WE, of this nineteenth century, when science and enterprise have laid bare the remotest nooks of our terrestrial home, even to the ice-bound secrets of hyperborean zones, can hardly fancy the golden mystery which, in 1585, still enshrouded the Western Continent. There yet lived in England a few venerable men who could talk of the incredulity with which, in their boyhood, people listened to the story of the Genoese adventurer, whose chimerical wanderings had led him to an immense and unexplored land, teeming with wealth, and beautiful as Paradise itself. They well remembered, too, the dark forebodings of the aged, the enthusiastic cheers of the young, that rang in the ears of John and Sebastian Cabot, when Henry VII. granted them leave to sail with their own little fleet in search of distant and unknown lands; and the same “old men eloquent” told of the wonder and applause which greeted the daring mariners, when they returned with the map of the coast from Labrador to Albermarle Sound, and vested in England the primal right to the Continent of North America.
From that time onward, the eager eyes of Europe all turned toward the enchanted West. The fisheries of Newfoundland brought wealth and commerce to the English and the French. The freebooters of Spain wrung from the gentle Mexicans their accumulated treasures. The Dutch merchants planted their colonies among the mangrove trees and the gorgeous birds of Surinam. The flag of the fleur de lys announced French possession of the stately forests of Guiana. The standard of Portugal was raised amid the pines and tamarinds of Brazil. Ponce de Leon sought the fountain of perpetual youth among the mulberry groves of Florida. De Soto and his brave comrades, breaking through the solitudes watered by the Ogeechee and the Altamaha, plucked the purple grapes from the banks of the Alabama, and gazed in silent wonder upon the magnificent Mississippi. The wildest fables regarding the new world gained universal credence. Its rivers were said to sparkle with sands of gold; its inhabitants to deck themselves with inestimable gems, of whose value they knew nothing; the dreams of alchemy were there fulfilled, without the aid of crucible and fire; the Elysian fields were not more redolent of fragrance, or prolific in beauty, in every form of fruit and flower. No nation listened with more credulous delight than did the English. At the time of which we write, Frobisher, that model of patient seamen, had recently returned from the last of his three voyages to Labrador and Greenland, bringing each time, however, no richer reward than one or two specimen savages, and heaps of black earth, supposed to contain the precious metal. beaten tars held forth to gaping crowds in the little alehouses of Falmouth and of Deptford, upon the hazardous excitements of polar navigation, of hidden rocks, unknown currents, rushing waterfalls, and moving mountains of ice. Raleigh’s colony, under the gallant Sir Richard Grenville, had just landed on the sunny isles of Roanoke, and sent back glowing descriptions of a the goodliest land under the cope of heaven.” Francis Drake had immortalized his name by the circumnavigation of the globe; and though the achievement was tarnished by his extensive piracies among the Spanish possessions in the harbors of the Pacific, the Queen had given him her sanction and encouragement. It may be said in his defence, that Spain was in avowed antagonism to England. A band of troops, and large sums of money, had been sent in 1582 to Ireland, to stir up its inhabitants to further rebellion, in revenge of the Queen’s assistance to the Netherlands; and the ships of both countries, traversing the high seas for commerce or adventure, delighted to express their national animosity by indi vidual reprisal.
The youth of England were fired with emula tion of enterprise and of wealth, and filled with longings to behold the Eden of the West. Avarice might there slake its fiercest thirst; Romance realize its wildest dreams; Ambition revel in territorial conquest and colonial freedom. It is not surprising that Philip Sidney, with his poetic fancy, his generous impulse, his craving for heroic action, looked with impatient eye from the disappointments, the intrigues, and the restrictions of a court life, towards the land which mystery and distance gilded with twofold charm. He once wrote despondingly to Languet, in regard to the state of Protestant affairs in the Netherlands: “I seem to see our cause withering away, and am now meditating with myself some Indian project.”
When Drake was fitting out his second expedition, in the summer of 1585, Sir Philip, in accordance with one of his favorite mottoes, “Aut viam inveniam ciut faciam,” — I will either find a way or make one, — engaged to associate himself with it, and to equip, from his own purse, both a naval and a land armament. Sir Fulke Greville, who designed to accompany him, declares that his friend meditated a check upon the dangerous power of Spain, by attacking its West India possessions, and that he also projected the foundation of a new and extensive empire, which, redeeming the forests from their solitude, and blending the strength of civilization with the fertility of nature, should offer to the adventurous a broad arena, and to the oppressed a sanctuary; and, by its wise and liberal administration, reestablish the golden reign of peace.
He says that the scheme was the result of long and serious thought, and was “the exactest model Europe ever saw; a conquest not to be enterprised but by Sir Philip’s reaching spirit, that grasped all circumstances and interests.”
Sir Fulke was, as we have previously stated, Sidney’s most intimate friend, and probably better acquainted with his purposes than any other. We cannot discern, through the dim light of Sir Philip’s scant memorials, all the motives by which he was actuated; but it is impossible to believe that the pure principles which had thus far guided his life, were now sacrificed to cupidity or ambition. This project, however, though carried on with great secrecy, was a failure. The Queen, hearing of his intended departure, recalled “her Philip” by a peremptory message, and gave further orders, that if he declined to obey, the entire fleet must be detained. A vexatious mandate, it must be well imagined, however indicative of her partiality; “yet,” says Sir Fulke, “did he sit this processe without noise or anger.”
