withal the men that are to be trusted!
Till we know that, what is all our knowledge; how shall we even so
much as 'detect'? For the vulpine sharpness, which considers itself to
be knowledge, and 'detects' in that fashion, is far mistaken. Dupes
indeed are many: but, of all _dupes_, there is none so fatally
situated as he who lives in undue terror of being duped. The world
does exist; the world has truth in it or it would not exist! First
recognise what is true, we shall _then_ discern what is false; and
properly never till then.

'Know the men that are to be trusted:' alas, this is yet, in these
days, very far from us. The sincere alone can recognise sincerity. Not
a Hero only is needed, but a world fit for him; a world not of
_Valets_;--the Hero comes almost in vain to it otherwise! Yes, it is
far from us: but it must come; thank God, it is visibly coming. Till
it do come, what have we? Ballot-boxes, suffrages, French
Revolutions:--if we are as Valets, and do not know the Hero when we
see him, what good are all these? A heroic Cromwell comes; and for a
hundred-and-fifty years he cannot have a vote from us. Why, the
insincere, unbelieving world is the _natural property_ of the Quack,
and of the Father of quacks and quackeries! Misery, confusion,
unveracity are alone possible there. By ballot-boxes we alter the
_figure_ of our Quack; but the substance of him continues. The
Valet-World _has_ to be governed by the Sham-Hero, by the King merely
_dressed_ in King-gear. It is his; he is its! In brief, one of two
things: We shall either learn to know a Hero, a true Governor and
Captain, somewhat better, when we see him; or else go on to be forever
governed by the Unheroic;--had we ballot-boxes clattering at every
street-corner, there were no remedy in these.

Poor Cromwell,--great Cromwell! The inarticulate Prophet; Prophet who
could not _speak_. Rude, confused, struggling to utter himself, with
his savage depth, with his wild sincerity; and he looked so strange,
among the elegant Euphemisms, dainty little Falklands, didactic
Chillingworths, diplomatic Clarendons! Consider him. An outer hull of
chaotic confusion, visions of the Devil, nervous dreams, almost
semi-madness; and yet such a clear determinate man's-energy working in
the heart of that. A kind of chaotic man. The ray as of pure starlight
and fire, working in such an element of boundless hypochondria,
_un_formed black of darkness! And yet withal this hypochondria, wh