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case desperate, and, after having applied a blister to the nape of my neck, squeezed my hand, bidding me, with a woful countenance, recommend myself to God; then, taking his leave, desired the chaplain to come and administer some spiritual consolation to me; but, before he arrived, I made shift to rid myself of the troublesome application the Welshman had bestowed on my back. The fever soon after grew outrageous. I began to see strange chimeras, and concluded myself upon the point of being delirious; in the meantime, being in great danger of suffocation, I started up in a kind of frantic fit, with an intention to plunge myself into the sea; and, as my friend the sergeant was not present, would certainly have cooled myself to some purpose, had I not perceived a moisture upon my thigh, as I endeavoured to get out of my hammock: the appearance of this revived my hopes, and I had reflection and resolution enough to take advantage of this favourable symptom, by tearing the shirt from my body, and the sheets from my bed, and wrapping myself in a thick blanket, in which enclosure, for about a quarter of an hour, I felt all the pains of purgatory: but it was not long before I was recompensed for my suffering by a profuse sweat, that, bursting from the whole surface of my skin, in less than two hours, relieved me from all my complaints except that of weakness, and left me as hungry as a kite.

Meanwhile our ship was ordered to be heaved down, victualled, and watered, for her return to England; and our captain, for some reason or other, not thinking it convenient for him to revisit his native country at this time, exchanged with a gentleman, who, on the other hand, wished for nothing so much as to be safe without the tropic: all his care and tenderness of himself being insufficient to preserve his complexion from the injuries of the sun and weather.

Our tyrant having left the ship, and carried his favourite Mackshane along with him, to my inexpressible satisfaction, our new commander came on board in a ten-oared barge, overshadowed with a vast umbrella, and appeared in everything the reverse of Oakum, being a tall, thin, young man, dressed in this manner: a white hat, garnished with a red feather, adorned his head, from whence his hair flowed upon his shoulders, in ringlets tied behind with a ribbon. His coat consisted of pinkcoloured silk, lined with white, by the elegance of the cut retired backward, as it were, to discover a white satin waistcoat embroidered with gold, unbuttoned at the upper part to display a brooch set with garnets, that glittered in the breast of his shirt, which was of the finest cambric, edged with right Mechlin: the knees of his crimson velvet breeches scarce descended so low as to meet his silk stockings, which rose without spot or wrinkle on his meagre legs, from shoes of blue Meroquin, studded with diamond buckles that flamed forth rivals to the sun! A steel-hilted sword, inlaid with gold, and decked with a knot of ribbon which fell down in a rich tassel, equipped his side; and an amber-headed cane hung dangling from his wrist. But the most remarkable parts of his furniture were, a mask on his face, and white gloves on his hands, which did not seem to be put on with an intention to be pulled off occasionally, but were fixed with a curious ring on the little finger of each hand.

Notes. Change of Atmosphere,—The —The fort at the month of the river on wet season had begun, with constant which Carthagena stands, rain, thunder, and lightning. Bocca Chica.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN WOLSEY AND CBOMWELL.

Shakspere.

Wohey.—So farewell to the little good you bear me.
Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man: To-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him:
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;
And,—when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a-ripening,—nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory;
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary, and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye;
I feel my heart new-open'd. 0, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have;

And, when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.—

Enter Cromwell, and stands amazed.

Why, how now, Cromwell?

Crom.—I have no power to speak, sir.

Wol.—What, amaz'd
At my misfortunes? can thy spirit wonder
A great man should decline? Nay, an you weep,
I am fallen indeed.

Crom.—How does your Grace?

Wol—Why, well;
Never so truly happy, my good. Cromwell.
I know myself now, and I feel within me
A peace above all earthly dignities,
A still and quiet conscience. The king has cur'd me,
I humbly thank his grace; and from these shoulders,
These ruin'd pillars, out of pity, taken
A load would sink a navy,—too much honour:
0, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden
Too heavy for a man'that hopes for heaven.

Crom.—I am glad your Grace has made that right use of it.

Wol.—I hope I have: I'm able now, methinks,
(Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,)
To endure more miseries and greater far,
Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.—
What news abroad?

Crom.—The heaviest, and the worst,
Is your displeasure with the King.

Wol.—God bless him!

Crom.—The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen
Lord chancellor in your place.

Wol.—That's somewhat sudden:—
But he's a learned man. May he continue
Long in his highness' favour, and do justice
For truth's sake, and his conscience; that his bones,
When he has run his course, and sleeps in blessings,
May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on 'em!
What more?

Crom.—That Cranmer is return'd with welcome,
Install'd lord archbishop of Canterbury.

Wol.—That's news indeed!

Crom.—Last, that the lady Anne,
Whom the king hath in secrecy long married,
This day was view'd in open as his queen,
Going to chapel; and the voice is now
Only about her coronation.

