Three judges of the Court of King’s Bench were tractable. But Coke was

made of different stuff. Pedant, bigot, and brute as he was, he had

qualities which bore a strong, though a very disagreeable resemblance

to some of the highest virtues which a public man can possess. He was an

exception to a maxim which we believe to be generally true, that those

who trample on the helpless are disposed to cringe to the powerful.

He behaved with gross rudeness to his juniors at the bar, and with

execrable cruelty to prisoners on trial for their lives. But he stood up

manfully against the King and the King’s favourites. No man of that age

appeared to so little advantage when he was opposed to an inferior, and

was in the wrong. But, on the other hand, it is but fair to admit that

no man of that age made so creditable a figure when he was opposed to

a superior, and happened to be in the right. On such occasions,

his half-suppressed insolence and his impracticable obstinacy had a

respectable and interesting appearance, when compared with the abject

servility of the bar and of the bench. On the present occasion he was

stubborn and surly. He declared that it was a new and highly improper

practice in the judges to confer with a law-officer of the Crown about

capital cases which they were afterwards to try; and for some time he

resolutely kept aloof. But Bacon was equally artful and persevering. “I

am not wholly out of hope,” said he in a letter to the King, “that my

Lord Coke himself, when I have in some dark manner put him in doubt that

he shall be left alone, will not be singular.” After some time Bacon’s

dexterity was successful; and Coke, sullenly and reluctantly, followed

the example of his brethren. But in order to convict Peacham it was

necessary to find facts as well as law. Accordingly, this wretched old

man was put to the rack, and, while undergoing the horrible infliction,

was examined by Bacon, but in vain. No confession could be wrung out of

him; and Bacon wrote to the King, complaining that Peacham had a dumb

devil. At length the trial came on. A conviction was obtained; but the

charges were so obviously futile, that the Government could not, for

very shame, carry the sentence into execution; and Peacham, was suffered

to languish away the short remainder of his life in a prison.

All this frightful story Mr. Montagu relates fairly. He neither conceals

nor distorts any material fact. But he can see nothing deserving of

condemnation in Bacon’s conduct. He tells us most truly that we ought

not to try the men of one age by the standard of another; that Sir

Matthew Hale is not to be pronounced a bad man because he left a woman

to be executed for witchcraft; that posterity will not be justified

in censuring judges of our time, for selling offices in their courts,

according to the established practice, bad as that practice was; and

that Bacon is entitled to similar indulgence. “To persecute the lover

of truth,” says Mr. Montagu, “for opposing established customs, and

to censure him in after ages for not having been more strenuous in

opposition, are errors which will never cease until the pleasure of

self-elevation from the depression of superiority is no more.”

We have no dispute with Mr. Montagu about the general proposition. We

assent to every word of it. But does it apply to the present case? Is it

true that in the time of James the First it was the established practice

for the law-officers of the Crown to hold private consultations with

the judges, touching capital cases which those judges were afterwards to

try? Certainly not. In the very page in which Mr. Montagu asserts that

“the influencing a judge out of court seems at that period scarcely to

have been considered as improper,” he give the very words of Sir Edward

Coke on the subject. “I will not thus declare what may be my judgment

by these auricular confessions of new and pernicious tendency, and not

according to the customs of the realm.” Is it possible to imagine that

Coke, who had himself been Attorney-General during thirteen years, who

had conducted a far greater number of important State prosecutions

than any other lawyer named in English history, and who had passed with

scarcely any interval from the Attorney-Generalship to the first seat

in the first criminal court in the realm, could have been startled at an

invitation to confer with the Crown-lawyers, and could have pronounced

the practice new, if it had really been an established usage? We well

know that, where property only was at stake, it was then a common,

though a most culpable practice, in the judges, to listen to private

solicitation. But the practice of tampering with judges in order to

procure capita; convictions we believe to have been new, first, because

Coke, who understood those matters better than any man of his time,

asserted it to be new; and secondly, because neither Bacon nor Mr.

Montagu has shown a single precedent.

How then stands the case? Even thus: Bacon was not conforming to an

usage then generally admitted to be proper. He was not even the last

lingering adherent of an old abuse. It would have been sufficiently

disgraceful to such a man to be in this last situation. Yet this last

situation would have been honourable compared with that in which he

stood. He was guilty of attempting to introduce into the courts of law

an odious abuse for which no precedent could be found. Intellectually,

he was better fitted than any man that England has ever produced for the

work of improving her institutions. But, unhappily, we see that he did

not scruple to exert his great powers for the purpose of introducing

into those institutions new corruptions of the foulest kind.

The same, or nearly the same, may be said of the torturing of Peacham.

If it be true that in the time of James the First the propriety of

torturing prisoners was generally allowed, we should admit this as an

excuse, though we should admit it less readily in the case of such a man

as Bacon than in the case of an ordinary lawyer or politician. But the

fact is, that the practice of torturing prisoners was then generally

acknowledged by lawyers to be illegal, and was execrated by the public

as barbarous. More than thirty years before Peacham’s trial, that

practice was so loudly condemned by the voice of the nation that

Lord Burleigh found it necessary to publish an apology for having

occasionally resorted to it. But, though the dangers which then

threatened the Government were of a very different kind from those which

were to be apprehended from anything that Peacham could write, though

the life of the Queen and the dearest interests of the State were in

jeopardy, though the circumstances were such that all ordinary laws

might seem to be superseded by that highest law, the public safety, the

apology did not satisfy the country; and the Queen found it expedient to

issue an order positively forbidding the torturing of State-prisoners on

any pretence whatever. From that time, the practice of torturing, which

had always been unpopular, which had always been illegal, had also been

unusual. It is well known that in 1628, only fourteen years after the

time when Bacon went to the Tower to listen to the yells of Peacham,

the judges decided that Felton, a criminal who neither deserved nor was

likely to obtain any extraordinary indulgence, could not lawfully be put

to the question. We therefore say that Bacon stands in a very different

situation from that in which Mr. Montagu tries to place him. Bacon was

here distinctly behind his age. He was one of the last of the tools of

power who persisted in a practice the most barbarous and the most absurd

that has ever disgraced jurisprudence, in a practice of which, in the

preceding generation, Elizabeth and her Ministers had been ashamed, in a

practice which, a few years later, no sycophant in all the Inns of Court

had the heart or the forehead to defend. [Since this Review was written,

Mr. Jardine has published a very learned and ingenious Reading on the

use of torture in England. It has not, however, been thought necessary

to make any change in the observations on Peacham’s case.

It is impossible to discuss within the limits of a note, the extensive

question raised by Mr. Jardine. It is sufficient here to say that every

argument by which he attempts to show that the use of the rack was

anciently a lawful exertion of royal prerogative may be urged with

equal force, nay, with far greater force, to prove the lawfulness

of benevolences, of ship-money, of Mompesson’s patent, of Eliot’s

imprisonment, of every abuse, without exception, which is condemned by

the Petition of Right and the Declaration of Right.]

Bacon far behind his age! Bacon far behind Sir Edward Coke! Bacon

clinging to exploded abuses! Bacon withstanding the progress of

improvement! Bacon struggling to push back the human mind! The words

seem strange. They sound like a contradiction in terms. Yet the fact is

even so: and the explanation may be readily found by any person who

is not blinded by prejudice. Mr. Montagu cannot believe that so

extraordinary a man as Bacon could be guilty of a bad action; as if

history were not made up of the bad actions of extraordinary men, as

if all the most noted destroyers and deceivers of our species, all the

founders of arbitrary governments and false religions, had not been

extraordinary men, as if nine-tenths of the calamities which have

befallen the human race had any other origin than the union of high

intelligence with low desires.

Bacon knew this well. He has told us that there are persons “scientia

tanquam angeli alati, cupiditatibus vero tanquam serpentes qui humi

reptant”; [De Augmentis, Lib. v. Cap. I.] and it did not require his

admirable sagacity and his extensive converse with mankind to make the

discovery. Indeed, he had only to look within. The difference between

the soaring angel and the creeping snake was but a type of the

difference between Bacon the philosopher and Bacon the Attorney-General,

Bacon seeking for truth, and Bacon seeking for the Seals. Those who

survey only one-half of his character may speak of him with unmixed

admiration or with unmixed contempt. But those only judge of him

correctly who take in at one view Bacon in speculation and Bacon in

action. They will have no difficulty in comprehending how one and the

same man should have been far above his age and far behind it, in one

line the boldest and most useful of innovators, in another one the most

obstinate champion of the foulest abuses. In his library, all his rare

powers were under the guidance of an honest ambition, of all enlarged

philanthropy, of a sincere love of truth. There, no temptation drew

him away from the right course. Thomas Aquinas could pay no fees. Duns

Scotus could confer no peerages. The Master of the Sentences had no rich

reversions in his gift. Far different was the situation of the great

philosopher when he came forth from his study and his laboratory to

mingle with the crowd which filled the galleries of Whitehall. In

all that crowd there was no man equally qualified to render great and

lasting services to mankind. But in all that crowd there was not a heart

more set on things which no man ought to suffer to be necessary to his

happiness, on things which can often be obtained only by the sacrifice

of integrity and honour. To be the leader of the human race in the

career of improvement, to found on the ruins of ancient intellectual

dynasties a more prosperous and a more enduring empire, to be revered by

the latest generations as the most illustrious among the benefactors

of mankind, all this was within his reach, But all this availed him

nothing, while some quibbling special pleader was promoted before him to

the bench, while some heavy country gentleman took precedence of him by

virtue of a purchased coronet, while some pandar, happy in a fair wife,

could obtain a more cordial salute from Buckingham, while some buffoon,

versed in all the latest scandal of the Court, could draw a louder laugh

from James.

