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It was a lovely summer morning, with a soft
west wind just ruffling the bosom of the silver
Thames, and wantoning among the graceful foliage
of the tall trees, and slenderer though not less beautiful
exotics, which still adorn in such profusion the
gardens of that palace built by the haughty Wolsey,
but destined soon to pass into the hands of his
bluff master, and to descend to his posterity as one
of the most fair abodes of England's royalty. In
a magnificent apartment overlooking those unrivalled
gardens, its ceiling gorgeously painted in
Italian frescoes with some of the most picturesque
creations of the Grecian fable, its walls draped with
brocaded damask bordered with arabesques of gold
two feet in width, and decorated with the master-pieces
of Vandyck and Lely, in all but power a
king, sat Charles, gazing out with a sad but quiet
eye upon the flowery parterres, adorned with many
an urn and statue—the trimly-shaven lawns—the
odorous thickets—and the alleys green, with the
broad monarch of his kingdom's rivers flashing out
brightly in the sunshine between the fluttering
leaves. His children were about him; the Duke
of York, the eldest, leaning upon his father's knee,

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and looking up into his face as conscious of the
melancholy air, which had become almost habitual
to those unmarked but comely features, yet ignorant
of the dark causes which had there imprinted
it; the younger Duke of Gloucester, and Elizabeth,
his little sister—just at that happy age when
tears are but as April showers, succeeded instantly
by smiles, when sorrows pass away and leave no
sting behind—were busily employed imprisoning,
beneath a Venice goblet, a painted butterfly, which,
lured by a display of lovely summer flowers bloomin
a large crystal vase upon the table, had flitted
in through the tall casements but to be made a
prize by the admiring children. A louder laugh
than usual, joyously bursting from the lips of the
young girl, diverted the king's mind for a moment
from his sad reflections.

“My little girl,” he said, half sorrowfully smiling,
“you would not persecute the pretty butterfly;
see how it beats its painted wings against the walls
of its transparent prison, and rubs off all the downy
colours that you thought so beautiful. Know, my
Elizabeth, that poor imprisoned fly would now be
fluttering far away over the sunny gardens, in the
sweet morning air, sipping the dew from every
flower, happy and free; and you, by shutting it up
here, have made it very wretched; and it will pine
and die. See, it grows weak already; would not
my darling sorrow for the poor butterfly if she
should find it lying dead upon its prison floor tomorrow?”

The child stared wonderingly, with her great
blue eyes wide open, upon her father, for he spoke
with a degree of serious and simple pathos, caused,
perhaps, by a sense of sympathy with the slight
insect, caged like himself, though in a splendid
prison; but, as he ceased, a big tear swelled upon

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the lashes of either bright orb, and slid slowly down
over her rosy cheeks. “I did not want,” she said,
“to make the butterfly unhappy. Will it die, papa,
now, if I let it fly away?”

“No, my sweet child,” he answered, “it will revive
directly; all that it wants is the fresh air, and
liberty to go where it pleases.”

“Then farewell, pretty butterfly,” she cried, half
weeping and half smiling, as she released the captive.
“I should not love to be a prisoner myself,
Go and be very happy. See! see! he is gone already!”

“Heaven, in its mercy, grant you never may,
my child,” Charles answered solemnly; “but, if it
should please God that evil men should shut you
up, you must be very patient, and not hate those
who hurt you, but forgive them, and say your
prayers for them to your great King and Father in
his holy heaven, that he may pardon them, and turn
their hearts.”

“Do you do so, papa,” she said—“do you do
so? For I heard you say one day that you were
a prisoner—though this pretty room can hardly
be a prison—for I thought a prison was a dark
place under ground, all barred with iron grates,
and very terrible. Do you forgive your enemies?”

“Surely I do, my little girl,” he answered, “else
would not God forgive me. But, now, go play—
for, see here, some one comes to speak with me;”
and, as he said the words, the door was opened,
and a gentleman usher with his black rod entered
the chamber, and informed the king that the Lieutenant-general
Cromwell was in the audience-chamber
waiting his pleasure.

