bar?” asked Lord Pembroke.  It was agreed that he was to be asked whether he would acknowledge the particulars.  His answer was “that he will make no manner of defence to the charge, but meaneth to acknowledge corruption, and to make a particular confession to every point, and after that a humble submission.  But he humbly craves liberty that, when the charge is more full than he finds the truth of the fact, he may make a declaration of the truth in such particulars, the charge being brief and containing not all the circumstances.”  And such a confession he made.  “My Lords,” he said, to those who were sent to ask whether he would stand to it, “it is my act, my hand, my heart.  I beseech your Lordships be merciful to a broken reed.”  This was, of course, followed by a request to the King from the House to “sequester” the Great Seal.  A commission was sent to receive it (May 1).  “The worse, the better,” he answered to the wish, “that it had been better with him.”  “By the King’s great favour I received the Great Seal; by my own great fault I have lost it.”  They intended him now to come to the bar to receive his sentence.  But he was too ill to leave his bed.  They did not push this point farther, but proceeded to settle the sentence (May 3).  He had asked for mercy, but he did not get it.  There were men who talked of every extremity short of death.  Coke, indeed, in the Commons, from his store of precedents, had cited cases where judges had been hanged for bribery.  But the Lords would not hear of this.  “His offences foul,” said Lord Arundel; “his confession pitiful.  Life not to be touched.”  But Southampton, whom twenty years before he had helped to involve in Essex’s ruin, urged that he should be degraded from the peerage; and asked whether, at any rate, “he whom this House thinks unfit to be a constable shall come to the Parliament.”  He was fined L40,000.  He was to be imprisoned in the Tower during the King’s pleasure.  He was to be incapable of any office, place, or employment in the State or Commonwealth.  He was never to sit in Parliament or come within the verge of the Court.  This was agreed to, Buckingham only dissenting.  “The Lord Chancellor is so sick,” he said, “that he cannot live long.”

What is the history of this tremendous catastrophe by which, in less than two months, Bacon was cast down from the height of fortune to become a byword of shame?  He had enemies, who certainly were glad, but there is no appearance that it was the result of any plot or combination against him.  He was involved, accidentally, it may almost be said, in the burst of anger excited by the intolerable dealings of others.  The indignation provoked by Michell and Mompesson and their associates at that particular moment found Bacon in its path, doing, as it seemed, in his great seat of justice, even worse than they; and when he threw up all attempt at defence, and his judges had his hand to an unreserved confession of corruption, both generally, and in the long list of