During a long course of years, Bacon’s unworthy ambition was crowned

with success. His sagacity early enabled him to perceive who was likely

to become the most powerful man in the kingdom. He probably knew the

King’s mind before it was known to the King himself, and attached

himself to Villiers, while the less discerning crowd of courtiers still

continued to fawn on Somerset, The influence of the younger favourite

became greater daily. The contest between the rivals might, however,

have lasted long, but for that frightful crime which, in spite of all

that could be effected by the research and ingenuity of historians, is

still covered with so mysterious an obscurity. The descent of Somerset

had been a gradual and almost imperceptible lapse. It now became a

headlong fall; and Villiers, left without a competitor, rapidly rose to

a height of power such as no subject since Wolsey had attained.

There were many points of resemblance between the two celebrated

courtiers who, at different times, extended their patronage to Bacon.

It is difficult to say whether Essex or Villiers was more eminently

distinguished by those graces of person and manner which have always

been rated in courts at much more than their real value. Both were

constitutionally brave; and both, like most men who are constitutionally

brave, were open and unreserved. Both were rash and head-strong.

Both were destitute of the abilities and of the information which are

necessary to statesmen. Yet both, trusting to the accomplishments which

had made them conspicuous in tilt-yards and ball-rooms, aspired to rule

the State. Both owed their elevation to the personal attachment of the

sovereign; and in both cases this attachment was of so eccentric a

kind, that it perplexed observers, that it still continues to perplex

historians, and that it gave rise to much scandal which we are inclined

to think unfounded. Each of them treated the sovereign whose favour he

enjoyed with a rudeness which approached to insolence. This petulance

ruined Essex, who had to deal with a spirit naturally as proud as his

own, and accustomed, during near half a century, to the most respectful

observance. But there was a wide difference between the haughty daughter

of Henry and her successor. James was timid from the cradle. His nerves,

naturally weak, had not been fortified by reflection or by habit. His

life, till he came to England, had been a series of mortifications and

humiliations. With all his high notions of the origin and extent of his

prerogatives, he was never his own master for a day. In spite of his

kingly title, in spite of his despotic theories, he was to the last a

slave at heart. Villiers treated him like one; and this course, though

adopted, we believe, merely from temper, succeeded as well as if it had

been a system of policy formed after mature deliberation.

In generosity, in sensibility, in capacity for friendship, Essex far

surpassed Buckingham. Indeed, Buckingham can scarcely be said to

have had any friend, with the exception of the two princes over whom

successively he exercised so wonderful an influence. Essex was to the

last adored by the people. Buckingham was always a most unpopular man,

except perhaps for a very short time after his return from the childish

visit to Spain. Essex fell a victim to the rigour of the Government

amidst the lamentations of the people. Buckingham, execrated by the

people, and solemnly declared a public enemy by the representatives of

the people, fell by the hand of one of the people, and was lamented by

none but his master.

The way in which the two favourites acted towards Bacon was highly

characteristic, and may serve to illustrate the old and true saying,

that a man is generally more inclined to feel kindly towards one on

whom he has conferred favours than towards one from whom he has received

them. Essex loaded Bacon with benefits, and never thought that he had

done enough. It seems never to have crossed the mind of the powerful

and wealthy noble that the poor barrister whom he treated with such

munificent kindness was not his equal. It was, we have no doubt, with

perfect sincerity that the Earl declared that he would willingly give

his sister or daughter in marriage to his friend. He was in general more

than sufficiently sensible of his own merits; but he did not seem to

know that he had ever deserved well of Bacon. On that cruel day when

they saw each other for the last time at the bar of the Lords, Essex

taxed his perfidious friend with unkindness and insincerity, but never

with ingratitude. Even in such a moment, more bitter than the bitterness

of death, that noble heart was too great to vent itself in such a

reproach.

Villiers, on the other hand, owed much to Bacon. When their acquaintance

began, Sir Francis was a man of mature age, of high station, and of

established fame as a politician, an advocate, and a writer. Villiers

was little more than a boy, a younger son of a house then of no great

note. He was but just entering on the career of court favour; and none

but the most discerning observers could as yet perceive that he was

likely to distance all his competitors. The countenance and advice of a

man so highly distinguished as the Attorney-General, must have been an

object of the highest importance to the young adventurer. But though

Villiers was the obliged party, he was far less warmly attached to

Bacon, and far less delicate in his conduct towards Bacon, than Essex

had been.

To do the new favourite justice, he early exerted his influence in

behalf of his illustrious friend. In 1616 Sir Francis was sworn of the

Privy Council, and in March 1617, on the retirement of Lord Brackley,

was appointed Keeper of the Great Seal.

On the seventh of May, the first day of term, he rode in state to

Westminster Hall, with the Lord Treasurer on his right hand, the Lord

Privy Seal on his left, a long procession of students and ushers before

him, and a crowd of peers, privy-councillors, and judges following in

his train. Having entered his court, he addressed the splendid auditory

in a grave and dignified speech, which proves how well he understood

those judicial duties which he afterwards performed so ill. Even at that

moment, the proudest moment of his life in the estimation of the vulgar,

and, it may be, even in his own, he cast back a look of lingering

affection towards those noble pursuits from which, as it seemed, he was

about to be estranged. “The depth of the three long vacations,” said he,

“I would reserve in some measure free from business of estate, and

for studies, arts, and sciences, to which of my own nature I am most

inclined.”

The years during which Bacon held the Great Seal were among the darkest

and most shameful in English history. Everything at home and abroad was

mismanaged. First came the execution of Raleigh, an act which, if done

in a proper manner, might have been defensible, but which, under all

the circumstances, must be considered as a dastardly murder. Worse was

behind: the war of Bohemia, the successes of Tilly and Spinola, the

Palatinate conquered, the King’s son-in-law an exile, the House of

Austria dominant on the Continent, the Protestant religion and the

liberties of the Germanic body trodden under foot. Meanwhile, the

wavering and cowardly policy of England furnished matter of ridicule

to all the nations of Europe. The love of peace which James professed

would, even when indulged to an impolitic excess, have been respectable,

if it had proceeded from tenderness for his people. But the truth is,

that, while he had nothing to spare for the defence of the natural

allies of England, he resorted without scruple to the most illegal

and oppressive devices, for the purpose of enabling Buckingham and

Buckingham’s relations to outshine the ancient aristocracy of the realm.

Benevolences were exacted. Patents of monopoly were multiplied. All

the resources which could have been employed to replenish a beggared

exchequer, at the close of a ruinous war, were put in motion during this

season of ignominious peace.

The vices of the administration must be chiefly ascribed to the weakness

of the King and to the levity and violence of the favourite. But it

is impossible to acquit the Lord Keeper of all share in the guilt. For

those odious patents, in particular, which passed the Great Seal while

it was in his charge, he must be held answerable. In the speech which

he made on first taking his seat in his court, he had pledged himself to

discharge this important part of his functions with the greatest caution

and impartiality. He had declared that he “would walk in the light,”

“that men should see that no particular turn or end led him, but a

general rule.” Mr. Montagu would have us believe that Bacon acted up

to these professions, and says that “the power of the favourite did not

deter the Lord Keeper from staying grants and patents when his public

duty demanded this interposition.” Does Mr. Montagu consider patents of

monopoly as good things? or does he mean to say that Bacon staid every

patent of monopoly that came before him? Of all patents in our history,

the most disgraceful was that which was granted to Sir Giles Mompesson,

supposed to be the original of Massinger’s Overreach, and to Sir Francis

Michell, from whom justice Greedy is supposed to have been drawn, for

the exclusive manufacturing of gold and silver lace. The effect of this

monopoly was of course that the metal employed in the manufacture was

adulterated, to the great loss of the public. But this was a trifle.

The patentees were armed with powers as great as have ever been given

to farmers of the revenue in the worst governed countries. They were

authorised to search houses and to arrest interlopers; and these

formidable powers were used for purposes viler than even those for which

they were given, for the wreaking of old grudges, and for the corrupting

of female chastity. Was not this a case in which public duty demanded

the interposition of the Lord Keeper? And did the Lord Keeper interpose?

He did. He wrote to inform the King, that he “had considered of the

fitness and conveniency of the gold and silver thread business,” “that

it was convenient that it should be settled,” that he “did conceive

apparent likelihood that it would redound much to his Majesty’s profit,”

that, therefore, “it were good it were settled with all convenient

speed.” The meaning of all this was, that certain of the House of

Villiers were to go shares with Overreach and Greedy in the plunder of

the public. This was the way in which, when the favourite pressed for

patents, lucrative to his relations and to his creatures, ruinous and

vexatious to the body of the people, the chief guardian of the laws

interposed. Having assisted the patentees to obtain this monopoly,

Bacon assisted them also in the steps which they took for the purpose

of guarding it. He committed several people to close confinement for

disobeying his tyrannical edict. It is needless to say more. Our readers

are now able to judge whether, in the matter of patents, Bacon acted

conformably to his professions, or deserved the praise which his

biographer has bestowed on him.

In his judicial capacity his conduct was not less reprehensible. He

suffered Buckingham to dictate many of his decisions. Bacon knew as

well as any man that a judge who listens to private solicitations is a

disgrace to his post. He himself, before he was raised to the woolsack,

represented this strongly to Villiers, then just entering on his career.

