A Group of Great Names.

“When it shall please God to bring thee to man’s estate”—he says—“use great Providence, and circumspection in choosing thy wife: For from thence will spring all thy future good and evil. And it is an action of life—like unto a stratagem of War, wherein a man can err but once. If thy estate be good, match near home and at leisure: if weak—far off, and quickly. Inquire diligently of her disposition, and how her parents have been inclined in their youth. Choose not a base, and uncomely creature, altogether for Wealth; for it will cause contempt in others, and loathing in thee: Neither make choice of a fool, for she will be thy continual disgrace, and it will irk thee to hear her talk.”

But the greater names which went to illustrate with their splendor the times of Elizabeth, only began to come to people’s knowledge after she had been upon the throne some twenty years.

Spenser was a boy of five, when she came to power: John Lilly, the author ofEuphueswhich has given us the wordeuphuistic, and which provoked abundant caricatures, of more or less fairness—was born the same year with Spenser; Sir Philip Sidney a year later; Sir Walter Raleigh a year earlier (1553); Richard Hooker, the author of theEcclesiastical Polity, in 1554; Lord Bacon in 1561; Shakespeare in 1564. These are great names to stand so thickly strewed over ten or twelve years of time. I do not name them, because I lay great stress on special dates: For my own part, I find them hard things to keep in mind—except I group them thus—and I think a man or woman can work and worry at worthier particularities than these. But when Elizabeth had been twenty years a Queen, and was in the prime of her womanly powers—six years after the slaughter ofSt. Bartholomew—when the first English colony had just been planted in Virginia, and Sir Francis Drake was coasting up and down the shores of California; when Shakespeare was but a lad of fourteen, and poaching (if he ever did poach there—which is doubtful) in Charlecote Park; when Francis Bacon was seventeen, and was studying in Paris—Philip Sidney was twenty-four; in the ripeness of his young manhood, and just returned from Holland, he was making love—vainly as it proved—to the famous and the ill-fated Penelope Devereaux.

Richard Hooker—of the same age, was teaching Hebrew in the University of Oxford, and had not yet made that unfortunate London marriage (tho’ very near it) by which he was yoked with one whom old Izaak Walton—charitable as the old angler was—describes as a silly, clownish woman, and withal a perfect Xantippe.

The circumstances which led to this awkward marriage show so well the child-like simplicity of this excellent man, that they are worth noting. He had come up to London, and was housed where preachers were wont to go; and it beingfoul weather, and he thoroughly wetted, was behoven to the hostess for dry clothes, and such other attentions as made him look upon her as a special Providence, who could advise and care for him in all things: So, he accepted her proffer to him of her own daughter, who proved to him quite another sort of Providence, and a grievous thorn in the side; and when his friends, on visits to his homestead in after years, found the author of theEcclesiastical Polity—rocking the cradle, or minding the sheep, or looking after the kettles, and expressed sympathy—“My dear fellows,” said he—“if Saints have usually a double share in the miseries of this Life, I, that am none, ought not to repine at what my Wise Creator hath appointed for me, but labor (as indeed I do daily) to submit mine to his will and possess my soul in patience and peace.”

I don’t know if any of our parish will care to read theEcclesiastical Polity; but if you have courage thereto, you will find in this old master of sound and cumbrous English prose, passages of rare eloquence, and many turns of expression, which for their winning grace, their aptitude, their quality offastening themselves upon the mind, are not overmatched by those of any Elizabethan writer. His theology is old and rankly conservative; but he shows throughout a beautiful reverence for that all-embracing Law, “whose seat (as he says) is the Bosom of God, and whose voice is the Harmony of the World.”[91]

As for Edmund Spenser, he was a year older at this date—twenty-five: he had taken his master’s degree at Cambridge and had just returned to London from a visit to the North of England, where he had encountered some fair damsel to whom he had been paying weary and vain suit, and whom he had embalmed in hisShepherd’s Calendar(just then being made ready for the press) under the name of Rosalind.

