The close of the life of Sir Walter Rawleigh was as extraordinary as
many parts of his varied history; the promptitude and sprightliness of
his genius, his carelessness of life, and the equanimity of this great
spirit in quitting the world, can only be paralleled by a few other
heroes and sages. Rawleigh was both! But it is not simply his dignified
yet active conduct on the scaffold, nor his admirable speech on that
occasion, circumstances by which many great men are judged, when their
energies are excited for a moment to act so great a part, before the
eyes of the world assembled at their feet; it is not these only which
claim our notice.
We may pause with admiration on the real grandeur of Rawleigh's
character, not from a single circumstance, however great, but from a
tissue of continued little incidents, which occurred from the moment of
his condemnation till he laid his head on the block. Rawleigh was a man
of such mark, that he deeply engaged the attention of his
contemporaries; and to this we owe the preservation of several
interesting particulars of what he did and what he said, which have
entered into his life; but all has not been told in the published
narratives. Contemporary writers in their letters have set down every
fresh incident, and eagerly caught up his sense, his wit, and, what is
more delightful, those marks of the natural cheerfulness of his
invariable presence of mind: nor could these have arisen from any
affectation or parade, for we shall see that they served him even in his
last tender farewell to his lady, and on many unpremeditated occasions.
I have drawn together into a short compass all the facts which my
researches have furnished, not omitting those which are known,
concerning the feelings and conduct of Rawleigh at these solemn moments
of his life; to have preserved only the new would have been to mutilate
the statue, and to injure the whole by an imperfect view.
Rawleigh one morning was taken out of his bed, in a fit of fever, and
unexpectedly hurried, not to his trial, but to a sentence of death. The
story is well known.--Yet pleading with "a voice grown weak by sickness
and an ague he had at that instant on him," he used every means to avert
his fate: he did, therefore, value the life he could so easily part
with. His judges, there, at least, respected their state criminal, and
they addressed him in a tone far different from that which he had
fifteen years before listened to from Coke. Yelverton, the
attorney-general, said--"Sir Walter Rawleigh hath been as a star at
which the world have gazed; but stars may fall, nay, they must fall,
when they trouble the sphere where they abide." And the lord
chief-justice noticed Rawleigh's great work:--"I know that you have been
valiant and wise, and I doubt not but you retain both these virtues, for
now you shall have occasion to use them. Your book is an admirable work;
I would give you counsel, but I know you can apply unto yourself far
better than I am able to give you." But the judge ended with saying,
"execution is granted." It was stifling Rawleigh with roses! the heroic
sage felt as if listening to fame from the voice of death.
He declared that now being old, sickly, and in disgrace, and "certain
were he allowed to live, to go to it again, life was wearisome to him,
and all he entreated was to have leave to speak freely at his farewell,
to satisfy the world that he was ever loyal to the king, and a true
lover of the commonwealth; for this he would seal with his blood."
Rawleigh, on his return to his prison, while some were deploring his
fate, observed that "the world itself is but a larger prison, out of
which some are daily selected for execution."
That last night of his existence was occupied by writing what the
letter-writer calls "a remembrancer to be left with his lady, to
acquaint the world with his sentiments, should he be denied their
delivery from the scaffold, as he had been at the bar of the King's
Bench." His lady visited him that night, and amidst her tears acquainted
him that she had obtained the favour of disposing of his body; to which
he answered smiling, "It is well, Bess, that thou mayst dispose of that,
dead, thou hadst not always the disposing of when it was alive." At
midnight he entreated her to leave him. It must have been then, that,
with unshaken fortitude, Rawleigh sat down to compose those verses on
his death, which being short, the most appropriate may be repeated.
Even such is Time, that takes on trust
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with age and dust;
Who in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days!
He has added two other lines expressive of his trust in his
resurrection. Their authenticity is confirmed by the writer of the
present letter, as well as another writer, enclosing "half a dozen
verses, which Sir Walter made the night before his death, to take his
farewell of poetry, wherein he had been a scribbler even from his
youth." The enclosure is not now with the letter. Chamberlain, the
writer, was an intelligent man of the world, but not imbued with any
deep tincture of literature. On the same night Rawleigh wrote this
distich on the candle burning dimly:--
Cowards fear to die; but courage stout,
Rather than live in snuff, will be put out.
At this solemn moment, before he lay down to rest, and at the instant of
parting from his lady, with all his domestic affections still warm, to
express his feelings in verse was with him a natural effusion, and one
to which he had long been used. It is peculiar in the fate of Rawleigh,
that having before suffered a long imprisonment with an expectation of a
public death, his mind had been accustomed to its contemplation, and had
often dwelt on the event which was now passing. The soul, in its sudden
departure, and its future state, is often the subject of his few poems;
that most original one of "The Farewell,"
Go, soul! the body's guest,
Upon a thankless errand, &c.
is attributed to Rawleigh, though on uncertain evidence. But another,
entitled "The Pilgrimage," has this beautiful passage:--
Give me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My staff of truth to walk upon,
My scrip of joy immortal diet;
My bottle of salvation;
My gown of glory, Hope's true gage,
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage--
Whilst my soul, like a quiet palmer,
Travelleth towards the land of Heaven--
Rawleigh's cheerfulness was so remarkable, and his fearlessness of death
so marked, that the Dean of Westminster, who attended him, at first
wondering at the hero, reprehended the lightness of his manner, but
Rawleigh gave God thanks that he had never feared death, for it was but
an opinion and an imagination; and as for the manner of death, he would
rather die so than of a burning fever; and that some might have made
shows outwardly, but he felt the joy within. The dean says, that he made
no more of his death than if he had been to take a journey: "Not," said
he, "but that I am a great sinner, for I have been a soldier, a seaman,
and a courtier." The writer of a manuscript letter tells us, that the
dean declared he died not only religiously, but he found him to be a man
as ready and as able to give as to take instruction.
