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Rh is often its least important! Death is ever around us, and yet we think not of it; its terrible presence is made manifest, and then forgotten. The most passing interests of life occupy more of our thoughts than its end.

But the Destroyer had now struck down the mightiest in England—one of the great ones, whose destiny is that of many—one of those daring spirits whose history includes that of thousands;—Cromwell was dead! The hand that held the bond of so many jarring interests lay powerless beneath the pall. The perils of war had been about him, and the midnight assassin had watched his path; yet he died quietly in his bed. No part of his fate seemed to fulfil the prophecy of what went before. Who could have believed it? was the motto of his whole life.

There was not a hearth in England where the death of Cromwell was not the sole discourse; and, resembling all other events, each drew that inference from its consequences that best pleased them. Royalist and Republican were equally fervent in their hope, and strong in their belief. Our part, however, lies only with those of our own narrative; and to express their feelings on the occasion, we must claim our privilege of changing the scene.