RALEGH'S TRIUMPH (October 28-29, 1618).
[Sidenote: _The Gate-house._]
Ralegh was confined in the Gate-house of the old monastery of St. Peter.
It was a small two-storied building of the age of Edward III, standing
at the western entrance to Tothill-street. The structure embraced two
adjoining gates, with rooms which had been turned into prison cells. By
the side of the gate leading northwards from the College-court, was the
Bishop of London's prison for convicted clerks and Romish recusants.
With the other gate westwards was connected the gaol of the Liberty of
Westminster, to which Ralegh had been committed. The Abbey was visible
through its barred windows. Ben Jonson had been confined in it. Eliot,
Hampden, and Selden were to be. Lovelace sang there to stone walls.
Esmond's name may be added to the list of its glories. Ralegh had been
afraid the King might prevent him from speaking, or from being heard. He
feared that the space for his friends would be narrow. As he crossed
Palace Yard to the Gate-house he had asked Sir Hugh Beeston, of
Cheshire, to be there. 'But,' he said, 'I do not know what you may do
for a place. For my part, I am sure of one.' Many came to the prison to
bid farewell. Among them, according to Sir William Sanderson, was his
father, the ex-deputy Licenser. Ralegh was lively and cheerful. To those
who grieved he said: 'The world itself is but a larger prison, out of
which some are daily selected for execution.' There is no reason for
doubting the sincerity of his content. He had striven manfully for a
life which for him meant the exercise of fruitful energy. He rejoiced in
death, when, from no remissness of his, it closed his labours. His
kinsman, Francis Thynne, advised him: 'Do not carry it with too much
bravery. Your enemies will take exception, if you do.' His friends were
afraid of the 'pride' which had provoked Henry Howard. 'It is my last
mirth in this world,' replied he; 'do not grudge it to me. When I come
to the sad parting, you will see me grave enough.'
[Sidenote: _Fearless of Death._]
By desire of the Lords of the Council, Dr. Robert Tounson, Dean of
Westminster, and afterwards Bishop of Salisbury, attended him. Tounson
wrote on November 9 to Sir John Isham: 'He was the most fearless of
death that ever was known; and the most resolute and confident, yet with
reverence and conscience. When I began to encourage him against the fear
of death, he seemed to make so light of it that I wondered at him. He
gave God thanks, he never feared death; and the manner of death, though
to others it might seem grievous, yet he had rather die so than of a
burning fever. I wished him not to flatter himself, for this
extraordinary boldness, I was afraid, came from some false ground. If it
were out of a humour of vain glory, or carelessness of death, or
senselessness of his own state, he were much to be lamented. He answered
that he was persuaded that no man that knew God and feared Him could die
with cheerfulness and courage, except he were assured of the love and
favour of God unto him; that other men might make shows outwardly, but
they felt no joy within; with much more to that effect, very
Christianly; so that he satisfied me then, as I think he did all his
spectators at his death.' A reputation for free thinking once
established is tenacious. Though Ralegh satisfied a Chief Justice, a
Dean of Westminster, and men like Pym, Eliot, Hampden, of his orthodoxy,
he did not satisfy all. Archbishop Abbot three or four months later
wrote to Sir Thomas Roe that his execution was a judgment on him for his
scepticism.
He did not allude, wrote Tounson, to 'his former treason.' As to more
recent imputations, he could not conceive how it was possible to break
peace with Spain, which 'within these four years took divers of his men,
and bound them back to back and drowned them.'
