the King, complaining that Peacham had a dumb devil. I wealthy noble, that the poor barrister whom he treated

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.

with such munificent kindness, was not his equal. It was, we have no doubt, with perfect sincerity that he 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, the earl 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 favor; 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 AttorneyGeneral, must have been an object of the highest im

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 the 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 headstrong. Both were destitute of the abilities and 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 treat-portance to the young adventurer. But though Villiers ed the sovereign whose favor he enjoyed with a rudeness which approached to insolence. This petulence ruined Essex, who had to deal with a spirit naturally as proud as his own, and accustomed, during nearly 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 theory, 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 rigor 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.

was the obliged party, he was less warmly attached to Bacon and far less delicate in his conduct towards him than Essex had been.

To do the new favorite 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 7th of May, the first day of the 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, followed 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. Every thing 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 The way in which the two favorites acted towards be considered as a dastardly murder. Worse was beBacon, was highly characteristic, and may serve to illus-hind-the war of Bohemia-the successes of Tilly and trate the old and true saying,-that a man is generally Spinola-the Palatinate conquered-the King's son-inmore inclined to feel kindly towards one on whom he has conferred favors, than towards one from whom he has received them. Essex loaded Bacon with benefits, and never thought that he had done enough. It never seems to have crossed the mind of the powerful and

law in exile-the house of Austria dominant on the Continent-the Protestant religion and the liberties of the Germanic body trodden under foot. In the mean time 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 | the minister who was the King's master, smiled on their indulged to an impolitic excess, have been respectable, illustrious flatterer. The whole crowd of courtiers and nobles sought his favor 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.

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 as cribed to the weakness of the King, and to the levity and violence of the favorite. But it is impossible to acquit the Lord Keeper. For those odious patents, in particular, which passed the Great Seal while it was in his charge, he must be held answerable.

Once, and but once, this course of prosperity was for a moment interrupted. It should 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 re

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 had 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 inter-sistance to the royal pleasure, been deprived of his pose yourself, either by word or letter, in any cause seat in the Court of King's Bench, and had ever since depending in any court of justice, nor suffer any great languished in retirement. But Coke's opposition to the man to do it where you can hinder it. If it should Court, we fear, was the effect, not of good principles, prevail, it perverts justice; but, if the judge be so just but of a bad temper. Perverse and testy as he was, he and of such courage as he ought to be, as not to be wanted true fortitude and dignity of character. His inclined thereby, yet it always leaves a taint of suspi- obstinacy, unsupported by virtuous motives, was not cion behind it." Yet he had not been Lord Keeper proof against disgrace. He solicited a reconciliation a month when Buckingham began to interfere in Chan-with the favorite, and his solicitations were successful. cery suits, and his interference was, as might have been expected, successful.

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 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.

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 any body. 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 filing an information in the Star Chamber against the husband, and wrote strongly to the King and the favorite 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 Bucking

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 splendor 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 Puritain patriot might, in his retreat, lament that one on whom God had bestowed without mea-ham's power, or of the change which the possession of sure 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

that power had produced in Buckingham's character. He soon had a lesson which he never forgot. The favorite 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 VOL. IV.-3

eyes were at once opened to his error, and to all its pos- | ple, or foresaw the vast influence, both for good and for

sible consequences. He had been elated, if not intoxicated, by greatness. The shock sobered him in an instant. He was all himself 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 connexion. 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 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 foot-boys, 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 favorite's feet, and vowed never to rise till he was forgiven.

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, 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 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, entering on a green old age, in the enjoyment of riches, power, high honors, 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."

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 honors 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 honor of Bacon, the houses met.

Want of money had, as usual, induced the King to convoke his Parliament. But it may be doubted 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 In the intervals of rest which Bacon's political and any of their advisers. That the nation became more judicial functions afforded, he was in the habit of retir- and more discontented every year, that every House ing to Gorhambury. At that place his business was of Commons was more unmanageable than that which literature, and his favorite amusement gardening, which had preceded it,— -were facts which it was impossible not in one of his most pleasing Essays he calls “the purest to perceive. But the Court could not understand why of human pleasures." In his magnificent grounds he these things were so. The Court could not see that the erected, at a cost of ten thousand pounds, a retreat to English people, and the English Government, though which he repaired when he wished to avoid all visiters, they might once have been well suited to each other, and to devote himself wholly to study. On such occa- were suited to each other no longer,-that the nation sions, a few young men of distinguished talents were had outgrown its old institutions, was every day more sometimes the companions of his retirement. And uneasy under them, was pressing against them, and among them his quick eye soon discerned the superior would soon burst through them. The alarming pheabilities of Thomas Hobbes. It is not probable, how-nomena, the existence of which no sycophant could ever, that he fully appreciated the powers of his disci- deny, were ascribed to every cause except the true one.

