The Winding Stair: Francis Bacon, His Rise and Fall

by Daphne Du Maurier

  The ironic humour of Francis Bacon escaped many of his contemporaries, but not all of them. A contemporary scholar, Thomas Farnaby, published a collection of Greek epigrams three years after Bacon’s death, and printed at the same time what he termed a paraphrase in English verse, written by Lord Bacon, of one of the themes in the collection. Even Spedding, who was no satirist himself, did not doubt its authenticity. Farnaby gave no date for the adaptation of the theme into English verse, or of how he obtained the manuscript, but one might hazard a guess that the poem was written in a mood of total disenchantment with the world, when nothing pleased, when news from abroad was as disturbing as news at home, and the Viscountess St. Alban was proving more than usually troublesome. It could well have been written during the autumn of 1625.

  The world’s a bubble, and the life of man less than a span;

  On his conception wretched, from the womb so to the tomb:

  Curst from the cradle, and brought up to years with cares and fears.

  Who then to frail mortality shall trust,

  But limns the water, or but writes in dust.

  Yet since with sorrow here we live opprest, what life is best?

  Courts are but only superficial schools to dandle fools.

  The rural parts are turned into a den of savage men.

  And where’s the city from all vice so free,

  But may be turned the worst of all the three?

  Domestic cares afflict the husband’s bed, or pains his head.

  Those that live single take it for a curse, or do things worse.

  Some would have children; those that have them moan, or wish them gone.

  What is it then to have or have no wife,

  But single thraldom, or a double strife?

  Our own affections still at home to please is a disease:

  To cross the seas to any foreign soil perils and toil.

  Wars with their noise affright us: when they cease, we are worse in peace.

  What then remains, but that we still should cry

  Not to be born, or being born to die.’

  The only work that was definitely published during the year 1625 was the final edition of the essays, enlarged from the volume of 1612 by the addition of twenty new essays (see Appendix I). The work was dedicated to the Duke of Buckingham.

  ‘Excellent Lord,

  ‘Solomon says, A good name is as a precious ointment; and I assure myself, such will your Grace’s name be with posterity. For your fortune and merit, both have been eminent. And you have planted things that are like to last. I do now publish my Essays; which, of all my other works, have been most current; for that, as it seems, they come home to men’s business and bosoms. I have enlarged them both in number and weight; so that they are indeed a new work. I thought it therefore agreeable, to my affection and obligation to your Grace, to prefix your name before them both in English and in Latin. For I do conceive that the Latin volume of them, being in the universal language, may last as long as books last. My Instauration I dedicated to the King; my History of Henry the Seventh, which I have now also translated into Latin, and my Portions of Natural History to the Prince; and these I dedicate to your Grace; being of the best fruits that by the good increase which God gives to my pen and labours I could yield. God lead your Grace by the hand.

  ‘Your Grace’s most obliged,

  ‘and faithful servant,

  ‘Fr. St. Alban.’

  That the dedication still refers to the King and the Prince suggests that the essays were in the press before the spring of the year, when King James died, and that when they were published, possibly some months later, it was too late to alter the wording.

  Many of the original essays had also been altered and enlarged, and a comparison between the various editions, of 1597, 1612, 1625, is interesting. The 1625 edition opens with the essay Of Truth, and the famous sentence, ‘What is Truth? said jesting Pilate; and would not stay for an answer.’ Indeed, it had become part of Bacon’s method in the writing of essays to begin with a phrase which would hammer home his theme and give a lead to the argument that followed. Of Revenge, for instance, the fourth essay in the volume, opens, ‘Revenge is a kind of wild justice; which the more man’s nature runs to, the more ought law to weed it out.’ And Of Suspicion: ‘Suspicions amongst thoughts are like bats amongst birds, they ever fly by twilight.’

