FRANCIS BACON

(July 1837) _The Works of Francis Bacon, Lord Chancellor of England. A

new Edition. By BASIL MONTAGU, Esq., 16 vols. 8vo. London: 1825-1834._

|WE return our hearty thanks to Mr. Montagu for this truly valuable

work. From the opinions which he expresses as a biographer we often

dissent. But about his merit as a collector of the materials out of

which opinions are formed, there can be no dispute; and we readily

acknowledge that we are in a great measure indebted to his minute

and accurate researches for the means of refuting what we cannot but

consider as his errors.

The labour which has been bestowed on this volume has been a labour of

love. The writer is evidently enamoured of the subject. It fills his

heart. It constantly overflows from his lips and his pen. Those who are

acquainted with the Courts in which Mr. Montagu practises with so much

ability and success well know how often he enlivens the discussion of

a point of law by citing some weighty aphorism, or some brilliant

illustration, from the De Augmentis or the Novum Organum. The Life

before us doubtless owes much of its value to the honest and generous

enthusiasm of the writer. This feeling has stimulated his activity,

has sustained his perseverance, has called forth all his ingenuity and

eloquence; but, on the other hand, we must frankly say that it has, to a

great extent, perverted his judgment.

We are by no means without sympathy for Mr. Montagu even in what we

consider as his weakness. There is scarcely any delusion which has a

better claim to be indulgently treated than that under the influence

of which a man ascribes every moral excellence to those who have left

imperishable monuments of their genius. The causes of this error lie

deep in the inmost recesses of human nature. We are all inclined to

judge of others as we find them. Our estimate of a character always

depends much on the manner in which that character affects our own

interests and passions. We find it difficult to think well of those

by whom we are thwarted or depressed; and we are ready to admit every

excuse for the vices of those who are useful or agreeable to us. This

is, we believe, one of those illusions to which the whole human race is

subject, and which experience and reflection can only partially remove,

It is, in the phraseology of Bacon, one of the idola tribus. Hence it is

that the moral character of a man eminent in letters or in the fine arts

is treated, often by contemporaries, almost always by posterity, with

extraordinary tenderness. The world derives pleasure and advantage from

the performances of such a man. The number of those who suffer by his

personal vices is small, even in his own time, when compared with the

number of those to whom his talents are a source of gratification. In a

few years all those whom he has injured disappear. But his works remain,

and are a source of delight to millions. The genius of Sallust is

still with us. But the Numidians whom he plundered, and the unfortunate

husbands who caught him in their houses at unseasonable hours, are

forgotten. We suffer ourselves to be delighted by the keenness of

Clarendon’s observation, and by the sober majesty of his style, till we

forget the oppressor and the bigot in the historian. Falstaff and Tom

Jones have survived the gamekeepers whom Shakspeare cudgelled and

the landladies whom Fielding bilked. A great writer is the friend and

benefactor of his readers; and they cannot but judge of him under

the deluding influence of friendship and gratitude. We all know how

unwilling we are to admit the truth of any disgraceful story about a

person whose society we like, and from whom we have received favours;

how long we struggle against evidence, how fondly, when the facts cannot

be disputed, we cling to the hope that there may be some explanation or

some extenuating circumstance with which we are unacquainted. Just such

is the feeling which a man of liberal education naturally entertains

towards the great minds of former ages. The debt which he owes to them

is incalculable. They have guided him to truth. They have filled his

mind with noble and graceful images. They have stood by him in all

vicissitudes, comforters in sorrow, nurses in sickness, companions

in solitude. These friendships are exposed to no danger from the

occurrences by which other attachments are weakened or dissolved. Time

glides on; fortune is inconstant; tempers are soured; bonds which

seemed indissoluble are daily sundered by interest, by emulation, or by

caprice. But no such cause can affect the silent converse which we

hold with the highest of human intellects. That placid intercourse is

disturbed by no jealousies or resentments. These are the old friends

who are never seen with new faces, who axe the same in wealth and in

poverty, in glory and in obscurity. With the dead there is no rivalry.

In the dead there is no change. Plato is never sullen. Cervantes is

never petulant. Demosthenes never comes unseasonably. Dante never stays

too long. No difference of political opinion can alienate Cicero. No

heresy can excite the horror of Bossuet.

Nothing, then, can be more natural than that a person endowed

with sensibility and imagination should entertain a respectful and

affectionate feeling towards those great men with whose minds he holds

daily communion. Yet nothing can be more certain than that such men

have not always deserved to be regarded with respect or affection. Some

writers, whose works will continue to instruct and delight mankind

to the remotest ages, have been placed in such situations that their

actions and motives are as well known to us as the actions and motives

of one human being can be known to another; and unhappily their conduct

has not always been such as an impartial judge can contemplate with

approbation. But the fanaticism of the devout worshipper of genius is

proof against all evidence and all argument. The character of his idol

is matter of faith; and the province of faith is not to be invaded by

reason. He maintains his superstition with a credulity as boundless, and

a zeal as unscrupulous, as can be found in the most ardent partisans of

religious or political factions. The most decisive proofs are rejected;

the plainest rules of morality are explained away; extensive and

important portions of history are completely distorted. The enthusiast

misrepresents facts with all the effrontery of an advocate, and

confounds right and wrong with all the dexterity of a Jesuit; and all

this only in order that some man who has been in his grave during many

ages may have a fairer character than he deserves.

