Sir Walter Raleigh and His Time. Charles Kingsley

Faith, the interpretress of the will and conscience of the people of England—herself persecuted all but to the death, and purified by affliction, like gold tried in the fire.  She gathers round her, one by one, young men of promise, and trains them herself to their work.  And they fulfil it, and serve her, and grow gray-headed in her service, working as faithfully, as righteously, as patriotically, as men ever worked on earth.  They are her ‘favourites’; because they are men who deserve favour; men who count not their own lives dear to themselves for the sake of the queen and of that commonweal which their hearts and reasons tell them is one with her.  They are still men, though; and some of them have their grudgings and envyings against each other: she keeps the balance even between them, on the whole, skilfully, gently, justly, in spite of weaknesses and prejudices, without which she had been more than human.  Some have their conceited hopes of marrying her, becoming her masters.  She rebukes and pardons.  ‘Out of the dust I took you, sir! go and do your duty, humbly and rationally, henceforth, or into the dust I trample you again!’  And they reconsider themselves, and obey.  But many, or most of them, are new men, country gentlemen, and younger sons.  She will follow her father’s plan, of keeping down the overgrown feudal princes, who, though brought low by the wars of the Roses, are still strong enough to throw everything into confusion by resisting at once the Crown and Commons.  Proud nobles reply by rebellion, come down southwards with ignorant Popish henchmen at their backs; will restore Popery, marry the Queen of Scots, make the middle class and the majority submit to the feudal lords and the minority.  Elizabeth, with her ‘aristocracy of genius,’ is too strong for them: the people’s heart is with her, and not with dukes.  Each mine only blows up its diggers; and there are many dry eyes at their ruin.  Her people ask her to marry.  She answers gently, proudly, eloquently: ‘She is married—the people of England is her husband.  She has vowed it.’  And yet there is a tone of sadness in that great speech.  Her woman’s heart yearns after love, after children; after a strong bosom on which to repose that weary head.  More than once she is ready to give way.  But she knows that it must not be.  She has her reward.  ‘Whosoever gives up husband or child for my sake and the gospel’s, shall receive them back a hundredfold in this present life,’ as Elizabeth does.  Her reward is an adoration from high and low, which is to us now inexplicable, impossible, overstrained, which was not so then.

      For the whole nation is in a mood of exaltation; England is fairyland; the times are the last days—strange, terrible, and glorious.  At home are Jesuits plotting; dark, crooked-pathed, going up and down in all manner of disguises, doing the devil’s work if men ever did it; trying to sow discord between man and man, class and class; putting out books full of filthy calumnies, declaring the queen illegitimate, excommunicate, a usurper; English law null, and all state appointments void, by virtue of a certain ‘Bull’; and calling on the subjects to rebellion and assassination, even on the bedchamber—woman to do to her ‘as Judith did to Holofernes.’  She answers by calm contempt.  Now and then Burleigh and Walsingham catch some of the rogues, and they meet their deserts; but she for the most part lets them have their way.  God is on her side, and she will not fear what man can do to her.

      Abroad, the sky is dark and wild, and yet full of fantastic splendour.  Spain stands strong and awful, a rising world-tyranny, with its dark-souled Cortezes and Pizarros, Alvas, Don Johns, and Parmas, men whose path is like the lava stream; who go forth slaying and to slay, in the name of their gods, like those old Assyrian conquerors on the walls of Nineveh, with tutelary genii flying above their heads, mingled with the eagles who trail the entrails of the slain.  By conquest, intermarriage, or intrigue, she has made all the southern nations her vassals or her tools; close to our own shores, the Netherlands are struggling vainly for their liberties; abroad, the Western Islands, and the whole trade of Africa and India, will in a few years be hers.  And already the Pope, whose ‘most Catholic’ and faithful servant she is, has repaid her services in the cause of darkness by the gift of the whole New World—a gift which she has claimed by cruelties and massacres unexampled since the days of Timour and Zinghis Khan.  There she spreads and spreads, as Drake found her picture in the Government House at St. Domingo, the horse leaping through the globe, and underneath, Non sufficit orbis.  Who shall withstand her, armed as she is with the three-edged sword of Antichrist—superstition, strength, and gold?

