On the third of November, 1640, the fatal Long Parliament began. On the 12th, the Earl of Strafford was impeached of treason, and committed to the Black Rod. The Lords denied him bail and council; and he was, in a few days more, commanded into close imprisonment in the Tower. One hundred thousand pounds were now voted to the Scots, and borrowed of the city of London. Ship money was soon questioned by the Parliament, and voted an illegal tax; and, in fine, all grievances and abuses were loudly proclaimed, and resolutely brought forward, by intrepid and patriotic men; of whom the best and noblest did certainly never contemplate, at that time, the sad and humiliating close of the labours and the authority of that memorable and august assembly. August, of a truth, that assembly may be called, in which a Hampden and a Falkland stood, at after moments, opposed in debate; and in which, in the following year, the grand remonstrance of the Commons was the subject of grave deliberation for thirty hours, and was only carried, at last, by a majority of nine voices. But to return to our story. It may be supposed that Cuthbert Noble was no indifferent or unmoved spectator of the great public events which every day brought forth in the winter of 1640. With his serious and peculiar notions, the questions that affected liberty of conscience and church reform were those which most deeply interested him; and when, upon the morning of the 23d of November, Prynne and Burton entered triumphantly into Westminster, followed by many thousands of the people, Cuthbert was foremost in the crowd; and not a zealot among them was more wildly excited than himself. Laughter and tears succeeded to each other, as those around expressed their rude sympathy;--now in remarks quaint and comical--now in pious commiseration, or in the stern tones of indignant and just anger. “Which is old Prynne?” said one.--“That’s he,” said his neighbour, “with his black head clipped close, looking, for all the world, like a skull-cap.”--“See how the old boy grins.”--“He’s no beauty.”--“Hurrah! hurrah!”--“Can you hear, old boy?”--“I wonder if a man can hear without his ears.”--“To be sure a’ can, all the better.”--“Well, he can’t have the ear-ache no more.”--“Don’t talk so unfeeling.”--“Look, poor dear good man, he is as white as a sheet.”--“That is prison and hunger.”--“This is your bishops’ work--od rot ’em--their turn shall come.” With such vulgarities were mixed the solemn tones and pious expressions of many a sincere Christian, giving utterance to praise and thanksgiving for the deliverance of these persecuted men; while, here and there, a strong voice would be heard, above the crowd, denouncing the tyranny of the church and the crown in coarse language, in which the Establishment was likened to the whore of Babylon,--and the Archbishop of Canterbury was pointed out to the vengeance of the rabble.