Middleton’s Life of Cicero is a striking instance of the influence of

this sort of partiality. Never was there a character which it was easier

to read than that of Cicero. Never was there a mind keener or more

critical than that of Middleton. Had the biographer brought to the

examination of his favourite statesman’s conduct but a very small part

of the acuteness and severity which he displayed when he was engaged in

investigating the high pretensions of Epiphanius and Justin Martyr,

he could not have failed to produce a most valuable history of a most

interesting portion of time. But this most ingenious and learned man,

though=

```“So wary held and wise

```That, as ‘twas said, he scarce received

```For gospel what the church believed,”=

had a superstition of his own. The great Iconoclast was himself an

idolater. The great Avvocato del Diavolo, while he disputed, with no

small ability, the claims of Cyprian and Athanasius to a place in the

Calendar, was himself composing a lying legend in honour of St. Tully.

He was holding up as a model of every virtue a man whose talents and

acquirements, indeed, can never be too highly extolled, and who was by

no means destitute of amiable qualities, but whose whole soul was under

the dominion of a girlish vanity and a craven fear. Actions for which

Cicero himself, the most eloquent and skilful of advocates, could

contrive no excuse, actions which in his confidential correspondence he

mentioned with remorse and shame, are represented by his biographer as

wise, virtuous, heroic. The whole history of that great revolution

which overthrew the Roman aristocracy, the whole state of parties, the

character of every public man, is elaborately misrepresented, in order

to make out something which may look like a defence of one most eloquent

and accomplished trimmer.

The volume before us reminds us now and then of the Life of Cicero. But

there is this marked difference. Dr. Middleton evidently had an uneasy

consciousness of the weakness of his cause, and therefore resorted

to the most disingenuous shifts, to unpardonable distortions and

suppressions of facts. Mr. Montagu’s faith is sincere and implicit. He

practises no trickery. He conceals nothing. He puts the facts before us

in the full confidence that they will produce on our minds the effect

which they have produced on his own. It is not till he comes to reason

from facts to motives that his partiality shows itself; and then he

leaves Middleton himself far behind. His work proceeds on the assumption

that Bacon was an eminently virtuous man. From the tree Mr. Montagu

judges of the fruit. He is forced to relate many actions which, if

any man but Bacon had committed them, nobody would have dreamed of

defending, actions which are readily and completely explained by

supposing Bacon to have been a man whose principles were not strict, and

whose spirit was not high, actions which can be explained in no other

way without resorting to some grotesque hypothesis for which there

is not a tittle of evidence. But any hypothesis is, in Mr. Montagu’s

opinion, more probable than that his hero should ever have done anything

very wrong.

This mode of defending Bacon seems to us by no means Baconian. To take

a man’s character for granted, and then from his character to infer the

moral quality of all his actions, is surely a process the very reverse

of that which is recommended in the Novum Organum. Nothing, we are sure,

could have led Mr. Montagu to depart so far from his master’s precepts,

except zeal for his master’s honour. We shall follow a different course.

We shall attempt, with the valuable assistance which Mr. Montagu has

afforded us, to frame such an account of Bacon’s life as may enable our

readers correctly to estimate his character.

It is hardly necessary to say that Francis Bacon was the son of Sir

Nicholas Bacon, who held the great seal of England during the first

twenty years of the reign of Elizabeth. The fame of the father has been

thrown into shade by that of the son. But Sir Nicholas was no ordinary

man. He belonged to a set of men whom it is easier to describe

collectively than separately, whose minds were formed by one system of

discipline, who belonged to one rank in society, to one university, to

one party, to one sect, to one administration, and who resembled each

other so much in talents, in opinions, in habits, in fortunes, that one

character, we had almost said one life, may, to a considerable extent,

serve for them all.

They were the first generation of statesmen by profession that England

produced. Before their time the division of labour had, in this respect,

been very imperfect. Those who had directed public affairs had been,

with few exceptions, warriors or priests; warriors whose rude courage

was neither guided by science nor softened by humanity, priests whose

learning and abilities were habitually devoted to the defence of

tyranny and imposture. The Hotspurs, the Nevilles, the Cliffords, rough,

illiterate, and unreflecting, brought to the council-board the fierce

and imperious disposition which they had acquired amidst the tumult

of predatory war, or in the gloomy repose of the garrisoned and moated

castle. On the other side was the calm and subtle prelate, versed in all

that was then considered as learning, trained in the Schools to manage

words, and in the confessional to manage hearts, seldom superstitious,

but skilful in practising on the superstition of others; false, as it

was natural that a man should be whose profession imposed on all who

were not saints the necessity of being hypocrites; selfish, as it was

natural that a man should be who could form no domestic ties and cherish

no hope of legitimate posterity, more attached to his order than to

his country, and guiding the politics of England with a constant

side-glance at Rome.

But the increase of wealth, the progress of knowledge, and the

reformation of religion produced a great change. The nobles ceased to

be military chieftains; the priests ceased to possess a monopoly of

learning; and a new and remarkable species of politicians appeared.

These men came from neither of the classes which had, till then, almost

exclusively furnished ministers of state. They were all laymen; yet they

were all men of learning; and they were all men of peace. They were not

members of the aristocracy. They inherited no titles, no large domains,

no armies of retainers, no fortified castles. Yet they were not low men,

such as those whom princes, jealous of the power of a nobility, have

sometimes raised from forges and cobblers’ stalls to the highest

situations. They were all gentlemen by birth. They had all received a

liberal education. It is a remarkable fact that they were all members of

the same university. The two great national seats of learning had even

then acquired the characters which they still retain. In intellectual

activity, and in readiness to admit improvements, the superiority was

then, as it has ever since been, on the side of the less ancient and

splendid institution. Cambridge had the honour of educating those

celebrated Protestant Bishops whom Oxford had the honour of burning;

and at Cambridge were formed the minds of all those statesmen to whom

chiefly is to be attributed the secure establishment of the reformed

religion in the north of Europe.

The statesmen of whom we speak passed their youth surrounded by the

incessant din of theological controversy. Opinions were still in a state

of chaotic anarchy, intermingling, separating, advancing, receding.

Sometimes the stubborn bigotry of the Conservatives seemed likely to

prevail. Then the impetuous onset of the Reformers for a moment carried

all before it. Then again the resisting mass made a desperate stand,

arrested the movement, and forced it slowly back. The vacillation which

at that time appeared in English legislation, and which it has been

the fashion to attribute to the caprice and to the power of one or two

individuals, was truly a national vacillation. It was not only in the

mind of Henry that the new theology obtained the ascendant one day, and

that the lessons of the nurse and of the priest regained their influence

on the morrow. It was not only in the House of Tudor that the husband

was exasperated by the opposition of the wife, that the son dissented

from the opinions of the father, that the brother persecuted the sister,

that one sister persecuted another. The principles of Conservation

and Reform carried on their warfare in every part of society, in every

congregation, in every school of learning, round the hearth of every

private family, in the recesses of every reflecting mind.

It was in the midst of this ferment that the minds of the persons

whom we are describing were developed. They were born Reformers. They

belonged by nature to that order of men who always form the front ranks

in the great intellectual progress. They were therefore, one and all,

Protestants. In religious matters, however, though there is no reason

to doubt that they were sincere, they were by no means zealous. None of

them chose to run the smallest personal risk during the reign of Mary.

None of them favoured the unhappy attempt of Northumberland in favour

of his daughter-in-law. None of them shared in the desperate councils

of Wyatt. They contrived to have business on the Continent; or, if they

staid in England, they heard mass and kept Lent with great decorum.

When those dark and perilous years had gone by, and when the Crown had

descended to a new sovereign, they took the lead in the reformation of

the Church. But they proceeded, not with the impetuosity of theologians,

but with the calm determination of statesmen. They acted, not like men

who considered the Romish worship as a system too offensive to God, and

too destructive of souls, to be tolerated for an hour, but like men

who regarded the points in dispute among Christians as in themselves

unimportant, and who were not restrained by any scruple of conscience

from professing, as they had before professed, the Catholic faith

of Mary, the Protestant faith of Edward, or any of the numerous

intermediate combinations which the caprice of Henry and the servile

policy of Cranmer had formed out of the doctrines of both the hostile

parties. They took a deliberate view of the state of their own country

and of the Continent: they satisfied themselves as to the leaning of the

public mind; and they chose their side. They placed themselves at

the head of the Protestants of Europe, and staked all their fame and

fortunes on the success of their party.

It is needless to relate how dexterously, how resolutely, how gloriously

they directed the politics of England during the eventful years which

followed, how they succeeded in uniting their friends and separating

their enemies, how they humbled the pride of Philip, how they backed the

unconquerable spirit of Coligny, how they rescued Holland from tyranny,

how they founded the maritime greatness of their country, how they

outwitted the artful politicians of Italy, and tamed the ferocious

chieftains of Scotland. It is impossible to deny that they committed

many acts which would justly bring on a statesman of our time censures

of the most serious kind. But, when we consider the state of morality

in their age, and the unscrupulous character of the adversaries against

whom they had to contend, we are forced to admit that it is not

without reason that their names are still held in veneration by their

countrymen.

There were, doubtless, many diversities in their intellectual and moral

character. But there was a strong family likeness. The constitution

of their minds was remarkably sound. No particular faculty was

pre-eminently developed; but manly health and vigour were equally

diffused through the whole. They were men of letters. Their minds were

by nature and by exercise well fashioned for speculative pursuits. It

was by circumstances, rather than by any strong bias of inclination,

that they were led to take a prominent part in active life. In active

life, however, no men could be more perfectly free from the faults of

mere theorists and pedants. No men observed more accurately the signs

of the times. No men had a greater practical acquaintance with human

nature. Their policy was generally characterised rather by vigilance,

by moderation, and by firmness, than by invention, or by the spirit of

enterprise.

They spoke and wrote in a manner worthy of their excellent sense. Their

eloquence was less copious and less ingenious, but far purer and more

manly than that of the succeeding generation. It was the eloquence of

men who had lived with the first translators of the Bible, and with the

authors of the Book of Common Prayer. It was luminous, dignified, solid,

and very slightly tainted with that affectation which deformed the

style of the ablest men of the next age. If, as sometimes chanced, these

politicians were under the necessity of taking a part in the theological

controversies on which the dearest interests of kingdoms were then

staked, they acquitted themselves as if their whole lives had been

passed in the Schools and the Convocation.

There was something in the temper of these celebrated men which secured

them against the proverbial inconstancy both of the Court and of the

multitude. No intrigue, no combination of rivals, could deprive them

of the confidence of their Sovereign. No parliament attacked their

influence. No mob coupled their names with any odious grievance. Their

power ended only with their lives. In this respect, their fate presents

a most remarkable contrast to that of the enterprising and brilliant

politicians of the preceding and of the succeeding generation. Burleigh

was Minister during forty years. Sir Nicholas Bacon held the great

seal more than twenty years. Sir Walter Mildmay was Chancellor of the

Exchequer twenty-three years. Sir Thomas Smith was Secretary of State

eighteen years; Sir Francis Walsingham about as long. They all died in

office, and in the enjoyment of public respect and royal favour. Far

different had been the fate of Wolsey, Cromwell, Norfolk, Somerset, and

Northumberland. Far different also was the fate of Essex, of Raleigh,

and of the still more illustrious man whose life we propose to consider.

The explanation of this circumstance is perhaps contained in the motto

which Sir Nicholas Bacon inscribed over the entrance of his hall at

Gorhambury, Mediocria firma. This maxim was constantly borne in mind

by himself and his colleagues. They were more solicitous to lay the

foundations of their power deep than to raise the structure to a

conspicuous but insecure height. None of them aspired to be sole

Minister. None of them provoked envy by an ostentatious display of

wealth and influence. None of them affected to outshine the ancient

aristocracy of the kingdom. They were free from that childish love of

titles which characterised the successful courtiers of the generation

which preceded them and of that which followed them. Only one of those

whom we have named was made a peer; and he was content with the lowest

degree of the peerage. As to money, none of them could, in that age,

justly be considered as rapacious. Some of them would, even in our time,

deserve the praise of eminent disinterestedness. Their fidelity to the

State was incorruptible. Their private morals were without stain. Their

households were sober and well governed.

Among these statesmen Sir Nicholas Bacon was generally considered as

ranking next to Burleigh. He was called by Camden “Sacris conciliis

alterum columen”; and by George Buchanan,=

