PART I.

TO THE BEGINNING OF THE CIVIL WAR.

1636-1642.

LETTER I.

SAINT Ives, a small Town of perhaps fifteen hundred souls, stands on the left or Northeastern bank of the River Ouse, in flat grassy country, and is still noted as a Cattle-market in those parts. Its chief historical fame is likely to rest on the following one remaining Letter of Cromwell's, written there on the 11th of January 1635-6.

The little Town, of somewhat dingy aspect, and very quiescent except on market-days, runs from Northwest to Southeast, parallel to the shore of the Ouse, a short furlong in length: it probably, in Cromwell's time, consisted mainly of a row of houses fronting the River; the now opposite row, which has its back to the River, and still is shorter than the other, still defective at the upper end, was probably built since. In that case, the locality we hear of as the 'Green' of Saint Ives would then be the space which is now covered mainly with cattle-pens for market-business, and forms the middle of the street. A narrow steep old Bridge, probably the same which Cromwell travelled, leads you over, westward, towards Godmanchester, where you again cross the Ouse, and get into Huntingdon. Eastward out of Saint Ives, your route is towards Earith, Ely and the heart of the Fens.

At the upper or Northwestern extremity of the place stands the Church; Cromwell's old fields being at the opposite extremity. The Church from its Churchyard looks down into the very River, which is fenced from it by a brick wall. The Ouse flows here, you cannot without study tell in which direction, fringed with gross reedy herbage and bushes; and is of the blackness of Acheron, streaked with foul metallic glitterings and plays of colour. For a short space downwards here, the banks of it are fully visible; the western row of houses being somewhat the shorter, as already hinted: instead of houses here, you have a rough wooden balustrade, and the black Acheron of an Ouse River used as a washing-place or watering-place for cattle. The old Church, suitable for such a population, stands yet as it did in Cromwell's time, except perhaps the steeple and pews; the flagstones in the interior are worn deep with the pacing of many generations. The steeple is visible from several miles distance; a sharp high spire, piercing far up from amid the willow-trees. The country hereabouts has all a clammy look, clayey and boggy; the produce of it, whether bushes and trees, or grass and crops, gives you the notion of something lazy, dropsical, gross.-This is Saint Ives, a most ancient Cattle-market by the shores of the sable Ouse, on the edge of the Fen-country; where, among other things that happened, Oliver Cromwell passed five years of his existence as a Farmer and Grazier. Who the primitive Ives himself was, remains problematic; Camden says he was 'Ivo a Persian;'-surely far out of his road here! From him however, Phantasm as he is (being indeed Nothing,-except an ancient 'stone-coffin,' with bones, and tatters of 'bright cloth' in it, accidentally ploughed up in this spot, and acted on by opaque human wonder, miraculous 'dreams,' and the 'Abbot of Ramsey'),¹ Church and Village indisputably took rise and name; about the Year 1000 or later;-and have stood ever since; being founded on Cattle-dealing and the firm Earth withal. Ives or Yves, the worthy Frenchman, Bishop of Chartres in the time of our Henry Beauclerk; neither he nor the other French Yves, Patron Saint of Attorneys, have anything to do with this locality; but miraculous 'Ivo the Persian Bishop' and that anonymous stone-coffin alone.-

Oliver, as we observed, has left hardly any memorial of himself at Saint Ives. The ground he farmed is still partly capable of being specified, certain records or leases being still in existence. It lies at the lower or Southeast end of the Town; a stagnant flat tract of land, extending between the houses or rather kitchen-gardens of Saint Ives in that quarter, and the banks of the River, which, very tortuous always, has made a new bend here. If well drained, this land looks as if it would produce abundant grass, but naturally it must be little other than a bog. Tall bushy ranges of willow-trees and the like, at present, divide it into fields; the River, not visible till you are close on it, bounding them all to the South. At the top of the fields next to the Town is an ancient massive Barn, still used as such; the people call it 'Cromwell's Barn:'-and nobody

can prove that it was not his! It was evidently some ancient man's or series of ancient men's.

