"Since my king commands, I can but obey," answered the knight, simply.

Then the King of mighty France knelt at the feet of the unassuming chevalier,—a picture to the world forever of how that manhood which is without fear and without reproach is above the majesty of kings.

"Sire," said the chevalier—his great heart too full for many words—"may this be as efficacious as if done by Roland or Oliver, Godfrey or Baldwin, his brother. God grant that in battle thou mayest never flee!"

He laid the flat of his sword on the king's strong shoulder; and when he removed the blade, he kissed it reverently, saying—

"Glorious sword, that to-day hath knighted the greatest of kings, I will henceforth employ thee only against the enemies of Christ's name. And thou shalt be kept as a sacred relic and honored above all others."[2]

[Footnote 2: Unfortunately, this blade has been lost; but there is still preserved another sword of Bayard's. It bears the two legends "Soli Deo Gloria" and "Vincere aut Mors."]

Bayard's next service to King Francis was the defeating of an invading army of Germans,—forty thousand strong.

In recognition of this and other great services, the king did all that his jealous nobles could not prevent to show honor to the valiant chevalier. He made Bayard a knight of the king's own order, and gave him command of a hundred picked men-at-arms,—a privilege which belonged only to princes of the blood.

The people of France went wild with enthusiasm over their hero, giving gorgeous fetes in his honor wherever he went; and the French parliament actually sent a deputation of its members to congratulate him upon the services he had rendered the king and the whole people.

Yet these were but empty honors compared to what the noble chevalier deserved. As the astrologer had predicted, Bayard never received the riches and great appointments he so conspicuously merited.

His last undertaking was another expedition into the troublesome Duchy of Milan. During this campaign the Lord of Bonivet, Admiral of France, was in command of the French, and Bayard and many other gallant captains were under him.

The task before them was to subdue Milan, which had, with the aid of Charles V., Emperor of Germany and King of Spain, again thrown off its allegiance to France.

The French encamped before Milan in the little town of Biagras; but it soon developed that they were no match for the powerful army of allied Milanese, Germans, Spaniards, and Venetians. Moreover, their forces were being daily depleted by sickness and desertion. Added to these misfortunes were bad faith and bad generalship on the part of the commander, Bonivet.

Matters in the French camp went from bad to worse, while on the other hand the ranks of the emperor were being continually reinforced.

An attack from the powerful and well-equipped enemy was now daily expected, so the admiral determined that there was nothing to do but retire from his position at Biagras. In the retreat, however, he took the post of danger with Bayard in the rear-guard, between the retiring French and their allied foes.

As Bonivet had feared, the French had no sooner moved out of Biagras than the hitherto passive enemy woke to action and gave pursuit.

It had been rumored in the emperor's army that the wonderful Bayard was in the rear-guard of the French, and this report held the pursuers at a respectful distance for some time.

On the morning of the second day, however, the allies determined to force an engagement; and, supported by heavy artillery, made a furious charge upon the retiring French.

If the allied foes had expected to rout the retreating forces, they must have been sadly disappointed, for the French instantly faced about and met their onset with stubborn valor. The odds were overwhelmingly against the sons of France; but Bayard was among them, and where he was, was always desperate courage.

In the very first of the engagement the Lord of Bonivet was wounded and had to be carried from the field, thus leaving Bayard in command. As he was being borne away, Bonivet said to the chevalier—

"I pray and conjure thee, for the honor and glory of France, to defend the artillery and flags to-day. Thou alone canst save them!"

Bayard had had too much experience not to see that it was then impossible to retrieve what the admiral had lost, but he answered simply—

"Too late! But my life is my country's, and while I live, the flags and the artillery shall not fall into the enemy's hands." That promise was not broken.

Calm and collected in that supreme hour, the peerless knight put forth his all for his beloved France. All that unexampled generalship and courage and fidelity could accomplish in the face of overwhelming odds, he performed that day.

Not content with merely repelling the attacks of the enemy, he charged their advancing columns again and again, and with such fierce onslaughts that each time they were compelled to give back. He had promised for the honor and glory of his country to defend the flags and the artillery that day; and while he lived not a flag was lowered nor a gun lost. But alas for France that day!

Just as the fighting was hottest, and when it seemed that the outnumbered French must break, Bayard once more dashed forward against the foe, as if by sheer force of courage, to wrest victory from inexorable Fate. For one mad, glorious moment he and his company swept irresistibly against the victors; the next, he was struck by a stone from an arquebuse and mortally wounded.

With the cry "Jesus!" he reeled in his saddle. He would have fallen to the ground had not some of his men rushed forward and helped him to dismount. In their anxiety for him, his soldiers would fain have borne him off the field; but Bayard, though dying, was Bayard still, and he said to them—

"It is all over; but I do not wish in my last hour to turn my back to the foe for the first time in my life. Place me beneath yonder tree with my face toward the enemy."

Still did they beg that they might be allowed to bear him beyond danger of capture—for the French had broken before the enemy when Bayard fell. But the knight feebly answered them—

"Let me devote the short space that remains to me to thinking of my sins. I pray you all to leave me for fear that you should be taken. My Lord d'Alegre, commend me to the king, my master, and say to him that my only regret in dying is my inability to render him further service."

