IN the queenly days of Elizabeth, the soil of England was trodden by noble men, whose footprints will be revered until the sun shall gild for the last time the dominions on which it has been said, he never sets. Bacon, who has left a legacy of wisdom quite large enough to redeem his meanness; Burleigh, the serene, sagacious statesman; Sir Walter Raleigh, the mirror of chivalrous accomplishment; Sir Francis Drake, the renowned navigator; Howard, the brave Earl of Effingham, whose fleet defeated the Spanish Armada; Spenser, Shakspeare, and a host of minor lights, glittered in the firmament of the august Tudor. No other annals of sovereignty can boast such an assemblage of learning, wit, enterprise, statesmanship, and courtly grace; for to her satellites, rather than to herself, belong the registered glories of Elizabeth’s reign.
Amidst those unforgotten heroes of an almost forgotten day, stands one whose brief and beautiful life was pronounced by Campbell, “poetry put into action” — a hero born to greatness, achieving greatness, and having greatness thrust upon him; not the greatness of massive intellect or of hereditary position, but rather that which is the result of a perfectly harmonious nature; the union of inherited talent and rare culture, with a heart spontaneously generous, earnest, and true. When we add to this the personal endowments of manly beauty, of stately presence, and of gentle speech, we may not marvel that he was the cynosure of the court and the idol of friendship; that the partial queen claimed him as “her jewel,” or that famous men sought posthumous praise in the monumental record, “The friend of SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.”
It is to be regretted that the memorials of this illustrious favorite are so brief and scanty, especially those of his social and domestic relations. Scarcely an anecdote of his private life has been transmitted for the benefit of those curious to know just how the “hero” appeared to his valet de chambre. But since no picture is preserved of him in dressing-gown and slippered négligé, we are fain to content ourselves with such gala-draped sketches as we can find, believing, too, that the inner life is often revealed through the fluttering of state robes.
The castle of Penshurst situated in the county of Kent, was the baronial dwelling of the Sidney family, though, long before their name was known beyond the shores of France, its massive towers and embattled front had frowned on many a feudal lord and rude retainer. Ben Jonson’s verse brings back to us the echoing sounds of its departed glory —
“Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show
Of touch or marble; nor canst boast a row
Of polish’d pillars, or a roofe of gold;
Thou hast no lantherne, whereof tales are told,
Or stayre, or courts; but stand’st an ancient pile,
And these grudg’d at, art reverenced the while,
Thou ioy’st in better markes, of soyle, of ayre,
Of wood, of water; therein thou art faire;
Thou hast thy walkes for health as well as sport;
Thy Mount, to which the Dryads doe resort;
Where Pan and Bacchus, their high feasts have made,
Beneath the broad beech and the chest-nut shade;
That taller tree, which of a nut was set
At his great birth, where all the Muses met.”
The principal buildings in this ancient pile form a quadrangle enclosing a spacious court. Over the grand portal was an inscription testifying that the manor was a gift from Edward the Sixth to William de Sidney, who was his tutor, chamberlain, and steward of his household, and had been distinguished by his bravery on the field of Flodden.
The great banqueting hall was curiously decorated with grotesque figures that supported the roof, and its fireplace, encased in a frame of iron, is said to have had strength and capacity enough to hold huge piles of wood, and nearly sufficient to sustain the trunk of a giant tree. The stairs were formed of vast blocks of solid oak, and the floors of many of the state apartments were of massive planks from the same royal wood. The spacious portrait gallery was, in the latter part of the last century, adorned with curious and rare historical pictures, and also with portraits, some of them by Holbein, of the Sidneys and Dudleys, and of the monarchs who were their friends and patrons. There were the “counterfeit presentments” of Sir Philip Sidney, and of his sister, the Countess of Pembroke, the subject of Jonson’s noted epitaph:
“Underneath this sable hearse,
Lies the subject of all verse;
Sidney’s sister, Pembroke’s mother,
Death, ere thou hast slain another,
Learn’d and fair, and good as she,
Time shall throw his dart at thee,” &c.
A portrait of their celebrated uncle, Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, was also then a tenant of that voiceless gallery. An epigram found in the Hawthorn den MSS. is of a less flattering character:
“Here lies a valiant warrior,
Who never drew a sword.
Here lies a noble courtier
Who never kept his word.
Here lies the Earle of Leicester,
Who governed the Estates,
Whom the Earth could never living love,
And the just Heaven now hates.”
