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Would we could say as much of the servants!" "Why, what do you fear from them?" "It's hard to say; but an uneasy feeling has prevailed for a year or more. It's this d d Oliverian element among them. You see, ever since his Majesty's blessed restoration, gang after gang of rebels have been sent us Independents, Muggletonians, Fifth Monarchy men, dour Scotch Whigamores dangerous fanatics all!
"It imports much that men should see that there is no weakness in the arm the law stretches out to seize and punish offenders. My father and the Governor and Colonel Ludlow believe that there is afoot an Oliverian plot What is the matter?" "Nothing, madam." "You stood still and caught your breath. Are you ill, faint?" "It is nothing, madam, believe me? You were saying?" "Oh! the Oliverians!
There's one that I reckon had best go back with us. Does your Honor know that you've got with you the head of all this d d Oliverian business, the man that Trail swore was their general that they all obeyed as though he were Oliver himself?" "No!
Cromwell, whatever may have been his speculative opinions, decided in favour of a state endowment, upon the reasons, or some of them, which have moved modern statesmen to maintain church establishments. With whatever reservations, Milton was an Oliverian. Supporting the Protector's policy, he admired his conduct, and has recorded his admiration in the memorable sonnet xii.
"You're talking through your hat, Marmaduke," she exclaimed with some irritation. "Oliver's a straight, clean, English soldier." "I've been doing my best to tell you so," said Doggie. "But you seem to be criticizing him because he's concealing something behind what you call his panache." "Not criticizing, dear. Only stating. I think I'm more Oliverian than you."
In 1655, then, Milton was an Oliverian, but with reservations. The most important of these reservations regarded the relation of the state to the church. Cromwell never wholly dropped the scheme of a national church.
The secret of these volcanic explosions was only revealed in a letter accidentally preserved. In the youth of our spirited archdeacon, when fox-hunting was his deepest study, it happened at the house of a relation, that on a rainy day he fell, among other garret lumber, on some worm-eaten volumes which had once been the careful collections of his great-grandfather, an Oliverian justice.
Here are the Chickahominies restive, and those plaguy Ricahecrians amongst us, and the Nansemond Independents prophesying the end of the world, and the witches' trial coming on, and the Quakers to be routed out, and on top of it all this story that Ludlow brings of a redemptioner's assertion that there is afoot an Oliverian plot.
"I'm not Oliverian," cried Peggy, with burning cheeks. "And I don't see why we should discuss him like this. All I said was that Oliver, who has made himself a distinguished man and will be even more distinguished, and, at any rate, knows what he's talking about, doesn't worry his head with social reconstruction and all that sort of rot. I've come here to talk about you, not about Oliver.
Archdeacon BLACKBURNE, in his seclusion in Yorkshire amidst the Oliverian justice's library, shows that we are in want of a Cervantes but not of a Quixote, and Yorkshire might yet be as renowned a country as La Mancha; for political romances, it is presumed, may be as fertile of ridicule as any of the folios of chivalry.
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