“Ah, faithless Rosalind, and voyd of grace,That art the root of all this ruthful woe[My] teares would make the hardest flint to flow;”

“Ah, faithless Rosalind, and voyd of grace,

That art the root of all this ruthful woe

[My] teares would make the hardest flint to flow;”

and his tears keep a-drip through a great many of those charming eclogues—called theShepherd’s Calendar. Some of the commentators on Spenser have queried—gravely—whether he ever forgot this Rosalind; and whether the occurrence of the name and certain woe-worn words in some madrigal of later years did not show a wound unhealed and bleeding. We are all at liberty to guess, and I am inclined to doubt here. I think he was equal to forgetting this Rosalind before the ink of theShepherd’s Calendarwas fairly dry. He loved dreams and fed on dreams; and I suspect enjoyed the dream of his woe more than he ever suffered from a sting of rebuff.

Indeed, much as we must all admire his poetic fervor and fancies, I do not find in him traces of heroic mould;—easily friendly rather than firmly so;—full of an effusive piety, but not coming in way of martyrdom for faith’s sake;—a tenderly contemplative man, loving and sensing beauty in the same sure and abounding way in which Turner has sense of color—exhaustless in his stock of brilliant and ingenious imagery—running to similes as mountain rills run to rivers; a courtier withal—honeyedand sometimes fulsome; a richly presentable man (if portraits may be trusted), with a well-trimmed face, a cautious face—dare I say—almost a smirking face;—the face of a self-contained man who thinks allowably well of his parts, and is determined to make the most of them. And in the brows over the fine eyes there is a bulging out—where phrenologists place the bump of language—that shows where his forte lies: No such word-master had been heard to sing since the days when Chaucer sung. He is deeply read in Chaucer too; and read in all—worth reading—who came between. His lingual aptitudes are amazing. He can tear words in tatters, and he can string them rhythmically in all shapes; he makes his own law in language, as he grows heated in his work; twists old phrases out of shape; makes new ones; binds them together; tosses them as he will to the changing level of his thought: so that whereas one may go to Chaucer, in points of language, as to an authority—one goes to Spenser as to a mine of graceful and euphonious phrases: but the authority is wanting—or, at least, is not so safe. He makes uses for words which no analogy and no good order canrecognize. And his new words are not so much the product of keen, shrewd search after what will fullest and strongest express a feeling or a thought, or give color to epithet, as they are the luxuriant outcropping of a tropical genius for language, which delights in abundant forms, and makes them with an easy show of its own fecundity, or for the chance purpose of filling a line, or meting out the bounds of an orderly prosody.

He came up to London, as I said, about the year 1578, at the invitation of a prig of a classmate, who makes him known to Philip Sidney: Sidney is the very man to recognize and appreciate the tender beauty of those woful plaints in theShepherd’s Calendar, and invites the poet down to Penshurst, that charming home of the Sidneys, in Kent. There, such interest is made for him that he is appointed to a secretaryship in Ireland, where the Queen’s lieutenants are stamping out revolt. Spenser sees much of this fiery work; and its blaze reddens some of the pages of theFaery Queen. In the distribution of spoils, after the Irish revolt was put down, the poet has bestowed upon him, amongst other plums, some three thousand acres of wild land,with Kilcolman Castle, which stands upon a valley spur of this domain. This castle is represented as an uninteresting fortress—like Johnnie Armstrong’s tower in Scotland—upon the borders of a small lake or mere, and the landscape—stretching in unlovely waste around it—savage and low and tame. Yet he finds rich rural pictures there—this idealist and dreamer: let him see only so much of sky as comes between the roofs of a city alley, and he will pluck out of it a multitude of twinkling stars; let him look upon a rood square of brown grass-land, and he will set it alight with scores of daisies and of primroses.

And it is in this easy way he plants the men and women, the hags and demons, the wizards and dragons that figure in the phantasmagoria of theFaery Queen; they come and go like twilight shadows; they have no root of realism.

There is reason to believe that the first cantos of this poem were blocked out in his mind before leaving England; perhaps the scheme had been talked over with his friend Sidney; in any event, itis quite certain that they underwent elaboration at Kilcolman Castle, and some portions doubtless took color from the dreary days of rapine and of war he saw there. I will not ask if you have read theFaery Queen: I fear that a great many dishonest speeches are made on that score; I am afraid that I equivocated myself in youngish days; but now I will be honest in saying—I never read it through continuously and of set purpose; I have tried it—on winter nights, and gone to sleep in my chair: I have tried it, under trees in summer, and have gone to sleep on the turf: I have tried it, in the first blush of a spring morning, and have gone—to breakfast.

