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