Southampton was spared. His youth and romantic devotion to Essex were accepted as a palliation of his delinquency, and the death sentence was commuted1 for imprisonment2 in the Tower. Sir Christopher Blount and Sir Charles Davers were beheaded; Sir Gilly Merrick and Henry Cuffe were hanged. Some heavy fines were levied3 from some of the other conspirators4, but there were no more executions; the Government was less vindictive5 than might have been expected. Penelope Rich, who had been taken prisoner in Essex House at the same time as her brother, was set free. In the hour of his triumph Cecil’s one wish was to show no animosity; he gave rein6 to his instinctive7 mildness, and was as polite as possible to his fallen enemies. An opportunity occurred of showing a favour to Lady Essex, and he immediately seized it. One Daniell, a servant of the Earl’s, had got hold of some of his private letters, had forged copies of them, and had blackmailed9 the Countess with threats of publication. She appealed to Cecil, who acted with great promptitude. The ruffian was seized and brought before the Star Chamber10; and, in an elaborate sentence, filled with flowery praises of the Countess, he was condemned11 to pay her two thousand pounds, to be fined another thousand, to be imprisoned12 for life, and —“to thend the said offences of the foresaid Daniell should not only be notefyed to the publique viewe, but to cause others to refrayne from committing of the like hereafter, it is likewise ordered and decreed that for the same his offences he the said Daniell shal be sett upon the pillory13, with his eares thereunto nayled, with a paper on his head inscribed14 with these words — For forgery15, corrupte cosenages, and other lewde practises.” Lady Essex was duly grateful; a letter of thanks to Cecil gives us a momentary17 glimpse of the most mysterious of the personages in this tragic18 history. A shrouded19 figure, moving dubiously20 on that brilliantly lighted stage, Frances Walsingham remains21 utterly22 unknown to us. We can only guess, according to our fancy, at some rare beauty, some sovereign charm — and at one thing more: a superabundant vitality24. For, two years later, the widow of Sidney and Essex was married for the third time — to the Earl of Clanricarde. And so she vanishes. The rising had been followed by no repercussions26 among the people, but the Government remained slightly uneasy. It was anxious to convince the public that Essex had not been made a martyr27 to political intrigue28, but was a dangerous criminal who had received a righteous punishment. The preacher in Saint Paul’s was instructed to deliver a sermon to that effect, but this was not enough; and it was determined29 to print and publish a narrative30 of the circumstances, with extracts from the official evidence attached. Obviously Bacon was the man to carry out the work; he was instructed to do so; his labours were submitted to the correction of the Queen and Council; and the “Declaration of the Practices and Treasons of Robert Late Earl of Essex and his Complices . . . together with the very Confessions32, and other parts of the Evidences themselves, word for word taken out of the Originals” was the result. The tract31 was written with brevity and clarity, and, as was to be expected, it expressed in a more detailed33 form the view of the case which Bacon had outlined in his speeches at the trial. It showed that the rising had been the result of a long-thought-out and deliberately34 planned conspiracy35. This result was achieved with the greatest skill and neatness; certain passages in the confessions were silently suppressed; but the manipulations of the evidence were reduced to a minimum; and there was only one actually false statement of fact. The date of the Earl’s proposal to invade England with the Irish army was altered; it was asserted to have been made after the expedition against Tyrone, and not before it; and thus one of the clearest indications of the indeterminate and fluctuating nature of Essex and his plans was not only concealed37 but converted into a confirmation38 of Bacon’s thesis. By means of a clever series of small omissions39 from the evidence, the balance of the facts just previous to the rising was entirely40 changed; the Earl’s hesitations41 - which in truth continued up to the very last moment — were obliterated42, and it was made to appear that the march into the City had been steadily43 fixed44 upon for weeks. So small and subtle were the means by which Bacon’s end was reached that one cannot but wonder whether, after all, he was conscious of their existence. Yet such a beautiful economy — could it have arisen unbeknownst? Who can tell? The serpent glides45 off with his secret.
