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, entering 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."

that place his business was literature, and his favourite amusement gardening, which in one of his most pleasing 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 visiters, 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.

hold. He declared for the wife, countenanced Keeper for the higher title of Chancellor. Bea the Attorney-General in filing an information Jonson was one of the party, and wrote on in the Star-Chamber against the husband, and wrote strongly to the king and the favourite against the proposed marriage. The language which he used in those letters shows that, sagacious as he was, he did not quite know his place; 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, In the intervals of rest which Bacon's poliif not intoxicated, by greatness. The shock tical and judicial functions afforded, he was sobered him in an instant. He was all himself in the habit of retiring to Gorhambury. At again. He apologized 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 in 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 rest, 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 render 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 untamable ferocity of his old enemy.

In the main, however, his 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

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 of 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 Viscoun: 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 | he was now rapidly rising to the same place years of silence the voice of the nation was in the regard of Buckingham which had foragain to be heard. Only three days after the merly been occupied by Bacon. pageart which was performed at Theobalds in honour of Bacon, the Houses met.

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

cussed and approved in all its parts.

Williams was one of those who are wiser for others than for themselves. His own pubWant of money had, as usual, induced the lic life was unfortunate, and was rendered unking to convoke his Parliament. But it may fortunate by his strange want of judgment and be doubted whether, if he or his ministers had self-command at several important conjuncbeen at all aware of the state of public feeling,tures. But the counsel which he gave on this 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 were 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 dis-operations proposed by the dean was fully 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 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 phenomena, the existence of which no sycophant could deny, were ascribed to every cause except the true. "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.

So.

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

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 15th of March the chairman of that committee, Sir Robert Phillips, member for Bath, reported that great abuses had been discovered. "The person," said he, "against whom the things are alleged is no less than the Lord Chancellor, a man so endued with all parts, both of nature and of art, as that I will say no more of him, being not able to say enough." Sir Robert then proceed. ed 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 re quired. However, having found out a usurer who accommodated him with it at high inte rest, 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 suiter of the name of Egerton complained that he had been induced by two of the Chancell, r'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 19th 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 the 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 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 mean time 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 deposition of others; and the inquiry was rapidly proceeding when, on the 26th 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 Parliament? Would God's anointed, accountable to God alone, pay homage to the clamorous multitude? "Those," he exclaimed, "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 in 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 highVOL. II-34

est 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 disho nour. 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 17th of April the Houses reassembled, and the Lords resumed their inquiries into the abuses of the Court of Chancery. On the 22d Bacon addressed to the Peers a letter, which Prince Charles 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 30th 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 commcn 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 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 ab sence was readily accepted. In no quartet 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 in- | please a powerful patron, solemnly declares flexibility 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 de-tence and of his sincerity, that he had been voted as that of Mr. Moore's lovers; and cannot conceive what biography was made for,

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disgrace and punishment small. But though
common, they were universally allowed to be
altogether unjustifiable; they were in the high-
est degree odious; and, though many were
guilty of them, none had the audacity publicly
to avow and defend them.

ther; and that the no less honourable senators
and knights who professed to believe in the
alibi of Clodius, obtained marks still more ex-
traordinary 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. We could give a thousand proofs that the
But is this a defence? We think not. The opinion then entertained concerning these prac-
robberies of Cacus and Barabbas are no justi- tices, was such as we have described. But we
fication for those of Turpin. The conduct of will content ourselves with calling a single
the two men of Belial who swore away the life witness, honest Hugh Latimer. His sermons,
of Naboth, has never been cited as an excuse preached more than seventy years before the
for the perjuries of Oates and Dangerfield. inquiry into Bacon's conduct, abound with the
Mr. Montagu has confounded two things which sharpest invectives against those very prac-
it is necessary carefully to distinguish from tices of which Bacon was guilty, and which, as
each other, if we wish to form a correct judg- Mr. Montagu seems to think, nobody ever con-
ment of the characters of men of other coun-sidered as blamable till Bacon was punished
tries and other times. That an immoral action for them. We could easily fill twenty pages
is, in a particular society, generally considered with the homely but just and forcible rhetoric
as innocent, is a good plea for an individual of the brave old bishop. We shall select a few
who, being one of that society, and having passages as fair specimens, and no more than
adopted the notions which prevail among his fair specimens, of the rest. "Omnes diligunt
neighbours, commits that action. But the cir- munera. They all love bribes. Bribery is a
cumstance that a great many people are in princely kind of thieving. They will be waged
the habit of committing immoral actions, is no by the rich, either to give sentence against
plea at all. We should think it unjust to call the poor, or to put off the poor man's cause.
St. Louis a wicked man, because in an age in This is the noble theft of princes and magis-
which toleration was generally regarded as a trates. They are bribe-takers. Nowadays they
sin, he persecuted heretics. We should think call them gentle rewards. Let them leave their co-
it unjust to call Cowper's friend, John New-louring and call them by their Christian name,
ton. a hypocrite and a monster, because, at a
time when the slave-trade was commonly con-
sidered by the most respectable people as an
innocent and beneficial traffic, he went, largely
provided with hymn-books and hand-cuffs, on
a Guinea-voyage. But the circumstance that
there are fifty 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 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.

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
handmaker 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 afterward
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
Now, to apply these principles to the case skin in England." "I am sure," says he in
before us; let Mr. Montagu prove that, in Ba- another sermon, "this is scala inferni, the right
con's age, the practices for which Bacon was way to hell, to be covetous, to take bribes, and
punished were generally considered as inno- pervert justice. If a judge should ask me the
cent; and we admit that he has made out his way to hell, I would show him this way. First,
point. But this we defy him to do. That let him be a covetous man; let his heart be
these practices were commou, we admit. But poisoned with covetousness. Then let him go
they were common, just as all wickedness to a little further and take bribes; and, lastly, per-
which there is strong temptation always was, vert judgment. Lo, here is the mother, and the
and always will be common. They were com- daughter, and the daughter's daughter. Ava
mon, just as theft, cheating, perjury, adultery, rice is the mother; she brings forth bribe-taking,
have always been common. They were com- and bribe-taking perverting of judgment. There
mon, not because people did not know what lacks a fourth thing to make up the mess, which,
was right, but because people liked to do what so help me God, if I were judge, should be
was wrong. They were common, though pro-hangum tuum, a Tyburn tippet to take with him;
hibited by law. They were common, though an it were the judge of the King's Bench, my
condemned by public opinion. They were Lord Chief Judge of England, yea, an it were
common, because in that age law and public my Lord Chancellor himself, to Tyburn with him.”
opinion united had not sufficient force to re-
strain the greediness of powerful and unprin-
cipled magistrates. They were common, as
every crime will be common when the gain
to which it leads is great, and the chance of

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