book called “Cabala” (Part III., p. 201). The said address was written
at the desire of some great personage--his Uncle Robert, I suppose,
Earl of Leicester, upon which a great quarrel happened between him and
Edward Vere, Earl of Oxford. This, as I conceive, might occasion his
retirement from Court next summer, 1580, wherein, perhaps, he wrote
that pleasant romance called “Arcadia.”[i07]
In 1581 the treaty of marriage was renewed, and our author, Sidney,
with Fulke Greville,[i08] were two of the tilters at the
entertainment of the French Ambassador; and at the departure of the
Duke of Anjou from England, in February of the same year, he attended
him to Antwerp.[i09]
On the 8th of January 1582 he, with Perigrine Bertie, received the
honour of knighthood from the Queen, and in the beginning of 1585 he
designed an expedition with Sir Francis Drake into America, but
being hindered by the Queen (in whose opinion he was so highly prized
that she thought the Court deficient without him) he was, in October
following, made Governor of Flushing--about that time delivered to the
Queen for one of the cautionary towns--and General of the Horse. In
both which places of great trust his carriage testified to the world
his wisdom and valour, with addition of honour to his country by them;
and especially the more, when in July 1586 he surprised Axil, and
preserved the lives and honour of the English army at the enterprise
of Gravelin: so that whereas (through the fame of his high {xxx}
deserts) he was then, or rather before, in election for the Crown of
Poland, the Queen of England refused to further his advancement, not
out of emulation, but out of fear to lose the jewel of her times. What
can be said more? He was a statesman, soldier, and scholar--a complete
master of matter and language, as his immortal pen shows. His pen and
his sword have rendered him famous enough: he died by the one, and by
the other he will ever live as having been hitherto highly extolled
for it by the pens of princes. This is the happiness of art, that
although the sword doth achieve the honour, yet the arts do record it,
and no pen hath made it better known than his own in that book called
“Arcadia.” Certain it is, he was a noble and matchless gentleman, and
it may be justly said, without hyperbole or fiction, as it was of
Cato Uticensis, that “he seemed to be born to that only which he
went about.” His written works are these:--
The Countess of Pembroke’s “Arcadia,”[i10] which being the most
celebrated romance that was ever written, was consecrated to his
noble, virtuous, and learned sister Mary, the wife of Henry, Earl
of Pembroke, who, having lived to a very fair age, died in her house
in Aldersgate Street, in London, the 25th of September 1621, whereupon
her body was buried in the cathedral church of Salisbury, among the
graves of the Pembrochian family. This “Arcadia,” though then, and
since, it was, and is, taken into the hands of all ingenious men, and
said by one living at, or near, the time when first published, to be
“a book most famous for rich conceits and splendour of courtly
expressions.” This work was first printed in the year 1613 in quarto;
it hath been translated into French, Dutch, and other languages in
1624.
Besides _Astrophel and Stella_,[i11] _A Remedy for Love_, _The Defence
of Poesy_,[i12] _Sonnets_, etc., Sir Philip also turned the _Psalms
of David_ into English verse, which are in manuscript in the library
of the Earl of Pembroke at Wilton, curiously bound in a crimson velvet
cover, left thereunto by his sister Mary, Countess of Pembroke.[i13]
{xxxi}
The following dialogue, composed by our author, was spoken between two
shepherds in a pastoral entertainment before several gentlemen and
ladies at the seat of the noble family above mentioned.
_Will._ Dick, since we cannot dance, come, let a cheerful voice
Show that we do not grudge at all, when others do rejoice.
_Dick._ Ah, Will, though I grudge not, I count it feeble glee,
With sight made dim with daily tears, another’s sport to see.
Whoever lambkins saw (yet lambkins love to play)
To play when that their loved dams are stoll’n or gone astray?
If this in them be true, as true in men, think I,
A lustless song, forsooth, thinks he, that hath more lust to cry.
_Will._ A time there is for all, my mother often says,
When she, with skirts tuck’d very high, with girls at stoolball plays.
When thou hast mind to weep, seek out some smoky room:
Now let those lightsome sights we see, thy darkness overcome.
_Dick._ What joy the joyful sun gives unto bleared eyes,
That comfort in these sports you like, my mind his comfort tries.
_Will._ What! is thy bagpipe broke? or are thy lambs miswent?
Thy wallet or thy tar-box lost? or thy new raiment rent?
_Dick._ I would it were but thus, for thus it were too well.
_Will._ Thou seest my ears do itch at it; good Dick, thy sorrow tell.
_Dick._ Hear then, and learn to sigh; a mistress I do serve,
Whose wages make me beg the more, who feeds me till I starve,
Whose livery is such, as most I freeze apparelled most,
And look! so near unto my cure, that I must needs be lost.
_Will._ What? these are riddles sure; art thou then bound to her?