Yet there are many who enjoy it intensely and continuously: Mr. Saintsbury says, courageously, that it is the only long poem he honestly wishes were longer. It is certainly full of idealism; it is full of sweet fancies; it is rich in dragonly horrors; it is crammed with exquisite harmonies. But—its tenderer heroines are so shadowy, you cannot bind them to your heart; nay, you can scarce follow them with your eyes: Now, you catch a strain which seems to carry a sweet womanly image of flesh andblood—of heartiness and warmth. But—at the turning of a page—his wealth of words so enwraps her in glowing epithets, that she fades on your vision to a mere iridescence and a creature of Cloud-land.

“Her face so faire, as flesh it seemèd not,But Heavenly Portrait of bright angels hew,Clear as the skye, withouten blame or blotThro’ goodly mixture of Complexion’s dew!And in her cheeks, the Vermeil red did shew,Like Roses in a bed of Lillies shed,The which ambrosial odors from them threw,And gazers sense, with double pleasure fed,Hable to heal the sick, and to revive the dead!“In her faire eyes two living lamps did flameKindled above at the Heavenly Makers Light,And darted fiery beams out of the sameSo passing persant and so wondrous bright,That quite bereaved the rash beholders sight.In them the blinded God—his lustful fireTo kindle—oft assay’d, but had no might,For with dred Majesty, and awful ireShe broke his wanton darts, and quenchèd base desire!“Upon her eyelids many Graces sateUnder the shadow of her even brows,Working Belgardes and amorous Retrate,And everie one her with a grace endows,And everie one, with meekness to her bowes;So glorious mirror of Celestial GraceAnd soveraigne moniment of mortal vowes,How shall frail pen describe her Heavenly faceFor feare—thro’ want of skill, her beauty to disgrace?“So faire, and thousand times more faireShe seem’d—when she, presented was, to sight.And was y-clad, for heat of scorching aireAll in a silkenCamus, lilly white,Purfled upon, with many a folded plightWhich all above besprinkled was throughoutWith golden Aygulets, that glistered brightLike twinckling starres, and all the skirt aboutWas hemmed with golden fringe, …”

“Her face so faire, as flesh it seemèd not,

But Heavenly Portrait of bright angels hew,

Clear as the skye, withouten blame or blot

Thro’ goodly mixture of Complexion’s dew!

And in her cheeks, the Vermeil red did shew,

Like Roses in a bed of Lillies shed,

The which ambrosial odors from them threw,

And gazers sense, with double pleasure fed,

Hable to heal the sick, and to revive the dead!

“In her faire eyes two living lamps did flameKindled above at the Heavenly Makers Light,And darted fiery beams out of the sameSo passing persant and so wondrous bright,That quite bereaved the rash beholders sight.In them the blinded God—his lustful fireTo kindle—oft assay’d, but had no might,For with dred Majesty, and awful ireShe broke his wanton darts, and quenchèd base desire!

“In her faire eyes two living lamps did flame

Kindled above at the Heavenly Makers Light,

And darted fiery beams out of the same

So passing persant and so wondrous bright,

That quite bereaved the rash beholders sight.

In them the blinded God—his lustful fire

To kindle—oft assay’d, but had no might,

For with dred Majesty, and awful ire

She broke his wanton darts, and quenchèd base desire!

“Upon her eyelids many Graces sateUnder the shadow of her even brows,Working Belgardes and amorous Retrate,And everie one her with a grace endows,And everie one, with meekness to her bowes;So glorious mirror of Celestial GraceAnd soveraigne moniment of mortal vowes,How shall frail pen describe her Heavenly faceFor feare—thro’ want of skill, her beauty to disgrace?

