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be dear to every lover of science, and every friend of his race. So large, various, and rich were his offerings at the shrine of knowledge; so immense his contributions to the cause of truth; so vigorous the touch by him communicated to the human mind; that his worship should be found cõextensive with the limits of humanity. If then we would pay acceptable service to his memory, let us recollect that it can be done in no other way than by studying his immortal works, and gazing on the image of his character there mirrored forth. By so doing, we shall gain a correct and an exalted impression of his moral and intellectual qualities. In the solemn magnificence of his style, and manner both of expression and illustration—in the majesty of his thoughts, and the elevation of his sentiments—we have a sort of loquens pictura of the man from whose capacious intellect they burst into existence. His views of things, of knowledge, and of nature, are grand and impressive. They were evidently the views of a feeling, thoughtful, and somewhat enthusiastic mind, and as far removed from the sordidness of a selfish and venial spirit, as earth from Heaven. No reader can faithfully peruse his essays, or the Advancement of Learning,' or even almost a single fragment bearing the impress of his hand, without inhaling a particle of that divinity, goodness, solid wisdom, and deep veneration for the great interests of humanity, with which they are every where richly impregnated. But yet Lord Bacon was not faultless. He was sometimes wrong in his philosophy, and many of his opinions were evidently tinged with superstition, while others were superficial and unjust. He had, it is true, broken the chains of scholastic babble and time-honored dogmatism; but the rust that he could not remove, and the stiffness they had necessarily imparted to his intellectual motions, even when freedom from their galling embrace was fully attained, were the impediments that retarded, though they did not prevent, his onward march they precluded the universality, but did not check the certainty, or eclipse the glory, of his triumph. The virtues and faults of such a man cannot but be an intensely interesting subject of inquiry. He who occupies so proud a niche in the temple of fame, must of necessity acquire, even for the minuter features of his character, a closer inspection than they probably deserve. The fact, however, that they were the characteristics of one of the intellectual sovereigns of the human race, invests them with an accredited title, if commendable, to a warmer, a louder praise - if censurable, to a severer, and of course a more public, reprobation. At least, such is the practice of the world-whether just or not, is another question. It is familiar to every one, that the character of Lord Bacon, considered in this important aspect, has suffered under severe, and it cannot be said entirely unjust, imputations. Charges of extensive corruption, in the discharge of his high duties as Lord Chancellor of England, were made against him, and partially established, in consequence of which he was degraded from his high dignities, and for a while plunged in deep disgrace. Yet we cannot but think that he has been condemned in a spirit too stern, and in terms too harsh and unsympathizing. That his reputation has suffered far more than the established facts of the case warrant, is an opinion which has long been held by a few, and which, as it is said, is so well supported

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by statements recently brought forward by Mr. Basil Montague, in a late work on the life of Lord Bacon, that it is likely to become universal. It is clearly shown,' says Lord Brougham, in a note appended to his recent theologico-philosophical performance, that he was prevailed upon by the intrigues of James I., and his profligate ministry, to abandon his defence, and sacrifice himself to their base and crooked policy. One thing, however, is undeniable-that those who so loudly blame Bacon, overlook the meanness of almost all the great statesmen of those courtly times.' It is nothing but common justice, that in our estimation of his character, we should remember the vitia temporis,' as well as the 'vitia hominis.' The former do not, it is true, excuse, but they often extenuate the latter. They increase the temptations and facilities, while they lessen the guilt, of their commission. Lord Bacon is reported by one of his earliest biographers Dr. Rawley, his chaplain to have said that he was frail, and did partake of the abuses of the times;' upon which this writer proceeds to remark as follows: And surely of its severities also. The great cause of his suffering is to some a secret. I leave them to find out by his words to King James: I wish as I am the first so I may be the last sacrifice in your times, and when your private appetite is resolved that a creature shall be sacrificed, it is easy to pick up sticks enough from any thicket, whither it had strayed, to make a fire to offer it with.' It is not our purpose, at present, to pursue this question in extenso. Many additional facts might be stated, and much more be said, but this is not the place. We may observe, however, that the well-known lines of Pope have probably done more than any thing else toward circulating and perpetuating exaggerated impressions of the moral delinquency of this foremost of wisdom's children.

'If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shined,
The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind.'