`````“diu Britannici

```Regni secundum columen.”=

The second wife of Sir Nicholas and mother of Francis Bacon was Anne,

one of the daughters of Sir Anthony Cooke, a man of distinguished

learning who had been tutor to Edward the Sixth. Sir Anthony had paid

considerable attention to the education of his daughters, and lived

to see them all splendidly and happily married. Their classical

acquirements made them conspicuous even among the women of fashion of

that age. Katherine, who became Lady Killigrew, wrote Latin Hexameters

and Pentameters which would appear with credit in the Musae Etonenses.

Mildred, the wife of Lord Burleigh, was described by Roger Ascham as

the best Greek scholar among the young women of England, Lady Jane Grey

always excepted. Anne, the mother of Francis Bacon, was distinguished

both as a linguist and as a theologian. She corresponded in Greek with

Bishop Jewel, and translated his Apologia from the Latin, so correctly

that neither he nor Archbishop Parker could suggest a single alteration.

She also translated a series of sermons on fate and free-will from the

Tuscan of Bernardo Ochino. This fact is the more curious, because

Ochino was one of that small and audacious band of Italian reformers,

anathematised alike by Wittenberg, by Geneva, by Zurich, and by Rome,

from which the Socinian sect deduces its origin.

Lady Bacon was doubtless a lady of highly cultivated mind after the

fashion of her age. But we must not suffer ourselves to be deluded into

the belief that she and her sisters were more accomplished women than

many who are now living. On this subject there is, we think, much

misapprehension. We have often heard men who wish, as almost all men of

sense wish, that women should be highly educated, speak with rapture of

the English ladies of the sixteenth century, and lament that they can

find no modern damsel resembling those fair pupils of Ascham and Aylmer

who compared, over their embroidery, the styles of Isocrates and Lysias,

and who, while the horns were sounding, and the dogs in full cry, sat

in the lonely oriel, with eyes riveted to that immortal page which tells

how meekly and bravely the first great martyr of intellectual liberty

took the cup from his weeping gaoler. But surely these complaints have

very little foundation. We would by no means disparage the ladies of

the sixteenth century or their pursuits. But we conceive that those

who extol them at the expense of the women of our time forget one very

obvious and very important circumstance. In the time of Henry the Eighth

and Edward the Sixth, a person who did not read Greek and Latin could

read nothing, or next to nothing. The Italian was the only modern

language which possessed anything that could be called a literature. All

the valuable books then extant in all the vernacular dialects of Europe

would hardly have filled a single shelf, England did not yet possess

Shakspeare’s plays and the Fairy Queen, nor France Montaigne’s Essays,

nor Spain Don Quixote. In looking round a well-furnished library, how

many English or French books can we find which were extant when Lady

Jane Grey and Queen Elizabeth received their education? Chaucer,

Gower, Froissart, Commines, Rabelais, nearly complete the list. It was

therefore absolutely necessary that a woman should be uneducated or

classically educated. Indeed, without a knowledge of one of the ancient

languages no person could then have any clear notion of what was passing

in the political, the literary, or the religious world. The Latin was in

the sixteenth century all and more than all that the French was in the

eighteenth. It was the language of courts as well as of the schools. It

was the language of diplomacy; it was the language of theological

and political controversy. Being a fixed language, while the living

languages were in a state of fluctuation, and being universally known to

the learned and the polite, it was employed by almost every writer who

aspired to a wide and durable reputation. A person who was ignorant

of it was shut out from all acquaintance, not merely with Cicero

and Virgil, not merely with heavy treatises on canon-law and school

divinity, but with the most interesting memoirs, state papers, and

pamphlets of his own time, nay even with the most admired poetry and the

most popular squibs which appeared on the fleeting topics of the day,

with Buchanan’s complimentary verses, with Erasmus’s dialogues, with

Hutten’s epistles.

This is no longer the case. All political and religious controversy is

now conducted in the modern languages. The ancient tongues are used only

in comments on the ancient writers. The great productions of Athenian

and Roman genius are indeed still what they were. But though their

positive value is unchanged, their relative value, when compared

with the whole mass of mental wealth possessed by mankind, has been

constantly falling. They were the intellectual all of our ancestors.

They are but a part of our treasures. Over what tragedy could Lady Jane

Grey have wept, over what comedy could she have smiled, if the ancient

dramatists had not been in her library? A modern reader can make shift

without Oedipus and Medea, while he possesses Othello and Hamlet. If he

knows nothing of Pyrgopolynices and Thraso, he is familiar with Bobadil,

and Bessus, and Pistol, and Parolles. If he cannot enjoy the delicious

irony of Plato, he may find some compensation in that of Pascal. If he

is shut out from Nephelococcygia, he may take refuge in Lilliput. We are

guilty, we hope, of no irreverence towards those great nations to which

the human race owes art, science, taste, civil and intellectual freedom,

when we say, that the stock bequeathed by them to us has been so

carefully improved that the accumulated interest now exceeds the

principal. We believe that the books which have been written in the

languages of western Europe, during the last two hundred and

fifty years,--translations from the ancient languages of course

included,--are of greater value than all the books which at the

beginning of that period were extant in the world. With the modern

languages of Europe English women are at least as well acquainted as

English men. When, therefore, we compare the acquirements of Lady Jane

Grey, with those of an accomplished young woman of our own time, we have

no hesitation in awarding the superiority to the latter. We hope that

our readers will pardon up this digression. It is long; but it can

hardly be called unseasonable, if it tends to convince them that they

are mistaken in thinking that the great-great-grandmothers of their

great-great-grandmothers were superior women to their sisters and their

wives.

Francis Bacon, the youngest son of Sir Nicholas, was born at York House,

his father’s residence in the Strand, on the twenty-second of January

1561. The health of Francis was very delicate; and to this circumstance

may be partly attributed that gravity of carriage, and that love of

sedentary pursuits which distinguished him from other boys. Everybody

knows how much sobriety of deportment and his premature readiness of wit

amused the Queen, and how she used to call him her young Lord Keeper.

We are told that, while still a mere child, he stole away from his

playfellows to a vault in St. James’s Fields, for the purpose of

investigating the cause of a singular echo which he had observed

there. It is certain that, at only twelve, he busied himself with very

ingenious speculations on the art of legerdemain; a subject which, as

Professor Dugald Stewart has most justly observed, merits much more

attention from philosophers than it has ever received. These are

trifles. But the eminence which Bacon afterwards attained makes them

interesting.

In the thirteenth year of his age he was entered at Trinity College,

Cambridge. That celebrated school of learning enjoyed the peculiar

favour of the Lord Treasurer and the Lord Keeper, and acknowledged the

advantages which it derived from their patronage in a public letter

which bears date just a month after the admission of Francis Bacon.

The master was Whitgift, afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury, a narrow

minded, mean, and tyrannical priest, who gained power by servility and

adulation, and employed it in persecuting both those who agreed with

Calvin about church-government, and those who differed from Calvin

touching the doctrine of Reprobation. He was now in a chrysalis

state, putting off the worm, and putting on the dragon-fly, a kind of

intermediate grub between sycophant and oppressor. He was indemnifying

himself for the court which he found it expedient to pay to the

Ministers by exercising much petty tyranny within his own college. It

would be unjust, however, to deny him the praise of having rendered

about this time one important service to letters. He stood up manfully

against those who wished to make Trinity College a mere appendage to

Westminster school; and by this act, the only good act, as far as

we remember, of his long public life, he saved the noblest place of

education in England from the degrading fate of King’s College and New

College.

It has often been said that Bacon, while still at college, planned

that great intellectual revolution with which his name is inseparably

connected. The evidence on this subject, however, is hardly sufficient

to prove what is in itself so improbable as that any definite scheme

of that kind should have been so early formed, even by so powerful and

active a mind. But it is certain that, after a residence of three years

at Cambridge, Bacon departed, carrying with him a profound contempt for

the course of study pursued there, a fixed conviction that the system

of academic education in England was radically vicious, a just scorn for

the trifles on which the followers of Aristotle had wasted their powers,

and no great reverence for Aristotle himself.

In his sixteenth year he visited Paris, and resided there for some time,

under the care of Sir Amias Paulet, Elizabeth’s Minister at the French

Court, and one of the ablest and most upright of the many valuable

servants whom she employed. France was at that time in a deplorable

state of agitation. The Huguenots and the Catholics were mustering

all their force for the fiercest and most protracted of their many

struggles; while the prince, whose duty it was to protect and to

restrain both, had by his vices and follies degraded himself so deeply

that he had no authority over either. Bacon, however, made a tour

through several provinces, and appears to have passed some time at

Poitiers. We have abundant proof that during his stay on the Continent

he did not neglect literary and scientific pursuits. But his attention

seems to have been chiefly directed to statistics and diplomacy. It was

at this time that he wrote those Notes on the State of Europe which

are printed in his works. He studied the principles of the art of

deciphering with great interest, and invented one cipher so ingenious,

that, many years later, he thought it deserving of a place in the

De Augmentis. In February 1580, while engaged in these pursuits, he

received intelligence of the almost sudden death of his father, and

instantly returned to England.

His prospects were greatly overcast by this event. He was most desirous

to obtain a provision which might enable him to devote himself to

literature and politics. He applied to the Government; and it seems

strange that he should have applied in vain. His wishes were moderate.

His hereditary claims on the administration were great. He had himself

been favourably noticed by the Queen. His uncle was Prime Minister. His

own talents were such as any Minister might have been eager to enlist in

the public service. But his solicitations were unsuccessful. The truth

is that the Cecils disliked him, and did all that they could decently do

to keep him down. It has never been alleged that Bacon had done anything