Sweet Amy Robsart was better avenged by posterity than by her contemporaries. The proud peer, whose art kept pace with his ambition, whose guile was equalled only by his guilt, whose vanity instructed his revenge, who poisoned with the unhesitating skill of a Borgia, and with the precaution of a Catiline kept ever near him the instruments for every species of sin, might well defy both scrutiny and retribution, under the protecting partiality of an enamored queen. But the fair young wife was displaced in vain, for in Elizabeth’s heart the rule of love always yielded eventually to the love of rule, and Leicester was left with that crime upon his conscience, without even the compensation of a crown upon his head.
The Sidneys were an ancient and honorable family, of French origin, their lineal ancestor having accompanied Henry the Second from Anjou, and afterwards attended him as one of his chamberlains. But we hear little of them until the services of Sir William, in the fleets and armies of Henry the Eighth, obtained for him the grant of Penshurst Castle. His only son Henry, the father of Sir Philip, was the most intimate friend of the good young king, Edward the Sixth, of whom Hooker said that “though he died young, he lived long, for life is in action.” After the death of this lamented Prince, Sir Henry’s abilities as a diplomatist and a statesman elicited the highest tokens of esteem from both Mary and Elizabeth. Historians have cited as one of the caprices of fame that the father should now be remembered through the son, rather than the son through the father. He was president of Wales and governor of Ireland, and in these difficult offices of trust, his integrity and philanthropy were preeminent. He softened the wild asperities of Wales by planting there the institutions of civilization, some vestiges of which yet remain. It was impossible to bring order out of the chaos of civil war and barbarism that had distracted unhappy Ireland for many centuries, but Sir Henry, having with Roman patriotism spent both life and fortune in the effort, gained, like Valerius, the meed of praise from the public voice, and of burial from the public purse.
England numbered, in that day, as many good and accomplished women, as brave and princely men; and not least among them was Mary, the wife of Sir Henry Sidney, and daughter of that unfortunate Duke of Northumberland, whose “vaulting ambition o’erleaped itself” in the vain attempt to enthrone Lady Jane Grey. The children of the Duke were of course implicated in his attainder, but from some anomalous impulse of goodness on the part of Philip Second of Spain, the clemency of his newly wedded Queen was solicited and obtained in behalf of all of them except Lord Guilford Dudley, the husband of Lady Jane. So unaccountable a departure from the usual Machiavelian policy of Philip, must either be considered a mistake, or attributed to a desire to court the regard of the people of England, who already looked upon him and upon his arrogant Spanish retinue with jealous eyes. The exemplary and amiable character of Lady Mary Sidney added grace to her own noble house of Dudley and another ornament to the annals of the lord of Penshurst. Her delicate sensibility of temperament and love of quiet and domestic life, led her to prefer the seclusion of her beautiful home to the glittering gayeties of the court. There she offered an asylum to such of her family as civil calamity had spared, and reared the children whose lives were the best tributes to her maternal worth.
The eldest son of these admirable parents was born on the 29th of November, 1554, during the reign of Queen Mary, who among other marks of her favor bestowed upon him the name of her renowned spouse. Happily the gift of a name does not imply the transmission of the qualities thereby represented, or the youthful Philip might well have demurred to the royal compliment. The mantle of that eminent bigot and illustrious brigand, cast no shadow upon either his character or his career.
His birth was poetically commemorated by the planting of an oak,
“That taller tree which of a nut was set,”
and whose bravery of verdure overshadowed the park of Penshurst for nearly two centuries after its prototype had passed away. Many years later, when the tenants came on gala days to greet their lord, they used to adorn themselves with boughs from this consecrated oak, in memory of Sir Philip.
His childhood and youth were marked by a singular love of learning, by a generous and amiable disposition, and by that pensive dignity of demeanor usually associated with high-toned and reflective minds. The patent of nobility was his, not only in social position but as the inalienable gift of nature. We may fancy his juvenile sports under the “broad beech and the chestnut shade,” chasing the deer, practising simple feats of horsemanship, or tilting in mock tournaments; but evincing even then, it was said, thought beyond his years, and habits of inquiry and observation that were the marvel of his teachers. Destined for the life of a courtier and a statesman, no pains were spared to fit him for distinction, not only as a brilliant, but as a good man. Letters in Latin and in French, written by him at the age of twelve years to his father, elicited a reply which is considered by all his biographers so fine a model of paternal advice that it may be worth while to insert it here. Through its quaint old Saxon is seen the most watchful care for the mental progress of his son, and for his culture of true religion — that which is of the fervent heart, rather than of the bended knee. It seems quite probable that this letter, which was preserved in the “Sidney Papers,” may have been the source of suggestion to Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir Matthew Hale, and others, whose epistolary counsels to their children are still commended.
