The Winding Stair: Francis Bacon, His Rise and Fall

by Daphne Du Maurier

  So far so good. Whoever has read Valerius Terminus, The Advancement of Learning and Cogitata et Visa can follow Bacon’s thought in the first book of the Novum Organum, and cannot fail to be impressed by the magnitude of his survey, which stepped beyond the bounds of his own century, forever seeking and probing the future and what it might bring to the benefit of mankind. What fascination he would have found in telecommunication, the landings of men on the moon, the exploration of space: had these been foretold in prophecy in 1620 he would not have shaken his head as his Majesty might have done, and murmured ‘witchcraft’, but smiled and assented possibility.

  The second book of Aphorisms is best left to the specialist. Forms of heat and cold, the nature of whiteness, the velocity of light… here, with King James, without scientific training our patience is limited; nevertheless, turning the pages at random, the modern eye is caught by a speculation that had evidently struck Francis one evening, perhaps, at Gorhambury, which we in the twentieth century know to be proven fact.

  ‘A strange doubt; viz, whether the face of a clear and starlight sky be seen at the instant as it really exists, and not a little later; and whether there be not, as regards our sight of heavenly bodies, a real time and an apparent time, just like the real place and apparent place which is taken account of by astronomers in the correction for parallaxes. So incredible did it appear to me that the images or rays of heavenly bodies could be conveyed at once to the sight through such an immense space, and did not rather take a perceptible time in travelling to us.’

  Today we accept as natural that the brightness of a star is so many ‘light years’ away; Francis Bacon already suspected it was so in 1620.

  A copy of the Novum Organum was sent to Cambridge University. ‘As your son and pupil,’ ran the accompanying letter, ‘I desire to lay in your bosom my new-born child. Otherwise I should hold it for a thing exposed. Let it not trouble you that the way is new; for in the revolutions of time such things must needs be. Nevertheless the ancients retain their proper honour—that is, of wit and understanding; for faith is due only to the Word of God and of Experience. Now to bring the sciences back to experience is not permitted; but to grow them anew out of experience, though laborious, is practicable. May God bless you and your studies. Your most loving son, Fr. Verulam, Canc.’

  In late November the country was shocked by the news that Frederick of Bohemia, Elector Palatine, had been defeated at Prague, and was a fugitive, the Palatinate being occupied by the armies of the King of Spain and the Duke of Bavaria. The King was now prepared to send his son-in-law aid, on the understanding that he gave up all claim to Bohemia. This condition would enable Britain to remain on friendly terms with Spain, and would not affect the marriage negotiations. The trouble was that the raising of an army would cost money, and England’s finances were once more at a very low ebb indeed. More than £1,000,000 would be needed, and although the people were ready enough for war, the Protestant cause being a popular one, they were not prepared to be taxed for it—a fact of life that has continued through the centuries.

  ‘It is most certain,’ wrote John Chamberlain, ‘that England was never generally so poor since I was born as it is at this present; inasmuch as all complain they cannot receive their rents. Yet there is plenty of all things but money; which is so scant that country people offer corn, cattle, and whatsoever they have else in lieu of rent, but bring no money… I fear when it comes to trial, it will appear as some merchants, which, having carried a great show a long time, when they are called on too fast by their creditors, are fain to play bankrupt. But the strangeness of it is how this great defect should come and be perceived but within these two or three years at most. Divers reasons are devised, as some say the money is gone northward, some eastward, and I know not whither.’

  Parliament met, for the first time for seven years, on January 30th 1621. His Majesty made a long speech, which was well received, and asked for supplies to be granted so that the debts the Crown had perforce incurred could be repaid and an army raised to send to the Palatinate.

  The case for the Palatinate was referred to a committee of the whole lower House, and later a bill was passed and received the royal assent. But a debate in early February on the causes of the scarcity of money brought up all the old complaints of the previous Parliament—patents, monopolies, prerogatives. Once more the heated arguments broke forth, and a Committee of Grievances, convened to deal with them, continued through February into March.

  Francis Bacon had listened to it all before, as Solicitor-General in 1610, when the question of the Great Contract and subsidies had been argued in the House. With his acute political and legal sense, it is a curious anomaly in his character that now, as Lord Chancellor, he seems to have been completely unaware of the direction which these various arguments were taking, and how they were likely to affect his own position.

  He had celebrated his sixtieth birthday on January 21st, giving a banquet at York House on the occasion. His Majesty had created him Viscount St. Alban, and a week later Francis went down to Theobalds to be invested with coronet and robe. The King, the Prince of Wales, the Marquis of Buckingham and many peers of the realm were present to applaud him.

  His friend Ben Jonson, poet, dramatist and masque-maker, had written him an ode, Lord Bacon’s Birth-day, beginning,

  Hail, happy genius of this ancient pile!

  How comes it all things so about thee smile?

  The fire, the wine, the men! And in the midst

  Thou stand’st as if some mystery thou didst!