As he ceased speaking, a body of Spaniards, under the Marquis of Pescara, arrived where he lay. The gallant Pescara knelt beside his wounded enemy, and with tears in his eyes exclaimed—

"Would to God, Lord Bayard, that I might have taken thee prisoner unhurt! Thou shalt know how much I have always esteemed thy prowess and thy virtues; for since I have held arms, I have never known thy equal!"



The marquis then caused his own tent to be brought and placed for the use of the wounded knight. Then he himself helped to lay Bayard in bed. He smoothed the dying man's pillow, and kissed the hands that had fought so valiantly against him. Pescara then placed a guard around the tent and went himself and fetched a priest to console the dying chevalier.

As Bayard lay thus, there was hardly an officer among the Spanish who did not come to speak kindly to him. Among the distinguished men who visited his bedside was the Constable of Bourbon, who shortly before had deserted the cause of France for a position in the emperor's army. When the constable beheld the expiring knight, he exclaimed—

"Ah, Captain Bayard, how it troubles me to see thee thus! I have always loved and honored thee for thy great valor and wisdom. How I pity thee!"

Bayard looked at him steadily and replied—

"My lord, I thank thee, but thy pity is wasted. I die like an honest man, serving my king. Thou art the man to be pitied, for bearing arms against thy prince, thy country, and thy oath."

A little while longer he talked to them; then, feeling his strength fleeting rapidly, he clasped his hands and prayed aloud—

"My God! my Father! forget my sins; listen only to Thine infinite mercy——Let Thy justice be softened by the merits of the blood of Jesus Christ—"

Death laid a gentle hand upon his lips; and the man who had dealt with his fellow-man without reproach went fearless to his God.



SIR PHILIP SIDNEY

Sidney, thou star of beaming chivalry, That rose and set 'mid valor's peerless day: Rich ornament of knighthood's Milky-way; How much our youth of England owe to thee!

EDWARD MOXON



SIR PHILIP SIDNEY

(1554-1586 A. D.)

When Mary Tudor was Queen of England, and after she had become the wife of Philip II. of Spain, there was born at "Penshurst Place," in the valley of the Medway, the immortal Philip Sidney.

His mother's family were the powerful house of Dudley, and were among the noblest in the land. The Sidneys were of high birth too,—not so exalted as the Dudleys in point of lineage, but of impregnable honor and integrity.

The little Philip's youth was spent under what would seem to have been very happy circumstances. While he was yet only four years of age, Queen Elizabeth came to the throne, and recalled the Sidneys from the social and political exile to which her sister Mary had condemned them.

Philip's father, Sir Henry Sidney, was made Lord Deputy of Ireland, and his mother became lady-in-waiting to the queen. Then, too, they owned the beautiful and historic home, Penshurst Place, and had powerful friends at court.

But there was another side to the picture. The Sidneys were not rich; and holding the high position they did, they were obliged to live in a way they could ill afford. This was bad enough; but, worse still, Philip's affectionate parents were forced to spend many years of their married life apart from each other and from their children. The mother was, for the most part, at Whitehall or at Hampton Court with the queen, and the father in turbulent, rebellious Ireland; while the children were, perforce, left at home in the care of servants.

Though his loving father and mother were rarely at Penshurst, the little Philip lived very happily there with his brothers and sisters.

He soon found other companions too,—companions who fired his young blood and filled his boyish heart with dreams that were forever to haunt him. Under the great trees at Penshurst he lay on the grass, by the hour, and pored over stories of bygone days of chivalry. As he lay thus and read, the present would fade from him, and the past with all its glamour and its romance would steal up about him and claim him for its own. The great trees that clashed their boughs together in the wind became warriors struggling with each other; the blast of a hunting-horn from the forest near by was Roland's call at Roncesvalles, while the echoes that repeated the strain again and again were the answering clarions of Charlemagne. Little delicate Philip Sidney no longer lay on the grass in sunny England; in coat-of-mail and golden spurs he followed the heroes of old,—now with the lion-hearted king at Arsur; now with triumphant Godfrey on the walls of Jerusalem!

But Philip could not always read and dream; in a short time came the reality of school-days and boyish struggles. But though he was called away from the chivalric companionship of the knights of old, the impression made upon his mind by their courage and fortitude and devotion to duty ever after ran, like a thread of gold, through the warp and woof of his character.

During the brief reign of Edward VI., Sir Henry Sidney had been nicknamed "the only odd man and paragon of the court." The same stanch virtues that made him "odd" in Edward's time rendered him a man apart at the fawning, flattering, self-seeking court of Queen Elizabeth.

"Good Queen Bess," as she has been miscalled, cared little for blunt honesty. She was a vain and selfish woman, fond of flattery and capricious in the extreme. She liked the soft speeches and fulsome compliments of such men as the Earl of Leicester far better than she liked the simple sincerity of the honest Sir Henry. Then, too, the queen was avaricious. The condition of Ireland was of less moment to her than the condition of her exchequer; and she was continually at odds with Sir Henry because he spent more money than she thought necessary on the unfortunate people whom she had sent him to rule.

But though the queen had little love for Philip Sidney's father, she was all too partial to his brilliant uncle. The most conspicuous figure at Elizabeth's court for many years was Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. Leicester was own brother to Lady Sidney, but he had few of that lady's noble qualities. He was a courtier of the most ignoble type, being a man who ever sought his own advancement by flattery and cajolery—always ready to "crook the pregnant hinges of the knee, that thrift might follow fawning." For many years Leicester was the avowed lover of the virgin queen, and there was some talk of a secret marriage having been contracted between them, though there was probably no truth in the rumor.

