plainly and ingenuously confess that I am guilty of corruption, and do renounce all defence." The Lords came to a resolution that the Chancellor's confession appeared to be full and ingenuous, and sent a committee to inquire of him whether it was really subscribed by himself. The deputies, among whom was Southampton, the common friend, many years before, of Bacon and Essex, performed their duty with great delicacy. Indeed, the agonies of such a mind and the degradation of such a name might well have softened the most obdurate natures. 'My lords," said Bacon, "it is my act, my hand, my heart. I beseech your lordships to be merciful to a broken reed." They withdrew; and he again retired to his chamber in the deepest dejection. The next day, the sergeant-at-arms and the usher of the House of Lords came to conduct him to West 66 minster Hall, where sentence was to be pronounced. But they found him so unwell that he could not leave his bed; and this excuse for his absence was readily accepted. In no quarter does there appear to have been any desire to add to his humiliation. The sentence was, however, severe, the more severe, no doubt, because the Lords knew it would not be executed, and that they had an excellent opportunity of exhibiting, at small cost, the inflexibility of their justice, and their abhorrence of corruption. Bacon was condemned to pay a fine of £40,000, and to be imprisoned in the Tower during the king's pleasure. He was declared incapable of holding any office in the State or of sitting in Parliament; and he was banished for life from the verge of the court. In such misery and shame ended that long carcer of worldly wisdom and worldly prosperity. [JOHN PIERPOINT. Born at Lichfield, Conn., U.S., April 6, 1785. Educated at Yale College. Began life at the Bar; but became subsequently a merchant; afterwards a minister of the Unitarian Church.] CANNOT make him dead! His fair sunshiny head Is ever bounding round my Yet when my eyes, now dim The vision vanishes-he is not I walk my parlour floor, I hear a footfall on the chamber stair: I'm stepping toward the hall To give the boy a call, And then bethink me that he is not there! When, at the cool, grey break Of day, from sleep I wake, With my first breathing of the morning air, My soul goes up with joy To Him who gave my boy; Then comes the sad thought that he is not there! When, at the day's calm close, I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer, I am, in spirit, praying For our boy's spirit, though he is not there! Not there! Where, then, is he? The form I used to see Was but the raiment that he used to wear. The grave, that now doth press Is but his wardrobe locked-he is not there! He lives! In all the past He lives; nor, to the last, Of seeing him again will I despair: I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!" Yes, we all live to God! Father, thy chastening rod So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, That, in the spirit-land, Meeting at thy right hand, "Twill be our heaven to find that he is there! ho, which diverged from the main road and passed through Rugby itself. And as the Tally-ho was an early coach, they had driven out to the "Peacock" to be on the road. "Now, sir, time to get up, if you please. Tally-ho, | resolved that Tom should travel down by the Tallycoach for Leicester 'll be round in half-an-hour, and don't wait for nobody." So spake the Boots of the "Peacock Inn," Islington, at half-past two o'clock on the morning of a day in the early part of November, 183-, giving Tom at the same time a shake by the shoulder, and then putting down a candle and carrying off his shoes to clean. Tom had never been in London, and would have liked to have stopped at the "Belle Savage," where they had been put down by the Star, just at dusk, Tom and his father had arrived in town from that he might have gone roving about those Berkshire the day before, and finding, on inquiry, endless, mysterious, gas-lit streets, which, with that the Birmingham coaches which ran from the their glare and hum and moving crowds, excited city did not pass through Rugby, but deposited him so that he couldn't talk even. But as soon as their passengers at Dunchurch, a village three he found that the "Peacock" arrangement would miles distant on the main road, where said passen- get him to Rugby by twelve o'clock in the day, gers had to wait for the Oxford and Leicester coach whereas otherwise he wouldn't be there till the in the evening, or to take a post-chaise-had evening, all other plans melted away; his one 51-VOL. I. By kind permission of the Author. absorbing aim being to become a public schoolboy as fast as possible, and six hours sooner or later seeming to him of the most alarming importance. Tom and his father had alighted at the "Peacock," at about seven in the evening; and having heard with unfeigned joy the paternal order at the bar, of steaks and oyster-sauce for supper in half-an-hour, and seen his father seated