VOLUME III. (continued 3)

The cry of "Let us seek the Lord," was immediately vociferated by the members of the mock tribunal. The President ordered Neville to be taken into custody. "There needs no rush of marshals-men," said he, "to effect your purpose; a child may guard me to my dungeon, and a twine confine me in it. But since I have proved the innocence of Beaumont, give him the liberty I willingly resign."

In these times of pretended freedom, a court of justice assembled to try state-criminals was nothing better than a clumsy engine of destruction, moved at the pleasure of the Protector. Condemnation and acquittal depended not on the facts which were disclosed at the trial, but on the pre-disposition of Cromwell, to whom (as was the usual interpretation of the phrase of seeking the Lord) the President immediately reported the appearance of Neville, his singular accusation of Lord Bellingham, his assertion of the existence of young De Vallance, and also of his change of principles. He suggested the impossibility of convicting Dr. Beaumont of murder; and though his concealing a royalist was now proved, the age, debility, and affinity of Neville, would make a strict execution of the penal ordinances, cruelty instead of justice; and throw an odium on His Highness's administration. Dr. Beaumont appeared to be an inoffensive, quiet character; as to Neville, though a furious, desperate delinquent, his infirmities made him insignificant, and death would probably soon relieve the state from his machinations.

At this time Cromwell courted popularity; he wished to engage honourable and eminent persons to support his government, and he thought an indisputable reputation for liberality and impartiality would expedite his ultimate projects. He had engaged some respectable characters in his service; and the description his emissaries gave him of Neville and Beaumont, showed him the impolicy of publickly sacrificing such victims for state-offences. He affected to think it was possible he might attach them to his interests, and declared he never could fear a disabled soldier and sequestered parson, but that he was even ready to vindicate the rights of a Loyalist, who had been injured by the partiality of the late tyrant, and thus prove his own impartial justice, while he transferred deserved odium on the memory of him who was called the Royal martyr. Monthault pleaded warmly for the Beaumonts, but not with disinterested earnestness. The appearance of Constantia in court revived the recollection of his former designs on her person, and as the acknowledged death of Eustace had removed what he supposed the chief barrier to his wishes, he deemed his suit might not be unsuccessfully urged, especially if he assumed the character of a mediator between her father and the government. He willingly obeyed Cromwell's order to adjourn the court to an indefinite time, till it could be ascertained if the prisoners would purchase prosperity by a change of principle, and he resolved to employ the interim in prosecuting his own designs.

CHAP. XXIV.

None but the guilty are long and completely miserable.

Goldsmith.

The convulsions which seized Lady Bellingham, at again beholding what she still supposed was the apparition of her brother, had a speedy and fatal termination. The apparent reconciliation between herself and her lord had been effected for the purpose of revenge. Their enmity was the interminable feud of co-partners in iniquity, the hatred which ever exists between the contriver and the executor of horrible enormities. Their mutual recriminations and accusations were suspended; their aversion was made to look like grief, and they walked together into the court, as affectionate parents to prosecute the supposed murderer of their only child. But the sympathy which softens affliction, and even soothes despair, was here unknown. Lady Bellingham's false views of religion had, indeed, so far skinned over the wounds of her ulcerated conscience, as to produce a stupefaction, which might last as long as health and prosperity continued. But when, what she conceived to be a supernatural visitation, had terrified her into a dangerous indisposition; the anchor of absolute election trembled in her grasp, and her bodily weakness was rapidly increased by the wild agonies a soul roused to a sense of its danger, when the bridegroom called and the lamp of faith, unsupplied with good works, was extinguished. Her troubled spirit saw nothing but darkness in its future prospects, while, with a dying voice, she continued imploring her physicians to save her life, and wondering why this judgment was fallen upon her.

The most illiterate and presumptuous of the fanatical preachers crowded round her bed, and by the canting verbiage of delusion strove to revive the raptures of enthusiasm. Not one had the honesty to tell her that the figure which so appalled her, was her living brother. They feared the assurance of his existence acting upon her present terrors might induce her to do an act of justice, and to make an effectual effort to restore him to his ancient rights. They were equally silent as to the safety of her son, and careful to keep her husband out of her apartment. It was their aim to prevail upon her to bequeathe her large possessions to promote the interests of their party. With the spirit of the false prophets of old, they sounded in her ears, "The temple of the Lord." They reminded her of her prayers, alms, mortifications, and zeal for the good cause. They required her to recollect the time and circumstances of her conversion; the pangs she then suffered; her subsequent experiences and convictions of having received saving grace. They proceeded, as they termed it, to buffet Satan with prayers, while with impassioned hymns they endeavoured to awaken in the trembling sinner, the raptures of divine love. All sense of contrition for past offences, all disposition to be reconciled to her lord was prevented by their assurances of her safety, and their prayers for his conversion, which ran in the style of craving that he might no longer halt between two opinions, but renouncing the fears of the carnal man be perfected in faith and love. Every Scripture narrative, which, by falsifying some circumstances, could be made to answer their purpose, was presented to her remembrance. The murder, adultery, and acceptance of David; the liberality of Solomon to the church; the preservation of Rahab the harlot from the general massacre of her people, on account of her saving faith; the supposed profligacy of Magdalen's early life, atoned for by her sitting passive at the feet of her Lord.—All these instances were produced to prove the false and scandalous tenet, that a course of sin was a better preparative to conversion than a life of comparative innocence. Arguments were bandied from tongue to tongue; each one cavilled at the assertions of the other, yet all united in the purpose of pacifying an alarmed conscience, and changing despair into ill-founded confidence. The groans of Lady Bellingham, the consternation of her attendants, the fierce disputes of her ghostly assistants, occasionally suspended by ejaculations and hymns, exhibited a scene of distracting confusion, in which it would have been impossible for the firmest mind to have preserved its recollection. Lady Bellingham was soon induced to say that she knew she had once been in a state of grace, and this acknowledgement was welcomed as her pass-port to heaven^[1]. She was informed that her salvation was unalienable; that grace could neither be resisted nor forfeited, and that though the saints might appear to sin, yet their offences were not imputable to them.

This pious conflict (for in an age when fanaticism and hypocrisy were misnamed religion, these solemn mockeries passed for charitable assistance to the dying,) was interrupted by the presence of Monthault, now become the favourite and confidant of a chief leader of the fanatical party. This renegade-Loyalist had served Cromwell with conspicuous bravery in the Irish wars, and once, when a division of the army was thrown into great danger, by the retreat of the forlorn hope, before it had accomplished its purpose, he rushed forward, killed the commanding officer with his own hand, and seizing the colours, led them back, undismayed, by a grove of pikes and a shower of missile weapons. With desperate but successful valour he carried the redoubt and escaped with life. All this passed under the immediate observation of Cromwell, whose retentive memory never forgot any signal action, and whose discriminating policy generally placed the man who performed it in a situation suited to his character. He soon found Monthault to be as perfidious and unprincipled as he was daring and ready to undertake any office which would gratify his passions, which (being now past the heyday of youth) were diverted from licentious indulgence by the more substantial enjoyments of avarice and ambition.

At this time Cromwell was secretly panting to add the name and paraphernalia of a King to the authority which he actually exercised. The fanatics, whom he had so long courted, were the most active opponents of this project. The other sectaries had been long convinced, by experience, that their views of republican felicity and perfection were illusory. The respectable dissenters always professed themselves friends of a limited monarchy; many staunch royalists thought the renewal of kingly power would gradually turn the public eye on their exiled Prince; and some selfish ones would have been content with such an approach to the old order of things as would give them back their sequestered estates. Some parties would be brought over by seeming to fall in with their views, others cajoled by bribing their leaders, but the levellers and fanatics were invincible. They had been Cromwell's agents in subduing his enemies, and a consciousness of their power made them unmanageable; they were determined on owning no King but Jesus, and on thinking the regal title, when assumed by man, the mark of the beast and the seal of reprobation to its supporters. "The Protector's son-in-law, Fleetwood, kneeled and prayed publickly, that the Lord might spit in his face if the unrighteous mammon tempted him into this sin; and his brother Desborough anathematized him, and vowed to devote his own sword to Charles Stewart sooner than to him, if he persevered in longing for the forbidden spoil." Lambert, who was in the entire confidence of these two, had seduced the affections of the army; Cromwell, therefore, had a difficult game to play. His passionate desire of royalty combated those secret fears that arose from a mysterious warning which he received when he first meditated on the designs afterwards realized by his lucky and unprincipled ambition. A vision, or day-dream, impressed his enthusiastic imagination, detailing the steps by which he was to rise, and assuring him, "that he should be the greatest man in England, and near being King." Yet, though this seemed to warn him of an impassable bound to his greatness, the pageant of royalty which he had so often vilified and derided, on a close view appeared so irresistible, that he became enchanted with its fascinations, till, in aiming at the decorations of power, he nearly sacrificed the substance.

At this juncture the daring character and versatility of Monthault marked him out to the Protector as a proper instrument to negotiate with Lambert, whose talents were far more dangerous than the fanaticism of Fleetwood or Desborough's virulence. It was plain that though Monthault wore the enlarged phylacteries and sanctified demeanour of the sect he had lately adopted, he was more a hypocrite than an enthusiast. It is well known, that Cromwell found means to discover every private incident in the lives of his agents, and thus penetrated into all their views. While pleading for the imprisoned Beaumonts, the Protector read the soul of the former lover of Constantia, now known to be nearly allied to the true stock of the house of Bellingham. Cromwell therefore took occasion to commend the filial piety and courage which he heard that this young lady had exemplified; and declared himself resolved, not only to show Dr. Beaumont favour, but also to consider the case of Neville; intimating, that he looked on an hereditary and uncontaminated nobility as the strongest link between the people and the government; and from this acknowledgment he took occasion to glance at the benefit of a partial restoration of old usages, as most likely to unite all parties, and heal the wounds of the three kingdoms. The stress laid on the last word, (the use of which had been for some time interdicted,) shewed Monthault what was expected from him, and he left the presence, persuaded that if he would assist to gird the austere brows of the Usurper with the kingly diadem, the hand of his mistress, and a large portion of the Bellingham property, if not its reversionary honours, would be his reward.

