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Royalty Restored or London under Charles II
Chapter I.
by Molloy, J. Fitzgerald
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Cromwell is sick unto death.--Fears and suspicions.--Killing no
Murder.--A memorable storm.--The end of all.--Richard Cromwell
made Protector.--He refuses to shed blood.--Disturbance and
dissatisfaction.--Downfall of Richard.--Charles Stuart proclaimed
king.--Rejoicement of the nation.--The king comes into his own.
--Entry into London.--Public joy and satisfaction.
On the 30th of January, 1649, Charles I. was beheaded. In the
last days of August in the year of grace 1658, Oliver Cromwell
lay sick unto death at the Palace of Whitehall. On the 27th day
of June in the previous year, he had, in the Presence of the
Judges of the land, the Lord Mayor and Aldermen of the City, and
Members of Parliament assembled at Westminster Hall, seated
himself on the coronation chair of the Stuarts, assumed the title
of Lord Protector, donned a robe of violet velvet, girt his loins
with a sword of state, and grasped the sceptre, symbolic of
kingly power. From that hour distrust beset his days, his nights
were fraught with fear. All his keen and subtle foresight, his
strong and restless energies, had since then been exerted in
suppressing plots against his power, and detecting schemes
against his life, concocted by the Republicans whose liberty he
had betrayed, and by the Royalists whose king he had beheaded.
Soon after he had assumed the title of Lord High Protector, a
most daring pamphlet, openly advocating his assassination, was
circulated in vast numbers throughout the kingdom. It was
entitled "Killing no Murder," and was dedicated in language
outrageously bold to His Highness Oliver Cromwell. "To your
Highness justly belongs the honour of dying for the people," it
stated, "and it cannot but be an unspeakable consolation to you,
in the last moments of your life, to consider with how much
benefit to the world you are likely to leave it. It is then
only, my lord, the titles you now usurp will be truly yours; you
will then be, indeed, the deliverer of your country, and free it
from a bondage little inferior to that from which Moses delivered
his, you will then be that true reformer which you would now be
thought; religion shall then be restored, liberty asserted, and
Parliaments have those privileges they have sought for. All this
we hope from your Highness's happy expiration. To hasten this
great good is the chief end of my writing this paper; and if it
have the effects I hope it will, your Highness will quickly be
out of the reach of men's malice, and your enemies will only be
able to wound you in your memory, which strokes you will not
feel."
The possession of life becomes dearest when its forfeiture is
threatened, and therefore Cromwell took all possible means to
guard against treachery--the only foe he feared, and feared
exceedingly. "His sleeps were disturbed with the apprehensions
of those dangers the day presented unto him in the approaches of
any strange face, whose motion he would most fixedly attend,"
writes James Heath, gentleman, in his "Chronicles," published in
1675. "Above all, he very carefully observed such whose mind or
aspect were featured with any chearful and debonair lineaments;
for such he boded were they that would despatch him; to that
purpose he always went secretly armed, both offensive and
defensive; and never stirred without a great guard. In his usual
journey between Whitehall and Hampton Court, by several roads, he
drove full speed in the summer time, making such a dust with his
life-guard, part before and part behinde, at a convenient
distance, for fear of choaking him with it, that one could hardly
see for a quarter of an hour together, and always came in some
private way or other." The same authority, in his "Life of
Cromwell," states of him, "It was his constant custom to shift
and change his lodging, to which he passed through twenty several
locks, and out of which he had four or five ways to avoid
pursuit." Welwood, in his "Memoirs," adds the Protector wore a
coat of mail beneath his dress, and carried a poniard under his
cloak.
Nor was this all. According to the "Chronicle of the late
Intestine War," Cromwell "would sometimes pretend to be merry,
and invite persons, of whom he had some suspicion, to his cups,
and then drill out of their open hearts such secrets as he wisht
for. He had freaks also to divert the vexations of his misgiving
thoughts, calling on by the beat of drum his footguards, like a
kennel of hounds to snatch away the scraps and reliques of his
table. He said every man's hand was against him, and that he ran
daily into further perplexities, out of which it was impossible
to extricate, or secure himself therein, without running into
further danger; so that he began to alter much in the tenour of
his former converse, and to run and transform into the manners of
the ancient tyrants, thinking to please and mitigate his own
tortures with the sufferings of others."