As a reward for his services Francis Bacon received ￡1200 from the Queen. And very soon his financial position was improved still further. Three months after the final catastrophe46, Anthony Bacon found the rest which this world had never given him. The terrible concatenation of events — the loss of his master, the loss of his brother, the ruin of his hopes, the triumph of folly47, passion, and wickedness — had broken the last prop36 of his shattered health — his fierce indomitable spirit. He died, and Francis inherited his small fortune. The future was brightening. Property — prosperity — a multitude of satisfactions, sensual and intellectual — a crowded life of brilliance48, learning, and power — were these things coming then at last? Perhaps; but when they came they would be shared in no family rejoicings. Only a strange cackle disturbed the silence of Gorhambury. For old Lady Bacon’s wits had finally turned. Gibbering of the Lord and the Earl, of her sons and her nephew, of hell-fire and wantonness, she passed the futile49 days in a confusion of prayers and rages. Frantic50, she tottered52 on into extreme senility. Oblivion covers her.
Mastery had come into Robert Cecil’s hands; but it was mastery tempered by anxiety and vigilance. No sooner was his great rival gone than a fresh crisis, of supreme53 importance in his life, was upon him. The Earl of Mar25 arrived in London. The situation had completely changed since his departure from Scotland, and it now seemed as if James’s emissary could have little to do at the English Court. While he was waiting indecisively, he received a message from Cecil, asking for a private interview. The Secretary had seen where the key to the future lay. He was able to convince Mar that he was sincerely devoted54 to the cause of the King of Scotland. If only, he said, James would abandon his policy of protests and clandestine55 manoeuvring, if he would put his trust in him, if he would leave to him the management of the necessary details, he would find, when the hour struck, that all would be well, that the transition would be accomplished56 and the Crown of England his, without the slightest difficulty or danger. Mar, deeply impressed, returned to Edinburgh, and succeeded in making James understand the crucial importance of these advances. A secret correspondence began between the King and the Secretary. The letters, sent round, by way of precaution, through an intermediary in Dublin, brought James ever more closely under the wise and gentle sway of Cecil. Gradually, persistently57, infinitely58 quietly, the obstacles in the path of the future were smoothed away; and the royal gratitude59 grew into affection, into devotion, as the inevitable60 moment drew near.
To Cecil, while he watched and waited, one possibility was more disturbing than all the rest. The rise of Raleigh had accompanied the fall of Essex; the Queen had made him Governor of Jersey61; she was beginning to employ him in diplomacy62; where was this to end? Was it conceivable that the upshot of the whole drama was merely to be a change of dangerous favourites — but a change for the worse, by which the dashing incompetence64 of Essex would be replaced by Raleigh’s sinister65 force? And, even if it was too late now for that bold man to snatch very much more from Elizabeth, what fatal influence might he not come to wield66 over the romantic and easily impressible James? This must be looked to; and looked to it was. The King’s mind was satisfactorily infected with the required sentiments. Cecil himself said very little — only a sharp word, once; but Lord Henry Howard, who, as Cecil’s closest ally, had been allowed to join in the secret correspondence, poured out, in letter after letter, envenomed warnings and bitter accusations67; and soon James felt for Raleigh only loathing68 and dread69. Raleigh himself was utterly unsuspecting; there seemed to be a warm friendship between him and the Secretary. Once again he was the victim of bad luck. His earlier hopes had been shattered by Essex; and now that Essex was destroyed he was faced by a yet more dangerous antagonist70. In reality, the Earl’s ruin, which he had so virulently71 demanded, was to be the prologue72 of his own. As he had looked out from the armoury on his enemy’s execution his eyes had filled with tears. So strangely had he been melted by the grandeur73 of the tragedy! But did some remote premonition also move him? Some obscure prevision of the end that would be his too at last?
The great reign23 continued for two years longer; but the pulses of action had grown feeble; and over public affairs there hovered74 a cloud of weariness and suspense75. Only in one quarter was history still being made — in Ireland. Elizabeth’s choice of Mountjoy had been completely justified76. With relentless77 skill and energy he had worn down the forces of Tyrone. It was in vain that all Catholic Europe prayed for the rebel, in vain that the Pope sent him a phoenix’s feather, in vain that three thousand Spaniards landed at Kinsale. Mountjoy was victorious78 in a pitched battle; the Spaniards were forced to capitulate; Tyrone was pressed back, pursued, harried79, driven from pillar to post. Once more he negotiated and yielded; but this time the dream of a Catholic dominion80 in Ireland was finally shattered, and Elizabeth’s crowning triumph was achieved. Yet Tyrone’s strange history was not ended; some unexpected sands were still waiting for him in Time’s glass. A great lord once again on his estates in Ulster, rich and proud with his adoring vassals81 about him, he suddenly plunged82 into a fresh quarrel with the English Government. All at once he took fright — he fled. For long he wandered with his family and retinue83 through France, Flanders, and Germany, a desperate exile, an extraordinary flitting focus of ambiguous intrigue. At length the Pope received him, housed him, pensioned him; his adventures silently ceased. And he, too, passes from us — submerged by the long vague years of peace, indolence, and insignificance84 — sinking away into forgetfulness through the monotony of Roman afternoons.