to merit this dislike; nor is it at all probable that a man whose temper

was naturally mild, whose manners were courteous, who, through life,

nursed his fortunes with the utmost care, and who was fearful even to

a fault of offending the powerful, would have given any just cause of

displeasure to a kinsman who had the means of rendering him essential

service and of doing him irreparable injury. The real explanation, we

believe, is this. Robert Cecil, the Treasurer’s second son, was younger

by a few months than Bacon. He had been educated with the utmost care,

had been initiated, while still a boy, in the mysteries of diplomacy and

court-intrigue, and was just at this time about to be produced on the

stage of public life. The wish nearest to Burleigh’s heart was that his

own greatness might descend to this favourite child. But even Burleigh’s

fatherly partiality could hardly prevent him from perceiving that

Robert, with all his abilities and acquirements, was no match for his

cousin Francis. This seems to us the only rational explanation of the

Treasurer’s conduct. Mr. Montagu is more charitable. He supposes that

Burleigh was influenced merely by affection for his nephew, and was

“little disposed to encourage him to rely on others rather than on

himself, and to venture on the quicksands of politics, instead of the

certain profession of the law.” If such were Burleigh’s feelings, it

seems strange that he should have suffered his son to venture on those

quicksands from which he so carefully preserved his nephew. But the

truth is that, if Burleigh had been so disposed, he might easily have

secured to Bacon a comfortable provision which should have been exposed

to no risk. And it is certain that he showed as little disposition

to enable his nephew to live by a profession as to enable him to live

without a profession.

That Bacon himself attributed the conduct of his relatives to jealousy

of his superior talents, we have not the smallest doubt. In a letter

written many years later to Villiers, he expresses himself thus:

“Countenance, encourage, and advance able men in all kinds, degrees, and

professions. For in the time of the Cecils, the father and the son, able

men were by design and of purpose suppressed.”

Whatever Burleigh’s motives might be, his purpose was unalterable.

The supplications which Francis addressed to his uncle and aunt were

earnest, humble, and almost servile. He was the most promising

and accomplished young man of his time. His father had been the

brother-in-law, the most useful colleague, the nearest friend of the

Minister. But all this availed poor Francis nothing. He was forced,

much against his will, to betake himself to the study of the law. He

was admitted at Gray’s Inn; and during some years, he laboured there in

obscurity.

What the extent of his legal attainments may have been it is difficult

to say. It was not hard for a man of his powers to acquire that very

moderate portion of technical knowledge which, when joined to quickness,

tact, wit, ingenuity, eloquence, and knowledge of the world, is

sufficient to raise an advocate to the highest professional eminence.

The general opinion appears to have been that which was on one occasion

expressed by Elizabeth. “Bacon,” said she, “hath a great wit and much

learning; but in law showeth to the utmost of his knowledge, and is not

deep.” The Cecils, we suspect, did their best to spread this opinion by

whispers and insinuations. Coke openly proclaimed it with that rancorous

insolence which was habitual to him. No reports are more readily

believed than those which disparage genius, and soothe the envy of

conscious mediocrity. It must have been inexpressibly consoling to a

stupid sergeant, the forerunner of him who, a hundred and fifty years

later, “shook his head at Murray as a wit,” to know that the most

profound thinker and the most accomplished orator of the age was very

imperfectly acquainted with the law touching bastard eigne and mulier

puisne, and confounded the right of free fishery with that of common

piscary.

It is certain that no man in that age, or indeed during the century

and a half which followed, was better acquainted than Bacon with the

philosophy of law. His technical knowledge was quite sufficient, with

the help of his admirable talents and of his insinuating address,

to procure clients. He rose very rapidly into business, and soon

entertained hopes of being called within the bar. He applied to Lord

Burleigh for that purpose, but received a testy refusal. Of the grounds

of that refusal we can, in some measure, judge by Bacon’s answer, which

is still extant. It seems that the old Lord, whose temper, age and

gout had by no means altered for the better, and who loved to mark his

dislike of the showy, quick-witted young men of the rising generation,

took this opportunity to read Francis a very sharp lecture on his vanity

and want of respect for his betters. Francis returned a most submissive

reply, thanked the Treasurer for the admonition, and promised to profit

by it. Strangers meanwhile were less unjust to the young barrister

than his nearest kinsman had been. In his twenty-sixth year he became a

bencher of his Inn; and two years later he was appointed Lent reader. At

length, in 1590, he obtained for the first time some show of favour from

the Court. He was sworn in Queen’s Counsel extraordinary. But this mark

of honour was not accompanied by any pecuniary emolument.

He continued, therefore, to solicit his powerful relatives for some

provision which might enable him to live without drudging at his

profession. He bore, with a patience and serenity which, we fear,

bordered on meanness, the morose humours of his uncle, and the

sneering reflections which his cousin cast on speculative men, lost in

philosophical dreams, and too wise to be capable of transacting public

business. At length the Cecils were generous enough to procure for

him the reversion of the Registrarship of the Star-Chamber. This was a

lucrative place; but, as many years elapsed before it fell in, he was

still under the necessity of labouring for his daily bread.

In the Parliament which was called in 1593 he sat as member for the

county of Middlesex, and soon attained eminence as a debater. It is

easy to perceive from the scanty remains of his oratory that the same

compactness of expression and richness of fancy which appear in his

writings characterised his speeches; and that his extensive acquaintance

with literature and history enabled him to entertain his audience with

a vast variety of illustrations and allusions which were generally happy

and apposite, but which were probably not least pleasing to the taste

of that age when they were such as would now be thought childish or

pedantic. It is evident also that he was, as indeed might have been

expected, perfectly free from those faults which are generally found in

an advocate who, after having risen to eminence at the bar, enters

the House of Commons; that it was his habit to deal with every great

question, not in small detached portions, but as a whole; that he

refined little, and that his reasonings were those of a capacious

rather than a subtle mind. Ben Jonson, a most unexceptionable judge, has

described Bacon’s eloquence in words, which, though often quoted, will

bear to be quoted again. “There happened in my time one noble speaker

who was full of gravity in his speaking. His language, where he could

spare or pass by a jest, was nobly censorious. No man ever spoke more

neatly, more pressly, more weightily, or suffered less emptiness, less

idleness, in what he uttered. No member of his speech but consisted

of his own graces. His hearers could not cough or look aside from him

without loss. He commanded where he spoke, and had his judges angry and

pleased at his devotion. No man had their affections more in his power.

The fear of every man that heard him was lest he should make an end.”

From the mention which is made of judges, it would seem that Jonson had

heard Bacon only at the Bar. Indeed we imagine that the House of Commons

was then almost inaccessible to strangers. It is not probable that a

man of Bacon’s nice observation would speak in Parliament exactly as

he spoke in the Court of Queen’s Bench. But the graces of manner and

language must, to a great extent, have been common between the Queen’s

Counsel and the Knight of the Shire.

Bacon tried to play a very difficult game in politics. He wished to be

at once a favourite at Court and popular with the multitude. If any

man could have succeeded in this attempt, a man of talents so rare,

of judgment so prematurely ripe, of temper so calm, and of manners so

plausible, might have been expected to succeed. Nor indeed did he wholly

fail. Once, however, he indulged in a burst of patriotism which cost him

a long and bitter remorse, and which he never ventured to repeat. The

Court asked for large subsidies and for speedy payment. The remains

of Bacon’s speech breathe all the spirit of the Long Parliament. “The

gentlemen,” said he, “must sell their plate, and the farmers their

brass pots, ere this will be paid; and for us, we are here to search the

wounds of the realm, and not to skim them over. The dangers are these.

First, we shall breed discontent and endanger her Majesty’s safety,

which must consist more in the love of the people than their wealth.

Secondly, this being granted in this sort, other princes hereafter will

look for the like; so that we shall put an evil precedent on ourselves

and our posterity; and in histories, it is to be observed, of all

nations the English are not to be subject, base, or taxable.” The Queen

and her Ministers resented this outbreak of public spirit in the highest

manner. Indeed, many an honest member of the House of Commons had, for a

much smaller matter, been sent to the Tower by the proud and hot-blooded

Tudors. The young patriot condescended to make the most abject

apologies. He adjured the Lord Treasurer to show some favour to his poor

servant and ally. He bemoaned himself to the Lord Keeper, in a letter

which may keep in countenance the most unmanly of the epistles which

Cicero wrote during his banishment. The lesson was not thrown away.

Bacon never offended in the same manner again.

He was now satisfied that he had little to hope from the patronage of

those powerful kinsmen whom he had solicited during twelve years with

such meek pertinacity; and he began to look towards a different quarter.

Among the courtiers of Elizabeth had lately appeared a new favourite,

young, noble, wealthy, accomplished, eloquent brave, generous, aspiring;

a favourite who had obtained from the grey-headed Queen such marks of

regard as she had scarce vouchsafed to Leicester in the season of the

passions; who was at once the ornament of the palace and the idol of

the city; who was the common patron of men of letters and of men of the

sword; who was the common refuge of the persecuted Catholic and of the

persecuted Puritan. The calm prudence which had enabled Burleigh to

shape his course through so many dangers, and the vast experience

which he had acquired in dealing with two generations of colleagues

and rivals, seemed scarcely sufficient to support him in this new

competition; and Robert Cecil sickened with fear and envy as he

contemplated the rising fame and influence of Essex.

The history of the factions which, towards the close of the reign of

Elizabeth, divided her court and her council, though pregnant with

instruction, is by no means interesting or pleasing. Both parties

employed the means which are familiar to unscrupulous statesmen; and

neither had, or even pretended to have, any important end in view. The

public mind was then reposing from one great effort, and collecting

strength for another. That impetuous and appalling rush with which the

human intellect had moved forward in the career of truth and liberty,

during the fifty years which followed the separation of Luther from

