It would seem as if, for His own wise purposes, the Almighty has permitted constellations of talent from time to time to shine upon this earth. Each has been succeeded by an age of darkness, and then another galaxy of bright intellectual stars has shed its lustre upon mankind. The reign of Elizabeth was prolific in men of commanding genius; and two, at least, have not since found their equals. Shakspeare, the prince of poets, and Bacon, the prince of philosophers, stand proudly in advance of any rivals; and the age in which they lived may well be regarded as a glorious epoch not only in the history of this country, but in the history of the human race. Humanum est errare is an adage, alas! but too true, and it is at once instructive and humiliating to learn from the page of history how such men have fallen from their high estate. They, we find, have not been free from the failings of their fellow-men, nor have they been proof against temptation; but the tide of time has swept away many incidents in the biography of the great men of past ages which tend to their discredit, and we regard with tenderness the failings of those whom we love: evil deeds, seen dimly through the long vista of two centuries, are mellowed down in their tints and deprived of those garish and vivid colors which, if seen nearer, would have excited our disgust. It is, moreover, distasteful to behold the dark side of characters whom we hold in reverence. With them, as with a beautiful theatrical scene, we would rather preserve the general effect than have it marred by too close inspection. But impartial historians are bound to show the whole of the picture. Some willingly, some unwillingly, have placed all the acts of the public

life of Lord Bacon before the world, and impartial critics have sat in judgment upon them. Our purpose is not to discuss the question, whether Bacon was, or was not, guilty of the acts which led to his disgrace. Our conviction is, that, though culpable, as he confesses himself to have been, he was sacrificed to hide the turpitude of James I. and his favorite Buckingham. Such topics, however, we leave to others, and propose to devote a few pages to the consideration of that portion of his life which is comparatively little known-namely, the five years preceding his death, and to exhibit him after he had tasted the bitterness of degradation, had experienced the hollowness of the friendship of monarchs, and had bade farewell to the vanities of a heartless court.

The fall of Lord Bacon presented a remarkable instance of the instability of human greatness. In January, 1621, he was raised to the dignity of Viscount St. Albans. The ceremony of his investiture was conducted with all the magnificence that could be displayed for a man whom the king delighted to honor. His robe of state was supported by the favorite, the Duke of Buckingham, then in the zenith of his power; his coronet was borne by Lord Wentworth, and his patent was couched in most flattering terms, expressive of his general merit and integrity in the administration of justice. In little more than three months from this date he was a prisoner in the Tower, stripped of his office, and condemned to spend the remainder of his days in disgrace and comparative indigence.

On the 17th of March, 1621, Bacon presided for the last time in the House of Peers: dreading the exhibition of articles of impeach

ment, he hurried the adjournment of the house, and on reaching home, took to his bed. Some of his biographers are of opinion that he feigned illness, but we see no reason to doubt that the mental agony brought on by the fear of the ignominy which awaited him, and the uncertainty of his doom, should have prostrated his body and mind.

At Bacon's own request, a commission passed the great seal, authorizing Chief Justice Sir James Ley to act as speaker in his absence, illness rendering him unable to perform the duties. On the 28th of March he was visited by Buckingham. We can well imagine the scene between them: Bacon, in bed in a darkened room, received Buckingham with conflicting feelings of shame and fear, hoping that he might be the bearer of good news, but fearing much the contrary. Buckingham, with curiosity not unmingled with pity, bestowed words of comfort, eagerly caught up by the sick Chancellor. Bacon probably possessed great elasticity of mind; it may be doubted whether his feelings were of a very acute character; those of honor were certainly obtuse, though where self was concerned he seems to have been more sensitive. Buckingham paid him a visit on the following day, and found that the oil which he had poured into his wounds had produced its effect. On the 20th he announced to the House of Lords that he had been twice to see the Chancellor, by order of the King; that the first time he found him very sick and heavy, but the second time he found him better, and much comforted with the thought that the complaint against him was come before that House, where he assured himself of finding justice. A letter was also written by Bacon himself, in which he says his illness is "no feigning or fainting, but sickness of my heart and my back." By an acquaintance he is described as sick in bed, swollen in body, and suffering none to come near him, adding, 66 some say he desires his gentlemen not to take any notice of him, but altogether to forget him and not hereafter to speak of him, or to remember there ever was such a man in the world!" The Chancellor having made a confession of guilt, the King sent a commission of high nobles to demand the great seal. The Chancellor was found in bed, very ill. When the object for which the commission had come was explained, he, hiding his face with one hand, delivered up the purse containing the seal, "that bauble," as Macaulay eloquently expresses it, "for which he 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, and 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!"

