Painting was, as it were, a new art, and being unshackled by old models it chose its own subjects, and took an eagle’s flight.
One or two wondered then, as if suddenly recalling the outlander, how he would manage, or if he would perish, up there among his unholy modern machineries that puffed out frozen steam to store the deer meat and shot fowl for him, […] And there were big boxes lugged up there, done up in iron clasps. Cruel-cold earth in those. […] Like corpse boxes, someone else suggested, down in the half-light, snug fust of the village drinking shop.
Which way, O Lord, which way can I look, and not see some sad examples of misery? […] [O]ne is pined in prison; another, tortured on the rack; a third, languisheth under the loss of a dear son, or wife, or husband.
Yet for a time the nation was again placed between the democracy of the levellers and the despotism of the Stuarts, — between the hammer and the anvil.