This much is certain, however—the queen favored Leicester in every possible way, showering honor after honor upon him, and giving him great riches.

When young Philip Sidney was not yet seventeen years of age, a dread plague broke out in England and, reaching Oxford University, where he was studying, necessitated the closing of that institution. Philip's education was thus cut short before he had obtained his college degree, but not before he had become one of the most scholarly men of the day.

Shortly after the closing of the university, he was summoned to court to be in attendance on her majesty, and to take a place among the gay company with which she was surrounded. This was considered a marked advancement for him, and, at once, all thought that the queen would specially honor him on account of his being nephew to the prime favorite, Leicester.

The queen did favor Sidney—in her own capricious, selfish way—and he shortly became the youngest darling of the court. He was only seventeen when he took his place among Elizabeth's courtiers, but he was well grown, and was exceedingly talented and handsome.

The power to win stanch and loving friends was inborn in him, and when he left the quiet halls of Oxford for the frivolous court of Queen Elizabeth, there was more than one heart that was anxious for him. The Irish Sea lay between him and his sober, upright father; while the voluptuous and insincere Earl of Leicester was to be his patron, and all the hollow, glittering, pleasure-loving men and women of the court were to be his daily companions. No wonder his friends watched the young courtier's career with anxiety! But time soon showed how truly the young Philip was stanch old Sir Henry's son. As was natural, Sidney loved the brilliant Leicester, and failed to see his uncle's vices as plainly as he might have seen another man's, but he did not make those vices his own. It was natural, too, that he should feel a youthful enjoyment in the gayety and glitter about him, but he somehow kept himself unstained by what lay beneath.

There were two influences at work in the youth which, together, saved him from the follies about him: first, and greater, the nobleness of character which was his by heredity; and, second, the high ideals formed in his boyhood.

Sidney had dreamed of a truth unsullied, of a manhood devoted to high and noble deeds, of a faith that was stronger than death. He waked to find himself, in satin and gold lace, dawdling about a vain and licentious court.

Fortunately for the ambitious youth, a change now took place in his affairs which enabled him to see something of the world, and to pursue his studies further. Before he had been a year at court, he was sent to Paris in the train of the Earl of Lincoln, whose mission it was to arrange a marriage between the English queen and the Duke d'Alencon, brother to King Charles IX. of France.

A clause from Sidney's passport, issued in the queen's name, shows for what purpose her young courtier was sent abroad: "Her truly and well-beloved Philip Sidney, Esquire, licensed to go out of England into parts beyond the seas, with three servants, four horses, and all other requisites, and to remain the space of two years immediately following his departure out of the realm, for his attaining the knowledge of foreign languages."

For reasons of Church and State, Lincoln's mission to France failed, and Sidney was left free to spend the time of his voluntary exile at his own discretion. He wisely chose to remain abroad, and spent nearly three years traveling in France, Germany, and Italy. But these three years were not given up to sight-seeing and social enjoyment. Sidney devoted his time to studying literature, science, music, foreign languages, and the politics of the day.

For two great reasons this last subject was of most vital interest to him: it was the time of a great religious upheaval throughout Europe, and also the time of the ambitious aggressions of Spain under Philip II.

Sidney, an ardent adherent of the Church of England, conceived the idea of championing his beloved faith, even as the knights of old had championed theirs. Then, too, his whole heart was with his native country in her rapid rise to a place of power among the nations of earth, and he recognized Spain as an ever-present menace to her advancement.

His sympathies were especially aroused for the condition of the harassed Netherlands, to the complete subjugation of which Spain was then bending her strongest efforts. Then it was that Sidney's chivalric spirit took fire with hope,—the hope that his beloved England would rise and deliver the oppressed, and that he, her son, would be allowed to be her humble instrument in the great and glorious work.

All that was seething in his fertile brain he wrote from time to time to England; and he kept her statesmen informed of the state of foreign politics in a time when newspapers and telegraph lines had not been dreamed of. All unconsciously, he was making a name for himself in England; and when he returned, at the age of twenty-one, he found that he had established for himself a reputation as politician, statesman, and man of letters.

While abroad, Sidney had been associated with "many men of many minds." He had learned to think and feel deeply on deep subjects, and had formed definite ideals as to a man's proper part in life. He came back to his native land with his young heart filled with hopes that were never to be realized—at least, not in the way that he had conceived. It is true that he was one of a brilliant circle of men who made the England of Elizabeth's time great by the very greatness that was theirs; but the England of Elizabeth's time was not the England of Sidney's hopes, and a courtiership under the virgin queen was the vanity of vanities to his heroic spirit. From that time on, life was a struggle to him—a struggle to live nobly amid a court given over to pleasure; a struggle to revive the spirit of chivalry among men who were already forgetting the very name.

Shortly after Sidney's return from abroad, and while he was in high favor at court, it pleased the queen to make a "royal progress" through a portion of her realm. These "progresses" were journeys through certain parts of the kingdom, broken by visits to favored nobles at their magnificent castles or halls. On these tours, the queen was always brilliantly attended by ladies and gentlemen of her court; and the subjects whom she pleased to visit devised for her the most gorgeous and sumptuous entertainment.

