and lawn. It is proclaimed that
General Monk, the representative of the army, soon to be Duke of
Albemarle, has gone from St. Albans to Dover,

To welcome home again discarded faith.

The strong are as tow, and the maker as a spark. From the house of every
citizen, lately vocal with the praises of the Protector, issues a subject
ready to welcome his king with the most enthusiastic loyalty.

Royal proclamations follow each other in rapid succession: at length the
eventful day has come--the 29th of May, 1660. All the bells of London are
ringing their merriest chimes; the streets are thronged with citizens in
holiday attire; the guilds of work and trade are out in their uniforms;
the army, late the organ of Cromwell, is drawn up on Black Heath, and is
cracking its myriad throat with cheers. In the words of Master Roger
Wildrake, "There were bonfires flaming, music playing, rumps roasting,
healths drinking; London in a blaze of light from the Strand to
Rotherhithe." At length the sound of herald trumpets is heard; the king is
coming; a cry bursts forth which the London echoes have almost forgotten:
"God save the king! The king enjoys his own again!"

It seems to the dispassionate reader almost incredible that the English
people, who shed his father's blood, who rallied round the Parliament, and
were fulsome in their praises of the Protector, should thus suddenly
change; but, allowing for "the madness of the people," we look for
strength and consistency to the men of learning and letters. We feel sure
that he who sang his eulogy of Cromwell dead, can have now no lyric burst
for the returning Stuart. We are disappointed.

DRYDEN'S TRIBUTE.--The first poetic garland thrown at the feet of the
restored king was Dryden's _Astraea Redux_, a poem on _The happy
restoration of his sacred majesty Charles II._ To give it classic force,
he quotes from the Pollio as a text.

Jam redit et virgo, redeunt saturnia regna;

thus hailing the saturnian times of James I. and Charles I. A few lines of
the poem complete the curious contrast:

While our cross stars deny us Charles his bed,
Whom our first flames and virgin love did wed,
For his long absence church and state did groan;
Madness the pulpit, faction seized the throne.

* * * * *

How great were then our Charles his woes, who thus
Was forced to suffer for himself and us.

* * *