"I write this, that Her Majesty never in her reign had so able and proper an instrument to do her honourable and great services as she hath now, if she will use him." Old Anthony Standen was amazed by the Earl's persistency. He had thought that his patron lacked tenacity of purpose - that "he must continually be pulled by the ear, as a boy, that learneth ut, re, mi, fa"; and now he saw that, without prompting, he was capable of the utmost pertinacity. On the other hand, in the opinion of old Lady Bacon, fuming at Gorhambury, "the Earl marred all by violent courses." The Queen, she thought, was driven to underrate the value of Francis through a spirit of sheer contradiction. Perhaps it was so; but who could prescribe the right method of persuading Elizabeth? More than once she seemed to be on the point of agreeing with her favourite. Fulke Greville had an audience of her, and, when he took the opportunity of putting in a word for his friend, she was "very exceeding gracious." Greville developed the theme of Bacon's merits. "Yes," said Her Majesty, "he begins to frame very well." The expression was perhaps an odd one; was it not used of the breaking-in of refractory horses? But Greville, overcome by the benignity of the royal manner, had little doubt that all was well. "I will lay £100 to £50," he wrote to Francis, "that you shall be her Solicitor."
While his friends were full of hope and energy, Francis himself had become a prey to nervous agitation. The prolonged strain was too much for his sensitive nature, and, as the months dragged on without any decision, he came near to despair. His brother and his mother, similarly tempered, expressed their perturbation in different ways. While Anthony sought to drown his feelings under a sea of correspondence, old Lady Bacon gave vent to fits of arbitrary fury which made life a burden to all about her. A servant of Anthony's, staying at Gorhambury, sent his master a sad story of a greyhound bitch. He had brought the animal to the house, and "as soon as my Lady did see her, she sent me word she should be hanged." The man temporised, but "by-and-by she sent me word that if I did not make her away she should not sleep in her bed; so indeed I hung her up." The result was unexpected. "She was very angry, and said I was fransey, and bade me go home to my master and make him a fool, I should make none of her.... My Lady do not speak to me as yet. I will give none offence to make her angry; but nobody can please her long together." The perplexed fellow, however, was cheered by one consideration. "The bitch," he added, "was good for nothing, else I would not a hung her." The dowager, in her calmer moments, tried to turn her mind, and the minds of her sons, away from the things of this world. "I am sorry," she wrote to Anthony, "your brother with inward secret grief hindereth his health. Everybody saith he looketh thin and pale. Let him look to God, and confer with Him in godly exercises of hearing and reading, and contemn to be noted to take care."
But the advice did not appeal to Francis; he preferred to look in other directions. He sent a rich jewel to the Queen, who refused it - though graciously. He let Her Majesty know that he thought of travelling abroad; and she forbade the project, with considerable asperity. His nerves, fretted to ribbons, drove him at last to acts of indiscretion and downright folly. He despatched a letter of fiery remonstrance to the Lord Keeper Puckering, who, he believed, had deserted his cause; and he attacked his cousin Robert in a style suggestive of a female cat. "I do assure you, Sir, that by a wise friend of mine, and not factious toward your Honour, I was told with asseveration that your Honour was bought by Mr. Coventry for two thousand angels.... And he said further that from your servants, from your Lady, from some counsellors that have observed you in my business, he knew you wrought underhand against me. The truth of which tale I do not
While his friends were full of hope and energy, Francis himself had become a prey to nervous agitation. The prolonged strain was too much for his sensitive nature, and, as the months dragged on without any decision, he came near to despair. His brother and his mother, similarly tempered, expressed their perturbation in different ways. While Anthony sought to drown his feelings under a sea of correspondence, old Lady Bacon gave vent to fits of arbitrary fury which made life a burden to all about her. A servant of Anthony's, staying at Gorhambury, sent his master a sad story of a greyhound bitch. He had brought the animal to the house, and "as soon as my Lady did see her, she sent me word she should be hanged." The man temporised, but "by-and-by she sent me word that if I did not make her away she should not sleep in her bed; so indeed I hung her up." The result was unexpected. "She was very angry, and said I was fransey, and bade me go home to my master and make him a fool, I should make none of her.... My Lady do not speak to me as yet. I will give none offence to make her angry; but nobody can please her long together." The perplexed fellow, however, was cheered by one consideration. "The bitch," he added, "was good for nothing, else I would not a hung her." The dowager, in her calmer moments, tried to turn her mind, and the minds of her sons, away from the things of this world. "I am sorry," she wrote to Anthony, "your brother with inward secret grief hindereth his health. Everybody saith he looketh thin and pale. Let him look to God, and confer with Him in godly exercises of hearing and reading, and contemn to be noted to take care."
But the advice did not appeal to Francis; he preferred to look in other directions. He sent a rich jewel to the Queen, who refused it - though graciously. He let Her Majesty know that he thought of travelling abroad; and she forbade the project, with considerable asperity. His nerves, fretted to ribbons, drove him at last to acts of indiscretion and downright folly. He despatched a letter of fiery remonstrance to the Lord Keeper Puckering, who, he believed, had deserted his cause; and he attacked his cousin Robert in a style suggestive of a female cat. "I do assure you, Sir, that by a wise friend of mine, and not factious toward your Honour, I was told with asseveration that your Honour was bought by Mr. Coventry for two thousand angels.... And he said further that from your servants, from your Lady, from some counsellors that have observed you in my business, he knew you wrought underhand against me. The truth of which tale I do not
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