It was with a further view of securing this prize that Monthault visited the dying Lady Bellingham, to whom their party-connexions gave him free access. Pretending he had received a special revelation, which he must impart to her alone, he dismissed the ministers, and assured her of the actual existence of her brother, whose pardon her again-alarmed conscience seemed most anxious to secure, even at the price of relinquishing to him those possessions which her increasing weakness told her she could not long retain. Monthault assured her it would be greatly for the benefit of her soul, if she would sign a deed bequeathing to Allan Neville the inheritance of their ancestors; and produced a prepared instrument, which Lady Bellingham was not in a state to read, or indeed to listen to its recital. Relying on the veracity of one whom she considered as a saint upon earth, and catching eagerly at every thing which would allay those inward terrors that had been rather benumbed than pacified, Lady Bellingham was induced to consent, and the ministers were re-introduced to certify her being in a sound mind and to witness the execution of a deed, which they trusted was to promote the good cause, but which in reality bequeathed the Bellingham estate, after the demise of Allan Neville, to Constantia Beaumont, provided she consented to marry Monthault. Thus cheated and bewildered in her last moments by those whom she believed to be endowed with super-human perfections, this wretched woman terminated her miserable and guilty life.

Monthault's next care was, to discover if his apparent reformation of manners could so far impose on the simplicity and candour of the Beaumonts as to make them strain the principle of Christian forgiveness, and receive him as a friend. They were still in prison, but the Protector had given orders, that they should be provided with handsome apartments, and every comfort compatible with confinement at the public expence. But though Monthault took on himself the merit of this lenient treatment, the prejudices of the whole family against him formed an insuperable bar to his designs. His change of conduct was too pointedly obtrusive; his piety and penance too ostentatious to pass on a man who was thoroughly conversant with the marks of genuine repentance. Dr. Beaumont did not approve of an elaborate and unnecessary disclosure of the secret enormities of his early life, which seemed to him more like the wantonness of a depraved imagination wallowing in its former abominations, than penitence shrinking, with horror, from its recollected transgressions. But when Monthault proceeded to talk of his present sinless rectitude, certainty of acceptance, rapturous exercises, and experiences of future beatification, (the common cant of those times,) the sound divine saw the once audacious sinner covering his adhesive wickedness with the Pharisee's cloak, exchanging libertinism for spiritual pride, and the excesses of debauchery for ambition and malevolence. Though no one was more adverse than Dr. Beaumont from colouring gross sins with the name of amiable frailties, he thought Monthault more horrible with his Scripture-appellative and precise habits, than when as a drunken cavalier he toasted the King and the Church, while he disgraced the one by his rapine, and the other by his profaneness.

Monthault was equally unsuccessful with Constantia. In vain did he assure her that the awakening change in his soul had been expedited by his yearnings after her. She coldly told him, she hoped for his sake the reformation was real. He assured her he had disposed the Protector to befriend her relations. She thanked the Protector's justice, and relapsed into silence. He spoke of the identity of her uncle as being indisputable, and that he was likely soon to be removed from a prison to an earldom. She answered, that would be miraculous, but no irradiation of her countenance implied her belief that such an event was probable. He inquired if her cousin Isabel was still devoted to Sedley. Constantia could here speak with energy, and replied, "She is." Monthault reminded her, that whatever became of his father, he was necessarily proscribed; having violated the bond of private friendship, as well as of public trust, with the Protector. Constantia answered, that Isabel saw nothing infamous in banishment or poverty, but much in breaking her early vows to a man whose misfortunes were his praise. "But," replied Monthault, "your early vows have been dissolved by death; and celibacy is one of the popish snares of Satan. Marriage was divinely appointed, and it is sinful to neglect the godly ordinance." "To marry with an unconsenting heart is more so," replied Constantia; "I was betrothed to Eustace Evellin, and living or dead, to him will I ever be faithful. His genuine integrity, his frank affectionate disposition won all my heart; and since I have lost him, I live only to the claims of filial duty and sisterly affection. I have been long familiarized with fear and sorrow, but hope and joy can only visit me in his form."

Monthault told her, that this persevering regret was a mark of her being in an unsanctified rebellious state. He quoted many texts to prove that the saints would eventually inherit the earth; declaring that the wonderful success which attended Cromwell, first pointed him out as an instrument of Providence, designed for an especial purpose. Constantia expressed her belief that he was; but silenced Monthault's intended allusions to a millennial state of felicity under his government, by declaring her conviction that he was the sword of vengeance, rather than the renovating sun of mercy.

Monthault withdrew sullen and offended, planning schemes of vengeance, all pointed at Arthur de Vallance, whose retreat he determined to discover. He questioned the keeper of the prison, who had access to the Beaumonts, and was by him directed to Jobson. His talkative simplicity, and the danger that would result from his being sifted by Cromwell's spies, had obliged them to dispense with the services of the faithful trooper, who now earned his bread by manual labour, and only came occasionally to inquire after their health. Though care was taken to represent him as a porter occasionally employed, the jailor suspected he had been an old servant. Monthault immediately recollected him as attached to Eustace a little before their separation at Dartmoor, and recommended himself to the affectionate creature, by recognising him as one who leaped with him into the moat, and climbed the wall at his side, when Prince Rupert stormed Bristol. Taking him apart, he avowed himself to be a stanch royalist, watching every opportunity to serve a cause he still wore at his heart. He declared that he accepted the office of a judge at Dr. Beaumont's trial, with a resolution of saving him; he praised his firm demeanour, the beauty of Constantia, the goodness of Isabel, and the noble self-devotedness of Neville; assuring Jobson, that he was most sedulous in employing the interest he possessed with the Protector to the advantage of this family. But he lamented that there existed one obstacle to Neville's becoming Earl of Bellingham: the Protector's betrayed confidence required a victim, and Arthur de Vallance must be given up to his vengeance.

The honest countenance of Jobson fell at this information. "Ah, worthy sir," said he, "there is no washing the black-a-moor white; Old Noll will continue Old Noll, dress him up how you will. There's no putting a King's heart into a scoundrel's body; and a tailor never yet made more than the clothes of a gentleman. I say, the man that can't forgive a brave young gentleman, never ought to wear the crown of England. You had half persuaded me to forget the true King beyond sea, and to think, as this ruler would do justice, we might go on as we are, but when you talk about harping on old grievances, and taking vengeance for private fallings-out, I say, though Old Noll may do for a Lord-Protector, Kings must never have any enemies but the enemies of their country."

Monthault, seeming to enter into his feelings, uttered many encomiums on young De Vallance, whom he said he really thought one of the finest gentlemen in England. "Aye, in England now, I grant you," returned Jobson; "but there is another before him, Mr. Eustace Evellin; we used to call him the true Lord Sedley, for the other is but a make-believe. Very good-humoured and generous, and fair-spoken I allow; but the right lord, O! he has an eye like a hawk, and so open and daring, and spirited—I wish, noble Sir, you had seen him."

Monthault affected to brush a tear from his eye, lamenting that an interview was now impossible. Jobson had an inveterate antipathy to giving any one pain, except in the field of battle. He caught Monthault by his cloak, pressed him to be secret, and whispered he might have that pleasure before he died. "Mum," said he, "for your life; Mr. Eustace is alive and merry, and only waits for the King's coming over to be among us."

Monthault vowed secresy, and readily drew from Jobson all he knew respecting the preservation and subsequent history of the heir of Neville. Fortunately, he had never been intrusted with the place of their retreat, and could only say, that he and De Vallance were somewhere very safe, and ready to drub Old Noll into better manners than authorizing the shooting of men in cold blood.

Monthault then informed Jobson, that he possessed a large fortune, and secretly devoted ample remittances to the service of the King, and the most eminent Loyalists. As the state now liberally supported the prisoners, the exiles had the first claim on his purse. Unintentionally he feared, he had been of great disservice to Eustace, and therefore justice, as well as humanity and admiration, pointed him out as the first person whom he ought to assist. He would most willingly send Jobson with a sum of money to these illustrious friends, and he entreated him to discover where they had taken shelter, and say he was commissioned to supply their wants. But as he was ever attentive to the rule of doing good in secret, his own name was, on no account, to be divulged, nor would he press Jobson to inform him where the fugitives resided. The language of loyalty, unostentatious generosity, and warm attachment to Eustace, was, to Jobson, a sure pledge of the honour and sincerity of Monthault. He readily promised to get the whole secret out of Mrs. Isabel, and discover none of his intentions. "I see, noble sir," continued he, "you are a true gentleman, and know, that a gentleman like yourself hates to be thought poor, and had rather starve than have money given him; whereas we poor men never care how much we get from our betters. But trust me for managing the business cleverly."

