folly of this short prayer, even for Jesus Christ’s sake; and give us a good night, if it be Thy pleasure.”  Wednesday, Sept. 1, passes unmarked, unless it may be for the delivery to the Lady Protectress, in her watch over Cromwell, of a letter, dated that day, and addressed to her and her children, from the Quaker Edward Burrough.  It was long and wordy, but substantially an assurance that the Lord had sent this affliction upon the Protector’s house on account of the unjust sufferings of the Quakers.  “Will not their sufferings lie upon you?  For many hundreds have suffered cruel and great things, and some the loss of life (though not by, yet in the name of, the Protector); and about a hundred at this present day lie in holes, and dungeons, and prisons, up and down the nation.”  The letter, we may suppose, was not read to Cromwell, and the Wednesday went by.  On Thursday, Sept. 2, there was an unusually full Council-meeting close to his chamber, at which order was given for the removal of Lords Lauderdale and Sinclair from Windsor Castle to Warwick Castle, to make more room at Windsor for the Duke of Buckingham.  That night Harvey sat up with his Highness and again noted some of his sayings.  One was “Truly, God is good; indeed He is; He will not—­” He did not complete the sentence.  “His speech failed him,” says Harvey; “but, as I apprehended, it was ’He will not leave me.’  This saying, that God was good, he frequently used all along, and would speak it with much cheerfulness and fervour of spirit in the midst of his pain.  Again he said, ’I would be willing to live to be farther serviceable to God and His people; but my work is done.’  He was very restless most part of the night, speaking often to himself.  And, there being something to drink offered him, he was desired to take the same, and endeavour to sleep; unto which he answered, ’It is not my design to drink or to sleep, but my design is to make what haste I can to be gone.’  Afterwards, towards morning, using divers holy expressions, implying much inward consolation and peace, among the rest he spake some exceeding self-debasing words, annihilating and judging himself.”  This is the last.  The next day, Friday, was his twice victorious Third of September, the anniversary of Dunbar and Worcester.  That morning he was speechless; and, though the prayers in Whitehall, and in all London and the suburbs, did not cease for him, people in the houses and passers in the streets knew that hope was over and Oliver at the point of death.  For several days there had been cautious approaches to him on the subject of the nomination of his successor, and either on the stormy Monday or later that matter had been settled somehow.[1]