“By no means,” said Sir Francis, in a letter of advice addressed to the

young courtier, “by no means be you persuaded to interpose yourself,

either by word or letter, in any cause depending in any court of

justice, nor suffer any great man to do it where you can hinder it. If

it should prevail, it perverts justice; but if the judge be so just, and

of such courage as he ought to be, as not to be inclined thereby, yet it

always leaves a taint of suspicion behind it.” Yet he had not been Lord

Keeper a month when Buckingham began to interfere in Chancery suits; and

Buckingham’s interference was, as might have been expected, successful.

Mr. Montagu’s reflections on the excellent passage which we have quoted

above are exceedingly amusing. “No man,” says he, “more deeply felt

the evils which then existed of the interference of the Crown and

of statesmen to influence judges. How beautifully did he admonish

Buckingham, regardless as he proved of all admonition!” We should be

glad to know how it can be expected that admonition will be regarded by

him who receives it, when it is altogether neglected by him who gives

it. We do not defend Buckingham; but what was his guilt to Bacon’s?

Buckingham was young, ignorant, thoughtless, dizzy with the rapidity of

his ascent and the height of his position. That he should be eager to

serve his relations, his flatterers, his mistresses, that he should

not fully apprehend the immense importance of a pure administration of

justice, that he should think more about those who were bound to him

by private ties than about the public interest, all this was perfectly

natural, and not altogether unpardonable. Those who intrust a petulant,

hot-blooded, ill-informed lad with power, are more to blame than he

for the mischief which he may do with it. How could it be expected of a

lively page, raised by a wild freak of fortune to the first influence

in the empire, that he should have bestowed any serious thought on the

principles which ought to guide judicial decisions? Bacon was the ablest

public man then living in Europe. He was near sixty years old. He had

thought much, and to good purpose, on the general principles of law. He

had for many years borne a part daily in the administration of justice.

It was impossible that a man with a tithe of his sagacity and experience

should not have known that a judge who suffers friends or patrons to

dictate his decrees violates the plainest rules of duty. In fact, as we

have seen, he knew this well: he expressed it admirably. Neither on this

occasion nor on any other could his bad actions be attributed to any

defect of the head. They sprang from quite a different cause.

A man who stooped to render such services to others was not likely to

be scrupulous as to the means by which he enriched himself. He and his

dependants accepted large presents from persons who were engaged in

Chancery suits. The amount of the plunder which he collected in this

way it is impossible to estimate. There can be no doubt that he received

very much more than was proved on his trial, though, it may be, less

than was suspected by the public. His enemies stated his illicit gains

at a hundred thousand pounds. But this was probably an exaggeration.

It was long before the day of reckoning arrived. During the interval

between the second and third Parliaments of James, the nation was

absolutely governed by the Crown. The prospects of the Lord Keeper were

bright and serene. His great place rendered the splendour of his talents

even more conspicuous, and gave an additional charm to the serenity

of his temper, the courtesy of his manners, and the eloquence of his

conversation. The pillaged suitor might mutter. The austere Puritan

patriot might, in his retreat, grieve that one on whom God had bestowed

without measure all the abilities which qualify men to take the lead in

great reforms should be found among the adherents of the worst abuses.

But the murmurs of the suitor and the lamentations of the patriot had

scarcely any avenue to the ears of the powerful. The King, and the

Minister who was the King’s master, smiled on their illustrious

flatterer. The whole crowd of courtiers and nobles sought his favour

with emulous eagerness. Men of wit and learning hailed with delight

the elevation of one who had so signally shown that a man of profound

learning and of brilliant wit might understand, far better than any

plodding dunce, the art of thriving in the world.

Once, and but once, this course of prosperity was for a moment

interrupted. It would seem that even Bacon’s brain was not strong enough

to bear without some discomposure the inebriating effect of so much good

fortune. For some time after his elevation, he showed himself a little

wanting in that wariness and self-command to which, more than even to

his transcendent talents, his elevation was to be ascribed. He was by

no means a good hater. The temperature of his revenge, like that of

his gratitude, was scarcely ever more than lukewarm. But there was

one person whom he had long regarded with an animosity which, though

studiously suppressed, was perhaps the stronger for the suppression. The

insults and injuries which, when a young man struggling into note and

professional practice, he had received from Sir Edward Coke, were such

as might move the most placable nature to resentment. About the time at

which Bacon received the Seals, Coke had, on account of his contumacious

resistance to the royal pleasure, been deprived of his seat in the Court

of King’s Bench, and had ever since languished in retirement. But Coke’s

opposition to the Court, we fear, was the effect not of good principles,

but of a bad temper. Perverse and testy as he was, he wanted true

fortitude and dignity of character. His obstinacy, unsupported by

virtuous motives, was not proof against disgrace. He solicited

a reconciliation with the favourite, and his solicitations were

successful. Sir John Villiers, the brother of Buckingham, was looking

out for a rich wife. Coke had a large fortune and an unmarried daughter.

A bargain was struck. But Lady Coke, the lady whom twenty years before

Essex had wooed on behalf of Bacon, would not hear of the match. A

violent and scandalous family quarrel followed. The mother carried the

girl away by stealth. The father pursued them, and regained possession

of his daughter by force. The King was then in Scotland, and Buckingham

had attended him thither. Bacon was during their absence at the head of

affairs in England. He felt towards Coke as much malevolence as it was

in his nature to feel towards anybody. His wisdom had been laid to

sleep by prosperity. In an evil hour he determined to interfere in the

disputes which agitated his enemy’s household. He declared for the wife,

countenanced the Attorney-General in the filing an information in the

Star-Chamber against the husband, and wrote letters to the King and the

favourite against the proposed marriage. The strong language which he

used in those letters shows that, sagacious as he was, he did not quite

know his place, and that he was not fully acquainted with the extent

either of Buckingham’s power, or of the change which the possession of

that power had produced in Buckingham’s character. He soon had a lesson

which he never forgot. The favourite received the news of the Lord

Keeper’s interference with feelings of the most violent resentment, and

made the King even more angry than himself. Bacon’s eyes were at once

opened to his error, and to all its possible consequences. He had been

elated, if not intoxicated, by greatness. The shock sobered him in an

instant. He was all himself again. He apologised submissively for his

interference. He directed the Attorney-General to stop the proceedings

against Coke. He sent to tell Lady Coke that he could do nothing for

her. He announced to both the families that he was desirous to promote

the connection. Having given these proofs of contrition, he ventured to

present himself before Buckingham. But the young upstart did not think

that he had yet sufficiently humbled an old man who had been his friend

and his benefactor, who was the highest civil functionary in the realm,

and the most eminent man of letters of the world. It is said that on

two successive days Bacon repaired to Buckingham’s house, that on

two successive days he was suffered to remain in an antechamber among

footboys, seated on an old wooden box, with the Great Seal of England at

his side; and that when at length he was admitted, he flung himself on

the floor, kissed the favourite’s feet, and vowed never to rise till he

was forgiven. Sir Anthony Weldon, on whose authority this story rests,

is likely enough to have exaggerated the meanness of Bacon and the

insolence of Buckingham. But it is difficult to imagine that so

circumstantial a narrative, written by a person who avers that he

was present on the occasion, can be wholly without foundation; and,

unhappily, there is little in the character either of the favourite or

of the Lord Keeper to make the narrative improbable. It is certain that

a reconciliation took place on terms humiliating to Bacon, who never

more ventured to cross any purpose of anybody who bore the name of

Villiers. He put a strong curb on those angry passions which had for the

first time in his life mastered his prudence. He went through the

forms of a reconciliation with Coke, and did his best, by seeking

opportunities of paying little civilities, and by avoiding all that

could produce collision, to tame the untameable ferocity of his old

enemy.

In the main, however, Bacon’s life, while he held the Great Seal, was,

in outward appearance, most enviable. In London he lived with great

dignity at York House, the venerable mansion of his father. Here it was

that, in January 1620, he celebrated his entrance into his sixtieth

year amidst a splendid circle of friends. He had then exchanged the

appellation of Keeper for the higher title of Chancellor. Ben Jonson was

one of the party, and wrote on the occasion some of the happiest of his

rugged rhymes. All things, he tells us, seemed to smile about the old

house, “the fire, the wine, the men.” The spectacle of the accomplished

host, after a life marked by no great disaster, entered on a green

old age, in the enjoyment of riches, power, high honours, undiminished

mental activity, and vast literary reputation, made a strong impression

on the poet, if we may judge from those well-known lines:=

```“England’s high Chancellor, the destined heir,

```In his soft cradle, to his father’s chair,

```Whose even thread the Fates spin round and full

```Out of their choicest and their whitest wool.”=

In the intervals of rest which Bacon’s political and judicial functions

afforded, he was in the habit of retiring to Gorhambury. At that place

his business was literature, and his favourite amusement gardening,

which in one of his most interesting Essays he calls “the purest of

human pleasures.” In his magnificent grounds he erected, at a cost of

ten thousand pounds, a retreat to which he repaired when he wished

to avoid all visitors, and to devote himself wholly to study. On such

occasions, a few young men of distinguished talents were sometimes

the companions of his retirement; and among them his quick eye soon

discerned the superior abilities of Thomas Hobbes. It is not probable,

however, that he fully appreciated the powers of his disciple, or

foresaw the vast influence, both for good and for evil, which that most

vigorous and acute of human intellects was destined to exercise on the

two succeeding generations.

In January 1621, Bacon had reached the zenith of his fortunes. He had

just published the Novum Organum; and that extraordinary book had drawn

forth the warmest expressions of admiration from the ablest men in

Europe. He had obtained honours of a widely different kind, but perhaps

not less valued by him. He had been created Baron Verulam. He had

subsequently been raised to the higher dignity of Viscount St. Albans.

