refused every argument for flight, saying that he considered his own
life not worth saving, if by drawing suspicion on Lord Russell, so
valuable a life as his, also should be endangered. The Duke of Monmouth
had it conveyed to Lord Russell that he would willingly give himself up
and share his fate. But the noble prisoner answered it would be no
advantage to him that his friends should suffer, and so, on the 13th of
July 1683, William, Lord Russell, stood at the bar of the Old Bailey on
a charge of high treason. That very morning the Lord Essex, who was only
a prisoner of three days’ standing, was found dead in the Tower with his
throat cut. This strange and melancholy event gave rise to conflicting
rumours. Many people were of opinion that there had been foul play, and
Evelyn was as surprised as he was grieved, ‘My Lord Essex being so well
known to me as a man of sober and religious deportment.’ The news coming
to Westminster Hall on the very day of Lord Russell’s trial, was said to
have had no little influence on the verdict which the jury returned. The
prisoner’s demeanour during his examination was marked by calm dignity
and absence of any sign of agitation, though he occasionally
expostulated against the injustice with which the proceedings were
carried on. Being asked how he wished to be tried, he replied, ‘By God
and my country.’ Alas! alas! the voices of Justice and of Mercy were
alike unheard in the courts of law that day. The prisoner represented
that he had been kept in ignorance, until the moment of his appearing at
the bar, of the nature of the charges which were to be brought against
him, and that he was allowed no time to select his own counsel, etc.
etc. He asked permission to employ the hand of another to take notes of
the evidence, upon which the Attorney-General (resolved to deprive him
of the help of any counsel) churlishly replied, he might have one of his
own servants to assist him. ‘Then,’ said Lord Russell, ‘the only
assistance I will ask is that of the lady beside me.’ At these words,
says a contemporary writer, ‘a thrill of anguish passed through the
court’—a moment of intense pathos, the frequent and glowing records of
which, by poet, painter, and historian, pale before the vivid colouring
of the fact itself: the noble prisoner turning in his hour of utmost
need to the gentle helpmate beside him, his servant, in the literal
acceptation of the word—for who could love or serve him better? Rachel,
Lady Russell, rose with a calm she had borrowed from her husband’s
example. Crushing down and stifling the varied emotions of sorrow,
indignation, and apprehension, forcing back the rising tears lest they
should dim the vision of the scribe, clenching the small white hand to
restore its requisite steadiness, Rachel stood motionless for an
instant, with every eye upon her—the cold scrutiny of the cruel judges,
the inquisitive stare of false friends and perjured witnesses,—while the
Attorney-General, in a more subdued tone of voice, said, ‘As the lady
pleases.’ She then with a firm step left her husband’s side, and took up
her post at the table below. That picture still remains stamped on the
memory of her countrymen through the lapse of more than two centuries,
and many who only half remember the details of that remarkable trial,
and its undoubted importance as regards subsequent events, still bear in
mind the touching episode of the beautiful secretary, the faithful
servant, the devoted wife and widow of William, Lord Russell. The jury
were not long in returning the verdict of Guilty,—‘an act,’ says Rapin,
‘of the most crying injustice that ever was perpetrated in England.’