Sidney had the good or bad fortune to be in attendance on her Majesty during this progress, for it was then that he first met and admired little Penelope Devereux. It was while her Majesty and train were stopping to visit the Earl of Essex at Chartley Castle that the meeting between the two young people took place. Lady Penelope, daughter of the Earl of Essex, was then only twelve years of age, but she was a maiden well grown for her years, and extremely beautiful; so it is not to be wondered at that Sidney—so old in worldly wisdom, but so young in years—should have been fascinated by the little maid's grace and beauty. The two frolicked and danced together at Chartley, and though there were no vows of love exchanged between them then, that visit was the beginning of a friendship which was to ripen into the passion of Sidney's life. It was also the beginning of another friendship, and one which proved far happier for Sidney. The Earl of Essex conceived a deep love and admiration for him, and invited him often to Chartley, making him—young though he was—his bosom friend.

Afterwards, when Essex incurred the deep displeasure of Queen Elizabeth, Sidney was one of the few courtiers who dared to show him open friendship,—thus tacitly condemning the action of the queen, who, in truth, was at fault.

During his visits to Chartley Castle, Sidney became more and more in love with the little Penelope; but when he declared his passion, she held him off, like the coquette that she was, while she took pains to spin the web of her fascination more hopelessly about him.

The earl, her father, was always in favor of a marriage between the two; and at his death, which took place in Penelope's fourteenth year, he said of Sidney:—

"Oh, that good gentleman! have me commended unto him. And tell him I send him nothing, but I wish him well,—so well that if God do move their hearts, I wish that he might match with my daughter. I call him son—he is so wise, virtuous, and godly. If he go on in the course he hath begun, he will be as famous and worthy a gentleman as ever England bred."

Two years after Essex's death, his widow was secretly married to Sidney's uncle, the Earl of Leicester. This made a sad change in Philip Sidney's fortunes. As long as Leicester was unmarried and childless, Philip Sidney, as his natural heir, was a man of great prospects and a very desirable match; but Leicester, married, with the probability of children to inherit his titles and wealth, left Sidney only a poor commoner.



With Sidney's prospects ruined by her own marriage, Penelope's mother decided that her daughter should make a more ambitious match, and betrothed her to the powerful and cruel Lord Rich. Too late, the little maid realized the value of the love with which she had been playing. When she could no longer look forward to a match with the noble young Sidney, she waked to the knowledge that her whole heart was bound up in him; and she protested, even at the altar, against the marriage into which her mother was forcing her. "Being in the power of her friends," as the Earl of Devonshire afterwards wrote concerning her, "she was by them married against her will unto one against whom she did protest at the very solemnity and ever after."

His love for Penelope was the supreme passion of Sidney's life. His was a heart too true to change. And as Orpheus gave to his harp his love for the lost Eurydice and charmed all nature into silence, so Philip Sidney, bereft of the woman he loved, poured out his soul in poems that still touch every loving heart.

From politician and courtier, Sidney rose to be one of the most distinguished poets of his day. He wrote many poems which are still considered of high order, but his "Astrophel and Stella," which contains the story of his love for the Lady Penelope, is his most popular work.

Though possessed of all the grace and elegance of an Elizabethan courtier, as well as of a gentle and artistic temperament, Philip Sidney was no weakling. Under the costly trappings of his court finery beat a heart as bold and passionate as King Richard's own.

Throughout all his varied experiences, public and private, he did not once relinquish his double hope of aiding the Netherlands and crippling the overshadowing power of Spain. Still did he implore help for the oppressed. Long did he carry in his heart a picture of the queen—whom he adored in spite of her unworthiness—as the zealous and devoted champion of a great cause. But Elizabeth was no zealot, nor could she be made one. When Sidney at length realized that the queen could not be induced to move in the cause of the Netherlands, he made up his mind to go as a volunteer to the assistance of William, Prince of Orange, ruler of that country.

The idea had to be abandoned, however, for a while; for Sir Henry Sidney—still too honest to please the queen—was again having stormy times with her Majesty, and appealed to his son to assist him in bringing her to a right view of his Irish policy. Sidney espoused his father's cause with his characteristic boldness. Shortly after his arrival at court he was met face to face by the Earl of Ormond,—a bitter enemy to his father, and the man who had traduced Sir Henry to the queen. Ormond approached Sidney with a suave and condescending greeting, but the young courtier only stared at him coldly for a minute, then turned his back squarely on him. As Ormond was one of the peers of the realm, and Philip Sidney but a plain commoner, this was a most daring act. But this was not the limit of his daring. Incensed at the injustice done his father, Sidney indited a most memorable letter to the queen, which was at once a masterly defence of Sir Henry and a trenchant attack on the queen's favorite, Ormond. Strange to say, Queen Elizabeth seemed to be influenced by Sidney's plain and fearless statements, for she sometime thereafter treated his father with more consideration.

But a greater trouble than that in connection with his father's business now stirred the passionate Sidney to the depths. The Duke d'Alencon, who had become the Duke of Anjou, renewed his proposition of marriage to the English queen. Sidney despised the private character of the duke, and he had, besides, come to object to the proposed alliance for deep and patriotic reasons; so he opposed the projected union with all the fearless strength that was his.

