then by the sword. Formula shall _not_ carry it, while the
Reality is here! I will go on, protecting oppressed Protestants abroad,
appointing just judges, wise managers, at home, cherishing true Gospel
ministers; doing the best I can to make England a Christian England,
greater than old Rome, the Queen of Protestant Christianity; I, since
you will not help me; I while God leaves me life!--Why did he not give
it up; retire into obscurity again, since the Law would not acknowledge
him? cry several. That is where they mistake. For him there was no
giving of it up! Prime ministers have governed countries, Pitt, Pombal,
Choiseul; and their word was a law while it held: but this Prime
Minister was one that _could not get resigned_. Let him once resign,
Charles Stuart and the Cavaliers waited to kill him; to kill the Cause
_and_ him. Once embarked, there is no retreat, no return. This Prime
Minister could _retire_ no-whither except into his tomb.

One is sorry for Cromwell in his old days. His complaint is incessant of
the heavy burden Providence has laid on him. Heavy; which he must bear
till death. Old Colonel Hutchinson, as his wife relates it, Hutchinson,
his old battle-mate, coming to see him on some indispensable business,
much against his will,--Cromwell "follows him to the door," in a
most fraternal, domestic, conciliatory style; begs that he would be
reconciled to him, his old brother in arms; says how much it grieves him
to be misunderstood, deserted by true fellow-soldiers, dear to him
from of old: the rigorous Hutchinson, cased in his Republican formula,
sullenly goes his way.--And the man's head now white; his strong arm
growing weary with its long work! I think always too of his poor Mother,
now very old, living in that Palace of his; a right brave woman; as
indeed they lived all an honest God-fearing Household there: if she
heard a shot go off, she thought it was her son killed. He had to come
to her at least once a day, that she might see with her own eyes that he
was yet living. The poor old Mother!--What had this man gained; what had
he gained? He had a life of sore strife and toil, to his last day. Fame,
ambition, place in History? His dead body was hung in chains, his "place
in History,"--place in History forsooth!--has been a place of ignominy,
accusation, blackness and disgrace; and here, this day, who knows if it
is not rash in me to be among the first that ever ventured to pronounce
him not a knave and l