ON BOTH SIDES OF THE SEA.

CHAPTER I.

OLIVE'S RECOLLECTIONS.

Since England was, such an event was never witnessed within sound of her seas, as that which darkened London on the fatal 30th of January, 1649. In the recollection of such moments it is difficult to disentangle feeling from fact, what we saw with our eyes and heard with our ears from what others told us, from what we saw with the imagination and heard with the heart.

In my memory that day lies shrouded and silent, as if all that happened in it had been done in a city spell-bound into silence in a hushed, sunless, colorless world, where all intermediate tints were gathered into funereal black and white, the black of the heavily-draped scaffold and the whiteness of the frosty ground from which it rose into the still and icy air; whilst behind the palace slept, frost-bound, the mute and motionless river, imprisoning with icy bars the motionless ships.

From early in the day the thoroughfares and squares and open gathering-places of the city were filled with the Commonwealth soldiers. I remember no call of trumpet or beat of drum; only a slow pacing of horsemen, and marching of footmen, silently, to their assigned positions, the tramp of men and the clatter of the horse-hoofs ringing from the hard and frosty ground, and echoing from the closed and silent houses on the line of march.

It was no day of triumph to any. To the army, and those who felt with them, it was a day of solemn justice, not of triumphant vengeance. To the Royalists it was a day of passionate hushed sorrow and bitter inward vows of retribution; to the people generally a day of perplexity and woe.

Old Mr. Prynne, who owed the king nothing, as he said, but the loss of his ears, the pillory, imprisonment, and fines, had pleaded for him generously in the House, before the House had been finally "purged."

And the most part of the men, and well-nigh all the women, I think, would have said "Amen" to Mr. Prynne. If the king's captivity and trial and condemnation had been a solemn drama enacted to win the hearts of the people back to him, it could not have been more effectual. Political and civil rights, rights of taxation and rights of remonstrance, seemed to the hearts of most people to become mere technical legal terms in the presence of Royalty and Death. Pillories and prisons were dwarfed into mere private grievances beside the scaffold on which the king, son of so many kings, kings of so many submissive generations, the source of power, the only possible object of the dreadful crime called treason, was to die the death of a traitor.

The trial brought out all that was most pathetic in royalty and most noble in the king. The haughty glance which had been resented on the throne, was simply majestic when it encountered unflinchingly the illegal bench of judges on whom his life depended.

The Parliament, mutilated to a remnant of fifty; the High Court of Justice, who could not agree among themselves, whose assumption of legal forms sounded (to many) like mockery, whose trappings of authority sat on them (many thought) like masquerade-robes, were a poor show to confront with that lonely majestic figure defying their sentence and their authority, a captive in the ancient Hall of Justice from which, throughout the centuries, not a sentence had issued save by the sanction of his forefathers.

The royal banners, which drooped from the roof above him, taken from his Cavaliers at Edgehill, Marston Moor, and Naseby, seemed to float there rather in his honor than in that of his judges. Many felt that adversity had restored to him his true royalty, and that he sat far more a king now, arraigned at the bar, than when, eight years before, at the last trial those walls had witnessed, he sat as a helpless spectator of the proceedings which brought Strafford, his greatest minister, to the scaffold.

It was well for his adversaries that those days of the king's humiliation were not prolonged. Irrepressible veneration and pity began to stir among the crowds who beheld him, and the cries of "Justice! justice!" were changed more than once into murmurs of "God save the king."

But the pity was a slowly-rising tide of waves now advancing and now recoiling. The determination for "justice on the chief delinquent" was a strong and steady, though narrow current; and it swept the ration on irresistibly to its end.

The soldiers, foot and horse, had taken up their position. My brother Roger and Job Forster were posted opposite Whitehall. Roger waved his hand as he passed our windows. His face, as was his wont in times of strong emotion, was fixed and stern. He was riding in a funeral procession, which for him led to more graves than one.

At ten o'clock His Majesty walked through St. James's Park to Whitehall, passing rapidly through the bitter cold, under the bare branches of the silent trees, through a crowd in appearance as cold as silent. His face, men said, was calm and majestic as ever, although worn; his beard had become gray, and his form had a slight stoop, although he was not fifty years of age, but his step was firm. He disappeared through the Palace gates, from which he was never to step forth again. Then followed six hours of suspense and terrible expectation, the crowds surging uneasily to and fro, unable to rest, repelled and yet attracted by the terrible fascination of the empty, expectant scaffold, whose heavy funereal draperies fell from the windows of the Banqueting Hall on the frosty ground beneath. There were whispers that the ambassador of the United Provinces was pleading not hopelessly with Lord Fairfax; that the Prince of Wales had sent a blank letter signed by himself, to be filled with any conditions the Commons chose to demand; but that the king had burned this letter, and refused the ministrations of any but the clergy of the Episcopal Church of the realm;—so that if he was indeed to die, it would be as a martyr to the rights of the Crown and the Church.

And through these soberer reports ever and anon rose wild rumors of approaching deliverance, of risings in the Royalist counties, of avenging fleets approaching the Thames, of judgment direct from heaven on the sacrilegious heads of the regicides.

But to us who knew of the purpose which had been gathering force in the army since that prayer-meeting at Windsor six months before, those mid-day hours were hours not of doubt or suspense, but of awful certainty, as minute by minute the hour approached when that scaffold was to be empty no more.

We knew that within the still and deserted halls of that palace, the king was preparing to meet his doom; and (all political questions and personal wrongs for the time forgotten) from a thousand roofs in the city went up prayers that he might be sustained in dying, and might exchange the earthly crown which had sat on his brow so uneasily, for the crown of life which burdens not, nor fades away.

At length three o'clock, the moment of doom, came. "It was the ninth hour," as the Royalists loudly noted. Save the guard around the scaffold, and those who attended his dying moments on it, none were near enough to hear what passed there. It was all mute; but the spectacle spoke. In most royal pageants, the thing seen is but a sign of the thing not seen. In this the thing to be seen was no mere sign, but a dread reality, a tremendous event. The black scaffold, the wintry silence, the vast awe-stricken crowd gazing mute and motionless on the inevitable tragedy; a few plainly dressed men at last appearing on the scaffold around the well-known stately figure of the king, richly arrayed "as for his second bridal;" "the comely head" laid down without a struggle on the block "as on a bed;" the momentary flash of the axe; the severed head raised an instant on high as "the head of a traitor;" a shrouded form prostrate on the scaffold;—and then, as good Mr. Philip Henry, who was present, said, "at the instant when the blow was given, a diurnal universal groan among the thousands of people who were within sight of it, as if with one consent, such as he had never heard before, and desired he might never hear the like again, or see such a cause for it."

