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EAVING the military in the lobby, Cromwell entered

the House and composedly seated himself on one of the outer benches. His dress was a plain suit of black cloth, with gray worsted stockings. For a while he seemed to listen with interest to the debate; but when the Speaker was going to put the question, he whispered to Harrison, “This is the time; I must do it;" and rising, put off his hat to address the House.

2. At first his language was decorous, and even laudatory. Gradually he became more warm and animated; at last he assumed all the vehemence of passion, and indulged in personal vituperation. He charged the members with self-seeking and profaneness, with the frequent denial of justice, and numerous acts of oppression; with idolizing the lawyers, the constant advocates of tyranny; with neglecting the men who had bled for them in the field, that they might gain the Presbyterians who had apostatized from the cause; and with doing all this in order to perpetuate their own power and to replenish their own purses. But their time was come; the Lord had disowned them; he had chosen more worthy instruments to perform his work.

3. Here the orator was interrupted by Sir Peter Wentworth, who declared that he had never heard language so unparliamentary — language, too, the more offensive, because it was addressed to them by their own servant, whom they had too fondly cherished, and whom by their unprecedented bounty they had made what he was.

4. At these words Cromwell put on his hat, and, springing from his place, exclaimed, “ Come, come, sir, I will put an end to your prating!” For a few seconds, apparently in the most violent agitation, he paced forward and backward, and then, stamping on the floor, added, “You are no

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parliament; I say you are no parliament; bring them in, bring them in.” Instantly the door opened, and Colonel Worsley entered, followed by more than twenty musketeers.

5. “This,” cried Sir Henry Vane, “is not honest; it is against morality and common honesty.” “Sir Henry Vane,” replied Cromwell; “O, Sir Henry Vane! The Lord deliver me from Sir Henry Vane! He might have prevented this. But he is a juggler, and has not common honesty himself !”

6. From Vane he directed his discourse to Whitelock, on whom he poured a torrent of abuse; then pointing to Chaloner, "There," he cried, "sits a drunkard;” next to Marten and Wentworth, “There are two dissolute knaves;” and afterwards selecting different members in succession, described them as dishonest and corrupt livers, a shame and scandal to the profession of the gospel. Suddenly, however, checking himself, he turned to the guard and ordered them to clear the House.

7. At these words Colonel Harrison took the Speaker by the hand and led him from the chair ; Algernon Sidney was next compelled to quit his seat, and the other members, eighty in number, on the approach of the military, rose and moved towards the door.

8. Cromwell now resumed his discourse. “It is you,” he exclaimed, "that have forced me to do this. I have sought the Lord both day and night that he would rather slay me than put me on the doing of this work."

9. Alderman Allan took advantage of these words to observe that it was not yet too late to undo what had been done; but Cromwell instantly charged him with peculation, •nd gave him into custody.

10. When all were gone, fixing his eye on the mace, “What,” said he, “shall we do with this fool's bauble? Here, carry it away.” Then taking the act of dissolution from the clerk, he ordered the doors to be locked, and, accompanied by the military, returned to Whitehall.




THE scene was more beautiful far to my eye

The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure

re-arched sky Looked pure as the Spirit that made it.


The murmur rose soft as I silently gazed

On the shadowy waves' playful motion:
From the dim distant hill, the lighthouse fire blazed,

Like a star in the midst of the ocean.


No longer the joy of the sailor-boy's breast

Was heard in his wildly-breathed numbers; The sea-bird had flown to her wave-girdled nest,

The fisherman sunk to his slumbers.


One moment I looked from the hill's gentle slope;

All hushed was the billows' commotion: And I thought that the lighthouse looked lovely as Hope,

That star on life's tremulous ocean.


The time is long past, and the scene is afar,

Yet when my head rests on its pillow, Will memory sometimes rekindle the star

That blazed on the breast of the billow.

In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies.

And death stills the heart's last emotion,
O then may the seraph of mercy arise
Like a star on eternity's ocean!




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MONG all the names celebrated in art, there is not

one that can be put in comparison with that of Michael Angelo. No man certainly ever had such a won. derful soul for art, in every department: the cupola of St. Peter's, as an architect; his Moses and his Christ, as a sculptor; and his Last Judgment, on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, as a painter, -are three monuments which

would have made the eternal fame, not of three, but of a hundred, artists in each department.

2. Great, noble, generous, and though perhaps somewhat in his temper not amiable, yet sternly honest in all his dealings, he seems to have been the great center around which the art of his period revolved. There was no one so great, so sublime in any particular branch of it, that did not look up to Michael Angelo, and consider him his superior. It is acknowledged that Raffaelle went into the Sistine Chapel and saw Angelo's wonderful works, and changed entirely his style upon beholding them; and it is particularly acknowledged by the writers of that time that in every other department he was considered equally supreme.

3. Now, you would suppose that this man, upon whom commissions poured in every day for great works, would have employed a number of artisans to assist him; that he would have had carefully-prepared models, which he would have entrusted to skillful artificers, so as to lighten his labor. But no such thing. There is every evidence we can desire, that, from the beginning to the end, Michael Angelo performed the whole of his own work; that he began with the piece of marble as it came from the quarry; that, if not always, pretty generally, he did not even condescend to make a design beyond a small wax model, but immediately set to work with chisel and mallet on the figure which he had in his imagination, and which he knew was as truly lurking in the inanimate block.

4. Vä-sä'-ri shows us, in fact, from his unfinished pieces, in what way he must have mapped out the marble and done the work himself; and that is why we have so many vast pieces by him unfinished; either the stroke did not come out as he desired, or it went too far into the marble, and spoilt his labor. But so it is, that by far the greater part of those gigantic pieces which he finished, if not all, were the productions of his own hand as well as of his intellect.

5. When about seventy-five years of age he used to be just as indefatigable with his chisel and hammer as when he was a stout young man. He had near his bedroom, if not in it, an immense block of marble, and, when he had nothing else to do, he used to be hammering at that; and, when asked why he so continuously worked at this branch of his various arts, he used to reply that he did it for amusement, to pass his time, and that it was good for his health to take exercise with the mallet.

6. He undertook at that age, from an enormous block of marble, to bring out four figures, larger than life, representing the descent from the cross; and he had nearly worked out the figure of our Lord, when, happening to meet with a vein that was hard and troublesome, he one day broke it into half a dozen pieces. It was seen in this state by a friend, and his servant begged it for him. It was put together, and it is now to be seen at Florence. But Vasari

says that it was necessary, in order to give him occupation, to get another large block of marble and put it near his bed, that so he might continue at his work; and he began another group of the same sort. This was at the age of seventy-five.

7. And Vasari gives us an interesting account of how he worked: he says he was remarkably sober, and while performing his greatest works, such as the paintings, he rarely took more than a crust of bread and a glass of wine for his dinner. This sobriety, he says, made him very vigilant;

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