Happily for the exiles, Jobson was equally deficient in finesse and secrecy. The first question he put to Isabel respecting the place of their retreat, discovered that he had a mysterious reason for wishing to be informed, and she soon drew from him that the benevolent unknown was a tall, solemn gentleman, who turned up the whites of his eyes, and was dressed like a round-head, though a stanch Loyalist in his heart. This description, so applicable to Monthault, excited her liveliest terrors. It was impossible to convince Jobson, that a man who talked so kindly could have any insidious design; and thinking it best not to combat this delusion, she thought it expedient to misdirect the wily traitor, and observed, that the inhabitants of the mountainous parts of Cumberland, where she and her father had so long lived, were well affected to the King, and disposed to shelter and protect her brother. From the manner in which Jobson communicated this intelligence, Monthault was convinced that Isabel had penetrated into his designs; and he resolved to suspend his machinations till he could extort, by terror, what intrigue had failed to procure.

When Isabel communicated this intelligence to her friends, their apprehensions of some fatal snare which might blast all their hopes, determined them to send the faithful and discreet Williams to the exiles, advising them of Cromwell's designs to get them into his power, and entreating them immediately to quit their present abode. But whither to point for a safe retreat was the difficulty, since at that time this extraordinary man seemed to extend the scorpion fangs of his tyranny over the continent, as well as the British dominions. He had, at every court, not only an accredited minister, but a subordinate host of spies liberally paid, who gave him an account of every stranger of distinction that sought a refuge from his cruelty, and contrived also, by false accusations or threats to the affrighted sovereigns, to have the victims he had marked for destruction delivered into his power. Cromwell had formerly made a close league with the Queen of Sweden, between whose successor and his neighbour the King of Denmark, a furious contest had commenced. As all hope of serving his native Prince was for the present suspended, Neville advised his son to draw his sword for the royal Dane, and Williams was charged with many affectionate remembrances. "Tell my son," said he, "never to disgrace the name, to which, at hazard of my life, I have proved his title." Constance whispered a tender assurance that the tidings of his preservation had reconciled her to life. "Yet tell my Eustace," said she, "that though time and sorrow have so changed the face he used to admire, that he would now hardly know his Constance, they have improved the heart, which neither calumny, nor suspence, nor despair, could alienate from its only love. Isabel, too, had a brief encouraging remembrance for her lover: "Tell my De Vallance," said she, "I live for him and for happier times. Bid him remember me in the hour of peril and the moment of temptation; assure him I count the years of our separation, and endure my present sorrows in the confidence that they will serve for sweet discourses in the time to come."" The message of Dr. Beaumont was pious and prudential.—He rejoiced that an opportunity was afforded them of serving a Protestant King, and he advised them, if their successful services allowed them an honourable establishment in Denmark, to withdraw their views, though not their love or their prayers, from England.

Charged with these endearing recollections Williams departed, but on his arrival at Jersey found the fugitives had long left the island. Their protectress was dead, and her husband had removed to the South of France. Dr. Lloyd was well remembered for his medical skill, and his pupils for their correct manners and exemplary friendship. A lady, daughter of one of the first people in St. Helier, had formed a strong attachment to one of the gentlemen, and as she left the island about the time they did, it was supposed a marriage had been solemnized. Williams durst not be very minute in his inquiries; he gathered however that the place of their retreat could not be discovered, though the friends of the lady had taken every measure to regain her.

This intelligence greatly increased the dejection of Constantia, and almost clouded the sanguine mind of Isabel. "Has mutability," she would often say, "entirely usurped the earth? No. Inanimate nature is not changed; the sun-beams steal through these grated windows at the same hour this year as they did last. Summer and winter, day and night, return at stated periods; the animal organs present the same objects, and excite the usual sensations; nor are my moral feelings altered; truth and honour continue to delight me; vice and falsehood are as odious to my soul as if good men still triumphed, and guilt held its alliance with infamy. Yet are not subjects transformed into traitors and rebels; lovers forsworn; do not Christians renounce their baptism and abjure their faith; and is not friendship become a cloak to conceal the informer and assassin? Whom shall we acquit of inconstancy, if either Eustace or De Vallance are false? How shall we depicture fidelity and honour if they dwell not in the open front of heroic candour, or the mild suavity of undeviating rectitude? Away!—the report of Williams is a gossip's tale, forged to explain a mystery of their own forming. Constance, I shall live to arrange your jewels and fold your robe, when you walk at the coronation as Countess of Bellingham, and you shall be sponsor to my little Arthur. At least I will cherish these day-dreams, till I know Cromwell has done a disinterested generous action; I will then resign you to Monthault, and employ myself in clear-starching and crimping bands for the conventicle."

Thus rallying her own spirits, and endeavouring to animate the hopes of others, Isabel contrived to lighten the burden of voluntary captivity, as she had used to alleviate the hardships of poverty. Her mind, equally firm and innocent, feared nothing but the reproaches of her conscience and the despair of her father. Happy in the resources of an active disposition, she soon convinced Constantia that even confinement does not proscribe utility. While Dr. Beaumont administered to the spiritual wants of his fellow-prisoners, Isabel contrived to promote their comforts, often with the labours of her hand, always by the un-failing cordial of her hilarity, and sometimes with her slender purse, cheerfully abridging her own wants to supply the need of others. Nor was she wholly disinterested in this conduct; she found it the best method of diverting anxiety and suppressing doubt; of resisting that misanthropy which a long continuance of adversity is apt to engender in the tenderest hearts; and of preserving those social feelings of general good-will, which, to austere dispositions, render even prosperity distasteful.

CHAP. XXV.

"See Cromwell damn'd to everlasting fame."

Pope.

It was at this period that Cromwell underwent that memorable struggle between his ambition and his fears, which ultimately preserved the monarchy of England in the line of legitimate descent. He tampered with all parties, and found none hearty in his cause: the best-disposed to his interests were only passive; but his enemies were implacable. The popularity of a pamphlet recommending his assassination upon principle, and declaring that the perpetrator of the deed would deserve the favour of God and man, destroyed every vestige of his comfort. "He read it, and was never seen to smile more." With late repentance for his vanity, which prompted him to excite such furious opposition, he pushed from him the crown he had courted, when offered by his creatures; but he did it with an affectation of disdain and self-command, that ill accorded with his former intrigues to obtain it. All his anxiety was now directed to the preservation of his joyless life. He had long worn light armour under his clothes, and carried pistols in his pockets. He seldom lay twice in the same chamber, or informed any one which apartment he meant to select. He travelled with extreme rapidity, attended by numerous guards, and never returned by the way he went. Yet no sooner was one conspiracy detected, than another was formed; the fanatics were irreconcileable, and the most worthy and eminent among the dissenters determined on his overthrow. His old military comrades, Fairfax and Waller, were bent to destroy him. His treasury was drained by the rapacity of his numerous spies; and as fines and exactions had been strained to the utmost, he had no means of replenishing it but by a recourse to measures similar to those which had overthrown the monarchy; for his fanatical puppet-shows had brought the name of Parliament into contempt, and he durst not appeal to the free voice of the nation. I have already mentioned the disunion of his family, and the desertion of his kindred and near alliances. Such were the accumulated miseries, such the soul-harrowing and unremitting sufferings, of this man, whom Europe considered as the favourite of fortune, and whose extraordinary success has been urged as a plea against the divine government, and a proof that the kingdoms of this world are left to the disposal of Satan. Penetrate the recesses of the tyrant's palace, and it will be seen that enormous offences, after they have outstripped the power of human punishment, visit, on the oppressor, their own atrocity, and revenge the wrongs of a bleeding world by torments more insupportable than any which cruelty can inflict on others.

Distrusting even his most faithful informers, and jealous of his own creatures, Cromwell always endeavoured to see every thing with his own eyes. A little before his unlamented death, two strangers visited the prison where Neville and Dr. Beaumont were confined. One of them avowed himself to be the Lord Whitlock, the other passed as his secretary. They were both masked, and wore long cloaks to conceal their persons. The secretary was furnished with writing materials; he placed himself at a table, and affected only to take minutes of the conversation.

Whitlock began with upbraiding the national ingratitude, and acknowledging its general indisposition to the Protector's vigorous and successful administration. He insisted that His Highness wished to conciliate all parties by a mild and impartial government, though the ample means with which he was furnished, the tried fidelity of the army, and the respect he was held in by foreign Potentates, prevented him from needing the friendship of any. But being now past the meridian of life, he was desirous of leaving the nation whom he had rendered great and prosperous, in the possession of internal tranquillity. Though irreconcileable from principle, he regarded the royalists as the most respectable of his opponents, and "he had ever resisted the advice of the fanatics, to cut them off by a general massacre." Whitlock then expressed his hope, that the prisoners condemned the newly-broached opinion that assassination was allowable, and were disposed to be quiet, if not contented, under the present government, which would reward such submission by relaxing the penal statutes now in force against them. Dr. Beaumont spoke first, and declared that assassination was forbidden by the general tenor of Scripture. The particular instances now so much dwelt on, of Jael's killing Sisera, or Judith's Holofernes, could not be urged in vindication of similar attempts. Both acts were committed previous to the Christian dispensation, which prescribes submissive patience under injuries, and overcoming evil with good. Those deeds were performed under a Divine impetus, and though, by their performance, the will of God was fulfilled, it is not clear that the perpetrators were justified in His sight, any more than was Hazael, when (as had been divinely predicted) he acted as the chastiser of offending Israel.

Neville then took up the argument. He retorted on Whitlock the expressions used by St. John to procure the condemnation of Lord Strafford, and asked how they had the effrontery to object to that rule when employed against themselves. "You have cut off our nobles, our prelates, and our King," said he, "by that formal and public assassination, an illegal trial; but we alike abjure your principles and practice. If I hunt a usurper and tyrant to death, it shall be by honourable means. If his character deserves no respect, I know what is due to my own. I hold no tenets in common with regicides. Man cannot commit a crime that can so far deface the image of his Maker impressed upon him as to reduce him to the level of a beast of prey. Would that this unnerved arm had strength, and that this sinking frame were again erect with youthful vigour, then, if the awakened feelings of the nation allowed me opportunity to meet, in the field of battle, the brave, great, wicked man you serve, I would single him out from every opponent; but were he unarmed, and in my power, I would give him a sword before I assailed him."

