The letter was presented by Henry Prince of Wales, but was of no avail. Lord St. Albans was deprived of the Great Seal, and sentenced to a fine of £40,000, or to be imprisoned in the Tower; also to be declared incapable of holding any public office or sitting in Parliament for the future.
James, however, soon released him, and remitted the whole of the sentence, with the exception of the Parliamentary prohibition. Lord St. Albans never again succeeded in obtaining any employment, although his means were so necessitous that he did not disdain to apply for the Provostship of Eton College, and was much mortified by receiving a flat denial. The remainder of his life was given to study, but the most important of his works were, curiously enough, written during the years of his official life.
The great philosopher was no true lover. He wrote in slighting terms of the tender passion, such as: ‘Amongst all the great and worthy persons, of whom the memory remaineth, either in modern or ancient times, there hath not been one man transported to the mad degree of love, which shows that great spirits and great business do keep out this weak passion.’ Might one dare to call in question the validity of so great a man’s opinion?
We have seen what strenuous efforts he made to marry an unamiable woman for her wealth, and late in life he sought the hand of Alice Barnham, daughter to a rich London alderman—‘pour les beaux yeaux de sa cassette’ alone.
The marriage was most unhappy. They lived for some time together on wretched terms, and at length separated, the husband, in his last will, revoking every bequest he had made in his wife’s favour, and only leaving her what she might claim by settlement. Seldom could the line of ‘the ruling passion strong in death’ be more appropriately applied than in the case of Bacon, who indeed fell a victim to his love for scientific research.
Journeying from Gravesend to Gorhambury with the King’s physician (a congenial spirit) in winter, they fell into a discussion which caused them to set about making the experiment whether snow and ice would prove efficient substitutes for salt in the preservation of dead flesh.
The two companions immediately began to search for snow, and having found a sufficient quantity, they entered a cottage, and purchased a fowl, which Lord St. Albans stuffed with snow with his own hands.
The weather was intensely cold, and he was shortly taken with a shivering fit, and became so alarmingly ill that he could not prosecute his journey, but was conveyed to a house in the neighbourhood, belonging to Lord Arundel. A splendid house, as it appears, and the servants placed their noble guest in the state bed, but alas! the room was cold, the sheets damp, and the consequences fatal.
In his last moments he seems to have found consolation in likening himself to the elder Pliny, who fell a victim to his scientific ardour, being suffocated by the fumes of Vesuvius from having approached too near the raging crater, in order to investigate the phenomena of the eruption. Bacon—we call him by the name he generally bears as an author—died on Easter Day, in the arms of Sir Julius Cesar. He was of middle height, limbs well formed, but not strongly built, ample forehead, bright eyes and genial smile, with deep lines of thought on his face, as became a philosopher. His manners were attractive. He was fond of the country and rural pursuits, and found a relaxation from profound study in gardening and planting.
His faithful secretary erected a noble monument to his beloved patron in St. Michael’s Church, at St. Albans, with an excellent portrait of the great philosopher sitting in a chair, his head resting thoughtfully on his hand. He appears to have been in constant pecuniary difficulties, having once been actually arrested for debt, and dying insolvent. He deplored his childlessness, for though children, he said, increase the cares of life, they mitigate the remembrance of death—laying, however, the flattering unction to his soul, that great men have no continuance.