Quitting Saint Ives Fen-ward or Eastward, the last house of all, which stands on your right hand among gardens, seemingly the best house in the place, and called Slepe Hall, is confidently pointed out as 'Oliver's House.' It is indisputably Slepe-Hall House, and Oliver's Farm was rented from the estate of Slepe Hall. It is-at present used for a Boarding-school: the worthy inhabitants believe it to be Oliver's; and even point out his 'Chapel' or secret Puritan Sermon-room in the lower story of the house: no Sermon-room, as you may well discern, but to appearance some sort of scullery or wash-house or bake-house. "It was here he used to preach," say they. Courtesy forbids you to answer, "Never!" But in fact there is no likelihood that this was Oliver's House at all: in its present state it does not seem to be a century old;¹ and originally, as is like, it must have served as residence to the Proprietors of Slepe-Hall estate, not to the Farmer of a part thereof. Tradition makes a sad blur of Oliver's memory in his native country! We know, and shall know, only this, for certain here, That Oliver farmed part or whole of these Slepe-Hall Lands, over which the human feet can still walk with assurance; past which the River Ouse still slumberously rolls, towards Earith Bulwark and the Fen-country. Here of a certainty Oliver did walk and look about him habitually, during those five years from 1631 to 1636; a man studious of many temporal and many eternal things. His cattle grazed here, his ploughs tilled here, the heavenly skies and infernal abysses overarched and underarched him here.

In fact there is, as it were, nothing whatever that still decisively to every eye attests his existence at Saint Ives, except the following old Letter, accidentally preserved among the Harley Manuscripts in the British Museum. Noble, writing in 1787, says the old branding-irons, 'O. C.,' for marking sheep, were still used by some Farmer there; but these also, many years ago, are gone. In the Parish-records of Saint Ives, Oliver appears twice among some other ten or twelve respectable ratepayers; appointing, in 1633 and 1634, for 'Saint Ives cum Slepa' fit annual overseers for the 'Highway and Green:'-one of the Oliver Signatures is now cut out. Fifty years ago, a vague old Parish-clerk had heard from very vague old persons, that Mister Cromwell had been seen attending divine service in the Church with 'a piece of red flannel round his neck, being subject to inflammation.² Certain letters 'written in a very kind

¹ Noble, i. 102, 106.
² See Noble: his confused gleanings and speculations concerning Saint Ives are to be found, i. 105-6, and again, i. 258-61.

style from Oliver Lord Protector to persons in Saint Ives,' do not now exist; probably never did. Swords 'bearing the initials of O. C.,' swords sent down in the beginning of 1642, when War was now imminent, and weapons were yet scarce,-do any such still exist? Noble says they were numerous in 1787; but nobody is bound to believe him. Walker¹ testifies that the Vicar of Saint Ives, Reverend Henry Downhall, was ejected with his curate in 1642; an act which Cromwell could have hindered, had he been willing to testify that they were fit clergymen. Alas, had he been able! He attended them in red flannel, but had not exceedingly rejoiced in them, it would seem.-There is, in short, nothing that renders Cromwell's existence completely visible to us, even through the smallest chink, but this Letter alone, which, copied from the Museum Manuscripts, worthy Mister Harris² has printed for all people. We slightly rectify the spelling, and reprint.

To my very loving friend Mister Storie, at the Sign of the Dog in the Royal Exchange, London: Deliver these.

MISTER STORIE,
Saint Ives, 11th January 1635.

Amongst the catalogue of those good works which your fellow-citizens and our countrymen have done, this will not be reckoned for the least, That they have provided for the feeding of souls. Building of hospitals provides for men's bodies; to build material temples is judged a work of piety; but they that procure spiritual food, they that build up spiritual temples, they are the men truly charitable, truly pious. Such a work as this was your erecting the Lecture in our Country; in the which you placed Doctor Wells, a man of goodness and industry, and ability to do good every way; not short of any I know in England: and I am persuaded that, sithence his coming, the Lord hath by him wrought much good among us.