  The essay on building evidently reflects what he himself put foremost when designing Verulam House: ‘Houses are built to live in, and not to look on… He that builds a fair house upon an ill seat, committest himself to prison. Neither do I reckon it an ill seat only where the air is unwholesome; but likewise where the air is unequal… Neither is it an ill air only that maketh an ill seat, but ill ways, ill markets, ill neighbours; want of water, want of wood, shade, and shelter… too near the sea, too remote… too far off from great cities, which may hinder business, or too near them, which lurcheth all provisions, and maketh everything dear.’ The advice holds good for anyone hoping to possess his own home today, as it did for Francis Bacon and his contemporaries in 1625.

  Probably the most famous of all his essays is the one on gardens, with its opening lines, ‘God Almighty first planted a Garden. And indeed it is the purest of human pleasures.’ We do not know whether he composed it wandering amongst the shrubs and flowers he had himself planted, sitting down to dictate it from the summer-house or temple that stood below the old house of Gorhambury, with a ‘fair prospect’ all about him; finally retiring in his coach, if walking was now too arduous, the mile or more back to Verulam House. There is little doubt, though, that it was his own garden, or rather gardens, on the Gorhambury estate that had inspired him, gardens which he had laid out and improved upon after his mother’s death, and which were to fall into so sad a decline after his own.

  We have seen how Francis Bacon made his last will and testament in the April of 1621 at the time of his impeachment. It was short and drawn up in great haste, when he believed himself to be at the point of death. In May 1625, when he was once more ill, plague was raging in London and King James had recently been buried in Westminster Abbey, Francis evidently thought that the moment was now opportune to draw up another, and one of greater length. This will, or the greater part of it, was dated May 23rd, according to a decree of Chancery after his death, but the final version was dated December 19th, seven months later. It is very probably the earlier will of May 23rd, or rather an earlier draft, that Tension, Archbishop of Canterbury, saw when all the Bacon papers came into his hands at Lambeth Palace, for he quoted the passage relative to ‘Lord Bacon’s writings’ which is somewhat changed in the version of December 19th. The two versions are quoted below:

  First version. ‘But towards that durable part of memory which consisteth in my writings, I require my servant, Henry Percy, to deliver to my brother Constable all my manuscript-compositions, and the fragments also of such as are not finished; to the end that, if any of them be fit to be published, he may accordingly dispose of them. And herein I desire him to take the advice of Mr. Selden, and Mr. Herbert, of the Inner Temple, and to publish or suppress what shall be thought fit.’

  Second version. ‘But as to that durable part of my memory, which consisteth in my works and writings, I desire my executors, and especially Sir. John Constable and my very good friend Mr. Bosvile, to take care of all my writings, both of English and of Latin, there may be books fair bound, and placed in the King’s library, and in the library of the university of Cambridge, and in the library of Trinity College, where myself was bred, and in the library of Bennet College, where my father was bred, and in the library of the University of Oxonford, and in the library of my Lord of Canterbury, and in the library of Eton.’

  It is evident that the December version is very carefully drawn up and worded, whereas the earlier draft is much more akin to the will of 1621 at the impeachment, with the name of ‘my servant’ Henry Percy substituted for ‘my servant Harris.’ The matter might seem of small import
ance but for the fact that, when Henry Percy is named to be the bearer to John Constable, the wording is ‘all my manuscript-compositions, and the fragments also of such as are not finished.’ In the final will of December 1625 there is no mention of manuscripts as such, but only concern for his writings ‘both of English and of Latin,’ from which there were to be books ‘fair-bound’ for the various libraries.

  Mr. Harris had a mention in the list of servants of 1618, when Francis was Lord Verulam as well as Lord Chancellor. He is mentioned, with a Mr. Jones, in connection with ‘Remembrances for benefices.’ Yet in the final will of 1625 his name does not figure in the list of beneficiaries. Henry Percy, the ‘bloody Percy’ so much distrusted by old Lady Bacon as her son’s ‘coach companion and bed companion,’ received a legacy of £100. More interesting still is the fact that the last letter but one that his master ever wrote in his own hand, addressed to the Secretary of State, Sir. Edward Conway, referred to Percy.