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This is giving him a bad preeminence' with a vengeance. Surely if poetry may be a splendid vehicle of truth, it may also be made a base instrument of slander and falsehood. For it is not true that Bacon was the meanest of mankind.' Why was he the meanest ? Was it because, in the tumultuous whirl of public affairs, in the distracted moments of pecuniary embarrassment, in the weakness of private sympathy, he erred, and momentarily strayed from the enclosures of judicial rectitude?—which fault too, was contrary to every avowed and admitted principle of his character, and the whole spirit and tenor of his writings. Bacon's course did exhibit a deflexion from duty, but it was only the stoop of the eagle from his lofty flight." No: these famous lines do not tell the truth, because they tell more than is true. They are unjust to the memory of a very good and a very noble-minded man. It may be true that he whose glory they asperse, because they unworthily exaggerate his guilt, was the wisest and brightest,' but that he can with any propriety be handed down to posterity, as the meanest of mankind,' is a doctrine which historical accuracy and logical discrimination equally condemn. Poetical adjudications, however, are perhaps generally to be received with several grains of allowance. Truth is a creature

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sometimes handsomely panegyrized, sometimes brilliantly adorned, but not unfrequently, also, very roughly handled by the sons of Parnassus. Her fair features are often discolored by the bold brush of fancy, and her faultless form distorted by the rack, or suited to the Procrustean dimensions of a laboring invention. The calumnious couplet just referred to is both an exemplification and a proof of this remark.

H.

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And I will joy to meet thee, and will clasp
Thine icy hand in mine, and yield my breath
Unto thy slightest bidding, while I grasp

Thy full and opiate cup, and bless thee, Death!
Charleston, (S. C.,) Oct., 1836.

M. E. L.

MAJOR ROCKET.

MINE is an awkward nature. I have never been apt at taking the tide of fortune, even when setting most auspiciously in the true direction. Some how, I invariably see the chance when too late, put off its employment, and linger until the ebb, and then, when the effort is of no avail, I plunge incontinently forward. As you may suppose, my course then is entirely up-hill, or, to continue the figure, up-current-full of riffles, snags, and sawyers, like that of a Mississippi steamboat. In large and little matters, all the same, it is never my good fortune to take advantage of the opportunity. I can see it well enough after it has gone by, and when there is no recall — but not before. Looking back upon the past time, and enumerating to myself the lost chances, their name seems to be legion, and they stand before me like so many living and mocking commentaries upon my dilly-dallying and sluggish disposition. The misfortune is, that I can neither complain of others nor of myself—were I to do the one, I feel that I should be unjust; and there is no necessity for the other. They anticipate my self-reproaches; and in this respect, at least, they serve me, and save me from a world of trouble. Nor is my knowledge of my own failing confined to myself; my friends and enemies are alike acquainted with it, and the nickname of Topic, the Unready,' which they have given me, pursues me in every quarter, and keeps pace with my destiny. The stage and steamboat are always sure to leave me just as I arrive out of breath; the show has just closed or is gone before I look upon it, and there is sure to be some acquaintance at hand, at the unlucky moment of disappointment, to exclaim, 'Ah, Topic, my dear fellow as usual- just in

time to be

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This is the curse! I came into the world by half an hour too late, and after the proper time. I have tried through life, but in vain, to recover that lost half hour. In all things I feel its loss in trifling and important concerns I suffer by it equally—and whether I love or hate whether I come to woo or fight, I am still sure never to be in time; I am always Topic, the Unready.' It is true that my friends ascribe my misfortunes to another cause, and insist that my inveterate habit of talking, in illustration of which they have given me the first part of my title, is the sole occasion of my various mishaps; but either I do not know myself, which would be strange indeed or they are studiously bent to misrepresent me. I never talk out of season, though, I confess, I frequently come too late to talk with any hope of success. Some other confounded fellow has used up' all my arguments, or the audience is just gone as I begin to lay them down. Every body admits, however, that I talk well; yet they contend, and most strongly too, that there is no necessity for me to talk at all. Every body insists that I am always in too great a hurry yet they clamor that I am never in time. My friends are continually asking my opinion, and provoking me to argument, yet they are sure never to listen to me out, or acknowledge the justice of what I say; and I am mortified to death, daily, to discover that they are invariably inclined to agree in opinion, after all I have said, with some green-eyed man sitting in a corner, who has only shaken his head and said nothing!

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