to be seen by men once more, face to face, in the lineaments of very life! A journey in chase of this unknown Correspondent and his hidden Papers; any journey, or effort, seemed easy for such a prize.

Alas, alas, by return of post, there arrived a Letter beginning with these words: "What you ask is impossible, if you offered me the Bank of England for security: the Journal is ashes," all was ashes! My wonderful Unknown Correspondent had at last, it would appear, having screwed his courage to the sticking place, rushed up to Town by rail; proceeded straight to his hidden repositories here; sat down, with closed lips, with concentered faculty, and copied me exactly the Cromwell Letters, all words of Cromwell's own (these he had generously considered mine by a kind of right); -which once done he, still with closed lips, with sacrificial eyes, and terrible hand and mood, had gathered all his old Puritan Papers great and small, Ironside "Journal," Cromwell Autographs, and whatever else there might be, and sternly consumed them with fire. Let Royalist quarrels, in the family or wider circles, arise now if they could; evil," said he mildly to me, "hereby lies buried." The element of "resolution," one may well add, "is strong in our family;"

"much