As by far the greater number of Elizabeth's advisers approved of the match, and the queen herself inclined to it, Sidney's position soon made him unpopular with both queen and court. Another thing happened about this time that rendered his relations at court exceedingly strained. The Earl of Leicester's secret marriage with the widowed Countess of Essex, a twelvemonth before, now came out in a storm of gossip, and threw the jealous queen into a rage. Leicester was dismissed from court; and Philip Sidney, as his nephew, though not actually exiled from the queen's presence, received treatment at her hands that was far more galling to his proud spirit than would have been dismissal.

Nothing could have been more humiliating to Sidney's highstrung and sensitive temperament than to be kept dangling about a court where the queen turned but cold glances upon him, and where her nobles were permitted to slight him, after the usual manner of courtiers who "kick whom royalty kicks, and hug whom royalty hugs."

Philip Sidney was a most unusual courtier. He had more than once held out a manly hand to one who had come under her Majesty's disfavor, but whom he regarded as stanch and deserving; and he had not failed to condemn where she smiled, if he felt that condemnation was deserved.

With his great patron dismissed from royal favor, and London full of gay French and English courtiers who looked upon him as an enemy, Philip Sidney stood almost alone. Yet was he in no whit daunted, nor did he yield one hair's breadth of the high ground he had taken. His was that finer courage that can dare the whole world for a principle and stand alone upon the right.

As may be imagined, this independence of spirit was most distasteful to the vain and fickle queen; but Sidney's grace and talents and personal beauty rendered him a courtier with whom she was unwilling to dispense. The queen had favored him for these lesser gifts, but the great heart of the English people loved him for the chivalric spirit she valued not, and for the indomitable manliness that would not truckle—not even to the queen.

During this period of her Majesty's displeasure toward him, Sidney was often stung to the quick by petty slights from his fellow-courtiers, but on one occasion the offender went too far. The brutal but powerful Earl of Oxford—head of the party who favored the proposed marriage—had long been a rival of Sidney's in the queen's favor, and there was no love lost between them.

One day at Whitehall, as Philip Sidney and some of his friends were engaged in a game of tennis, the Earl of Oxford entered the court, uninvited, and demanded a part in the game. The presence of a number of French courtiers as lookers-on and listeners led him to assume a tone that was even more arrogant and offensive than was usual with him.

At first, Sidney took no notice of the intrusion; but the studied rudeness becoming unbearable, he at length reproved the offender firmly. At this, Oxford fell into a rage, and ended by ordering the players out of the tennis-court. Sidney met the earl's haughty gaze with one of proud defiance, and answered,—

"If your Lordship had been pleased to express the wish in courteous terms, you would have been met with courtesy, and perchance might have led out those who will not now be driven out with any scourge of fury."

"Puppy!" exclaimed the infuriated earl.

A coarse laugh went up from the spectators, and they immediately began to crowd the tennis-court to see the end of the quarrel. This pleased Oxford much, for he was seeking to make a fine show before them.

Sidney realized that he was surrounded by enemies; but the fact only put him on his mettle, and he demanded, calmly,

"My Lord of Oxford, what is that which you called me?"

"A puppy," repeated the earl, and his followers laughed again.

"That is a lie!" answered Sidney, in tones that rang out clear and sharp.

A bolt from the skies could not have taken his listeners more aback. The spectators looked to see Oxford attack or challenge the slender young courtier who had flung the lie in his teeth; and Sidney himself waited in a fierce quiet for the answer which he, and all present, felt Oxford was bound to make.

The answer did not come. Oxford contented himself with quarreling in a loud voice; but those whom he was trying to impress were not deceived by his bluster, and all present knew that he had proved himself a coward.

When Sidney saw that his opponent was not going to challenge him, he made up his mind to throw down the gauntlet himself, for he was too indignant to let the matter drop without a personal encounter.

"My Lord of Oxford," he said coolly, "this is a business that can be settled better in a more private place." With that, he turned and walked out of the court.

This, of course, was a challenge; and all the next day Sidney looked for the message of acceptance which Oxford was bound, by the code of honor, to send him. At length it became apparent that Oxford was trying to avoid the duel. This, Sidney had no idea of allowing him to do; so he sent a messenger to the earl, asking whether he should hear from him or not, and adding—

"His Lordship's French companions can teach him, if he does not know, what course he ought to take in this affair."

Thus goaded, Oxford sent an acceptance; but before the duel could take place, the lords of the Privy Council forbade it, and besought the queen to effect a reconciliation between the two.

The queen's way of reconciling them was to send for Sidney and scold him roundly. She pointed out to him the difference between peers and commoners and the respect that inferiors owed to superiors, then she commanded him to apologize to the earl.

"That, your Majesty," he answered, steadily, "I cannot do. No peer has, by his rank, privilege to do wrong; and though the Earl of Oxford be a great lord by virtue of his birth and your Majesty's favors, he is no lord over Philip Sidney."

In spite of queen and court and Privy Council, Philip Sidney would not retreat an inch from this position; and Oxford was compelled to take refuge in her Majesty's order, to avoid fighting with the fiery young courtier. Shortly afterwards, the earl sent a messenger—supposed to be Sir Walter Raleigh—with the proposition to Sidney that their disagreement cease. Thus was the coward peer compelled to humble himself to the proud commoner.