“Upon her eyelids many Graces sate

Under the shadow of her even brows,

Working Belgardes and amorous Retrate,

And everie one her with a grace endows,

And everie one, with meekness to her bowes;

So glorious mirror of Celestial Grace

And soveraigne moniment of mortal vowes,

How shall frail pen describe her Heavenly face

For feare—thro’ want of skill, her beauty to disgrace?

“So faire, and thousand times more faireShe seem’d—when she, presented was, to sight.And was y-clad, for heat of scorching aireAll in a silkenCamus, lilly white,Purfled upon, with many a folded plightWhich all above besprinkled was throughoutWith golden Aygulets, that glistered brightLike twinckling starres, and all the skirt aboutWas hemmed with golden fringe, …”

“So faire, and thousand times more faire

She seem’d—when she, presented was, to sight.

And was y-clad, for heat of scorching aire

All in a silkenCamus, lilly white,

Purfled upon, with many a folded plight

Which all above besprinkled was throughout

With golden Aygulets, that glistered bright

Like twinckling starres, and all the skirt about

Was hemmed with golden fringe, …”

and so on, by dozens, by scores, by hundreds—delicate, mellifluous stanzas—fair ladies and brazen-scaled dragons, lions and fleecy lambs, sweet purling brooks and horrors of Pandemonium, story grafted upon story, and dreams grafted upon these, and still flowing on—canto after canto—until the worldlings are tempted to exclaim, “When will he stop?” It is an exclamation that a good many lesser men than Spenser have tempted—in class-rooms, in lecture-rooms, and in pulpits. And I am wicked enough to think that if a third had been shorn away by the poet from that over-fulland over-epitheted poem of theFaery Queen, it would have reached farther, and come nearer to more minds and hearts. But who—save the master—shall ever put the shears into that dainty broidery where gorgeous flowers lie enmeshed in page-long tangles, and where wanton tendrils of words enlace and tie together whole platoons of verse?

In brief, the Poem is a great, cumbrous, beautiful, bewildering, meandering Allegory, in which he assigns to every Virtue a Knight to be ensampler and defender of the same, and puts these Knights to battle with all the vices represented by elfin hags, or scaled dragons, or beautiful women; and so the battles rage and the storms beat. But we lose sight of his moral in the smoke of the conflict. The skeleton of his ethics is overlaid with the wallets of fair flesh, and with splendid trappings; his abounding figures gallop away with the logic; his roses cumber all his corn-ground. There are no passages of condensed meaning, or of wondrous intuition that give one pause, and that stick by us like a burr. There is a symphonious clatter of hammers upon golden-headed tacks, butno such pounding blow as drives a big nail home.

All this is the criticism of a matter-of-fact man, who perhaps has no right of utterance—as if one without knowledge of music should criticise its cumulated triumphs. Many a man can enjoy a burst of balladry—of little vagrant songs—who is crushed and bored by the pretty tangles and symphonies of an opera. Spenser was poets’ poet—not people’s poet; hardly can be till people are steeped in that refinement, that poetic sensibility, which only poets are supposed to possess. And I am rather unpleasantly conscious that I may offend intense lovers of this great singer by such mention of him: painfully conscious, too, that it may have its source (as Saintsbury assures us must be the case) in a poetic inaptitude to give largest and adequate relish to the tender harmonies and the mythical reaches of his sweetly burdened song. But shall I not be honest?

Yet Spenser is never ribald, never vulgar, rarely indelicate, even measured by modern standards: He always has a welcoming word for honesty, and for bravery, and, I think, the welcomest word ofall for Love, which he counts, as so many young people do, the chiefest duty of man.

Once upon a time, there comes to see Spenser in his Kilcolman home—that daring adventurer, that roving knight, Sir Walter Raleigh—who is so well taught, so elegant, so brave that he can make the bright eyes even of Queen Bess twinkle again, with the courtliness of his adulation; he comes, I say, to see Spenser;—for he too has a grant of some forty thousand acres carved out of that ever-wretched and misgoverned Ireland: and Spenser, to entertain his friend, reads somewhat of theFaery Queene(not more than one canto I suspect), and Sir Walter locks arms with the poet, and carries him off to London, and presents him to the Queen; and Spenser weaves subtle, honeyed flattery for this greatGloriana; and his book is printed; and the Queen smiles on him, and gives him her jewelled hand to kiss, and a pension of £50 a year, which the stout old Burleigh thinks too much; and which Spenser, and poets all, think too beggarly small. There are little poems that come after this, commemorating this trip to Court, and Raleigh’s hobnobbing with him—

“Amongst the coolly shadeOf the green alders, by the Mulla’s shore[Where]—he piped—I sung—And when he sung, I piped,By chaunge of tunes, each making other merry.”