      English merchantmen, longing for some share in the riches of the New World, go out to trade in Guinea, in the Azores, in New Spain: and are answered by shot and steel.  ‘Both policy and religion,’ as Fray Simon says, fifty years afterwards, ‘forbid Christians to trade with heretics!’  ‘Lutheran devils, and enemies of God,’ are the answer they get in words: in deeds, whenever they have a superior force they may be allowed to land, and to water their ships, even to trade, under exorbitant restrictions: but generally this is merely a trap for them.  Forces are hurried up; and the English are attacked treacherously, in spite of solemn compacts; for ‘No faith need be kept with heretics.’  And woe to them if any be taken prisoners, even wrecked.  The galleys, and the rack, and the stake are their certain doom; for the Inquisition claims the bodies and souls of heretics all over the world, and thinks it sin to lose its own.  A few years of such wrong raise questions in the sturdy English heart.  What right have these Spaniards to the New World?  The Pope’s gift?  Why, he gave it by the same authority by which he claims the whole world.  The formula used when an Indian village is sacked is, that God gave the whole world to St. Peter, and that he has given it to his successors, and they the Indies to the King of Spain.  To acknowledge that lie would be to acknowledge the very power by which the Pope claims a right to depose Queen Elizabeth, and give her dominions to whomsoever he will.  A fico for bulls!

      By possession, then?  That may hold for Mexico, Peru, New Grenada, Paraguay, which have been colonised; though they were gained by means which make every one concerned in conquering them worthy of the gallows; and the right is only that of the thief to the purse, whose owner he has murdered.  But as for the rest—Why the Spaniard has not colonised, even explored, one-fifth of the New World, not even one-fifth of the coast.  Is the existence of a few petty factories, often hundreds of miles apart, at a few river-mouths to give them a claim to the whole intermediate coast, much less to the vast unknown tracts inside?  We will try that.  If they appeal to the sword, so be it.  The men are treacherous robbers; we will indemnify ourselves for our losses, and God defend the right.

      So argued the English; and so sprung up that strange war of reprisals, in which, for eighteen years, it was held that there was no peace between England and Spain beyond the line, i.e., beyond the parallel of longitude where the Pope’s gift of the western world was said to begin; and, as the quarrel thickened and neared, extended to the Azores, Canaries, and coasts of Africa, where English and Spaniards flew at each other as soon as seen, mutually and by common consent, as natural enemies, each invoking God in the battle with Antichrist.

      Into such a world as this goes forth young Raleigh, his heart full of chivalrous worship for England’s tutelary genius, his brain aflame with the true miracles of the new-found Hesperides, full of vague hopes, vast imaginations, and consciousness of enormous power.  And yet he is no wayward dreamer, unfit for this work-day world.  With a vein of song ‘most lofty, insolent, and passionate,’ indeed unable to see aught without a poetic glow over the whole, he is eminently practical, contented to begin at the beginning that he may end at the end; one who could ‘toil terribly,’ ‘who always laboured at the matter in hand as if he were born only for that.’  Accordingly, he sets to work faithfully and stoutly, to learn his trade of soldiering, and learns it in silence and obscurity.  He shares (it seems) in the retreat at Moncontour, and is by at the death of Condé, and toils on for five years, marching and skirmishing, smoking the enemy out of mountain-caves in Languedoc, and all the wild work of war.  During the San Bartholomew massacre we hear nothing of him; perhaps he took refuge with Sidney and others in Walsingham’s house.  No records of these years remain, save a few scattered reminiscences in his works, which mark the shrewd, observant eye of the future statesman.

      When he returned we know not.  We trace him, in 1576, by some verses prefixed to Gascoigne’s satire, the ‘Steele Glass,’ solid, stately, epigrammatic, ‘by Walter Rawley of the Middle Temple.’  The style is his; spelling of names matters nought in days in which a man would spell his own name three different ways in one document.

      Gascoigne,