Now and then I would open one or other of his Books, and, if I chanced upon Anything I understood and that interested me, would stand reading on and on, till I was startled by hearing my Father call for me. At length, he knew where to look for me; and took to laughing at me for taking such a Turn for Study; but one Day he fell to reading one of Master Blower’s Books himself, and liked it so well, that, we being but quiet Companions for one another, now there was so little to say, we spent many an Hour, sitting over-against each other, each with our Book.
One Day, as I sat sewing in the Parlour, and my Father was cutting a Man’s Hair, I heard his Customer say, “My Lord Protector’s very ill, and like to die.”
“Don’t believe it,” said my Father; “he’ll never die in his Bed.” Which, for once, was a Presage that did not come true.
“Well, he seems to think so too,” said the other; “at all Events he’s having Thanks put up for his Recovery, while yet he’s as bad as can be; which looks premature.”
“That’s the Faith of Assurance, I call it,” said my Father dryly. “Well, now, what may be the Matter with his Grace?—a Pain in his Heart, or his Head, or what?”
“A tertian Fever, they say,” returned his Companion; “you know his favourite Daughter died scarce a Month back, and, in her last Moments, she told him many a Thing that no one had had Courage to tell him before, and expostulated with him on his Ways, and charged him with slaying the Lord’s Anointed; which, ’tis thought, he took so much to Heart as that his troubled Mind invited if it did not occasion this Illness.”
“Well,” said my Father, “I’d rather be the dead King than the dying Protector. What has become now of all his Trust in the Lord, and inward Assurance? Does the Grandeur he has earned with so much Guilt, smooth his sick Pillow? Is the death he so boldly confronted on the Battlefield quite so easy to face, now he lies quiet and watchful all Night, with his Silk Curtains drawn about him? Does he feel as secure of being one of the Elect, unable to fall into final Reprobation, as when he was fighting his Way up to a dead Man’s Chair? Ah, Sir, we may ask one another these Questions, but our own Hearts must give their only Answer.”
In Fact, Oliver Cromwell presently breathed his last, amidst a Tempest of Wind and Rain, that seemed a Type of his own tempestuous Character. And in his Place was set up one that did not fill it: his quiet and peaceable Son, Richard, who had gone on his Knees to his Father to pray that the King’s Head might not be cut off. He was gentle, generous, and humane; but those were no Recommendations in the Eyes of the Army or Parliament, so he was presently set aside. Whereon ensued such Squabblings and Heart-burnings, I was glad I was not a Man.
One Day, Mark came in, all flushed and eager, looking like his old self; and “Uncle!” says he, “there’s a brave Time coming again for Hairdressers! It’s my Fancy, Wigs will presently be in, (for Cavalier Curls won’t grow in a Night!) and then you’ll have a Market for that Lot of Hair that you and I put so carefully aside.”
“How so, Mark?” says my Father.