The multitude were not left long to bewail their king. One troop of Parliament horse rode instantly, by previous order, from Charing Cross towards King Street, and another from King Street towards Charing Cross; and so the crowd were scattered right and left, to lament as they might each man under his own roof, and to read in secret the "Eikon Basilike," which it is said the king composed, copies of which were distributed under his scaffold, and will, doubtless, be reverently treasured in every Royalist household; not in the library, but in the oratory, beside the Bible and the Prayer-book, enkindling loyalty from a conviction into a passion, deepening it from a passion to a religion, while they compare the king's trial to that before the unjust judge of old, his walk to the scaffold to that along the Dolorous Way, his sayings to those last words on which dying men and women have hung ever since.

Every one knows the heaviness with which even a day of festivity closes, when the event of the day is over. The weight with which that fatal day closed it is hard for any who did not feel it to imagine.

Scripture words repeated with ominous warning by ministers, Presbyterian and Episcopal, echoed like curses through countless hearts: "I gave them a king in my anger and took him away in my wrath." "Who am I that I should lay hands on the Lord's anointed?"

Death gave to the king's memory an immaculateness very different from the technical, "the king can do no wrong of the ancient constitution."

And even with those whose resolution remained unwavering to the last, this was not the time for speech. The extremity of justice had been done, there was nothing more to be said. It would have been an ungenerous revenge far from the thoughts of such regicides as Colonel Hutchinson and General Cromwell to follow it with insulting words, and their own self-defence they were content to leave to events. Mr. Milton's majestic Defences of the English People came later.

Ours was a silent fireside that winter night, as Roger, weary and numb, came at last to warm himself beside us.

As lie entered, I was saying to my husband, "The terrible thing is, that he who lived trampling on the constitution and the rights of conscience, seems to have died a martyr to the constitution and conscience, doomed by a few desperate men."

"We must concern ourselves as little as possible, sister," Roger said very quietly, "with what seems."

"I fear this day will turn the tide against all for which you have fought throughout the war."

"The tide will turn back," he said.

"But what if not in our time?" I said.

"Then in God's time, Olive," he said; "which is the best."

But he looked very worn and sad. I repented of having said these discouraging words, and weakly strove to undo them as he asked me to unlace the helmet which his benumbed hands could not unloose.

"I would rather a thousand times," I said, "have you with Colonel Hutchinson, and General Cromwell, and those who dared to do what they thought right in the lace of the world, than with those who thought it right yet dared not do it. The nation will recognize their deliverer in General Cromwell yet."

"I do not know that, Olive," he said; "but it will be enough if General Cromwell delivers the nation."

"At least the generations to come will do you all justice," I said.

"I am not sure of that," he said. "It depends on who writes the history for them. There is one Judgment Seat whose awards it is safe to set before us. Before that we have sought to stand. That sentence is irrevocably fixed. What it is we shall hear hereafter, when the voice of this generation and all the generations will move us no more than the murmur of a troubled sea a great way off, and far below."

Yet he could not touch the food we set before him; and as he sat gazing into the fire, I knew there was one adverse verdict which he knew too well, and which moved his heart all the more that it had not been able to move a hair's breadth his conscience or his purpose.

Many sorrows met in Roger's heart, I knew, that night; the pain of pity repressed driven back on the heart by a stern sense of justice; the pain of being misjudged by some whom we honour; the pain of the resignation of the tenderest love and hope; the pain of giving bitter pain to the heart dearest to him in the world. But one pain, perhaps the worst of all, he and men who, like Cromwell and Colonel Hutchinson, had carried out that day's doom fearlessly before the world because in unshaken conviction of its justice before God, were spared—the enervating anguish of perplexity and doubt. And this, perhaps, is the sorest pain of all.

LETTICE'S DIARY.

"'The space between is the way thither,' Mr. Drayton said. It may be; it ought to be. But is it? That seems to me precisely the one terrible question which, when we can get cleared, all life becomes clear in the light of the answer, but which it is so exceedingly hard to have cleared.

"The days, as they pass, whether clothed in light and joy, as the old time at home was when I had a home, and a mother, and so many hopes—or in darkness that may be felt, as so many of these later days have been to me, are indeed surely leading us on to old age, to death, to the unseen world, and the judgment. But are they indeed leading us on to new youth, to changeless life, to heaven, and the King's 'Well done?'

"If I were as sure of the last as of the first, for me and mine, I think (at least there are moments when I think) I would scarcely care whether the days were dark or bright. For life is to be a warfare. All kinds of Christian people agree in that. And having learned what war means, I do not expect it to be easy or pleasant.

"But I am not sure. For myself or for any one.

"Roger thinks the execution of the king was a terrible duty. I think it was almost an inexpiable crime.

"Olive, I know, thinks I am breaking plighted faith, and betraying the most faithful affection in the world in parting from Roger. Mistress Dorothy thinks I am fulfilling a sacred duty, doing what was meant when we were commanded to pluck out the right eye. As to the pain, I am sure she is right. If I could only be as sure as to the duty! For if it is right, it must be good, really, in the end for him as well as for me. How, I cannot imagine. For it seems bad as well as bitter for me. And Olive says it will be bad and embittering for him.

"Happy, happy people, who lived in the old days of dreams, and visions, and heavenly voices, saying, 'This is the way; walk in it;' when God's will became manifest in pillars of fire and cloud, in discriminating dews and fires of sacrifice, and such simple outward signs as poor perplexed hearts like mine can understand.

"Holy people say these days of ours are in advance of those, that the light has increased since then. I suppose it has, for holy people, who have grown up to it, and have eyes to see those inward leadings, and ears to hear those inward voices, which to me are so dim. But I feel as if I were still a child, and would fain have lived in that simple childhood of the world, when God spoke to men in plain ways as to children.

"Since I came here, I saw at the door of one of the churches a very awful piece of sculpture of the souls in purgatory, all aglow with the fires in which they were burning, stretching out piteous hands through iron bars for help and prayers from those still living on the earth.

"Mistress Dorothy was with me, and she clasped her hands over her eyes in horror, as she turned away.

"But to me it did not seem so horrible. At least not for the souls in purgatory. If there were a purgatory. Because the thought of its being purgatory, must take away all that is unendurable out of the anguish of the flames. There are hearts on earth tormented in fires as real. But the sting of their anguish is, they cannot be sure they are purgatorial fires. The anguish is clear enough. If we could only be as sure as to the purification. That the pain is from the remedy, not from the disease; that the flames are on the way to heaven, not mercifully confronting us on the other way to turn us back.