the communion of the Church of Rome, was now over. The boundary between

Protestantism and Popery had been fixed very nearly where it still

remains. England, Scotland, the Northern kingdoms were on one side;

Ireland, Spain, Portugal, Italy, on the other. The line of demarcation

ran, as it still runs, through the midst of the Netherlands, of Germany,

and of Switzerland, dividing province from province, electorate from

electorate, and canton from canton. France might be considered as a

debatable land, in which the contest was still undecided. Since that

time, the two religions have done little more than maintain their

ground. A few occasional incursions have been made. But the general

frontier remains the same. During two hundred and fifty years no great

society has risen up like one man, and emancipated itself by one mighty

effort from the superstition of ages. This spectacle was common in the

sixteenth century. Why has it ceased to be so? Why has so violent

a movement been followed by so long a repose? The doctrines of the

Reformers are not less agreeable to reason or to revelation now than

formerly. The public mind is assuredly not less enlightened now than

formerly. Why is it that Protestantism, after carrying everything before

it in a time of comparatively little knowledge and little freedom,

should make no perceptible progress in a reasoning and tolerant age;

that the Luthers, the Calvins, the Knoxes, the Zwingles, should have

left no successors; that during two centuries and a half fewer converts

should have been brought over from the Church of Rome than at the time

of the Reformation were sometimes gained in a year? This has always

appeared to us one of the most curious and interesting problems in

history. On some future occasion we may perhaps attempt to solve it. At

present it is enough to say that, at the close of Elizabeth’s reign, the

Protestant party, to borrow the language of the Apocalypse, had left its

first love and had ceased to do its first works.

The great struggle of the sixteenth century was over. The great struggle

of the seventeenth century had not commenced. The confessors of Mary’s

reign were dead. The members of the Long Parliament were still in their

cradles. The Papists had been deprived of all power in the State. The

Puritans had not yet attained any formidable extent of power. True it is

that a student, well acquainted with the history of the next generation,

can easily discern in the proceedings of the last Parliaments of

Elizabeth the germ of great and ever memorable events. But to the eye of

a contemporary nothing of this appeared. The two sections of ambitious

men who were struggling for power differed from each other on no

important public question. Both belonged to the Established Church. Both

professed boundless loyalty to the Queen. Both approved the war with

Spain. There is not, as far as we are aware, any reason to believe that

they entertained different views concerning the succession to the Crown.

Certainly neither faction had any great measure of reform in view.

Neither attempted to redress any public grievance. The most odious and

pernicious grievance under which the nation then suffered was a source

of profit to both, and was defended by both with equal zeal. Raleigh

held a monopoly of cards, Essex a monopoly of sweet wines. In fact, the

only ground of quarrel between the parties was that they could not agree

as to their respective shares of power and patronage.

Nothing in the political conduct of Essex entitles him to esteem; and

the pity with which we regard his early and terrible end is diminished

by the consideration, that he put to hazard the lives and fortunes of

his most attached friends, and endeavoured to throw the whole country

into confusion, for objects purely personal. Still, it is impossible not

to be deeply interested for a man so brave, high-spirited, and generous;

for a man who, while he conducted himself towards his sovereign with a

boldness such as was then found in no other subject, conducted himself

towards his dependants with a delicacy such as has rarely been found in

any other patron. Unlike the vulgar herd of benefactors, he desired to

inspire, not gratitude, but affection. He tried to make those whom

he befriended feel towards him as towards an equal. His mind, ardent,

susceptible, naturally disposed to admiration of all that is great

and beautiful, was fascinated by the genius and the accomplishments of

Bacon. A close friendship was soon formed between them, a friendship

destined to have a dark, a mournful, a shameful end.

In 1594 the office of Attorney-General became vacant, and Bacon hoped

to obtain it. Essex made his friend’s cause his own, sued, expostulated,

promised, threatened, but all in vain. It is probable that the dislike

felt by the Cecils for Bacon had been increased by the connection which

he had lately formed with the Earl. Robert was then on the point of

being made Secretary of State. He happened one day to be in the same

coach with Essex, and a remarkable conversation took place between them.

“My Lord,” said Sir Robert, “the Queen has determined to appoint an

Attorney-General without more delay. I pray your Lordship to let me know

whom you will favour.” “I wonder at your question,” replied the Earl.

“You cannot but know that resolutely, against all the world, I stand for

your cousin, Francis Bacon.” “Good Lord!” cried Cecil, unable to bridle

his temper, “I wonder your Lordship should spend your strength on so

unlikely a matter. Can you name one precedent of so raw a youth promoted

to so great a place?” This objection came with a singularly bad grace

from a man who, though younger than Bacon, was in daily expectation of

being made Secretary of State. The blot was too obvious to be missed by

Essex, who seldom forbore to speak his mind. “I have made no search,”

said he, “for precedents of young men who have filled the office of

Attorney-General. But I could name to you, Sir Robert, a man younger

than Francis, less learned, and equally inexperienced, who is suing and

striving with all his might for an office of far greater weight.” Sir

Robert had nothing to say but that he thought his own abilities equal to

the place which he hoped to obtain, and that his father’s long services

deserved such a mark of gratitude from the Queen; as if his abilities

were comparable to his cousin’s, or as if Sir Nicholas Bacon had done

no service to the State. Cecil then hinted that, if Bacon would be

satisfied with the Solicitorship, that might be of easier digestion to

the Queen. “Digest me no digestions,” said the generous and ardent Earl.

“The Attorneyship for Francis is that I must have; and in that I will

spend all my power, might, authority, and amity; and with tooth and nail

procure the same for him against whomsoever; and whosoever getteth this

office out of my hands for any other, before he have it, it shall cost

him the coming by. And this be you assured of, Sir Robert, for now I

fully declare myself; and for my own part, Sir Robert, I think strange

both of my Lord Treasurer and you, that can have the mind to seek the

preference of a stranger before so near a kinsman; for if you weigh in

a balance the parts every way of his competitor and him, only excepting

five poor years of admitting to a house of court before Francis, you

shall find in all other respects whatsoever no comparison between them.”

When the office of Attorney-General was filled up, the Earl pressed the

Queen to make Bacon Solicitor-General, and, on this occasion, the

old Lord Treasurer professed himself not unfavourable to his nephew’s

pretensions. But after a contest which lasted more than a year and a

half, and in which Essex, to use his own words, “spent all his power,

might, authority, and amity,” the place was given to another. Essex felt

this disappointment keenly, but found consolation in the most munificent

and delicate liberality. He presented Bacon with an estate worth near

two thousand pounds, situated at Twickenham; and this, as Bacon owned

many years after, “with so kind and noble circumstances as the manner

was worth more than the matter.”

It was soon after these events that Bacon first appeared before the

public as a writer. Early in 1597 he published a small volume of Essays,

which was afterwards enlarged by successive additions to many times

its original bulk. This little work was, as it well deserved to be,

exceedingly popular. It was reprinted in a few months; it was

translated into Latin, French, and Italian; and it seems to have at once

established the literary reputation of its author. But, though Bacon’s

reputation rose, his fortunes were still depressed. He was in great

pecuniary difficulties; and, on one occasion, was arrested in the street

at the suit of a goldsmith for a debt of three hundred pounds, and was

carried to a spunging-house in Coleman Street.

The kindness of Essex was in the meantime indefatigable. In 1596 he

sailed on his memorable expedition to the coast of Spain. At the

very moment of his embarkation, he wrote to several of his friends,

commending, to them, during his own absence, the interests of Bacon. He

returned, after performing the most brilliant military exploit that was

achieved on the Continent by English arms during the long interval

which elapsed between the battle of Agincourt and that of Blenheim. His

valour, his talents, his humane and generous disposition, had made him

the idol of his countrymen, and had extorted praise from the enemies

whom he had conquered. [See Cervantes’s Novela de la Espanola Inglesa.]

He had always been proud and headstrong; and his splendid success seems

to have rendered his faults more offensive than ever. But to his friend

Francis he was still the same. Bacon had some thoughts of making his

fortune by marriage, and had begun to pay court to a widow of the name

of Hatton. The eccentric manners and violent temper of this woman made

her a disgrace and a torment to her connections. But Bacon was not aware

of her faults, or was disposed to overlook them for the sake of her

ample fortune. Essex pleaded his friend’s cause with his usual ardour.

The letters which the Earl addressed to Lady Hatton and to her mother

are still extant, and are highly honourable to him. “If,” he wrote, “she

were my sister or my daughter, I protest I would as confidently resolve

to further it as I now persuade you”; and again, “If my faith be

anything, I protest, if I had one as near me as she is to you, I had

rather match her with him, than with men of far greater titles.” The

suit, happily for Bacon, was unsuccessful. The lady indeed was kind to

him in more ways than one. She rejected him; and she accepted his enemy.

She married that narrow-minded, bad-hearted pedant, Sir Edward Coke, and

did her best to make him as miserable as he deserved to be.

The fortunes of Essex had now reached their height, and began to

decline. He possessed indeed all the qualities which raise men to

greatness rapidly. But he had neither the virtues nor the vices which

enable men to retain greatness long. His frankness, his keen sensibility

to insult and injustice, were by no means agreeable to a sovereign

naturally impatient of opposition, and accustomed, during forty years,

to the most extravagant flattery and the most abject submission. The

daring and contemptuous manner in which he bade defiance to his

enemies excited their deadly hatred. His administration in Ireland was

unfortunate, and in many respects highly blamable. Though his brilliant

courage and his impetuous activity fitted him admirably for such

enterprises as that of Cadiz, he did not possess the caution, patience,

and resolution necessary for the conduct of a protracted war, in which

difficulties were to be gradually surmounted, in which much discomfort

was to be endured, and in which few splendid exploits could be achieved.

For the civil duties of his high place he was still less qualified.

