WOLSLY'S SOLILOQUY.

His greatness is a ripening, nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
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 opened; O, 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, amazedly.

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Addressing Cromwell. 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 must more 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 his wreck, to rise in;
A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it.
Mark but my fall, and that that ruined 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 fall'st, 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 served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, He would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies!

V.-BRUTUS OVER THE BODY OF LUCRETIA.

(PAYNE.)

The historical tragedy of Brutus, or the Fall of Tarquin, from which this specimen is taken, was published in 1820. The author is Mr. John Howard Payne.

THUS, thus, my friends! fast as our breaking hearts
Permitted utterance, we have told our story:

And now, to say one word of the imposture-
The mask necessity has made me wear.

When the ferocious malice of your king,—

King! do I call him?-when the monster Tarquin
Slew, as most of you may well remember,
My father Marcus, and my elder brother,
Envying at once their virtues and their wealth,
How could I hope a shelter from his power,
But in the false face I have worn so long?

Would you know why I summoned you together?
Ask ye what brings me here? Behold this dagger,
Clotted with gore! Behold that frozen corse!
See where the lost Lucretia sleeps in death!
She was the mark and model of the time,

The mould in which each female face was formed,
The
very shrine and sacristy of virtue!

The worthiest of the worthy! not the nymph
Who met old Numa in his hallowed walks,
And whispered in his ear her strains divine,
Can I conceive beyond her!--the young choir
Of vestal virgins bent to her!-Such a mind

BRUTUS OVER THE BODY OF LUCRETIA.

Might have abashed the boldest libertine,

And turned desire to reverential love

And holiest affection! Oh, my countrymen!
You all can witness when that she went forth
It was a holiday in Rome; old age

Forgot its crutch; labour its task! all ran;

And mothers, turning to their daughters, cried,

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There, there's Lucretia!"-Now look ye where she lies,
That beauteous flower, that innocent sweet rose,
Torn up by ruthless violence-gone! gone!

Say-would you seek instructions! would you seek
What ye should do?-Ask ye yon conscious walls
Which saw his poisoned brother, saw the incest
Committed there, and they will cry, Revenge!—
Ask yon deserted street, where Tullia drove
O'er her dead father's corse, 'twill cry, Revenge!
Ask yonder senate-house, whose stones are purple
With human blood, and it will cry, Revenge!
Go to the tomb where lie his murdered wife,
And the poor queen, who loved him as her son,
Their unappeased ghosts will shriek, Revenge!
The temples of the gods, the all-viewing heaven,-
The gods themselves,-will justify the cry,

And swell the general sound-Revenge! Revenge!

SECTION VII.-COMIC PIECES.

I.-MORNING VISITS

(DR. NARES.)

Dr. Nares was a clergyman of the English Episcopal Church. He established the British Critic, in conjunction with Mr. Beloe, and was the author of some valuable works. He died in 1829. The following extract is from his novel, "Thinks I to myself."

ONE day, when I was sitting quite snug with my mother, and she was occupied in writing to my sister who was absent from home, I spied at the end of the avenue a group of pedestrians slowly making up to Grumblethorpe Hall, apparently dressed in their best bibs and tuckers for a morning visit. Thinks I to myself, here's some agreeable company coming to my dear mamma! how kind it is of her neighbours to call in upon her thus, and not leave her to mope away her time by herself, as though she were buried alive!

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Not being willing, however, to run any risk of disappointing her, I waited patiently till I saw them happily advanced beyond the turning to the village, and was, therefore, certain that they were really coming to see my dear mother; and then I hastily turned round to her, exclaiming, "Here's ever so many people coming, mamma;" thinking to delight her very heart. "People coming," says she; “I hope not." Yes, indeed they are," says I; one, two, three, four ladies, a little boy, and two pug dogs, I do declare!" "Bless me," says my mother, "how provoking! it is certainly Mrs. Fidget and her daughters, and that troublesome child, and now I can't finish my letter to your sister before the post goes! I heartily wish they would learn to stay at home, and let one have one's time to one's self!" Thinks I to myself, my poor mother seems not much

MORNING VISITS.

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to like their coming; I am afraid that Mrs. and the Misses Fidget will meet with rather an unkindly reception; however, I plainly saw that there was no stopping them—they got nearer and nearer the walking was not over clean, and my mother was the neatest woman in the world. Thinks I to myself, the pug dogs will dirty the room. At last they arrived; the servant ushered them in; sure enough it was Mrs. and the Misses Fidget, and the troublesome child, and all. Mrs. Fidget ran up to my mother as though she would have kissed her, so glad did she seem to see her. My mother (bless her, honest creature) rose from her seat, and greeted them most civilly. This is very kind indeed, Mrs. Fidget," says she, "and I esteem it a great favour. I had no idea you would have walked so far; I am delighted to see you."

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Mrs. Fidget assured her she might take it as a particular favour, for she had not done such a thing, she believed, for the last six months, and she would never have attempted it now to visit anybody else!

Thinks I to myself, then Mrs. Fidget you have lost your labour. "And now," says she, "how I am to get home again I am sure I cannot tell, for I am thoroughly knocked up." Thinks I to myself, my dear mother won't much like to hear that; but I was mistaken; for turning to Mrs. Fidget she said with the greatest marks of complacency, "That's good hearing for us; then we shall have the pleasure of your company to dinner; Mr. Dermot will be delighted when he comes home to find you all here." Oh, you are very good," says Mrs. Fidget, "but I must return, whether I can walk or not; only I fear I must trouble you with a longer visit than may be agreeable." "The longer the better," says my dear mother. Thinks I to myself, that's a bouncer!!

While my mother and Mrs. Fidget were engaged in this friendly and complimentary conversation, the Misses Fidget were lifting up the little boy to a cage in which my mother's favourite canary-bird hung, and the boy was sedulously poking his fingers through the wires of the cage, to the great alarm and annoyance of the poor little animal. Thinks I to myself, my mother will wish you behind the fire presently, young gentleman; but no such thing; for just at that moment she turned round, and seeing how he was