Wol.—There was the weight that pull'd me down. 0 Cromwell,
The King has gone beyond me; all my glories
In that one woman I have lost for ever:
No sun shall ever usher forth mine honours,
Or gild again the noble troops that waited
Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell,
I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now
To be thy lord and master: Seek the king;
That sun, I pray, may never set! I have told him
What, and how true thou art: he will advance thee;
Some little memory of me will stir him,
(I know his noble nature,) not to let
Thy hopeful service perish too: Good Cromwell,
Neglect him not; make use now, and provide
For thine own future safety,

Crom.—O my lord,
Must I then leave you? must I needs forego
So good, so noble, and so true a master?
Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron,
With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord.—
The king shall have my service; but my prayers
For ever, and for ever, shall be yours.

Wol.—Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.
Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell;
And,—when I am forgotten, as I shall be;

And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention «

Of me more must be heard of,—say I taught thee;
Say, Wolsey,—that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,—
Found thee a way, out of bis wreck, to rise in;
A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me.
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition;
By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't?
Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee;
Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not:

Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,

Thy God's, and truth's; then, if thou falTst, O Cromwell,

Thou fall'st a blessed martyr! Serve the King;

And—prithee, lead me in:

There, take an inventory of all I have,

To the last penny; 'tis the king's: my robe,

And my integrity to heaven, is all

I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!

Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal

I serv'd my king, he would not in mine age

Have left me naked to mine enemies.

Notes.—Wolsey was dismissed from power Oct. 17,1529. He had ruled England with a naughty despotic sceptre, as the great minister of HenryVIII., for fifteen years—from 1515. He was as unprincipled as he was able, and it is to his training, in great part, that the gradual debasement of Henry's nature may justly be traced. His disgrace was immediately due to the discoyery of a secret letter he had sent to the Pope, directly opposite in tenor to the despatches submitted to the king and approved of by him. His whole life was a gambler's throw for the highest prize—the Papacy. For this he played with king and country in turn, and, when detected, naturally fell. Old with Service.—He was now fifty-nine years old, and had been in the service of the king and of his father, Henry VII., since 1506, at latest. Their ruin.—The ruin princes inflict. Lucifer.—" How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, Son of the Morning." Isaiah, xiv. 12. Gromwell, Thomas.—Afterwards Earl of Essex. Said to have been the son of a blacksmith, at Putney, and of an alewife. He had been much abroad, and had served as a soldier in the Italian wars. He was afterwards Wolsey^s secretary, and remained true to him when all besides forsook him. He became a strong friend of the Protestant party, but it seems as if, notwithstanding this, he had had a hand in the conspiracy by which Anne Boleyn was murdered. He himself was finally beheaded, in 1540. Sir Thomas More.—A man of fine genius and fine character, when bigotry did not pervert his better nature. He sided with the king about his divorce from Catherine, but he refused to acknowledge his supremacy as head of the Church, and was beheaded by the brutal Henry, in 1535. He was a bitter persecutor of the Protestants. Cranmer, Thomas.—Horn, 1489. In 1528, when a doctor at Cambridge, he was chosen by the king on business

connected with the king's divorce, and finally, when Warham died, in 1532, was made Archbishop of Canterbury. He was a kindly timid man, striving to do right, but often driven to compromise, by his terrible position amidst busy enemies and under a lawless despot. He was burned, in Mary's reign, in 1555. Lady Anne.—Queen Anne Boleyn was married, Jan. 25, 1533, to Henry Vm. She was a woman of fine intellectual gifts, of boundless charity, and of the clearest womanly purity; but Henry tired of her when she had had a daughter and two dead sons, and having fancied Jane Seymour, who was much better looking, made up a plot against the poor lady, and beheaded her, in 1536. The next day he married Jane Seymour. Wolsey was right in regarding Anne as his enemy. He had, in her earlier life, treated her with the most heartless cruelty and wickedness, and she doubtless felt it. But Anne was only one of many whom the cardinal had made enemies. All the nobility were against him, and the very people had come to long for his disgrace. My integrity to Heaven. — Wolsey, after his fall, was allowed to remain for a time at one of his seats, near London, but was, ere long, sent off to York, through the influence of the Duke of Norfolk, who feared he might win back the favour of Henry, if near him. At York, of which he was archbishop, his life was that of a penitent and humbled man, who seemed only anxious to do the duties of his diocese faithfully. He had been bowed down till he was as humble as before he had been haughty. His enemies could not, however, rest while he was alive, and got an order from Henry for his arrest on a charge of high treason; but he died at Leicester, on his way to the Tower, Nov. 29, 1530. It is only a poet's anachronism, therefore, that makes him hear of Cranmer's promotion to Canterbury in 1532.

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