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in which Bacon can be suspected of perverting justice. To suggest that he sold it for money is so wildly absurd as not to be worth arguing about. Yet this is what his contemporaries were led to believe! in K121 Parliament was again summoned. it does not seem to have crossed Bacon's mind that he might be less acceptable to the Commons than formerly. He feared that there might be some trouble about the monopolies, and advised that the more oppressive should be removed; but his advice was not followed, and Parliament met in an angry humor. At first there appeared a disposition to make Bacon responsible in his official character for the monopolies; but soon rumors of a more ominous kind began to be heard. it was said that the Lord Chancellor had received gratuities, not only from suitors whose cases had been decided—that was merely the usual custom—but from some whose cases were still awaiting judgment. Secure in the consciousness of rectitude. Bacon heard the charge almost with indifference. "My mind is calm," he wrote, "... i know that i have clean hands and a clean heart." it was only by degrees that the conviction was forced upon him that, however innocent as to the spirit, he had so far transgressed the letter of the law, that the charges against him might be made to look very black indeed. Presents had been sent to him, even while cases were pending; but while disapproving of the practice, and warning the other judges against it. he. sure of his own incorruptibility, had not troubled to send them back. "i take myself,'' he wrote, "to be innocent in my heart"; but he had no longer any hope of making hN innocence clear to the world. "The proofs" were "too pregnant to the contrary." His nerve broke down utterly, and he acknowledged himself guilty without reservation. His con
temporaries, believing him to be guilty of corruption in its fullest sense, stood aghast in horror; "his offence foul, his confession pitiful." Coke unearthed the precedent of a judge who had been hanged for bribery. Southampton urged that Bacon should be degraded from the peerage. Neither of these charitable suggestions was adopted: but Bacon was effectually driven from public life. The few years remaining to him he devoted to philosophy, lamenting, with manifest sincerity and pellucid truth, that he had misspent his life in things for which he was least fit. "i have read in books," he said, "that it is accounted great bliss for a man to have leisure with honor. That was never my fortune. Time was when i had honor without leisure, and now i have leisure without honor." He died in his sixty-sixth year, leaving his reputation to "men's charitable speeches, to foreign nations, and to the next ages."
it cannot be that the historian of the future will adopt Mr. Spedding's magnificent apology in its entirety. A reaction has already set in. Mr. Sidney Lee, for instance, is hardly less severe than Macaulay in judging Bacon's conduct to Essex. Professor Gardiner, though anxious to place Bacon's character in the best light, laments his flattery and obsequiousness, and his "reliance on management at the expense of truthfuiness." Grave charges remain; but those who see faultiness in the details of his life will nevertheless recognize the nobility of his general scheme. No one will ever again assert with Macaulay that Bacon's "desires were set on things below" to the exclusion of high and unselfish aspirations; or that—difficult as it was for him "to feel strong affections, to face great dangers, or to make great sacrifices"—he had no loftier ambition than the acquisition of "wealth, precedence, titles, patronage, the mace, the seals. the coronet," and things of the sort. To these things Bacon was not indifferent; but he had, to a degree unbelievable by the ordinary man, the wish to benefit mankind, to improve and civilize human life, to heal and pacify the divisions of the nation. it is reaThe Gentleman's Magazine.
sonable to judge with some indulgence the mistakes and weaknesses of one the benevolence of whose heart was "large enough to take in all racps and all ages." 20
Ethel M. Helleirex. MMacaulay: "Essay on Bacon."
THE ENEMY'S CAMP.
"My dear,"—Mr. Lauriston was addressing his wife Charlotte—"did 1 hear you say you have brought no wine?"
"i did not consider it necessary," returned the lady decisively; "but there are two sorts of lemonade and some lime-juice, and a kind of pink sherbet which, i am told, is very refreshing. You will be much better without stimulant for a time."
Mr. Lauriston's face fell as he seated himself stiffly on a mackintosh, a precaution of his wife. He was already beginning to regret his expansiveness on that evening a month ago, when, in the course of a discussion of plans for the summer, he had described to the ladles some of the holidays of his youth, and among them that halycon fortnight which he had once spent under canvas by a river. He remembered now the thrill of half pleasurable surprise that had run through him when Agatha, his niece, said: "How delightful! Why shouldn't we do it this summer, if we could find a very quiet place?" He remembered how the novelty of the suggestion had at first alarmed the others, but how, little by little, conversation had seemed to smooth away all difficulties, how Mrs. Lauriston had gradually yielded to the pleading of the girls, how at last they had gone to bed fully determined to carry out the scheme. He remembered, too, how he had long lain awake reviving old memories of rivers, boats,
and tents, of clear starlit nights and hot cloudless days, of a time when there was not a care in the world ami life's only business seemed to be to acquire health and happiness, its only anxiety a lively curiosity about the next meal; and how at last he had fallen asleep convinced that he was about to renew his youth.