"It always seemed as if, by Roger's side, I should have grown good like him. How am I to grow good without him, severing myself from him? Oh, mother, mother! why must you leave me just now, when no one else in the world could have told me what to do. Because, while loving me more than yourself, you loved God's will far more than my pleasure.

"But Mistress Dorothy says, when I am tempted with 'vain reasonings' and 'debatings of the flesh,' I must go back to the first sacred impulse, when, by my mother's death-bed, I felt the death of the king for whom she would have died must place an impassable barrier between me and those who slew him, or consented to his death.

"First thoughts, says she, are often from above; second thoughts from within or from below. And if we endure to the end, third thoughts will come crowning the divine impulse of the first with a calm divine assurance.

"I will try to endure to the end. At least I will wait.

"To strengthen my resolve, let me go back to that sacred impulse, and through all it led to, up to this day.

"It was during those terrible days of early January, when hope and fear had passed, with uncertainty; and I sat by my mother's bedside, all my heart and soul absorbed in watching her depart, and in relieving any suffering or supplying any want for her so fast passing away from all suffering and from all our service.

"The east winds were careering across the Fens, and broke fiercely against the old house, and one night there was a crash of the great scarred elm-tree falling close outside the windows. But she heeded it not; and I remember feeling a strange kind of despairing triumph over all the violence of the elements. They might rage as at the Deluge; but they could neither hinder nor hasten the slow, silent progress of the awful power which was silently removing her from us.

"Before, in days of doubt and hope, I had been wont to watch the winds with a kind of superstitious solicitude, as if there were some mysterious sympathy between nature and men, and the ravings of her storms had been ominous of evil to us. But now that spell seemed broken. The sympathy between us and nature ceased with death. To her it was natural, a link in her endless chain of ever-recurring changes. To her, life and death were but as day and night, bright or dark phases of her ceaseless revolutions. She could see her children die as calmly as her suns set. To us death was unnatural, a convulsion, a horror, a curse. The terrible thing which seemed to assimilate us to her, in reality rent us from her sphere altogether. A week before, when we began to fear there was danger, I trembled at the wind wailing in the dead branches of the elms, or at a bird beating its wings against the window. Now that she was dying, I could have smiled at an earthquake or a tornado.

"All the outward and visible world, the terrors of its stormy nights as well as the sweet familiar delights of its dawns and days, seemed to lie outside me like a world of shadows, as for the first time I learned in my inmost heart that we are but strangers, not belonging to it, but passing swiftly through. As I gazed into the eyes which so soon were to cease to be the portal where my soul could meet hers, my own body seemed to become a mere phantasm, the innermost shell of this world of phantasms, where we stay a little while, to read its lessons and experience its changes, and then vanish, we from it and it from us. It was not so with the conflict then going on about the king. There, consciences were concerned, and right and wrong. And by her dying bed, right and wrong seemed the only realities left. I dared not break on the calm of her spirit with one word that might recall the conflicts of parties. Thus Love itself severed her spirit from me before death had sealed her eyes. And this was terrible beyond all. For as I sat there, the conviction became clearer and clearer that to put the king to death was crime, a crime she would have abhorred, a crime which, if he persisted in the doing it, must sever me from Roger.

"But alas, when Death came, this was all terribly reversed.

"When the feeble voice which had called on the Heavenly King, and the eyes whose tender smiles for me had changed at the last into the awed yet joyful intensity of the gaze with which her spirit seemed to welcome heaven and enter it, the whole unseen world seemed to vanish from my heart with her, and nothing was left but the eyes which could never look at me, and the lips which could never speak to me more.

"For this horror I was wholly unprepared. I thought, when she went, she would have left me standing, if but for one never-to-be-forgotten moment, on the threshold of an opened Paradise! She left me shivering on the brink of an impenetrable darkness. I could not feel even on the brink of an abyss. To have believed in an abyss even would have been an infinite relief. The horror was whether the darkness hid anything, whether there was a beyond at all.

"Could it be, indeed, that all, absolutely all, any one saw of death was just the heaving breast, the labouring breath, the few, faint, intermittent sighs; all which, in all animated creatures, marks the dissolution of natural life, and nothing to mark the distinctive, continuing, spiritual life of man?

"Was faith, then, to step so absolutely alone, unlighted by the least glimmer of the old familiar light, into the unknown?

"No one else around me seemed to experience this terrible darkness.

"They recalled the last words she spoke; they spoke of the pure raiment, clean and white, in which her spirit was clothed, of the golden streets she was treading, of the 'harps of God' to which she was listening. But the words fell altogether outside me, like some sweet, pathetic story of faëry or romance, such as she used to tell me.

"I, too, from my childhood had delighted in those fair pictures of a Paradise beyond the grave, of the city with gates of moon-like pearl, and walls of radiant gems; of trees whose leaves were healing and whose fruit was life; of waters clear as crystal, able to satisfy immortal thirst. I had delighted in those pictures, my fancy floating on them as on the glowing clouds of twilight, caring not to discriminate what was cloud, what were the bright glorified heights of earth, and what were heavenly, enduring stars; caring not to separate symbol from fact.

"But now all this was changed. What were fair pictures to me, brought face to face with this visible, terrible fact, that the spirit which had been my guide before I could remember, that my mother herself had gone where no cry of passionate entreaty, no tender ministry of love could reach, no agony of prayer avail to win the faintest sign that she heard, or cared, or existed?

"A few hours since she had said, 'Throw my warm old mantle round thee, Lettice, the nights are chill.' She had taken food from my hands, and murmured, smiling, 'Once I gave it thee.' And now the farthest star that sent the faintest ray from the utmost verge of the world, was near, compared with the impassable gulf of distance between her and me. What were fair visions of angels to me? What had they been to the Magdalene of old? If she lived, she was the same loving, tender saintly mother still, unlike any one else in the universe; not a white-robed angel lost in an overwhelming multitude of other white-robed angels, singing.

"My heart ached, and cried to heaven for one word, one syllable, one touch, to show that she was there. Would God give me instead, only fair pictures of an innumerable multitude far off, serenely singing as if they had not left any on earth bitterly weeping?

"I scarcely dared to think those thoughts, much less to utter them, until one day, the dreadful day when we left the house with the precious burden through which she had been all she was to me, and returned with nothing, the passion of my grief overcame me.

"Olive and Dr. Antony had left. Mistress Dorothy was standing on one side of the fire, in the wainscotted parlour which they had reserved for me.

"It was not her wont to dwell much on symbols and pictures, whether painted with words or colours. And seeing me sit with clasped hands in a kind of stupor, for I could not weep, she said, not in a tone of consolation so much as of rebuke,—

"'Child, sorrow not as those without hope. It is a sin. Thy mother is with God.'

