Like Vane, he thought himself intrusted with the sceptre of the
millienial year. Like Fleetwood he cried in the bitterness of his soul
that God had hid his face from him. But when he took his seat in the
council, or girt on his sword for war, these tempestuous works of the
soul had left no perceptible trace behind them.
People who saw nothing of the godly but their uncouth visages, and heard
nothing from them but their groans and their whining hymns, might laugh
at them. But those had little reason to laugh who encountered them in
the hall of debate or in the field of battle. These fanatics brought
to civil affairs a coolness of judgment and an immutability of purpose
which some writers have thought inconsistent with their religious zeal,
but which were in fact the necessary effects of it. The intensity of
their feelings on one subject made them tranquil on every other.
One overpowering sentiment had subjected to itself pity and hatred,
ambition and fear. Death had lost its terrors, and pleasure its charms.
They had their smiles and their tears, their raptures and their sorrows,
but not for the things of this world.
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