  Pardon, I read it in thy face, the day

  For whose returns, and many, all these pray:

  And so do I…

  Francis Bacon, Lord Verulam, Viscount St. Alban, Keeper of the Great Seal, Lord Chancellor; never had he been held in higher esteem by the King, or by his patron the Marquis of Buckingham. He had turned the final corner of that winding stair to great place, and had reached the peak of his career.

  ‘This is now the eighth time, that your Majesty hath raised me… the eighth rise or reach,’ he told King James, ‘a diapason in music, even a good number and accord for a close. And so I may without superstition be buried in St. Alban’s habit or vestment.’

  The first intimation of trouble, that the Committee of Grievances had found abuses in the matter of patents—for which, of course, the Court of Chancery was responsible—did not worry him unduly. He told Sir Edward Sackville, Chairman of the Committee on the Courts of Justice, that ‘any man might speak freely anything concerning his Court of Chancery’. A letter from Tobie Matthew in Brussels warning him that his friends believed him to be in danger of attack from sources within both Houses received the answer, ‘I would not have my friends, though I know it to be out of love, too apprehensive either of me, or for me; for I thank God my ways are sound and good, and I hope God will bless me in them.’ Even the indictment of his friend Sir Giles Mompesson for irregularities concerning patents seemed of little concern, although it had been referred to him at the time. No, all was well, and the only thing of real concern was that the subsidy bill should be passed, and his Majesty’s affairs settled to his satisfaction.

  Then, in early March, Francis Bacon was informed that two former suitors were accusing him of taking money for the furthering of their suits some years previously, and that a charge of bribery and corruption was formally to be brought against him in both the lower and the upper Houses.

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  The shock was profound. Francis Bacon was stunned into disbelief. It could not possibly be. Pressure had never been put upon him to give a favourable or an adverse verdict. What was this all about? Presents? Yes, he had accepted presents, new year gifts, birthday gifts, many gifts of various kinds from satisfied suitors, but never as a bribe; never had he allowed such presents to affect his judgement.

  Names of the two complainants were shown to him. Christopher Awbrey, who was he? Then he remembered, yes, the man had had a suit pending in the Court of Chancery, whi
ch Francis had hastened. One of his gentlemen had attended to it, Sir George Hastings. A hundred pounds in recompense? Completely false. Possibly Sir George knew the truth of the matter.

  Edward Egerton? Yes, another case of delay. Egerton had had many suits in Chancery and Francis may have forwarded a few of them. A basin and ewer worth fifty guineas? Very possibly. He had been moving into York House then, so many people had presented him with gifts about that time. There was no act in the statutes of the realm forbidding a Lord Chancellor to accept presents. He would produce evidence to prove his point… but could he? More names were being brought forward, more witnesses against him, a commission was set up to examine these witnesses under oath, and the truth dawned on him at last; he was in trouble, deep trouble. No ‘strangeness or clouds’ now, no ‘melancholy or distaste’, but genuine sickness from grave shock.

  The Lord Chancellor took to his bed in York House, physicians were called, and for a few days he believed himself on the point of death. It was within a week of Good Friday, and the two Houses agreed that they would adjourn for Easter on March 27th, and continue with their examinations during the recess. This gave the sick Lord Chancellor three weeks to prepare his defence, and he would need all that time and more, for he still did not know how and when he had transgressed the law, who were his many accusers. Names, particulars, the sums involved, all these must be checked by his secretaries and submitted to his scrutiny. On March 24th, the anniversary of the King’s accession, he was sufficiently recovered to sit up in bed and write a letter to his Majesty.

  ‘Time hath been when I have brought unto you gemitum columbae from others. Now I bring it from myself. I fly unto your Majesty with the wings of a dove, which once within these seven days I thought would have carried me a higher flight. I have been no avaricious oppressor of the people. I have been no haughty or intolerable or hateful man, in my conversation or carriage. I have inherited no hatred from my father, but am a good patriot born…

  ‘For the House of Commons, I began my credit there, and now it must be the place of the sepulture thereof… For the Upper House, even within these days before these troubles, they seemed to take me into their arms, finding in me ingenuity which they took to be the true straight line of nobleness, without crooks or angles.

  ‘And for the briberies and gifts wherein I am charged, when the book of hearts shall be opened, I hope I shall not be found to have the troubled fountain of a corrupt heart in a depraved habit of taking rewards to pervert justice; howsoever I may be frail, and partake of the abuses of the times. And therefore I am resolved when I come to my answer, not to trick up my innocency by cavillations or voidances, but to speak to them [the Lords] the language that my heart speaketh to me, in excusing, extenuating, or ingenuous confessing; praying to God to give me the grace to see the bottom of my faults, and that no hardness of heart do steal upon me, under show of more neatness of conscience than is cause.’

  Francis travelled down to Gorhambury for Easter, still very frail, but possibly not so troubled physically as by extreme nervous exhaustion, for, like all highly-strung individuals, his sudden reverse of fortune made the approach of death appear very near, so much so that on April 10th he drew up a hasty will, in which he bequeathed ‘my soul to God above, by the oblation of my Saviour.