"There was something in her words which went more to my heart than all the tenderest consolations had done. They did not seem said so much to comfort me, as simply because they were true.

"'If I could hope, I would not sorrow,' I murmured.

"'There is much reason to hope,' said she. 'Papists even have been saved, I doubt not, at least before the Reformation. And Lady Lucy was not a Papist. I doubt not that the Spirit of God dwelt in her as his temple. The Lord, indeed, of old suffered neither idol nor trafficker in his temple. But, mayhap, the traffickers are worse than the idols. And, indeed, dear heart,' she concluded, 'I do think sometimes we Protestants are like the later Jews, if the Papists and the Papistically inclined are like the earlier. We have cleared out the idols; but we keep the tables of the money-changers, mayhap the basest idolatry of all.'

"She had entirely misunderstood my perplexity. That she should imagine my mother's title to blessedness required defence to me, would have stung me to an indignant reply at other moments; but I was too cast down to be angry, and I only said,—

"'It is not of my mother I doubt, but of heaven; of everything. It seems as if all my old faith had vanished like a dream.'

"I scarcely thought of the weight of my words, until their own echo startled me; and I trembled at what effect they might have on Mistress Dorothy.

"But, to my surprise, her first words, spoken as if to herself, were,—

"'Thank God; the good work has begun.' Then laying her hand with unwonted tenderness on mine, she said, 'The tempter is cruel, dear heart; he is cruel indeed. But fear not, poor, torn, forsaken lamb. The eye of the Shepherd is on thee, and none shall pluck thee out of His hand. The tempter is cruel, not because he is strong, but because he is weak; he rages, not because he is victorious, but because he is vanquished; vanquished on behalf of all the flock, vanquished for thee, since the Lord is leading thee. His first lesson is ever to show the emptiness and the darkness; and He has shown thee this. Do not strive to hasten His handiwork by blending it with thine. Give thyself up to Him to be poor and blind, to walk in darkness, to have no light, as long as He wills. He will lay His hands on thee when the hour is come. He has begun, and He will finish. But thou must tread this part of the way alone. Take heed how, by conferring with flesh and blood, thou break the silence He is making in thy heart. Hitherto thou hast been dreaming. We are near waking when we dream that we dream."*

* These words are in "Novalis."—Editor.

"And she left me alone. But although she did not say so, I knew she would go and wrestle for me alone till I had won the victory.

"There was help in the thought.

"Yet, I could not think she was altogether right. I could not think all my former life a dream; that all the prayers which, childish and weak as they might have been, had helped me to bear painful things and to do difficult things, were delusions; or that the thoughts I had had about God's loving-kindness, and the joy in His works, were unreal fancies, that came not from Him. I could not give the lie to all that had been heavenly and holy in my efforts and aspirings. I could not draw a sharp border-line between one part of my life and the other, and say, Beyond that all is heathendom, where no God is; and here God begins. It seemed to me either He had been always with me and was near me now, or all was delusion, and I could never reach Him. Besides, it was of my mother my heart was full, not of myself. And the words of Mistress Dorothy which remained with me were,—

"'Thy mother is with God.'

"They turned the current of my thoughts from the future state to the Living Presence. Fancy, being of the brain, lay dumb and motionless, her fairy wings folded, as I think they ever must be, at the touch of real sorrow. Imagination, being of the heart, after vainly striving to penetrate to the heart of things, sank, dazzled by the impenetrable darkness, blinded by the ineffectual effort to gaze into the blank out of which she could avail to shape nothing but emptiness and darkness, no form and no light,—the bare negation of all she knew.

"Then Faith, turning away from the sepulchre with its impenetrable darkness, looked up into heaven, and listening, heard the living words,—

"'Thy mother is with God.'

"Dust to dust; spirit to Spirit; love to Love; weakness with Power; the mortal with the Eternal. The thought did not bring a softening gush of tenderness, but a solemn repose of awe; a silence, a hush, a subjection, in which my poor, weary, tossed heart seemed to gather strength.

"The words were the last with me at night; they made a calm in my heart, and I slept. They were the first with me in the morning; and through the days they rose from my heart like a prayer.

"Strong in that calm, on the Sunday after her chamber had been made empty, I ventured into it alone, to read the service for the day once more where I had read it so often to her. I came to the Apostles' Creed. The snow lay on the ground, hushing the earth with a death-like hush. All the world, seen and unseen, earth and heaven, seemed to me full of silence. I could only think of heaven itself as a vast snow-white mountain of God, silent and spotless, where the white-robed angels silently came and went on ministries of mercy, and the white-robed human creatures neither came nor went, but rested and adored, absorbed in the unutterable light around them.

"Silence in her death-chamber; silence on the cold snowy earth; silence in the pure light of heaven; silence in my heart.

"But as I sat there, a little robin came and perched on the snowy window-sill, turning his quick eyes from side to side, as if looking for the crumbs my mother never let me forget to scatter for him. Then he hopped off to a neighboring spray, and poured out a brief happy carol there, leaving the print of his pretty crimson feet on the snow.

"The silence of the earth was broken by his song.

"There was still a Master's table from which the crumbs fell for him.

"The silence in my heart was broken by the rush of tearful recollection his little song had brought, and I wept and sobbed as if my heart were breaking. Yet through all I felt it was not breaking, but being healed, as never before.

"For a word came to me which seemed to change the silence in heaven and earth into music.

"'I believe in God the Father Almighty, and in Jesus Christ His only Son our Lord.'

"The Father and the Son.

"This is the fountain-truth of Christianity. This is God. No mere solitary immutable Unity, but the living, eternal communion of Eternal Love. Not merely immutable, incomprehensible Being; but ever-creating, all-comprehending Life.

"This is Eternal Life; the fruitful source of all life. This is Eternal Love, not an attribute without object, but the Father and the Son eternally loving—the loving rejoicing fountain of all love sending forth the Spirit of power and love.

"This is heaven. Where the Father and the Son abide, and the holy angels and the redeemed: not absorbed in the contemplation of far-off separate light, but folded into the communion of eternal present love. 'That the love wherewith Thou hast loved Me may be in them and I in them.'

"God is called the Father, not in condescension to our understandings, because a human father's love is the best image human creatures can have of Him, but because He is the eternal Father, and the love of the Father and the Son is the root and bond of all creation.

"Heaven is called the Father's house, not because a human home is the purest picture our poor dim hearts can form of heaven, but because it is the Father's house—the parent-home and sacred health of the universe.

"And therefore the immortality of pure human love, of all that is truly human (not a perversion of original humanity) is ensured not by an Almighty Fiat, not even fundamentally by the incarnation of the Son in whom God is manifest to us, but by the very nature of God.