[Sidenote: _A last Farewell to his Wife._]
Later arrived his wife. She had spent the earlier hours in trying to
induce the Council to mediate with the King. Before she came she had
learnt from a friend that it refused to beg the life, but authorized her
to dispose of the corpse. At the Gate-house first she heard he was to be
beheaded on Friday morning, October 29. That was Lord Mayor's Day, the
morrow of St. Simon and St. Jude. It appears to have been selected, that
the City pageant might draw away the crowd from hearing him, and seeing
him die. As he and she were consulting how she was to vindicate his
fame, if he should be hindered from speech on the scaffold, the Abbey
clock struck twelve. She rose to go, that he might rest. Then, with a
burst of anguish, she told him she had leave to bury his body. 'It is
well, dear Bess,' said he with a smile, 'that thou mayst dispose of that
dead, which thou hadst not always the disposing of when alive.' On her
return home, between night and morning, she wrote to 'my best brother,'
Sir Nicholas Carew, of Beddington: 'I desire, good brother, that you
will be pleased to let me bury the worthy body of my noble husband, Sir
Walter Ralegh, in your church at Beddington, where I desire to be
buried. The Lords have given me his dead body, though they denied me his
life. This night he shall be brought you with two or three of my men.
Let me hear presently. God hold me and my wits.'
Ralegh, when his wife left him, wrote his last testamentary note. It was
a rehearsal of the topics on which he meant to speak on the scaffold. If
his mouth were closed it was intended to be a substitute. He repeated in
it his constant affirmation of his loyalty: 'If,' he said, 'I had not
loved and honoured the King truly, and trusted in his goodness somewhat
too much, I had not suffered death.' Then the poet awoke in him. He
wrote in the Bible which he gave to Dean Tounson the famous lines:
Even such is time, that takes in trust
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with earth and dust;
Who, in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days;
But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My God shall raise me up, I trust.
[Sidenote: _'Innocent in the Fact.'_]
Early in the morning came Tounson again, and administered the Sacrament.
Tounson wrote in the letter to Sir John Isham, from which I have already
quoted, that Ralegh hoped to persuade the world he died an innocent man.
The Dean objected that his assertions of innocence obliquely denied the
justice of the Realm upon him. In reply he confessed justice had been
done; that was to say, that by course of law he must die; but he claimed
leave, he said, to stand upon his innocency in the fact; and he thought
both the King, and all who heard his answers, believed verily he was
innocent for that matter. Tounson then pressed him to call to mind what
he had done formerly. Though perhaps in that particular for which he was
condemned he was clear, yet for some other matter, it might be, he was
guilty, and therefore he should acknowledge the justice of God in it,
though at the hands of men he had but hard measure. Here Tounson says he
put him in mind of the death of my Lord of Essex; how it was generally
reported that he was a great instrument of Essex's death. If his heart
charged him with that, he should heartily repent, and ask God
forgiveness. To this he made answer; and he said moreover that my Lord
of Essex was fetched off by a trick, of which he privately told Tounson.
He was, testifies Tounson, very cheerful, ate his breakfast heartily,
and took tobacco, and made no more of his death than if it had been to
take a journey.
[Sidenote: _His Good-humour._]
Before he quitted the Gate-house a cup of sack was brought. After he had
drunk it the bearer asked if it were to his liking. 'I will answer
you,' said Ralegh, 'as did the fellow who drank of St. Giles's bowl as
he went to Tyburn: "It is good drink if a man might but tarry by it".'
Now arrived the Sheriffs. They conducted him to Old Palace Yard, where a
large scaffold had been erected in front of the Parliament-house. Though
the space had been narrowed by barriers, a great multitude had
collected. It included, according to John Eliot, who was present,
enemies as well as friends. Ralegh was dressed in a black-wrought velvet
nightgown over a hair-coloured satin doublet, a ruff band, and a
black-wrought waistcoat, black cut taffeta breeches, and ash-coloured
silk stockings. On account of his ague he wore under his hat a wrought
nightcap. Seeing in the crowd an old man with a very bald head, he
inquired why he had ventured forth on such a morning; whether he would
have aught of him. 'Nothing,' was the answer, 'but to see him, and pray
God for him.' Ralegh thanked him, and grieved that he had no better
return to make for his good will than 'this,' said he, as he threw him
his lace cap, 'which you need, my friend, now more than I.' Being
pressed on by the crowd, he was breathless and faint when he mounted the
scaffold; but he saluted with a cheerful countenance those of his
acquaintance whom he saw. Lords Arundel, Doncaster, Northampton,
formerly Compton, and Oxford--son of Sir Walter's enemy--stood in Sir
Randolph Carew's, or Crues's, balcony. Other Lords, Sheffield and Percy,
sat on horseback near. Sir Edward Sackville, Colonel Cecil, Sir Henry
Rich, were among the spectators. The assemblage is said to have included
ladies of rank. The morning was raw, and a fire had been lighted beside
the scaffold for the Sheriffs, while they waited before going to the
Gate-house. They invited him to descend and warm himself. He declined;
his ague would soon be upon him; it might be deemed, he said, if he
delayed, and the fit began before he had played his part, that he quaked
with fear.
