But Trumbull’s conscience rose supreme over every argument and consideration. In conscience he was strong, as any one may be.
“I can not take the oath,” said Trumbull. “Let Parliament do its worst, and its armies and navies thunder. I will not violate my provincial oath, which I deem to be right. I will be true to Connecticut, and to the liberties of man. You have sworn by the awful name of Almighty God to be true to the rights of this colony. I have so sworn, and that oath will I keep.”
It was near the close of the day. The red sun was setting, casting his glimmering splendors over the pines. The oath was about to be administered by the royal Governor.
Jonathan Trumbull rose up among the councilors. His soul had arisen to a sublime height, and despised all human penalties or martyrs’ fires.
His intense eyes bespoke the thoughts that were burning within him.
He did not speak. He was about to make his conduct more eloquent than words.
He seized his tricornered hat, and gave back a look that said, “I will not disgrace myself by witnessing such a ceremony of degradation.” He moved toward the door.
His every motion betokened his self-command, his soul value, his uncompromising obedience to the law of right. Erect, austere, he retreated from the shadow of the room, into the burning light of the sunset.
He closed the door behind him, and breathed his native air.