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 ques tion "Richard?" The thing is a little uncertain. It was, once more, a matter of much moment; — giving color probably to all the subsequent Centuries of England, this answer! . . . . 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. To-morrow is September Third, always kept as a Thanksgivingday, 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: "Truly God is good; indeed, He is; He will not then 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 fervor 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 endeavor to sleep. Unto which he answered: 'It is not my desire to drink or sleep; but my design is, to make what haste I can to be gone.' "Afterwards, towards morning, he used divers holy expressions, 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, as in his lifetime so now to his very last." 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 to pieces." Husht, poor weeping Mary! Here is a Life-battle right nobly done. Seest thou not, The storm is changed into a calm, At His command and will; Then are they glad, because at rest And quiet now they be: So to the haven He them brings Which they desired to see. "Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord"; blessed are the valiant that have lived in the Lord. 66 "Amen, saith the Spirit," Amen. "They do rest from their labors, and their works follow them." "Their works follow them." As, I think, this Oliver Cromwell's works have done, and are still doing? We have had our "Revolutions of Eighty-eight," officially called "glorious"; and other Revolutions not yet called glorious, and somewhat has been gained for poor Mankind. Men's ears are not now slit off by rash Officiality; Officiality will, for long henceforth, be more cautious about men's ears. The tyrannous Star-chambers, branding-irons, chimerical Kings. and Surplices at All-hallow tide, they are gone, or with im mense velocity going, Oliver's works do follow him! - The works of a man, bury them under what guano-mountains and obscene owl-droppings you will, do not perish, cannot perish. What of Heroism, what of Eternal Light was in a Man and his Life, is with very great exactness added to the Eternities, remains forever a new divine portion of the Sum of Things; and no owl's voice, this way or that, in the least, avails in the matter. But we have to end here. Oliver is gone; and with him England's Puritanism, laboriously built together by this man, and made a thing far-shining miraculous to its own Century, and memorable to all the Centuries, soon goes. Puritanism, without its King, is kingless, anarchic; falls into dislocation, self-collision; staggers, plunges into ever deeper anarchy; King, Defender of the Puritan Faith there can none now be found; and nothing is left but to recall the old disowned Defender with the remnants of his Four Surplices, and Two Centuries of Hypocrisis (or Play-acting not so called), and put up with all that, the best we may. The Genius of England no longer soars Sunward, world-defiant like an Eagle through the storms, "mewing her mighty youth," as John Milton saw her do: the Genius of England, much more like a greedy Ostrich intent on provender and a whole skin mainly, stands with its other extremity Sunward with its Ostrich-head stuck into the readiest bush of old Church-tippets, King-cloaks, or what other "sheltering Fallacy" there may be, and so awaits the issue. The issue has been slow; but it is now seen to have been inevitable. No Ostrich, intent on gross terrene provender, and sticking its head into Fallacies, but will be awakened one day,in a terrible a posteriori manner, if not otherwise!Awake before it come to that! God and man bid us awake! The Voices of our Fathers, with thousand-fold stern monition to one and all, bid us awake. LITTLE BELL. Br T. WESTWOOD. "He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast." THE ANCIENT MARINER. IPED the Blackbird, on the beechwood spray, "Pretty maid, slow wandering this way, What's your name?" quoth he. "What's your name? Oh! stop and straight unfold, Pretty maid, with showery curls of gold." 66 Little Bell," said she. Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks, Tossed aside her gleaming, golden locks, "Bonny bird!" quoth she, "Sing me your best song, before I go." "Here's the very finest song, I know, Little Bell," said he. And the Blackbird piped-you never heard Full of quips and wiles, Now so round and rich, now soft and slow, And the while that bonny bird did pour In the little childish heart below, And shine forth in happy overflow and grow, From the brown, bright eyes. Down the dell she tripped, and through the gladePeeped the squirrel from the hazel shade, And, from out the tree, Swung and leaped and frolicked, void of fear, While bold Blackbird piped, that all might hear, "Little Bell!" piped he. Little Bell sat down amid the fern: Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun, Little Bell looked up and down the glade: Down came Squirrel, eager for his fare, And the while those frolic playmates twain Piped and frisked from bough to bough again, 'Neath the morning skies, |