[Sidenote: _Rejoices to 'die in the Light.'_]
Proclamation having been made by the Sheriffs, he addressed his
audience. Tounson's, and another account prepared, it would appear from
a statement of the Dean's, for the Government by one Crawford, do not
materially differ. They seem both to be honest, if not fluent. He
commenced by explaining, not complaining, that he had the day before
been taken from his bed in a strong fit of fever, which might recur that
morning. Therefore, he hoped they would ascribe any disability of voice
or dejection of look to that, and not to dismay of mind. Hereupon he
paused and sat down. Beginning again to speak he fancied they in the
balcony did not hear. So he said he would raise his voice. Arundel
replied that the company would rather come down to the scaffold.
Northampton, Doncaster, and himself descended, mounted the scaffold, and
shook hands with Ralegh. Then he resumed: 'I thank God that He has sent
me to die in the light, and not in darkness, before such an assembly of
honourable witnesses, and not obscurely in the Tower, where, for the
space of thirteen years together, I have been oppressed with many
miseries. I thank Him, too, that my fever hath not taken me at this
time.' He proceeded to excuse his counterfeit sickness at Salisbury: 'It
was only to prolong the time till his Majesty came, in hopes of some
commiseration from him.' He dwelt more seriously on two or three main
points of suspicion conceived by the King against him. They, he
believed, had specially hastened his doom. One was connected with his
supposed intrigues with France. He gave an indignant denial to this
charge of practices with foreigners, at any rate without the
qualification expressed in the testamentary note he had composed during
the night, 'unknowing to the King.' The mistrust had, he was aware, been
strengthened by his projects of flight from Plymouth and London. Those
luckless schemes had, he asserted, no affinity to thoughts of permanent
expatriation and foreign service. Simply he had reckoned that he could
more easily make his peace at home while he was safe at a distance.
Another cause of odium had been Manourie's tale of his habit of reviling
the King. That he declared mere lying: 'It is,' he said, 'no time for me
to flatter, or to fear, princes, I who am subject only unto death; yet,
if ever I spake disloyally or dishonestly of the King, the Lord blot me
out of the book of life.'
[Sidenote: _Denial of Stukely's Calumnies._]
Even at this supreme moment he respected the Throne, as much from real
reverence for Royalty, as from fear of harm after him to wife and child.
He did not repeat his protest against the mock conviction of 1603. He
uttered no scorn of the King's betrayal to the Court of Spain of the
plan of his expedition. In general he was content to defend himself; he
was sparing of attacks. Only his 'keeper and kinsman,' Stukely, he could
not pass over in silence. Having received the Sacrament he forgave the
man; but he held himself bound to caution the world against him, out of
charity to others. He repudiated warmly a calumny against Carew and
Doncaster, that they had advised him to fly. He ridiculed the
transparent mendacity of Stukely's story of a promise of L10,000; for
'if I had L1000, I could have made my peace better with it than by
giving it to Stukely.' He disclaimed indignantly the statement Stukely
had attributed to him, that he had been poisoned at Parham's house. Sir
Edward Parham, he said, had been a follower of his; Parham's wife was
his cousin-german; and Parham's cook once was his. As untrue was the
story that he had been conveyed into England against his will. On the
contrary, 150 soldiers held him a close prisoner in his cabin. They
extorted an oath that he would not go to England without their consent;
'otherwise, they would have cast me into the sea.' Unless he had won
over the master-gunner, and ten or twelve others, to return home, and
had drawn the ship to the south of Ireland, he had never got from them.