There have been conflicting statements as to the manner in which Bacon bore himself during the anxious period of his trial and subsequently. Certain playful expressions are recorded as spoken by him during that period, and Nathaniel Brent writes of him as being "merrie." But playfulness in affliction is a very equivocal test of cheerfulness. Medical men know well how often persons of determination endeavor to conceal their true feelings by an affectation of gaiety, and how often a jest throws but a thin disguise over a bursting heart or the anguish of racking pain. Sir Thomas More was facetious with the sheriff and the executioner on the scaffold. Danton conversed about the pleasures of a rural life when on his way to the guillotine. Cervantes, when within a few hours of death, wrote the remarkable letter to his patron containing the lines—

"And now with one foot in the stirrup,

Setting out for the regions of death,
To write this epistle I cheer up,

And salute my lord with my last breath." Such feelings, however, are very distinct from the calm resignation imparted by a deep sense of religion, and may be compared to a mask put on to hide the true features.

It is interesting to observe the effect produced by the disgrace of Bacon on the conduct of his friends. Lord Brooke has acquired an unenviable notoriety for his conduct on this occasion. In the quaint language of John Aubrey :-" In his lordship's prosperity, Sir Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke, was his great friend and acquaintance; but when he was in disgrace and want, he was so unworthy as to forbid his butler to let him have any more small beer, which he had often sent for, his stomach being nice, and the small beer of Gray's Inn not suiting his palate. This has donne his memorie more dishonor than Sir Philip Sydney's friendship engraven on his monument hath donne him honor." It is pleasing to find that one a t least of his more humble friends stood by him in evil report as well as in good report. The name of Ben Jonson has come down to us with honour as the friend of Shakspeare, and as a poet of no or dinary pretensions. But there is yet ano

ther point of view in which he appears to still greater advantage; that is, as the steady, unflinching friend of Lord Bacon. When in the full tide of prosperity, Bacon had patronized and befriended Jonson, who has left on record, in a graceful poem, his appreciation of the kindness. But it was when Bacon was in adversity, and avoided by many of his noble acquaintances and time-serving friends, that the conduct of Jonson shines forth in favorable contrast. "My conceit of his person was never increased towards him by his place or honors; 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 God would give him strength, for greatness he could not want."* Richard, Earl of Dorset, was also a steady friend, and so great an admirer that he was in the habit of having the conversation of Bacon written down by Sir Thomas Billinsley; and Gondomar, the Spanish ambassador, who, though unscrupulous, was an able diplomatist and good scholar, fully appreciated the talents of Bacon.

If the claims of duty and gratitude had been generally acknowledged, the friends of Bacon, in his fall, would have been many; for he was always disposed to patronize merit, was good-natured and obliging, and most liberally kind to his servants and dependents.

The age in which Bacon lived was essentially that of learned men, and though the novelty of his doctrines found some opponents, his merit was generally acknowledged. On the Continent he was highly appreciated. Several men of distinction visited England on purpose to make his acquaintance; and when after his disgrace his own countrymen looked coldly upon him, he was regarded by foreigners with the utmost interest and respect. When the Marquis d'Effiat escorted Queen Henrietta Maria into England, he paid a visit to Bacon, who, being ill in bed, received him with the curtains drawn. "You resemble the angels, my lord," said the ambassador; "we hear those beings continually talked of, and we believe them superior to mankind, but we never have the consolation to see them." Another French nobleman carried away with

* Ben Jonson's Works by Giffard, ix. 185.

him a full-length portrait of the philosopher, and esteemed it one of the most precious things in his possession.

Great as was the misfortune of disgrace and political banishment in the opinion of Bacon, it proved one of the most fortunate events of his life, so far as mankind are concerned. While tossed in the vortex of political strife, and occupied by his legal duties, his time was too fully engaged to admit of his devoting so much attention to philosophic and experimental inquiries as he desired. That, however, was the field best adapted to the display of his transcendent abilities, and most congenial to his taste. Bacon the philosopher is the object of our hero-worship; of Baron Verulam, Lord Chancellor, we know but little favorable. It was when in his study, pen in hand, or when rambling in meditative abstraction amongst the glades of Gorhambury, that he appeared to full advantage. Then was to be seen the pioneer of truth, by whom the barriers which hedged in the fallacies and dogmas of the ancient school were broken down-the philosopher, whose name was held in reverence by foes as well as friends amongst his learned contemporaries, and whose reputation, based on the most solid of all foundations, will endure so long as science is studied or learning held sacred. When penning the following passages, he was portraying the sentiments of his inmost soul: "The pleasures and delight of knowledge and learning far surpasseth all other in nature.

We see in all other pleasures there is satiety, and after they be used, their verdure departeth; which showeth well they be the deceits of pleasure and not pleasures, and that it was the novelty which pleased, and not the quality. But of knowledge there is no satiety, but satisfaction and appetite are perpetually interchangeable."

Having been liberated from the Tower, he retired first to Sir John Vaughan's house at Parson's Green, and shortly afterwards to Gorhambury, at which spot, and at his old chambers in Gray's Inn, he passed the rest of his life. The apartments said to have been occupied by him are up one pair of stairs, on the north side, in No. 1, Gray's Inn Square. Until within a few years, there was in the gardens of the Inn a small elevation, surrounded by trees, called "Lord Bacon's Mount," and the legend was, that the trees were planted by him. That he took great interest in the gardens is well known. The books in the steward's office