Though eloquent and accomplished, he was in no sense a statesman.

The multitude indeed still continued to regard even his faults with

fondness. But the Court had ceased to give him credit, even for the

merit which he really possessed. The person on whom, during the

decline of his influence, he chiefly depended, to whom he confided his

perplexities, whose advice he solicited, whose intercession he employed,

was his friend Bacon. The lamentable truth must be told. This friend, so

loved, so trusted, bore a principal part in ruining the Earl’s fortunes,

in shedding his blood, and in blackening his memory.

But let us be just to Bacon. We believe that, to the last, he had no

wish to injure Essex. Nay, we believe that he sincerely exerted himself

to serve Essex, as long as he thought that he could serve Essex without

injuring himself. The advice which he gave to his noble benefactor was

generally most judicious. He did all in his power to dissuade the Earl

from accepting the Government of Ireland. “For,” says he, “I did

as plainly see, his overthrow chained as it were by destiny to that

journey, as it is possible for a man to ground a judgment upon future

contingents.” The prediction was accomplished. Essex returned in

disgrace. Bacon attempted to mediate between his friend and the Queen;

and, we believe, honestly employed all his address for that purpose.

But the task which he had undertaken was too difficult, delicate, and

perilous, even for so wary and dexterous an agent. He had to manage two

spirits equally proud, resentful, and ungovernable. At Essex House, he

had to calm the rage of a young hero incensed by multiplied wrongs and

humiliations, and then to pass to Whitehall for the purpose of soothing

the peevishness of a sovereign, whose temper, never very gentle, had

been rendered morbidly irritable by age, by declining health, and by the

long habit of listening to flattery and exacting implicit obedience.

It is hard to serve two masters. Situated as Bacon was, it was scarcely

possible for him to shape his course so as not to give one or both of

his employers reason to complain. For a time he acted as fairly as, in

circumstances so embarrassing, could reasonably be expected. At length

he found that, while he was trying to prop the fortunes of another, he

was in danger of shaking his own. He had disobliged both the parties

whom he wished to reconcile. Essex thought him wanting in zeal as a

friend: Elizabeth thought him wanting in duty as a subject. The Earl

looked on him as a spy of the Queen; the Queen as a creature of the

Earl. The reconciliation which he had laboured to effect appeared

utterly hopeless. A thousand signs, legible to eyes far less keen than

his, announced that the fall of his patron was at hand. He shaped his

course accordingly. When Essex was brought before the council to answer

for his conduct in Ireland, Bacon, after a faint attempt to excuse

himself from taking part against his friend, submitted himself to the

Queen’s pleasure, and appeared at the bar in support of the charges. But

a darker scene was behind. The unhappy young nobleman, made reckless by

despair ventured on a rash and criminal enterprise, which rendered him

liable to the highest penalties of the law. What course was Bacon to

take? This was one of those conjunctures which show what men are. To

a high-minded man, wealth, power, court-favour, even personal safety,

would have appeared of no account, when opposed to friendship,

gratitude, and honour. Such a man would have stood by the side of Essex

at the trial, would have “spent all his power, might, authority, and

amity” in soliciting a mitigation of the sentence, would have been a

daily visitor at the cell, would have received the last injunctions and

the last embrace on the scaffold, would have employed all the powers

of his intellect to guard from insult the fame of his generous though

erring friend. An ordinary man would neither have incurred the danger of

succouring Essex, nor the disgrace of assailing him. Bacon did not even

preserve neutrality. He appeared as counsel for the prosecution. In

that situation, he did not confine himself to what would have been amply

sufficient to procure a verdict. He employed all his wit, his rhetoric,

and his learning, not to ensure a conviction,--for the circumstances

were such that a conviction was inevitable,--but to deprive the unhappy

prisoner of all those excuses which, though legally of no value, yet

tended to diminish the moral guilt of the crime, and which, therefore,

though they could not justify the peers in pronouncing an acquittal,

might incline the Queen to grant a pardon. The Earl urged as a

palliation of his frantic acts that he was surrounded by powerful and

inveterate enemies, that they had ruined his fortunes, that they sought

his life, and that their persecutions had driven him to despair. This

was true; and Bacon well knew it to be true. But he affected to treat

it as an idle pretence. He compared Essex to Pisistratus, who, by

pretending to be in imminent danger of assassination, and by exhibiting

self-inflicted wounds, succeeded in establishing tyranny at Athens. This

was too much for the prisoner to bear. He interrupted his ungrateful

friend by calling on him to quit the part of an advocate, to come

forward as a witness, and to tell the Lords whether, in old times, he,

Francis Bacon, had not, under his own hand, repeatedly asserted the

truth of what he now represented as idle pretexts. It is painful to go

on with this lamentable story. Bacon returned a shuffling answer to

the Earl’s question, and, as if the allusion to Pisistratus were not

sufficiently offensive, made another allusion still more unjustifiable.

He compared Essex to Henry Duke of Guise, and the rash attempt in the

city to the day of the barricades at Paris. Why Bacon had recourse to

such a topic it is difficult to say, It was quite unnecessary for the

purpose of obtaining a verdict. It was certain to produce a strong

impression on the mind of the haughty and jealous princess on whose

pleasure the Earl’s fate depended. The faintest allusion to the

degrading tutelage in which the last Valois had been held by the House

of Lorraine was sufficient to harden her heart against a man who in

rank, in military reputation, in popularity among the citizens of the

capital, bore some resemblance to the Captain of the League.

Essex was convicted. Bacon made no effort to save him, though the

Queen’s feelings were such that he might have pleaded his benefactor’s

cause, possibly with success, certainly without any serious danger to

himself. The unhappy nobleman was executed. His fate excited strong,

perhaps unreasonable feelings of compassion and indignation. The Queen

was received by the citizens of London with gloomy looks and faint

acclamations. She thought it expedient to publish a vindication of her

late proceedings. The faithless friend who had assisted in taking the

Earl’s life was now employed to murder the Earl’s fame. The Queen had

seen some of Bacon’s writings, and had been pleased with them. He

was accordingly selected to write A Declaration of the Practices and

Treasons attempted and committed by Robert Earl of Essex, which was

printed by authority. In the succeeding reign, Bacon had not a word

to say in defence of this performance, a performance abounding in

expressions which no generous enemy would have employed respecting a man

who had so dearly expiated his offences. His only excuse was, that he

wrote it by command, that he considered himself as a mere secretary,

that he had particular instructions as to the way in which he was to

treat every part of the subject, and that, in fact, he had furnished

only the arrangement and the style.

We regret to say that the whole conduct of Bacon through the course

of these transactions appears to Mr. Montagu not merely excusable, but

deserving of high admiration. The integrity and benevolence of this

gentleman are so well known that our readers will probably be at a loss

to conceive by what steps he can have arrived at so extraordinary

a conclusion: and we are half afraid that they will suspect us of

practising some artifice upon them when we report the principal

arguments which he employs.

In order to get rid of the charge of ingratitude, Mr. Montagu attempts

to show that Bacon lay under greater obligations to the Queen than

to Essex. What these obligations were it is not easy to discover.

The situation of Queen’s Counsel, and a remote reversion, were surely

favours very far below Bacon’s personal and hereditary claims. They were

favours which had not cost the Queen a groat, nor had they put a groat

into Bacon’s purse. It was necessary to rest Elizabeth’s claims to

gratitude on some other ground; and this Mr. Montagu felt. “What perhaps

was her greatest kindness,” says he, “instead of having hastily advanced

Bacon, she had, with a continuance of her friendship, made him bear the

yoke in his youth. Such were his obligations to Elizabeth.” Such indeed

they were.

Being the son of one of her oldest and most faithful Ministers, being

himself the ablest and most accomplished young man of his time, he had

been condemned by her to drudgery, to obscurity, to poverty. She had

depreciated his acquirements. She had checked him in the most imperious

manner, when in Parliament he ventured to act an independent part. She

had refused to him the professional advancement to which he had a just

claim. To her it was owing that, while younger men, not superior to him

in extraction, and far inferior to him in every kind of personal merit,

were filling the highest offices of the State, adding manor to manor,

rearing palace after palace, he was lying at a spunging-house for a debt

of three hundred pounds. Assuredly if Bacon owed gratitude to Elizabeth,

he owed none to Essex. If the Queen really was his best friend, the

Earl was his worst enemy. We wonder that Mr. Montagu did not press

this argument a little further. He might have maintained that Bacon was

excusable in revenging himself on a man who had attempted to rescue his

youth from the salutary yoke imposed on it by the Queen, who had wished

to advance him hastily, who, not content with attempting to inflict the

Attorney-Generalship upon him, had been so cruel as to present him with

a landed estate.

Again, we can hardly think Mr. Montagu serious when he tells us that

Bacon was bound for the sake of the public not to destroy his own hopes

of advancement, and that he took part against Essex from a wish to

obtain power which might enable him to be useful to his country. We

really do not know how to refute such arguments except by stating them.

Nothing is impossible which does not involve a contradiction. It is

barely possible that Bacon’s motives for acting as he did on this

occasion may have been gratitude to the Queen for keeping him poor, and

a desire to benefit his fellow-creatures in some high situation. And

there is a possibility that Bonner may have been a good Protestant who,

being convinced that the blood of martyrs is the seed of the Church,

heroically went through all the drudgery and infamy of persecution,

in order that he might inspire the English people with an intense and

lasting hatred of Popery. There is a possibility that Jeffreys may have

been an ardent lover of liberty, and that he may have beheaded Algernon

Sydney, and burned Elizabeth Gaunt, only in order to produce a reaction

which might lead to the limitation of the prerogative. There is a

possibility that Thurtell may have killed Weare only in order to give

the youth of England an impressive warning against gaming and bad

company. There is a possibility that Fauntleroy may have forged powers

of attorney, only in order that his fate might turn the attention of

the public to the defects of the penal law. These things, we say, are

possible. But they are so extravagantly improbable that a man who should

