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

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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.

CANNOT make him dead!

His fair sunshiny head

Is ever bounding round my
study chair;

Yet when my eyes, now dim
With tears, I turn to him,

The vision vanishes-he is not
there!

I walk my parlour floor,
And through the open door

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,
Before we seek repose,

I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer,
Whate'er I may be saying,

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
Upon that cast-off dress,

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:
In dream, I see him now;
And, on his angel brow,

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!

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

"Now then, Tom, give us your things here, and

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."

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"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.

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"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.

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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,
The very personification of pride,
As she minced along, in fashion's tide,
Adown Broadway-on the proper side-
When the golden sun was setting;

There was pride in the head she carried so high,

Pride in her lip, and pride in her eye;
And a world of pride in the very sigh
That her stately bosom was fretting:

A sigh that a pair of elegant feet,
Sandalled in satin, should kiss the street-
The very same that the vulgar greet
In common leather, not over "neat"

For such is the common footing;
(And Christian tears may well be shed,
That, even among our gentlemen-bred,
The glorious Dey of Morocco is dead,
And Day and Martin are reigning instead,
On much inferior footing).

Oh, terribly proud was Miss MacBride-
Proud of her beauty, and proud of her pride,
And proud of fifty matters beside,

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,
Proud wherever she chanced to come-
When she was glad, and when she was glum;
Proud as the head of a Saracen
Over the door of a tippling-shop;
Proud as a duchess, proud as a fop,
"Proud as a boy with a bran-new top❞—
Proud beyond comparison.

It seems a singular thing to say,
But her very senses led her astray
Respecting all humility;

In sooth, her dull, auricular drum
Could find in humble only a "hum,"
And heard no sound of "gentle" come
In talking about gentility.

What lowly meant she didn't know,
For she always avoided "everything low,"
With care the most punctilious;
And, queerer still, the audible sound
Of" super-silly" she never had found
In the adjective supercilious.

The meaning of meek she never knew,

But imagined the phrase had something to do With "Moses," a German Jew,

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Who, like all hawkers, the country through,
Was
a person of no position;"
And it seemed to her exceedingly plain,
If the word was really known to pertain
To a vulgar German, it wasn't germane
To a lady of high condition.

Even her graces-not her grace,
For that was in the "vocative case-"
Chilled with the touch of her icy face,

Sat very stiffly upon her.

She never confessed a favour aloud,
Like one of the simple, common crowd,
But coldly smiled, and faintly bowed,
As who should say, "You do me proud,
And do yourself an honour!"

And yet the pride of Miss MacBride,
Although it had fifty hobbies to ride,

Had really no foundation;

But, like the fabrics that gossips devise-
Those single stories that often arise

And grow till they reach a four-story size-
Was merely a fancy creation!

"Tis a curious fact as ever was known
In human nature, but often shown
Alike in castle and cottage,

That pride, like pigs of a certain breed,
Will manage to live and thrive on "feed"
As poor as a pauper's pottage!

That her wit should never have made her vain
Was-like her face-sufficiently plain,

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-
For Miss MacBride first opened her eye
Through a skylight dim, on the light of the sky;
But-pride is a curious passion,

And in talking about her wealth and worth,
She always forgot to mention her birth
To people of rank and fashion!

Of all the notable things on earth,
The queerest one is pride of birth

Among our "fierce democracy!"
A bridge across a hundred years,
Without a prop to save it from sneers—
Not even a couple of rotten peers-
A thing for laughter, fleers, and jeers,
Is American aristocracy!

English and Irish, French and Spanish,
German, Italian, Dutch, and Danish,
Crossing their veins until they vanish

In one conglomeration.

So subtle a tangle of blood, indeed,
No Heraldry-Harvey will ever succeed
In finding the circulation!

Depend upon it, my snobbish friend,
Your family thread you can't ascend,
Without good reason to apprehend
You may find it waxed at the farther end,

By some plebeian vocation;

Or, worse than that, your boasted line
May end in a loop of stronger twine,

That plagued some worthy relation!

Alack for many ambitious beaux,
She hung their hopes upon her nose-
The figure is quite Horatian!—
Until, from habit, the member grew
As very a hook as ever eye knew,
To the commonest observation.

A thriving tailor begged her hand,
But she gave "the fellow" to understand,
By a violent manual action,
She perfectly scorned the best of his clan,
And reckoned the ninth of any man
An exceedingly vulgar fraction!
Another, whose sign was a golden boot,
Was mortified with a bootless suit,

In a way that was quite appalling;
For, though a regular sutor by trade,
He wasn't a suitor to suit the maid;
Who cut him off with a saw-and bade
"The cobbler keep to his calling!"