The Last Words Of Distinguished Men And Women Part 35

WINKELRIED (Arnold von, Swiss patriot who broke the Austrian phalanx at the battle of Sempach in 1385, by rus.h.i.+ng against the points of their spears, and gathering within his arms as many as he could. He fell pierced with many wounds, but the Swiss were victorious). "_Friends, I am going to lay down my life to procure you victory. All I request is that you provide for my family. Follow me and imitate my example._"

A column surmounted by a lion, erected on the five hundredth anniversary of the victory marks the spot where Arnold von Winkelried fell.

WISHART (George), 1502-1546. "_For the sake of the true gospel, given one by the grace of G.o.d, I suffer this day with a glad heart. Behold and consider my visage. Ye shall not see me change color. I fear not this fire._" He was burned at the stake for preaching the doctrines of the Reformation.

A few moments before he uttered his last words the executioner said to him, "Sir, I pray you to forgive me, for I am not guilty of your death,"

to which the martyr, having replied, "Come hither to me," and then kissed him on the cheek, said: "Lo, here is a token that I forgive thee."

WITT (Cornelius de). "This man, who had bravely served his country in war, and who had been invested with the highest dignities, was delivered into the hands of the executioner, and torn in pieces by the most inhuman torments. Amidst the severe agonies which he endured he frequently repeated an ode of Horace,[54] which contained sentiments suited to his deplorable condition."--_Hume._

[54] Horace lib. iii, Ode 3.

WOLCOTT, or WOLCOT (John, "Peter Pindar," witty and scurrilous satiric poet. "The most unsparing calumniator of his age."--_Sir Walter Scott_), 1738-1819. "_Give me back my youth_," to Taylor who had asked him "Is there anything I can do for you?"

Wolcott is well described by Gifford in these lines:

Come, then, all filth, all venom, as thou art, Rage in thy eye, and rancour in thy heart; Come with thy boasted arms, spite, malice, lies, s.m.u.t, scandal, execrations, blasphemies.

WOLFE (Charles, Irish clergyman and poet, author of "Burial of Sir John Moore," which is regarded as one of the most finished poems of its kind in the English language), 1791-1823. "_Close this eye, the other is closed already; and now farewell!_"

On going to bed he felt very drowsy; and soon after the stupor of death began to creep over him. He began to pray for all his dearest friends individually; but his voice faltering, he could only say--"G.o.d bless them all! The peace of G.o.d and of Jesus Christ overshadow them, dwell in them, reign in them!" "My peace," said he, addressing his sister (the peace I now feel), "Be with you!"--"Thou, O G.o.d, wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee." His speech again began to fail, and he fell into a slumber; but whenever his senses were recalled he returned to prayer. He repeated part of the Lord's prayer, but was unable to proceed; and at last, with a composure scarcely credible at such a moment, he whispered to the dear relative who hung over his death-bed, "Close this eye, the other is closed already; and now farewell!" Then, having again uttered part of the Lord's prayer, he fell asleep.

_Rev. John A. Russell: "Remains of Rev. Charles Wolfe."_

WOLFE (James, a celebrated English officer, killed in the battle of Quebec), 1726-1759. "_I die happy._" On being told of the defeat of the French.

Some give his last words thus: "Support me, let not my brave soldiers see me drop; the day is ours! Oh! keep it!" Said to those who were near him when he received his wound. He feared the effect of his death upon his troops.

WOLLSTONECRAFT (Mary, afterwards Mrs. G.o.dwin, English auth.o.r.ess), 1759-1797. "_I know what you are thinking of, but I have nothing to communicate on the subject of religion_," to her husband who was endeavoring to tell her death was near and to sound her mind in the matter of a spiritual world.

WOLSEY (Thomas, known in history as Cardinal Wolsey), 1471-1530.

"_Master Kingston, farewell! My time draweth on fast. Forget not what I have said and charged you withal; for when I am dead ye shall, peradventure, understand my words better._"

_D'Aubigne's "History of the Reformation."_

On the morning of the second day, as Cavendish was watching near Wolsey, he inquired the hour, and being told eight o'clock,--"That cannot be,"

he replied, "for at eight o'clock you will lose your master: my time is at hand, and I must depart this world." His confessor, who was standing near, requested Cavendish to enquire if he would be confessed. "What have you to do with that?" answered the Cardinal, angrily; but was appeased by the interference of the confessor. He continued to grow weaker all that day: about four o'clock the next morning, he asked for some refreshment, which having received, and made his final confession, Sir William Kingston entered his room, and enquired how he felt himself: "I tarry," said the dying man, "but the pleasure of G.o.d, to render up my poor soul into His hands. I have now been eight days together troubled with a continual flux and fever, a species of disease which, if it do not remit its violence within that period, never fails to terminate in death." Then follows his message to the King, concluding with, "Had I served my G.o.d as diligently as I have served the King, He would not have given me over in my grey hairs." He then continued, for a short time, to give Sir William some advice, concluding with, "Forget not what I have said; and when I am gone, call it often to mind." Towards the conclusion, his accents began to falter; at the end, his eyes became motionless, and his sight failed. The abbot was summoned to administer the extreme unction, and the yeomen of the guard were called to see him die. As the clock struck eight he expired, on the 29th of November, 1530.

_Welby: "Predictions Realized."_

He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one; Exceeding wise, fair spoken and persuading; Lofty and sour to them that loved him not, But, to those men that sought him, sweet as summer.

And though he was unsatisfied in getting, (Which was a sin), yet in bestowing, madam.