Negotiations for the queen's marriage to Anjou progressed favorably for a while, to the deep distress of Sidney. Actuated by his great distrust of Anjou and his equally great dislike to any sort of alliance with France, he at length addressed a letter to the queen, setting forth without reserve his objections to her marriage. He warned her Majesty, in the most unmistakable terms, of the worthlessness and viciousness of her suitor, and ended with a passionate appeal to her not to enter into an alliance which would so surely cripple the advancement of the English Church. But Sidney's letter was not one of reproof and entreaty only. All through its pages could be seen the romantic devotion of subject to sovereign, and the chivalric respect of a man for the woman whom he imagined to be possessed of all feminine virtues.

The "most excellent lady" to whom the letter was indited answered it by flying into a rage and dismissing the writer from court.

This was scarcely punishment to Sidney. He hated the vanities of court life with his whole heart, and when he was thus dismissed, he was as one from whom heavy shackles had been struck. He spent the time of his exile with his beloved sister, the Countess of Pembroke, and while at her home, wrote some of his best poems.

The queen forgave Sidney, all too soon for him, for he had to be persuaded, nay, almost forced back into her silken fetters. The Earl of Leicester was already reinstated in her Majesty's good-will when Sidney came back, with reluctant grace, to be again an ornament of her court.

But he was not an ornament merely. He was soon elected to Parliament, and through his fearless and untiring zeal did much toward making England great.

Sidney was now becoming more and more prominent as a literary man, and was closely associated with Raleigh, Lyly, Hooker, Christopher Marlowe, Sir Francis Bacon, and Edmund Spenser. He was also one of the first to patronize a rising young actor and playwright by the name of Will Shakespeare.

In 1583 Philip Sidney was knighted, and became "Sir Philip Sidney, knight, of Penshurst." This was, however, but a poor acknowledgment of his virtues, his high attainments, and his services to the State. He was appointed by the queen to several minor offices, but he was never given what he merited at her hands—so much for being better and greater than those who have the power to reward.

For some years Sidney's friends had been pressing him to marry, for they felt that it would be an irrevocable loss to England for such a man to die without sons to perpetuate his talents and sterling qualities. But Sidney for a long time turned a deaf ear to their persuasions. He had loved one woman passionately, and she had become the wife of another man. Since that time he had paid devoted attention to none, though he always held the gentler sex in deepest respect.

Considering his natural attractions, and the exalted place he had won for himself among both the writers and the statesmen of the day, it is not to be wondered at that he was much sought after. One chronicle tells us that "many noble ladies ventured as far as modesty would permit to signify their affections for him."

Sidney himself thought it his duty to marry, and in the fall of 1583 took to wife the daughter of his old friend, Sir Francis Walsingham. The queen objected bitterly, being selfish enough to want her courtier's whole attention; but she finally relented. She afterwards stood godmother to Sidney's only child—a daughter—who was named for herself.

Sidney's married life was a very happy one. Frances Walsingham made him a good wife, and he was very tenderly attached to her.

Always jealous for his native country, Sidney now became much aroused by the continued success of Spain in the New World. The then recent discoveries in America, and the consequent advancement of the power of Philip II., were a menace to the political prestige of England. Sidney had been quick to perceive this, and had been stirred to a keen interest in English colonization in the New World. He rightly believed that the surest means of retarding the growth of the power of Spain was to plant in the New World colonies of English-speaking people. Disappointed in his desire to join in the warfare in the Netherlands against King Philip, he conceived a great scheme for crippling that monarch's power in America and on the high seas, and he threw himself into the project with his whole heart.

It is interesting to know that in his colonization schemes Sidney was intimately associated with such men as Martin Frobisher, Sir Humphrey Gilbert, Sir Walter Raleigh, and Sir Francis Drake.

His connection with Sir Francis Drake came near involving him in serious trouble, but ultimately ended by procuring him the commission he had so long desired. Tired of a life of inactivity, anxious to foil the Spanish in the New World, and sick to death of the busy idleness of the court, Sidney at length determined to go with Drake to a new world and a new career. Accordingly, he made ready, and actually went as far as Plymouth, where he was to take ship, when he was overtaken by a messenger bearing "grace in one hand and thunder in the other," and the queen's command that he return to court.

The grace was that he was to have his long-desired commission in the Netherlands, if he would but return. Her Majesty had evidently learned that she would have to compromise with her spirited subject.

Sidney did return, and received the commission promised. The queen signed a patent making him governor of Flushing and Rammekins in the Netherlands. Leicester she made commander-in-chief of the forces she had at last agreed to send to the aid of the oppressed Dutch.

Sidney was not one-and-thirty years of age when he received his appointment. He went into the project with all the fire of his youth and chivalry. At last he was free from court fetters; at last he could play a man's part in life. All the dreams of his boyhood now waked again. No mimic warfare of joust and tournament for him now! With naked sword he was to face the enemies of a weak and oppressed people.

When Sidney landed at Flushing, he had yet to learn that war demands more courage than is needed in merely facing the foe—the courage to endure delays, hardships, injustice, and all the cruel accompaniments of a campaign. He learned his lesson well and shortly, for when he was weighed in the balance, he was not found wanting in a single quality that belongs to the hero.