His patent was drawn in the most flattering terms, and the Prince of

Wales signed it as a witness. The ceremony of investiture was performed

with great state at Theobalds, and Buckingham condescended to be one

of the chief actors. Posterity has felt that the greatest of English

philosophers could derive no accession of dignity from any title which

James could bestow, and, in defiance of the royal letters patent, has

obstinately refused to degrade Francis Bacon into Viscount St. Albans.

In a few weeks was signally brought to the test the value of those

objects for which Bacon had sullied his integrity, had resigned his

independence, had violated the most sacred obligations of friendship and

gratitude, had flattered the worthless, had persecuted the innocent, had

tampered with judges, had tortured prisoners, had plundered suitors,

had wasted on paltry intrigues all the powers of the most exquisitely

constructed intellect that has ever been bestowed on any of the children

of men. A sudden and terrible reverse was at hand. A Parliament had been

summoned. After six years of silence the voice of the nation was again

to be heard. Only three days after the pageant which was performed at

Theobalds in honour of Bacon, the Houses met.

Want of money had, as usual, induced the King to convoke his Parliament.

It may be doubted, however, whether, if he or his Ministers had been at

all aware of the state of public feeling, they would not have tried any

expedient, or borne with any inconvenience, rather than have ventured

to face the deputies of a justly exasperated nation. But they did not

discern those times. Indeed almost all the political blunders of James,

and of his more unfortunate son, arose from one great error. During the

fifty years which preceded the Long Parliament a great and progressive

change was taking place in the public mind. The nature and extent of

this change was not in the least understood by either of the first two

Kings of the House of Stuart, or by any of their advisers. That the

nation became more and more discontented every year, that every House

of Commons was more unmanageable than that which had preceded it, were

facts which it was impossible not to perceive. But the Court could not

understand why these things were so. The Court could not see that the

English people and the English Government, though they might once have

been well suited to each other, were suited to each other no longer;

that the nation had outgrown its old institutions, was every day more

uneasy under them, was pressing against them, and would soon burst

through them. The alarming phaenomena, the existence of which no

sycophant could deny, were ascribed to every cause except the true one.

“In my first Parliament,” said James, “I was a novice. In my next, there

was a kind of beasts called undertakers” and so forth. In the third

Parliament he could hardly be called a novice, and those beasts, the

undertakers, did not exist. Yet his third Parliament gave him more

trouble than either the first or the second.

The Parliament had no sooner met than the House of Commons proceeded, in

a temperate and respectful, but most determined manner, to discuss

the public grievances. Their first attacks were directed against those

odious patents, under cover of which Buckingham and his creatures

had pillaged and oppressed the nation. The vigour with which these

proceedings were conducted spread dismay through the Court. Buckingham

thought himself in danger, and, in his alarm, had recourse to an adviser

who had lately acquired considerable influence over him, Williams,

Dean of Westminster. This person had already been of great use to the

favourite in a very delicate matter. Buckingham had set his heart on

marrying Lady Catherine Manners, daughter and heiress of the Earl of

Rutland. But the difficulties were great. The Earl was haughty and

impracticable, and the young lady was a Catholic. Williams soothed the

pride of the father, and found arguments which, for a time at least,

quieted the conscience of the daughter. For these services he had been

rewarded with considerable preferment in the Church; and he was now

rapidly rising to the same place in the regard of Buckingham which had

formerly been occupied by Bacon.

Williams was one of those who are wiser for others than for themselves.

His own public life was unfortunate, and was made unfortunate by

his strange want of judgment and self-command at several important

conjunctures. But the counsel which he gave on this occasion showed no

want of worldly wisdom. He advised the favourite to abandon all thoughts

of defending the monopolies, to find some foreign embassy for his

brother Sir Edward, who was deeply implicated in the villanies

of Mompesson, and to leave the other offenders to the justice of

Parliament. Buckingham received this advice with the warmest expressions

of gratitude, and declared that a load had been lifted from his heart.

He then repaired with Williams to the royal presence. They found the

King engaged in earnest consultation with Prince Charles. The plan of

operations proposed by the Dean was fully discussed, and approved in all

its parts.

The first victims whom the Court abandoned to the vengeance of the

Commons were Sir Giles Mompesson and Sir Francis Michell. It was some

time before Bacon began to entertain any apprehensions. His talents and

his address gave him great influence in the House of which he had lately

become a member, as indeed they must have done in any assembly. In the

House of Commons he had many personal friends and many warm admirers.

But at length, about six weeks after the meeting of Parliament, the

storm burst.

A committee of the lower House had been appointed to inquire into the

state of the Courts of Justice. On the fifteenth of March the chairman

of that committee, Sir Robert Philips, member for Bath, reported that

great abuses had been discovered. “The person,” said he, “against whom

these things are alleged is no less than the Lord Chancellor, a man so

endued with all parts, both of nature and art, as that I will say no

more of him, being not able to say enough.” Sir Robert then proceeded to

state, in the most temperate manner, the nature of the charges. A person

of the name of Aubrey had a case depending in Chancery. He had been

almost ruined by law expenses, and his patience had been exhausted by

the delays of the court. He received a hint from some of the hangers-on

of the Chancellor that a present of one hundred pounds would expedite

matters. The poor man had not the sum required. However, having found

out an usurer who accommodated him with it at high interest, he carried

it to York House. The Chancellor took the money, and his dependants

assured the suitor that all would go right. Aubrey was, however,

disappointed; for, after considerable delay, “a killing decree” was

pronounced against him. Another suitor of the name of Egerton complained

that he had been induced by two of the Chancellor’s jackals to make his

Lordship a present of four hundred pounds, and that, nevertheless, he

had not been able to obtain a decree in his favour. The evidence to

these facts was overwhelming. Bacon’s friends could only entreat the

House to suspend its judgment, and to send up the case to the Lords, in

a form less offensive than an impeachment.

On the nineteenth of March the King sent a message to the Commons,

expressing his deep regret that so eminent a person as the Chancellor

should be suspected of misconduct. His Majesty declared that he had no

wish to screen the guilty from justice, and proposed to appoint a new

kind of tribunal consisting of eighteen commissioners, who might be

chosen from among the members of the two Houses, to investigate the

matter. The Commons were not disposed to depart from their regular

course of proceeding. On the same day they held a conference with

the Lords, and delivered in the heads of the accusation against the

Chancellor. At this conference Bacon was not present. Overwhelmed with

shame and remorse, and abandoned by all those in whom he had weakly put

his trust, he had shut himself up in his chamber from the eyes of men.

The dejection of his mind soon disordered his body. Buckingham, who

visited him by the King’s order, “found his Lordship very sick and

heavy.” It appears, from a pathetic letter which the unhappy man

addressed to the Peers on the day of the conference, that he neither

expected nor wished to survive his disgrace. During several days he

remained in his bed, refusing to see any human being. He passionately

told his attendants to leave him, to forget him, never again to name his

name, never to remember that there had been such a man in the world. In

the meantime, fresh instances of corruption were every day brought to

the knowledge of his accusers. The number of charges rapidly increased

from two to twenty-three. The Lords entered on the investigation of the

case with laudable alacrity. Some witnesses were examined at the bar of

the House. A select committee was appointed to take the depositions of

others; and the inquiry was rapidly proceeding, when on the twenty-sixth

of March, the King adjourned the Parliament for three weeks.

This measure revived Bacon’s hopes. He made the most of his short

respite. He attempted to work on the feeble mind of the King. He

appealed to all the strongest feelings of James, to his fears, to his

vanity, to his high notions of prerogative. Would the Solomon of the

age commit so gross an error as to encourage the encroaching spirit of

Parliaments? Would God’s anointed, accountable to God alone, pay homage

to the clamorous multitude? “Those,” exclaimed Bacon, “who now strike at

the Chancellor will soon strike at the Crown. I am the first sacrifice.

I wish I may be the last.” But all his eloquence and address were

employed in vain. Indeed, whatever Mr. Montagu may say, we are firmly

convinced that it was not in the King’s power to save Bacon, without

having recourse to measures which would have convulsed the realm. The

Crown had not sufficient influence over the Parliament to procure an

acquittal in so clear a case of guilt. And to dissolve a Parliament

which is universally allowed to have been one of the best Parliaments

that ever sat, which had acted liberally and respectfully towards the

Sovereign, and which enjoyed in the highest degree the favour of the

people, only in order to stop a grave, temperate, and constitutional

inquiry into the personal integrity of the first judge in the kingdom,

would have been a measure more scandalous and absurd than any of those

which were the ruin of the House of Stuart. Such a measure, while it

would have been as fatal to the Chancellor’s honour as a conviction,

would have endangered the very existence of the monarchy. The King,

acting by the advice of Williams, very properly refused to engage in a

dangerous struggle with his people, for the purpose of saving from legal

condemnation a Minister whom it was impossible to save from dishonour.

He advised Bacon to plead guilty, and promised to do all in his power to

mitigate the punishment. Mr. Montagu is exceedingly angry with James

on this account. But though we are, in general, very little inclined to

admire that Prince’s conduct, we really think that his advice was, under

all the circumstances, the best advice that could have been given.

On the seventeenth of April the Houses reassembled, and the Lords

resumed their inquiries into the abuses of the Court of Chancery. On the

twenty-second, Bacon addressed to the Peers a letter, which the

Prince of Wales condescended to deliver. In this artful and pathetic

composition, the Chancellor acknowledged his guilt in guarded and

general terms, and, while acknowledging, endeavoured to palliate it.