"In my first Parliament," said James, "I was a Chancellor's jackals to make his Lordship a present of novice. In my next, there was a kind of beasts called four hundred pounds; and that, nevertheless, he had not 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.

been able to obtain a decree in his favor. 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

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 Bucking-screen the guilty from justice, and proposed to appoint ham and his creatures had pillaged and oppressed the a new kind of tribunal, consisting of eighteen commisnation. The vigor with which these proceedings were sioners, who might be chosen from among the members conducted spread dismay through the Court. Buck- of the two houses, to investigate the matter. The ingham thought himself in danger, and, in his alarm, Commons were not disposed to depart from the regular had recourse to an adviser who had lately acquired course of proceeding. On the same day they held a considerable influence over him,-Williams, Dean of conference with the Lords, and delivered in the heads of Westminster. He advised the favorite to abandon all the accusation against the Chancellor. At this conferthoughts of defending the monopolies-to find some ence Bacon was not present. Overwhelmed with shame foreign embassy for his brother Sir Edward, who was and remorse, and abondoned by all those in whom he deeply implicated in the villanies of Mompesson--and had weakly put his trust, he shut himself up in his to leave the other offenders to the justice of Parlia- | chamber from the eyes of men. The dejection of his ment. 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.

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 pasThe first victims whom the Court abandoned to the sionately told his attendants to leave him,--to forget him, vengeance of the Commons, were Sir Giles Mompesson-never again to name his name,--never to remember and Sir Francis Mitchell. It was some time before that there had been such a man in the world. In the Bacon began to entertain any apprehensions. His mean time, fresh instances of corruption were every day talents and his address gave him great influence in the brought to the knowledge of his accusers. The number house, of which he had lately become a member,-as of charges rapidly increased from two to twenty-three. indeed they must have done in any assembly. In the The Lords entered on the investigation of the case with House of Commons he had many personal friends and laudable alacrity. Some witnesses were examined at many warm admirers. But at length, about six weeks the bar of the house. A select committee was appointafter the meeting of Parliament, the storm burst. ed to take the depositions of others; and the inquiry was rapidly proceeding, when, on the 26h 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 attemped 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 annointed, accountable to God alone, pay homage to the clamor

strike at the Chancellor will soon stike 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.

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 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 Au-ous multitude? "Those," he exclaimed, "who now brey 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 Chan-Indeed, whatever Mr. Montagu may say, we are firmly cellor, that a present of one hundred pounds would expedite matters. The poor man had not the sum required. However, having found out a usurer who accommodated him with it at a 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

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 highest degree the favor of the people, only in order to stop a grave, temperate, and constitu

tional inquiry into the personal integrity of the first | ice moderated, but not unnerved, by compassion,— judge in the kingdom,-would have been a measure which appeared in every part of the transaction, would more scandalous and absurd than any of those which do honor to the most respectable public men of our own were the ruin of the House of Stuart. Such a measure, times. The accusers, while they discharged their duty while it would have been as fatal to the Chancellor's to their constituents by bringing the misdeeds of the honor 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 dishonor. He advised Bacon to plead guilty, and promised to do all in his power to mitigate the punishment.

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 favorable judges. If he was convicted, it was because it was impossible to acquit him without offering the grossest outrage to justice and common sense.

On the 17th of April the houses reassembled, and the Lords resumed their inquiries into the abuse 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 The sentence of Bacon had scarcely been pronounced Chancellor acknowledged his guilt in guarded and ge- when it was mitigated. He was indeed sent to the neral terms, and, while acknowledging, endeavored to Tower. But this was merely a form. In two days palliate it. This, however, was not thought sufficient he was set at liberty, and soon after he retired to Gorby his judges. They required a more particular confes-hambury. His fine was speedily released by the sion, and sent him a copy of the charges. On the 30th, Crown. He was next suffered to present himself at 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 this 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 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!

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 one thousand two 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 splendor. 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 him 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 dishonor, sinking under the weight of years, sorrow and disease,-Bacon

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 just-was Bacon still.