“I have reaceaved too letters from yow, one written in Latine, the other in French; which I take in goode parte, and will yow to exercise that practice of learninge often: for that will stand yow in moste steade, in that profession of lyf that yow are born to live in. And since this ys my first letter that ever I did write to yow, I will not that yt be all emptie of some advyses, which my naturall care of yow provokethe me to wish yow to foloye, as documents to yow in this your tendre age. Let yowr first actyon be the lyfting up of yowr mynd to Almighty God, by harty prayer; and felingly dysgest the woords yow speake in prayer, with contynual meditation and thinkinge of him to whom yow praye, and of the matter for which yow praye. And use this at an ordinarye hower. Whereby the time ytself will put yow in remembrance to doe that, which yow are accustomed to doe in that tyme. Apply yowr study to suche howres, as yowr discrete master dothe assign yow, earnestlye; and the time, I knowe, he will so lymitt, as shal be both sufficient for yowr learninge, and saf for yowr health. And mark the sens, and the matter of that yow read, as well as the woordes. So shal yow both enreiche yowr tonge with woordes, and yowr wytte with matter; and judgement will growe as yeares growyth in yow. Be humble and obedient to yowr master, for unless yow frame yowr selfe to obey others, yea, and feale in yowr selfe what obedience is, yow shall never be able to teach others how to obey yow. Be curteese of gesture, and affable to all men, with diversitee of reverence, according to the dignitie of the person. There ys nothing, that wynneth so much with so lytell cost. Use moderate dyet, so as after yowr meate, yow may find yowr wytte fresher and not duller, and yowr body more lyvely, and not more heavye. Seldom drinke wine, and yet sometimes doe, least, being enforced to drinke upon the sodayne, yow should find yowr selfe inflamed. Use exercise of bodye, but suche as ys without peryll of yowr yointes or bones. It will encrease yowr force, and enlardge yowr breathe. Delight to be cleanly, as well in all parts of yowr bodye, as in yowr garments. It shall make yow grateful in yche company, and otherwise lothsome. Give yowr selfe to be merye, for yow degenerate from yowr father, yf yow find not yowr selfe most able in wytte and bodye, to doe any thinge when yow be most merye; But let yowr myrthe be ever void of all scurilitee, and bitinge woordes to any man, for an wound given by a woorde is oftentimes harder to be cured, than that which is given with the sword. Be yow rather a herer, and bearer away of other men’s talke, than a begynner or procurer of speeche, otherwise yow shall be counted to delight to hear yowr selfe speak. Yf yow heare a wise sentence, or an apt phrase, commytte yt to yowr memorye, with respect to the circumstance, when yow shal speake yt. Let never othe be hearde to come out of yowr mouthe, nor woord of ribaudrye; detest yt in others, so shal custome make to yowr selfe a lawe against yt in yowr selfe. Be modest in yche assemble, and rather be rebuked of light felowes for meden-like shamefastnes, than of yowr sad friends for pearte boldnes. Thinke upon every woorde that yow will speake, before yow utter hit, and remembre how nature hath rampared up, as yt were, the tonge with teeth, lippes, yea and hair without the lippes, and all betokening raynes or bridles, for the loose use of that membre. Above all things tell no untruthe, no not in trifels. The custome of hit is naughte, and let it not satisfie yow, that for a time, the hearers take yt for a truthe, for after yt will be known as yt is, to yowr shame; for ther cannot be a greater reproche to a gentellman than to be accounted a lyare. Study and endevour yowr selfe to be vertuously occupied. So shall yow make suchean habite of well doinge in yow, that yow shal not knowe how to do evell, thoughe you wold. Remember, my sonne, the noble blood yow are descended of, on yowr mother’s side; and thinke that only, by vertuous lyf and good action, yow may be an ornament to that illustre famylie; and otherwise, through vice and slouthe, yow shall be counted lobes generis, one of the greatest curses that can happen to man. Well, my littell Philippe, this is ynough for me, and to muche, I fear, for yow. But, yf I shall finde that this light meale of digestione nourishe any thing the weake stomake of yowr yonge capacitie, I will, as I find the same growe stronger, fead yt with toofer foode.
“Your lovinge father so long as yow live in
“the feare of God,
“H. SYDNEY.