Flushing, which had been assigned to English control, was at the mouth of the Scheldt River, and on the opposite bank stood the Castle of Rammekins. These were important points, as they commanded the entrance from the sea. The people of the town hailed Sidney as a deliverer and protector, for they were worn with the long struggle against the Spanish, and were wellnigh disheartened. The defences of the place were in wretched condition, and the town itself in a most unhealthy state, so Sir Philip set to work at once to put the place in a more sanitary condition and to strengthen its fortifications.

Shortly after Sidney had begun to get ready for real war, his uncle, the Earl of Leicester, arrived in the Netherlands with the main body of the troops sent by her Majesty, and made a spectacular tour through several leading cities. He took up his position at the Hague, where he immediately began to live in almost royal state, spending the funds sent from England, wasting the resources of the people he had ostensibly come to help, and making no move against the Spanish, who were daily gaining ground.

If Sidney had hoped that, in changing her mind about assisting the Netherlands, Queen Elizabeth had changed some of her personal characteristics too, he was very quickly undeceived. The supply of men and money sent by her Majesty was entirely inadequate to existing necessities; and having shipped her small quota of troops, the queen apparently washed her hands of them.

With his superior officer, Leicester, wasting time and the resources of the troops, in dissipation, and the queen careless of their straits, Sidney was reduced almost to despair. Yet if he had come to hope little, he worked as if the whole responsibility of the cause rested on his shoulders. He not only put the places of his own command in as good condition as was possible, but he went from one city to another, assisting and advising. He made journey after journey to the Hague to rouse Leicester to a more active policy, and at one time went even into Germany to implore help for the wretched country. All this time he was writing to Leicester, to the queen, to her advisers, the most passionate letters. He set forth the condition of affairs in language that stripped truth of all dissembling, and implored her Majesty and her officers to let him do the work for which he had been sent. Like the king of the forest in the narrow confines of a cage, Sidney's fierce soul raged against the orders that kept his sword idle while the Spanish were wasting the land. There is not a more pathetically tragic figure in history than that of the heroic Sidney in the power of the unworthy Queen of England and of the doubly unworthy Earl of Leicester.

More than a year was wasted by the luxurious earl, Sidney the while chafing at his idleness, and the Spanish gaining post after post. Time and again, Sidney pleaded with Leicester to give him adequate troops and leave to act, but the troops were not given; and when, on his own responsibility, Sidney undertook to besiege Steenbergen, he was forbidden to prosecute the plan.

It was not until he had spent nearly two years of hard work and discouragement in the Netherlands that Sir Philip was at last allowed to proceed against the enemy in active warfare.

A most unwilling permission being wrung from Leicester, Sidney joined forces with Lord Willoughby and Count Maurice and proceeded against the town of Axel, which was then in the hands of the Spaniards.

A moonless night was chosen for the expedition, and the advance was made stealthily and swiftly. While the attacking forces approached the sleeping town, Sir Philip spoke so earnestly to the men that one who was with him afterwards said, "he did so link our minds that we did desire rather to die in that service than to live in the contrary."

Axel was surrounded by a wall and a moat, and was regarded as impregnable to all save overwhelming forces; but Sidney depended more on the spirit of his men than on mere numbers, and he pressed hardily forward. When the moat was reached, he plunged boldly in, and was soon followed by some fifty others. A few moments more, and they had gained the opposite bank and were scaling, as best they could, the wall of Axel. A little while of breathless suspense, and then their dark forms were outlined against the sky on the top of the wall, only to disappear quickly on the other side. Presently there were cries of surprise and terror and sounds of sharp fighting, then the drawbridge was lowered and the great gate opened to admit the crush of men who rushed to the assistance of Sir Philip and his valiant little band.

The scene inside told its own story. Sir Philip had surprised and slain the guard and opened the gate to his men. Instantly the startled city flew to arms, but it was too late. Over half the twelve hundred men who garrisoned the town were put to the sword, a great quantity of riches was captured, and a large amount of property destroyed. Besides this, four neighboring citadels were attacked and forced to surrender. Sir Philip then garrisoned the town with English soldiers, and cut the dikes, flooding a vast tract of country to hamper the movements of the Spanish.

When it was all over, Leicester wrote proudly to the queen, "My nephew, Sidney, is to be thanked for the bravest deed yet done by the English in the Low Countries."

But stanch old Sir Henry died a few weeks before his "darling Philip" thus won his first laurels in war, and Lady Sidney passed away shortly after the news of her boy's heroism reached her.

One would think that the knowledge of that heroism would have touched the fickle queen to do, at least, simple justice to the young officer who had stormed Axel; but unfortunately it did not. Not only could Sidney not persuade her Majesty to give him the necessary troops and money for better defences, but he could not move her to pay the wretched soldiers their hire. The wages of his men were already months in arrears, and the soldiers were daily threatening mutiny. So the time dragged on, and nothing of importance was accomplished for several more weary months.

Leicester had had as little patience with his nephew as the queen herself, "bearing a hand over him as a forward young man;" but after Sidney proved his sword at Axel, his uncle treated him with more respect, and was at last brought to take counsel of him.

