But a more remarkable person than Richard Cromwell was Cromwell’s niece, the granddaughter of the great Protector, Mrs. BENDISH, in whom it was said the very Protector himself lived again. Her husband was Thomas Bendish, Esq., a descendant of Sir Thomas Bendish, Baronet, ambassador from Charles I. to the Court of Turkey. He died in 1707, but she survived him till 1728, removing, however, in the latter years of her life, to Yarmouth. She was a piece of astonishing eccentricity. She had a great admiration for Owen as a theologian and Watts as a poet; and very early in his life Watts addressed to her his poem against tears. She was a member of his church. Her admiration for her grandfather was extraordinary, and no one was permitted in her presence to express a doubt concerning his legitimate sovereignty or essential greatness. What she might have been as a man is beyond all power to speculate; as a woman she certainly inherited much of her grandfather’s dreamy, musing, moody, and ruggedly imperative character. Her character and her connections both alike commanded for her great respect, but she was an oddity. She was fond of night walks, even on lonely roads. She would not suffer a servant to attend her, saying God was a sufficient guard, and she would have no other. Visiting at the houses of friends, she would usually set off at about one in the morning in her chaise, or on horseback, chanting as she went one of Watts’ hymns in a key, it is said, more loud than sweet. There are pictures of her, word paintings, which bring her before our eyes in the oddest light. Capable of comporting herself with dignity in the best society, she disdained no menial employment, and very cheerfully turned her hand to the pitch-fork or the spade among her labourers and workmen, working herself with a right ready and forcible good will, from the early morning to declining day, in an attire as mean as the meanest of those with whom she was toiling, giving no account, say some records, of either her character or even her sex. It is a curious thing to find the youthful Isaac Watts talking to this strong-minded creature like a patriarch in his lines addressed to her in 1699, in which occurs the fine verse: If ’tis a rugged path you go, And thousand foes your steps surround, Tread the thorns down, charge through the foe; The hardest fight is highest crowned. We could have liked a portrait of her from the pen of Watts, or a record of some of his conversations with her or with her uncle, but it does not appear to have been in his way either to sketch the portraits of his friends or to violate private confidences or conferences by putting them on paper. Her son was another of Watts’ intimates, and with him the family of Bendish became extinct. He died at Yarmouth, unmarried, in the year 1753.