This, however, was not thought sufficient by his judges. They required

a more particular confession, and sent him a copy of the charges. On

the thirtieth, he delivered a paper in which he admitted, with few and

unimportant reservations, the truth of the accusations brought against

him, and threw himself entirely on the mercy of his peers. “Upon

advised consideration of the charges,” said he, “descending into my own

conscience, and calling my memory to account so far as I am able, I do

plainly and ingenuously confess that I am guilty of corruption, and do

renounce all defence.”

The Lords came to a resolution that the Chancellor’s confession appeared

to be full and ingenuous, and sent a committee to inquire of him whether

it was really subscribed by himself. The deputies, among whom was

Southampton, the common friend, many years before, of Bacon and Essex,

performed their duty with great delicacy. Indeed, the agonies of such

a mind and the degradation of such a name might well have softened the

most obdurate natures. “My Lords,” said Bacon, “it is my act, my hand,

my heart. I beseech your Lordships to be merciful to a broken reed.”

They withdrew; and he again retired to his chamber in the deepest

dejection. The next day, the sergeant-at-arms and the usher of the House

of Lords came to conduct him to Westminster Hall, where sentence was to

be pronounced. But they found him so unwell that he could not leave his

bed; and this excuse for his absence was readily accepted. In no

quarter does there appear to have been the smallest desire to add to his

humiliation.

The sentence was, however, severe--the more severe, no doubt, because

the Lords knew that it would not be executed, and that they had an

excellent opportunity of exhibiting, at small cost, the inflexibility of

their justice, and their abhorrence of corruption. Bacon was condemned

to pay a fine of forty thousand pounds, and to be imprisoned in the

Tower during the King’s pleasure. He was declared incapable of holding

any office in the State or of sitting in Parliament: and he was banished

for life from the verge of the court. In such misery and shame ended

that long career of worldly wisdom and worldly prosperity.