This idea had endured through all the preparation for the great expedition, and he .had joined in the enthusiasm as blithely as a boy. Everything had gone smoothly; he had met a man in the City who knew of the quietest nook in England, where a family might camp out for months and never see a soul. He had met another man who knew all about tents and could put him in the way of the very latest pattern, a peculiarly perfect kind that no wind could disturb, no rain penetrate, a kind with a firm wooden floor which defied the damp. He had found a useful ally in Martin, the invaluable person who looked after his garden at Ealing, tended the pony, cleaned the boots, waited at table on occasion, and was extremely willing to join in any scheme that might be suggested to him.
The idea had survived the journey, the long drive from the station in the middle of packing-cases and goods piled high on a farmer's wagon; it had survived the erection of the tents, at which Mr. Lauriston assisted by precept while Martin and the farmer's man did the heavy work; it had even survived the unpacking which, it is true, was principally done by Mrs. Laurlston and Agatha, with Martin's assistance.
But since then Mr. Laurlston had had time to observe things more minutely. He agreed that the spot deserved all the praises which his City friend had bestowed on it; there were fine trees all round, the stream at his feet flowed clear and not too deep over a gravel bed, and in that umbrageous corner the ladies could bathe unseen and, equally important, without fear of drowning; the noise of the distant/weir came pleasantly on the evening air. But there was something lacking; something was different from what he remembered of camping out in the days of his youth. A strange feeling almost of loneliness came over him, and shaking himself a little he rose from the stone on which he had been sitting and returned to the encampment where he found the ladies ready for the evening meal. Mr. Lauriston remembered with something like a pang that it was called supper.
Then ensued the short dialogue recorded, and Mr. Lauriston's face fell. The prospect before him should have been enchanting. Yielding to her younger niece's importunity Aunt Charlotte had decided that, as it was so warm, they might safely sup in the open air and not in the tent that had been erected as a living and store-room. A low sun sent mild beams through the willows on their right, and touched the forks and spoons lying on the white table-cloth with points of fire. Smooth turf, the girls had decided, was a much nicer table than the wooden one in the tent, and they had spread out the viands pic-nic fashion. Aunt Charlotte had insisted on having a camp-stool, declaring that she was much too old to sit on the ground, though indeed age was a thing that she carried so lightly
as to make it doubtful. Beside her reclined her niece, Cicely Neave, whose dark eyes were fixed on Mr. Lauriston in mischievous amusement. Her elder sister, Agatha, was Mislly cutting a loaf. The fifth of the party, a friend of the two girls, sat gazing dreamily at the sunlit waters, prettily completing the circle.
But Mr. Lauriston regarded none of these things. His gaze was fixed on a plain tumbler which had just been filled with water. "Aunt Charlotte didn't forget the filter," said Cicely reassuringly.
"And i had it boiled, too," added Aunt Charlotte with slight self-appreciation. "Boiled!" ejaculated Mr. Lauriston. "it's always safest," Aunt Charlotte explained. "Probably the well is all right, but one never knows."
"You see she never forgets anything," said Cicely, whose air showed that she expected Aunt Charlotte's lord and master to express satisfaction.
"Except my wine," grumbled Mr. Lauriston, "and i had made a most careful selection."
"it was so heavy," answered his wife, "that i decided not to bring it . You will be all the better for simple fare. After a day in the City perhaps
a glass of wine"
it suddenly came upon Mr. Lauriston with the force of a revelation that he was the only man there. The femininity of his circle had never impressed itself so before. He decided to rebel. "Martin," he called. Martin came out of the store-tent. "is there nothing to drink?"
Cicely pointed reproachfully to his glass, and as this had no effect, "There are two kinds of lemonade," she
began, "and lime-juice, and "but
Mr. i^auriston ignored her for once and repeated his question.
Martin confessed to having some stout not included in Mrs. Lauriston's catalogue, and a bottle of this was set before the rebel, with the happy effect of restoring him almost to good humor. "And what have you young ladies been doing while we unpacked?" he asked more cheerfully as he carved the pie that lay before him. "Have you found some likely subjects, Miss Doris?"
The girl withdrew her dreamy eyes from the landscape and accepted the plate which he offered her. "i found some sweet cottages," she said, "all over honeysuckle and roses, and such a quaint little church, with the funniest "old sexton who told me he had lived in the village man and boy for seventythree years, and said he never wanted to go away from it. i sat down on a bench in the porch and watched him pulling up weeds from the churchyard path. it was all so restful and simple that i began to wonder why we ever live in cities."
Mr. Lauriston hardly felt equal to a discussion of the suggested subject; instead, he asked Cicely what she had been doing. "i, too, was wondering why we did not live more alone with Nature," she answered in evasive imitation of her friend's more dreamy manner.
•'That means you've been doing nothing as usual," said Agatha with sisterly sternness.