It only remains now that He who first moved you to this, put you forward in the continuance thereof: it was the Lord; and therefore to Him lift we up our hearts that He would perfect

¹ Sufferings of the Clergy. See also Appendix, No. 1.
² Life of Cromwell: a blind farrago, published in 1761, 'after the manner of Mister Bayle,'-a very bad 'manner,' more especially when a Harris presides over it! Yet poor Harris's Book, his three Books (on Cromwell, Charles and James 1.) have worth: cartloads of Excerpts, carefully transcribed, and edited, in the way known to us, 'by shoving up the shafts.' The increasing interest of the subject brought even these to a second edition in 1814.

it. And surely, Mister Storie, it were a piteous thing to see a Lecture fall, in the hands of so many able and godly men, as I am persuaded the founders of this are; in these times, wherein we see they are suppressed, with too much haste and violence, by the enemies of God his Truth. Far be it that so much guilt should stick to your hands, who live in a City so renowned for the clear shining light of the Gospel. You know, Mister Storie, to withdraw the pay is to let fall the Lecture: for who goeth to warfare at his own cost? I beseech you therefore in the bowels of Jesus Christ, put it forward, and let the good man have his pay. The souls of God's children will bless you for it: and so shall I; and ever rest,

Your loving Friend in the Lord,
OLIVER CROMWELL.

Commend my hearty love to Mister Busse, Mister Beadly, and my other good friends. I would have written to Mister Busse; but I was loath to trouble him with a long letter, and I feared I should not receive an answer from him: from you I expect one so soon as conveniently you may. Vale.*

Such is Oliver's first extant Letter. The Royal Exchange has been twice burned since this piece of writing was left at the Sign of the Dog there. The Dog Tavern, Dog Landlord, frequenters of the Dog, and all their business and concernment there, and the hardest stone masonry they had, have vanished irrecoverable. Like a dream of the Night; like that transient Sign or Effigies of the Talbot Dog, plastered on wood with oil pigments, which invited men to liquor and house-room in those days! The personages of Oliver's Letter may well be unknown to us.

Of Mister Story, strangely enough, we have found one other notice: he is amongst the Trustees, pious and wealthy citizens of London for most part, to whom the sale of Bishops' Lands is, by act of Parliament, committed, with many instructions and conditions, on the 9th of October 1646.¹ 'James Story' is one of these; their chief

* Harris (London, 1814), page 12. This Letter, for which Harris, in 1761, thanks 'the Trustees of the British Museum,' is not now discoverable in that Establishment; 'a search of three hours through all the Catalogues, assisted by one of the Clerks,' reports itself to me as fruitless. - Does exist safe, nevertheless (Sloane Manuscripts no. 2035, folio 125, a venerable brown Autograph); and, in the new Catalogue,' will be better indicated. 'Busse' is by no means 'Bunse,' as some have conjectured. (Note to Third Edition.)

¹ Scobell's Acts and Ordinances (London, 1658), page 99.

is Alderman Fowke. From Oliver's expression, 'our Country,' it may be inferred or guessed that Story was of Huntingdonshire: a man who had gone up to London, and prospered in trade, and addicted himself to Puritanism;-much of him, it is like, will never be known! Of Busse and Beadly (unless Busse be a misprint for Bunse, Alderman Bunce, another of the above 'Trustees'), there remains no vestige.

Concerning the 'Lecture,' however, the reader will recal what was said above, of Lecturers, and of Laud's enmity to them; of the Feoffees who supported Lecturers, and of Laud's final suppression and ruin of those Feoffees in 1633. Mister Story's name is not mentioned in the List of the specific Feoffees; but it need not be doubted he was a contributor to their fund, and probably a leading man among the subscribers. By the light of this Letter we may dimly gather that they still continued to subscribe, and to forward Lectureships where possible, though now in a less ostentatious manner.