_Dick._ Bound as I neither power have, nor would have power to stir.
_Will._ Who bound thee?
_Dick._ Love, my lord.
_Will._ What witnesses thereto?
_Dick._ Faith in myself, and worth in her, which no proof can undo.
_Will._ What seal?
_Dick._ My heart deep graven.
_Will._ What made the band so fast?
_Dick._ Wonder, that by two so black eyes the glittering stars be past.
_Will._ What keepeth safe thy band?
_Dick._ Remembrance is the chest
Lock’d fast with knowing that she is of worldly things the best.
_Will._ Thou late of wages ’plainst: what wages mayst thou have?
_Dick._ Her heav’nly looks, which more and more do give me cause to
crave.
_Will._ If wages make you want, what food is that she gives?
_Dick._ Tear’s drink, sorrow’s meat, wherewith, not I, but in me my
death lives.
_Will._ What living get you then?
_Dick._ Disdain; but just disdain:
So have I cause myself to plain, but no cause to complain.
_Will._ What care takes she for thee?
{xxxii}
_Dick._ Her care is to prevent
My freedom with show of her beams, with virtue my content.
_Will._ God shield us from such dames. If so our downs be sped
The shepherds will grow lean, I trow, their sheep will be ill fed;
But, Dick, my counsel mark: run from the place of woe;
The arrow being shot from far doth give the smaller blow.
_Dick._ Good Will, I cannot lack the good advice, before
That foxes leave to steal, because they find they die therefore.
_Will._ Then, Dick, let us go hence, lest we great folks annoy;
For nothing can more tedious be, than ’plaint in time of joy.
_Dick._ Oh, hence! O cruel word! which even dogs do hate;
But hence, even hence, I must needs go--such is my dogged fate.
To return again to Sir Philip.
In the year 1586,[i14] when that unfortunate stand was made against
the Spaniards before Zutphen, the 22nd of September, while he was
getting upon the third horse, having had two slain under him before,
he was wounded with a musket shot out of the trenches, which broke the
bone of his thigh. The horse he rode upon was rather furiously
choleric than bravely proud, and so forced him to forsake the field,
but not his back, as the noblest and fittest bier to carry a martial
commander to his grave. In which sad progress, passing along by the
rest of the army, where his uncle,[i15] the general, was, and, being
thirsty with excess of bleeding, he called for drink, which was
presently brought him; but, as he was putting the bottle to his mouth,
he saw a poor soldier carried along, who had eaten his last at the
same feast, ghastly casting up his eyes at the bottle, which Sir
Philip perceiving, took it from his head before he drank, and
delivered it to the poor man, with these words: “Thy necessity is yet
greater than mine.” And when he had pledged this poor soldier, he was
presently carried to Arnheim, where the principal surgeons of the camp
attended for him. When they began to dress his wounds, he, both by way
of charge and advice, told them that, while his strength was yet
entire, his body free from fever, and his mind able to endure, they
might freely use their art, cut, and search to the bottom; but if they
should neglect their art, and renew torments in the declination of
nature, their ignorance, or overtenderness, would prove a kind of
tyranny to their friend, and, {xxxiii} consequently, a blemish to
their reverend science. With love and care well mixed they began the
cure, and continued it some sixteen days, with such confidence of his
recovery as the joy of their hearts overflowed their discretion, and
made them spread the intelligence of it to the Queen, and all his
noble friends here in England, where it was received, not as
_private_, but _public_ good news.
At the same time Count Hollock was under the care of a most
excellent surgeon for a wound in his throat by a musket shot, yet did
he neglect his own extremity to save his friend, and to that end had
sent him to Sir Philip. This surgeon, notwithstanding, out of love
to his master, returning one day to dress his wound, the Count
cheerfully asked him how Sir Philip did? and he answered, with a
heavy countenance, that he was not well. At these words the worthy
prince, as having more sense of his friend’s wound than his own, cries
out: “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.”
Now, after the sixteenth day was passed, and the very shoulder-bones
of this delicate patient worn through his skin with constant and
obedient posturing of his body to the surgeon’s art, he, judiciously
observing the pangs his wound stang him with by fits, together with
many other symptoms of decay, few or none of recovery, began rather to
submit his body to these artists than any farther to believe in them.
He called the ministers unto him, who were all excellent men, of
divers nations, and before them made such a confession of Christian
faith as no book, but the heart, can truly and feelingly deliver.
Then, calling for his will, and settling his worldly affairs, the last
scene of this tragedy was the parting between the two brothers: the
weaker showing infinite strength in suppressing sorrow, and the
stronger, infinite weakness in expressing of it. And to stop the
natural torrent of affection in both, Sir Philip took his leave,
with these admonishing words: “Love my memory, cherish my friends;
their faith to me may assure you 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 her vanities.” And
with this farewell, desired the company to lead him away.
