“Ye are honest gentlemen, I can play many tunes,” squeaked a poor mad loyalist fiddler, who had been accustomed to play in the taverns to the cavalier party, and just remembered the words of a similar minstrel playing for Colonel Blunt in the committee. “Then play me the air to “Rebellion is breaking up house,” exclaimed the tailor, dancing wildly about his cell (as far as his chains allowed him) to an imaginary measure. The weaver could contain no longer. “How long, Lord, how long,” he exclaimed, “shall thine enemies insult thy sanctuary, in which I have been placed an anointed teacher? even here, where I am placed to preach to the souls in prison?--Open the flood-gates of thy power, and though thy waves and storms go over me, let me testify in the midst of them, even as he who spreadeth forth his hands to swim may raise one of them to warn his companion that he is about to sink.--Sister Ruth, why dost thou uncover thy bosom to discover my frailty?--Lord, let thine arm of power be with us as it was when thou brakest the shield, the sword, and the battle,--when thy foot was dipped in the blood of thine enemies, and the tongue of thy dogs was red through the same.--Dip all thy garments in blood, and let me weave thee fresh when thou art stained.--When shall thy saints tread the wine-press of thy wrath? Blood! blood! the saints call for it, earth gapes to swallow it, hell thirsts for it!--Sister Ruth, I pray thee, conceal thy bosom, and be not as the vain women of this generation.--Oh for a day like that, a day of the Lord of hosts, when the towers fell!--Spare me in the battle, for I am not a mighty man of war; leave me in the rear of the host, to curse, with the curse of Meroz, those who come not to the help of the Lord against the mighty,--even to curse this malignant tailor,--yea, curse him bitterly.--Lord, I am in the tents of Kedar, my feet stumble on the dark mountains,--I fall,--I fall!”--And the poor wretch, exhausted by his delirious agonies, fell, and grovelled for some time in his straw. “Oh! I have had a grievous fall,--Sister Ruth,--Oh Sister Ruth!--Rejoice not against me, Oh mine enemy! though I fall, I shall rise again.” Whatever satisfaction Sister Ruth might have derived from this assurance, if she could have heard it, was enjoyed tenfold by the weaver, whose amorous reminiscences were in a moment exchanged for war-like ones, borrowed from a wretched and disarranged mass of intellectual rubbish. “The Lord is a man of war,” he shouted.--“Look to Marston Moor!--Look to the city, the proud city, full of pride and sin!--Look to the waves of the Severn, as red with blood as the waves of the Red Sea!--There were the hoofs broken by means of the prancings, the prancings of the mighty ones.--Then, Lord, was thy triumph, and the triumph of thy saints, to bind their kings in chains, and their nobles in links of iron.” The malignant tailor burst out in his turn: “Thank the false Scots, and