, and ruined into a futility and deformity.

This view of Cromwell seems to me the not unnatural product of a
century like the Eighteenth. As we said of the Valet, so of the
Sceptic: He does not know a Hero when he sees him! The Valet expected
purple mantles, gilt sceptres, body-guards and flourishes of trumpets:
the Sceptic of the Eighteenth century looks for regulated respectable
Formulas, 'Principles,' or what else he may call them; a style of
speech and conduct which has got to seem 'respectable,' which can
plead for itself in a handsome articulate manner, and gain the
suffrages of an enlightened sceptical Eighteenth century! It is, at
bottom, the same thing that both the Valet and he expect: the
garnitures of some _acknowledged_ royalty, which _then_ they will
acknowledge! The King coming to them in the rugged _un_formulistic
state shall be no King.

For my own share, far be it from me to say or insinuate a word of
disparagement against such characters as Hampden, Eliot, Pym; whom I
believe to have been right worthy and useful men. I have read
diligently what books and documents about them I could come at;--with
the honestest wish to admire, to love and worship them like Heroes;
but I am sorry to say, if the real truth must be told, with very
indifferent success! At bottom, I found that it would not do. They are
very noble men, these; step along in their stately way, with their
measured euphemisms, philosophies, parliamentary eloquences,
Ship-moneys, _Monarchies of Man_; a most constitutional, unblamable,
dignified set of men. But the heart remains cold before them; the
fancy alone endeavours to get-up some worship of them. What man's
heart does, in reality, break-forth into any fire of brotherly love
for these men? They are become dreadfully dull men! One breaks-down
often enough in the constitutional eloquence of the admirable Pym,
with his 'seventhly and lastly.' You find that it may be the
admirablest thing in the world, but that it is heavy,--heavy as lead,
barren as brick-clay; that, in a word, for you there is little or
nothing now surviving there! One leaves all these Nobilities standing
in their niches of honour: the rugged out-cast Cromwell, he is the man
of them all in whom one still finds human stuff. The great savage
_Baresark_: he could write no euphemistic _Monarchy of Man_; did not
speak, did not work with glib regularity; had no straight story to
tell for himself anywhere. But he stood bare, not