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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

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est this world sees; and think of it, do not speak of it, in these mean days which have no sacred word. "Is there none that says, Who will deliver me from the peril?" moaned he once. Many hearts are praying, O wearied one! "Man can do nothing," rejoins he; "God can do what He will."- Another time, again thinking of the Covenant, "Is there none that will come and praise God," whose mercies endure for ever!

Here also are ejaculations caught up at intervals, undated, in those final days: "Lord, Thou knowest, if I do desire to live, it is to show forth Thy praise and declare Thy works!" Once he was heard saying, "It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the Living God!"*"This was spoken three times," says Harvey; "his repetitions usually being very weighty, and with great vehemency of spirit." Thrice over he said this; looking into the Eternal Kingdoms: “A fearful thing to fall into the hands of the Living God!" But again: "All the Promises of God are in Him: yes, and in Him "Amen; to the glory of God by us, by us in Jesus Christ." "The Lord hath filled me with as much assurance of His "pardon, and His love, as my soul can hold." "I think I am "the poorest wretch that lives: but I love God; or rather, am "beloved of God." "I am a conqueror, and more than a "conqueror, through Christ that strengtheneth me!"**

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So pass, in the sickroom, in the sickbed, these last heavy uncertain days. "The Godly Persons had great assurances of a return to their Prayers:" transcendent Human Wishes find in their own echo a kind of answer! They gave his Highness also some assurance that his life would be lengthened. Hope was strong in many to the very end.

On Monday, August 30th, there roared and howled all day a mighty storm of wind. Ludlow, coming up to Town from Essex, could not start in the morning for wind; tried it in the afternoon; still could not get along, in his coach, for headwind; had to stop at Epping.***: On the morrow, Fleetwood came to him in the Protector's name, to ask, What he wanted * Hebrews, x. 31.

** From Harvey; scattered over his Pamphlet. *** Ludlow, ii. 610, 12.

here?

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Nothing of public concernment, only to see my Mother-in-law! answered the solid man. For indeed he did not know that Oliver was dying; that the glorious hour of Disenthralment, and immortal "Liberty" to plunge over precipices with one's self and one's Cause was so nigh! — It came; and he took the precipices, like a strongboned resolute blind gin-horse rejoicing in the breakage of its halter, in a very gallant constitutional manner. Adieu, my solid friend; if I go to Vevay, I will read thy Monument there, perhaps not without emotion, after all!

It was on this stormy Monday, while rocking winds, heard in the sickroom and everywhere, were piping aloud, that Thurloe and an Official person entered to inquire, Who, in case of the worst, was to be his Highness Successor? The Successor is named in a sealed Paper already drawn-up, above a year ago, at Hampton Court; now lying in such and such a place. The Paper was sent for, searched for; it could never be found. Richard's is the name understood to have been written in that Paper: not a good name; but in fact one does not know. In ten years' time, had ten years more been granted, Richard might have become a fitter man; might have been cancelled, if palpably unfit. Or perhaps it was Fleetwood's name, and the Paper, by certain parties, was stolen? None knows. On the Thursday night following, "and not till then," his Highness is understood to have formally named "Richard;" or perhaps it might only be some heavy-laden "Yes, yes!" spoken, out of the thick death-slumbers, in answer to Thurloe's question "Richard?" The thing is a little uncertain.* It was, once more, a matter of much moment; giving colour probably to all the subsequent Centuries of England, this answer!

On or near the night of the same stormy Monday, "two or three days before he died," we are to place that Prayer his Highness was heard uttering; which, as taken down by his attendants, exists in many old Notebooks. In the tumult of the winds, the dying Oliver was heard uttering this

* Authorities in Godwin, iv. 572-3. But see also Thurloe, vii. 375; Fauconberg's second Letter there.

PRAYER.

Lord, 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; Lord, however Thou do dispose of me, continue and 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 in the world. Teach those who look too much on 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. Amen.

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"Some variation there is," says Harvey, "of this Prayer "as to the account divers give of it; and something is here "omitted. But so much is certain, that these were his re"quests. Wherein his heart was so carried out for God and "His People, yea indeed for some who had added no little "sorrow to him," the Anabaptist Republicans, and others, "that at this time he seems to forget his own Family and "nearest relations." Which indeed is to be remarked.

Thursday night the Writer of our old Pamphlet was himself in attendance on his Highness; and has preserved a trait or two; with which let us hasten to conclude. Tomorrow is September Third, always kept as a Thanksgiving day, since the Victories of Dunbar and Worcester. The wearied one "that very night before the Lord took him to his everlasting rest," was heard thus, with oppressed voice, speaking:

Then

"Truly God is good; indeed He is; He will not his speech failed him, but as I apprehended, it was, 'He will

"not leave me.' This saying, 'God is good, he frequently used "all along; and would speak it with much cheerfulness, and "fervour of spirit, in the midst of his pains. Again he said: "I would be willing to live to be farther serviceable to God "and His People: but my work is done. Yet God will be with "His People.'

"He was very restless 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 endeavour to sleep. Unto which he answered: 'It is not my design to "drink or sleep; my design is, to make what haste I can to be gone.'

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"Afterwards, towards morning, he used divers holy ex"pressions, implying much inward consolation and peace; among the rest he spake some exceeding self-debasing words, "annihilating and judging himself. And truly it was observed, "that a public spirit to God's Cause did breathe in him, "in his lifetime, so now to his very last."

- as

When the morrow's sun rose, Oliver was speechless; between three and four in the afternoon, he lay dead. Friday, 3d September 1658. "The consternation and astonishment of all people," writes Fauconberg,* "are inexpressible; their "hearts seem as if sunk within them. My poor Wife, I know "not what on earth to do with her. When seemingly quieted, "she bursts out again into a passion that tears her very heart "in pieces." Husht, poor weeping Mary! Here is a Lifebattle right nobly done. Seest thou not,

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"Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord;" blessed are the valiant that have lived in the Lord. "Amen, saith the Spirit," Amen. "They do rest from their labours, and

their works follow them."

"Their works follow them." As, I think, this Oliver Crom

*To Henry Cromwell, 7th September 1658 (Thurloe, vii. 375).

Carlyle, Cromwell. IV.

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