“Admit him forthwith, Feilding; we will receive
him here,” replied the king; “and, hark you, pray

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Mistress Drummond to come hither, and take
hence the children. We would be alone.”

The usher instantly retired; and taking up his
high-crowned hat which lay upon the table, without
any feather, but ornamented by a diamond
buckle in the band, he placed it on his head, and
seated himself before a writing cabinet of ebony
inlaid with ivory and silver. Scarce had he settled
himself, with perhaps some slight view to effect,
when the independent entered. He was uncovered,
bearing his beaver in his hand, and bowed
low to the fallen sovereign, though he bent not the
knee, nor offered any movement to kiss hands.
It was a singular and interesting meeting between
two men, pitted by fortune for long years against
each other, and now thrown peaceably into familiar
contact. The contrast—the marked difference
between the two—both great—but the one born to
greatness, the other having, by the energies of his
own mind, the actions of his own right hand,
achieved it. Their features spoke volumes as to
the distinction! The king's were, indeed, comely,
and full of a calm natural majesty, but bearing no
decisive marks of any ruling principle or passion—
no radiancy of intellect—no manifest impress of
character!—mild, though at the same time somewhat
stern, their chief expression was an air of
cold and melancholy resolution, not, perhaps, inconsistent
with the traits of mind for which he was
remarkable. When gazed upon, indeed, by one
who knew him as the king, he looked it every
inch; but, had he been met in a crowd, attired as
a private individual, he would have been observed
for nothing but the easy bearing natural to every
highborn gentleman. The countenance of Cromwell,
on the contrary, owed all its influence over
the mind of those who saw him—and powerful,

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indeed, and universal was that influence—to the undoubted
stamp of genius—to the indomitable resolution—
the deeply-seated and unfathomable thought—
the quiet but intense enthusiasm, graven in living
characters upon his homely features—to the intelligence,
in short, and soul that flashed out palpably
from every line and lineament of his marked
face. Seen in the armour of the soldier—the
stateman's robe of peace—the plain garb of the
every-day staid citizen—or the vile tatters of the
mendicant, he could not for a second's space have
remained unnoted as a superior creature—as a
man of vast unquestionable powers. But if, in
this respect, the carver out of his own mighty fortunes
surpassed the owner of legitimate hereditary
sway, in bearing and demeanour there was no comparison.
Every position, every movement of the
king was redolent of ease and dignity combined;
and his repose—that hardest test of grace—carelessly
natural and unstudied, was as perfect in its
harmony and keeping as if it had been the result
of the most artful skill. The motions of the independent,
on the other hand, were sudden, rapid,
rough; his postures rigid and iron, when erect;
when seated, angular at any time and awkward,
but so more obviously when brought into relief by
contrast to the elegance of Charles. Both were
dressed simply for their station in society, the
king especially, who would have been outshone at
first sight by the poorest noble of his court. He
wore a plain suit of black taffeta, crossed by the
broad riband of the garter, silk stockings of the
same colour, with satin roses in his shoes, and a
short mantle of black velvet. His sword was a
plain mourning rapier, with a hilt of jet; but the
deep falling collar round his neck was of the
finest Brussel's point, and the star on the left

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side of his cloak glittered with diamonds of the
purest water. His visiter, who, as he rose in dignity
and station, had discarded the slovenly and
coarse style of his garments, was attired handsomely
in a half uniform of marone coloured cloth,
faced with black velvet; a broad silk scarf of the
same hue was wound in many folds about his
waist, supporting his steel-hilted rapier. Military
boots, highly polished and equipped with silver
spurs, met his trunk hose, fashioned to match his
doublet, just below the knee; and a silk hatband,
with a silver clasp, relieved his dark gray beaver.

“I give you good day, sir,” said Charles, in answer
to the low reverence of Cromwell; “we are
well pleased to see you, the rather that we owe
you thanks, for that, as we have learned, by your
warm intercession with the parliament, our children
have been yielded to our prayers.”

