offered to Cromwell his support. He had no adequate conceptions of the nature or the value of liberty, was no statesman, and was destitute of true dignity of character. Incapable of laying among the wrecks of the English constitution the foundations of a new creation of civil liberty, he took advantage of circumstances to make his own fortune, and gratify his passion for rank and place. He cared nothing for England, and therefore made no terms for his country, but only for himself. He held the Presbyterians in check, and, prodigal of perjuries to the last, he prevented the adoption of any treaty or binding compact between the returning monarch and the people.

Yet the want of such a compact could not restrain the determined desire of the people of England. All classes demanded the restoration of monarchy, as the only effectual guarantee of peace. The Presbyterians, like repentant sinners at the confessional, hoping to gain favor by an early and effectual union with the royalists, contented themselves with a vague belief that the martyrdoms of Dunbar would never be forgotten; misfortunes and the fate of Charles I. were taken as sureties that Charles II. had learned moderation in the school of exile and sorrow; and his return could have nothing humiliating for the English people, for it was the nation itself that recalled its sovereign. Every party that had opposed the dynasty of the Stuarts had failed in the attempt to give England a government; the constitutional royalists, the Presbyterians, the Independents, the Long Parliament, the army, had all in their turn been unsuccessful; the English, preserving a latent zeal for their ancient liberties, were at the time carried away with a passionate enthusiasm for their hereditary king. The Long Parliament is reassembled; the Presbyterians, expelled before the trial of Charles, resume their seats; and the parliament is dissolved, to be succeeded by a new assembly. The king's return is at hand. They who had been its tardiest advocates endeavor to throw oblivion on their hesitancy by the excess of loyalty; men vie with one another in eagerness for the restoration; none of them is disposed to gain the certain ill-will of the monarch by proposing conditions

which might not be seconded; they forget their country in their zeal for the king; they forget liberty in their eagerness to advance their fortunes; a vague proclamation on the part of Charles II., promising a general amnesty, fidelity to the Protestant religion, regard for tender consciences, and respect for the English laws, was the only pledge from the sovereign. And now, after twenty years of storms, the light of peace dawns in the horizon. All England was in ecstasy. Groups of men gathered round buckets of wine in the streets, and drank the king's health on their knees. The bells in every steeple rung merry peals; the bonfires round. London were so numerous and brilliant that the city seemed encircled with a halo; and under a clear sky, with a favoring wind, the path of the exiled monarch homewards to the kingdom of his fathers, was serene and unruffled. As he landed on the soil of England, he was received by infinite crowds with all imaginable love. The shout- May 25. ing and general joy were past imagination. On the journey from Dover to London, the hillocks all the way were covered with people; the trees were filled; and such was the prodigality of flowers from maidens, such the acclamations from throngs of men, the whole kingdom seemed gathered along the roadsides. The companies of the city welcomed the king with loud thanks to God for his presence; and he advanced to Whitehall through serried ranks of admiring citizens. All hearts were open; and, on the evening of his arrival in the capital of his kingdom, he employed the excitement of the time to debauch a beautiful woman of nineteen, the wife of one of his subjects.

1660.

The tall and swarthy grandson of Henry IV. of France was naturally possessed of a disposition which, had he preserved purity of morals, had made him one of the most amiable of men. It was his misfortune, in very early life, to have become thoroughly debauched in mind and heart; and adversity, usually the rugged nurse of virtue, made the selfish libertine but the more reckless in his profligacy. His neck bowed to the yoke of lewdness. He was attached to women, not from love, for he had no jealousy, and was regardless of infidelities; nor entirely from debauch, but

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from the pleasure of living near them, and sauntering in their company. His delight, such is the record of the royalist Evelyn, was in "concubines, and cattle of that sort;' and, from his entry into London to the last week of his life, he spent his time in toying with his mistresses and listening to love-songs. Attached to the faith of his mother, he had no purpose so seriously at heart as the restoration of the Catholic worship in England; but even this intention could not raise him above his natural languor. Did the English commons impeach Clarendon, Charles II. could think of nothing but how to get the Duchess of Richmond to court again. Was the Dutch war signalized by disasters, "the king did still follow his women as much as ever," and took more pains to reconcile the chambermaids of Lady Castlemaine, or make friends of the rival beauties of his court, than to save his kingdom. He was "governed by his lust, and the women, and the rogues about him."

The natural abilities of Charles II. were probably overrated. He was incapable of steady application. He read imperfectly and ill. When drunk, he was a good-natured, subservient fool. In the council of state, he played with his dog, never minding the business, or making a speech, memorable only for its silliness; and, if he visited the naval magazines, "his talk was equally idle and frothy."

The best trait in his character was his natural kindliness. Yet his benevolence was in part a weakness; his bounty was that of facility, and left him the tool of courtiers; and his placable temper, incapable of strong revenge, was equally incapable of affection. He so loved present tranquillity that he signed the death-warrants of innocent men rather than risk disquiet; but of himself he was merciful, and was reluctant to hang any but republicans. His love of placid enjoyments and of ease continued to the end. On the last morning of his life, he bade his attendants open the curtains of his bed and the windows of his bed-chamber, that he might once more see the sun. "For God's sake, send for a Catholic priest," said he, in the desire for absolution; but checked himself, lest he should expose the Duke of York to danger. He pardoned all his enemies, no doubt sincerely.

The queen sent to beg forgiveness for any offences. "Alas, poor woman, she beg my pardon!" he replied: "I beg hers with all my heart; take back to her that answer.' He expressed some regard for his brother, his children, his mistresses. "Do not leave poor Nelly Gwyn to starve," was almost his last commission.

On the favor of this lewd king of England depended the liberties of New England, where lewdness was held a crime and adultery punished by death on the gallows.

CHAPTER XII.

THE RESTORED DYNASTY AND ITS FIRST PARLIAMENT.

1660.

IN the midst of universal gladness in England, the triumph of the royalists was undisputed. The arms of the commonwealth, and the emblems of republicanism, were defaced and burnt with every expression of hatred and scorn. Of the democratic party, which Cromwell had subdued, the adherents sought obscurity among the crowd, while the leaders were obliged to hide themselves from the fever of popular anger. The melancholic inflexibility and the self-denying austerity of republicanism were out of vogue; levity and licentiousness came in fashion. Every combination that had opposed royalty had, in the eagerness of political strife, failed to establish a government on a permanent basis. England remembered that, under its monarchs, it had elected parliaments, enjoyed the trial by jury, and prospered in affluent tranquillity. Except in New England, royalty was alone in favor. The republic in England was fallen into extreme disgrace; the democratic revolution would have completely failed, except that, with all its faults, its wildness, and its extravagance, it set in motion the ideas of popular liberty which the experience of happier ages was to devise ways of introducing into the political life of the nation. We shall presently see that the hasty and immoderate loyalty of the moment doomed the country to an arduous struggle and the necessity of a new revolution.

The immediate effects of the restoration were saddened by embittered revenge. All the regicides that were seized would have perished, but for Charles II., whom good nature led at last to exclaim: "I am tired of hanging, except for new offences." All haste was, however, made to despatch