It is difficult to account for the persistent refusals of Elizabeth to grant him advancement, either in a foreign land, or in her own service. Her arbitrary dictum had no other explanation than that of the fiat of Louis XIV.: “Car tel est notre plaisir.” But Sidney’s fault was impetuosity of temper, — a fault almost inseparable from youth and a fervid nature, — and it may have influenced, in some degree, the policy of the cautious queen.
He certainly possessed her esteem, and was the constant subject of her praise. He was one of her favored band of gentlemen pensioners, ranked by Shakspeare superior to earls, and there is casual mention of the gift from her of a living in Wales; she had recently admitted him to her privy council, and conferred on him the honor of knighthood — an honor the more distinguished because, during her entire reign, only six earls and nine barons were elevated to the peerage, and knights were created with great discrimination. But a request, preferred by him in 1582, for the office of master of the ordinance in connection with his uncle, the Earl of Warwick, was refused. That, however, may have been from some special ill humor on the part of Burleigh, to whom the letter was addressed, toward Leicester; and the Queen was probably influenced by him in her decision, for Sir Philip says: “I learn that her majesty yields grations heering nnto the suit.” He adds that he desires it “much more for the being busied in a thing of some serviceable experience, than for any other commoditie, which is but small, that can arise of it.”
An apochryphal story has gained credence with many of the writers of Sir Philip’s life; that, in 1585, it was proposed to nominate him to the elective crown of Poland, then left vacant, as they assert, by the death of Stephen Battori. They tell us that his royal mistress forbade the intended honor to her knight, with the declaration that “her sheep should not be marked with a stranger’s brand,” and that Sir Philip loyally replied, he cc would rather remain the subject of Queen Elizabeth, than accept the highest preferment in a foreign land.” This incident, if true, would doubtless have formed a brilliant episode in Sidney’s career, but unfortunately for romance, it can have little or no foundation in historical fact. Fulke Greville, his intimate friend and biographer, does not mention it at all. The standard historians, Thuanus, De Thou, Lelevel, in his Histoire de la Polonie, and most others, agree in the assertion that Battori did not die until December, 1586, which was two months after the death of Sidney. The story rests upon the authority of Naunton, whose “Fragmenta Regalia” is rather a collection of anecdotes and the gossip of the times, than a work of reliable veracity. It seems to us by no means improbable, however, that some of Sir Philip’s numerous friends may have suggested the presentation of his name to the Electors of Poland, in view of some future election, and that the story of his positive nomination may have arisen from this shadowy presumption.
While thus, day by day, and year by year, Sidney rose to eminence and fame, the unseen shadows of death were drawing near; the drama which developed the latest phase of his character was in rapid preparation.
The seven United Provinces had lost their pillar of light — William of Orange was no more. After escaping numberless perils from the spy, the traitor, and the assassin, he had at last been shot by an insane fanatic, and was now sepulchred in the land he had served so purely, so zealously, with such untiring self-denial, and such consummate wisdom, that his love appears less human than divine. The Republic was shrouded in gloom; its prospects were more alarming than at any previous time, from the commencement of the war. A more pathetic emphasis was attached to the emblem stamped upon the coin of the unhappy state — a little ship struggling without sails or oars against adverse waves, with the motto, “Incertum quo fata ferant.”
The Duke of Anjou, proving recreant to his promised defence, had been dismissed; and soon after ended, in France, a life made up of follies and of failures. Alexander Farnese, Duke of Parma, had conquered nearly the whole of Flanders and Brabant, and triumphantly established the Spanish troops in Ghent, Brussels, and Antwerp, acquiring a numerous fleet by the reduction of the latter city. With the tactics of despair, its citizens cut away their dykes, inundating the country, and sweeping off his magazines; and vainly endeavored to burn the stupendous fortified bridge which he had built across the wide estuary of the Scheldt, for the purpose of preventing their communication with the sea. The city, beautiful and opulent still, despite repeated ravages, was subjected to the most flagrant rapacities. Plunder, fire, massacre, and the flight of twenty thousand of its principal inhabitants, wrought a destruction so rapid and complete, as finds few parallels in history.
The whole confederacy trembled before the accumulating force of the Duke of Parma. Failing in their application for aid from the King of France, they again applied to Queen Elizabeth, offering her the sovereignty of their realm, and entreating her support. She rejected the offer, from the same cautious anxiety to avoid the imputation of encroachment on the rights of Philip II. that had dictated her refusal of a similar petition, a few years before. But, more than ever aware that the safety and welfare of her own kingdom were closely connected with the independence of her affluent commercial neighbors, she now openly espoused their cause. A treaty was concluded in June, 1585, which secured to them the aid of 6,000 troops, paid by herself during the continuance of the war, and the promise of naval assistance, if it should be required. In pledge of subsequent payment, she was to receive the towns of Brille and Flushing, and the Fort of Rammekins. She invested Sir Thomas Cecil, the eldest son of Lord Burleigh, with the command of the strongly fortified island-town of Brille; and feeling, no doubt, that she must henceforth give a wider scope to the aspiring spirit of Sir Philip Sidney, she appointed him Governor of Flushing. This town was considered, from its position at the mouth of the western Scheldt, one of the most important points in the Netherlands. The last instructions of Charles V. to his son, referred to the particular care which he should employ for its security. After the revolt began, its citizens drove out the Spanish garrison, destroyed the new-laid foundations of their citadel, and with the assistance of the Prince of Orange, and his confederates, planted themselves in an attitude of resistance, which they were still able to maintain.