Whitlock walked to the table; but it was evident that he received, rather than gave, directions. The soul-searching eye of Cromwell peered through his visor, and turned alternately on Neville and Beaumont. Though a stranger to the feelings of magnanimity, he honoured its expressions. He walked towards the captives, removed the shade from his sickly, care-worn features, and asked how he could make them his friends.

Neville shrunk aghast, petrified at the aspect of his Sovereign's murderer. The feelings of a father repressed his maledictions, while he gazed on him with stern silence as he would on a portentous meteor. Dr. Beaumont sooner recollected himself. Bowing to Cromwell as to one of those powers that are ordained by God, he answered that forgiveness and obedience were duties; but that the feelings of friendship were a voluntary engagement, and arose from very different motives.

"Your frankness," replied Cromwell, "proves that you well understand my plain nature and abhorrence of flattery, and my condescension in visiting you shows I take you to be open, fair enemies, not likely to engage in conspiracies, or desirous of renewing the times of confusion. But I would ask, What hope have you left, or what portion, even in its best days, did your thriftless loyalty acquire you? Eusebius Beaumont it found an obscure rector, and so it left you; for you could only boast simplicity of life and doctrine; but court-chaplains, drivellers in learning, and lewd knaves in manners, were rewarded with stalls and mitres. You, Allan Neville, were stripped of your patrimony, and slandered in your reputation, by the injustice of the King for whom you bled."

Neville started from his indignant reverie. "Were you," said he, "invested with tenfold terrors, I would not hear this aspersion cast upon my Sovereign's memory. Injustice consists in knowing what is wrong, and persisting in doing it. My King was misled, deceived, like myself, by the viper we both cherished; even by one of those recreants to whom you owe your exaltation. With double perfidy, you overthrew the King by attributing to him the crimes of his favourites, and then converted them into state-engines, first to elevate you to greatness, and afterwards to convey away the offscourings of the dignity you had soiled. My King was open to conviction. He knew the fidelity of his soldier, and purposed to make him ample reparation."

"I have the power," returned Cromwell, "to accomplish those purposes." "Impossible!" was Neville's reply; "my lands were alienated by a King of England, and by his lawful successor only can they be restored."

"Are you," returned the Usurper, "aware that you are the only man in Europe who dares question my power. I visited you with friendly dispositions, and you receive me with insults."

"When, veiling your dignity with disguises," answered Neville; "you borrow the occupation of your myrmidons, and steal on the privacies of those you oppress, can you wonder to hear their imprecations sound in unison with the clanking of their fetters?"

"I have a will," replied Cromwell, "as stubborn as yours. We will try for the mastery. What hinders me from laying that head of yours on the block?"

"—The insufferable goadings of your afflicted conscience, perpetually whispering that you have shed too much blood already.—Every wrinkle which care has imprinted on your brow, every tremulous infirmity which constant watchfulness has introduced into your frame, acting as mementos that the day of account cannot be far distant.—The iron you wear on your bosom, that by its stern pressure tells you what you deserve.—The public clamour, which will not now permit you to immolate the confined victims whom your own lips have pronounced innocent of recent provocations, and against whom you dare not revive the charge of acknowledged resistance, which, by long impunity, you seem to have pardoned. All these reasons are pledges for our safety. You cannot further tempt the sufferance of Englishmen. Your declining health makes you fear to add to the long indictment which your crimes have prepared against you.

As Neville uttered this bold appeal to the feelings of an alarmed and conscious villain, a cold shivering ran through the Protector's frame, and his eye expressed a vain supplication, that it were possible to exchange his garlands and his glories for those ever-fragrant actions which blossom on the grave of the just. He strove to rally his air of moody dignity, to recover the austere deliberate tone of his expressions; but his manner was embarrassed, and his voice inarticulate. A groan, such as only tortured guilt can utter, partially relieved his swollen bosom. "Neville," said he, "I will not expect you to be my friend; but will you cease to be my enemy?"

"Miserable victim of ambition," said Neville to himself; "how much happier is my lot than thine!" Cromwell persisted in asking if there was any favour he would receive at his hand. Neville paused, and answered, "Yes; liberty."

"And what pledge," said Cromwell, "can you give me that you will not use freedom to my prejudice?"

"My own honour," returned Neville, "which will never allow me to use the instrument you put in my hand to destroy you."

"No equivocation!" said Whitlock; "in receiving freedom from His Highness you acknowledge his authority."

"No," returned Neville, "I simply own he has a power to confine me. The question of right is undetermined. If a Usurper restores me to the free use of light and air, I need not examine his title before I resume the enjoyment of those common blessings."

Cromwell addressed Dr. Beaumont: "You belong to a church whose doctrine is passive obedience. You are not bewildered by this madman's chimeras, but can prudently estimate the value of our free grace and promised favour."

"My religion," replied the Doctor, "teaches me to submit to the dispensations of Providence; but it will not allow me to divide the spoil with those who have grown mighty on the ruins of my friends."

"Are there no points," again inquired Cromwell, "in which we may agree to join our common wishes? What if I beseech the Lord to give you the spirit of wisdom?"

"May he afford you that of consolation," was the emphatical wish of Dr. Beaumont. Neville waved his hand in silence. "Oh! my friend," said he, as soon as the Protector and Whitlock had retired, "I have suffered more than the rack. I have seen the fiend-like face which looked, without compunction, on the sufferings of the Royal Martyr, and I felt too weak to revenge his wrongs. Have I not gone too far in saying I would accept of freedom from his hands?"

"Vengeance for such a crime," replied Dr. Beaumont, "is too vast and comprehensive to be entrusted to mortal agency. Let us leave it to Him who claims it as his own prerogative. Murder, perfidy, and treason, will be remembered when the avenging angel shall visit the sins of man."

Cromwell returned from his insidious visit, disappointed and dejected. He had failed of the end which he proposed to himself by his condescension. A reconciliation with two such distinguished Loyalists, founded on the mutual benefits of submission and restitution, would have strengthened his government; but he found abstinence from treacherous hostility was all that his blandishments could obtain, and this he would owe rather to their own principles of honour and religion than to his threats or his promises. Though stung to the heart by the bold taunts of Neville, he could not punish him. The very aspect and figure of the two venerable sufferers were so fitted to excite sympathy and indignation, that he durst not expose them on a scaffold, nor could he privately cut them off. The fate of Syndercome, a daring Anabaptist, who had several times attempted his life, and, on his trial, persevered in expressing his determination, if possible, to kill him, alike deterred Cromwell from bringing his private enemies to the bar of a court of justice, or resorting to private measures of revenge. He had with difficulty procured this man's condemnation; but the night previous to his intended execution he escaped, by suicide, the Protector's power; and so prejudiced were the populace against their Ruler, that they accused him of having poisoned the victim he feared to bring to a public death. If the prosecution of a notorious and avowed ruffian brought him into this dilemma, what odium would the death of two respectable and aged Loyalists excite, especially as their story was become public, and the wrongs of Neville, and the generous friendship of Beaumont, had awakened a powerful sympathy. Yet his narrow soul could not accede to the generous alternative of giving them freedom. Pretending that the state had a claim to the Bellingham-property, he prevented Monthault from taking any measures to establish the will of the guilty Countess, and contented himself with keeping the lawful claimant in prison, hoping that confinement would accelerate the decays of nature, and thus give a safe quietus to his own fears.

But ere that event happened the Usurper was called to the dreadful tribunal for which few among the descendants of Adam were apparently less prepared. His restless, intriguing ambition; the dissimulation and hypocrisy by which he rose to supreme power; the ability with which he wielded it; his splendid wretchedness; the terror he excited and felt; his cruelty and fanaticism, his determined spirit, and occasionally timid vacillation, read a most impressive lesson to aspiring minds infatuated by success, and regardless of moral or religious restraints. O that, in this age of insubordination, selfishness, and enterprise, a poet would arise, animated with Shakespeare's "Muse of fire," embody the events of those seventeen years of wo, and invest the detestable Regicide with the same terrible immortality which marks the murderous Thane in his progress from obedience and honour to supreme power and consummate misery!

Nor does the death-bed of Cromwell afford a less useful warning to the pen of instruction, when she aims at distinguishing true piety from hypocrisy or fanaticism. It is still doubtful under which of those counterfeits of religion we must rank this great but wicked man. Yet, whether he deceived his own soul, or attempted to deceive others; whether he really believed himself an elected instrument of Providence; or, having long worn devotion as the mask of ambition, retained it to the last,—his almost unexampled crimes (so plainly forbidden by that scripture he had ever on his lips), and the security and confidence of his last moments, furnish stronger arguments than a thousand volumes of controversy, to prove the fallacy and danger of those speculative notions which he patronized, propagated, and exemplified.

CHAP. XXVI.

A good man should not be very willing, when his Lord comes, to be found beating his fellow-servants; and all controversy, as it is usually managed, is little better. A good man would be loth to be taken out of the world reeking hot from a sharp contention with a perverse adversary; and not a little out of countenance to find himself, in this temper, translated into the calm and peaceable regions of the blessed, where nothing but perfect charity and good-will reign for ever.

Tillotson.

