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coincidence, the night which had just ended had been very stormy-a violent tempest had caused many disasters both on land and sea; Cromwell had relapsed into a state of utter insensibility, from which he did not again recover. Between three and four o'clock in the afternoon, as he lay still unconscious, he heaved a deep sigh; the attendants drew near his bed; he had just expired.
Cromwell died in the plenitude of his power and greatness. He had succeeded beyond all expectation, far more than any other of those men has succeeded, who, by their genius, have raised themselves, as he had done, to supreme authority; for he had attempted and accomplished, with equal success, the most opposite designs. During eighteen years that he had been an ever-victorious actor on the world's stage, he had alternately sown disorder and established order, effected and punished revolution, overthrown and restored government in his country. At every moment, under all circumstances, he had distinguished with admirable sagacity the dominant interests and passions of the time, so as to make them the instruments of his own rule,—careless whether he belied his antecedent conduct, so long as he triumphed in concert with the popular instinct, and explaining the inconsistencies of his conduct by the ascendant unity of his power. He is, perhaps, the only example which history affords of one man having governed the most opposite events, and proved sufficient for the most various destinies. And in the course of his violent and changeful career, incessantly exposed to all kinds of enemies and conspiracies, Cromwell experienced this crowning favour of fortune, that his life was never actually attacked; the sovereign against whom Killing had been declared to be No Murder, never found himself face to face with an assassin. The world has never known another example of success at once so constant and so various, or of fortune so invariably favourable, in the midst of such manifold conflicts and perils.
Yet Cromwell's death-bed was clouded with gloom. He was unwilling not only to die, but also, and most of all, to die without having attained his real and final object. However great his egotism may have been, his soul was too great to rest satisfied with the highest fortune, if it were merely personal, and like himself, of ephemeral earthly duration. Weary of the ruin he had caused, it was his cherished wish to restore to his country a regular and stable government-the only government which was suited to its wants, a monarchy under the control of Parliament. And at the same time, with an ambition which extended beyond the grave, under the influence of that thirst for permanence which is the stamp of true greatness, he aspired to leave his name and race in possession of the throne. He failed in both designs: his crimes had raised up obstacles against him, which neither his prudent genius nor his persevering will could surmount; and though covered, as far as he was himself concerned, with power and glory, he died with his dearest hopes frustrated, and leaving behind him, as his successors, the two enemies whom he had so ardently combated-anarchy and the Stuarts.
God does not grant to those great men, who have laid the foundations of their greatness amidst disorder and revolution, the power of regulating at their pleasure, and for succeeding ages, the government of nations.
(By permission of Richard Bentley, Esq.)
A FAIRY TALE, TOLD TO MY DAUGHTER ON NEW YEAR'S NIGHT.
And those boys with noble heads
Fruits from Fortune's garden wall,
Of her freaks.
Many lips, I see, have smiled
But my daughter does not laugh ;
Well she knows, I mean to say,
But has also understood,
And would have me tell a tale,
Ev'ry wicked fairy pow'r
That would give us weed for flow'rIn the spirit of the hour,
Let me try.
I would have you, Miss, to know,
In the funniest of "figs,"
When each gentleman or lord,