"It was to this love my mother had been taken up, and into the unutterable fulness of this joy—'My joy'—the joy of the Son. What images could be glowing enough to picture it?

"If the heavenly visions of the Apocalypse had been blotted out to-day, it seemed to me as if they must have sprung up spontaneously around the Apostles' Creed to-morrow.

"Living fountains of water, trees of life and leaves of healing, gates of pearl and walls of precious stones, raiment white as the light, rivers bright as crystal, harpers with the harps of God, songs like the sound of many waters; the very pavement which the feet of the 'many sons' were to tread, the sea by which they stood, radiant with combinations of glory impossible on earth, 'water mingled with fire,' 'pure gold like transparent glass,'—what are these but faint pictures in such colors as earth and earth's skies can furnish of the unutterable joy enshrined in the words, 'I in them, and thou in Me;' 'Thou hast loved them as thou hast loved Me?'

"I began to understand how my mother could be still herself, no tender touch of the old familiar affection lost, yet full of a joy which must overflow in the new song.

"For as I listened my heart recognized a distinction in the music.

"Not like an angel's her heart; not like an angel's was her song.

"The pathetic human tone should never vanish from the songs of the redeemed. The agony of redemption, the rapture of reconciliation, should never be forgotten there.

"To all He is the Father of Spirits. To each of the lost sons He is the Father who saw him while a great way off and ran and fell on his neck and kissed him, and said, Rejoice with me, for this my son was lost and is found.

"To all He is the Eternal Son. To us He is the Son who became the Lamb, who bore our sins and carried our sorrows, and redeemed us to God by His blood.

"I suppose my face shone with something of the joy in my heart, for Mistress Dorothy said solemnly to me that evening, as she bade me Good-night in my room, 'Has the tempter departed, and have the angels come and ministered to thee?'

"Then I told her something of the new light in which the old truths had come to me in my mother's chamber. She seemed to take hope concerning me, but not without fear, and questioned me as to whether I had experienced this and that, and through what instruments this deliverance had come.

"I could only say, 'I think it was thou, Mistress Dorothy, and the Apostles' Creed, and the robin redbreast.' She looked doubtful.

"'I never heard of any being led in such a way as that,' said she, 'and I cannot quite make it out. Doubtless, however, the Word of God is still His Word if it be written on the Pope's mitre, much more in the Apostles' Creed. Only be sure it is a Word from Him thou art resting on. Nothing else will stand when the heavens and the earth are shaken. And as to the robin,' she added, 'no doubt the Almighty once used ravens; and He might use robins. I have hope of thee, dear heart, but I would fain be more assured. I never heard of any soul being brought into the fold by such a way before.'

"But do any two wandering souls come back by the same way?

"It seem as if the ways back were countless as the wanderings: the Door is one, being the One who stands there to let us in.

"Nor am I sure that that was my first coming to the fold.

"It seems to me as life were in some sense one long course of conversion, one series of translations from darkness to light. Is not the sun always converting the sun-flowers by shining on them?

"Once and for ever in one sense; day by day in another.

"It seems to me as if every fresh sorrow or joy opens new depths in our hearts, which must be filled with fresh springs of the living water or else become empty and waste; as if every new revelation of life needs to be met by a new and deeper revelation of God.

"That Sunday, so full of peace to me, was the 28th of January.

"On the 30th the fatal scaffold stood outside the Banqueting Hall, and the king was led forth to die the death of a malefactor, in the presence of his people and of all the nations.

"On the evening of the next day the news reached Netherby.

"Mistress Dorothy entered my room after I had laid down to rest.

"'It is done!' she murmured under her breath. 'They have laid their hands on the Lord's anointed. The irremediable crime is committed.' And then, as usual with the Puritans in moments of strong emotion, falling into Bible language as into a mother-tongue, 'The crown is fallen from our heads,' she said; 'Woe unto us that we have sinned!'

"I could not speak.

"'Before the windows of his palace!' she continued, 'at mid-day, in face of heaven and of all the people.'

"'And not a voice to plead for him,' I said; 'not one arm lifted to rescue!'

"'Of what avail? the Ironsides were there,' she replied bitterly. 'They girded the scaffold like a wall of brass. They would not suffer the poor people to come near enough to listen to a word from the dying lips of their king.'

"My eyes met hers.

"'The Ironsides were there!' it was all I could say or think. For before me rose the figure of Roger Drayton on horseback amongst his men, stern and motionless, his soul masked in iron more rigid than his armour, not suffering the grief and pity at his heart to relax one muscle of the rigid resolution of his face.

"And between him and me for ever that scaffold and the shrouded corpse of the martyred king!

"I had, as it were, been living in heaven with her who was at rest there; and now the words came to me with a terrible desolation, 'I am no more in the world, but these are in the world.' Around her, rest, and peace, and songs of joy. Around me crime, and separation, and the terrible necessity to resolve.

"Mistress Dorothy spoke again, and her voice trembled,—

"'This is no longer a home for thee or for me, dear heart. I feared that thy joy had been sent thee to arm thee for some uncommon woe!'

"'No more a home for me, indeed,' I said; 'but how no longer for thee?'

"'I told my brother long since that if ever this crime was consummated, and neither he nor Roger lifted up their voices against it, I could not sleep another night under his roof, lest I should seem to embrue my hands in sacred blood. It is not for us to be like Pilate, languidly washing our hands of the crime we or ours might have averted.'

"'But whither will you flee?' I said.

"'I have a small tenement at Kidderminster, where godly Mr. Baxter dwelleth, a man who is as true to his king as to his God. There, if thou wilt, shall be a shelter for thee and me. It will be no palace, but the best I have shall be thine; and with Mr. Baxter's ministry that may suffice us both.'

"The generous offer touched me; but I felt that my father's home was the only one for me, now that Roger's way and mine must part for ever.

"She shook her head when I said so.

"'Thy father is among papists and idolaters,' she replied. 'It is written, "He that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me."'

"'If my father is in a place of peril,' I said, 'all the more my place is by his side.'

"She was silent some minutes; her eyes cast down, her lips set, and her hands grasping each other.

"'Child, thou art right. The heart is deceitful above all things. I thought I was pleading for God, and I was pleading for myself. I will take thee to thy refuge in France, and then I will go to my house alone. Canst thou be ready by to-morrow? I have vowed never to sleep nor to break bread under this roof again.'

"'The sooner the better,' I said; for I felt as if nothing but the overhanging shadow of that dreadful scaffold could strengthen me for the sacrifice. I dreaded lest time might make the treason against the king sink in my eyes into a mere political error, and my own departure seem more and more like a treason against those to whom I owed so much, and whom I loved so well.