Elizabeth had resisted the first onslaughts of rage and grief with the utmost bravery, but an inevitable reaction followed, and, as the full consciousness of what had happened pressed in upon her, her nervous system began to give way. Her temper grew more abrupt85 and capricious than ever; for days at a time she sat silent in moody86 melancholy87. She could hardly bring herself to eat; “little but manchet and succory potage”— so Sir John Harington tells us — passed her lips. She kept a sword continually by her, and when a nerve-storm came upon her she would snatch it up, stamp savagely88 to and fro, and thrust it in fury into the tapestry89. Sir John, when he begged for an audience, received a sharp reply. “Go tell that witty90 fellow, my godson, to get home; it is no season now to fool it here.” It was too true, and he obeyed her, sad at heart. Sometimes she would shut herself up in a darkened room, in paroxysms of weeping. Then she would emerge, scowling91, discover some imagined neglect, and rate her waiting-women until they too were reduced to tears.
She still worked on at the daily business of government, though at times there were indications that the habits of a lifetime were disintegrating92, and she was careless, or forgetful, as she had never been before. To those who watched her it almost seemed as if the inner spring were broken, and that the mechanism93 continued to act by the mere63 force of momentum94. At the same time her physical strength showed signs of alarming decay. There was a painful scene when, in October, she opened Parliament. As she stood in her heavy robes before the Lords and Commons she was suddenly seen to totter51; several gentlemen hurried forward and supported her; without them she would have fallen to the ground.
But in truth the old spirit was not yet extinct, and she was still capable of producing a magnificent sensation. The veteran conjurer’s hand might tremble, but it had not lost the art of bringing an incredible rabbit out of a hat. When the session of Parliament began, it was found that there was great and general discontent on the subject of monopolies. These grants to private persons of the sole right to sell various articles had been growing in number, and were felt to be oppressive. As the long list of them was being read aloud in the House of Commons, a member interjected “Is not bread there?” “If order be not taken,” another replied, “it will be, before next Parliament.” The monopolies — Essex’s lease of the sweet wines had been one of them — were Elizabeth’s frugal95 method of rewarding her favourites or officials; and to protest against them amounted to an indirect attack on the royal prerogative96. Elizabeth had not been accustomed to put up with interferences of this kind from the Commons; how often, for less cause than this, had she railed at them in high displeasure, and dismissed them cowering97 from her presence! And so no one was surprised when she sent for the Speaker, and the poor man prepared himself for a tremendous wigging98. Great was his amazement99. She greeted him with the highest affability; told him that she had lately become aware that “divers patents, which she had granted, were grievous to her subjects,” assured him that she had been thinking of the matter “even in the midst of her most great and weighty occasions,” and promised immediate8 reform. The Speaker departed in raptures100. With her supreme instinct for facts, she had perceived that the debate in the House represented a feeling in the country with which it would be unwise to come into conflict; she saw that policy dictated101 a withdrawal102; and she determined to make the very best use of an unfortunate circumstance. The Commons were overwhelmed when they learnt what had happened; discontent was turned to adoration103; there was a flood of sentiment, and the accumulated popularity of half a century suddenly leapt up to its highest point. They sent a deputation to express their gratitude, and she received them in state. “In all duty and thankfulness,” said the Speaker, as the whole company knelt before her, “prostrate at your feet, we present our most loyal and thankful hearts, and the last spirit in our nostrils104, to be poured out, to be breathed up, for your safety.” There was a pause; and then the high voice rang out:
“Mr. Speaker, we perceive your coming is to present thanks unto us; know I accept them with no less joy than your loves can have desired to offer such a present, and do more esteem105 it than any treasure or riches, for those we know how to prize, but loyalty106, love, and thanks I account them invaluable107; and, though God hath raised me high, yet this I account the glory of my crown, that I have reigned108 with your loves.” She stopped, and told them to stand up, as she had more to say to them. “When I heard it,” she went on, “I could give no rest unto my thoughts until I had reformed it, and those varlets, lewd16 persons, abusers of my bounty109, shall know I will not suffer it. And, Mr. Speaker, tell the House from me that I take it exceeding grateful that the knowledge of these things have come unto me from them. Of myself, I must say this, I never was any greedy scraping grasper, nor a strict fast-holding prince, nor yet a waster; my heart was never set upon any worldly goods, but only for my subjects’ good.” Pausing again for a moment, she continued in a deeper tone. “To be a king and wear a crown is a thing more glorious to them that see it than it is pleasant to them that bear it. The cares and troubles of a crown I cannot more fitly resemble than to the drugs of a learned physician, perfumed with some aromatical savour, or to bitter pills gilded110 over, by which they are made more acceptable or less offensive, which indeed are bitter and unpleasant to take. And for my own part, were it not for conscience’ sake to discharge the duty that God hath laid upon me, and to maintain His glory, and keep you in safety, in mine own disposition111 I should be willing to resign the place I hold to any other, and glad to be freed of the glory with the labours; for it is not my desire to live nor to reign longer than my life and reign shall be for your good. And, though you have had and may have many mightier112 and wiser princes sitting in this seat, yet you never had nor shall have any love you better.” She straightened herself with a final effort; her eyes glared; there was a sound of trumpets113; and, turning from them in her sweeping114 draperies — erect115 and terrible — she walked out.
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commuted
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| 通勤( commute的过去式和过去分词 )； 减（刑）； 代偿 | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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levied
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| 征（兵）( levy的过去式和过去分词 )； 索取； 发动（战争）； 征税 | |
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conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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blackmailed
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| 胁迫，尤指以透露他人不体面行为相威胁以勒索钱财( blackmail的过去式 ) | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pillory
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| n.嘲弄；v.使受公众嘲笑；将…示众 | |
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inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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lewd