He was most princely.--_Shakspeare._

WOOD (Rev. John George, English naturalist, author of "Man and Beast Here and Hereafter"), 1827-1889. "_Give me a large cup of tea._"

At six o'clock he complained of thirst and asked for a cup of milk.

Still his mind was perfectly clear, for, finding that he could no longer raise his head to drink, he asked whether there happened to be an invalid's cup in the house, and, finding that there was not, suggested that a small milk jug would answer the purpose instead. This was procured, and he drank his milk, asking immediately afterward for a large cup of tea, which he drank also. And almost immediately afterward he turned his head upon one side, and quietly pa.s.sed away.[55]--_Theodore Wood._

[55] Sir Charles Blagden, the distinguished English physician and chemist (1748-1820) died so quietly and peacefully that not a drop of coffee in the cup which he held in his hand was spilt. He was sitting in his chair at a social meal with his friends, Monsieur and Madame Berthollet, and Gay Lussac. Dr. Joseph Black, also a famous physician, died whilst eating his customary meal of bread and milk, and so quiet and peaceful was his departure that he did not even spill the contents of a spoon which he held in his hand.

WOODVILLE (William, English physician and author of a work on "Medical Botany"), 1752-1805. "_I shall not live more than two days, therefore make haste_," last recorded words said to a carpenter who had come to measure him for a coffin.

WOOLSTON (Thomas, English theologian), 1669-1733. "_This is a struggle which all men must go through, and which I bear not only with patience, but with willingness._"

WOOLTON (John. Bishop of Exeter), 1535-1594. "_A Bishop ought to die on his legs._" He insisted upon standing up to die, as did also the Rev.

Patrick Bronte.

WORDSWORTH (William, distinguished English poet), 1770-1850. "_G.o.d bless you! Is that you Dora?_"

Mrs. Wordsworth, with a view of letting him know what the opinion of his medical advisers was concerning his case, said gently to him, "William, you are going to Dora!" More than twenty-four hours afterward one of his nieces came into the room, and was drawing aside the curtain of his chamber, and then, as if awakening from a quiet sleep, he said, "Is that you Dora?"[56]

_Memoirs of Wordsworth, Vol. ii, p. 506._

[56] William Wordsworth died April 23rd, 1850, at the age of 80, and was buried in the little centry-garth of St. Oswald's, Grasmere, between, as De Quincey records, "a yew-tree of his own planting, and an aged thorn." On his tombstone is an inscription from the pen of Keble, in which he is styled, "a chief minister, not only of n.o.blest poesy, but of high and Sacred truth." Surely the tender lover of Nature, and high-priest of her mysteries, could have no fitter resting-place than this Westmoreland churchyard, where, as some one has written, "the turf is washed green by summer dew, and winter rain, and in early spring is beautifully dappled with lichens and golden moss?" This reads very prettily, and represents the thing as it should be. But what are the facts? The literary pilgrim who may chance to visit the spot will follow a narrow muddy path among the grave mounds, till he reaches a gloomy dingy corner, with a group of blue-black head-stones of funereal slate. Everything round the place is decayed and blighted; no green gra.s.s is there; all is dull, dark and depressing. The poet's corner is ill-drained; and there is a tiny moat of water round the base of the stone curb, in which is fixed the iron railing that surrounds the grave. Yet here is a remarkable group of memorial tombs. Near to the poet lie all the beloved members of his household. Here slumbers his favorite sister, Dorothy; here, too, Mrs. Wordsworth,--Dora Wordsworth,--her husband, Edward Quillinan, the poet, and translator of the _Lusiad_,--the two infant children of Wordsworth,--and behind these, Hartley Coleridge, that "inheritor of unfulfilled renown," whose bier the poet followed one snowy day in January, unwitting that, before the trees were again clad with verdure, he would be borne along the same narrow path to his own long rest. Surely something should be done to rescue the poet's monument from decay, and render it more in accordance with the verdant foliage and the sun-bright hills around, of which he sung so lovingly and so well.

_William Bates._

WOTTON (Sir Henry, English diplomatist, author of some very beautiful short poems and of a number of books, chief among which are "The State of Christendom," and "The Characters of Some of the English Kings"), 1568-1639. "_I now draw near to the harbor of death--that harbor that will rescue me from all the future storms and waves of this restless world. I praise G.o.d, I am willing to leave it, and expect a better--that world wherein dwelleth righteousness, and I long for it._"

WYATT (Sir Thomas, the younger), 1520-1554. On the scaffold he said to the people: "Whereas it is said abroad that I should accuse my Lady Elizabeth's grace and my Lord Courtenay; it is not so, good people, for I a.s.sure you that neither they nor any other now yonder in bold endurance was privy of my rising a commotion before I began." Weston, his confessor, shouted, "Believe him not, good people! he confessed otherwise before the council." Wyatt answered: "_That which I said then I said, but that which I say now is true._" These were Wyatt's last words.

WYCHERLEY (William, author of "The Plain-dealer," "The Country Wife,"

and several other comedies), 1640-1715. "_Promise me you will never again marry an old man_," said to his wife.

When he was over seventy years old he married a young woman, but he survived his marriage only eleven days.

XIMENES DE CISNEROS (Francisco, Spanish cardinal), 1719-1774. "_This is death._"

YANCEY (William Lowndes, American politician, secessionist and commissioner to Europe to secure recognition of the Southern Confederacy. He was called "The Fire-Eater"), 1815-1863. "_Sarah_," his wife's name.

YVART (J. A. Victor, called "The Arthur Young of France"), 1764-1831.

"_Nature, how lovely thou art!_"