To the cruel and hideous sentence for the execution of ‘a traitor,’
which was read aloud in English (instead of Latin) by his own desire,
the prisoner listened with that decency and composure, ‘which,’ Burnet
tells us, ‘characterised his whole behaviour during the trial; even as
if the issue were a matter of indifference to him.’ The result of the
proceedings produced an intense excitement. The most strenuous efforts
were made in all quarters to save Lord Russell’s life both at home and
abroad. It was intimated to the King that M. de Ruvigny, a kinsman of
Lady Russell’s in favour at the Court of France, was coming over with a
special message from Louis the Fourteenth to intercede for the prisoner;
but Charles was said to have answered with cruel levity that he should
be ‘happy to receive M. de Ruvigny, but that Lord Russell’s head would
be off before he arrived.’ Many men of position and influence waited on
the King in person, and argued with him on the bad effect the execution
would produce in many quarters. The Duchess of Portsmouth had a large
sum of money offered to secure her interference, but all in vain. Then
Lord Russell’s ‘noble consort’ cast herself at the King’s feet, and
adjured him, by the memory of her father, the loyal and gallant
Southampton, to let his services atone for ‘the errors into which honest
but mistaken principles had seduced her husband.’ This was the last
instance of female weakness, if it deserve the name, into which Rachel
Russell was betrayed. But Charles was inexorable. He whose weak heart
was too easily swayed by beauty, too frequently overcome by emotion of a
baser kind, remained impervious to the tears and anguish of this lovely
and virtuous woman. Even the scanty mercy of a short respite was denied
her. She rose from her knees, collected her courage, and from that
moment she fortified herself against the fatal blow, and endeavoured by
her example to strengthen the resolution of her husband. ‘She gave me no
disturbance,’ was one of the touching tributes he paid her. Lord
Cavendish sent a proposition to the prisoner offering to facilitate his
escape, even to change clothes with him, and remain in his stead; but
Lord Russell returned a firm though grateful refusal, considering the
plan impracticable, unlawful, and dangerous to his faithful friend, and
so prepared quietly and calmly for the end, expressing his conviction
that the day of his execution would not be so disturbing to him as the
day of his trial. The time allotted to him was short. He occupied
himself much in writing. He addressed a letter to the King, which he
intrusted to his uncle, Colonel John Russell, to deliver to Charles
immediately after the execution; a noble and temperate letter, in which
the writer hopes his Majesty will excuse the presumption of an attainted
man. He asks pardon for anything he might have said or done that looked
like a want of respect to the King or duty to the Government. He acquits
himself of all designs (and goes on to declare his ignorance of any
such) against either King or Government.
‘Yet I do not deny that I have heard many things, and said some,
contrary to my duty, for which I have asked God’s pardon, and do
now humbly beg your Majesty’s. I take the liberty to add _that
though I have met with hard measure, yet I forgive all concerned
in it, from the highest to the lowest_; and I pray God to bless
your person and government, and that the public peace and the
true Protestant religion may be preserved under you; and I crave
leave to end my days with this sincere protestation, that my
heart was ever devoted to that which I thought was your true
interest, in which, if I was mistaken, I hope that your
displeasure will end with my life, and that no part of it shall
fall on my wife and children, being the last petition that will
ever be offered from your Majesty’s most faithful, most dutiful,
and most obedient servant, RUSSELL.
‘NEWGATE, _July 19, 1683_.’
He further drew up a long and detailed defence and explanation of his
whole conduct, to be given by his own hands to the Sheriffs on the
scaffold,—a precious record, preserved in letters of gold among the most
cherished archives at Woburn, the scene of the noble writer’s youth and
childhood.
The evening before his death, after bidding adieu to some of his
friends, his wife and children came to take a last farewell. He parted
with them (tender father and devoted husband as he was) in composed
silence, and Lady Russell had such control over herself that when she
was gone he said, ‘The bitterness of death is past.’ ‘He talked,’ says
Burnet, ‘at much length about her. It had rather grieved him that she
had run about so much beating every bush for his preservation, but that,
perhaps, it would be a mitigation of her sorrow to feel she had done all
in her power to save him.’ ‘Yet,’ he said, ‘what a blessing it was that
she had that magnanimity of spirit joined to her tenderness as never to
have desired him to do a base thing for the saving of his own life;
there was a signal providence of God in giving him such a wife, with
birth, fortune, understanding, religion, and great kindness to him. But
her carriage in his extremity was above all! It was a comfort to leave
his children in such a mother’s hands, who had promised him to take care
of herself for his sake.’ Burnet further tells us that ‘the prisoner
received the Sacrament from Archbishop Tillotson with much devotion, and
I preached two short sermons, which he heard with great affection. He
went into his chamber about midnight, and I stayed the whole night in
the adjoining room. He went to bed about two in the morning, and was
fast asleep about four, when, by his desire, we called him. He was
quickly dressed, and lost no time in shaving, for he said he was not
concerned in his good looks that day. He went two or three times back
into his chamber to pray by himself, and then came and prayed again with
Tillotson and me. He drank a little tea and some sherry, and then he
said now he had done with time, and was going to eternity. He asked what
he should give the executioner, and I told him ten guineas; he smiled,
and said it was a pretty thing to give a fee to have his head cut off.