cosily by the bright fire in the coffee-room with the paper in his hand-Tom had run out to see about him, had wondered at all the vehicles passing and repassing, and had fraternised with the Boots and ostler, from whom he ascertained that the Tally-ho was a tip-top goer, ten miles an hour including stoppages, and so punctual that all the road set their clocks by her. Then, being summoned to supper, he had regaled himself in one of the bright little boxes of the "Peacock" coffee-room on the beef-steak and unlimited oyster-sauce, and brown stout (tasted then for the first time-a day to be marked for ever by Tom with a white stone); had at first attended to the excellent advice which his father was bestowing on him from over his glass of steaming brandy and water, and then begun nodding, from the united effects of the stout, the fire, and the lecture. Till the squire observing Tom's state, and remembering that it was nearly nine o'clock, and that the Tally-ho left at three, sent the little fellow off to the chambermaid, with a shake of the hand (Tom having stipulated in the morning before starting, that kissing should now cease between them) and a few parting words. "And now, Tom, my boy," said the squire, "remember you are going, at your own earnest request, to be chucked into this great school, like a young bear, with all your troubles before youearlier than we should have sent you, perhaps. If schools are what they were in my time, you'll see a great many cruel blackguard things done, and hear a deal of foul bad talk. But never fear. You tell the truth, keep a brave and kind heart, and never listen to or say anything you wouldn't have your mother and sister hear, and you'll never feel ashamed to come home, or we to see you." The allusion to his mother made Tom feel rather chokey, and he would have liked to have hugged his father well, if it hadn't been for the recent stipulation. As it was, he only squeezed his father's hand, and looked bravely up and said, "I'll try, father." "I know you will, my boy. Is your money all safe?" “Yes,” said Tom, diving into one pocket to make sure. "And your keys ?" said the squire. "Well then, good night. God bless you! I'll tell Boots to call you, and be up to see you off." Tom was carried off by the chambermaid in a brown study, from which he was roused in a clean little attic, by that buxom person calling him a little darling, and kissing him as she left the room; which indignity he was too much surprised to resent. And still thinking of his father's last words, and the look with which they were spoken, he knelt down and prayed that, come what might, he might never bring shame and sorrow on the dear folk at home. Indeed, the squire's last words deserved to have their effect, for they had been the result of much anxious thought. All the way up to London he had pondered what he should say to Tom by way of parting advice; something that the boy could keep in his head ready for use. By way of assist ing meditation, he had even gone the length of taking out his flint and steel, and tinder, and hammering away for a quarter of an hour till he had manufactured a light for a long Trichinopoli cheroot, which he silently puffed; to the no small wonder of Coachee, who was an old friend, and an institution on the Bath road; and who always expected to talk on the prospects and doings, agricultural and social, of the whole county when he carried the squire. sent to school to To condense the squire's meditation, it was somewhat as follows: "I won't tell him to read his Bible, and love and serve God; if he don't do that for his mother's sake and teaching, he won't for mine. Shall I go into the sort of temptations he'll meet with? No, I can't do that. Never do for an old fellow to go into such things with a boy. He won't understand me. Do him more harm than good, ten to one. Shall I tell him to mind his work, and say he's make himself a good scholar? Well, but he isn't sent to school for that-at any rate, not for that mainly. I don't care a straw for Greek particles, or the digamma, no more does his mother. What is he sent to school for? Well, partly because he wanted so to go. If he'll only turn out a brave, helpful, truth-telling Englishman, and a gentleman, and a Christian, that's all I want," thought the squire; and upon this view of the case framed his last words of advice to Tom, which were well enough suited to his purpose. For they were Tom's first thoughts as he tumbled out of bed at the summons of Boots, and proceeded rapidly to wash and dress himself. At ten minutes to three he was down in the coffee-room in his stockings, carrying his hatbox, coat, and comforter in his hand; and there he found his father nursing a bright fire, and a cup of hot coffee and a hard biscuit on the "All right," said Tom, diving into the other table. pocket. "Now then, Tom, give us your things here, and THE PROUD MISS MACBRIDE. drink this; there's nothing like starting warm, old fellow." Tom addressed himself to the coffee, and prattled away while he worked himself into his shoes and his great-coat, well warned through; a Petersham coat with velvet collar, made tight after the abominable fashion of those days. And just as he is swallowing his last mouthful, winding his comforter round his throat, and tucking the ends into the breast of his coat, the horn sounds. Boots looks in and says, Tally-ho, sir;" and they hear the ring and the rattle of the four fast trotters and the town-made drag, as it dashes up to the "Peacock." 