Shakspeare and Ben Jonson were _vagrants_, deserving of the stocks; poetry was foolishness; law, politics, and money-making the sole occupations worthy of a masculine and vigorous mind. "For a profound knowledge of the common law of England," says the biographer, "he stands unrivaled. As a judge he was above all suspicion of corruption; yet most men," adds Lord Campbell, "I am afraid, would rather have been Bacon than Coke." We participate in his Lordship's fear. Aware of the lax period in which both flourished, we are willing to attribute many of the faults of both to the age in which their lot was cast. Their virtues and intellectual prowess were all then own; and let us once enter upon a comparison of these, and the lofty, universal genius of Bacon will shine as the noonday sun in the firmament where the duller orb of Coke shall cease to be visible. [From Household Words.] FATHER AND SON. One evening in the month of March, 1798--that dark time in Ireland's annals whose memory (overlooking all minor subsequent _emeutes_) is still preserved among us, as "the year of the rebellion"--a lady and gentleman were seated near a blazing fire in the old-fashioned dining-room of a large, lonely mansion. They had just dined; wine and fruit were on the table, both untouched, while Mr. Hewson and his wife sat silently gazing at the fire, watching its flickering light becoming gradually more vivid as the short spring twilight faded into darkness. At length the husband poured out a glass of wine, drank it off, and then broke silence, by saying, "Well, well, Charlotte, these are awful times; there were ten men taken up to-day for burning Cotter's house at Knockane; and Tom Dycer says that every magistrate in the country is a marked man." Mrs. Hewson cast a frightened glance toward the windows, which opened nearly to the ground, and gave a view of a wide, tree-besprinkled lawn, through whose centre a long straight avenue led to the high-road. There was also a footpath at either side of the house, branching off through close thickets of trees, and reaching the road by a circuitous route. "Listen, James!" she said, after a pause, "what noise is that?" "Nothing but the sighing of the wind among the trees. Come, wife, you must not give way to imaginary fears." "But really I heard something like footsteps on the gravel, round the gable-end--I wish--" A knock at the parlor door interrupted her. "Come in." The door opened, and Tim Gahan, Mr. Hewson's confidential steward and right-hand man, entered, followed by a fair-haired, delicate-looking boy of six years' old, dressed in deep mourning. "Well, Gahan, what do you want?" "I ask your honor's pardon for disturbing you and the mistress; but I thought it right to come and tell you the bad news I heard." "Something about the rebels, I suppose?"