Sir Philip assumed the duties of his office on the 18th of November. He was welcomed by ‘ the Dutch with every mark of distinction, and immediately appointed Colonel of all their regiments. He left his wife, Lady Frances Sidney, at home, until he could make arrangements for her reception there; because, as he wrote to his father-in-law, to whom he gave a power of attorney over the disposition and care of his property, he “might take such a course as would not be fitt for anye of the féminin gender.”
The command of the English forces was given to the Earl of Leicester, under the title of General of the Queen’s Auxiliaries, and to this was added a control over the navy, paramount to that of the Lord Admiral himself.
He was attended by five hundred of the youthful nobility; adventurous spirits, that burned to aid the Belgian revolt against the tyranny of Philip II. and to win distinction in this famous school of martial discipline. Among the number was the step-son of Leicester, and brother of Sidney’s Stella, Robert, Earl of Essex; who, though only nineteen, had already appeared at court, and been received by the Queen with a favor that clearly foreshadowed his predestined position in her regard. Even at this early age, he was conspicuous by his imperious, though graceful, demeanor, and by his personal prodigality.
Leicester was perfectly unfit for this service, having neither the courage, the integrity, nor the military science, which it required. As usual, however, his discriminating mistress was either wilfully or unconsciously blind to his defects. Her partiality painted him, as her own face upon canvas has, by her unartistic decree, descended to us — without shadows. But he had practised so long and so well the dazzling arts of presence and address, that the Provinces were at first deceived as completely as was the Queen. Landing at Flushing with his splendid retinue, he was received by Sir Philip with cordial ceremonial, and by the Belgians universally with the festivities and pomp appropriate to a conquering prince, rather than to the subject of an ally. They followed him with acclamations, and marked his way by triumphal arches; appointed a guard to attend him, and conferred on him the offices of Governor-General, and Commander-in-Chief of the Army and Navy. Doubtless they hoped that homage to the favorite would gratify the Queen, and secure her deeper interest in their behalf, and were both chagrined and alarmed when, with characteristic jealousy, she sent over her ViceChancellor, Sir Thomas Heneage, to express her high indignation that such unexampled honors should be bestowed upon a subject whom, as she said, she “had raised out of the dust.” Explanations and submissions were hastily returned, but as Leicester retained his authority, we may plausibly infer that she was reluctant to wound his vanity or his ambition, by its withdrawal.
It was not long, however, before the Provinces themselves repented of their generosity. The incapacity of the new Governor to conduct their military affairs, and his arbitrary and unjust interference in the civil administration, filled them with consternation. He laid such restrictions upon their trade that many of their merchants removed from the country. He altered the coin, levied taxes without their consent, and had the moneys delivered, not to their own treasurer, but to one of his appointment, who refused to render them his accounts. He collected large sums for the alleged purpose of paying the troops, who, after all, were so ill paid, that it was difficult to prevent a mutiny. He ejected their own distinguished citizens from offices of trust, and supplanted them with his own minions, many of whom were known as artful and treacherous men. In all respects, he treated them more like a conquered people whose sovereignty he purposed to assume, than as a free and allied republic.
And now we are called to witness the magnanimous conduct of his admirable nephew; the upright and decisive efforts by which Sir Philip labored to remedy the evils of this miserable administration. Having been appointed general of the English cavalry, he took a very active part in the campaign, supplied the soldiers from his private purse, and encouraged them by his promises and presence; constantly mediated between his uncle and the discontented citizens, and effectually conciliated Count Hohenlo, who was at the head of a rival faction. Leicester himself acknowledged, after Sidney’s death, that he sustained his own authority in the Low Countries, through his superior merit.
In a letter to his uncle, dated Feb. 2, 1586, Sir Philip remonstrates with him on the ill usage of the English soldiers. “It grieves me very much the soldiers are so badly dealt with in your first beginning of government, not only in their pay, but in taking booties from them, as by your Excellency’s letter I find.” In the same letter he requests that forces may be sent to besiege Steenburg. “I will undertake upon my life either to ruin it, or to make the enemy raise his siege from Grave, or, which I most hope, both.” At another time he intimates that “his charges, divers ways, and particularly his horsemen, grow greater than he is able to go through with;” but protests that “so far from desiring gain, he is willing to spend all he can make.”