{xxxiv}
After his death, which happened on the 16th of October, the states of
Zealand became suitors to her majesty and his noble friends, that they
might have the honour of burying his body at the public expense of
their government.[i16] This was not permitted; for soon after his body
was brought to Flushing, and, being embarked with great solemnity on
the 1st of November, landed at Tower Wharf on the 6th day of the same
month. Thence it was conveyed to the Minories without Aldgate, where
it lay in state for some time, till his magnificent funeral in St
Paul’s Cathedral, the 16th of February following, which, as many
princes have not exceeded in the solemnity, so few have equalled in
the sorrow for his loss. He was buried near to that place which his
father-in-law, Sir Francis Walsingham, had designed (as I have
heard) to be entombed in, without any monument or inscription. King
James honoured him with an epitaph of his composition, and the
Muses, both of Oxford and Cambridge, lamenting much for his loss,
composed verses to his memory. Besides, several private persons did
also exercise their fancies upon this occasion; for, so general was
the lamentation, that it was accounted a sin for any gentleman of
quality, for many months after, to appear at court or city in any
light or gaudy apparel.
No monument hath since been erected over him, whereof this reason is
assigned, that “He is his own monument, whose memory is eternised in
his writings, and who was born into the world to show unto our age a
sample of ancient virtues.”[i17]
He left behind him a daughter named Elizabeth, who was born in 1585.
She married Roger Mannours, Earl of Rutland, but died without
issue.[i18]
I confess it is commonly reported that Sir Philip,[i19] some hours
before his death, enjoined a near friend to consign these his works to
the flames, whereby posterity had been deprived of much pleasure and
profit accruing thereby. What promise his friend returned herein is
uncertain; but if he broke his word to be faithful to the public good,
posterity will absolve him, without doing any penance, for being
guilty of such a {xxxv} meritorious offence, wherewith he hath obliged
so many ages. Hear the excellent epigrammatist, Owen, hereon:--
“Ipse tuam moriens, vel conjuge teste, jubebas
Arcadiam saevis ignibus esse cibum.
Si meruit mortem, quia flammam accendit amoris;
Mergi, non Uri debuit iste liber.
In librum quaecunque cadat sententia; nullâ
Debuit ingenium morte perire tuum.”
As the ancient Egyptians presented secrets under their mystical
hieroglyphics, so that an easy figure was exhibited to the eye, and a
higher notion tendered under it to the judgment, so all the “Arcadia”
is a continual grove of morality, shadowing moral and politic results
under the plain and easy emblems of lovers, so that the reader may be
deceived, but not hurt thereby, when surprised on a sudden to more
knowledge than he expected.
I will not here endeavour to offer the reader a key to unfold what
persons were intended under the fictitious denominations: herein must
men shoot at the wild rovers of their own conjectures. And many have
forged keys of their own fancies, all pretended to be the right,
though unlike one to another. But, besides, it is an injury to impose
guesses for truths on any belief; such applications, rather made than
meant, are not without reflections on families, as may justly give
distaste. I dare confidently aver that the wards of this lock are
grown so rusty with time that a modern key will scarce unlock it,
seeing in above a hundred years many criticisms of time, place, and
person, wherein the life and lustre of this story did consist, are
utterly lost, and unknown in our age.
Vita Philippi Sidnei.
“Qui dignos ipsi vitâ scripsere libellos
Illorum vitam scribere non opus est.
Sidnei in tumulo est, corpus non vita: Philippi
Producit vitam gloria, longa brevem.”
--Owen.
TESTIMONIES CONCERNING THE
AUTHOR
{xxxvi}
Gulielmus Camdenus de Praelio inter Anglos et Hispanos
prope Zutphaniam in Geldriâ.
Anno Dom. 1586.
“Ex Anglis pauci desiderati; sed qui instar plurimorum, Sidneius,
equo perfosso dum alterum ascendit, glande femur trajectus,[i20]
vicesimo quinto post die, magno sui desiderio bonis relicto, in flore
aetatis exspiravit, vix quatuor menses patri superstes. Cui
Leicestrius avunculus in Angliam reversus, exequias, magno apparatu,
et militari ritu, in Templo Sti. Pauli Londini solvit, Jacobus Rex
Scotorum epitaphio parentavit: utraque Academia lacrymas consecravit,
et Novum Oxoniae Collegium elegantissimum[i21] Peplum contexuit. Haec
et ampliora viri virtus, ingenium splendidissimum, eruditio
politissima, moresque suavissimi meruerunt.”
Mr Carew, in his “Survey of Cornwall,” p. 102.
