preservation when the languishing patient requires their
assistance." Indeed, there were some who placed boundless faith
in the king's power of healing by touch; amongst whom was one
Avis Evans, whom Aubrey, in his "Miscellanies," records "had a
fungus nose, and said it was revealed to him that the king's hand
would cure him. And at the first coming of King Charles II. into
St. James's Park, he kissed the king's hand, and rubbed his nose
with it, which disturbed the king, but cured him."

The universal joy which filled the nation at the restoration of
his majesty was accompanied, as might be expected, by bitter
hatred towards the leaders of Republicanism, especially towards
such as had condemned the late king to death. The chief objects
of popular horror now, however, lay in their graves; but the
sanctity of death was neither permitted to save their memories
from vituperation nor their remains from moltestation.
Accordingly, through many days in June the effigy of Cromwell,
which had been crowned with a royal diadem, draped with a purple
mantle, in Somerset House, and afterwards borne with all
imaginable pomp to Westminster Abbey, was now exposed at one of
the windows at Whitehall with a rope fixed round its neck, by way
of hinting at the death which the original deserved. But this
mark of execration was not sufficient to satisfy the public mind,
and seven months later, on the 30th of January, 1661, the
anniversary of the murder of Charles I., the bodies of Oliver
Cromwell, Henry Ireton, and John Bradshaw were taken from their
resting places in Westminster Abbey, and drawn on hurdles to
Tyburn, the well-known site of public executions. "All the way
the universal outcry and curses of the people went along with
them," says MERCURIUS PUBLICUS. "When these three carcasses