The Sheriffs came about ten o’clock; Lord Cavendish was waiting below to
take leave of him. They embraced very tenderly. Lord Russell on a second
thought came back and pressed Cavendish earnestly to apply himself more
to religion, telling him what great comfort and support he felt from it
now in his extremity. Tillotson and I went in the coach with him. Some
of the crowd wept, while others insulted him; he was touched with the
one expression, but did not seem provoked by the other. He was singing
psalms most of the way, and said he hoped to sing better soon. Looking
at the great crowd he said ‘I hope I shall soon see a much better
assembly.’ He walked about the scaffold four or five times, then he
turned to the Sheriffs, and in presenting the paper he protested his
innocence of any design against the King’s life, or any attempt to
subvert the Government. He prayed God to preserve the Protestant
religion, and earnestly wished that Protestants should love one another,
and not make way for Popery by their animosities. He forgave all his
enemies, and died in charity with all mankind. After this he prayed
again with Archbishop Tillotson, and more than once by himself. Then
William Russell stood erect, arranged his dress, and, without the
slightest change of countenance, laid his noble head upon the block,
‘which was struck off (says Evelyn) by three butcherly strokes.’
Five years afterwards when James the Second stood on the brink of ruin,
he did not disdain to apply to the Earl of Bedford for help. ‘My Lord,’
he said, ‘you are an honest man, and of great credit in the country, and
can do me signal service. ‘Ah, sire,’ replied the Earl, ‘I am old and
feeble, and can be of little use, but I once had a son who could have
assisted you, and he is no more.’ By which answer James was so struck,
that he could not speak for several moments.
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No. 14. WILLIAM HARVEY, M.D.
_Black gown. Black skull-cap._
BORN 1578, DIED 1657-8.
BY RILEY.
SON of Thomas Harvey of Folkestone, in Kent, by Joan Hawke, and eldest
of seven sons and two daughters. The parents were well-to-do people, who
brought up their children carefully and respectably. Mrs. Harvey seems
to have been a most estimable woman, if we only believe one half the
virtues ascribed to her on the tablet in Folkestone Church, where she
lies buried; the epitaph, though couched in the eulogistic and lengthy
style which was the fashion of the day, is sufficiently characteristic
to merit insertion. The mother of a great man is in our eyes always
deserving of notice.
‘She was a godly, harmless woman, a chaste, loving wife, a charitable,
quiet neighbour, a comfortable and friendly matron, a provident
housewife and tender mother. Elected of God, may her soul rest in heaven
(as her body in this grave), to her a happy advantage, to hers an
unhappy loss.’
When only ten years old William Harvey went to a Grammar School, and
subsequently to Caius College, Cambridge, where, we are told, ‘he
studied classics, dialectics, and physics.’ It was the fashion of the
day for young men of any standing to finish their education on the
Continent, in one or other of those schools of learning and science
which were indeed the resort of the youth of all nations. Harvey fixed
his choice on Padua, then especially rich in eminent Professors in all
branches of learning. He had been early destined, both by the wishes of
his family and his own inclination, for the medical profession; and at
Padua, under the auspices of the celebrated Fabricius of Acquapendente
and others, our young Englishman, whose zeal was equal to his
intelligence, laid the foundation of his future greatness, and made
rapid strides in the path of fame. He remained five years at Padua, and
before his departure, at the age of twenty-four, received his doctor’s
diploma, with ‘licence to practise in every land and seat of learning.’
