Tower guns thunder forth salutes, and countless
musquetoons and escopettes go on private
account, and all in honour of this brave birthday
— the birthday of Charles Stewart, King
of England, the king who is come to his own
again, and is making his triumphal entry into
his restored kingdom on the thirtieth
anniversary of his birth! Here come the London
train-bands, with silver trumpets and flaunting
banners. They have quite forgotten all about
ship-money, and the five members, and Mr.
Prynne's ears. Hark how the mob shout
"Long live the King!" See how the soldiers
wave their pikes;— these are Monk's
Coldstreams, my dear. These loyal hearts in buff
jerkins and headpieces belong to the same
armed bands that "clapped their bloody
hands" when another Charles Stewart, also
King of England, came out of a certain
window in the banqueting house close by,
twelve years agone. Mr. Marvel, the member
for Hull, who writ that piece on the death of
Charles I., is sitting at a window in the house
of a friend of his, a bowyer, in Charing Cross.
He sees the armed bands and hears the
shouts of the loyal mob, and thinks of the
time they shouted "To your tents, O Israel!"
and smiles melancholily. Now come the
heralds and pursuivants (the last time they
had new tabards was at Oliver's funeral);
now come the peers in their robes— many of
them have left little scores unpaid in the
Low Countries, my dear, and what is left of
their broad acres they carry in the skirts of
their velvet robes, and the remnant of their
plate in the gold of their coronets, and their
rents and fines for renewal of leases in their
embroidered garters and jewelled Georges.
Here comes the Deliverer, the Restorer of
Monarchy, the great Duke of Albemarle; he
in his flowing periwig and silver armour and
blue ribbon, and steed with embroidered
housings, cannot be any relative or connection
of that stern General Monk with dull corslet,
plain bands, high boots of buff leather and
steeple hat, who was one of Oliver's men, and
was so fierce against monarchy only five
weeks since. Here comes the Lord Mayor,
ready to entertain the King, Heaven bless
him! with as gorgeous a banquet and as
generous wine as he was wont to entertain
his Highness the Lord Protector, Heaven
bless him (in the past tense). Here come the
barons of the Cinque Ports, bearing the royal
canopy; and here comes the hero of the
birthday, here comes the KING! his royal
brothers of York and Gloucester on either
side, his swarthy face glowing with pleasure;
royal witticisms flowing fast from the royal
lips; the royal grace and affability and
majesty visible in every flexure of his
nervous form, in every curvet of his admirably
managed charger. The bells ring, the cannons
roar, the people shout louder than ever.
Flowers are strewn in his path; women weep
and laugh wildly, and wave their kerchiefs;
the conduits run wine, the taverns overflow
with customers; whole oxen are roasted in
open places; at night there is a bonfire at
the corner of every street; and decorous
Master Samuel Pepys, returning homewards,
is seized upon by madcap cavaliers, and made
to drink the King's health on his knees.
Hurrah! let us all throw our caps into the
air and shout for this glorious birthday!
Pull Oliver's bones from their grave, and
hang dead Bradshaw up on Tyburn gibbet,
with the red robe he wore at that awful high
Court of Justice about him. Set up the
Maypoles again; open all the theatres; bring
Doctor Lawnsleeves back again to his rectory,
and send Obadiah Cropears packing to Geneva.
Fat pig nor goose no more oppose, nor
"blaspheme custard through the nose." The King
enjoys his own again; this is his birthday,
and each succeeding birthday shall be more
glorious than the other!

I wonder if any decent section of those
loyal thousands had had the least idea of
what the yearly succeeding birthdays of this
well-beloved, long-desired Charles Stewart
would bring about, whether they would have
shouted quite so loud or quite so loyally.
There were many birthdays in store for the
restored King yet. At some he touched right
royally for the evil, and hung the angel gold
about the necks of the sick with his accustomed
grace; at one he may have tasted his
first pine-apple, and at one cracked that
famous joke when he saw the thief pick his
courtier's pocket. At all his birthdays,
doubtless there were great feasts and
merrymakings and junketings; great presentations
of rich gifts; great assemblies of courtiers
playing basset, and French boys singing love
songs in that "glorious gallery;" court plays
in which saintly Miss Blagg, vivacious Miss
Stewart, and witty Grammont, and worthless
Legion, acted; but as each birthday came
round it was to a King becoming more profligate,
more heartless, more lavish of his
subjects' money, more neglectful of his own
and their honour, more detestable, despicable
and scandalous as a man and a monarch.
His last two birthday suits were dyed with
the blood of Russell and Sidney, and his last
shame was to be as cruel as Amurath. And
having outlived his subjects' love and his own
honour, he died a poor worn-out, reprobate
pensioner. This was the merry monarch,
my dear; and we admire his goodness of
heart, his charming affability, and his great
jocoseness even unto the present day.

This day is published, for greater convenience, and
cheapness of binding,
THE FIRST TEN VOLUMES
OF
HOUSEHOLD WORDS,
IN FIVE HANDSOME VOLUMES,
WITH A GENERAL INDEX TO THE WHOLE.
Price of the Set, thus bound in Five Double instead of Ten
Single Volumes, £2 10s. 0d. The General Index can be
had separately, price 3d.