It appears there was a Lecture at Huntingdon: but his Grace of Lambeth, patiently assiduous in hunting down such objects, had managed to get that suppressed in 1633, or at least to get the King's consent for suppressing it. This in 1633. So that 'Mister Wells' could not, in 1636, as my imbecile friend supposes,² be 'the Lecturer in Huntingdon,' wherever else he might lecture. Besides Mister Wells is not in danger of suppression by Laud, but by want of cash! Where Mister Wells lectured, no mortal knows, or will ever know. Why not at Saint Ives on the market-days? Or he might be a 'Running Lecturer,' not tied to one locality: that is as likely a guess as any.

Whether the call of this Wells Lectureship and Oliver's Letter got due return from Mister Story we cannot now say; but judge that the Lectureship,-as Laud's star was rapidly on the ascendant, and Mister Story and the Feoffees had already lost 1,800 pounds by the work, and had a fine in the Starchamber still hanging over their heads,-did in fact come to the ground, and trouble no Archbishop or Market Cattle-dealer with God's Gospel any more. Mister Wells, like the others, vanishes from History, or nearly so. In the chaos of the King's Pamphlets one seems to discern dimly that he sailed for New England, and that he returned in better times. Dimly once, in 1641 or 1642, you catch a momentary glimpse of a 'Mister Wells' in such predicament, and hope it was this Wells,-preaching for a friend, 'in the afternoon,' in a Church in London.³

Reverend Mark Noble says, the above Letter is very curious,

¹ Wharton's Laud (London, 1695), page 527.

² Noble, volume i. 259.

³ Old Pamphlet: Title mislaid and forgotten.

1638.] LETTER II., ELY.

I find it is an Alehouse, with still some chance of standing.

It is by no means a sumptuous mansion; but may have conveniently held a man of three or four hundred a year, with his family, in those simple times.

Some quaint air of gentility still looks through its ragged dilapidation.

It is of two stories, more properly of one and a half; has many windows, irregular chimneys and gables.

Likely enough Oliver lived here; likely his Grandfather may have lived here, his Mother have been born here.

She was now again resident here.

The tomb of her first husband and child, Johannes Lynne and poor little Catharina Lynne, is in the Cathedral hard by.

' Such are the changes which fleeting Time procureth.'

The Second extant Letter of Cromwell's is dated Ely, October 1638.

It will be good to introduce, as briefly as possible, a few Historical Dates, to remind the reader what o'clock on the Great Horologe it is, while this small Letter is a-writing.

Last year in London there had been a very strange spectacle; and in three weeks after, another in Edinburgh, of still more significance in English History.

On the 30th of June 1637, in Old Palaceyard, three men, gentlemen of education, of good quality, a Barrister, a Physician and a Parish Clergyman of London were set on three Pillories; stood openly, as the scum of malefactors, for certain hours there; and then had their ears cut off, bare knives, hot branding-irons, and their cheeks stamped ' S.

L.,' Seditious Libeller; in the sight of a great crowd, ' silent' mainly, and looking ' pale.'² The men were our old friend William Prynne, poor Prynne, who had got into new trouble, and here lost his ears a second and final time, having had them ' sewed on again' before : William Prynne, Barrister; Doctor.

John Bastwick ; and the Reverend

Henry Burton, Minister of Friday-street Church.

Their sin was against Laud and his surplices at Allhallowtide, not against any other man or thing.

Prynne, speaking to the people, defied all Lambeth, with Rome at the back of it, to argue with him, William Prynne alone, that these practices were according to the Law of England; " and if I fail to prove it," said Prynne, " let them hang my body at the door of that Prison there," the Gate-house Prison.

' Whereat the people gave a great shout,' somewhat of an ominous one, I think.

Bastwick's wife, on the scaffold, received his ears in her lap, and kissed him.³ Prynne's ears the executioner ' rather sawed than cut.' " Cut me, tear me," cried Prynne; " I fear thee not; I fear the fire of Hell,

' In Appendix, No.

2, another Note of his.

( Third Edition.}

2 State Trials (Cobbett's, London, 1809),

iii.