act on such suppositions would be fit only for Saint Luke’s. And we do

not see why suppositions on which no rational man would act in ordinary

life should be admitted into history.

Mr. Montagu’s notion that Bacon desired power only in order to do good

to mankind appears somewhat strange to us, when we consider how Bacon

afterwards used power, and how he lost it. Surely the service which he

rendered to mankind by taking Lady Wharton’s broad pieces and Sir John

Kennedy’s cabinet was not of such vast importance as to sanctify all the

means which might conduce to that end. If the case were fairly stated,

it would, we much fear, stand thus: Bacon was a servile advocate, that

he might be a corrupt judge.

Mr. Montagu maintains that none but the ignorant and unreflecting can

think Bacon censurable for anything that he did as counsel for the

Crown, and that no advocate can justifiably use any discretion as to the

party for whom he appears. We will not at present inquire whether the

doctrine which is held on this subject by English lawyers be or be not

agreeable to reason and morality; whether it be right that a man should,

with a wig on his head, and a band round his neck, do for a guinea what,

without those appendages, he would think it wicked and infamous to

do for an empire; whether it be right that, not merely believing but

knowing a statement to be true, he should do all that can be done

by sophistry, by rhetoric, by solemn asseveration, by indignant

exclamation, by gesture, by play of features, by terrifying one honest

witness, by perplexing another, to cause a jury to think that statement

false. It is not necessary on the present occasion to decide these

questions. The professional rules, be they good or bad, are rules

to which many wise and virtuous men have conformed, and are daily

conforming. If, therefore, Bacon did no more than these rules required

of him, we shall readily admit that he was blameless, or, at least,

excusable. But we conceive that his conduct was not justifiable

according to any professional rules that now exist, or that ever existed

in England. It has always been held that, in criminal cases in which

the prisoner was denied the help of counsel, and above all, in capital

cases, advocates were both entitled and bound to exercise a discretion.

It is true that after the Revolution, when the Parliament began to

make inquisition for the innocent blood which had been shed by the last

Stuarts, a feeble attempt was made to defend the lawyers who had been

accomplices in the murder of Sir Thomas Armstrong, on the ground that

they had only acted professionally. The wretched sophism was silenced

by the execrations of the House of Commons. “Things will never be well

done,” said Mr. Foley, “till some of that profession be made examples.”

“We have a new sort of monsters in the world,” said the younger Hampden,

“haranguing a man to death. These I call bloodhounds. Sawyer is

very criminal and guilty of this murder.” “I speak to discharge my

conscience,” said Mr. Garroway. “I will not have the blood of this

man at my door. Sawyer demanded judgment against him and execution. I

believe him guilty of the death of this man. Do what you will with him.”

“If the profession of the law,” said the elder Hampden, “gives a man

authority to murder at this rate, it is the interest of all men to rise

and exterminate that profession.” Nor was this language held only by

unlearned country gentlemen. Sir William Williams, one of the ablest and

most unscrupulous lawyers of the age, took the same view of the case.

He had not hesitated, he said, to take part in the prosecution of the

Bishops, because they were allowed counsel. But he maintained that,

where the prisoner was not allowed counsel the Counsel for the Crown was

bound to exercise a discretion, and that every lawyer who neglected this

distinction was a betrayer of the law. But it is unnecessary to cite

authority. It is known to everybody who has ever looked into a court

of quarter-sessions that lawyers do exercise a discretion in criminal

cases; and it is plain to every man of common sense that, if they did

not exercise such a discretion, they would be a more hateful body of men

than those bravoes who used to hire out their stilettoes in Italy.

Bacon appeared against a man who was indeed guilty of a great offence,

but who had been his benefactor and friend. He did more than this.

Nay, he did more than a person who had never seen Essex would have been

justified in doing. He employed all the art of an advocate in order to

make the prisoner’s conduct appear more inexcusable and more dangerous

to the State than it really had been. All that professional duty could,

in any case, have required of him would have been to conduct the cause

so as to ensure a conviction. But from the nature of the circumstances

there could not be the smallest doubt that the Earl would be found

guilty. The character of the crime was unequivocal. It had been

committed recently, in broad daylight, in the streets of the capital,

in the presence of thousands. If ever there was an occasion on which

an advocate had no temptation to resort to extraneous topics, for

the purpose of blinding the judgment and inflaming the passions of a

tribunal, this was that occasion.

Why then resort to arguments which, while they could add nothing to the

strength of the case, considered in a legal point of view, tended to

aggravate the moral guilt of the fatal enterprise, and to excite fear

and resentment in that quarter from which alone the Earl could now

expect mercy? Why remind the audience of the arts of the ancient

tyrants? Why deny what everybody knew to be the truth, that: a powerful

faction at Court had long sought to effect the ruin of the prisoner? Why

above all, institute a parallel between the unhappy culprit and the

most wicked and most successful rebel of the age? Was it absolutely

impossible to do all that professional duty required without reminding

a jealous sovereign of the League, of the barricades, and of all the

humiliations which a too powerful subject had heaped on Henry the Third?

But if we admit the plea which Mr. Montagu urges in defence of what

Bacon did as an advocate, what shall we say of the Declaration of the

Treasons of Robert, Earl of Essex? Here at least there was no pretence

of professional obligation. Even those who may think it the duty of

a lawyer to hang, draw, and quarter his benefactors, for a proper

consideration, will hardly say that it is his duty to write abusive

pamphlets against them, after they are in their graves. Bacon excused

himself by saying that he was not answerable for the matter of the

book, and that he furnished only the language. But why did he endow such

purposes with words? Could no hack writer, without virtue or shame, be

found to exaggerate the errors, already so dearly expiated, of a gentle

and noble spirit? Every age produces those links between the man and the

baboon. Every age is fertile of Oldmixons, of Kenricks, and of Antony

Pasquins. But was it for Bacon so to prostitute his intellect? Could he

not feel that, while he rounded and pointed some period dictated by the

envy of Cecil, or gave a plausible form to some slander invented by the

dastardly malignity of Cobham; he was not sinning merely against his

friend’s honour and his own? Could he not feel that letters, eloquence,

philosophy, were all degraded in his degradation?

The real explanation of all this is perfectly obvious; and nothing but a

partiality amounting to a ruling passion could cause anybody to miss

it. The moral qualities of Bacon were not of a high order. We do not say

that he was a bad man. He was not inhuman or tyrannical. He bore with

meekness his high civil honours, and the far higher honours gained by

his intellect. He was very seldom, if ever, provoked into treating any

person with malignity and insolence. No man more readily held up the

left cheek to those who had smitten the right. No man was more expert at

the soft answer which turneth away wrath. He was never charged, by any

accuser entitled to the smallest credit, with licentious habits. His

even temper, his flowing courtesy, the general respectability of

his demeanour, made a favourable impression on those who saw him in

situations which do not severely try the principles. His faults were--we

write it with pain--coldness of heart, and meanness of spirit. He seems

to have been incapable of feeling strong affection, of facing great

dangers, of making great sacrifices. His desires were set on things

below wealth, precedence, titles, patronage, the mace, the seals, the

coronet, large houses, fair gardens, rich manors, massy services of

plate, gay hangings, curious cabinets, had as great attractions for him

as for any of the courtiers who dropped on their knees in the dirt when

Elizabeth passed by, and then hastened home to write to the King of

Scots that her Grace seemed to be breaking fast. For these objects he

had stooped to everything and endured everything. For these he had sued

in the humblest manner, and, when unjustly and ungraciously repulsed,

had thanked those who had repulsed him, and had begun to sue again.

For these objects, as soon as he found that the smallest show of

independence in Parliament was offensive to the Queen, he had abased

himself to the dust before her, and implored forgiveness in terms better

suited to a convicted thief than to a knight of the shire. For these he

joined, and for these he forsook, Lord Essex. He continued to plead his

patron’s cause with the Queen as long as he thought that by pleading

that cause he might serve himself. Nay, he went further; for his

feelings, though not warm, were kind; he pleaded that cause as long as

he thought that he could plead it without injury to himself. But when it

became evident that Essex was going headlong to his ruin, Bacon began to

tremble for his own fortunes. What he had to fear would not indeed have

been very alarming to a man of lofty character. It was not death. It was

not imprisonment. It was the loss of Court favour. It was the being left

behind by others in the career of ambition. It was the having leisure

to finish the Instauratio Magna. The Queen looked coldly on him. The

courtiers began to consider him as a marked man. He determined to change

his line of conduct, and to proceed in a new course with so much vigour

as to make up for lost time. When once he had determined to act against

his friend, knowing himself to be suspected, he acted with more zeal

than would have been necessary or justifiable if he had been employed

against a stranger. He exerted his professional talents to shed the

Earl’s blood, and his literary talents to blacken the Earl’s memory.

It is certain that his conduct excited at the time great and general

disapprobation. While Elizabeth lived, indeed, this disapprobation,

though deeply felt, was not loudly expressed. But a great change was at

hand. The health of the Queen had long been decaying; and the operation

of age and disease was now assisted by acute mental suffering. The

pitiable melancholy of her last days has generally been ascribed to her

fond regret for Essex. But we are disposed to attribute her dejection

partly to physical causes, and partly to the conduct of her courtiers

and ministers. They did all in their power to conceal from her the

intrigues which they were carrying on at the Court of Scotland. But her

keen sagacity was not to be so deceived. She did not know the whole. But

she knew that she was surrounded by men who were impatient for that new

world which was to begin at her death, who had never been attached to

her by affection, and who were now but very slightly attached to her by

interest. Prostration and flattery could not conceal from her the cruel

truth, that those whom she had trusted, and promoted had never loved

her, and were fast ceasing to fear her. Unable to avenge herself, and