If the spirit of prophecy had inspired this communication, it could not better have pictured the future character of young Sidney; and we are told that he was, even then, fondly called by his father “lumen familiœ suce,” the brightness of his household. Trinity College at Cambridge, and Christ Church at Oxford, were the arenas of his intellectual labors, and there, in the Olympic strife with the young and noble sons of England, he wore the laurels of success. Spencer, Raleigh, and the historians Camden and Carew, were among his fellow-students, and the latter has incidentally given us a glimpse of his own scholarship, and that of young Sidney. “Upon a wrong-conceived opinion touching my sufficiency, I was called to dispute extempore with the matchless Sir Philip Sidney, in presence of the Earls of Leicester and Warwick, and divers other great personages.” He early became a proficient in Latin and Greek, and especially delighted in research among curious old books and antique parchments, the exhumed mementoes of the past. The overhanging gloom of the dark ages had lately rolled away from the world of letters. Literature was no longer a costly myth, nor science the veiled mystery of the monk and the antiquary. The student might now light his midnight lamp by the rays of Homer, and drink from the sparkling fountains of Virgil. Plato belonged, not to Greece, but to the world, and the Peripatetic again walked the broad highway of common life. It was said of Philip Sidney, that “he cultivated not one art or science, but the whole circle of arts and sciences; his capacious and comprehensive mind aspiring to preeminence in every branch of knowledge.” We may add his name to the chronicle of those who, in the flush of youth, have turned aside from the allurements of rank, of wealth, or of pleasure, to the
— “Fairy tales of science and the long result of Time,” thus early witnessing the truth of Thierry’s conclusion from a long life of varied experiment, “Believe me, there is no earthly happiness equal to the unceasing pursuit of knowledge.”
Mirandola, an Italian nobleman who lived in the fifteenth century, was the marvel of learned men and the pride of universities, and, like the “admirable Crichton,” at the age of twenty-three he challenged the savants of Italy to enter the lists with him in public disputation. Pascal, who shone in goodness as in learning, having been forbidden by his father the use of mathematical books, was one day accidentally found sitting on the floor of his room, surrounded by charcoal diagrams; his irrepressible love of science having led him, untaught, to the exact demonstration of the thirty-second problem of Euclid. When only sixteen, he wrote so able a treatise on Conic Sections that it was attributed by Des Cartes to the labors of his father. Scaliger, who was deemed one of the most learned men of his age; Lipsius, the celebrated scholar and critic; Tasso, the hapless poet who
— — “Wrecked on one slight bark
The prodigal treasures of his bankrupt soul;”
and Crichton himself, who, it was said, “wrote and spoke to perfection ten languages at the age of twenty,” besides being well versed in general science; — of these, some walked the stage of Europe contemporaneously with Philip Sidney, and, like him, they all aimed in youth at a lofty mark. Talent may be late in its unfolding, but ‘ habits of industrious application, unless formed early are seldom formed at all.
“There is no such thing as genius,” said Hogarth, two hundred years later; “genius is nothing but labor and diligence.” Perhaps Hogarth’s own creative abilities and acute intuitions falsified his assertion; but it also bears the high indorsement of Sir Isaac Newton, who declared that “if ever he had effected any thing, it had been by patient thinking.” It was certainly rather through “labor and diligence” than from any transcendent native power, that our hero reaped his abundant harvest; and it is a significant tribute to the goodness of his heart and the charm of his manner, that his life, not only now, but to its lamented close, was unblighted by the attacks of envy and jealousy — those scoffing fiends that ever walk in the shadow of the successful, whether in social, intellectual, or political achievement.
Before he had laid aside the academic gown at the age of seventeen, the pioneers of invention and of discovery sought the aid of his discriminating judgment, and painters and musicians found in him a liberal and appreciative patron. Every hour had its earnest employment; but he had none to give to idle pleasures or to questionable indulgence. The kingdom of the Beautiful was his chosen home. On its heaven-touched heights, and by its pure streams, his young genius expanded its glorious capacities, sweeping with rapid wing the orbit of science, and soaring onward with untiring eye and yet loftier aim.
Like a light within a vase, the spirit shone through its outer temple. Tall and finely proportioned, with regular and handsome features, hair of the sunny hue that poets love, and deep blue eyes, expressive of thought and feeling, Philip Sidney went forth into the world with every endowment that youth could covet,— “Not mailed in scorn, But in the armor of a pure intent.”
Schiller says, “let no man measure by a scale of perfection the meagre products of reality.” Since the best of men are still but men, it is perhaps a pity that the faults of this oft-named favorite, the shadows upon this luminous humanity, are not recorded for our criticism, and, we may add, for our encouragement. The Egyptian sculptors were forbidden to model their statues by their own— “He was extremely beautiful,” said the celebrated antiquary, John Aubrey; “he much resembled his sister, but his hair was not red, but a little inclining; viz: a dark amber color.” ideal creations, and compelled to adhere to the sacred measures of the priesthood. Like them we copy with literal chisel from biography and history, without improvising even a fancy to relieve the monotony of truth.