Even at this pass Mr. Montagu does not desert his hero. He seems indeed

to think that the attachment of an editor ought to be as devoted as that

of Mr. Moore’s lovers; and cannot conceive what biography was made for,=

````“if ‘tis not the same

``Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame.”=

He assures us that Bacon was innocent, that he had the means of making

a perfectly satisfactory defence, that when “he plainly and ingenuously

confessed that he was guilty of corruption,” and when he afterwards

solemnly affirmed that his confession was “his act, his hand, his

heart,” he was telling a great lie, and that he refrained from bringing

forward proofs of his innocence, because he durst not disobey the King

and the favourite, who, for their own selfish objects, pressed him to

plead guilty.

Now, in the first place, there is not the smallest reason to believe

that, if James and Buckingham had thought that Bacon had a good defence,

they would have prevented him from making it. What conceivable motive

had they for doing so? Mr. Montagu perpetually repeats that it was their

interest to sacrifice Bacon. But he overlooks an obvious distinction. It

was their interest to sacrifice Bacon on the supposition of his guilt;

but not on the supposition of his innocence. James was very properly

unwilling to run the risk of protecting his Chancellor against the

Parliament. But if the Chancellor had been able, by force of argument,

to obtain an acquittal from the Parliament, we have no doubt that both

the King and Villiers would have heartily rejoiced. They would have

rejoiced, not merely on account of their friendship for Bacon, which

seems, however, to have been as sincere as most friendships of that

sort, but on selfish grounds. Nothing could have strengthened the

Government more than such a victory. The King and the favourite

abandoned the Chancellor because they were unable to avert his disgrace,

and unwilling to share it. Mr. Montagu mistakes effect for cause.

He thinks that Bacon did not prove his innocence, because he was not

supported by the Court. The truth evidently is that the Court did not

venture to support Bacon, because he could not prove his innocence.

Again, it seems strange that Mr. Montagu should not perceive that, while

attempting to vindicate Bacon’s reputation, he is really casting on

it the foulest of all aspersions. He imputes to his idol a degree of

meanness and depravity more loathsome than judicial corruption itself.

A corrupt judge may have many good qualities. But a man who, to please a

powerful patron, solemnly declares himself guilty of corruption when

he knows himself to be innocent, must be a monster of servility and

impudence. Bacon was, to say nothing of his highest claims to respect,

a gentleman, a nobleman, a scholar, a statesman, a man of the first

consideration in society, a man far advanced in years. Is it possible to

believe that such a man would, to gratify any human being, irreparably

ruin his own character by his own act? Imagine a grey-headed judge, full

of years and honours, owning with tears, with pathetic assurances of

his penitence and of his sincerity, that he has been guilty of shameful

malpractices, repeatedly asseverating the truth of his confession,

subscribing it with his own hand, submitting to conviction, receiving a

humiliating sentence and acknowledging its justice, and all this when

he has it in his power to show that his conduct has been irreproachable!

The thing is incredible. But if we admit it to be true, what must we

think of such a man, if indeed he deserves the name of man, who thinks

anything that kings and minions can bestow more precious than honour, or

anything that they can inflict more terrible than infamy?

Of this most disgraceful imputation we fully acquit Bacon. He had no

defence; and Mr. Montagu’s affectionate attempt to make a defence for

him has altogether failed.

The grounds on which Mr. Montagu rests the case are two: the first, that

the taking of presents was usual, and, what he seems to consider as the

same thing, not discreditable; the second, that these presents were not

taken as bribes.

Mr Montagu brings forward many facts in support of his first

proposition. He is not content with showing that many English judges

formerly received gifts from suitors, but collects similar instances

from foreign nations and ancient times. He goes back to the

commonwealths of Greece, and attempts to press into his service a line

of Homer and a sentence of Plutarch, which, we fear, will hardly serve

his turn. The gold of which Homer speaks was not intended to fee the

judges, but was paid into court for the benefit of the successful

litigant; and the gratuities which Pericles, as Plutarch states,

distributed among the members of the Athenian tribunals, were legal

wages paid out of the public revenue. We can supply Mr. Montagu with

passages much more in point. Hesiod, who, like poor Aubrey, had a

“killing decree” made against him in the Chancery of Ascra, forgot

decorum so far that he ventured to designate the learned persons who

presided in that court, as Basileas dorophagous. Plutarch and Diodorus

have handed down to the latest ages the respectable name of Anytus, the

son of Anthemion, the first defendant who, eluding all the safeguards

which the ingenuity of Solon could devise, succeeded in corrupting a

bench of Athenian judges. We are indeed so far from grudging Mr. Montagu

the aid of Greece, that we will give him Rome into the bargain. We

acknowledge that the honourable senators who tried Verres received

presents which were worth more than the fee-simple of York House and

Gorhambury together, and that the no less honourable senators and

knights who professed to believe in the alibi of Clodius obtained marks

still more extraordinary of the esteem and gratitude of the defendant.

In short, we are ready to admit that, before Bacon’s time, and in

Bacon’s time, judges were in the habit of receiving gifts from suitors.

But is this a defence? We think not. The robberies of Cacus and Barabbas

are no apology for those of Turpin. The conduct of the two men of Belial

who swore away the life of Naboth has never been cited as an excuse for

the perjuries of Oates and Dangerfield. Mr. Montagu has confounded two

things which it is necessary carefully to distinguish from each other,

if we wish to form a correct judgment of the characters of men of other

countries and other times. That an immoral action is in a particular

society, generally considered as innocent, is a good plea for an

individual who, being one of that society, and having adopted the

notions which prevail among his neighbours, commits that action. But

the circumstance that a great many people are in the habit of committing

immoral actions is no plea at all. We should think it unjust to call St.

Louis a wicked man, because in an age in which toleration was generally

regarded as a sin, he persecuted heretics. We should think it unjust to

call Cowper’s friend, John Newton, a hypocrite and monster, because at

a time when the slave-trade was commonly considered by the most

respectable people as an innocent and beneficial traffic, he went,

largely provided with hymn-books and handcuffs, on a Guinea voyage. But

the circumstance that there are twenty thousand thieves in London is no

excuse for a fellow who is caught breaking into a shop. No man is to be

blamed for not making discoveries in morality, for not finding out that

something which everybody else thinks to be good is really bad. But,

if a man does that which he and all around him know to be bad, it is no

excuse for him that many others have done the same. We should be ashamed

of spending so much time in pointing out so clear a distinction, but

that Mr. Montagu seems altogether to overlook it.

Now, to apply these principles to the case before us; let Mr. Montagu

prove that, in Bacon’s age, the practices for which Bacon was punished

were generally considered as innocent, and we admit that he has made out

his point. But this we defy him to do. That these practices were common

we admit; but they were common just as all wickedness to which there is

strong temptation always was and always will be common. They were common

just as theft, cheating, perjury, adultery have always been common. They

were common, not because people did not know what was right, but because

people liked to do what was wrong. They were common, though prohibited

by law. They were common, though condemned by public opinion. They

were common, because in that age law and public opinion united had not

sufficient force to restrain the greediness of powerful and unprincipled

magistrates. They were common, as every crime will be common when the

gain to which it leads is great, and the chance of punishment small.

But, though common, they were universally allowed to be altogether

unjustifiable; they were in the highest degree odious; and, though many

were guilty of them, none had the audacity publicly to avow and defend

them.

We could give a thousand proofs that the opinion then entertained

concerning these practices was such as we have described. But we will

content ourselves with calling a single witness, honest Hugh Latimer.

His sermons, preached more than seventy years before the inquiry into

Bacon’s conduct, abound with the sharpest invectives against those very

practices of which Bacon was guilty, and which, as Mr. Montagu seems to

think, nobody ever considered as blamable till Bacon was punished for

them. We could easily fill twenty pages with the homely, but just

and forcible rhetoric of the brave old bishop. We shall select a few

passages as fair specimens, and no more than fair specimens, of the

rest. “Omnes diligunt munera. They all love bribes. Bribery is a

princely kind of thieving. They will be waged by the rich, either to

give sentence against the poor, or to put off the poor man’s cause. This

is the noble theft of princes and magistrates. They are bribe-takers.

Nowadays they call them gentle rewards. Let them leave their colouring,

and call them by their Christian name--bribes.” And again. “Cambyses

was a great emperor, such another as our master is. He had many

lord-deputies, lord-presidents, and lieutenants under him. It is a great

while ago since I read the history. It chanced he had under him, in one

of his dominions, a briber, a gift-taker, a gratifier of rich men; he

followed gifts as fast as he that followed the pudding, a hand-maker in

his office to make his son a great man, as the old saying is: Happy is

the child whose father goeth to the devil. The cry of the poor widow

came to the emperor’s ear, and caused him to flay the judge quick, and

laid his skin in the chair of judgment, that all judges that should give

judgment afterwards should sit in the same skin. Surely it was a goodly

sign, a goodly monument, the sign of the judge’s skin. I pray God we may

once see the skin in England.” “I am sure,” says he, in another sermon,

“this is scala inferni, the right way to hell, to be covetous, to take

bribes, and pervert justice. If a judge should ask me the way to hell, I

would show him this way. First, let him be a covetous man; let his heart

be poisoned with covetousness. Then let him go a little further, and

take bribes; and, lastly, pervert judgment. Lo, here is the mother, and

the daughter, and the daughter’s daughter. Avarice is the mother: she

brings forth bribe-taking, and bribe-taking perverting of judgment.

There lacks a fourth thing to make up the mess, which, so help me God,

if I were judge, should be hangum tuum, a Tyburn tippet to take with

him; an it were the judge of the King’s Bench, my Lord Chief Judge of

England, yea, an it were my Lord Chancellor himself, to Tyburn with

him.” We will quote but one more passage. “He that took the silver basin

and ewer for a bribe, thinketh that it will never come out. But he may

now know that I know it, and I know it not alone; there be more beside

me that know it. Oh, briber and bribery! He was never a good man that

will so take bribes. Nor can I believe that he that is a briber will be

a good justice. It will never be merry in England till we have the skins

of such. For what needeth bribing where men do their things uprightly?”

This was not the language of a great philosopher who had made new

discoveries in moral and political science. It was the plain talk of

a plain man, who sprang from the body of the people, who sympathised

strongly with their wants and their feelings, and who boldly uttered

their opinions. It was on account of the fearless way in which

stout-hearted old Hugh exposed the misdeeds of men in ermine tippets

and gold collars, that the Londoners cheered him, as he walked down the

Strand to preach at Whitehall, struggled for a touch of his gown, and

bawled, “Have at them, Father Latimer!” It is plain, from the passages

which we have quoted, and from fifty others which we might quote, that,

long before Bacon was born, the accepting of presents by a judge was

known to be a wicked and shameful act, that the fine words under which

it was the fashion to veil such corrupt practices were even then seen

through by the common people, that the distinction on which Mr. Montagu

insists between compliments and bribes was even then laughed at as

a mere colouring. There may be some oratorical exaggeration in what

Latimer says about the Tyburn tippet and the sign of the judge’s

skin; but the fact that he ventured to use such expressions is amply

sufficient to prove that the gift-taking judges, the receivers of silver

basins and ewers, were regarded as such pests of the commonwealth that

a venerable divine might, without any breach of Christian charity,

publicly pray to God for their detection and their condign punishment.

Mr. Montagu tells us, most justly, that we ought not to transfer the

opinions of our age to a former age. But he has himself committed a

greater error than that against which he has cautioned his readers.

Without any evidence, nay, in the face of the strongest evidence, he

ascribes to the people of a former age a set of opinions which no people

ever held. But any hypothesis is in his view more probable than that

Bacon should have been a dishonest man. We firmly believe that, if

papers were to be discovered which should irresistibly prove that Bacon

was concerned in the poisoning of Sir Thomas Overbury, Mr. Montagu would

tell us that, at the beginning of the seventeenth century, it was not

thought improper in a man to put arsenic into the broth of his friends,

and that we ought to blame, not Bacon, but the age in which he lived.

But why should we have recourse to any other evidence, when the

proceeding against Lord Bacon is itself the best evidence on the

subject? When Mr. Montagu tells us that we ought not to transfer the

opinions of our age to Bacon’s age, he appears altogether to forget

that it was by men of Bacon’s own age, that Bacon was prosecuted, tried,

convicted, and sentenced. Did not they know what their own opinions

were? Did not they know whether they thought the taking of gifts by

a judge a crime or not? Mr. Montagu complains bitterly that Bacon

was induced to abstain from making a defence. But, if Bacon’s defence

resembled that which is made for him in the volume before us, it would

have been unnecessary to trouble the Houses with it. The Lords and

Commons did not want Bacon to tell them the thoughts of their own

hearts, to inform them that they did not consider such practices as

those in which they had detected him as at all culpable. Mr. Montagu’s

proposition may indeed be fairly stated thus:--It was very hard that

Bacon’s contemporaries should think it wrong in him to do what they

did not think it wrong in him to do. Hard indeed; and withal somewhat

improbable. Will any person say that the Commons who impeached Bacon for

taking presents, and the Lords who sentenced him to fine, imprisonment,

and degradation for taking presents, did not know that the taking of

presents was a crime? Or, will any person say that Bacon did not know

what the whole House of Commons and the whole House of Lords knew?

Nobody who is not prepared to maintain one of these absurd propositions

can deny that Bacon committed what he knew to be a crime.

It cannot be pretended that the Houses were seeking occasion to ruin

Bacon, and that they therefore brought him to punishment on charges

which they themselves knew to be frivolous. In no quarter was there the

faintest indication of a disposition to treat him harshly. Through

the whole proceeding there was no symptom of personal animosity or of

factious violence in either House. Indeed, we will venture to say that

no State-Trial in our History is more creditable to all who took part

in it, either as prosecutors or judges. The decency, the gravity, the

public spirit, the justice moderated but not unnerved by compassion,

which appeared in every part of the transaction, would do honour to the

most respectable public men of our own times. The accusers, while they

discharged their duty to their constituents by bringing the misdeeds

of the Chancellor to light, spoke with admiration of his many eminent

qualities. The Lords, while condemning him, complimented him on the

ingenuousness of his confession, and spared him the humiliation of a

public appearance at their bar. So strong was the contagion of good

feeling that even Sir Edward Coke, for the first time in his life,

behaved like a gentleman. No criminal ever had more temperate

prosecutors than Bacon. No criminal ever had more favourable judges. If

he was convicted, it was because it was impossible to acquit him without

offering the grossest outrage to justice and common sense.

Mr. Montagu’s other argument, namely, that Bacon, though he took

gifts, did not take bribes, seems to us as futile as that which we have

considered. Indeed, we might be content to leave it to be answered by

the plainest man among our readers. Demosthenes noticed it with contempt

more than two thousand years ago. Latimer, we have seen, treated this

sophistry with similar disdain. “Leave colouring,” said he, “and call

these things by their Christian name, bribes.” Mr. Montagu attempts,

somewhat unfairly, we must say, to represent the presents which Bacon

received as similar to the perquisites which suitors paid to the members

of the Parliaments of France. The French magistrate had a legal right to

his fee; and the amount of the fee was regulated by law. Whether this be

a good mode of remunerating judges is not the question. But what analogy

is there between payments of this sort, and the presents which Bacon

received, presents which were not sanctioned by the law, which were not

made under the public eye, and of which the amount was regulated only by

private bargain between the magistrate and the suitor?

Again, it is mere trifling to say that Bacon could not have meant to act

corruptly, because he employed the agency of men of rank, of bishops,

privy councillors, and members of Parliament; as if the whole history of

that generation was not full of the low actions of high people; as if it

was not notorious that men, as exalted in rank as any of the decoys that

Bacon employed, had pimped for Somerset, and poisoned Overbury.

But, says Mr. Montagu, these presents “were made openly and with the

greatest publicity.” This would indeed be a strong argument in favour of

Bacon. But we deny the fact. In one, and one only, of the cases in which

Bacon was accused of corruptly receiving gifts, does he appear to have

received a gift publicly. This was in a matter depending between the

Company of Apothecaries and the Company of Grocers. Bacon, in his

Confession, insisted strongly on the circumstance that he had on this

occasion taken a present publicly, as a proof that he had not taken it

corruptly. Is it not clear that, if he had taken the presents mentioned

in the other charges in the same public manner, he would have dwelt on

this point in his answer to those charges? The fact that he insists

so strongly on the publicity of one particular present is of itself

sufficient to prove that the other presents were not publicly taken. Why