But now the fate his vigilance had hitherto combated at last
overtook him in a manner impossible to evade. He was attacked by
divers infirmities, but for some time made no outward sign of his
suffering, until one day five physicians came and waited on him,
as Dr. George Bate states in his ELENCHUS MOTUUM NUPERORUM. And
one of them, feeling his pulse, declared his Highness suffered
from an intermittent fever; hearing which "he looked pale, fell
into a cold sweat, almost fainted away, and orders himself to be
carried to bed." His fright, however, was but momentary. He was
resolved to live. He had succeeded in raising himself to a
position of vast power, but had failed in attaining the great
object of his ambition--the crowned sovereignty of the nation he
had stirred to its centre, and conquered to its furthest limits.
Brought face to face with death, his indomitable will, which had
shaped untoward circumstances to his accord with a force like
unto fate itself, now determined to conquer his shadowy enemy
which alone intercepted his path to the throne. Therefore as he
lay in bed he said to those around him with that sanctity of
speech which had cloaked his cruellest deeds and dissembled his
most ambitious designs, "I would be willing to live to be further
serviceable to God and his people."
As desires of waking hours are answered in sleep, so in response
to his nervous craving for life he had delusive assurances of
health through the special bounty of Providence. He was
therefore presently able to announce he "had very great
discoveries of the Lord to him in his sickness, and hath some
certainty of being restored;" as Fleetwood, his son-in-law, wrote
on the 24th of August in this same year.
Accordingly, when one of the physicians came to him next morning,
the High Protector said, "Why do you look sad?" To which the man
of lore replied evasively, "So it becomes anyone who had the
weighty care of his life and health upon him." Then Cromwell to
this purpose spoke: "You think I shall die; I tell you I shall
not die this bout; I am sure on't. Don't think I am mad. I
speak the words of truth upon surer grounds than Galen or your
Hippocrates furnish you with. God Almighty himself hath given
that answer, not to my prayers alone, but also to the prayers of
those who entertain a stricter commerce and greater intimacy with
him. Ye may have skill in the nature of things, yet nature can
do more than all physicians put together, and God is far above
nature." The doctor besought him to rest, and left the room.
Outside he met one of his colleagues, to whom he gave it as his
opinion their patient had grown light-headed, and he repeated the
words which Cromwell had spoken. "Then," said his brother-
physician, "you are certainly a stranger in this house; don't you
know what was done last night? The chaplain and all their
friends being dispersed into several parts of the palace have
prayed to God for his health, and they all heard the voice of God
saying, 'He will recover,' and so they are all certain of it."
"Never, indeed, was there a greater stock of prayers going on for
any man," as Thurlow, his secretary, writes. So sure were those
around him that Providence must hearken to and grant the
fulfilment of such desires as they thought well to express, that,
as Thomas Goodwin, one of Cromwell's chaplains, said, "We asked
not for the Protector's life, for we were assured He had too
great things for this man to do, to remove him yet; but we prayed
for his speedy recovery, because his life and presence were so
necessary to divers things then of great moment to be
despatched." When this Puritanical fanatic was presently
disappointed, Bishop Burnet narrates "he had the impudence to say
to God, 'Thou hast deceived us.'"
Meanwhile the Protector lay writhing in pain and terror. His
mind was sorely troubled at remembrance of the last words spoken
by his daughter Elizabeth, who had threatened judgments upon him
because of his refusal to save the King; whilst his body was
grievously racked with a tertian fever, and a foul humour which,
beginning in his foot, worked its way steadily to his heart.
Moreover, some insight regarding his future seemed given to him
in his last days, for he appeared, as Ludlow, his contemporary,
states, "above all concerned for the reproaches he saw men would
cast upon his name, in tramping upon his ashes when dead."
On the 30th of August his danger became evident even to himself,
and all hope of life left him. For hours after the certain
approach of death became undeniably certain, he remained quiet
and speechless, seemingly heedless of the exhortation and prayers
of his chaplains, till suddenly turning to one of them, he
whispered, "Tell me, is it possible to fall from grace?" The
preacher had a soothing reply ready: "It is not," he answered.
"Then," exclaimed this unhappy man, whose soul was red with the
blood of thousands of his countrymen, "I am safe, for I know I
was once in grace." Anon he cries out, whilst tossing wildly on
his bed, "Lord, although I am a miserable and a wretched
creature, I am in covenant with Thee through grace, and I may and
will come to Thee for Thy people. Pardon such as desire to
trample upon the dust of a poor worm. And give us a good night
if it be Thy pleasure. Amen."
It was now the 2nd of September. As the evening of that day
approached he fell into a stupor, and those who watched him
thought the end had come.
