we must look to the oppressor, not to the
oppressed; to Cromwell, galled by the armour worn under his robes of
state to defend his person from the expected dagger of a murderer, and
not to Dr. Beaumont, languishing for want of the common blessings which
freedom bestows, or to Evellin, an aged cripple in the lonely confined
chamber of poverty. Cromwell had no daughter who revered his virtues,
and cheered his pensive contemplations with the assurance that the
righteous sufferer was under the peculiar protection of Heaven. Most of
_his_ daughters were strongly attached to the royal cause. The wife of
Fleetwood (his eldest) was a furious Republican; Desborough, his
brother-in-law, was a Leveller; and his eldest son was incompetent to
receive that weight of usurped greatness which he wished to bequeath
him. Such was the domestic situation of the man at whose frown Europe
trembled. Ever in dread of assassins and conspirators, vexed by
family-broils, his nearest connexions hostile to his views, without
solace from public care, or sympathy in private distress.

The preservation of his son seemed to bestow on Colonel Evellin a new
existence. He was never weary of listening to the particulars of his
escape. Again and again he required Jobson to repeat the assurance, that
he had actually held in his arms the living Eustace; the determined
martyr to loyalty and truth; the brave, conspicuous, honourable soldier;
his own dear son, not a traitor to his King or his love, but all that he
could wish a true Neville to be, except in his misfortunes. It seemed a
double resurrection to life, and to unclouded fame. And was it possible
he might again see him at his feet craving his blessing? Should his hand
rest upon his head, while, with a prophetic ardour, he predicted a race
of worthies that should spring from him--future heroes, patriots, and
faithful subjects, alike tenacious of their Sovereign's rights and of
the claims of their countrymen. What were privations, infirmities, and
restraints to a mind animated with these glorious hopes? He limped on
his staff round his narrow room, lest his limbs should grow too
contracted to visit every apartment in Bellingham-Castle. He partook of
his frugal meal, and talked of the joyous regales he would provide for
his tenantry. He was no longer the existing root of a tree that had been
hewn down; one fatal shot had not smitten his Eustace, and doomed his
Isabel to remain a vestal mourner over her broth