During the turbulent era that immediately followed the death of Cromwell, obscurity was the only asylum for integrity and innocence. The respective demagogues contended for mastery; and the nation gazed on their contests as on so many prize-fighters, whose uninteresting warfare regarded only themselves. Weary of confusion and discord; aware that faction had broken every promise and frustrated every hope; that the visions of freedom had been the harbingers of despotism; and that pretensions to moderation, disinterestedness, and purity, were but the disguise of rapacity, pride, and selfishness, the nation longed for the restoration of a lineal Sovereign, a regular government, and determinate laws. Even those who first signalized themselves by opposition to the late King, acknowledged that his government was preferable to the oligarchy and military tyranny that followed; and the Presbyterians felt their horror of Episcopacy abate while contrasting the temperance of established supremacy with the violence of the numerous sects who strove for superiority as soon as the hierarchy was overthrown. The easy good humour and affable manners of the exiled King were enlarged upon, and perhaps honoured with too much celebrity. Offenders in general anticipated forgiveness; and those who were adroit and dexterous anticipated rewards. To assist in restoring the regal power was deemed not merely a rasure of past crimes, but a qualification for trust and employment; and those who now sought the shelter of royalty as a protection from their late co-partners in rebellion, seemed, by the high value which they put on their present services, to overlook, with equal contempt and injustice, the claims and the wrongs of the Loyalists, who having never changed their principles, had much to be repaid, and nothing to be forgiven.

In the struggles which immediately preceded the Restoration, while Monk's designs were wrapped in mystery, the cruelty of the regicides increased with their ambition, and the jails were successively crowded with every party, as the unsettled government alternately vibrated from the rump to the fanatical faction. Within the walls of the same prison, suffering the same restraint, and, like himself, the victim of a conscience which would not temporize, Dr. Beaumont met his worthy friend Barton. They congratulated each other on having thus far weathered the political tempest without deserting their principles, or impugning their honour. The Doctor learned from Barton the particulars of Lady Bellingham's death, and the claims of Monthault on her fortune, which, by the turbulence of the times, were still kept in abeyance. Lord Bellingham was yet alive, poor and wretched, courting every faction, trusted by none, and so universally despised as to endure the odium of more crimes than he had even dared to commit. He was allowed a small stipend out of his vast possessions, the income of the remainder being still paid into the public treasury; while Morgan, now become a man of consequence, and a commissioner for compounding forfeited property, was enabled amply to glut his rapacity, and resided at Bellingham-Castle in a style of the grossest sensual indulgence. Monthault had joined the army of Lambert, against whom General Monk was now marching from Scotland; and as the King had given reiterated commands to all his friends to remain passive, and wait the event, it seemed as if he had some private intelligence with Monk's party, to whom, therefore, each honest Englishman wished success.

Barton believed this effervescence would terminate in a happy calm—a mild but energetic government; and he looked forward to prosperous times, when the remembrance of past misfortunes should correct national manners, and produce a general improvement in the minds and feelings of men. Neville was always sanguine; and Dr. Beaumont confessed that all things seemed to tend to the restoration of monarchy; yet, with the prescience of a man long accustomed to calamity, he doubted whether even that desired event would speedily repair the deep wound which England had sustained.

"We shall," said he, "receive with our Prince the inestimable blessings of our old laws and form of government; but as our troubles have served rather to show us the necessity, than to prevent the abuse, of the prerogative, its limits continue undefined, and we shall still too much depend on the personal character of the King. It were well if the situation in which we now stand would allow us to propose such conditions as would make the duties of King and subject plain and easy, before we invite our Prince to resume the sceptre of his ancestors, as it would prevent the mistakes into which his father fell, from a misconception of the bounds of sovereign power, derived from the arbitrary precedent set by the House of Tudor. But our divisions prevent us from claiming those advantages which would result from wisdom, moderation, and unanimity. We fly to the King as to a healer of our dissensions. A keen feeling of our sorrows and offences has raised the sensibility of the nation to such a pitch, that it will sooner make concessions than propose restraints, and rather throw its liberties before the throne than suggest an abridgement of its splendour. We shall therefore depend, I fear, upon his mercy for the existence of the sacred inheritance whose very shadow was so pertinaciously defended from the approaches of his father. I trust his personal virtues are what his friends report. He has been educated in adversity, a good school; but are not his advisers men who have endured too much to be dispassionate and liberal? They have suffered in a good cause: if, when restored to power, they abstain from indulging any vindictive propensity, they will be saints as well as confessors; but, considering their long and grievous provocations, is not this requiring too much of human frailty?

"Consider too, my dear friends, (and let the reflection allay your sanguine expectations of another golden age,) that the King to whom we look forward has been bred a foreigner. From his own country he has hitherto met with nothing but severe injuries. The impression he has received of the character of his future subjects is repulsive and disgusting; and the heart of a King of England, as well as his manners, should be completely English. He will return loaded with debts of gratitude, which he never can discharge, to those who supported his father, as well as those who restore him; to the surviving friends of all that have bled in unsuccessful conflicts, and to those who will ride by his side in triumph; to those who spent their fortunes in his quarrel, and to those who hope to gain or preserve fortunes by voting for his return. What course are men apt to pursue when they find themselves in a state of inextricable insolvency? Do they not endeavour to forget their creditors in general, and think only of taking care of themselves and their personal friends. Royalty does not extinguish human feelings. Let us consider its difficulties, and palliate while we anticipate its errors.

"Are these all the remaining evils which the crimes of the last twenty years have entailed upon us and our posterity? Call me not a prophet of evil if I foresee general laxity of principle arising out of these sad vicissitudes and deplorable contests. You, my good Barton, will not deny, that the extravagance, absurdity, and hypocrisy of many low fanatics, who sheltered themselves under that unbounded liberty of conscience which you Dissenters (I think unwisely, as well, as erroneously) claim, have made every extraordinary pretension to piety suspicious. The nation has been whirled in the vortex of enthusiasm, perplexed with the discordant pretensions and controversial clamour of various sects, till it has begun to consider indifference to religion as a philosophical repose; and its contempt for hypocrites is increased till it has generated a toleration, if not a partiality of licentiousness and immorality. Infidelity (a sin unknown to our forefathers) has lately appeared among us, not like a solitary, restless sceptic, affecting a wish for conviction, nor in the bashful form of an untried novelty, cautiously stealing upon public favour—but under the licence long allowed to opinions however blasphemous or immoral, a party has arisen, calling themselves free-thinkers, who not only deride every ecclesiastical institution, and publicly insult religion in its ministers, but even make the word of God an object of profane travesty and licentious allusion. This never could have happened, the manly feeling and good sense of Englishmen would never have permitted such audacity, had not trifling, malicious, ignorant, and ridiculous misapplications of the sacred writings, sunk, in too many minds, the veneration in which they were formerly held; and thus benumbed what ought to have been the natural sentiments of indignation at the blasphemies of deism.

"We must admit that the return of the King is likely to introduce an influx of foreign manners, and that the long-suspended festivities of a court will foster an exultation bordering on extravagance. How will those who seek advancement, approach a Prince who has been long groaning under the injustice of mean and cruel hypocrites? Is it not likely that ridicule will aim at the gross, distorted features of preaching mechanics, and praying cut-throats, till the ministers, who are consecrated to serve at the altar, will find some of the missile shafts fall on their vestments? The perversions of Scripture I have just mentioned will be so scrupulously avoided, that an apposite and pious quotation will be termed puritanical; and we shall seldom hear the sacred volume referred to but to point a jest. Elegant literature, the fine arts, and dramatic amusements, have been long reprobated as Pagan devices. But so natural is our desire for innocent enjoyments, that, remove the interdict, and the public inclination will rush to these delights with the avidity resulting from constrained abstinence, which will give to pleasure an undue preponderance: Wit has been too much discountenanced. I simply argue on the tendency of the human mind to extremes, when I suspect that it will be indulged till it degenerates into indecorous levity. May the evils I foresee exist only in my fears; but if they are realized, much of the guilt, much of the blame must be laid on those who deluged us with spiritual pride, cant, austerity, and oppression; who bent the necks of Englishmen to the yoke of slavery, did their utmost to exterminate the Christian sentiments of moderation and charity, wrought the nation into a ferment, and then expected good to result from the chaos of virulent passions."

Mr. Barton admitted all the evils which had resulted from overstrained rigidity, but expressed the hopes his party entertained that Episcopacy would not be considered as a necessary adjunct to monarchy; or, in case of its revival, that it might be re-instated in its primitive form, and that the objectionable parts of the Liturgy, the articles, and the canons, might be so modified as to satisfy all parties. He spoke of the obligations which the King would owe to the Dissenters; who he trusted would be rewarded by being placed on an equality with the Church.

Dr. Beaumont argued, that if these late services cancelled their former transgressions, the Dissenters would have no just cause of complaint at being replaced in the situation which they held previously to the rebellion. He much feared that the vindictive feelings of those who had been despoiled, ridiculed, plundered, imprisoned, and deprived of every earthly blessing, would produce some measures, which, though they might be supported by the pretence of preventing further mischief, he should lament and blame, but never justify. As to jointly establishing Episcopacy and Presbytery, or simply tolerating both, he could never consent to either plan politically, because he conceived one established religion was necessary to preserve national piety; and the Church had too many claims on the King's gratitude, and was too intimately connected with the laws and manners of the people to be laid aside, or reduced to the level of her opponents; and, considered as a point of conscience, he was so firmly convinced of her conformity, in doctrine and discipline, to apostolical institutions, ancient customs, and, above all, to Scripture, that, though he would be the last man in the kingdom to consent to persecute those who, through conscience, refused to conform, he would be the first to defend her pre-eminence. As to giving the Church a more primitive dress, by which he supposed was meant, depriving her of her endowments, it must be remembered, that when the ministers of the Gospel lost miraculous gifts, they became dependant on temporal support. Though the apostles appeared as mendicants, yet while they could heal diseases with a touch, they inspired reverence. But in the present times men showed more observance to those who could bestow alms than to those who required support. It should likewise be remembered that an injunction was given to the bishops of the first century "to use hospitality," a proof that the primitive church was not in all respects clad in sackcloth.