“Amongst the coolly shade

Of the green alders, by the Mulla’s shore

[Where]—he piped—I sung—

And when he sung, I piped,

By chaunge of tunes, each making other merry.”

Spenser has found, too, a newRosalindover amid the wilds of Ireland, to whom he addresses a cluster of gushingAmoretti; and she becomes eventually his bride, and calls out what seems to me that charmingest of all his poems—theEpithalamium. You will excuse my reciting a tender little lovely picture from it:—

“Behold, whiles she before the Altar standsHearing the Holy Priest that to her speaks,And blesseth her with his two happy hands.How the red roses flush up in her cheeks,And the pure snow, with goodly vermeil stainLike crimson dyed in grain:That even the Angels, which continuallyAbout the sacred altar do remain,Forget the service, and about her fly,Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair,The more they on it stare—But her sad eyes still fastened on the ground,Are governèd with goodly modesty,That suffers not one look to glance awry,Which may let in a little thought unsound.Why blush ye, Love, to give to me your hand?The pledge of all our band?Sing, ye Sweet Angels, Allelujah sing!That all the woods may answer, and your echos ring!”

“Behold, whiles she before the Altar stands

Hearing the Holy Priest that to her speaks,

And blesseth her with his two happy hands.

How the red roses flush up in her cheeks,

And the pure snow, with goodly vermeil stain

Like crimson dyed in grain:

That even the Angels, which continually

About the sacred altar do remain,

Forget the service, and about her fly,

Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair,

The more they on it stare—

But her sad eyes still fastened on the ground,

Are governèd with goodly modesty,

That suffers not one look to glance awry,

Which may let in a little thought unsound.

Why blush ye, Love, to give to me your hand?

The pledge of all our band?

Sing, ye Sweet Angels, Allelujah sing!

That all the woods may answer, and your echos ring!”

To my mind the gracious humanity—the exquisite naturalness of this is worth an ocean of cloying prettinesses aboutGlorianaandBritomart. Not very many years after this—just how many we cannot say—comes the great tragedy of his life: A new Irish rebellion (that of Tyrone) sends up its tide of fire and blood around his home of Kilcolman; his crops, his barns, his cattle, his poor babe[92]—the last born—all are smothered, and consumed away in that fiery wrack and ruin. He makes his way broken-hearted to London again; his old welcome as an adulator of the Queen is at an end; Raleigh is not actively helpful; Sidney is dead; he has some cheap lodging almost under the shadow of Westminster: He is sick, maimed in body and in soul; other accounts—not yet wholly discredited—representhim as miserably poor; bread, even, hard to come by; my Lord of Essex—a new patron—sends him a few guineas; and the poor poet murmurs—too late—too late!—and so he dies (1599). How glad we should have been to help him, had we been living in that time, and all this tale of suffering had been true;—so we think: and yet, ten to one we should have said—“Poor fellow, what a pity!”—and buttoned up our pockets, as we do now.

Meantime what has become of that Philip Sidney[93]who flashed upon us under the eyes of Elizabeth at the age of twenty-four? You know him as the chivalric soldier and the model gentleman. Students and young people all, who are under the glamour of youthful enthusiasms, are apt to have a great fondness for Philip Sidney: But if any of my young readers chance to be projecting an essay about that courteous gentleman—and I know they will, if they have not already—I would counsel them to forego any mention of the story about the dying soldierand the cup of water. It has been cruelly overworked already. Indeed it might have been matched in scores of cases upon the battle-fields of our own war: When the last shattering blow comes to our poor humanity, the better nature in us does somehow lean kindly out, in glance and in purpose. Yet Philip Sidney was certainly a man of great kindness and full of amiabilities and courtesies.