Within the darkened chamber in Whitehall all was silence and
gloom; without all was tumult and fear. Before the gates of the
palace a turbulent crowd of soldiers and citizens had gathered in
impatient anxiety. Those he had raised to power, those whose
fortunes depended on his life, were steeped in gloom; those whose
principles he had outraged by his usurpation, those whose
position he had crushed by his sway, rejoiced at heart. Not only
the capital, but the whole nation, was divided into factions
which one strong hand alone had been able to control; and terror,
begotten by dire remembrances of civil war and bloodshed, abode
with all lovers of peace.
As evening closed in, the elements appeared in unison with the
distracted condition of the kingdom. Dark clouds, seeming of
ominous import to men's minds, gathered in the heavens, to be
presently torn asunder and hurried in wild flight by tempestuous
winds across the troubled sky. As night deepened, the gale
steadily increased, until it raged in boundless fury above the
whole island and the seas that rolled around its shores. In town
houses rocked on their foundations, turrets and steeples were
flung from their places; in the country great trees were
uprooted, corn-stacks levelled to the ground, and winter fruits
destroyed; whilst at sea ships sank to rise no more. This
memorable storm lasted all night, and continued until three
o'clock next afternoon, when Cromwell expired.
His body was immediately embalmed, but was of necessity interred
in great haste. Westminster Abbey, the last home of kings and
princes, was selected as the fittest resting-place for the
regicide. Though it was impossible to honour his remains by
stately ceremonials, his followers were not content to let the
occasion of his death pass with-out commemoration. They
therefore had a waxen image of him made, which they resolved to
surround with all the pomp and circumstances of royalty. For
this purpose they carried it to Somerset House--one of the late
King's palaces--and placed it on a couch of crimson velvet
beneath a canopy of state. Upon its shoulders they hung a purple
mantle, in its right hand they placed a golden sceptre, and by
its side they laid an imperial crown, probably the same which,
according to Welwood, the Protector had secretly caused to be
made and conveyed to Whitehall with a view to his coronation.
The walls and ceiling of the room in which the effigy lay were
covered by sable velvet; the passages leading to it crowded with
soldiery. After a few weeks the town grew tired of this sight,
when the waxen image was taken to another apartment, hung with
rich velvets and golden tissue, and otherwise adorned to
symbolize heaven, when it was placed upon a throne, clad "in a
shirt of fine Holland lace, doublet and breeches of Spanish
fashion with great skirts, silk stockings, shoe-strings and
gaiters suitable, and black Spanish leather shoes." Over this
attire was flung a cloak of purple velvet, and on his head was
placed a crown with many precious stones. The room was then lit,
as Ludlow narrates, "by four or five hundred candles set in flat
shining candlesticks, so placed round near the roof that the
light they gave seemed like the rays of the sun, by all which he
was represented to be now in a state of glory." Lest, indeed,
there should be any doubt as to the place where his soul abode,
Sterry, the Puritan preacher, imparted the information to all,
that the Protector "now sat with Christ at the right hand of the
Father."
But this pomp and state in no may overawed the people, who, by
pelting with mire Cromwell's escutcheon placed above the great
gate of Somerset House gave evidence of the contempt in which
they held his memory. After a lapse of over two months from the
day of his death, the effigy was carried to Westminster Abbey
with more than regal ceremony, the expenses of his lying-in-state
and of his funeral procession amounting, as stated by Walker and
Noble, to upwards of L29,000. "It was the joyfullest funeral I
ever saw," writes Evelyn, "for there were none that cried but
dogs, which the soldiers hooted away with a barbarous noise,
drinking and taking tobacco as they went."
A little while before his death Cromwell had named his eldest
surviving son, Richard, as his successor, and he was accordingly
declared Protector, with the apparent consent of the council,
soldiers, and citizens. Nor did the declaration cause any
excitement, "There is not a dog who wags his tongue, so profound
is the calm which we are in," writes Thurlow to Oliver's second
son, Henry, then Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. But if the nation
in its dejection made no signs of resistance, neither did it give
any indications of satisfaction, and Richard was proclaimed "with
as few expressions of joy as had ever been observed on a like
occasion." For a brief while a stupor seemed to lull the
factious party spirit which was shortly to plunge the country
into fresh difficulties. The Cromwellians and Republicans
foresaw resistless strife, and the Royalists quietly and
hopefully abided results.