“Verily,” answered Cromwell, “verily, if it
please your highness, I hold this matter no just
cause for thanks; seeing that—as myself a father,
whom the Lord hath vouchsafed to bless with a
fair progeny—and as a Christian man, who, having
learned that we should do to others as we would
have it done to us, strives still to put in practice
that which he has learned—I have but done my
duty. Permit me to hope, rather, that it may be
my fortune, in the time to come, in such degree to
minister unto your majesty's advancement and
well-being, as may deserve not your thanks only,
but those of this distracted realm.”

“Nevertheless, we thank you, sir,” returned
Charles, with a smile seemingly sincere and natural,
“both for the good which you have done to
us already, and that which you profess your will to
do hereafter. We will speak more at length when
we shall be alone; and, in good time, here comes

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fair Mistress Drummond. Good Drummond”—he
addressed the lady who now entered—“we will,
if you be now at leisure, trespass so far upon your
time as pray you to bestow your care upon these
little ones. James,” he said, turning to the Duke
of York, “if Sir John Berkeley be at liberty to
wait on you, you have my license to ride forth;
but see you be not absent over-long. Farewell,
my little prattlers,” and he stooped down to kiss
the rosy lips of the young princess, laying his hand
softly on the sunny curls of Gloucester. “Drummond
will take ye to the gardens; and, in an hour
or two, ye may return to me. Farewell!—Who
waits without?” he added, in a louder voice, as the
lady left the chamber with the children.

“Feilding, your majesty,” replied the usher, a
cadet of the noble house of Denbigh.

“Feilding, we would be private. What pages
have ye there?”

“Mildmay and Henry Gage, so please you.”

“Send Mildmay to the head of the great stairs;
let Gage wait at the entrance of the painted gallery,
and you bestow yourself in the fourth window
hence. Suffer not any one to pass the stairs, nor
interrupt us upon any plea of pleasure or of business!
Business,” he added, now addressing Cromwell,
who had remained standing, hat in hand—
“we will to business, sir, for that, I trow, has gained
for me the pleasure of this visit. I pray you sit—
nearer the table, if it please you;” and, drawing
forth some papers from the cabinet before him, he
perused them rapidly, as if in search of some peculiar
passage.

“Has your grace found the leisure,” Cromwell
asked, “to overrun the schedule of conditions which
my son-in-law, Colonel Ireton, had the honour to
submit to your attention?”

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treat,” Cromwell replied. “I have—I do profess
it to your grace—I have laboured with my whole
soul and spirit, wrestling in your behalf and for
your friends' advantage; and, truly, I scruple not
to say it, I hold there is not one among the Presbyterian
faction that will consent to a firm peace
while there be any bishops in the land.”

“I do believe,” said Charles, “I do, indeed,
believe that you have stood my friend of late; and
I do thank you for it, and, well I hope, the time
shall come when I can compensate your good
deeds to the full.”

“Your majesty may say so, well,” Cromwell replied,
impressively; “I have stood forth somewhat
too boldly, so that I have—I grieve to say it, but,
verily, truth must be spoken always—so that I have
fallen into some suspicion even among my veteran
soldiery—so that they scoff, and point at me with
jeering fingers, and cry, `Lo! he, that puts his
trust in princes!' Also the adjutators of the regiments
have called into their counsel my son Ireton,
and wrathfully entreated him, enjoining it most
sternly on him that we shall hold no more communion
with your highness unless some terms be
settled, and that, too, right speedily.”

“Indeed,” answered the king, “I had hoped that
the army was disposed more loyally.”

“Of a truth,” Cromwell replied, “it was so;
greatly distrusting the rogue Presbyterians, and
striving often and sincerely with the Lord in spirit,
that it would please him to replace your majesty
in the dominion and upon the throne of your forefathers;
but, when you last gave audience to the
adjutators—surely it is a grievous thing to say—
but I profess to you, as the Lord liveth, it is true—
all their trust in your highness passed away; and
all the favour you had met with in their eyes, even