66 "Anything for us, Bob?" says the burly guard, dropping down from behind, and slapping himself across the chest. "Young genl'm'n, Rugby; three parcels, Leicester; hamper o' game, Rugby," answers ostler. 66 "Tell young gent to look alive," says guard, opening the hind-boot and shooting in the parcels, after examining them by the lamps. 'Here, shove the portmanteau up a-top-I'll fasten him presently. Now then, sir, jump up behind." "Good-bye, father-my love at home." A last shake of the hand. Up goes Tom, the guard catching his hat-box and holding on with one hand, while with the other he claps the horn to his mouth. Toot, toot, toot! the ostlers let go their heads, the four bays plunge at the collar, and away goes the Tally-ho into the darkness, forty-five seconds from the time they pulled up; ostler, Boots, and the squire stand looking after them under the "Peacock" lamp. 403 then the guard, having disposed of his luggage, comes to an anchor, and finishes his buttonings and other preparations for facing the three hours before dawn; no joke for those who minded cold, on a fast coach in November, in the reign of his late majesty. I sometimes think that you boys of this generation are a deal tenderer fellows than we used to be. At any rate, you're much more comfortable travellers, for I see every one of you with his rug or plaid, and other dodges for preserving the caloric, and most of you going in those fuzzy, dusty, padded first-class carriages. It was another affair altogether, a dark ride on the top of the Tally-ho, I can tell you, in a tight Petersham coat, and your feet dangling six inches from the floor. Then you knew what cold was, and what it was to be without legs, for not a bit of feeling had you in them after the first half-hour. But it had its pleasures, the old dark ride. First, there was the consciousness of silent endurance, so dear to every Englishman-of standing out against something, and not giving in. Then there was the music of the rattling harness, and the ring of the horses' feet on the hard road, and the glare of the two bright lamps through the steaming hoarfrost, over the leaders' ears, into the darkness; and the cheery toot of the guard's horn, to warn some drowsy pikeman or the ostler at the next change; and the looking forward to daylightand last but not least, the delight of returning sensation in your toes. Then the break of dawn and the sunrise, where can they be ever seen in perfection but from a coach roof? You want motion and change and music to see them in their glory; not the music of singingmen and singing-women, but good silent music, which sets itself in your own head, the accompaniment of work and getting over the ground. Oн, terribly proud was Miss MacBride, There was pride in the head she carried so high, Pride in her lip, and pride in her eye; A sigh that a pair of elegant feet, For such is the common footing; Oh, terribly proud was Miss MacBride- That wouldn't have borne dissection; Proud of her wit, and proud of her walk, Proud of her teeth, and proud of her talk, Proud of "knowing cheese from chalk" On a very slight inspection; Proud abroad, and proud at home, It seems a singular thing to say, In sooth, her dull, auricular drum What lowly meant she didn't know, The meaning of meek she never knew, But imagined the phrase had something to do With "Moses," a German Jew, 66 Who, like all hawkers, the country through, Even her graces-not her grace, Sat very stiffly upon her. She never confessed a favour aloud, And yet the pride of Miss MacBride, Had really no foundation; But, like the fabrics that gossips devise- And grow till they reach a four-story size- "Tis a curious fact as ever was known That pride, like pigs of a certain breed, That her wit should never have made her vain And as to her musical powers, Although she sang until she was hoarse, And issued notes with a banker's force, They are just such notes as we never endorse For any acquaintance of ours! Her birth, indeed, was uncommonly high- And in talking about her wealth and worth, Of all the notable things on earth, Among our "fierce democracy!" English and Irish, French and Spanish, In one conglomeration. So subtle a tangle of blood, indeed, Depend upon it, my snobbish friend, By some plebeian vocation; Or, worse than that, your boasted line That plagued some worthy relation! Alack for many ambitious beaux, A thriving tailor begged her hand, In a way that was quite appalling; |