he took this present publicly and the rest secretly, is evident. He on

that occasion acted openly, because he was acting honestly. He was

not on that occasion sitting judicially. He was called in to effect an

amicable arrangement between two parties. Both were satisfied with his

decision. Both joined in making him a present in return for his trouble.

Whether it was quite delicate in a man of his rank to accept a present

under such circumstances, may be questioned. But there is no ground in

this case for accusing him of corruption.

Unhappily, the very circumstances which prove him to have been innocent

in this case prove him to have been guilty on the other charges. Once,

and once only, he alleges that he received a present publicly. The

natural inference is that in all the other cases mentioned in the

articles against him he received presents secretly. When we examine the

single case in which he alleges that he received a present publicly,

we find that it is also the single case in which there was no gross

impropriety in his receiving a present. Is it then possible to doubt

that his reason for not receiving other presents in as public a manner

was that he knew that it was wrong to receive them?

One argument still remains, plausible in appearance, but admitting of

easy and complete refutation. The two chief complainants, Aubrey and

Egerton, had both made presents to the Chancellor. But he had decided

against them both. Therefore, he had not received those presents as

bribes. “The complaints of his accusers were,” says Mr. Montagu, “not

that the gratuities had, but that they had not influenced Bacon’s

judgment, as he had decided against them.”

The truth is, that it is precisely in this way that an extensive system

of corruption is generally detected. A person who, by a bribe, has

procured a decree in his favour, is by no means likely to come forward

of his own accord as an accuser. He is content. He has his quid pro

quo. He is not impelled either by interested or by vindictive motives to

bring the transaction before the public. On the contrary, he has almost

as strong motives for holding his tongue as the judge himself can have.

But when a judge practises corruption, as we fear that Bacon practised

it, on a large scale, and has many agents looking out in different

quarters for prey, it will sometimes happen that he will be bribed on

both sides. It will sometimes happen that he will receive money from

suitors who are so obviously in the wrong that he cannot with decency do

anything to serve them. Thus he will now and then be forced to pronounce

against a person from whom he has received a present; and he makes that

person a deadly enemy. The hundreds who have got what they paid for

remain quiet. It is the two or three who have paid, and have nothing to

show for their money, who are noisy.

The memorable case of the Goezmans is an example of this. Beaumarchais

had an important suit depending before the Parliament of Paris. M.

Goezman was the judge on whom chiefly the decision depended. It was

hinted to Beaumarchais that Madame Goezman might be propitiated by

a present. He accordingly offered a purse of gold to the lady, who

received it graciously. There can be no doubt that, if the decision of

the court had been favourable to him, these things would never have been

known to the world. But he lost his cause. Almost the whole sum which

he had expended in bribery was immediately refunded; and those who

had disappointed him probably thought that he would not, for the mere

gratification of his malevolence, make public a transaction which was

discreditable to himself as well as to them. They knew little of him. He

soon taught them to curse the day in which they had dared to trifle

with a man of so revengeful and turbulent a spirit, of such dauntless

effrontery, and of such eminent talents for controversy and satire. He

compelled the Parliament to put a degrading stigma on M. Goezman. He

drove Madame Goezman to a convent. Till it was too late to pause, his

excited passions did not suffer him to remember that he could effect

their ruin only by disclosures ruinous to himself. We could give other

instances. But it is needless. No person well acquainted with human

nature can fail to perceive that, if the doctrine for which Mr. Montagu

contends were admitted, society would be deprived of almost the only

chance which it has of detecting the corrupt practices of judges.

We return to our narrative. The sentence of Bacon had scarcely been

pronounced when it was mitigated. He was indeed sent to the Tower. But

this was merely a form. In two days he was set at liberty, and soon

after he retired to Gorhambury. His fine was speedily released by the

Crown.

He was next suffered to present himself at Court; and at length, in

1624, the rest of his punishment was remitted. He was now at liberty to

resume his seat in the House of Lords, and he was actually summoned to

the next Parliament. But age, infirmity, and perhaps shame, prevented

him from attending. The Government allowed him a pension of twelve

hundred pounds a year; and his whole annual income is estimated by Mr.

Montagu at two thousand five hundred pounds, a sum which was probably

above the average income of a nobleman of that generation, and which

was certainly sufficient for comfort and even for splendour. Unhappily,

Bacon was fond of display, and unused to pay minute attention to

domestic affairs. He was not easily persuaded to give up any part of the

magnificence to which he had been accustomed in the time of his power

and prosperity. No pressure of distress could induce him to part with

the woods of Gorhambury. “I will not,” he said, “be stripped of my

feathers.” He travelled with so splendid an equipage and so large a

retinue that Prince Charles, who once fell in with him on the road,

exclaimed with surprise, “Well; do what we can, this man scorns to

go out in snuff.” This carelessness and ostentation reduced Bacon to

frequent distress. He was under the necessity of parting with York

House, and of taking up his residence, during his visits to London, at

his old chambers in Gray’s Inn. He had other vexations, the exact nature

of which is unknown. It is evident from his will that some part of his

wife’s conduct had greatly disturbed and irritated him.

But, whatever might be his pecuniary difficulties or his conjugal

discomforts, the powers of his intellect still remained undiminished.

Those noble studies for which he had found leisure in the midst of

professional drudgery and of courtly intrigues gave to this last sad

stage of his life a dignity beyond what power or titles could bestow.

Impeached, convicted, sentenced, driven with ignominy from the presence

of his Sovereign, shut out from the deliberations of his fellow nobles,

loaded with debt, branded with dishonour, sinking under the weight of

years, sorrows, and diseases, Bacon was Bacon still. “My conceit of his

person,” says Ben Jonson very finely, “was never increased towards

him by his place or honours; but I have and do reverence him for the

greatness that was only proper to himself; in that he seemed to me ever,

by his work, one of the greatest men and most worthy of admiration, that

had been in many ages. In his adversity I ever prayed that God would

give him strength; for greatness he could not want.”

The services which Bacon rendered to letters during the last five years

of his life, amidst ten thousand distractions and vexations, increase

the regret with which we think on the many years which he had wasted, to

use the words of Sir Thomas Bodley, “on such study as was not worthy of

such a student.” He commenced a Digest of the Laws of England, a History

of England under the Princes of the House of Tudor, a body of Natural

History, a Philosophical Romance. He made extensive and valuable

additions to his Essays. He published the inestimable Treatise De

Augmentis Scientiarum. The very trifles with which he amused himself in

hours of pain and languor bore the mark of his mind. The best collection

of jests in the world is that which he dictated from memory, without

referring to any book, on a day on which illness had rendered him

incapable of serious study.

The great apostle of experimental philosophy was destined to be its

martyr. It had occurred to him that snow might be used with advantage

for the purpose of preventing animal substances from putrefying. On a

very cold day, early in the spring of the year 1626, he alighted from

his coach near Highgate, in order to try the experiment. He went into

a cottage, bought a fowl, and with his own hands stuffed it with

snow. While thus engaged he felt a sudden chill, and was soon so much

indisposed that it was impossible for him to return to Gray’s Inn.

The Earl of Arundel, with whom he was well acquainted, had a house at

Highgate. To that house Bacon was carried. The Earl was absent; but

the servants who were in charge of the place showed great respect and

attention to the illustrious guest. Here, after an illness of about

a week, he expired early on the morning of Easter-day, 1626. His mind

appears to have retained its strength and liveliness to the end. He did

not forget the fowl which had caused his death. In the last letter that

he ever wrote, with fingers which, as he said, could not steadily hold

a pen, he did not omit to mention that the experiment of the snow had

succeeded “excellently well.”

Our opinion of the moral character of this great man has already been

sufficiently explained. Had his life been passed in literary retirement,

he would, in all probability, have deserved to be considered, not only

as a great philosopher, but as a worthy and good-natured member of

society. But neither his principles nor his spirit were such as could

be trusted, when strong temptations were to be resisted, and serious

dangers to be braved.

In his will he expressed with singular brevity, energy, dignity, and

pathos, a mournful consciousness that his actions had not been such as

to entitle him to the esteem of those under whose observation his life

had been passed, and, at the same time, a proud confidence that his

writings had secured for him a high and permanent place among the

benefactors of mankind. So at least we understand those striking words

which have been often quoted, but which we must quote once more. “For my

name and memory, I leave it to men’s charitable speeches, and to foreign

nations, and to the next age.”

His confidence was just. From the day of his death his fame has been

constantly and steadily progressive; and we have no doubt that his name

will be named with reverence to the latest ages, and to the remotest

ends of the civilised world.

The chief peculiarity of Bacon’s philosophy seems to us to have been

this, that it aimed at things altogether different from those which

his predecessors had proposed to themselves. This was his own opinion.

“Finis scientiarum,” says he, “a nemine adhuc bene positus est.” [Novum

Organum, Lib. i. Aph. 81.] And again, “Omnium gravissimus error in

deviatione ab ultimo doctrinarum fine consistit.” [De Augmentis,

Lib. i.] “Nec ipsa meta,” says he elsewhere, “adhuc ulli, quod sciam,

mortalium posita est et defixa.” [Cogitata et visa.] The more carefully

his works are examined, the more clearly, we think, it will appear

that this is the real clue to his whole system, and that he used means

different from those used by other philosophers, because he wished to

arrive at an end altogether different from theirs.

What then was the end which Bacon proposed to himself? It was, to use

his own emphatic expression, “fruit.” It was the multiplying of human

enjoyments and the mitigating of human sufferings. It was “the relief

of man’s estate.” [Advancement of Learning, Book i.] It was “commodis

humanis inservire.” [De Augmentis, Lib. vii. Cap. i.] It was

“efficaciter operari ad sublevanda vitae humanae incommoda.” [Ib., Lib.

ii. Cap. ii.] It was “dotare vitam humanam novis inventis et copiis.”

[Novum Organum, Lib. i., Aph. 81.] It was “genus humanum novis operibus

et potestatibus continuo dotare.” [Cogitata et visa.] This was the

object of all his speculations in every department of science, in

natural philosophy, in legislation, in politics, in morals.

Two words form the key of the Baconian doctrine, Utility and Progress.

The ancient philosophy disdained to be useful, and was content to be

stationary. It dealt largely in theories of moral perfection, which were

so sublime that they never could be more than theories; in attempts

to solve insoluble enigmas; in exhortations to the attainment of

unattainable frames of mind. It could not condescend to the humble

office of ministering to the comfort of human beings. All the schools

contemned that office as degrading; some censured it as immoral. Once

indeed Posidonius, a distinguished writer of the age of Cicero and

Caesar, so far forgot himself as to enumerate, among the humbler

blessings which mankind owed to philosophy, the discovery of the

principle of the arch, and the introduction of the use of metals.

This eulogy was considered as an affront, and was taken up with proper

spirit. Seneca vehemently disclaims these insulting compliments.

[Seneca, Epist. 90.] Philosophy, according to him, has nothing to

do with teaching men to rear arched roofs over their heads. The true

philosopher does not care whether he has an arched roof or any roof,

Philosophy has nothing to do with teaching men the uses of metals.

She teaches us to be independent of all material substances, of all

mechanical contrivances. The wise man lives according to nature. Instead

of attempting to add to the physical comforts of his species, he regrets

that his lot was not cast in that golden age when the human race had no

protection against the cold but the skins of wild beasts, no screen from

the sun but a cavern. To impute to such a man any share in the invention

or improvement of a plough, a ship, or a mill is an insult. “In my

own time,” says Seneca, “there have been inventions of this sort,

transparent windows, tubes for diffusing warmth equally through all

parts of a building, shorthand, which has been carried to such a

perfection that a writer can keep pace with the most rapid speaker.

But the inventing of such things is drudgery for the lowest slaves;

philosophy lies deeper. It is not her office to teach men how to use

their hands. The object of her lessons is to form the soul. Non est,

inquam, instrumentorum ad usus necessarios opifex.” If the non were

left out, this last sentence would be no bad description of the Baconian

philosophy, and would, indeed, very much resemble several expressions in

the Novum Organum. “We shall next be told,” exclaims Seneca, “that the

first shoemaker was a philosopher.” For our own part, if we are forced

to make our choice between the first shoemaker and the author of the

three books “On Anger,” we pronounce for the shoemaker. It may be worse

to be angry than to be wet. But shoes have kept millions from being wet;

and we doubt whether Seneca ever kept anybody from being angry.

It is very reluctantly that Seneca can be brought to confess that any

philosopher had ever paid the smallest attention to anything that could

possibly promote what vulgar people would consider as the well-being of

mankind. He labours to clear Democritus from the disgraceful imputation

of having made the first arch, and Anacharsis from the charge of having

contrived the potter’s wheel. He is forced to own that such a thing

might happen; and it may also happen, he tells us, that a philosopher

may be swift of foot. But it is not in his character of philosopher that

he either wins a race or invents a machine. No, to be sure. The business

of a philosopher was to declaim in praise of poverty with two millions

sterling out at usury, to meditate epigrammatic conceits about the evils

of luxury, in gardens which moved the envy of sovereigns, to rant

about liberty, while fawning on the insolent and pampered freedmen of a

tyrant, to celebrate the divine beauty of virtue with the same pen which

had just before written a defence of the murder of a mother by a son.

From the cant of this philosophy, a philosophy meanly proud of its own

unprofitableness, it is delightful to turn to the lessons of the great

English teacher. We can almost forgive all the faults of Bacon’s life

when we read that singularly graceful and dignified passage: “Ego certe,

ut de me ipso, quod res est, loquar, et in iis quae nunc edo, et in iis

quae in posterum meditor, dignitatem ingenii et nominis mei, si qua

sit, saepius sciens et volens projicio, dum commodis humanis inserviam;

quique architectus fortasse in philosophia et scientiis esse debeam,

etiam operarius, et bajulus, et quidvis demum fio, cum haud pauca quae

omnino fieri necesse sit, alii autem ob innatum superbiam subterfugiant,

ipsi sustineam et exsequar.” [De Augmentis, Lib. vii. Cap. i.] This

philanthropia, which, as he said in one of the most remarkable of his

early letters, “was so fixed in his mind, as it could not be removed,”

this majestic humility, this persuasion that nothing can be too

insignificant for the attention of the wisest, which is not too

insignificant to give pleasure or pain to the meanest, is the great

characteristic distinction, the essential spirit of the Baconian

philosophy. We trace it in all that Bacon has written on Physics, on

Laws, on Morals. And we conceive that from this peculiarity all the

other peculiarities of his system directly and almost necessarily

sprang.

The spirit which appears in the passage of Seneca to which we have

referred tainted the whole body of the ancient philosophy from the time

of Socrates downwards, and took possession of intellects with which that

of Seneca cannot for a moment be compared. It pervades the dialogues

of Plato. It may be distinctly traced in many parts of the works of

Aristotle. Bacon has dropped hints from which it may be inferred that,

in his opinion, the prevalence of this feeling was in a great measure

to be attributed to the influence of Socrates. Our great countryman

evidently did not consider the revolution which Socrates effected in

philosophy as a happy event, and constantly maintained that the earlier

Greek speculators, Democritus in particular, were, on the whole,

superior to their more celebrated successors. [Novum Organum, Lib.

i. Aph. 71, 79. De Augmentis, Lib. iii. Cap. iv. De principiis, atque

originibus. Cogitata et visa. Redargutio philosophiarum.]

Assuredly if the tree which Socrates planted and Plato watered is to be

judged of by its flowers and leaves, it is the noblest of trees. But if

we take the homely test of Bacon, if we judge of the tree by its fruits,

our opinion of it may perhaps be less favourable. When we sum up all the

useful truths which we owe to that philosophy, to what do they amount?

We find, indeed, abundant proofs that some of those who cultivated it

were men of the first order of intellect. We find among their writings

incomparable specimens both of dialectical and rhetorical art. We have

no doubt that the ancient controversies were of use, in so far as they

served to exercise the faculties of the disputants; for there is no

controversy so idle that it may not be of use in this way. But, when

we look for something more, for something which adds to the comforts

or alleviates the calamities of the human race, we are forced to own

ourselves disappointed. We are forced to say with Bacon that this

celebrated philosophy ended in nothing but disputation, that it was

neither a vineyard nor an olive-ground, but an intricate wood of briars

and thistles, from which those who lost themselves in it brought back

many scratches and no food. [Novum Organum, Lib. i. Aph. 73.]

We readily acknowledge that some of the teachers of this unfruitful

wisdom were among the greatest men that the world has ever seen. If we

admit the justice of Bacon’s censure, we admit it with regret, similar

to that which Dante felt when he learned the fate of those illustrious

heathens who were doomed to the first circle of Hell:=