  ‘My body to be buried obscurely.

  ‘My name to the next ages, and to foreign nations.

  ‘My compositions unpublished, or the fragments of them, I require my servant Harris to deliver to my brother Constable, to the end that if any of these be fit in his judgement to be published, he may accordingly dispose of them. And in particular I wish the Elogium I wrote In felicem memoriam Reginae Elizabethae may be published. And to my brother Constable I give all my books; and to my servant Harris for this his service and care 50 pieces in gold, pursed up.’

  All his lands, leases, goods and chattels were bequeathed to his executors in payment of his debts, and after the death of his wife—to whom he gave a box of rings—he desired that the first offer of the reversion of Gorhambury and Verulam House should be made to the Prince.

  Then he pushed the document aside. His mood was such that he wanted everything earthly to be blotted out, all that he had ever created, thought or done. In his extremity, like many other religious men before and since, he felt his only recourse was to God, his Creator, Redeemer and Comforter, who would not forsake him; and the prayer he wrote at this time was a strong exposition of what he felt himself to be, a sinner, naturally, yet free from malice, cruelty and guile. Humble, yes, but proud of the qualities God had given him. ‘Remember, O Lord, how thy servant hath walked before thee: remember what I have first sought, and what hath been principal in mine intentions…’ (This jogging of the Almighty’s memory is almost as if he were reminding a fellow judge of past occasions.)

  ‘The state and bread of the poor and oppressed have been precious in mine eyes: I have hated all cruelty and hardness of heart: I have, though in a despised weed, procured the good of all men.’ (Does he refer to his lawyer’s gown or to his writer’s mask?) ‘If any have been mine enemies, I thought not of them; neither hath the sun almost set upon my displeasure; but I have been as a dove, free from superfluity of maliciousness… Thousand have been my sins, and ten thousand my transgressions; but thy sanctifications have remained with me, and my heart, through thy grace, hath been an unquenched coal upon thy altar…

  ‘I confess before thee, that I am debtor to thee for the gracious talent of thy gifts and graces, which I have neither put into a napkin nor put it, as I ought, to exchangers, where it might have made best profit; but misspent it in things for which I was least fit; so as I may truly say, my soul hath been a stranger in the course of my pilgrimage.’

  No bowing of the head, no beating of the breast, no bending of the knee; the prayer reads almost as a challenge. Did Francis see himself as Prometheus, who had fashioned men of clay and stolen fire from heaven to give them the means of survival, and had then been bound to a rock, preyed upon by an eagle until Hercules had freed him?

  Now he must review other cases of bribery and corruption, to see if they in any way resembled those with which he was shortly to be charged, and when this was done request, through his Majesty, that he might have the full particulars of all the charges, for if there were so many his memory could well be at fault in respect of some of them, dating back, as they were said to do, through the years. His Majesty granted him an interview, but, although his manner was gracious, he referred the Lord Chancellor to the House of Lords. The matter was in their hands, and he could not interfere.

  The examination of the various witnesses continued, and by April 19th Francis learnt that twenty-seven charges were to be brought against him, all concerning gifts of money or in kind that he had received either as Lord Keeper of the Seal or as Lord Chancellor; suits that had been brought before him in the courts, by parties he had long since forgotten, opposing parties he had reconciled, cases he had dismissed; and all these persons had sworn upon oath that he had been recompensed for his pains.

  The cause of Hodie versus Hodye—yes, he had received a dozen buttons… A hundred pounds from Sir John Trevor? But he thought it had been a new year’s gift… Quarrel between Kenneday and Van Lore, true, he was made a present of a fine cabinet, Sir John had begged him in his own hand to accept it—it was standing in York House today… Some hangings from Sir Edward Shute, also at the time of moving, but in no way relating to the cause heard… A diamond ring from Sir George Reynell, and more furniture for the house, but this again a new year’s gift… and on and on. The list was endless, overwhelming. Francis realised now that any hope of defence was out of the question and it would be better to submit, to admit all the charges. The mood of the House was made up; they were determined to make an example of him, fellow-peers and councillors he had thought his friends; among them the Earl of Suffolk, reinstated after his own disgrace and hoping for revenge; and hovering somewhere in the background, rubbing his hands in s
atisfaction, the chairman of the Committee of Grievances, Sir Edward Coke.

  On April 21st Francis wrote a letter of submission to his Majesty, offering to surrender his Seal, and on the following day, the 22nd, another to the upper House in which he said, ‘I do ingenuously confess and acknowledge, that having understood the particulars of the charge… I find matter sufficient and full, both to move me to desert the defence, and to move your Lordships to condemn and censure me.’

  What is perplexing is that the Lord Chancellor should have so readily made this submission without any attempt at self-defence, thus denying himself any right to reply to accusations, or to call witnesses to speak on his behalf. Many of the charges could have been disproved, and much of the smear campaign shown for what it was worth. It was as though the shame and disgrace of being charged with bribery and corruption had broken any fighting spirit he possessed, and in a state of nigh total nervous collapse he could summon up no will-power to resist.