Dr. Beaumont farther declared his doubts of the good effects of a conference between the Episcopalian and Presbyterian clergy. He was willing to sacrifice non-essentials to peace; but personal disputations were more apt to confirm than to remove prejudices. One party would be too querulous, the other too tenacious. Personal considerations would mix in the dispute; difficulties would be started; objections raised, when none, in fact, existed; and, in the heat of debate, real improvements would be rejected, which, in the calm seclusion of the closet, would be allowed to be important. Declaimers, conscious of their own powers, would seek distinction rather by acuteness and fastidiousness than by candour and placability. The enemies of the Church would argue rather with a view to her destruction than to her purification; and, on the other hand, her friends would gloss over her imperfections through fear that her opponents had some latent hostility, which the least concession on their part would bring to maturity.

He reminded Barton that as a body the Dissenters could not complain at their being expelled from the situations in which they were placed by an unlawful and usurped authority. He trusted that wise and moderate men would, by conformity, avoid this evil, and prefer the true praise of sacrificing their scruples at the shrine of peace and unity, to the false glory of courting reputation, by first exciting and then enduring persecution. He spoke of schism as an evil the most afflictive; the most opposite to the spirit of the Gospel, and to the commands of its Divine Founder, and as the greatest impediment to its universal promulgation. He exhorted Barton to use his influence with his friends, persuading them to acquire the only triumph over the church in their power, by renouncing their own prejudices, when they could not make their opponents subdue theirs, and thus prove themselves to be the truest disciples of the Prince of Peace. "Let the contest," said he, "be only which shall serve our common master best, by leading a life of unpretending holiness. Schism does infinitely more harm by the enmity it engenders, than it does good by the zeal it kindles. Controversial ardour is rather the death than the life of piety."

Mr. Barton replied, that he was become much more sensible of the evils attendant on a separating humour, on the gathering of parties and forming sects from the church; their effects had proved them to be mischiefs. He confessed that until he had imbibed prejudices against the Liturgy, he had joined in it with as hearty fervency, as he afterwards did in other prayers, and felt, from its imperfections, no hinderance in his devotions. He said, that he had lost his relish for controversy, and now took most delight in what was fundamental, the Creed, the Lord's Prayer, and the Ten Commandments, furnishing him with matter for meditation equally acceptable and abundant. That he less admired gifts of utterance, and bare professions of religion, than he once did, and no longer thought that all those who could pray movingly and fluently, and talk well of religion, were of course saints. That he was convinced most controversies had more need of right stating than of debating, and that many contenders actually differed less than they supposed^[1]. But still if the conditions of conformity should require him to acknowledge the invalidity of his present ordination, he could not consent to admit that he had hitherto been an Uzzah, touching the ark with unhallowed hands. In that case he would submit to the rod of chastisement, instead of receiving the staff of pastoral cure, and if he were forbidden to instruct others, he would discipline himself. For the sake of peace he would attend the services of the church, in which, though he saw much that might be improved, he discerned nothing absolutely sinful. To preserve a Christian spirit in himself and others, he would avoid dwelling on the restraints he suffered; but instead of repining, be thankful for the liberty he enjoyed. And he thought such behaviour would be the best way of enlarging that liberty, or, if that could not be done, of healing, in the next generation, those breaches which furious animosity had made in the present^[2].

He concluded by saying, that whoever had seen the ill-will engendered by controversy, and the miseries incident to civil war, must think peace cheaply purchased by any sacrifice short of conscience; and that, for his own part, no private injuries, disappointments, or harsh treatment, should make him obtrude his wrongs upon the public, so as to excite clamour against the government. He had seen how soon clamour brings on insurrection, and how partial commotion leads to universal confusion. During such scenes, inconsiderate, daring, and worthless men, acquire an ascendancy, and bring, by their extravagance, disgrace upon their party. Yet, proudly ascribing their influence to a superiority of desert, they reject the counsels of prudence, while their inordinate passions lead them to subdue the restraints of conscience. To preserve the nation from such misrule, he protested that he ardently wished to see the reins of government again in the hands of prescriptive authority.

CHAP. XXVII.

Shakspeare.

While the levellers and republicans alternately gained the ascendancy, and Monk, either from irresolution or profound policy, appeared to favour every party but that which he eventually espoused, long suspence quenched the hopes of the Loyalists, and their prospect of golden days seemed enveloped by the gloom of despair, when all at once the General rapidly measured back his steps. That mighty Parliament which, as different parties prevailed in it, countenanced the most rigorous coercion or permitted the wildest anarchy; which opposed, menaced, conquered, deceived, and murdered the King by whom it was summoned; which feebly attempted to resist the power of its own creature, Cromwell; and, after passively dispersing at his frown, re-assembled to insult his memory, threaten the fanatics, and denounce monarchy; that strange combination of talent and extravagance, of praying demagogues and aspiring religionists; deemed by Europe the soul of English rebellion, and the voice of the nation by whom it was at once feared, hated, and ridiculed; that representative body which voted its own perpetuity, and overthrew the constitution it was called to maintain—died at last by its own vote, amid universal execrations, and joyous anticipations of better times. A Parliament was called, which, being really chosen by the nation, hastened to give utterance to the national feeling. The prison-doors were thrown open to the Loyalists, their persecutors fled dismayed. Many who had sinned less deeply, hurried to the King with supererogatory offers of service. The ambitious and the vain busied themselves in devices to give splendor to the restoration which, from the awful circumstance of a penitent people welcoming back their exiled Monarch, could borrow no lustre from ostentatious pageants. Love, confidence, liberty, and security, seemed to revive; malice, suspicion, and guile, vanished with the dark tyranny they had so long supported. The aspect, manners, and dress of Englishmen resumed their former appearance. The lengthened visage; the rayless, yet penetrating eye; the measured smile, which expressed neither affection nor candour, disappeared. The countenance was again permitted to be an index to the soul, and the tongue uttered the undisguised feelings of artless sincerity; joy, magnified to ecstasy; freedom bursting the trammels of oppression; sorrow changed to festivity; want expatiating on the near prospect of affluence; justice restored to the full exercise of her balance and sword; religion separated from fanaticism, and reinstated in decent splendor; a hereditary King, a regular government, ancient institutions, definite laws, certain privileges, personal safety, and the restitution of property—such were the glorious themes which employed the thoughts of the contemplative, elevated the devotion of the pious, and made the unreflecting multitude frantic with wild delight. No period of English history records so great a change. The spring of 1660 was devoted to universal jubilee; with the vulgar it was disaffection to be sober, and among the higher classes gravity was treason.

Though the prisons were thrown open, the Beaumont family still lingered near the abode wherein they had been so long inhumed. A free communication was renewed with foreign countries; private intercourse was safe; exiles were every hour returning; but they heard nothing of their beloved fugitives. Dr. Beaumont waited with the patience of a man, who had endured years of sorrow. The debilitated Neville feared his last sands would run out before he could embrace his son. Isabel and Constantia had fears which they durst not disclose, even to each other. Were both their lovers enamoured of the merchant's daughter, or had some continental Circe also spread her fascinations, and made the recreants forget their fathers and their country, as well as their mistresses? Surely, in that case Dr. Lloyd would have sent some qualified account of their temptation and fall. Had they all perished in some tremendous undertaking; had a pestilence swept them away; had they fallen into the hands of banditti, or perished silently, ensnared by the still more merciless machinations of regicide-informers? There was no form in which danger and death could appear, that did not present itself to the alarmed mind of these long-suffering maidens, during the few weeks that intervened between the time that a Loyalist could appear in England without imminent hazard, and their receiving the intelligence which dispelled every doubt. A day seemed an age to exhausted patience, and the transports of others added to their sadness.

Isabel was at length informed, that a stranger inquired for her. Her bosom throbbed violently—"Is he young or old?" was all she could utter. "Middle aged," was the reply. "Alas!" said she, "I forget how rapidly time has stolen on since I parted with De Vallance. I have not looked at my face for years; 'tis changed, I am sure; I have lost every attraction, but my heart is still the same."—"Ever the same good heart!" repeated Eustace, as he rushed in, and caught her in his affectionate arms. "O! tell me, Isabel, where is my Constantia?" "Speak, low," said Isabel, attempting to smother a hysterical laugh. "Dear Eustace, how you are altered! Do not enter that room, the shock will be too great!"

The terrors of Eustace prompted a thousand inquiries.—"Was Constantia well? Was she faithful?" "Yes, yes!" replied Isabel, struggling in vain for composure; "but——" a thousand fears lurked in that word, and Eustace gazed in mute horror, while Isabel recovered self-command enough to say, "We are very much altered." Eustace shed tears of joy.—"Virtue and fidelity are always young and lovely," said he.—"You should not have taken me by surprise," resumed the much-agitated Isabel; "let me recollect myself a moment, and then you shall see our long-suffering father, and your ever-beloved Constance."