“Being a scholar at Oxford at fourteen years of age, and three years
standing upon a wrong-conceived opinion touching my sufficiency, I was
then called to dispute extempore with the matchless Sir Philip Sidney,
in presence of the Earls of Leicester and Warwick, and divers other
great personages.”[i22]
Dr Heylin, in his “Cosmography.”
“Arcadia in Greece is a country whose fitness for pasturage {xxxvii}
and grazing hath made it the subject of many worthy and witty
discourses, especially that of Sir Philip Sidney, of whom I cannot but
make honourable mention. A book, which, besides its excellent
language, rare contrivances, and delectable stories, hath in it all
the strains of poesy, comprehendeth the universal art of speaking,
and, to them who can discern, and will observe, affordeth notable
rules for demeanour, both private and public.”
Mr Lloyd, in his “State Worthies.”
“His romance was but policy played with Machiavel in jest, and state
maxims sweetened to a courtier’s palate. He writ men as exactly as he
studied them; and discerned humours in the court with the same deep
insight he described them in his book. All were pleased with his
‘Arcadia’ but himself, whose years advanced him so much beyond himself
as his parts did beyond others. He condemned his ‘Arcadia,’ in his
more retired judgment, to the fire, which wise men think will continue
to the last conflagration. It was he whom Queen Elizabeth called her
Philip,[i23] the Prince of Orange his master, and whose friendship my
Lord Brooks was so proud of that he would have no other epitaph on his
grave than this:--
‘Here lieth Sir Philip Sidney’s friend.’”
Sir William Temple, in his “Essay on Poetry.”
“The true spirit or vein of ancient poetry, under the name of romance,
seems to shine most in Sir Philip Sidney, whom I esteem both the
greatest poet and the noblest genius of any that have left writings
behind them, and published in ours, or any other modern language. A
person born capable, not only of forming the greatest ideas, but of
leaving the noblest examples, if the length of his life had been equal
to the excellence of his wit and his virtues.”
{xxxviii}
Mr Lee, in his “Dedication of Caesar Borgia.”
_To the Right Honourable Philip, Earl of Pembroke and Montgomery._
“My lord,--Your illustrious forefathers and, indeed, all your eminent
relations, have always been of the first-rate nobility, patrons of wit
and arms, magnificently brave, true old stampt Britons, and ever
foremost in the race of glory. Not to unravel half your honourable
records, I challenge all the men of fame to show an equal to the
immortal Sidney, even when so many contemporary worthies flourished.
I mean Sir Philip, true rival of your honour; one that could match
your spirit; so most extravagantly great that he refused to be a king.
He was at once a Caesar and a Virgil, the leading soldier, and the
foremost poet. All after this must fail: I have paid just veneration
to his name, and, methinks, the spirit of Shakespear pushed the
commendation.”
Mr Philips, in his “Sixth Pastoral.”
“Full fain, O blest Eliza! would I praise
Thy maiden rule, and Albion’s golden days.
Then gentle Sidney liv’d, the shepherd’s friend;
Eternal blessings on his shade attend!”
[SIDNEY’S DEDICATION]
{xxxix}
To
My Dear Lady and Sister,
THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE.
Here now have you (most dear, and most worthy to be most dear lady!)
this idle work of mine, which, I fear, like the spider’s web, will be
thought fitter to be swept away, than worn to any other purpose. For
my part, in very truth (as the cruel fathers among the Greeks were
wont to do to the babes they would not foster), I could well find in
my heart to cast out, in some desert of forgetfulness, this child,
which I am loth to father. But you desired me to do it, and your
desire to my heart is an absolute commandment. Now, it is done only
for you, only to you: if you keep it to yourself, or commend it to
such friends who will weigh errors in the balance of goodwill, I hope,
for the father’s sake, it will be pardoned, perchance, made much of,
though in itself it have deformities. For indeed, for severer eyes it
is not, being but a trifle, and that triflingly handled. Your dear
self can best witness the manner, being done in loose sheets of paper,
most of it in your presence; the rest by sheets sent unto you, as fast
as they were done. In sum, a young head, not so well stayed as I would
it were, and shall be when God will, having many fancies begotten in
it, if it had not been in some way delivered, would have grown a
monster, and more sorry might I be that they came in, than that they
gat out. But this chief safety shall be the not walking abroad; and
his chief protection, the bearing the livery of your name, which, if
much {xl} goodwill do not deceive me, is worthy to be a sanctuary for
a greater offender. This say I, because I know thy virtue so, and this
say I, because it may be ever so, or, to say better, because it will
be ever so. Read it, then, at your idle times, and the follies your
good judgment will find in it blame not, but laugh at. And so, looking
for no better stuff than as in a haberdasher’s shop, glasses, or
feathers, you will continue to love the writer, who doth exceedingly
love you, and most heartily prays you may long live to be a principal
ornament to the family of the Sidneys. Your loving brother,
PHILIP SIDNEY.
ARCADIA