Nor had they long to wait. In the new Parliament assembled in
January, 1659, the Republicans showed themselves numerous and
bold beyond measure, and hesitated to recognise Richard Cromwell
as successor to the Protectorate. However, on the 14th of the
following month the Cromwellians gained the upper hand, when
Richard was confirmed in his title of "Lord Protector, and First
Magistrate of England, Scotland, and Ireland, with all the
territories depending thereon." Further discussion quickly
followed. "One party thinks the Protectorate cannot last; the
other that the Republican cannot raise itself again; the
indifferent hope that both will be right. It is easy to foretell
the upshot," writes Hyde. The disunion spread rapidly and
widely; not only was the Parliament divided against itself, but
so likewise was the army; and the new Protector had neither the
courage nor the ability to put down strife with a strong hand.
Richard Cromwell was a man of peaceful disposition, gentle
manners and unambitious mind, whom fate had forced into a
position for which he was in no way fitted. By one of those
strange contradictions which nature sometimes produces, he
differed in all things from his father; for not only was he
pleasure-loving, joyous, and humane, but he was, moreover, a
Royalist at heart, and continued in friendship with the Cavaliers
up to the period of his proclamation as Protector. It has been
stated that, falling on his knees, he entreated his father to
spare the life of Charles I.; it is certain he remained inactive
whilst the civil wars devastated the land; and there is evidence
to show that, during the seven months and twenty-eight days of
his Protectorship, he shrank from the perpetration of cruelty and
crime. Accordingly, when those who had at first supported his
authority eventually conspired against him, he refrained from
using his power to crush them. At this his friends were wrath.
"It is time to look about you," said Lord Howard, speaking with
the bluntness of a friend. "Empire and command are not now the
question. Your person, your life are in peril. You are the son
of Cromwell; show yourself worthy to be his son. This business
requires a bold stroke, and must be supported by a good head. Do
not suffer yourself to be daunted. I will rid you of your
enemies: do you stand by me, and only back my zeal for your
honour with your name; my head shall answer for the
consequences."
Colonel Ingoldsby seconded the advice Lord Howard gave, but
Richard Cromwell hearkened to neither. "I have never done
anybody any harm, and never will," said he. "will not have a
drop of blood spilt for the preservation of my greatness, which
is a burden to me." At this Lord Howard was indignant. "Do you
think," he asked, "this moderation of yours will repair the wrong
your family has committed by its elevation? Everybody knows that
by violence your father procured the death of the late king, and
kept his sons in banishment: mercy in the present state of
affairs is unreasonable. Lay aside this pussillanimity; every
moment is precious; your enemies spend the time in acting which
we waste in consulting." "Talk no more of it," answered the
Protector. "I am thankful for your friendship, but violent
counsels suit not with me."
The climax was at hand; his fall was but a question of time. "A
wonderfull and suddaine change in ye face of ye publiq," writes
Evelyn, on the 25th of April, 1659. "Ye new Protector Richard
slighted; several pretenders and parties strove for the
Government; all anarchy and confusion. Lord have mercy on us!"
Before the month of May had expired, the House of Commons
commissioned two of its members to bid Richard Cromwell leave the
palace of Whitehall, and obtain his signature to a deed wherein
he acknowledged complete submission to Parliament. His brief
inglorious reign was therefore at an end. "As with other men,"
he wrote to the House of Commons, "I expect protection from the
present Government: I do hold myself obliged to demean myself
with all the peaceableness under it, and to procure, to the
utmost of my power, that all in whom I have any interest to do
the same." He retired into Hampshire, where he dwelt as a
private gentleman. His brother Henry resigned his position as
Lord Lieutenant of Ireland and settled in Cambridgeshire. From
this time the name of Cromwell was no longer a power in the land.
During two years subsequent to the death of Oliver the government
of England underwent various changes, and the kingdom suffered
many disorders; until, being heartily sick of anarchy, the people
desired a king might once more reign over them. accordingly,
they turned their eyes towards the son of him whom "the boldest
villany that ever any nation saw" had sent to the block. And the
time being ripe, Charles Stuart, then an exile in Breda,
despatched Sir John Grenville with royal letters to both Houses
of Parliament, likewise to the Lord Mayor of London and members
of the Common Council, to Monk, commander of the forces, and
Montagu, admiral of the fleet. These letters were received with
so universal a joy and applause, that Parliament forthwith
ordained Charles Stuart should be proclaimed "the most potent,
mighty, and undoubted King of England, Scotland and Ireland."
