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brought to him. I saw him receive them with his ordinary serenity; but I staid not till he dismissed them. I left him for about three hours, and came to him at eight o'clock. He supped very cheerfully, artd, after supper, fell into a long and pleasant discourse of his two daughters, and of several other things. He desired me to pray, both before supper and at his parting with my Lady. He talked of several passages concerning dying men with that freedom in his spirit, that made us all stare one upon another. And when a note was sent to my Lady of a new project for his preservation, he did so treat it in ridicule, that I was amazed; and I wondered much that, when he saw us that were about him not able to contain our griefs, he, who was so tender himself, was not by that more softened.

At ten o'clock my Lady left him. He kissed her four or five times; and she kept her sorrow so within herself, that she gave him no disturbance by their parting. After she was gone, he said, "Now the bitterness of death is past," and ran out into a long discourse concerning her — how great a blessing she had been to him; and said, what a misery it would have been to him, if she had not had that magnanimity of spirit. joined to her tenderness, as never to have desired him to do a base thing for the saving of his life:


whereas, otherwise, what a week should I have passed, if she had been crying on me to turn informer, and be a Lord Howard! Though he then repeated, what he had often before said, that he knew of nothing whereby the peace of the nation was in danger; and that all that ever was, was either loose discourse, or, at most, embryos, that never came to any thing; so that there was nothing on foot, to his knowledge. But he left that discourse, and returned to speak of my Lady. He said there was a signal providence of God in giving him such a wife, where there was birth, fortune, great understanding, great religion, and great kindness to him; but her carriage in his extremity was beyond all. He said, he was glad that she and his children were to lose nothing by his death; and it was great comfort to him, that he left his children in such a mother's hands; and that she had promised to him to take care of herself for their sakes: which I heard her do. Then he left this discourse, and talked of his change; how great a change death made, and how wonderful those new scenes would strike on a soul. He had heard how some that had been born blind were struck, when, by the couching of their cataracts, they saw; but what, said he, if the first thing one saw were the sun rising?

About twelve he undressed himself, and was locked in, having given order to call him at four; so at four, we called him, and he was fast asleep. He dressed himself as ,he used to do; neither with more nor less care; only he would not lose time to be shaved. He was in the same temper he had always been in, and thanked God he felt no sort of fear, nor hurry in his thoughts. , We prayed together, with some intervals, five or six times; and, between hands, he often went into his chamber, and prayed by himself. Once he came out with more than ordinary joy, and said he, had been much inspired in his last prayer, and wished he could have writ it down, and sent it to his wife. The Dean came, and prayed, and spake also with him. We both looked at one another, amazed at the temper he was in. He gave me several commissions.to his relations; but none more earnest than to one of them, against all revenges for what had been done to him. He told me he was to give me his watch, and wound it up, and said, " I have done with time; now eternity comes." The ring, in which the ribband goes, broke in his hand, which he thought a little strange. He once was giving me his watch in the prison, but he thought it would be more decent to do it on the scaffold. He also called a story to mind, which might perhaps come to be talked of, in which another was concerned, and though his part was worthy

and truely religious, there is a very good reason why it should not be spoken of; so he charged me never to speak of it, unless I heard it talked of, and then he left me to my discretion. I confess, when he began with a charge of secrecy, I thought it was something relating to the public; and I told him, I could not promise it. But it was wholly of another nature.

He continued in this temper till the last: he called for tea, and drank two dishes; and about half an hour before he expected to be called on, he drank a glass of sherry, and ate a mouthful of bread. He asked the Dean how Sir Richard Corbet (who he heard was sick) did, and when he saw Colonel Titus, and desired to be remembered to him; and was asking if they were taking up any more, just as Captain Richardson told him the sheriffs were come. So he withdrew for half a quarter of an hour, and then came out, with no alteration in his looks.

As he came down, my Lord Cavendish was below, and he took leave of him; but when he left him, he remembered of somewhat of great importance, and went back to him, and spake to him with great earnestness. He told me what it was in general, and wished me to second it. He went out to his coach with his ordinary cheerfulness, and wondered to see so great a crowd.

As we were going, he looked about him still, and knew several persons. Some he saw staring on him, who knew him, and did not put off their hats. He said there was great joy in some; but that did not touch him so much as the tears he observed in other people's eyes; for that, he said, made him tender. I observed he was singing often within himself, but could not hear the words. I asked him what he sang. He said it was the beginning of the 119th paslm; but he should sing better very soon. And observing the crowd, he said, he should soon see a greater and better company. As we came by WarwickHouse, observing all shut up there, he asked if my Lord Clare was out of town. I told him he could not think any windows would be open there upon this occasion.

As we came to turn into Little Queen-Street, he said, I have often turned to the other hand with great comfort, but now I turn to this with greater, and looked towards his own house; and then, as the Dean of Canterbury, who sat over against him, told me, he saw a tear or two fall from him.

When he came into the field, he wondered to see such a crowd. I remember it rained as we were on the way; and he said to us, this rain may do you hurt that are bare-headed. And the night before, at simper, when he heard it rain heavily,

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