Her eyes were turned to the door at which Eustace entered, with an unacknowledged expectation of another visitant, and she stood incapable of the promised introduction. But the well-remembered, long-desired voice of Eustace had penetrated the inner-chamber, and Constantia, pale and silent, advanced to meet her betrothed love; held out her hand with timid joy, and sunk speechless into his arms. "My boy! my boy! let me fold thee to my heart, and expire in thy embraces!" exclaimed the agonized Neville, as with ineffectual efforts he strove to rise from the couch of infirmity. Eustace cast himself at his feet. "Your blessing," said he, "on one who is no disgrace to your blood. Dearest father, your commands have been obeyed; I have redeemed my honour, and my life is preserved to this hour of transport."

"The choicest blessings of all-gracious Providence rest on thy head, and on that of thy faithful partner;" said Neville, for Constance had involuntarily knelt by the side of her lover; "and may your future days be crowned with prosperity and peace! True heir of the Neville virtues, and now of their honours!" He closed his eyes, and continued to press his hands on their heads with a patriarch's fervour—then, as if recalling his thoughts to this lower world, inquired of Eustace if he had seen the King.

"I have seen and served him," answered Eustace. "He is well, amiable, royally-disposed, and, at this moment, embarking on board his own fleet to receive the crown of his ancestors; determined to forget his enemies, and reward his friends."

"Thou wilt kill me with joy," said the transported veteran; "but I am now content to die. Eustace, thou shalt never leave me more; I can never be satiated with hearing the sound of thy voice, or gazing on thee thus rising from disgrace and death. Come, tell me all thou hast endured since we parted." Eustace seated himself beside him on the couch, one arm clasped his Constantia, the other reclined on his father's knees. Neville rested his arms and head on his crutch, devouring with his eyes his son's features, and jealous of the glances he frequently cast on his beloved. Dr. Beaumont stood at a little distance, gazing on the affectionate group with calm delight, and frequently diverting his thoughts in pious thankfulness to that gracious Providence, who thus richly repaid their sorrows. Isabel threw herself at the feet of Eustace, half angry that she could engage no more of his attention, and listening to the narrative of his adventures with emotions which it is impossible to define.

Eustace was brief in his story, reserving the minutiæ for a calmer moment. The increased vigilance of the republican government soon made Jersey an unsafe residence. They removed to the continent; travelled through France, Italy, and the Low-Countries, without finding any eligible place wherein to fix. At length their funds failing, they agreed to prefer an humble employment to yet more degrading dependence. Dr. Lloyd served as assistant surgeon in the Dutch military hospital; and Eustace entered as a volunteer in the body-guard of the young Prince of Orange, consoled by the idea of devoting his life to the grandson of his murdered sovereign. Here he frequently saw and conversed with the present King, whose affable and attractive manners he warmly praised. "He recognised me," said he, "as the son of one to whom he owed indelible obligations, and his condescension commanded my confidence. He knows, dearest father, your early wrongs; and so sure as the crown of England is placed on his head, he will restore to you your titles and estates free from every base condition, and subject to no tribute, but what every English peer owes to a gracious and generous Monarch."

"There," thought Isabel, "my predictions are true—Constance will wear her ermined robes of state—but where is the cheerful residence of elegant sufficiency, in which I was to sing to my De Vallance? Eustace only speaks of his own adventures. Oh, this merchant's daughter of St. Helier; I wish she had been locked up in a nunnery. Doubtless, she is young and beautiful; but prosperity is a becoming ornament. I will take courage, and ask if they are very happy."

Isabel, after hemming several times, attempted to speak, and at last was able to say, "My dear brother!" Eustace turned his eyes upon her. His excessive transports had sufficiently subsided to allow him to enter into her feelings, and he affectionately answered, "What would my dear sister?"

"You had another companion," said she, "besides Dr. Lloyd."

"I will punish this prudery," thought Eustace. "True, my love; poor Fido.—It is kind in you to remember that faithful animal. He died on his travels, and I assure you I dropped a tear on his grave."

"Pshaw," cried Isabel, turning away her head.

"He lies in a celebrated spot," continued Eustace, "close to the walls of the convent of St. Bernard on the Alps; and thereby hangs a dreadful tale."

"We will listen to no dreadful tales now," said Constance, who felt by sympathy the untold sentiments of Isabel. "Tell us what is become of De Vallance, provoking Eustace; I see by your smile all is well. Will nothing cure you of your love of teazing us?"

"When ladies forget the names of their lovers," replied Eustace, "delicacy forbids us to interpret their inquiries. De Vallance is well; he came with me to England; but, Isabel, you must yield him to stronger claims."

"I guessed so," answered she; "and will resign him with fortitude; nay, with indifference." Tears, it is presumed, are a sign of these sensations, for her's flowed rapidly as she spoke. "Consider, my beloved sister," returned Eustace; "the glorious event which reinstates you in the rank and fortune of an Earl's daughter renders De Vallance the son of a disgraced usurper, despoiled of his ill-acquired splendor, and heir to nothing save the infamy of his parents."

"I had prepared my mind," said Isabel, "for every thing, but his being faithless to his vows. Had he been constant, I would have shared his lot however humble, and told the world his superior virtues cancelled the treasons and the treachery of his parents. But if beauty and affluence have proved irresistible, let me remember that my fortunes seemed desperate, allow the force of the temptation, and forgive him."

"There spoke my own magnanimous sister," exclaimed Eustace, folding her to his heart. "Thou worthy choice of my best and dearest friend! a wretched father is the stronger claim which detains him from thee. He is gone to carry comfort to the most pitiable object in the world, an alarmed, deserted sinner."

"I never will forgive you, Eustace, for thus torturing me," said Isabel, and while she spoke, encircled his neck with her arms. "Was there no truth in the tale of an enamoured lady of St. Helier?" Eustace blushed, called it a gossip's story, and threw his eyes on Constance, dearer and more attractive in her faded loveliness, than when in the happy prime of youthful beauty she first enslaved his affectionate heart.

Neville sat thoughtful and silent, gazing on his children with the painful exhaustion of overstrained sensibility. Isabel and Eustace seemed emulous to out-talk each other. Constantia looked unutterable content. Dr. Beaumont was mild, devout, admonitory; more inclined to bless the sure mercies of Providence, than to condemn the perverse conduct of man. He now recollected the anxieties of his good sister Mellicent, and proposed that Williams should be dispatched with the joyful tidings. "She must be told," said Eustace, "that the air-built castles she was so skilful in erecting have now a firm foundation. 'Tis time she should exercise her abilities in making bride-cake and comfits; two happy pairs will soon claim her services." "Nay," said Isabel, "as you are in a marrying humour, there shall be three, for who but she can reward good Dr. Lloyd, without whose vigilance and generosity we should all have been the most pitiable of mourners, wretched at the time of universal joy?"

Eustace answered that the worthy Esculapius was returning in the King's suite, being appointed one of his physicians, and he hinted the probability of his aunt's medical pre-eminence destroying the effect of her personal attractions. "At least," said he, "the Doctor has never intimated a wish for the alliance, though he speaks with admiration of her fortitude and maternal affection for us children of her love and care. And severely as you accuse me for want of gallantry to your sex, I will not even allow a spinster of seventy to volunteer her hand, when the honour is not passionately desired."

Dr. Beaumont now inquired what dreadful tale was connected with the convent of St. Bernard, and he soon found his own predictions were realized respecting the fate of those who seek security by the paths of crooked policy and selfish cunning. Those dreary walls inclosed the wretched heir of the Waverly family. Overwhelmed with horror at having deprived his father of life, the unhappy man abjured a country whose civil wars had given birth to such tremendous crimes. Long the victim of despair, he at last sought a quietus to his ever-gnawing remorse, by flying to the bosom of that church which barters salvation for pecuniary mulcts, and represents penance and subserviency to its schemes of worldly aggrandisement to be the wings which will waft the soul over the gulph of purgatory, and securely lodge it in Abraham's bosom. Not content with becoming a convert to the Romish church, the young Baronet determined upon expiating his unintentional parricide, by taking the cowl, and entering into its strictest order of monachism. Eustace and his friends, when they travelled over the Alps, were lodged one night at this convent, and in the midnight service De Vallance recognized the well-remembered tones of his powerful voice. They afterwards saw him in the garden labouring at his future grave, according to the prescribed rules of his order. His hood was fallen off, and gave to view his face, in which the deepest lines of sorrow were combined with the gloom of sullen superstition. All intercourse was forbidden by that law which chained his tongue to eternal silence, except when employed as the organ of devotion. Eustace wept with true commiseration; the unhappy monk threw on him a look, which showed he too well remembered England, drew his cowl over his face, and with a groan of the deepest melancholy solemnly returned to his cell.

Dr. Beaumont's remarks on this narrative were pious and affecting; but there was a heavy gloom in the eye of Neville, which indicated a mind too much absorbed by its own feelings to enjoy the badinage of happy lovers, or to listen to the suggestions of wisdom and devotion. "Is our dear father ill?" was the alarmed inquiry of Isabel. "Has the surprise of my return overpowered him?" said Eustace. "Will not affliction allow her victim a few years respite, before the effects of her early visitations conduct him to the grave?"