  ‘Good Mr. Secretary,

  ‘This gentleman, Mr. Percy, my good friend and late servant, hath a suit to his Majesty, grounded upon service of profit which he hath done his Majesty, for the making of a friend of his Baronet. I pray, Sir, commend this his petition to his M. I shall account the pleasure all one as done unto myself. I rest

  ‘Your affectionate friend,

  ‘to do you service,

  ‘F. St. Alban.

  ‘Gray’s Inn, this 26th of January, 1626.’

  So Henry Percy had finally left his service, after more than thirty-three years, but what became of him, and his petition, we cannot tell. He would have known so many of his master’s secrets, had access to his papers. As time went on, and Francis became more concerned with his Latin and philosophical writings, it is at least possible that some manuscripts, of a more private nature, were never placed in the hands of Sir. John Constable or any other of the executors, and this might have come about through the personal instructions of Francis himself. Henry Percy, who bore such a distinguished name, remains an enigmatical figure in his master’s life.

  It is strange that Tobie Matthew, mentioned in the will of 1625 as ‘my ancient good friend’ received, under the terms of this will, no more than ‘some ring to be bought for him of the value of £30,’ but then Tobie, now Sir. Tobie, was doing well for himself and needed no patronage. A number of the servants who had figured in the will of 1618 are named as beneficiaries: another former servant, Francis Edney, equally detested by Lady Bacon along with Henry Percy, received ‘£200 and my rich gown.’ Perhaps the purple one Francis had worn when he rode in state to Whitehall as Lord Chancellor. And ‘old Thomas Gotherum, who was bred with me from a child, £30.’ This would be the son of the Thomas Gotherum (then spelt Cotheram) who used to write to Anthony Bacon in France back in 1581 giving him news from home. The poor of various parishes, relatives, godsons, friends, and many of those serving on the Gorhambury estate—none is forgotten. Chaplain Rawley was left £100, ‘the secretary Thomas Meautys some jewel to be bought for him of the value of £50, and my foot-cloth horse.’ The bulk of Francis’s property—land and goods, personal and otherwise—he did ‘give, grant, and confirm to my loving wife,’ and a list follows of all such ‘to maintain the estate of a viscountess.’

  There is nothing in this very exhaustive list to lead one to suspect that all was not harmonious within the home, which suggests that this portion of the will at any rate was drawn up in May of 1625. There is, however, a marked change at the conclusion of the will dated December 19th.

  ‘Whatsoever I have given, granted, confirmed, or appointed to my wife, in the former part of this my will, I do now, for just and great causes, utterly revoke and make void, and leave her to her right only.’

  Just and great causes… So at some moment during that last summer at Gorhambury, when Francis had moved from Gray’s Inn with the plague raging in London and himself far from well, he had at last recognised the truth, to which he had probably closed his eyes hitherto, of his wife Alice’s relationship with her steward John Underhill. His bequests to Lady Constable remained unchanged. ‘I give to my brother Constable all my books, and £100 to be presented him in gold; I give to my sister Constable some jewels, to be bought for her, of the value of £50.’ Evidently they were not held responsible in any way for his wife’s infidelity.

  The executors, and especially Sir. John Constable and Mr. Bosvile, were also instructed to ‘take into their hands all of my papers whatsoever, which are either in cabinets, boxes, or presses and them to seal up until they may at their leisure peruse them.’ Papers, it will be noted, not manuscripts.

  The executors were named as Sir. Humphrey May, Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, Mr. Justice Hutton, Sir. Thomas Crewe, Sir. Francis Barn, Sir. John Constable and Sir. Euball Thelwall. An account of the legal difficulties that ensued after the testator’s death will be found in the Epilogue.

  The new year of 1626 found Francis Bacon so far recovered that he was back again in London, living at Gray’s Inn, and well enough to write to Sir. Humphrey May to use his influence with the Duke of Buckingham to procure a pardon from King Charles for his whole sentence. This would have enabled him to take his seat in the Upper House when Parliament met on February 6th.

  ‘It is true,’ he wrote, ‘that I shall not be able, in respect of my health, to attend in Parliament; but yet I might make a proxy. Time hath turned envy to pity; and I have had a long cleansing week of five years’ expiation and more. Sir. John Bennet hath had his pardon; my Lord of Somerset had his pardon; and, they say, shall sit in Parliament. My Lord Suffolk cometh to Parliament, though not to Council. I hope I deserve not to be the only outcast.’