too proud to complain, she suffered sorrow and resentment to prey on

her heart till, after a long career of power, prosperity, and glory, she

died sick and weary of the world.

James mounted the throne: and Bacon employed all his address to obtain

for himself a share of the favour of his new master. This was no

difficult task. The faults of James, both as a man and as a prince, were

numerous; but insensibility to the claims of genius and learning was

not among them. He was indeed made up of two men, a witty, well-read

scholar, who wrote, disputed, and harangued, and a nervous, drivelling

idiot, who acted. If he had been a Canon of Christ Church or a

Prebendary of Westminster, it is not improbable that he would have left

a highly respectable name to posterity; that he would have distinguished

himself among the translators of the Bible, and among the Divines who

attended the Synod of Dort; and that he would have been regarded by the

literary world as no contemptible rival of Vossius and Casaubon. But

fortune placed him in a situation in which his weakness covered him with

disgrace, and in which his accomplishments brought him no honour. In

a college, much eccentricity and childishness would have been readily

pardoned in so learned a man. But all that learning could do for him on

the throne was to make people think him a pedant as well as a fool.

Bacon was favourably received at Court; and soon found that his chance

of promotion was not diminished by the death of the Queen. He was

solicitous to be knighted, for two reasons which are somewhat amusing.

The King had already dubbed half London, and Bacon found himself the

only untitled person in his mess at Gray’s Inn. This was not very

agreeable to him. He had also, to quote his own words, “found an

Alderman’s daughter, a handsome maiden, to his liking.” On both these

grounds, he begged his cousin Robert Cecil, “if it might please his

good Lordship,” to use his interest in his behalf. The application

was successful. Bacon was one of three hundred gentlemen who, on the

coronation-day, received the honour, if it is to be so called, of

knighthood. The handsome maiden, a daughter of Alderman Barnham, soon

after consented to become Sir Francis’s lady.

The death of Elizabeth, though on the whole it improved Bacon’s

prospects, was in one respect an unfortunate event for him. The new King

had always felt kindly towards Lord Essex, and, as soon as he came to

the throne, began to show favour to the House of Devereux, and to those

who had stood by that house in its adversity. Everybody was now at

liberty to speak out respecting those lamentable events in which Bacon

had borne so large a share. Elizabeth was scarcely cold when the public

feeling began to manifest itself by marks of respect towards Lord

Southampton. That accomplished nobleman, who will be remembered to the

latest ages as the generous and discerning patron of Shakspeare, was

held in honour by his contemporaries chiefly on account of the devoted

affection which he had borne to Essex. He had been tried and convicted

together with his friend; but the Queen had spared his life, and, at the

time of her death, he was still a prisoner. A crowd of visitors hastened

to the Tower to congratulate him on his approaching deliverance. With

that crowd Bacon could not venture to mingle. The multitude loudly

condemned him; and his conscience told him that the multitude had but

too much reason. He excused himself to Southampton by letter, in terms

which, if he had, as Mr. Montagu conceives, done only what as a subject

and an advocate he was bound to do, must be considered as shamefully

servile. He owns his fear that his attendance would give offence, and

that his professions of regard would obtain no credit. “Yet,” says he,

“it is as true as a thing that God knoweth, that this great change hath

wrought in me no other change towards your Lordship than this, that I

may safely be that to you now which I was truly before.”

How Southampton received these apologies we are not informed. But it

is certain that the general opinion was pronounced against Bacon in a

manner not to be misunderstood. Soon after his marriage he put forth a

defence of his conduct, in the form of a Letter to the Earl of Devon.

This tract seems to us to prove only the exceeding badness of a cause

for which such talents could do so little.

It is not probable that Bacon’s Defence had much effect on his

contemporaries. But the unfavourable impression which his conduct had

made appears to have been gradually effaced. Indeed it must be some very

peculiar cause that can make a man like him long unpopular. His talents

secured him from contempt, his temper and his manners from hatred. There

is scarcely any story so black that it may not be got over by a man of

great abilities, whose abilities are united with caution, good humour,

patience, and affability, who pays daily sacrifice to Nemesis, who is a

delightful companion, a serviceable though not an ardent friend, and

a dangerous yet a placable enemy. Waller in the next generation was an

eminent instance of this. Indeed Waller had much more than may at first

sight appear in common with Bacon. To the higher intellectual qualities

of the great English philosopher, to the genius which has made

an immortal epoch in the history of science, Waller had indeed no

pretensions. But the mind of Waller, as far as it extended, coincided

with that of Bacon, and might, so to, speak, have been cut out of that

of Bacon. In the qualities which make a man an object of interest and

veneration to posterity, they cannot be compared together. But in the

qualities by which chiefly a man is known to his contemporaries there

was a striking similarity between them. Considered as men of the world,

as courtiers, as politicians, as associates, as allies, as enemies,

they had nearly the same merits, and the same defects. They were not

malignant. They were not tyrannical. But they wanted warmth of affection

and elevation of sentiment. There were many things which they loved

better than virtue, and which they feared more than guilt. Yet, even

after they had stooped to acts of which it is impossible to read the

account in the most partial narratives without strong disapprobation and

contempt, the public still continued to regard them with a feeling not

easily to be distinguished from esteem. The hyperbole of Juliet seemed

to be verified with respect to them. “Upon their brows shame was

ashamed to sit.” Everybody seemed as desirous to throw a veil over their

misconduct as if it had been his own. Clarendon, who felt, and who had

reason to feel, strong personal dislike towards Waller, speaks of him

thus: “There needs no more to be said to extol the excellence and power

of his wit and pleasantness of his conversation, than that it was of

magnitude enough to cover a world of very great faults, that is, so to

cover them that they were not taken notice of to his reproach, viz., a

narrowness in his nature to the lowest degree, an abjectness and want of

courage to support him in any virtuous undertaking, an insinuation and

servile flattery to the height the vainest and most imperious nature

could be contented with. . . . It had power to reconcile him to those

whom he had most offended and provoked, and continued to his age with

that rare felicity, that his company was acceptable where his spirit was

odious, and he was at least pitied where he was most detested.” Much

of this, with some softening, might, we fear, be applied to Bacon. The

influence of Waller’s talents, manners, and accomplishments, died

with him; and the world has pronounced an unbiassed sentence on his

character. A few flowing lines are not bribe sufficient to pervert the

judgment of posterity. But the influence of Bacon is felt and will long

be felt over the whole civilised world. Leniently as he was treated by

his contemporaries, posterity has treated him more leniently still. Turn

where we may, the trophies of that mighty intellect are full in few. We

are judging Manlius in sight of the Capitol.

Under the reign of James, Bacon grew rapidly in fortune and favour. In

1604 he was appointed King’s Counsel, with a fee of forty pounds a year;

and a pension of sixty pounds a year was settled upon him. In 1607 he

became Solicitor-General, in 1612 Attorney-General. He continued to

distinguish himself in Parliament, particularly by his exertions in

favour of one excellent measure on which the King’s heart was set,

the union of England and Scotland. It was not difficult for such an

intellect to discover many irresistible arguments in favour of such a

scheme. He conducted the great case of the Post Nati in the Exchequer

Chamber; and the decision of the judges, a decision the legality of

which may be questioned, but the beneficial effect of which must

be acknowledged, was in a great measure attributed to his dexterous

management. While actively engaged in the House of Commons and in the

courts of law, he still found leisure for letters and philosophy. The

noble treatise on the Advancement of Learning, which at a later period

was expanded into the De Augmentis, appeared in 1605. The Wisdom of the

Ancients, a work which, if it had proceeded from any other writer, would

have been considered as a masterpiece of wit and learning, but which

adds little to the fame of Bacon, was printed in 1609. In the meantime

the Novum Organum was slowly proceeding. Several distinguished men of

learning had been permitted to see sketches or detached portions of

that extraordinary book; and, though they were not generally disposed to

admit the soundness of the author’s views, they spoke with the greatest

admiration of his genius. Sir Thomas Bodley, the founder of one of

the most magnificent of English libraries, was among those stubborn

Conservatives who considered the hopes with which Bacon looked forward,

to the future destinies of the human race as utterly chimerical, and

who regarded with distrust and aversion the innovating spirit of the new

schismatics in philosophy. Yet even Bodley, after perusing the Cogitata

et Visa, one of the most precious of those scattered leaves out of which

the great oracular volume was afterwards made up, acknowledged that in

“those very points, and in all proposals and plots in that book, Bacon

showed himself a master-workman”; and that “it could not be gainsaid

but all the treatise over did abound with choice conceits of the present

state of learning, and with worthy contemplations of the means to

procure it.” In 1612 a new edition of the Essays appeared, with

additions surpassing the original collection both in bulk and quality.

Nor did these pursuits distract Bacon’s attention from a work the most

arduous, the most glorious, and the most useful that even his mighty

powers could have achieved, “the reducing and recompiling,” to use his

own phrase, “of the laws of England.”

Unhappily he was at that very time employed in perverting those laws to

the vilest purposes of tyranny. When Oliver St. John was brought before

the Star Chamber for maintaining that the King had no right to levy

Benevolences, and was for his manly and constitutional conduct sentenced

to imprisonment during the royal pleasure and to a fine of five thousand

pounds, Bacon appeared as counsel for the prosecution. About the same

time he was deeply engaged in a still more disgraceful transaction.

An aged clergyman, of the name of Peacham, was accused of treason on

account of some passages of a sermon which was found in his study. The

sermon, whether written by him or not, had never been preached. It did

not appear that he had any intention of preaching it. The most servile

lawyers of those servile times were forced to admit that there were

great difficulties both as to the facts and as to the law. Bacon was

employed to remove those difficulties. He was employed to settle the

question of law by tampering with the judges, and the question of fact

by torturing the prisoner.