On his return to England he obtained his doctor’s degree at his old
University of Cambridge, after which he settled in London, and married
the daughter of one Lancelot Brown, M.D. Harvey soon got into extensive
practice, enlarged his connection daily, and, while rising step by step
in his profession, made himself beloved (as is mostly the case with the
true disciple of St. Luke) by the skill and charity he exercised among
the poor and afflicted by whom he was surrounded.
Before long he was elected a member of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, and
subsequently Principal Physician of that important establishment, where,
in the course of his tenure, he introduced the most stringent reforms
and regulations, which were considered needlessly severe by the younger
students, who had grown into habits of laxity and idleness. But neither
the duties of his office, nor his practice which he carried on outside
the walls, were allowed to interfere in any way with his literary
labours. Making the profoundest researches into every branch of medical
science, perusing and weighing the arguments of those very writers whom
he was destined to eclipse; he attracted the notice of King James the
First, one of whose redeeming qualities it was to encourage learning,
and who found great delight in the society of eminent men. The King
named Harvey Physician Extraordinary, with a reversionary promise of the
regular post at Court when it should become vacant, which did not occur
till after the accession of Charles the First. He was also body
physician to several noblemen and gentlemen of eminence, such as the
Lord Chancellor Bacon and Thomas Howard, Earl of Arundel, with whom he
travelled on the Continent. He was appointed Lecturer to the Royal
College of Physicians, in Amen Corner, where, with some interruptions
(through absence, Court duties, and other hindrances), he continued for
many years to attract and interest his colleagues by his knowledge and
eloquence. It was in the course of these lectures that he first
promulgated his wondrous doctrines on the motions of the heart and the
circulation of the blood; a subject with which the name of William
Harvey is indissolubly connected. The theories that had been hatching in
his prolific mind for long now took form and shape in his immortal work,
which he dedicated to King Charles, and to his own College. It was this
work (although one of many) which enriched the science of medicine, and
rendered his name immortal. The circulation of the blood had from time
immemorial been the theme of dispute and discussion among men of all
nations; but it was reserved, says Birch, for William Harvey in 1628 to
publish a book which was the clearest, the shortest, and the most
convincing that had ever yet been written on the subject. The startling
discoveries, and the bold manner in which they were expounded, kindled a
flame of antagonism and rivalry in the medical world. Learned
Professors, and men who professed without learning, rose to denounce, to
question, to deny him even the merit of originality, for had not the
same theories been known to the ancients? To the manifold attacks by
which he was assailed Harvey maintained for the most part a dignified
silence, though compelled in some cases to rise up and defend himself
and his opinions from adversaries, both English and foreign.