It had even been alleged that he never meant to go to Guiana, and that
he knew of no gold mine; that his intention only was to recover his
liberty, which he had not the wit to keep. But his friends had believed
in his honesty when he started. He reminded Arundel of the Earl's
request in the gallery of the Destiny that, whether the voyage were good
or bad, he would return to England. Thereupon he had given his word
that he would. 'So you did,' cried Arundel; 'it is true, and they were
the last words I said to you.' Next, he alluded to the slander,
circulated 'through the jealousy of the people,' that at the execution
of Essex he had stood in a window over against him and puffed out
tobacco in defiance of him. He contradicted it utterly. Essex could not
have seen him, since he had retired to the Armoury. He had bewailed him
with tears. 'True I was of a contrary faction, but I bare him no
ill-affection, and always believed it had been better for me that his
life had been preserved; for after his fall I got the hatred of those
who wished me well before; and those who set me against him set
themselves afterwards against me, and were my greatest enemies.'
'And now,' he concluded an address of which the eloquence is not to be
judged from the halting reports, 'I entreat that you will all join with
me in prayer to that great God of Heaven whom I have grievously
offended, being a man full of all vanity, who has lived a sinful life in
such callings as have been most inducing to it; for I have been a
soldier, a sailor, and a courtier, which are courses of wickedness and
vice. So, I take my leave of you all, making my peace with God.' 'I
have,' he said, 'a long journey to take, and must bid the company
farewell.'
[Sidenote: _Preparing for the Block._]
With that the Sheriffs ordered that all should depart from the scaffold,
where he was left with them, the Dean, and the executioner. Having given
his hat and money to some attendants, he prepared himself for the block,
permitting no help. Throughout, wrote on November 3 Mr. Thomas Lorkin to
Sir Thomas Puckering, '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 he.' Having put off
gown and doublet, he called for the axe. There being a delay, he chid
the headsman, 'I prithee, let me see it!' Fingering the edge, he
remarked to the Sheriffs with a smile: 'This is a sharp medicine; but it
is a sure cure for all diseases.' Then, going to and fro upon the
scaffold upon every side, he entreated the spectators to pray to God to
bestow on him strength. Arundel he asked, as if he expected the wish to
be granted by James, to 'desire the King that no scandalous writings to
defame him might be published after his death.' To a question from
Tounson he replied that he died in the faith professed by the Church of
England, and hoped to have his sins washed away by the precious blood of
our Saviour Christ.
Finally, the executioner spread his own cloak for him to kneel on, and,
falling down, besought his forgiveness. Ralegh laid his hand on the
man's shoulder, and granted it. To the inquiry whether he would not lay
himself eastwards on the block, he replied: 'So the heart be right, it
is no matter which way the head lies.' But he placed himself towards the
east, as his friends wished it. He refused the executioner's offer to
blindfold him: 'Think you I fear the shadow of the axe, when I fear not
itself?' He told the man to strike when he should stretch forth his
hands. With a parting salutation to the whole goodly company, he
ejaculated: 'give me heartily your prayers.' After a brief pause he
signed that he was ready. The executioner stirred not. 'What dost thou
fear? Strike man, strike!' commanded Ralegh. The executioner plucked up
courage, struck, and at two blows, the first mortal, the head was
severed. As it tumbled the lips moved, still in prayer; the trunk never
shrank. An effusion of blood followed, so copious as to indicate that
the kingdom had been robbed of many vigorous years of a great life.