the approach of the military, rose and moved towards the door.

5. 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." Alderman Allen 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, and gave him into custody. 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.

6. That afternoon the members of the Council assembled in their usual place of meeting. Bradshaw had just taken the chair, when the Lord-General entered, and told them that if they were there as private individuals, they were welcome; but if as the Council of State, they must know that the Parliament was dissolved, and with it also the Council. 'Sir," replied Bradshaw, with the spirit of an ancient Roman, "we have heard what you did at the House this morning, and, before many hours, all England will know it. But, sir, you are mistaken to think that the Parliamant is dissolved. No power under heaven can dissolve them but themselves; therefore take you notice of that."

7. After this protest they withdrew. Thus, by the parricidal hands of its own children, perished the Long Parliament, which, under a variety of forms, had, for more than twelve years, defended and invaded the liberties of the nation. It fell without a struggle or a groan, unpitied and unregretted. The members slunk away to their homes, where they sought by submission to purchase the forbearance of their new master; and their partisans-if partisans they had-reserved themselves in silence for a day of retribution, which came not before Cromwell slept in his grave.

LINGARD.

28. AMERICAN LITERATURE.

E cannot honor our country with too deep a reverence;

WE

we cannot love her with an affection too pure and fervent; we cannot serve her with an energy of purpose or a faithfulness of zeal too steadfast and ardent. And what is our country? It is not the East, with her hills and her valleys, with her countless sails, and the rocky ramparts of her shores. It is not the North, with her thousand villages, and her harvesthome, with her frontiers of the lake and the ocean. It is not the West, with her forest-sea and her inland isles, with her luxuriant expanses, clothed in the verdant corn, with her beautiful Ohio and her majestic Missouri. Nor is it yet the South, opulent in the mimic snow of the cotton, in the rich plantations of the rustling cane, and in the golden robes of the rice-field. What are these but the sister families of one greater, better, holier family-our country?

2. If, indeed, we desire to behold a literature like that which has sculptured, with such energy of expression, which has painted so faithfully and vividly the crimes, the vices, the follies of ancient and modern Europe; if we desire that our land should furnish for the orator and the novelist, for the painter and the poet, age after age, the wild and romantic scenery of war; the glittering march of armies, and the revelry of the camp; the shrieks and blasphemies, and all the horrors of the battle-field; the desolation of the harvest, and the burning cottage; the storm, the sack, and the ruin of cities; if we desire to unchain the furious passions of jealousy and selfishness, of hatred, revenge, and ambition, those lions that now sleep harmless in their den; if we desire that the lake, the river, the ocean, should blush with the blood of brothers; that the winds should waft from the land to the sea, from the sea to the land, the roar and the smoke of battle; that the very mountain-tops should become altars for the sacrifice of brothers ;-if we desire that these, and such as these--the ele ments, to an incredible extent, of the literature of the Old

World-should be the elements of our literature, then, but then only, let us hurl from its pedestal the majestic statue of our Union, and scatter its fragments over all our land. But, if we covet for our country the noblest, purest, loveliest literature the world has ever seen, such a literature as shall honor God and bless mankind; a literature whose smiles might play upon an angel's face, whose "tears would not stain an angel's cheek;" then let us cling to the union of these States, with a patriot's love, with a scholar's enthusiasm, with a Christian's hope.

3. In her heavenly character, as a holocaust self-sacrificed to God; at the height of her glory, as the ornament of a free, educated, peaceful, Christian people, American literature will find that the intellectual spirit is her very tree of life, and that union her garden of paradise.

GRIMKE

29. LEGEND OF ST. JODOCUS.

N trial of his servant's truth,

IN

One day came begging, as a youth
Of humble mien, in garments poor,
The Lord, to St. Jodocus' door.

2. "Give to him," St. Jodocus said;

"Open, good steward, thy store of bread."
"Here's but one loaf, my master, see,
Left for our dog, and thee, and me."

8. "Yet give to him," the abbot cried,
"For us the Lord will still provide."
The sullen butler said no more,
But cut the loaf in pieces four.

4. "One for the abbot, one for me,
One for our dog, and one for thee,"

Unkindly to the youth he said,

And handed him his share of bread.

5. Again, in semblance yet more poor,

The Lord came to our abbot's door;
"Give, still," the good Jodocus said,
"Give him my little share of bread;
For us the good God still will care."
And now he gives the abbot's share.

6. A hungered came the Lord again,

Nor asked he the third time in vain ;
"Give now, O steward, thy little bit-
God will provide."-He yielded it.

7. More destitute and blind and lame, The Lord yet for the fourth time came; "Give," said Jodocus, "give again; Doth not the dog's piece still remain? For He who doth the ravens feed Will not forget us in our need."

8. The steward gives, the beggar goes; Then through the air a clear voice rose: "Thou true disciple of thy Lord, Great is thy faith,-take thy reward; As thou believedst it should be, So shall it happen unto thee."

9. The steward went to the open doorLo! onward towards the nearest shore

Four heavy-laden ships are borne,

With bread and fruit and wine and corn.

10. He to the strand runs joyfully,

And there no sailor can he see;

But to the shore a white wave rolled,

On which these words were traced in gold:

11. "Four ships are sent with large supply,
By Him who hears the raven's cry;
He sends them to the abbot good,
Who, this day, four times gave Him food.

12. "One, for the good man's self is sent;
Another for his dog is meant ;
One for the steward is coming in;
One for the Sender's needy kin."

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN.

30. THE POOR EXILE.

[There are few pages in any language of deeper feeling or more touching pathos than this exquisite episode from the French. To appreciate it fully, it should be read in the original.]

MAY Heaven guide the poor exile! He goes wandering

over the earth.

2. I have passed through various countries; their inhabitants have seen me, and I have seen them, but we have not known each other. The exile is everywhere alone! When, at the close of day, I saw the smoke of some cottage rise from the bosom of a valley, I said, "Happy is he who returns at evening to his fireside, and seats himself among those he loves !" The exile is everywhere alone!

3. Whence come these clouds driven by the storm? It drives me along like them. But what matters it? The exile is everywhere alone! These trees are noble, these flowers are beautiful; but they are not the flowers nor trees of my country; to me they say nothing. The exile is everywhere alone! This stream flows gently over the meadow, but its murmur is not that which my childhood heard. To me it recalls no remembrances. The exile is everywhere alone!