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| adj.淫荡的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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repercussions
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| n.后果，反响( repercussion的名词复数 )；余波 | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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omissions
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| n.省略( omission的名词复数 )；删节；遗漏；略去或漏掉的事（或人） | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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hesitations
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| n.犹豫( hesitation的名词复数 )；踌躇；犹豫（之事或行为）；口吃 | |
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obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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glides
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| n.滑行( glide的名词复数 )；滑音；音渡；过渡音v.滑动( glide的第三人称单数 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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totter
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| v.蹒跚， 摇摇欲坠；n.蹒跚的步子 | |
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tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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clandestine
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| adj.秘密的，暗中从事的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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incompetence
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| n.不胜任，不称职 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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wield
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| vt.行使，运用，支配；挥，使用(武器等) | |
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accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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68
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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69
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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70
antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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71
virulently
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| 恶毒地，狠毒地 | |
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72
prologue
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| n.开场白，序言；开端，序幕 | |
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73
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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74
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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75
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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76
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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77
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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78
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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79
harried
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| v.使苦恼( harry的过去式和过去分词 )；不断烦扰；一再袭击；侵扰 | |
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80
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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81
vassals
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| n.奴仆( vassal的名词复数 )；（封建时代）诸侯；从属者；下属 | |
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82
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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83
retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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84
insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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85
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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86
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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87
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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88
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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89
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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90
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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91
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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92
disintegrating
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| v.（使）破裂[分裂，粉碎]，（使）崩溃( disintegrate的现在分词 ) | |
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93
mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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momentum
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| n.动力，冲力，势头；动量 | |
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95
frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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96
prerogative
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| n.特权 | |
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97
cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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98
wigging
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| n.责备，骂，叱责 | |
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99
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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100
raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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101
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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102
withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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103
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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104
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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105
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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106
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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107
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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108
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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109
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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110
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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111
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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112
mightier
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| adj. 强有力的，强大的，巨大的 adv. 很，极其 | |
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113
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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114
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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115
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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