746. I know the Saint Francis Hotel in Thirty-fifth street. It is a hotel for colored people, and it is on the north side of the street, the second building from State. It has a saloon on the first floor with a side entrance on the east side of the building and there are rooms upstairs for hotel purposes. There is a restaurant in the rear of the saloon. I went with Sergeant L. A. Tillotson to the Saint Francis Hotel on June 28th and we were trying to find a negro by the name of W. B. Johnson, and they told us that he was a waiter there, that his home was in Saint James, Missouri. I went to Saint James, Missouri, on this investigation, and learned that his father lived there, and they told me that their son, W. B., worked as a waiter; that he had worked for the Fred Harvey System, and on different dining cars, but had quit that work and had gone back to waiting on table; that he was working in a hotel as waiter in Chicago, on Thirty-fifth street, and that he used to have a room at Saint Francis Hotel, but they did not know where he was stopping then.

3 Towers

History

Formation and Early Years (1987-1989)

3 Towers were an English post-punk band formed in Salford, Greater Manchester, in 1987. The band consisted of Aidan Leach (vocals, guitar), Simon Croft (bass), and Mark Renn (drums). The trio met at a technical college and bonded over a shared affinity for the stark, atmospheric sounds of bands like Joy Division, The Chameleons, and The Sound. Their name was derived from the three imposing smokestacks of the then-disused Agecroft Power Station, a constant feature on their local skyline which they felt symbolized the city's industrial decay and melancholic beauty.

The band quickly developed a distinctive sound characterized by Leach's angular, reverb-laden guitar work, Croft's melodic and driving basslines, and Renn's precise, motorik-influenced drumming. They began rehearsing in a damp warehouse space in the Ordsall district, honing a set of songs that reflected the urban desolation and political tension of late-Thatcherite Britain. After building a small but devoted local following through intense live performances in Manchester's pubs and clubs, they caught the attention of local independent label Factory Records, though a deal never materialized. Instead, they signed with the smaller, more obscure 'Grey Sky Records' in late 1988.

Their debut release was the four-track Concrete EP in November 1988. The lead track, "Northern Haze," received several plays from influential BBC Radio 1 disc jockey John Peel, who praised the band's "honest, unvarnished dread." The EP sold modestly but earned them positive reviews in the weekly music press, with NME describing their sound as "the sound of rust and rain on a forgotten bank holiday."

The Long Shadow and Breakup (1990-1991)

Following a short tour supporting The Wedding Present, 3 Towers entered the studio in early 1990 to record their debut album. The sessions were reportedly fraught with tension, as the band struggled with limited studio time and creative differences. Leach pushed for a more polished, expansive sound, while Croft and Renn favoured retaining the raw energy of their live performances. The resulting album, The Long Shadow, was released in October 1990. It was a dark, introspective record that showcased the band's growing songwriting maturity but failed to capture the commercial momentum of the burgeoning Madchester scene that was dominating the city at the time.

Critically, the album was well-received. Melody Maker awarded it four out of five stars, calling it "a masterpiece of claustrophobic grace." However, with little promotional support from their struggling label, sales were poor. The commercial failure exacerbated internal frictions, particularly between Leach and Croft. After a final, acrimonious gig at the Boardwalk in Manchester in February 1991, during which Leach smashed his guitar on stage, the band abruptly split up.

Post-Breakup and Legacy

After the dissolution of 3 Towers, Aidan Leach attempted a brief solo career before retiring from the music industry altogether. Simon Croft and Mark Renn played together in several short-lived local bands but never achieved notable success. The band remained a cult obscurity for decades, their sole album a sought-after item for post-punk collectors.

In the 2010s, 3 Towers experienced a minor revival of interest as their music was rediscovered by a new generation of listeners online. The Long Shadow was officially reissued on vinyl and CD by a specialist reissue label in 2016, including the tracks from the Concrete EP as bonus material. Today, 3 Towers are remembered as a quintessential "lost band" of the late 1980s Manchester music scene-a talented group that captured a specific moment of bleak, atmospheric rock but were ultimately overshadowed by the shifting musical tides.

Band Members

• Aidan Leach - vocals, guitar
• Simon Croft - bass guitar
• Mark Renn - drums, percussion

Discography

not thee!" The June sun had shone hot on their faces. Burton, who had discoursed eloquent religion all the while, said, when they carried him, near fainting, into a house in King-street, "It is too hot to last."

