MY DEAR ALICE,—I cannot but rejoice, that after finding, as we believed, all hope for Charles Stuart at an end—your visit to Cromwell having been unsuccessful—I removed you to a distance, until the tragical scene should, as we thought, be ended. The tumult and noise which fill the city, together with the consciousness of the cause creating it, would have been too much for your nerves, unstrung as they have been of late, by the feeling you have expended for the unhappy king. There is yet, though—I delight to say, and you will delight to hear—a single hope remaining for him, even while the bells now ring for his execution. Lord Fairfax, who though, like myself, friendly to his deposition, still shudders at the thoughts of shedding his blood, will, with his own regiment, make an attempt to rescue him from the scaffold. There is, in fact, scarce any reason to doubt the success of this measure; and this evening, Alice, we will rejoice together that the only cloud to dim the first blissful days of our union has been removed—as I shall rejoin you at as early an hour as the distance will permit. I write this hastily, and send it by a speedy messenger, in order to relieve, by its agreeable tidings, the sorrowful state of mind in which I left you a few hours since. I am, my own Alice, your most affectionate husband, WILLIAM HEATH. The street before Whitehall was the place prepared for the execution. This arrangement had been made in order to render the triumph of popular justice over royal power more conspicuous, by beheading the king in sight of his own palace. All the surrounding windows and galleries were filled with spectators, and the vast crowd below were kept back by soldiery encircling the scaffold. Charles mounted it with a steady step, and the same dignified resolution of mien which he had all along so admirably maintained. Uncovering his head, he looked composedly around him, and said, in a clear, unfaltering voice, though only sufficiently loud to be heard by those near him, owing to the buzz of the crowd,