On the morning of his death he smoked, as usual, his favourite tobacco,
and when they brought him a cup of excellent sack, being asked how he
liked it, Rawleigh answered--"As the fellow, that, drinking of St.
Giles's bowl, as he went to Tyburn, said, 'that was good drink if a man
might tarry by it.'"[76] The day before, in passing from Westminster
Hall to the Gate-house, his eye had caught Sir Hugh Beeston in the
throng, and calling on him, Rawleigh requested that he would see him die
to-morrow. Sir Hugh, to secure himself a seat on the scaffold, had
provided himself with a letter to the sheriff, which was not read at the
time, and Sir Walter found his friend thrust by, lamenting that he could
not get there. "Farewell!" exclaimed Rawleigh, "I know not what shift
you will make, but I am sure to have a place." In going from the prison
to the scaffold, among others who were pressing hard to see him, one old
man, whose head was bald, came very forward, insomuch that Rawleigh
noticed him, and asked "whether he would have aught of him?" The old man
answered--"Nothing but to see him, and to pray God for him." Rawleigh
replied--"I thank thee, good friend, and I am sorry I have no better
thing to return thee for thy good will." Observing his bald head, he
continued, "but take this night-cap (which was a very rich wrought one
that he wore), for thou hast more need of it now than I."
His dress, as was usual with him, was elegant, if not rich.[77] Oldys
describes it, but mentions, that "he had a wrought nightcap under his
hat;" this we have otherwise disposed of; he wore a ruff-band, a black
wrought velvet night-gown over a hare-coloured satin doublet, and a
black wrought waistcoat; black cut taffety breeches, and ash-coloured
silk stockings.
He ascended the scaffold with the same cheerfulness as he had passed to
it; and observing the lords seated at a distance, some at windows, he
requested they would approach him, as he wished that they should all
witness what he had to say. The request was complied with by several.
His speech is well known; but some copies contain matters not in others.
When he finished, he requested Lord Arundel that the king would not
suffer any libels to defame him after death.--"And now I have a long
journey to go, and must take my leave." "He embraced all the lords and
other friends with such courtly compliments, as if he had met them at
some feast," says a letter-writer. Having taken off his gown, he called
to the headsman to show him the axe, which not being instantly done, he
repeated, "I prithee let me see it, dost thou think that I am afraid of
it?" He passed the edge lightly over his finger, and smiling, observed
to the sheriff, "This is a sharp medicine, but a sound cure for all
diseases," and kissing it laid it down. Another writer has, "This is
that that will cure all sorrows." After this he went to three several
corners of the scaffold, and kneeling down, desired all the people to
pray for him, and recited a long prayer to himself. When he began to fit
himself for the block, he first laid himself down to try how the block
fitted him; after rising up, the executioner kneeled down to ask his
forgiveness, which Rawleigh with an embrace gave, but entreated him not
to strike till he gave a token by lifting up his hand, "_and then, fear
not, but strike home!_" When he laid his head down to receive the
stroke, the executioner desired him to lay his face towards the east.
"It was no great matter which way a man's head stood, so that the heart
lay right," said Rawleigh; but these were not his last words. He was
once more to speak in this world with the same intrepidity he had lived
in it--for, having lain some minutes on the block in prayer, he gave the
signal; but the executioner, either unmindful, or in fear, failed to
strike, and Rawleigh, after once or twice putting forth his hands, was
compelled to ask him, "Why dost thou not strike? Strike! man!" In two
blows he was beheaded; but from the first his body never shrunk from the
spot by any discomposure of his posture, which, like his mind, was
immovable.
"In all the time he was upon the scaffold, and before," says one of the
manuscript letter-writers, "there appeared not the least alteration in
him, either in his voice or countenance; but he seemed as free from all
manner of apprehension as if he had been come thither rather to be a
spectator than a sufferer; nay, the beholders seemed much more sensible
than did he, so that he hath purchased here in the opinion of men such
honour and reputation, as it is thought his greatest enemies are they
that are most sorrowful for his death, which they see is like to turn so
much to his advantage."
The people were deeply affected at the sight, and so much, that one said
that "we had not such another head to cut off;" and another "wished the
head and brains to be upon Secretary Naunton's shoulders." The observer
suffered for this; he was a wealthy citizen, and great newsmonger, and
one who haunted Paul's Walk. Complaint was made, and the citizen was
summoned to the Privy Council. He pleaded that he intended no disrespect
to Mr. Secretary, but only spoke in reference to the old proverb, that
"two heads were better than one!" His excuse was allowed at the moment;
but when afterwards called on for a contribution to St. Paul's
Cathedral, and having subscribed a hundred pounds, the Secretary
observed to him, that "two are better than one, Mr. Wiemark!" Either
from fear or charity, the witty citizen doubled his subscription.[78]
Thus died this glorious and gallant cavalier, of whom Osborne says, "His
death was managed by him with so high and religious a resolution, as if
a Roman had acted a Christian, or rather a Christian a Roman."[79]
After having read the preceding article, we are astonished at the
greatness, and the variable nature of this extraordinary man and this
happy genius. With Gibbon, who once meditated to write his life, we may
pause, and pronounce "his character ambiguous;" but we shall not
hesitate to decide that Rawleigh knew better how to die than to live.
"His glorious hours," says a contemporary, "were his arraignment and
execution;" but never will be forgotten the intermediate years of his
lettered imprisonment; the imprisonment of the learned may sometimes be
their happiest leisure.