Too hot indeed. For at Edinburgh, on Sunday the 23d of July following, Archbishop Laud having now, with great effort and much manipulation, got his Scotch Liturgy and Scotch Pretended-Bishops ready,¹ brought them fairly out to action,-and Jenny Geddes hurled her stool at their head. "Let us read the Collect of the Day," said the Pretended-Bishop from amid his tippets;- "De'il colic the wame of thee!" answered Jenny, hurling her stool at his head. "Thou foul thief, wilt thou say mass at my lug?"² I thought we had got done with the mass some time ago;-and here it is again! "A Pape, a Pape!" cried others: "Stane him!"³- In fact the service could not go on at all. This passed in Saint Giles's Kirk, Edinburgh, on Sunday 23d July 1637. Scotland had endured much in the bishop way for above thirty years bygone, and endeavoured to say nothing, bitterly feeling a great deal. But now, on small signal, the hour was come. All Edinburgh, all Scotland, and behind that all England and Ireland, rose into unappeasable commotion on the flight of this stool of Jenny's; and his Grace of Canterbury, and King Charles himself, and many others had lost their heads before there could be peace again. The Scotch People had sworn their Covenant, not without 'tears;' and were in these very days of October 1638, while Oliver is writing at Ely, busy with their whole might electing their General Assembly, to meet at Glasgow next month. I think the Tulchan Apparatus is likely to be somewhat sharply dealt with, the Cow having become awake to it! Great events are in the wind; out of Scotland vague news, of unappeasable commotion risen there.

In the end of that same year, too, there had risen all over England huge rumour concerning the Shipmoney Trial at London. On the 6th of November 1637, this important Process of Mister Hampden's began. Learned Mister Saint John, a dark tough man, of the toughness of leather, spake with irrefragable law-eloquence, law-logic, for three days running, on Mister Hampden's side; and learned Mister Holborn for three other days;-preserved yet by Rushworth in acres of typography, unreadable now to all mortals. For other learned gentlemen, tough as leather, spoke on the opposite side; and learned judges animadverted;-at endless length, amid the expectancy of men. With brief pauses, the Trial lasted for three weeks and three days. Mister Hampden became the most famous man in England,¹-by accident partly. The sentence was not delivered till April 1638; and then it went against Mister Hampden: judgment in Exchequer ran to this effect, 'Consideratum est 'per eosdem Barones quod prædictus Johannes Hampden de iisdem vi-'ginti solidis oneretur,' He must pay the Twenty shillings, 'et inde 'satisfaciat.'² No hope in Law-Courts, then; Petition of Right and Tallagio non concedendo have become an old song. If there be not hope in Jenny Geddes's stool and 'De'il colic the wame of thee,' we are in a bad way!-

During which great public Transactions, there had been in Cromwell's own Fen-country a work of immense local celebrity going on: the actual Drainage of the Fens, so long talked about; the construction, namely, of the great Bedford Level, to carry the Ouse River direct into the sea; holding it forcibly aloft in strong embankments, for twenty straight miles or so; not leaving it to meander and stagnate, and in the wet season drown the country, as heretofore. This grand work began, Dryasdust in his bewildered manner knows not when; but it 'went on rapidly,' and had ended in 1637.³ Or rather had appeared, and strongly endeavoured, to end in 1637; but was not yet by any means settled and ended; the whole Fen-region clamouring that it could not, and should not, end so. In which wide clamour, against injustice done in high places, Oliver Cromwell, as is well known, though otherwise a most private quiet man, saw good to interfere; to give the universal inarticulate clamour a voice, and gain a remedy for it. He