```“Gran duol mi prese al cuor quando lo ‘ntesi,

```Perocche gente di molto valore

```Conobbi che ‘n quel limbo eran sospesi.”=

But in truth the very admiration which we feel for the eminent

philosophers of antiquity forces us to adopt the opinion that their

powers were systematically misdirected. For how else could it be that

such powers should effect so little for mankind? A pedestrian may show

as much muscular vigour on a treadmill as on the highway road. But

on the road his vigour will assuredly carry him forward; and on the

treadmill he will not advance an inch. The ancient philosophy was

a treadmill, not a path. It was made up of revolving questions, of

controversies which were always beginning again. It was a contrivance

for having much exertion and no progress. We must acknowledge that more

than once, while contemplating the doctrines of the Academy and the

Portico, even as they appear in the transparent splendour of Cicero’s

incomparable diction, we have been tempted to mutter with the surly

centurion in Persius, “Cur quis non prandeat hoc est?” What is the

highest good, whether pain be an evil, whether all things be fated,

whether we can be certain of anything, whether we can be certain that we

are certain of nothing, whether a wise man can be unhappy, whether

all departures from right be equally reprehensible; these, and other

questions of the same sort, occupied the brains, the tongues, and the

pens of the ablest men in the civilised world during several centuries.

This sort of philosophy, it is evident, could not be progressive. It

might indeed sharpen and invigorate the minds of those who devoted

themselves to it; and so might the disputes of the orthodox Lilliputians

and the heretical Blefuscudians about the big ends and the little ends

of eggs. But such disputes could add nothing to the stock of knowledge.

The human mind accordingly, instead of marching, merely marked time. It

took as much trouble as would have sufficed to carry it forward; and

yet remained on the same spot. There was no accumulation of truth,

no heritage of truth acquired by the labour of one generation and

bequeathed to another, to be again transmitted with large additions to

a third. Where this philosophy was in the time of Cicero, there it

continued to be in the time of Seneca, and there it continued to be in

the time of Favorinus. The same sects were still battling with the same

unsatisfactory arguments, about the same interminable questions. There

had been no want of ingenuity, of zeal, of industry. Every trace of

intellectual cultivation was there, except a harvest. There had been

plenty of ploughing, harrowing, reaping, threshing. But the garners

contained only smut and stubble.

The ancient philosophers did not neglect natural science but they

did not cultivate it for the purpose of increasing the power and

ameliorating the condition of man. The taint of barrenness had spread

from ethical to physical speculations. Seneca wrote largely on natural

philosophy, and magnified the importance of that study. But why? Not

because it tended to assuage suffering, to multiply the conveniences of

life, to extend the empire of man over the material world; but solely

because it tended to raise the mind above low cares, to separate it

from the body, to exercise its subtilty in the solution of very

obscure questions. [Seneca, Nat. Quaest. praef. Lib. iii.] Thus natural

philosophy was considered in the light merely of a mental exercise.

It was made subsidiary to the art of disputation; and it consequently

proved altogether barren of useful discoveries.