A letter, addressed by him to Secretary Walsingham, reveals to us his own zeal in the Protestant cause, and the inadequate provision made for her army by the Queen; presenting, too, in a very interesting view, as says one of his biographers, “the same Sidney, whose pen had lately been dedicated to the soft and sweet relaxation of poesy and pastoral romance, now writing from his tent, amidst the din of war, with the stern simplicity and short-breathed impatience of an old soldier.” We subjoin a few extracts: —
“RIGHT HONORABLE,
“I receave dyvers letters from you, full of the discomfort which I see, and am sorry to see, y’yow daily meet with at home; and I think, such is ye goodwil it pleaseth you to bear me, y’my part of ye trouble is something y’troubles yow; but I beseech yow, let it not. I had before cast my count of danger, want, and disgrace; and, before God, Sir, it is trew in my hart, the love of ye caws doth so far overbalance them all, y’, with God’s grace, thei shall never make me weery of my resolution. If her Ma! wear the fountain, I wold fear, considering what I daily fynd, y’we shold wax dry; but she is but a means whom God useth, and I know not whether I am deceaved, but I am faithfully persuaded, y’if she shold wthdraw herself, other springes wold ryse to help this action: for methinkes I see ye great work indeed in hand against the abusers of the world, wherein it is no greater fault to have confidence in man’s power, then it is too hastily to despair of God’s work. I think a wyse and constant man ought never to greeve whyle he doth plaie, as a man may sai, his own part truly, though others be out; but if himself leav his hold becaws other marriners will be ydle, he will hardly forgive himself his own fault. For me, I can not promis of my own cource, no, not of the — becaws I know there is a eyer power yl must uphold me, or else I shall fall; but certainly I trust I shall not by other men’s wantes be drawne from myself; therefore, good Sir, to whome for my particular I am more bownd then to all men besydes be not troubled with my troubles, for I have seen the worst, in my judgement, beforehand, and wors then yl can not bee.”
“If the Queene pai not her souldiours she must loos her garrisons; ther is no dout thereof; but no man living shall be hable to sai the fault is in me. What releefe I can do them, I will. I will spare no danger, if occasion serves. I am sure no creature shall be hable to lay injustice to my charge; and, for furdre doutes, truly I stand not uppon them. We shall have a sore warr upon us this sommer, wherein if appointment had been kept, and these disgraces forborn, wch have greatly weakened us, we had been victorious. — It hath been a costly beginning unto me this war, by reason I had nothing proportioned unto it; my servantes unexperienced, and 17 myself every way unfurnished — I have been vyldli deceaved for armures or horsemen; if yow cold speedily spare me any out of your armury, I will send them yow back as soon as my own be finished. There was never so good father find a more troublesome son.” Dated at Utrecht, March 24.
The Belgians fought as men fight for liberty and life; the English, as loyal subjects and earnest allies; but the contest was unequal, and its progress discouraging and slow. The Spaniards were better trained, more subtle, and moreover inspired by the acute science and cool daring of the greatest general of the age. Alexander of Parma was the nephew, the rival, and the successor of Don John; possessing his ambition without his romance, his bravery, but not his fascination; inferior in the graces that woo and win; superior in military command, and in patient, unscrupulous execution. When but six years old, he had delightedly witnessed the siege of his native city, and its brave defence by his father, Ottavio Farnese. At eleven, he plead with tears for permission to serve as a volunteer at the battle of St. Quentin. In early manhood, in default of the excitements of war, he nightly perambulated the streets of Parma in disguise, to measure his sword with chance combatants who seemed worthy of his challenge. When the last crusade was proclaimed against the Turks, he flew to the Levant, obtained a place in the very front of the battle at Lepanto, sprang alone on board the doubly-armed treasure-ship of the enemy, cut a passage for his followers with superhuman strokes from his two-handed sword, and securing that galley, and another which was sent to its rescue, divided the immense booty between himself and his crew. In the Netherlands, he won the battle of Gemblours by a desperate manœuvre, and showed himself equally ready for stratagem and for conflict. His stately demeanor, dark piercing eyes, fine features, and martial figure, habited in high ruff, gold-inlaid armor, and the decoration of the Golden Fleece, betokened the warrior and the prince. Selfpoised, politic, and prudent, his very lenity towards the vanquished made him a more formidable foe than any of Philip’s emissaries by whom he had been preceded.
Within a few months after the arrival of the English reinforcements, he besieged the towns of Grave, Venlo, and Nuys, all of which were compelled to surrender. The allied forces were less successful in their retaliation upon several places in his possession. As Sidney’s name is not mentioned in connection with these events, we infer that he was engaged elsewhere. In the month of June, however, in concert with the young Prince Maurice, of Nassau, he took the town of Axell, by a well-conducted surprise, and his discretion on that occasion furnishes an evidence of what he might have achieved as a military commander, had his life been spared. Previous to the attack, he drew up his soldiers in battle array, and addressed them in a strain of eloquence which, says the enthusiastic chronicler, “did so link their minds that they did desire rather to die in that service than to live in the contrary.” He appealed to their Protestant zeal — for party fervor, it must be remembered, was then religious, as well as military and political — to their loyalty, as subjects of a mighty Queen, to their pride, as sons of a glorious land, to their bravery, as men unfearing, in a noble cause, both danger and death.
The attack was made under the protecting darkness of night, and Sir Philip, with a tact that reminds us of a Scipio or a Polybius, revived the discipline of the Roman legion.
In silence and order the little band marched, unheard, to the very walls of Axell, and scaled them by ladders, without the loss of a single man; and while a chosen phalanx planted itself in the broad market square, the rest secured the garrison, and took possession of the public buildings. When the service was achieved, Sir Philip liberally rewarded them from his private purse.