A few months after Sidney's capture of Axel, Leicester reviewed her Majesty's troops at Arnhem; and it was then that Sir Philip at last persuaded him to strike a decisive blow at the Spanish. Having actually obtained his uncle's permission to fight, Sidney lost no time in unsheathing his sword. Five days after the review at Arnhem, he and his brother Robert and the young Earl of Essex, with a small force, stormed and carried the fortress of Doesburg, each one of the three fighting brilliantly.

The Earl of Essex was son to Sir Philip's old friend, and brother to Penelope Devereux, and was that Essex whom Elizabeth caused to be beheaded some years after.

As another result of Sidney's importunities, Leicester laid siege to Zutphen, which was a very important post, and the strongest city in Gelderland. A week was spent in throwing up intrenchments about the city and making ready for an attack. Sidney, together with the Count of Nassau and Sir John Norris, was put in command of a body of cavalry and directed to hold Gilbert Hill,—a rise of ground less than a mile from the east gate of Zutphen.

When the English were nearly ready to attack, news was brought to Leicester that large quantities of provisions were being transported to the besieged city by the Spanish, and that an attempt would be made to smuggle them in.

On receipt of the news, Leicester ordered Sir John Norris and Sir William Stanley to take five hundred men and cut off the convoys as they approached.

Sir Philip was not included in the commission, but he was so eager to act that he joined Norris and Stanley of his own accord. He was fully armed as he rode up to the troops, but meeting one of his friends without leg-armour, he rashly cast off his own cuisses, that he might run equal risk.

The Spanish convoys were expected to arrive in the night, but a gray, foggy morning dawned before the tramp of their horses' feet was heard. Nearer and nearer it came to the waiting five hundred,—when suddenly the fog lifted and the little band of English found themselves face to face with a splendidly equipped Spanish force of over five times their own number. They had not dreamed that the wagon-train would be so accompanied.

The sun rose clear—fatally clear for that gallant little band of Britons. The guns of the city were trained on them; they were in easy shot of the Spanish in front and the Spanish behind—surprised, tricked, surrounded. And there was no mist to puzzle the enemy's terrible aim! But English chivalry stood the test that day, and English swords rang true.

Young Essex, a boy of twenty, made the first dash, crying to his men as he went,

"For the honor of England, good fellows, follow me!" They followed him, and for a while, at least, beat back the enemy with their curtle-axes. Lord Willoughby, and many another gallant cavalier, carved his way to fame that day.

But Sidney was the hero of Zutphen—Sidney "of the delicate form and golden hair." One might almost fancy him the matchless Bayard come again, or the very incarnate spirit of battle, so splendidly did his genius and courage rise in the storm of carnage. None might hope to equal him or match his many deeds that day. Once, seeing Willoughby surrounded and far over among the enemy, Sidney, with a few followers, fought through to him and accomplished his rescue. Twice he charged the Spanish, pressing them back and hacking them down in his path.

At the crisis of the second charge, his horse was shot under him; but he quickly mounted another. Then in one last glorious dash, he cut his way straight through the Spanish masses, and he did not stop while there was a foe to be beaten out of his path. But when he had blazed his solitary way entirely through the ranks of the enemy, and was faced with empty trenches beyond, he turned his horse to press back again. As he wheeled back, a musket-ball struck him in the thigh and gave him a mortal wound. The horse he was riding was not trained to battle, and, taking fright at the din about him, became utterly unmanageable to Sidney's weakening grasp. The terror-stricken animal struggled out of the press and dashed, with his almost fainting rider, back to Leicester's distant camp.

As some of the soldiers rushed to him to help him down, Sidney was seized with the terrible thirst of the wounded, and begged for a drink of water. He was about to press the flagon to his parched lips when he saw the eyes of a wounded foot-soldier turned agonizingly toward it. Without tasting it, he at once handed it to the dying man, with the words,—

"Thy necessity is greater than mine."

But Sidney's necessity was great—so great that the skill of man could not avail to save him; and after a long, agonizing illness, he expired at Arnhem in the arms of his heart-broken wife.

So lived and died Sir Philip Sidney, the last and most perfect flower of knighthood,—failing in his efforts to revive the old passing chivalry, but, all unconsciously, achieving more than his cherished ideal in teaching men how to live and die nobly in the changed order of things.



SIDNEY IN TOURNAMENT

Call back the gorgeous past! The lists are set, the trumpets sound, Bright eyes, sweet judges, throned around; And stately on the glittering ground The old chivalric life! "Forward!" The signal word is given; Beneath the shock the greensward shakes; The lusty cheer, the gleaming spear, The snow-plume's falling flakes, The fiery joy of strife! Thus, when, from out a changeful heaven O'er waves in eddying tumult driven A stormy smile is cast, Alike the gladsome anger takes The sunshine and the blast! Who is the victor of the day? Thou of the delicate form, and golden hair, And manhood glorious in its midst of May; Thou who upon thy shield of argent bearest The bold device, "The loftiest is the fairest!" As bending low thy stainless crest, "The vestal throned by the west" Accords the old Provencal crown Which blends her own with thy renown; Arcadian Sidney, nursling of the muse, Flower of fair chivalry, whose bloom was fed With daintiest Castaly's most silver dews, Alas! how soon thy amaranth leaves were shed; Born, what the Ausonian minstrel dream'd to be, Time's knightly epic pass'd from earth with thee!

EDWARD BULWER LYTTON

"The knight's bones are dust, And his good sword rust; His soul is with the saints, I trust."

THE END