approved himself, as Sir Philip Warwick will testify,¹ a man that would set well at the mark,' that took sure aim, and had a stroke of some weight in him. We cannot herc afford room to disentangle that affair from the dark rubbish-abysses, old and new, in which it lics deep buried: suffice it to assure the reader that Oliver did by no means 'oppose' the Draining of the Fens, but was and had been, as his Father before him, highly favourable to it; that he opposed the King in Council wishing to do a public injustice in regard to the Draining of the Fens; and by a 'great meeting at Huntingdon,' and other good measures, contrived to put a stop to the same. At a time when, as Old Palaceyard might testify, that operation of going in the teeth of the royal will was somewhat more perilous than it would be now! This was in 1638, according to the good testimony of Warwick.² Cromwell acquired by it a great popularity in the Fen-country, acquired the name or nickname 'Lord of the Fens;' and what was much more valuable, had done the duty of a good citizen, whatever he might acquire by it. The disastrous public Events which soon followed put a stop to all farther operations in the Fens, for a good many years.

These clamours of local grievance near at hand, these rumours of universal grievance from the distance,-they were part of the Day's noises, they were sounding in Cromwell's mind, along with many others now silent, while the following Letter went off towards 'Sir William Masham's House called Otes in Essex,' in the year 1638.-Of Otes and the Mashams in Essex, there must likewise, in spite of our strait limits, be a word said. The Mashams were distant Cousins of Oliver's; this Sir William Masham, or Massam as he is often written, proved a conspicuous busy man in the Politics of his time; on the Puritan side;-rose into Oliver's Council of State at last. - The Mashams became Lords Masham in the next generation, and so continued for a while; one Lady Masham was a daughter of Philosopher Cudworth, and is still remembered as the friend of John Locke, whom she tended in his old days; who lies buried, as his monument still shows, at the Church of High Laver, in the neighbourhood of which Otes Mansion stood. High Laver, Essex, not far from Harlow Station on the Northeastern Railway. The Mashams are all extinct, and their Mansion is swept away as if it had not been. 'Some forty years 'ago,' says my kind informant, 'a wealthy Maltster of Bishop's 'Stortford became the proprietor by purchase; and pulled the 'Manorhouse down; leaving the outhouses as cottages to some

'poor people.' The name Otes, the tomb of Locke, and this un-destroyed and now indestructible fraction of Ragpaper alone preserve the memory of Mashamdom in this world. We modernise the spelling; let the reader, for it may be worth his while, endeavour to modernise the sentiment and subject matter.

There is only this farther to be premised, That Saint John, the celebrated Shipmoney Barrister, has married for his second wife a Cousin of Oliver Cromwell's, a Daughter of Uncle Henry's, whom we knew at Upwood long ago;¹ which Cousin, and perhaps her learned husband reposing from his arduous law-duties along with her, is now on a Summer or Autumn visit at Otes, and has lately seen Oliver there.

To my beloved Cousin Mrs. Saint John, at Sir William Masham his House called Otes, in Essex: Present these.

DEAR COUSIN,

Ely, 13th October 1638.

I thankfully acknowledge your love in your kind remembrance of me upon this opportunity. Alas, you do too highly prize my lines, and my company. I may be ashamed to own your expressions, considering how unprofitable I am, and the mean improvement of my talent.

Yet to honour my God by declaring what He hath done for my soul, in this I am confident, and I will be so. Truly, then, this I find: That He giveth springs in a dry barren wilderness where no water is. I live, you know where,-in Meshec, which they say signifies Prolonging; in Kedar, which signifies Blackness: yet the Lord forsaketh me not. Though He do prolong, yet He will I trust bring me to His tabernacle, to His resting-place. My soul is with the Congregation of the Firstborn, my body rests in hope; and if here I may honour my God either by doing or by suffering, I shall be most glad.

Truly no poor creature hath more cause to put himself forth in the cause of his God than I. I have had plentiful wages beforehand; and I am sure I shall never earn the least mite. The Lord accept me in His Son, and give me to walk in the light,-and give us to walk in the light, as He is the light! He it is that enlighteneth our blackness, our darkness. I dare not say, He hideth His face from me. He giveth me to see light in

1. Warwick's Memoirs (London, 1701), p. 250.
2. Ibid.: poor Noble blunders, as he is apt to do.
3. Antea, p. 20.

His light. One beam in a dark place hath exceeding much refreshment in it:-blessed be His Name for shining upon so dark a heart as mine! You know what my manner of life hath been. Oh, I lived in and loved darkness, and hated light; I was a chief, the chief of sinners. This is true: I hated godliness, yet God had mercy on me. O the riches of His mercy! Praise Him for me;-pray for me, that He who hath begun a good work would perfect it in the day of Christ.