About this time the Duke of Parma laid siege to Rhineberg, an important post which the States were extremely solicitous to retain. Leicester, determined at last upon some decisive stroke which should satisfy his confederates; but, not venturing with his inferior numbers upon an engagement, he directed his forces to the assault of Zutphen, a strong town in Guelderland, whose resistance to the Duke of Alba, fourteen years before, had been avenged by the command to his soldiery not to leave a man alive, or a single house unburned. The horrors that followed this atrocious order seem incredible, even in the annals of that sanguinary day. The garrison were put to the sword without a moment’s warning, and life was wellnigh extinguished in the city.
— Fulke Greville’s Life of Sir Philip Sidney. It appears from letters found in Wright’s and Ellis’s Collections that Sir Philip’s munificence sometimes occasioned him serious embarrassment. He complains to Hatton, in 1581, of being deeply involved in debt, and, after his death, Walsingham wrote to Leicester that he must pay £6000 on his account, adding, however, “I weigh it nothing in respect of the loss of the gentleman who was my chiefe worldly comforte.”
Five hundred burghers were tied together in pairs, and drowned in the river Yssel; the fugitives were caught and hung upon the gallows, until released by death from their tortures. And though the wail of agony, “a sound as of a mighty massacre,” was heard far beyond the city, the terrified listeners dared not approach for days after its doom was sealed.
The English troops, comprising 7000 foot and 1400 dragoons, encamped before Zutphen, in the month of September, having first obtained possession of the little town of Doesberg, seven miles distant. The Governor had sent word to the Duke of Parma of his inability to sustain a siege, from the want of both provisions and ammunition. Had Leicester immediately secured certain passes by which the city was entered, it must of necessity have surrendered; but here was another proof of the military incapacity which marked this whole campaign. Parma hastily raised the siege of Rhineberg, and marched his forces to the relief of Zutphen; sending in advance the Italian cavalry, under the Marquis del Guasto, with temporary supplies. On the night of the 21st, a portion of them were conveyed without difficulty into the town, and, though the dawn broke before Motley’s Dutch Republic. the labor was completed, the Marquis resolved to hazard its continuance.
It was a chill, gray morning. The fog rolled heavily up from the banks of the Yssel, and flung its spectral mantle over the beleaguered city and the white tents of the besiegers.
“Their camp lay on the shadowy hill, all silent as a cloud; Its very heart of life stood still — and the white mist brought its shroud; For Death was walking in the dark, and grimly smiled to see How all was ranged and ready for his sumptuous jubilee.”
The Italian and Spanish cavalry, 3000 in number, conducted by Del Guasto and several distinguished officers, were suddenly encountered by 500 of the English cavalry, under the command of Sir Philip Sidney and Sir John Norris. The former were driven back by a furious onset, but rallying to the charge, a combat ensued so ardent and impetuous on both sides, that its very name was long after a proverb in the land. Robert Sidney performed such prodigies of valor that he was knighted on the field; Sir “William Russel charged so terribly with spear and curtelax that “the enemy reported him to be a devil and not a man;” young Essex shouted, as he threw his lance upon the first assailant, “For the honor of England, my fellows, follow me!” Lord Willoughby, Lord North, and many others, earned great distinction. But foremost in the hot affray, where loudest rang the clash of steel and deadly fire of arquebuse and musket, wherever the wounded fell, the timorous faltered, or the hostile host was fiercest, there glittered the gilded armor of our gallant Sidney — as he spurred his white charger through the storm of bullets, now to encounter a fiery foe, anon to save a friend imperilled by unequal numbers. Two horses were shot beneath him, and he quickly mounted a third. Just as the Spanish cavalry were giving way, he saw Lord Willoughby surrounded by the enemy, and in imminent danger. Dashing over the prostrate slain — he rescued his friend, but was himself struck by a musket-ball which entered the left thigh, a little above the knee, dreadfully fracturing the bone, and riving the muscles far upward toward the body. He was instantly borne from the fatal spot, and a messenger carried the sad tidings to Lord Leicester. Men who had that day encountered the King of Terrors with undaunted eye, wept as they heard that the price of victory must be the death of Sidney. “O Philip!” cried the Earl, in the touching plaint of grief, “I am sorry for thy hurt!”
“This have I done,” replied the wounded hero, “to do you honor, and Her Majesty service.” In death, as in life, he served, not himself, but his country and his friends. With tears of sorrow, Sir William Russel kissed his hand and said, “O noble Sir Philip, there was never any man attained hurt more honorably than you have done, or any served like unto you.”
And here we have arrived at one of the last and most beautiful acts of a beautiful career. We record once more the story which has floated down on the echoing voices of almost three hundred years, and with its sweet lesson still thrills the soul of childhood and quickens the pulse of age. As he was borne from the field of action, faint, pallid, and parched with the thirst that attends excessive loss of blood, Sidney asked for water. It was obtained, doubtless, with difficulty and in scant supply. With trembling hand he raised the cup to his lips, when his eye was arrested by the gaze of a dying soldier, longingly fixed upon the precious draught. Without tasting, he instantly handed it to the sufferer, with the memorable words, “Thy necessity is greater than mine!”