Moreover, both Houses agreed that an honourable body of
Commissioners, all men of great quality and birth, should be sent
to the king with letters, humbly begging his majesty would be
pleased to hasten his long-desired return into England. And
because they knew full well the royal exchequer was empty,
Parliament ordered these noble gentlemen to carry with them a
present of fifty thousand pieces of gold to the king, together
with ten thousand to his brother of York, and five thousand to
his brother of Gloucester. Nor was the City of London backwards
in sending expressions of loyalty and tokens of homage and
devotion; to evince which twenty valiant men and worthy citizens
were despatched with messages of goodwill towards him, and
presents in gold to the amount of twelve thousand pounds.
And presently Admiral Montagu arriving with his fleet upon the
coast of Holland, awaited his majesty near Scheveling; and all
things being in readiness the king with his royal brothers and a
most noble train set sail for England.
It came to pass that on the 25th day of May, 1660, a vast
concourse of nobility, gentry, and citizens had assembled at
Dover to meet and greet their sovereign king, Charles II., on his
landing. On the fair morning of that day a sound of cannon
thundering from the castle announced that the fleet, consisting
of "near forty sail of great men-of-war," which conveyed his
majesty to his own, was in sight; whereon an innumerable crowd
betook its joyful way to the shore. The sun was most gloriously
bright, the sky cloudless, the sea calm. Far out upon the blue
horizon white-winged ships could be clearly discerned. By three
o'clock in the afternoon they had reached the harbour, when the
king, embarking in a galley most richly adorned, was rowed to
shore. Then cannon roared once more from the castle, and were
answered from the beach; bells rang from church towers, and a
mighty shout went up from the hearts of the people.
In the midst of these rejoicings Charles II. landed, and the
gallant General Monk, who had been mainly instrumental in
bringing his royal master to the throne without loss of blood,
now fell upon his knees to greet his majesty. The king raised
the general from the ground, embraced and kissed him. Then the
nobility hastened to pay their duty likewise, and the Mayor and
Aldermen of Dover presented him with a most loyal address. And
presently, with the roar of cannon, the clangour of bells, the
sound of music, and the shouts of a great multitude ringing in
his ears, the king advanced on his way towards Canterbury. At
the gates of this ancient city he was met by the mayor and
aldermen, and was presented by them with a golden tankard, Here
he spent the following day, which being Sunday, he went with a
great train to the cathedral, where service according to the
Church of England, long disused by the Puritans, was restored, to
the satisfaction of many.
Setting out from Canterbury on Monday, the 29th of May--which
was, moreover, the anniversary of his birth--he journeyed to
Blackheath, where he reviewed the forces drawn up with great pomp
and military splendour to greet him, and bestowed many gracious
expressions on them. Then, having received assurances of their
loyal homage through their commander, Colonel Knight, he turned
towards London town. And the nearer he approached, the more
dense became crowds thronging to meet him; the fields on either
side the long white road being filled with persons of all
conditions, who cheered him lustily. As he passed they flung
leaves of trees and sweet May flowers beneath his horse's feet,
and waved green boughs on high, And when he came to St. George's
Fields, there was my lord mayor in his robes of new velvet,
wearing his collar of wrought gold, and attended by his aldermen
in brave apparel likewise. Going down on his knees my lord mayor
presented the king with the city sword, which his majesty with
some happy expressions of confidence gave back into his good
keeping, having first struck him with it upon the shoulder and
bade him rise up Sir Thomas Allen. Whereon that worthy man rose
to his feet and conducted the king to a large and richly adorned
pavilion, and entertained him at a splendid collation, it being
then one of the clock. And being refreshed his majesty set forth
again, and entered the city, which had never before shown so
brave and goodly an appearance as on this May day, when all the
world seemed mad with joy.
From London Bridge even to Whitehall Palace the way was lined on
one side by the train-bands of the city, and on the other by the
city companies in their rich livery gowns; to which were added a
number of gentlemen volunteers, all in white doublets, commanded
by Sir John Stanel. Across the streets hung garlands of spring
flowers that made the air most sweet, and at the corners thereof
were arches of white hawthorn in full bloom, bedecked with
streamers of gay colours. From wooden railed balconies, jutting
windows, and quaint gables hung fair tapestries, rich silks, and
stuffs of brilliant hues; and from the high red chimneys, grey
turrets, and lofty spires, floated flags bearing the royal arms
of England, and banners inscribed with such mottoes as loyalty
and affection could suggest. The windows and galleries were
filled with ladies of quality in bright dresses; the roofs and
scaffolding, with citizens of all classes, who awaited with eager
and joyous faces to salute their lord and king.