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as morning clouds when that the south wind chaseth
them. Yea! and their hearts were hardened, and
their countenances changed against you, and against
all they deemed your friends. Moreover, secretly
have I—ay, even I myself—been now advised, by
letters from tried friends and otherwise, that threats
are rife against me in the camp; how they would
lay wait privily, and dig a pit, and set a snare before
me, and take and smite me with the sword,
and slay me under the cloud of night. But, as I
live, they know me not who do suppose that any
fear of that which man can do to me shall turn
me from performing that which I have tasked my
spirit to accomplish. Truly these terms, which
now lie here before your majesty, with much of
danger and yet more of difficulty have I prevailed
upon the host to offer you. If that it seem good to
you to accept them, I pledge myself right gladly
that the parliament shall, ere long, consent likewise.
For, lo, the army is the mightier! But if—
which I trust will not be the case—you shall determine
to reject them, then do I wash my hands
of it. If by mine own self-sacrifice I could secure
your majesty's and England's quiet, then might I,
Decius-like, devote myself; but, truly, I esteem it
mere insanity to rush upon mine own destruction
when naught is to be gained proportionate.”

“If it be so, sir,” answered Charles, after a
brief pause of deliberation, “and these be the best
terms your friendly aid may gain for me, I will
be frank with you, and candidly accept them.
Rather would I take harder terms from the blunt
honesty of your stout soldiers, than chaffer for
conditions, as for vile merchandise, with the cold
cozening Presbyterians; and, for your own part,
trust me when I say, that, next to the Almighty,
with reverence be it spoken, I hold you the

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instrument that hath uplifted me from the abyss of sorrow,
and wrought for me deliverance and restoration!
And I assure you there shall be a time
when you will own me grateful.”

“This, then, is settled,” Cromwell replied; “I
may announce unto the host your majesty's unqualified
assent to these their propositions.”

“You are at liberty to do so,” returned Charles;
“for myself, from this hour, I hold me bound by
them.”

“Right joyful am I,” exclaimed Oliver; “all
thanks be to the Lord of Hosts—England shall
then have peace! Verily, ere ten days be passed,
your majesty shall sit in state at Westminster.”

“And my first deed, when there,” said Charles,
“in guerdon of your much esteemed and faithful
services, shall be to raise my well-beloved and
trusty Cromwell to the peerage, under the title,
now extinct, of Earl of Essex, and to grace him
with the garter of St. George, which never yet was
buckled round the knee of braver leader. The
parliament, I trow, will not object to honours thus
bestowed on their best general, nor to my commending
him to the command of England's armies!”

“Your majesty is gracious,” answered the independent,
in a tone half indignation and half irony;
“but, not to be made Prince of Wales, and heir to
England's crown, would I thus labour that you
should once more occupy the throne, did I not well
believe that England's peace demands it! It is
for England's laws and England's liberties—not
for my personal aggrandizement—not that I should
be known as lord, or earl, nor yet by any other
title, which is but earthly pomp and vanity before
the Lord—not that I should be the owner of
broad lands or the dispenser of preferments, wielding
the truncheon of the hosts of Britain—that I

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have done so much, and suffered; and, did I not
believe your majesty resolved henceforth to hold
the liberties and weal of all your subjects nearest
your heart, and the fear of the Lord alway before
your eyes, verily, withered be my arm and my
tongue palsied if I would strike one blow or sylable
one word to save you from perdition! But,
now this matter is so happily arranged, may it
please your grace excuse me. My duties call me
hence to Windsor, where I should be by noon!”

“Duty, sir, needs no license,” Charles replied,
smiling most graciously, and rising from his seat,
and even taking three steps toward the door, as the
blunt soldier moved to leave the presence; “and, till
we meet at Westminster, rest in the full assurance
of possessing your liege sovereign's gratitude and
favour. Ha!” he continued, as the door closed,
and he found himself alone, “deep as he is, I have
out-generalled him. Now he suspects not any thing.
Ha! ha! the garter! and the Earl of Essex—a
precious clown, in faith, to grace an earldom! But
now for Lauderdale and Hollis!—the dull fools—
we will out with them all, and yet reign, as our
father did before us, a king in something more
than name!”

But the enthusiast strode forth, the tesselated
floor of the proud gallery ringing beneath his massive
stride, exulting and triumphant; and, as he
passed the vestibule, where there were none to
mark his actions, he clasped both hands above his
head, and cried out in a voice husky and stifled
with emotion, “My country—oh my country—have
I then—have I won for thee peace, happiness, and
freedom?”

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