The affection of Leicester for his nephew was the redeeming point in his character. In the simple language of sincere distress, he wrote, the day after the battle: —
“This young manne, he was my greatest comforte, next her Majestie, of all the worlde, and if I could buy his lieffe, with all I have, to my sherte, I would give yt. How God will dispose of him I know not, but feare I must needes greatly the worstè; the blow in so dangerous a place and so great; yet did I never hear of any manne that did abide the dressinge and settinge of his bones better than he did. And he was carried afterwards in my barge to Arnheim, and I heare this day he ys still of good hearte, and comforteth all aboute him as much as may be. God of his mercie graunt me his lieffe, which I cannot but doubt of greatly. I was abrode that time in the fielde, givinge some order to supplie that business, which did indure almost twoe owres in continuait fighte, and meetinge Philip commynge on horse-backe, not a little to my greafe. — Well, I praye God, yf it be his will, save me his lieffe; even as well for her Majestie’s service sake, as for myne own comforte.”
The utmost art of the imperfect surgery of the time was bestowed upon the illustrious patient, and the devoted care of Lady Sidney and several friends attended him during the sixteen days that intervened until his death. Hopes of his recovery were at first encouraged, but the bullet, which was supposed to have been poisoned, could not be extracted. The solicitous inquiries that were constantly sent frpm both Belgium and England, proved, if proof were needed, how highly his life was prized; and Count Hohenlo exclaimed with the blunt fervor of a soldier to the surgeon who expressed his apprehension of a fatal result, “Away, villain, never see my face again, till thou bring better news of that man’s recovery, for whose redemption many such as I were happily lost.” —
Sir Philip seems to have been visited from the first with premonitions of his death; but the messenger from the spirit land came to him, not as a spectre of fear, but as an angel of hope. Through suffering so extreme that even the bones of the shoulder were worn through the skin, he was patient, placid, and loving; so tranquil, indeed, that he wrote a long letter to an eminent divine in pure and elegant Latin, composed an ode, (unfortunately not preserved,) on the approach of dissolution, discoursed at length and with argumentative clearness on the immortality of the soul, and dictated his will with minute remembrance of all his friends and servants.
— Of that instrument Sir Fulke Greville says, “ This will of.
With the undoubting confidence of religious faith, he imputed the fatal disaster, not to chance, but to the immediate ordinance of the Creator; and not only expressed entire resignation, but even avowed himself grateful for sufferings “which should profit him whether he lived or died.”
“Love my memory,” said he to his afflicted brother, “cherish my friends; their faith to me may assure you that they are honest. But, above all, govern your will and affections by the will and word of your Creator, in me beholding the end of this world with all its vanities.”
There is a simple and touching little sketch of his last illness, written by his chaplain, who was his constant attendant during its continuance. It is still preserved in the British Museum, and quoted at length by Dr. Zouch, and we are confident that a few brief extracts cannot fail to be of interest: —
“The night before he died, towards the morning, I asked him how he did. He answered, i I feel myself more weak.’
‘I trust,’ said I, 6 you are well, and thoroughly prepared for death, yf his will ever remain for a witness to the world that, even dying, those sweet and large affections in him could no more be contracted with the narrowness of pain, grief, or sickness, than any sparkle of our immortality can be privately buried in the shadows of death.”
God éhall call you.’ At this he made a little pause, and then he answered, 1 I have a doubt; pray resolve me in it. I have not slept this night; I have verie earnestlie and humblie besought the Lord to give me some sleep; he hath denied it; this causeth me to doubt that God doth not regard me, nor heare any of my prayers; this doth trouble me.’ Answer was “made that, for matters touching salvation or pardon of our sins through Christ, he gave an absolute promise; but, for things concerning this life, God hath promised them but with caution; that which he hath absolutely promised we may assuredly look to receive, craving in faith that which he hath thus promised. ‘I am,’ said he, 1 fully satisfied, and resolved with this answer. No doubt it is even so; then I will submit myself to his will in these outward things.’ He added, farther, ‘I had this night a trouble in my mynd; for, searching myself, methought I had not a full and sure hould of Christ. After I had continued in this perplexity awhile, how strangelie God did deliver me! There came to my remembrance a vanity in which I delighted, whereof I had not rid myself. I rid myself of it, and presently my joie and comfort returned.’ — Within a few hours after, I told him that I thought his death did approach, which indeed he well perceived, and for which he prepared himself. His fear that death would take away his understanding did continue. ‘I doe,’ said he, 1 with trembling hart, most humblie intreat the Lord that the pangs of death may not be so grievous as to take away my understanding.’
“It was proved to him by testimonies and infallible reasons out of the Scriptures, that, although his understanding and senses should fail, yet that faith, which he had now, could not fail, but would hold still the power and victory before God. At this, he did with a chearful and smiling countenance put forth his hand, and slappt me softlie on the cheeks. Not long after, he lifted up his eyes and hands, uttering these words, ‘I would not chaunge my joye for the empire of the worlde;’ for the nearer he saw death approach, the more his comfort seemed to increase. — As the light of a lamp is continued by pouring in of oyl, so he sought to have the burning zeal and flame of his prayer, upon which his heart was still bent, cherished by the comforts of the holy word; accounting it a great injury, if we did not seek to give wings to his faith to carry up his prayers speedily, uttering grief when he felt any thought interrupting him.