"I spent the night, under Mistress Dorothy's direction, in packing the few things I might carry with me.

"In the morning, when Mr. Drayton's step was first heard on the stairs, Mistress Dorothy went out and followed him into his room below. For a few moments they were alone; then I heard her step re-ascending the stairs. It was not brisk, as was her wont, but slow, like the tread of an aged person. She re-entered the chamber, looking very white.

"'It is settled, child,' she said. 'My brother will not hinder us.'

"She would not be present at the family-prayer that morning, nor at breakfast, true to her vow.

"Immediately afterwards, Mr. Drayton requested an interview with me in his room.

"'My child,' he said, laying his hand on my shoulder, 'conscience is sacred. Are you sure that in this deed you are obeying, not my sister's conscience, nor even your mother's, but your own?'

"The question opened a labyrinth I could not disentangle.

"'It is so difficult to tell what is our own and what we inherit,' I said. 'My mother was my conscience, and I believe I am doing what she would have desired. Politics she said women must leave to men. But loyalty was like religion or affection. To the king every subject is personally related as to a parent or to God. That is what she believed and I believe. I dare not debate with myself. I dare not reason about what I feel to be a crime, or remain with those who sanction it. I dare not, Mr. Drayton, trust myself any longer to all that tempts me to stay.'

"He walked up and down the room once or twice with hasty steps.

"'Then, my child,' he said at length, 'neither dare I debate with thee nor hinder thee. I have loved thee as I love Olive, and hoped to have a right to call by a name as dear. But if thou wilt go, God forbid I should make my house a prison. By noon, an escort shall be ready to convey thee and my sister to the coast.'

"He was as good as his word. By noon we had left the old house. By the morrow we were on the sea on our way to France.

"In the dusk, before we sailed, a boat came to the ship's side, and a tall, muffled figure sprang on board. Of what happened, from the time the vessel began to toss on the short waves, I knew not much, buried in cushions among the luggage. But when the French coast was within reach, and we were waiting for the tide to enter the harbour of Calais, there was some little stir about a boat putting off from the ship; and as I lay gazing towards the harbour, I saw this boat struggle through the breakers to a point of rock, where one of the crew sprang on shore.

"The next morning we landed. We were met by the keeper of a hostelry, who courteously told us that our apartments were ready. And on the morrow, as I was sitting alone after breakfast, whilst Mistress Dorothy had gone to make preparation for our journey, there was a clatter of a horse's feet in the court-yard, and in a few minutes my father strode into the room and bade me welcome.

"'But by what miracle, father, couldst thou know we were here,' I said; as soon as I could speak for his kisses and my tears.

"'Didst thou not know? No miracle; only Roger Drayton riding through the night to tell me.'

"It was Roger, then, who had crept on board in the dusk, whose boat I had watched struggling through the breakers to the coast. And I dared not trust myself to ask where he was or when he would depart!

"'A brave and gallant gentleman he is,' said my father; 'a thousand pities such should lend their swords to traitors.'

"Then I began to tell him of all Mr. Drayton's goodness, and how Mistress Dorothy had undertaken the voyage in her motherly care of me.

"At that moment she re-appeared, and my father poured out his thanks.

"But she was very reserved and grave.

"'Sir Walter,' she said, at last. 'Little thanks I deserve for bringing this innocent lamb hither. I have seen awful things to-day. At the door of a church I saw a number of frightful images in a cage, standing in painted flames, and stretching out their hands through the bars, begging for money to buy them out of torment. And while I was looking on this, a procession of boys and men, in white clothes, passed me, bearing aloft something under a canopy, and wherever it came the people fell on their knees and worshipped. I asked a sober-looking woman what it was, and as far as I could understand she said it was "our Lord." They thought they were carrying God. I had heard much of Papistry, but I had not thought to come to places like Gaza and Ashdod almost within sight of England.'

"'It was the Host, good mistress Dorothy,' replied my father, explanatorily; 'the Holy Sacrament. Doubtless there is superstition in their reverence. But I must not forget my message from your nephew. Roger Drayton desires to know whether you will be ready to sail under his care to-night.'

Mistress Dorothy gave a questioning glance at me, and hesitated.

"'Let us persuade you,' my father said, 'to tarry awhile with us.'

"'God forbid, Sir Walter,' she replied, 'that I should tarry a night longer than I need, among these Philistines. And God forgive me,' she added solemnly, 'for bringing this lamb of the flock among them.'

"'Must I then tell Mr. Drayton you will accompany him?'

"Mistress Dorothy hesitated again.

"'It is a sore perplexity,' she said, at last, 'to have to choose between this land of idolaters and the company of those who, kith and kin of mine though they be, have embrued their hands in sacred, though I may not say innocent blood.'

"'Had Roger Drayton aught to do with that monstrous iniquity?' my father exclaimed fiercely.

"'Alas, was he not one of General Cromwell's Ironsides?' replied Mistress Dorothy. 'The heart of youth is too easily misguided.'

"'Ay,' said my father, with a strong Cavalier oath, 'and woe to those who misguided them—the quiet and sober Presbyterians and Parliamentarians, who made a breach in the dykes, and now wonder to see the country flooded by the ocean.'

"Again Mistress Dorothy had to lift up her voice in testimony; and in the midst of it Roger Drayton entered. The three chief elements of the civil war were comprised in the little English company gathered in the chamber of that Calais hostelry.

"My father, sorely irritated by what he considered Mistress Dorothy's Puritanical cant, lost all control of his temper. There were high and fierce words; and bitter epithets were freely exchanged. I only remember that in the end Mistress Dorothy, after embracing me with many a warning word, decided to depart with Roger, and that throughout it all Roger said not one intemperate or uncourteous word, bitterly as my father assailed him and those whose honour was dear to him as his own.

"When Mistress Dorothy and Roger had left, my father, after some rapid pacings of the room, and some severe soliloquising on the state of England, gradually become cooler, and then his courtesy returning he said,—

"'Ungracious return I have made for their generous kindness to you, Lettice; stay, and make ready for the journey, while I go and see if I can do anything for that fiery old lady. It would disgrace us if she were not well-sped on her homeward way. And I know the outlandish ways of this place better than they do.'

"I went to the window, saw him join them, watched them cross the court, and then sank down in a chair and hid my face in my hands, and was weeping vain and hopeless tears when the door of the room opened gently, with the quiet words, in Roger's voice,—

"'My aunt left her mantle.'

"I rose and he came to my side.

"'I had not meant this, Lettice,' he said, 'yet you need not have fled without one farewell. Your convictions are as sacred to me as yourself.'

"'I knew it,' I said, scarcely knowing what I said. 'I was not afraid of you but of myself.'