"i have been watching the fish leap in the river; i have seen the clouds
"Oh, yes," interrupted Agatha. "We know her, don't we, Uncle Henry? She brought her rug to this knoll directly we had had our tea, and here she's been ever since."
"And you wanted us to have supper outside," chuckled Mr. Lauriston. "So you got us to bring supper to you, eh, Cicely?"
"i didn't think there was a prettier place," she pleaded, but this was not accounted to her for merit. And Ne
mesis was to fall on her from Aunt Charlotte.
"Why, child," she cried, "you don't mean to say you've been lying on the damp ground with only a rug all these hours?" Cicely had to confess, though she feebly disputed the dampness. "You'll get rheumatism, my dear, or something dreadful. You must get up directly, and run and fetch a waterproof to put under the rug. Run, it will make you warm."
"Agatha packed our things and she won't like me to disturb them," objected Cicely; "and i'm quite warm already, thank you, Aunt." She fanned herself gently with a tiny pockethandkerchief to prove that if anything she was too warm. "But," she added as a concession, "i'll put some more pepper on Uncle Henry's potatoes, if you like." However, she had to get up, whereupon Mr. Lauriston resigned his mackintosh, and Martin supplied him with a camp-stool.
it was Agatha's turn next. She, it appeared, had taken quite a long walk along a lane coming back by the river. She had seen something in the distance that looked like a house-boat.
"A house-boat?" echoed Mrs. Lauriston. "i hope it isn't anywhere near here. Did you see any people on it?"
No, Agatha did not think it was very near, though the lock and back-water made it all very confusing; and she had not seen any people on it; she had not given the matter much attention. Mr. Lauriston extracted the information that a field with cows in it bad lain between her and nearer vision.
"i did see a man on the other side of the river," she admitted, "but i shouldn't think he had anything to do with the house-boat; he didn't look that sort of person."
"A man?" repeated Mr. Lauriston with interest, and he pressed Agatha for a description; but beyond noticing that the stranger looked rather disreputable and was fishing, she had not studied him.
"i trust," said Aunt Charlotte, '•that that house-boat does not mean that there are a lot of people about. Didn't Mr. Hobbs tell you that we should be <iuite alone here, that it was a place where no one ever came?" She looked aggrieved interrogation at her husband.
Mr. Lauriston answered her that it was so. "But perhaps Martin knows," he added, calling to him.
Martin appeared with another bottle of stout and a cork-screw. Aunt Charlotte's eye, however, convinced him that they were not needed. "Have you seen anything of a house-bont anywhere near here?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am," returned Martin. "There's one lying in the main river above the lock; i saw it as i was fetching the milk, an' a young gentleman asleep on top of it."
Mr. Lauriston's eye brightened involuntarily. "What did he look like?" he asked.
"Well, sir, i couldn't see 'm very plain, 'is 'at being all over 'is face, but he looked a very respectable gentleman. Very respectable 'e looked," repeated Martin meditatively. "it quite put me in mind of Ealing," he added, willing to say as much good of the stranger as honesty permitted.
"Some horrid cockney!" interjected Mrs. Lauriston. "Did you see any one else?"
"Yes, ma'am, as i was comin' back, there was four or five of them a' sittin' 'avin' their tea at a trestle-table on the bank. They wasn't so respectable as the other though." The appearance of the slumbering Charles had impressed Martin, as being the last thing that was to be expected in the wilds of the country.
Mr. Lauriston was about to say something when he caught a glimpse of his wife's face; it had settled into an expression of stony displeasure which
convinced him that his intended remark would fall on unsympathetic ears. "it won't do at all," she said firmly. "We can't camp out within a hundred yards of a lot of young men who for all we know may be criminals in disguise on a house-boat."
"They're much farther away than that," said Mr. Lauriston, wonderinginwardly what plan his wife had in her mind and how best he should combat it.
"Well, a hundred and fifty yards." conceded Aunt Charlotte. "The best plan, Henry, will be for you to go the first thing to-morrow morning and tell them to go away. it's too late tonight, i suppose," she added half regretfully.
Mr. Lauriston gasped and looked round the circle for aid; but the faces of the young ladies also expressed alarmed horror at the idea of four or five criminals in disguise within easy reach. With the pitilessness of youth Agatha said that there was no time like the present, and would not Uncle Henry go at once? it was not so~ rtry late.
"But. my dear," he protested, addressing his wife, "what earthly right
"it is not a question of right." said Mrs. Lauriston with dignity. "You will explain to them,—quite politely, of course—that there are ladies here who object to their presence, and i should hope their good feeling would show them what to do."
"Even if they are criminals disguised as house-boats," said Cicely, with an. air of adding something to the discussion.
Mr. Lauriston looked at her for a moment, half hoping that he had found an ally. But Cicely's face was still in decorous sympathy with the atmosphere of unqualified hostility to the unknown. it seemed to him that the circle had become more feminine than