“Having made a comparison of God’s grace now in him, his former virtues seemed to be nothing; for he wholly condemned his former life. ‘All things in it,’ said he, 6 have been vaine, vaine, vaine.’
“It now seemed as if all natural heat and life were almost utterly gone out of him, that his understanding had failed, and that it was to no purpose to speak any more unto him. But it was far otherwise. I spake thus unto him: ‘Sir, if you heare what I saye, let us by some means know it;, and if you have still your inward joye and consolation in God, hould up your hand.’ With that, he did lift up his hand, and stretched it forth on high, which we thought he could scarce have moved, and it caused the beholders to cry out with joy, that his understanding should be still so perfect, and that the weak body, beyond all expectation, should so readily give a sign of the joye of the soul. After this, asking him to lift up his hands to God, seeing he could not speak or open his eyes — that we might see his heart still prayed, he raised both his hands, and set them together on his breast, and held them upwards, after the manner of those which make humble petitions; and so his hands did remain, and even so stiff, that they would have so continued standing, but that we took the one from the other.”
A little before his death, he called for music; and thus, amid the harmonies of earth, the benedictions of love, and the incense of prayer, the spirit of Philip Sidney soared to the spheres of Mystery and of Promise.
It was on the 17th day of October, and his age was nearly thirty-two. In life, the patriot, the scholar, the pride of chivalry; in death, the hero, the philosopher, and the Christian.
When a nation weeps, the sorrow is sincere, the tribute is sublime. England bewailed, with almost unprecedented sorrow, the loss of her most promising son. The higher ranks all assumed the garb of mourning, and for many months no one, at Court or in the city, appeared in gay attire, — an honor never before accorded to a private individual. The Queen expressed the deepest sorrow. Lord Buckhurst wrote to Leicester, “By the decease of that noble gentleman, her Majesty and the whole realm do suffer no small loss and detriment. He hath had as great love in this life, and as many tears for his death, as ever any had.” Du Plessis said to Walsingham, “I have experienced troubles and disappointments in these troublous times, but nothing which lay heavier upon me, nor so struck me to the heart, no private or public calamity which ever so sensibly affected me. I bewail his loss, and regret him, not for England only; but for all Christendom.”
Even the flinty heart of Philip II. was softened for an instant, as he prophetically exclaimed, “England has lost in one moment what she may not produce in an age;” and his secretary, Mendoza, remarked that, “however glad he was his master had lost an enemy, yet he could not but lament to see Christendom deprived of so rare a light in those cloudy times.” The United Provinces besought the privilege of his burial, promising to raise “as fair a monument as had any prince in Europe, yea, though it should cost half a ton of gold.” The Queen refused the request, preferring to honor the memory of her knight by assuming, herself, the expenses of a magnificent funeral. With solemn pomp his remains were removed to Flushing, and thence embarked for England. The English garrison, twelve hundred in number, headed the procession, marching by three and three, their halberts, pikes, and ensigns trailing on the ground. Next came the coffin covered with a pall of velvet, then the burghers of the town in deep mourning, slowly and sadly marching to the sound of muffled drums and softly breathing fifes. A triple volley of small shot was fired, followed by two discharges from the great ordnance about the walls. “And so,” says the Chronicle, “they took their leave of their well-beloved governor.” His honored relics were transported in a pinnace of his own, whose “sayles, tackling, and other furniture were coloured blacke, and blacke clothe hung round her with escuchions of his arms, and she was accompanied with divers other shipps.” The body lay in state at Aldgate until the 16th of February, when it was deposited in St. Paul’s Cathedral, with a splendor of ceremonial unparalleled, except for royalty. The Lord Mayor and the Aldermen on horseback, in their scarlet gowns lined with ermine, seven representatives of the seven United Provinces clothed in black, several companies with their insignia, and a very numerous train of citizens, poured the tide of mournful homage through the streets of London. The pall was supported by the Earls of Huntingdon, Essex, Leicester, and Pembroke, and the Barons Willoughby and North. Sir Robert Sidney was chief mourner, his parents having both died a few months after Sir Philip was sent to Holland.
Upon a pillar in the choir of St. Paul’s, there formerly hung a tablet, graven with the following epitaph, which, it is now believed, was written by Sir Walter Raleigh: —
“England, Netherlands, the heavens, and the arts,
The soldier, and the world, have made six parts
Of the noble Sidney, for none will suppose
That a small heap of stones can Sidney inclose
His body hath England, for she it bred,
Netherlands, his blood, in her defence shed;
The heavens have his soul, the arts have his fame,
All soldier’s the grief, and the world, his good name.”