It was the privilege of that true minister of Heaven who tranquillized his youthful impatience, to penetrate into the secret feelings of the man of sorrows. Inattentive to every other subject, Dr. Beaumont perceived that he was roused by the name of Walter De Vallance, and therefore led Eustace to describe his present situation. The tortures of a guilty conscience, added to his constitutional timidity, had totally extinguished those faint beams of hope and ambition which led him, in every previous change of affairs, to project his own security or advancement. To usurpers and mal-contents of every description he thought he might either be useful or formidable; but from the returning King, welcomed with rapture by a repentant nation, a versatile traitor, who had betrayed the counsels of the royal martyr, could not expect even mercy. Too well known both for his rank and his provocations, to hope to shelter in obscurity, he had no resource but to fly to some distant land; and he proposed retreating to those colonies in America which were peopled under the influence of republican principles. But he had not proceeded many stages from London before he fell sick. His perturbed mind so far betrayed him to his host as to show he was one of those whom the happy change in public affairs compelled to fly from England, and he was immediately suspected to be one of the late King's judges, who, having imbrued their hands in royal blood, were, by the consent of all parties, reserved as an atonement to public justice. He was therefore seized, hurried back to London, and thrown into close confinement. His son and Eustace learned these particulars by stopping at the inn which had been the scene of his arrest; and the former, from some circumstances discovering the prisoner to be his father, deputed Eustace to plead his unchanged love and ardent hopes to his dearest Isabel, while he himself hastened to protect and solace his wretched parent with a hope, that by interposing his own unquestioned loyalty as a surety, he might preserve his life, if not obtain his liberty.

Not all the courtly blandishments of gallantry, nor even the heart-breathed vows of true love could have been half so acceptable to Isabel as this sacrifice of self-indulgence to filial duty. Even Neville could not refrain from commending his nephew's conduct, while brushing a tear from his eye he attempted to revive the expiring flame of vindictive indignation. "The villain, then," said he, "knows now what it is to want the service of a worthy child. Tell me, Eustace, does he suffer deeply? Is his soul ground down with compunction by recollecting the inhumed Neville, doomed by him and his rebel partizans to shelter with the dead. Shut for years from the light of the sun, excluded from human converse, and daily fed by that dear girl with the bread of affliction, though born to stand before Kings, and sit as judge among Princes! Walter De Vallance now suffers what I never endured. The gnawing worm of remorse must inflict on him the agonies of despair, but conscious innocence illumined my dungeon with hope. Yes, the spirits of my ancestors, offended at the foul pollution of their pure ermine, point at my son as the restorer of their tarnished honours, and bid me exult in the agonies which await the death-bed of a villain!"

A look of grave rebuke from Dr. Beaumont recalled the much-agitated Neville from this delirium of indulged malevolence. "My brother and my friend," he exclaimed; "supporter of my frail existence, and guide of my soul! I have sinned, pray for me." "May Almighty mercy," replied the pious minister of Heaven, "grant you that peace which only those can feel who are in charity with all mankind!—If years of affliction have not so taught you the comparative worthlessness of temporal possessions as to prevent your making them a pretext for eternal enmity; if calamity has steeled your heart to pity instead of melting it to contrition, I must bid you fear, lest some more terrible trials should visit you, or what is worse, lest the sinner who will not pardon an offending brother should be suddenly called to account for his own unrepented transgressions against the God, not then of infinite compassion, but of most righteous vengeance."

Neville trembled violently. His affectionate children intreated Dr. Beaumont to spare his infirmities, but he answered, that regard for the mortal body must not, in this instance, make him overlook the more important concerns of the never-dying soul, endangered by his thus cherishing implacable resentment. The termination of the struggle proved Neville a true hero. He not only confessed but abjured his errors. "I have," said he, "brooded too deeply over my injuries, and thus have added to my plagues by inflicting on myself more torments than even my enemies designed I should feel. Born with too exquisite sensibility of ill-treatment, proceeding possibly from inordinate self-esteem, disposed to ardent attachment and unbounded confidence, I measured the hearts of others by my own, and supposed that they equally revered the claims of generosity and friendship; for never did I expect a service, which in a change of situations, I would not have rendered unasked; never have I condemned a fault but those so abhorrent to my nature that, I would have died rather than have committed them. Condemned by the triumphant treachery of a man, in all things my inferior, to indigence and obscurity; all the liberal feelings I so dearly cherished palsied by my inability to expand the social charities beyond the narrow limits of my own family, I ruminated on the glorious indulgences resulting from, the possession of that power and affluence I was born to inherit. But, instead of enjoying the means of patronising merit, raising the oppressed, or succouring calamity, I beheld myself doomed to the anxious routine of a life consumed in the care of procuring a sufficiency for its own support, pondering how the claims of a creditor could be discharged, and the disgrace of injustice averted by the sacrifice of every generous gratification—I passed my days in a silent sacrifice of my wishes and comforts, in concealing my own wants, and steeling my heart to those of others, and it was during this mental torture of restrained liberality that I nourished in my soul a deadly thirst for revenge, an extreme desire of seeing the arm that smote me to the earth withered and powerless as my own. Oh, my children! there is guilt and danger in an excessive indulgence of even the most laudable feelings, and my crime brought on its punishment.—The loss of reason; the death of your adored mother, deserving infinitely more than the highest earthly honours, and therefore early translated to an angelical throne; these were my chastisements. In respect to what I have since suffered for my King, the testimonies of a good conscience were my support and my reward. And may the favours of a grateful monarch enable my Eustace to enjoy those noblest privileges of greatness for which I pined with ineffectual desire! I am now old and helpless, tottering on the brink of eternity, a blank, as far as respects this world. May I then divest my soul of those passions which will unfit it for the abodes of peace! The injuries of Walter De Vallance are not irremediable. Still do I clasp my son to my heart. Affliction has tried the virtues of my children, and brought me to a sense of my own errors. Let not short-sighted man, who cannot see the remote consequences of events, cherish revenge. Let not dust and ashes value its imperfect shows of goodness. Our greatest conquest is a victory over ourselves. Our noblest title is to be called obedient servants of the Most High."

Dr. Beaumont wept with pious delight, while Neville, leaning on his children in a posture of penitent adoration, besought Heaven to pardon his own sins, and the sins of his brother De Vallance. So entire was his abstraction, that he was not interrupted by the entrance of Barton, whose countenance expressed a degree of depression ill suited to the joyous character of the times. Dr. Beaumont accosted him by the title of his worthy friend, and the associate of his future fortunes. He introduced him to Eustace, of whose preservation from the massacre at Pembroke he was till then ignorant. Barton blessed the protecting hand of Providence, and explained his apparent dejection, by stating that he had just witnessed a most awful and impressive scene—a grievous sinner wounded alike in body and in soul, with no hope of escaping punishment either in this world or in that which is to come. He soon discovered that he meant the miserable De Vallance, whom, as he had served in prosperity, he would not desert in his utmost need, though he alike detested his private and despised his public character. He described him as alone, pennyless, comfortless, without resources in himself, or help from others. His worthy son had not yet discovered the place of his confinement; he knew not what was become of his son, and among all the crimes which tortured his conscience, the supposed death of Eustace was most insupportable. Hopeless of pity, yet desperate from remorse, he had commissioned Barton to intreat the greatly-injured Neville to forgive him. Christian principles had already obtained a victory over the agonizing resentments of wounded honour, and the eloquence of Barton only served to hasten its effect. Neville was calmly resolved, not moved by pathetic description, to act as he ought. "Go, my child," said he to Eustace, "bear my forgiveness to our unhappy kinsman, and by convincing him of your own existence, foil the tempter's efforts to overwhelm him with despair. I would see him, but we are both, weak in body, and frail in purpose. An interview might revive violent animosities. Envy and resentment are irritable passions; 'tis best we meet no more till our mortal failings are deposited in our graves. Then may our purified spirits enter upon a state where avarice and ambition cannot tempt, nor impatience and anger dispose us to offend! There may we meet as pardoned sinners, alike rejoicing in redemption!—Mine shall not be a mere verbal reconciliation. My King can refuse nothing to Allan Neville, the faithful Loyalist. Title and fortune will be restored to me as my right; but the only reward I will ask for my services shall be the pardon of my enemies. The punishment of a state-criminal must not disgrace my Isabel's nuptials. She has been to me the angel of consolation, and she shall carry forgiveness and honour as a dower to her husband. And now, Beaumont, while the relentings of my soul can refuse nothing to thy admonitions, tell me, is there aught more that I ought to perform?"

From one of less acute sensibility, Dr. Beaumont would possibly have required that he should have been the interpreter of his own purposes to De Vallance, but he rightly considered, that very susceptible and ardent characters, after they have forgiven, find it impossible to forget. When such persons are brought to that proper state of mind, to return good for evil, without either boasting of their lenity, or enumerating their wrongs, the best way of inducing an oblivion of the past, is to avoid such intercourse as may revive painful retrospection. It is impossible for those who have minds capable of appreciating the delicacies of friendship, to re-unite the bonds of esteem and confidence, when they have been violently rent asunder by cunning or treachery. Beside, Barton admitted that he saw in the behaviour of De Vallance more of the apprehensions of timorous guilt than the renovated spirit of self-abased contrition.

Eustace inherited the deep sensibilities of his father, but a train of happy years rose in perspective before him. Unbroken health, unclouded fame, successful love, wealth, and greatness—at the hour of his restoration to all these blessings, he must have been a monster who could have withheld cordial forgiveness from a humiliated miserable enemy. Eustace visited the man who had doomed him to a premature grave, with a sincere desire to prolong his life, and restore his peace. To the relief afforded by a conviction that the guilt of his nephew's murder did not lie upon his soul, De Vallance received the additional consolation of knowing that his own son was alive, and acknowledged by Eustace as a most beloved friend and future brother. The forgiveness of Neville, and the assurance of his powerful intercession with the King in his favour, changed the horrors of the wretched man into transports of joy. Lost to all nobler feelings, and penitent only from terror, apprehensions of the future had increased the sickness which fatigue and anxiety had occasioned, and his recovery was expedited by the confidence he now felt, that he should be permitted to spend the remnant of his days in security, protected by the virtues of the son whom he had neglected, and the clemency of the victims he had wronged.