Salute all my friends in that Family whereof you are yet a member. I am much bound unto them for their love. I bless the Lord for them; and that my Son, by their procurement, is so well. Let him have your prayers, your counsel; let me have them.

Salute your Husband and Sister from me:-He is not a man of his word! He promised to write about Mr. Wrath of Epping; but as yet I receive no letters: - put him in mind to do what with conveniency may be done for the poor Cousin I did solicit him about.

Once more farewell. The Lord be with you: so prayeth

There are two or perhaps three sons of Cromwell's at Felsted School by this time: a likely enough guess is, that he might have been taking Dick over to Felsted on that occasion when he came round by Otes, and gave such comfort by his speech to the pious Mashams, and to the young Cousin, now on a summer visit at Otes. What glimpses of long-gone summers; of long-gone human beings in fringed trouser-breeches, in starched ruff, in hood and fardingale;-alive, they, within their antiquarian costumes, living men and women; instructive, very interesting to one another! Mrs. Saint John came down to breakfast every morning in that summer visit of the year 1638, and Sir William said grave grace, and they spake polite devout things to one another; and they are vanished, they and their things and speeches,-all silent, like the echoes of the old nightingales that sang that season, like the blossoms of the old roses. O Death, O Time!-

For the soul's furniture of these brave people is grown not less unintelligible, antiquarian, than their spanish boots and lappet caps. Reverend Mark Noble, my reverend imbecile friend, discovers in this Letter evidence that Oliver was once a very dissolute man; that Carrion Heath spake truth in that Flagellum Balderdash of his. O my reverend imbecile friend, hadst thou thyself never any moral life, but only a sensitive and digestive? Thy soul never longed towards the serene heights, all hidden from thee; and thirsted as the hart in dry places wherein no waters be? It was never a sorrow for thee that the eternal pole-star had gone out, veiled itself in dark clouds; -a sorrow only that this or the other noble Patron forgot thee when a living fell vacant? I have known Christians, Moslems, Methodists,-and, alas, also reverend irreverent Apes by the Dead Sea!

O modern reader, dark as this Letter may seem, I will advise thee to make an attempt towards understanding it. There is in it a 'tradition of humanity' worth all the rest. Indisputable certificate that man once had a soul; that man once walked with God,-his little Life a sacred island girdled with Eternities and Godhoods. Was it not a time for heroes? Heroes were then possible. I say, thou shalt understand that Letter; thou also, looking out into a too brutish world, wilt then exclaim with Oliver Cromwell,-with Hebrew David, as old Mr. Rouse of Truro, and the Presbyterian populations, still sing him in the Northern Kirks:

'Woe's me that I in Meshec am
A sojourner so long,
Or that I in the tents do dwell
To Kedar that belong!

Yes, there is a tone in the soul of this Oliver that holds of the Perennial. With a noble sorrow, with a noble patience, he longs towards the mark of the prize of the high calling. He, I think, has chosen the better part. The world and its wild tumults,-if they will but let him alone! Yet he too will venture, will do and suffer for God's cause, if the call come. What man with better reason? He hath had plentiful wages beforehand; snatched out of darkness into marvellous light: he will never earn the least mite. Annihilation of self; Selbsttödtung, as Novalis calls it; casting yourself at the footstool of God's throne, "To live or to die for-ever; as Thou wilt, not as I will." Brother, hadst thou never, in any form, such moments in thy history? Thou knowest them not, even by credible rumour? Well, thy earthly path was peaceabler, I suppose. But the Highest was never in thee, the Highest will never come out of thee. Thou shalt at best abide by the stuff; as cherished housedog, guard the stuff, -perhaps with enormous gold-collars and provender: but the battle, and the hero death, and