The Universities of Cambridge and Oxford expressed, in three volumes of adulatory Greek and Latin verse, their esteem and sorrow. An elegiac plaint from James of Scotland, swelled the voice of universal praise; and, it is said, that more than two hundred noted writers have, at different times, borne testimony to his merits. Camden wrote of him: —
“This is that Sidney, whom, as Providence seems to have sent into the world to give the present age a specimen of the antients, so did it on a sudden recall him, and snatch him from us, as more worthy of heaven than of earth. Thus, when virtue is come to perfection, it presently leaves us, and the best things are seldom lasting. Rest, then, in peace, O Sidney, if I may be allowed this address. We will not celebrate thy memory with tears, but with admiration. Whatever we loved in thee, (as the best author speaks of the best governor of Britain,) whatever we admired in thee continues, and will continue, in the memories of men, the revolutions of ages, and the annals of time. Many, as inglorious and ignoble, are buried in oblivion, but Sidney shall live to all posterity. For, as the Greek poet has it, Virtue’s beyond the reach of Fate.”
Spenser commemorated his patron under his poetical appellation of Astrophel, and “also in two Epitaphs, which contain these lines: —
“A King gave tliee thy name; a Kingly minde
That God thee gave, who found it now too deere
For this base world, and hath resumde it neere,
To sit in skies, and sort with powers divine.
Kent thy birth-daies, and Oxford held thy youth;
The heavens made haste, and staid nor years nor time;
The fruits of age grew ripe in thy first prime,
Thy will, thy words; thy words the seales of truth.
Great gifts and wisdom rare imployd thee thence,
To treat from Kings with those more great than Kings;
Such hope men had to lay the highest things
On thy wise youth, to be transported thence!
What hath he lost, that such great grace hath won?
Young years for endless years, and hope unsure
Of fortune’s gifts, for wealth that still shall dure;
Oh! happy race with so great praises run!”
Thomson has enshrined the memory of Sir Philip, in his harmonious verse: —
“Nor can the Muse the gallant Sidney pass,
The plume of war I with early laurels crowned,
The lover’s myrtle, and the poet’s bay.”
Campbell bestowed a tribute of united praise upon Sidney and Spenser: —
“The man that looks sweet Sidney in the face,
Beholding there love’s truest majesty,
And the soft image of departed grace,
Shall fill his mind with magnanimity;
There may he read unfeigned humility,
And golden pity, born of heavenly flood,
Unsullied thought of immortality,
And musing virtue, prodigal of blood;
Yes, in this map of what is fair and good,
This glorious index of a heavenly book,
Not seldom, as in youthful years he stood,
Divinest Spenser would admiring look,
And framing thence high wit and pure desire,
Imagined deeds that set the world on fire.”
“Sidney trod,” says the author of the Effigiæ Poeticæ, “from his cradle to his grave, amid incense and flowers, and died in a dream of glory.”
It is needless to dilate upon the talents and the virtues of Philip Sidney; equally needless, and more perplexing, to attempt further selection from the oblations that have been profusely thrown upon his shrine. By the consenting acclaim of all his contemporaries, by the impartial voice of succeeding ages, even by the critical fiat of the nineteenth century, he stands in the Pantheon of Fame, But to the world at large, he stands there rather as a luminous, half-defined phantom, than as a sculptured form; and many marvel that a man whose years were few, whose achievements were of no startling greatness, whose words created no era in thought, is encircled with a halo, which neither melts before Time, nor is dimmed by a brightening civilization. We believe that the solution is twofold. In the first place, he was the representative of the finest features of his country and his age. Under happy coincidences of nature and of education, he embodied and idealized the patriotism, the piety, the intellectual activity, the practical energy, and the romantic knight-errantry, for which Europe, and especially England, was at that time distinguished. He seemed, besides, to be a connecting link between the ancient cavalier and the modern gentleman, blending in focal beauty the martial valor, the ceremonious courtesy, the religious devotion of the one, with the culture, the refinements, and the lofty independence of the other.
The prestige that attends him is farther heightened by the harmony of his social and spiritual nature. It is the homage that mankind universally pays to that consistent goodness, which, emanating from an aspiring, well-balanced soul, atmospheres the life with depths as pellucid and serene as those of an Egyptian sky. We view his character from every side with satisfaction; and so perfect are its proportions, that we forget their individual dignity, in admiration of their concentred beauty. Generous and genial, possessing an inherent nobility that lifted him far above the littleness of envy and deceit, his common and daily acts impressed men with his sincerity and his justice. His conversation and his writings not only revealed the affluence of a well-stored mind, they were the lofty utterances of one who dwelt amid the Alpine peaks of thought. The heroism, the purity, the spiritual beauty that he portrayed, were the echoes of a soul that answered but to the inspiration of Truth. Even his fault — we are constrained to use the singular — that of a somewhat impetuous temper, was the mere effervescence of an intense nature, and scarcely detracted from his essential consistency.
“We should count time by heart-throbs,
Not by hours upon a dial. He most lives,
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.”
Though his life was undistinguished by action, it glowed with all the elements of greatness. In his embassy to Germany, in his letter to the Queen, in his conduct in Belgium, and on the field of Zutphen, we see the germ of powers that needed but time and occasion for an unfolding, that would have ranked him with the wisest of statesmen, the most renowned of soldiers. Nevertheless, it is by the attraction of character, rather than by the grandeur of deeds, or the splendor of genius, that the fame of Philip Sidney retains its vitality. No hours of indolence or of folly left their blank record upon his tomb; the daily and hourly culture of taste, of knowledge, and of virtue graved the moral of a life which, though brief in years, was fruitful in those results which give to life at once its beauty and its reward.
THE END