In 1636 he accompanied his friend and patron, Thomas Howard, Earl of
Arundel, when that nobleman went on a special mission to the Emperor of
Germany. Harvey did not neglect this opportunity of making the
acquaintance of all the eminent men of science in the country, who in
their turn were desirous (from mingled motives) of meeting a man with
whose name Europe was now ringing. In a conclave of medical men at
Nürnberg our doctor made a public declaration of his professional faith,
when he was met by the most strenuous opposition. The learned Caspar
Hoffman, in particular, was so violent and unreasonable in his
arguments, that William Harvey, after listening with singular
forbearance for a considerable time, laid down the scalpel, which he
held and quietly left the apartment. It was in this expedition with Lord
Arundel that one of his Excellency’s gentlemen told Aubrey that Lord
Arundel was rendered very anxious by the frequent explorings of his
physician into the woods, where was great fear, not only of wild beasts,
but also of thieves, and where, indeed, the doctor one time narrowly
escaped with life. But Harvey would not neglect the chance of studying
the strange trees and foreign plants, and adding to his collection of
toads, frogs, and the like, for the purpose of experimenting upon
them—was sometimes like to be lost indeed, so that my Lord Ambassador
was angry with him. With all these contentions and animadversions we are
not surprised to hear that at one time Harvey’s practice declined, and
Aubrey says, ‘He was treated by many as a visionary and a madman, and
though everybody admired his anatomy, most people questioned his
therapeutics, so much so that his bills (_i.e._ recipes and
prescriptions) were not worth threepence.’ He now gave himself up to the
prosecution of his Court duties, and was indefatigable in his attendance
on the King. The relationship between Charles and his physician was of
the most friendly and intimate nature. Harvey speaks of his royal master
in terms of true affection, while the King took great delight in
frequenting the doctor’s dissecting-room, and studying anatomy and
medicine under his tutelage. On the breaking out of the civil wars
Harvey became more than ever attached in every sense of the word to the
person of the King, following him wheresoever he went, to court and
camp. On their return from Scotland our peace-loving doctor was present
at the battle of Edgehill, where Aubrey records a very characteristic,
and almost comical adventure. It was in 1642, during the fight in
question, that Harvey was intrusted with the care of the Prince of Wales
and the Duke of York. He accordingly withdrew with his young charges to
what he considered the shelter of a hedge, and finding the time hang
heavy on his hands, he took a book from his pocket, which he began
calmly and leisurely to peruse, when a large bullet grazed and disturbed
the grass at his feet, and induced him to move further from the heat of
the battle. Again we quote Aubrey, who met him at Oxford, where the
Court then was, and though ‘too young to become acquainted with so
learned a doctor,’ yet he remembers well how Harvey would come to our
College to the chambers of George Bathurst, tutor, who kept hens for the
hatching purposes in his rooms. Harvey would break the eggs daily at
intervals in order to watch the different progress of formation towards
the ‘perfect chick’; and all this with a view to the medical works he
was writing. How widely at variance were these calm studies compared
with the wild turmoil of political and military excitement by which he
was surrounded! The Wardenship of Merton College becoming vacant by the
resignation of Sir Matthew Brent, a Parliamentarian, the King
recommended Harvey for the vacant post, which he obtained, but did not
enjoy long, for when Oxford surrendered to the Roundheads, Brent resumed
his office. We cannot be surprised to hear that so loyal a subject as
Harvey incurred the ire of Cromwell, and on the doctor’s return to
London he found his house sacked, the furniture destroyed, and, worse
than all, as he himself told Aubrey, ‘No griefe was so crucifyinge as
the loss of those papers (treating of his medical experiences and
experiments) which neither love nor money could replace.’ It must have
been about the year 1646 that Dr. Harvey made up his mind to resign his
place at Court. Many reasons were given for this step, many apologies
made for his forsaking his royal master; but he was near upon seventy,
and it appears natural that a man of so peaceful a nature and of such
studious taste should prefer a calmer existence than that of ‘following
the drum.’ His retirement not only enabled him to pursue the bent of his
inclinations and to indulge in contemplation, but also to enjoy the
society of his brothers, who were of that number that verily dwelt
together in unity. They held their elder in honour and affection, and
vied with each other in welcoming him warmly to their respective homes.