  He foresaw that the next Parliament was likely to be crucial, with a formidable opposition in the Commons led by Sir. John Eliot, and others equally strong in the Lords, united against the policies of the Duke of Buckingham, who was to die by an assassin’s knife two years later. Whether Francis would have voted by proxy against his former patron we have no means of knowing; his loyalty to his Majesty was such that, even if he had misgivings about his sovereign’s policy, he might have abstained.

  However, if attendance by proxy in the House of Lords was denied him, he could at least continue his studies in Gray’s Inn, and make experiments in natural science. The weather at the end of March was particularly cold, but this did not deter him. It may be that the final break with his wife Alice had given a fillip to his spirits. In early April, on the first or second of the month, he set forth in his coach to take the air, accompanied by a Scots physician, Dr. Witherborne, and proceeded out of town towards Highgate.

  There had been a fall of snow here, on the higher ground, which Francis could see from his coach, and the thought came to him that this was an invaluable opportunity to make an experiment. He bade his coachman stop at the bottom of the hill, and Francis and his companion knocked on the door of a cottage and enquired if there was any possibility of a hen being for sale. There was indeed, and the obliging woman within at once killed a bird, and with the help of his lordship gutted it. Between them they stuffed the hen with snow which was lying all about her cottage, for, so Francis told her, and his physician, it was very likely that snow could preserve flesh just as successfully as salt, and it would be interesting to put this theory to the test.

  The gutting and stuffing took some little while, and, as might be expected in the proximity of Hampstead and Highgate, the air, in late afternoon, turned very cold and keen. The sun was setting in the west behind them. Suddenly Francis became aware of chill. He could not possibly impose upon the woman in her humble cottage, but a hot drink and warm surroundings would restore him. He remembered that his friend the Earl of Arundel, Earl Marshal of England, had a house in Highgate, which he knew well; and although the Earl himself was in temporary confinement in the Tower for having allowed his son Lord Maltravers to marry the daughter of the Duchess of Lennox, whom King Charles had expressly desired should be wedded to another, Francis felt certain that
the Earl of Arundel’s housekeeper would be delighted to receive him.

  He and his companion entered the coach once more, and went on to Highgate. By the time they arrived it was growing dark, and Francis, his clothes clinging to him, half-frozen with the snow, which had penetrated his boots and his hose also, was shivering all over. Doctor Witherborne watched him with an anxious eye. The steward, his master the Earl of Arundel absent in the Tower, received them with consternation but with every attempt at hospitality. His lordship must come within at once. He must not attempt the journey back to London. His master would never forgive him if he permitted the Viscount St. Alban to depart in such a state of chill.

  A bedroom was made ready. Sheets, hastily warmed with a pan, were laid upon a bed that had not been slept in for over a year. The guest retired to the room which had been prepared for him. He continued to shake all over. He could not get warm. The physician watched him, more anxious than ever. Francis reassured him. He would be better by morning, but first he must make his excuses to his absent host, who was himself suffering surely far worse privation in the Tower. He dictated, from the damp bed in Highgate, the last letter he was ever to compose.

  ‘To the Earl of Arundel and Surrey.

  ‘My very good Lord,

  ‘I was likely to have had the fortune of Caius Plinius the elder, who lost his life by trying an experiment about the burning of the mountain Vesuvius. For I was also desirous to try an experiment or two, touching the conservation and induration of bodies. As for the experiment itself, it succeeded excellently well; but in the journey, between London and Highgate, I was taken with such a fit of casting, as I knew not whether it were the stone, or some surfeit, or cold, or indeed a touch of them all three. But when I came to your Lordship’s house, I was not able to go back, and therefore was forced to take up my lodging here, where your housekeeper is very careful and diligent about me; which I assure myself your Lordship will not only pardon towards him, but think the better of him for it. For indeed your Lordship’s house was happy to me; and I kiss your noble hands for the welcome which I am sure you give me to it…