"'Lettice,' he said, 'it cannot be always so. It is impossible that such a difference can separate us forever. I must hope. If, as I trust, General Cromwell saves our England and makes her noble and great as ever she was before, say I may hope.'

"'What can I hope?' I said. 'Can I believe a thing a crime, and look forward to not always so believing it? Right and wrong are right and wrong for ever.'

"I think I never saw on his face such a look as then. Reverence, and honour, and love, and grief. I shall never see such a look on any face again. But he only said very softly,—

"'And love is love for ever.'

"There was a faltering in his tone which made it like an appeal, and I answered,—

"'For ever!'

"He wrung my hand once and was gone.

"I scarcely know if after all I should not have called him back, but for the memory of that look.

"Better to be separated from him all my life than to be dethroned from his heart by one wavering or unworthy thought or word. Yet even that dread scaffold seems sometimes a shadowy ghost to part love like ours. I would (at times) it were some plain, homely woman's duty that separated us instead. Then there might be heart-breaking, but scarcely this heavy mist of perplexity and doubt.

"I have to say to myself again and again, as if the words were a spell,—

"'It is not politics that part us, but right and wrong; what my mother would surely have deemed a monstrous crime. And dare I deem it less?'"

CHAPTER II.

OLIVE'S RECOLLECTIONS.

The next morning, the 31st January, the nation awoke a Republic. The king had died "a traitor" (they said) "to the nation;" and in the space before his scaffold it had been proclaimed, that whoever presumed to call his son, Charles Stuart, king, was a traitor to the Commonwealth. It was a strange, dreary dawning. As I opened my casement and looked across the black frozen river to London Bridge, with its "Traitor's Gate" and the towers of Southwark rising above from the marshy flats beyond, to the one long cold bar of brazen light which parted the dark clouds on the horizon from the heavy vault of snowclouds above, everything seemed hard and metallic—the heavens "iron and brass," the waters steel, the earth and her living creatures motionless, rigid, as if turned to stone.

What kind of a day was this to be? The king was dead; though the remains of the Westminster Assembly, and many of the Independent ministers, and well-nigh all the Parliament had protested against his execution, and well-nigh all the nation bewailed him. The king was dead. What authority had sentenced him? and what power was to rule in his place? Half, at least, of the nation looked on his death as a murder—but there was to be no mourning; the rest, as the terrible but victorious close of a terrible conflict—but there was to be no triumph.

No funeral pomp was to darken the streets that day, as for a king slain. No triumphal procession was to make them festive, as for an enemy vanquished. It was to be a day without mark or sign; and yet since England was first one nation surely such a day had never dawned on her. "The first day of freedom, by God's blessing restored," said the Commonwealth coins; the first day of England's widowhood, said the Royalists, widowed and orphaned at one blow.

Yet there was no disorder, no interruption of employment. The sounds of day began to awake in the busy city, the cries of countrymen bringing their vegetables from the fields, the ringing of the hammer on a forge near our house, the calls of the bargemen and boatmen locked in by the ice; and then, as the day went on, all distinction of sound lost in the general hum, like the sound of many waters, which marks that a great city is awake and at work.

Looking westward, I could see the gardener sweeping the snow from the walks in the gardens behind Whitehall, as if no terrible black scaffold had that day to be taken down in front.

Yet, I suppose, in well-nigh every heart, man or woman's, in London that morning, the first conscious thought was, "the king is dead;" all the more because there were few lips that would have uttered the words.

"What are we to do to-day, Leonard?" I said, when we had breakfasted.

"Do! dear heart," quoth he; "it is not thy wont to need thy day's tasks set thee by any."

"Nay; but to-day seems like a work-day with out work, and a Sabbath without services," I said.

"There will be a service," he replied. "The great Dr. Owen is to preach before the Parliament in St. Margaret's Church."

"The Parliament!" I said; thinking pitifully of the fifty members who still bore the name.

"You scarcely recognize the Rump as the Parliament," he said, answering my tone rather than my words.

"I scarce know what to recognize or reverence," I said. "I was wont in the old days at Netherby to think I had politics of my own, and would have belonged to the country party by free choice, if all around me had deserted it. But since our own people have split and divided into so many sections, I begin to fear, after all, it was nought but a young maid's conceit in me to think I had any convictions of my own. Aunt Dorothy and the Presbyterians think the killing of the king a great crime; my father and the old Parliamentarians think the forcible purging of the Parliament a manifest tyranny; Roger and the army think these things but the necessary violence to introduce the new reign of justice and freedom. But I know not what to believe, or whom to follow. What is to come next? Who are to rule us? We must have some to honour and obey; if not the king, and if not the Parliament, then whom?"

"Sweet heart," said he, "if the government of the three kingdoms has been resting on thy shoulders, no wonder thou art cast down and weary. But thou and I are among the multitude who are to be governed, not among the few who govern. Let us be thankful, as good Mr. Baxter saith, for any government which suffers people to be as good as they are willing to be. And let us be willing to be as good as we can. That will give us enough to do."

"But," I said, "all these years we have been learning that the country is as a great mother who demands fidelity from her most insignificant child; that Liberty is no mere empty name for schoolboys to make orations about, and Law no mere confused heap of technicalities for lawyers to disentangle, but simple sacred realities mothers are to teach their children to reverence; that the glory and safety of a nation depends on their political rights being sacred household words. We have been taught to look to Jewish and Roman matrons as our examples. Are we to unlearn all this now, and go back to the old saws we have been taught to think selfish and base; that politics are to be left to rulers, and laws to lawyers, and our liberties and rights to whoever will defend or trample on them?"

"Not go back, I think," he said gently, looking a little surprised at my vehemence; "only go deeper. Some precious rights, I believe, have been won. Let us use them. That is the best way to secure them. We are free to do what good we can, to unloose what burdens, and to hear and speak what good words we will. Let us use our freedom. No one can say how long it may last. This morning I must go to visit Newgate, and other gaols, in which there has been much sickness. For although the prisons are no longer filled by the Star Chamber, or the High Commission, they are unhappily still kept too well supplied by a tyrant more ancient and more universal than these. Moreover, Olive," he added, "there is still one sect not tolerated. The number of the imprisoned Quakers is increasing; and in Newgate there is one poor Quaker maiden whom I think thou mightest succour. A few days since thou wert desiring a maiden to wait on the babe. This Quaker maiden is a composed and gentle creature, and with kind treatment, such as she would have from thee, might, I think, be led into ways which seem to us more sober and rational."

My husband's words opened a prospect of abundant work before me. Already we had four washing-women of four different unpopular persuasions.