His next brother Eliab seems to have been his favourite, as he made his
home for the most part either at the said Eliab’s London residence of
Cokaine House, near the Poultry, or at Roehampton, in Surrey. On the
leads of the former dwelling the doctor was wont to pass many hours in
contemplation, arranging his different stations with a view to the sun
and wind. At Combe there were caverns specially constructed in the
garden for the physician to meditate, as he always found darkness most
conducive to thought. The thrifty Eliab took William’s financial affairs
in hand, which he conducted with so much energy and discernment as to
increase his brother’s income, and enable him to indulge his generous
propensities towards private individuals and public institutions. He
became a munificent benefactor to his beloved College of Physicians,
both by gifts in his lifetime, and bequest by testament. He enlarged the
buildings, added a wing, and a large hall for conference, endowed it
with a library and a museum, and, in fact, was so noble in his gifts
that the grateful College erected a statue in his honour, with a long
and flattering inscription. But, alas! all these valuable additions,
together with the whole edifice, were destroyed in the Great Fire of
London. At the age of seventy-one the doctor’s energy remained so
unabated, that not only did he continue his literary labours, but he
travelled to Italy with his friend and disciple Sir George Brent. On the
last day of June 1657 William Harvey was stricken with the palsy, and,
on endeavouring to speak, found that he had lost the power to do so. He
ordered his apothecary by signs to ‘lett him blood,’ but this gave him
no relief, and his professional knowledge warned him that the end was
approaching. He therefore sent for his brother and nephews, to whom he
himself delivered some little token of affection, a watch or what not,
bidding them tenderly farewell, with dumb but eloquent signs of
affection. He died the same day as he was stricken. His friend Aubrey
exonerates him from the false charge of having hastened his own death by
drinking opium, which he occasionally used as an alleviation of pain,
but said Harvey had ‘an easy passport.’
A long train of his colleagues from the Royal College attended his
funeral, and Aubrey himself was one of the bearers. He was buried at
Hempstead, in Essex, and was ‘lapped’ in a leaden case, which was shaped
in form of the body, with a label bearing the illustrious name of
William Harvey, M.D., on his breast.
The last will and testament of men who lay claim to any celebrity appear
to us to merit notice as indicative of character. Harvey’s will did not
in any way belie his life. He left his faithful steward and brother,
Eliab Harvey, the bulk of his property in money and land, as likewise
(Aubrey thinks out of tender sentiment) his silver coffee-pot; for the
brothers were wont to drink coffee together at a time when it was
reckoned an uncommon luxury, before coffee-houses were prevalent in
England. To all his other relations he left small sums that they might
purchase remembrances; to his College, and to more than one hospital,
generous bequests; scarcely any one was forgotten. To his dear and
learned friend Mr. Thomas Hobbes £10, to Dr. Scarborough his velvet
embroidered gown, to another his case of silver-mounted surgical
instruments, and so on. Nor were his faithful servants, who had tended
him in sickness, forgotten; ‘the pretty young wench’ who waited on him
at Oxford, and to whom Aubrey alludes in jesting terms, in spite of
Harvey’s proverbial insensibility to female charms, proved a most tender
nurse, and was gratefully remembered. We hear very little at any time
about Mistress Harvey, or the esteem in which her husband held her, but
we are told she had a parrot, whose prattle much amused the learned
doctor.
He corresponded with learned men, both at home and abroad, and was
linked in friendship with such men as Hobbes, Robert Boyle, Cowley, and
the like. By nature he was hot-tempered and outspoken, although a
courtier. He rode to visit his patients on horseback, with a servant to
follow him on foot—‘a decent custom,’ Aubrey thinks, the discontinuance
of which he regrets. The same authority says Harvey ‘was of the lowest
stature, and an olivaster complexion, like unto wainscott; little eye,
round, bright, and black, and hair like the raven, but quite white
before his death,’ which could scarcely be wondered at, as he was then
eighty years of age. His friend, the learned Mr. Hobbes, says that
Harvey was ‘the only man, perhaps, who ever lived to see his own
doctrines established in his lifetime.’ This statement, the truth of
which appears more than questionable, it is easy to imagine, was put
forth under the influence of mortified feeling on the part of the
‘philosopher of Malmesbury.’ We refer the reader who is curious in such
research to the catalogues of the principal scientific libraries, both
in England and on the Continent, for a list of this great physician’s
professional works, as their names alone would enlarge in an
inconvenient manner the bulk of our volume.
-------
No. 15. THE HONOURABLE EDWARD RUSSELL.
_In armour. Red sash over right shoulder. White collar, with tassels.
Long hair._
DIED 1665.
BY REMÉE.