And presently, far down the line of streets, a sound was heard of
innumerable voices cheering most lustily, which every minute
became nearer and louder, till at last a blare of trumpets was
distinguished, followed by martial music, and the tramp and
confusion of a rushing crowd which suddenly parted on all sides.
Then there burst on view the first sight of that brave and
glorious cavalcade to the number of twenty thousand, which
ushered the king back unto his own. First came a troop of young
and comely gentlemen, three hundred in all, representing the
pride and valour of the kingdom, wearing cloth of silver doublets
and brandishing naked swords which flashed in the sunlight. Then
another company, less by a hundred in number, habited in rich
velvet coats, their footmen clad in purple liveries; and next a
goodly troop under the command of Sir John Robinson, all dressed
in buff coats with cloth of silver sleeves, and green scarves
most handsome to behold. These were followed by a brave troop in
blue doublets adorned with silver lace, carrying banners of red
silk fringed with gold. Then came trumpets, and seven footmen in
sea-green and silver liveries, bearing banners of blue silk,
followed by a troop in grey and blue to the number of two hundred
and twenty, and led by the most noble the Earl of Northampton.
After various other companies, all brave in apparel, came two
trumpets bearing his majesty's arms, followed by the sheriffs'
men in red cloaks and silver lace, and by a great body of
gentlemen in black velvet coats with gold chains. Next rode six
hundred brave citizens, twelve ministers, the king's life guards,
led by Sir Gilbert Gerrard, the city marshals with eight footmen,
the city waits and officers, the sheriffs and aldermen in scarlet
gowns, the maces and heralds in great splendour, the lord mayor
carrying a naked sword in his strong right hand, the Duke of
Buckingham, and General Monk, soon to be created Duke of
Albermarle.
Now other heralds sound their trumpets with blasts that make all
hearts beat quicker; church bells ring far louder than before;
voices are raised to their highest pitch, excitement reaches its
zenith, for here, mounted on a stately horse caparisoned in royal
purple and adorned with gold, rides King Charles himself; on his
right hand his brother of York, on his left his brother of
Gloucester. Handkerchiefs are waved, flowers are flung before
his way, words of welcome fall upon his ear, in answer to which
he bows with stately grace, smiles most pleasantly, and gives
such signs of delight as "cheared the hearts of all loyal
subjects even to extasie and transportation." Last of all came
five regiments of cavalry, with back, breast, and head piece,
which "diversified the show with delight and terrour." John
Evelyn stood in the Strand and watched the procession pass, when
that worthy man thanked God the king had been restored without
bloodshed, and by the very army that had rebelled against him.
"For such a restauration was never mention'd in any history
ancient or modern, since the returne of the Jews from the
Babylonish captivity; nor so joyfull a day and so bright ever
seene in this nation, this hapning when to expect or effect it
was past all human policy."
For full seven hours this "most pompous show that ever was" wound
its way through the city, until at nine of the clock in the
evening it brought his majesty to the palace of Whitehall, where
the late king had "laid down his sacred head to be struck off
upon a block," almost twelve years before. Then the lord mayor
and his aldermen took their goodly leave, and the king entered
into the banquet hall, where the lords and commons awaited him,
and where an address was made to him by the Earl of Manchester,
Speaker to the House of Peers, congratulating him on his
miraculous preservation and happy restoration to his crown and
dignity after so long and so severe a suppression of his just
right and title. Likewise his lordship besought his majesty to
be the upright assertor of the laws and maintainer of the
liberties of his subjects. "So," said the noble earl, "shall
judgment run down like a river, and justice like a mighty stream,
and God, the God of your mercy, who hath so miraculously
preserved you, will establish your throne in righteousness and
peace." Then the king made a just and brief reply, and retired
to supper and to rest.
The worthy citizens, however, were not satisfied that their
rejoicements should end here, and "as soon as night came," says
Dr. Bate, "an artificial day was begun again, the whole city
seeming to be one great light, as, indeed, properly it was a
luminary of loyalty, the bonfires continuing till daybreak, fed
by a constant supply of wood, and maintained with an equal excess
of gladness and fewel." Wine flowed from public fountains,
volleys of shot were discharged from houses of the nobility,
drums and other musical instruments played in the streets,
citizens danced most joyfully in open places, and the effigy of
Cromwell was burned, together with the arms of the Commonwealth
with expressions of great delight.
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