And I would have preferred choosing a nurse for the babe, on account of her qualities as a serving-wench, rather than as a Confessor. Moreover, what he intended to be re-assuring in his description, alarmed me rather the more. For of all fanatics, I have found gentle fanatics the most incorrigible, and of all wilful persons, these whenever "discompose" themselves, or put themselves wrong by losing their tempers, are certainly the most immovable. However, I repressed such selfish fears as quite unworthy of Leonard Antony's wife. And, accordingly, when he returned from the gaol, I was quite prepared to welcome the Quaker. And so I told him as we joined the sober throng who were going to hear Dr Owen preach at "Margaret's" before the Parliament.

A scanty Parliament indeed! No Lords, and about fifty Commons; and among them scarce one of those whose words and deeds had made its early years so strong and glorious.

Hampden lay among his forefathers in the church of Great Hampden; Pym among the kings in Westminster Abbey. Denzil Hollis and Haselrigge had been expelled from it; old Mr. Prynne, who had been liberated by its first act, had vehemently denounced its last; even the young Sir Harry Vane had for the time deserted its austere counsels.

Nevertheless the congregation was great and grave. And when Dr. Owen spoke, he led our thoughts at once to spheres compared with whose sublime chronology the length of the longest Parliament is indeed but as a moment. He came of an ancient Welsh ancestry; his bearing had a courtly grace; his tall and stately figure had the ease and vigor of one used to manly exercises; his voice was well-tuned, as the tones of one who loved music as he did should be; his eyes were dark and keen.

To the death of the king on that dreadful yesterday he barely alluded. There was neither regret nor triumph in his discourse. His exhortations were addressed not to the vanquished, but to the victorious party. If he alluded at all to the oppressions and vices of the late government, it was in order to conjure those now in power not to tread in their steps. His text was: "Let them return unto thee; but return not thou unto them. And I will make thee unto this people a fenced brazen wall: and they shall fight against thee, but they shall not prevail against thee: for I am with thee to save thee and to deliver thee, saith the Lord."

God's judgments, he said, are a flaming sword turning every way. Not in one of these ways, but in all, He resists those who resist them. "How do we spend our thoughts to extricate ourselves from our present pressures! If this hedge, this pit were passed, we should have smooth ground to walk on; not considering that God can fill our safest paths with snares and serpents. Give us peace; give us wealth; give us to be as we were, with our own, in quietness. Poor creatures! suppose all these designs were in sincerity; yet if peace were, and wealth were, and God were not, what would it avail you? In vain do you seek to stop the streams while the fountains are open; turn yourselves whither you will, bring yourselves into what condition you can, nothing but peace and reconciliation with the God of all these judgments can give you rest in the day of visitation. You see what variety of plagues are in His hand. Changing of condition will do no more to the avoiding of them, than a sick man turning himself from one side of the bed to another; during his turning he forgets his pain by striving to move; being laid down again he finds his condition the same as before.

"It was nothing new," he said, "for the instruments of God's greatest works to be the deepest objects of a professing people's cursings and revilings. Men that under God deliver a kingdom may have the kingdom's curses for their pains.

"Moses was rewarded for the deliverance of Israel from Korah by being told 'ye have killed the Lord's people.' Man's condemnation and God's absolution do not seldom meet on the same person for the same things. 'Bonus vir Caius Sejanus, sed malus quia Christianus.' What precious men should many be, would they let go the work of God in their generation!

"Yet be tender towards fainters in difficult seasons. God's righteousness, His kindness, is like a great mountain easy to be seen. His judgments are like a great deep. Who can look into the bottom of the sea, or know what is done in the depths thereof? When first the confederacy was entered into by the Protestant princes against Charles V., Luther himself was bewildered.

"It is by a small handful, a few single persons—a Moses, a Samuel, two witnesses—He ofttimes opposes the rage of a hardened multitude. His judgments ofttimes are the giving up of a sinful people to a fruitless contending with their own deliverers, if ever they be delivered. God, indeed, cannot be the author of sin, for He can be the author of nothing but what hath being in itself (for He works as the fountain of beings). This sin hath not. It is an aberration. Man writes fair letters upon a wet paper, and they run all into one blot; not the skill of the scribe, but the defect in the paper, is the cause of the deformity. The first cause is the proper cause of a thing's being; but the second of its being evil." Not, I understood him to mean, that sin is natural, but that the faculties of nature are perverted.

Then he fervently warned against fear of man, covetousness, ambition; against turning to "such ways as God hath blasted before our eyes, oppression, self-seeking, persecution."

And at the close he said, "All you that are the Lord's workmen, be always prepared for a storm. Be prepared. The wind blows; a storm may come."

Opinions about the sermon were various. On the whole I think it was hardly popular. Some said it was pitiless, that the harshest of his enemies would not have grudged one generous word for the fallen king. Others deemed it half-hearted, and declared that if John Knox, or one of the mighty men of old, had been in the pulpit, they would have made all true hearts thrill, and all false hearts tremble at the sentence of terrible justice just executed.

"What was thy mind about it, Olive?" my husband asked, when he, and Roger, and I had returned to the quiet of our little garden-parlor.

"I thought Dr. Owen very wise," I said, "in that he directed his discourse to those who were there to hear. I never could see the profit of denunciations of Popery addressed to those who hate it enough already; or of arguments addressed to Arminians who are not present to be crushed; or of railing at people who will not come to church, for the edification of those who do. It set me questioning myself whether God is indeed at work among us, and praying that if He is, none of us may mistake His hand."

"May it but have set every heart on the same questioning!" said Roger. "How can any call those words of Dr. Owen's an uncertain sound?" he added. "To me every tone was as clear as the trumpet-signals before a battle. God has sent you deliverance, has sent you a deliverer, he seemed to me to say, as Moses to Israel in bondage, as Luther to the Church in bondage. All depends on whether we acknowledge him—not, indeed, as to the Promised Land being reached at last, but everything as to when it is reached, everything as to our reaching it at all. Events seem to me constantly saying to us, 'If ye will receive it, this is Elias which was for to come.'"

The revenges of the Commonwealth were few. Three Royalist noblemen beheaded without torture or insult in Palace Yard. As far as Oliver Cromwell's rule extended there was not one barbarous execution. Baiting was not a sport he encouraged, whether of bulls and bears or of men.

During the ten years of the Commonwealth, the pillory, the whipping-post, the torture-chamber, were scarcely once used, and not one Englishman suffered the savage punishment awarded to traitors.

It was difficult to see what most men had to complain of. Good men of every party but one, the Royalist Episcopal, were encouraged.

Nevertheless, from every party rose murmurs of discontent. Before the king had been executed four months, General Cromwell had to subdue opposition in the Parliament, the city, among the peasantry, in the army itself.