Why, pray, should he not have been? Consider that in all his young life he was wrapped in purple. It is no bad thing in any day to be born eldest son of an old and wealthy and titled family of England; but it is something more to be born eldest son of a Sidney—nephew to Leicester, prime favorite of the Queen, cousin to the Northumberlands, the Sutherlands, the Warwicks—heir to that old baronial pile of Penshurst, toward which summer loiterers go now, every year, from far-away countries—to admire its red roofs—its gray walls curtained with ivy—its tall chimneys, that have smoked with the goodly hospitalities of centuries—its charming wood-walks, that Ben Jonson and Spenser and Massinger have known—its courts and parterres and terraces, where “Sidney’s sister,Pembroke’s mother,” gathered posies—its far-reaching lovely landscape, with Penshurst church cropping out near by—blue, hazy heights off by Tunbridge—lanes bowered with hedge-rows—wide-lying wavy, grain-fields, and sheep feeding in the hollows of the hills. He was born heir to all this, I say, and had the best masters, the tenderest and the worthiest of mothers—who writes to him in this style,

“Your noble Father hath taken pains, with his own hand, to give you in this—His Letter—so wise precepts for you to follow with a diligent mind, as I will not withdraw your eyes from beholding, and reverent honoring the same—no, not so long a time as to read any letter from me: Wherefor—I only bless you—with my desire to God to plant in you his grace, and have always before your mind the excellent councils of my Lord, your dear Father: Farewell, my little Philip; and, once again, the Lord bless you!“Your loving mother,“Marie Sidney.”

“Your loving mother,

“Marie Sidney.”

Ought not a boy, with such a mother, and Penshurst in prospect, and cousinly relations with the Talbots and Howards and Stanleys to be gentlemanly and amiable? Then—his great-uncle—Leicester (who is Chancellor of the University)writes up to Oxford, where young Sidney is reading for his degree—“Pray have my boy, Philip Sidney, who is delicate, excused from fasting during Lent.” And there is a plot afoot to marry this young Oxford man to Anne, daughter of that Lord Burleigh I told you of, and there are letters about the negotiation still extant. Would you like to hear how Lord Burleigh discusses his daughter’s affairs?

“I have been pressed,” he says, “with kind offers of my lord of Leicester, and have accorded with him, upon articles (by a manner of A. B. C.) without naming persons—that—if P. S. and A. C. hereafter shall like to marry, then shall H. S. (father of P. S.) make assurances, etc., and W. C. [that’s Lord Burleigh] father of A. C. shall pay, etc.: What may follow, I know not: but meanwhile P. S. and A. C. shall have full liberty.”

What did follow was, that old Burleigh thought better of it, and married his daughter to a bigger title—that is Lord Oxford, a learned and elegant, but brutal man, who broke poor Anne Cecil’s heart.

Sidney, after his Oxford course, and another at Cambridge (as some authorities say) went—as was the further mode—upon his travels: and goes, with the same golden luck upon him, to the greathouse of Walsingham, ambassador of England, in Paris. Why not be gentle? What is to provoke? It is quite a different thing—as many another Cambridge man knew (Spenser among them), to be gentle and bland and forbearing, when illness seizes, when poverty pinches, when friends backslide, when Heaven’s gates seem shut;—then, amiability and gentleness and forbearance are indeed crowning graces, and will unlock, I think, a good many of the doors upon the courts, where the weary shall be at rest.

Sidney is at Paris when that virago Catharine de’ Medici was lording it over her sons, and over France;—there, too, as it chanced, through the slaughter of St. Bartholomew’s day, from which bloody holocaust he presently recoils, and continues his travel over the Continent, writing very charming, practical letters to his younger brother Robert:

“You think my experience,” he says, “has grown from the good things I have learned: but I know the only experience which I have gotten is, to find how much Imighthave learned and how much indeed I have missed—for want of directing my course to the right end and by the right means.” And again he tells him, “not to go travel—asmany people do—merely out of a tickling humor to do as other men have done, or to talk of having been.”

He goes leisurely into Italy—is for some time at the famous University of Padua; he is in Venice too during the great revels which were had there in 1574, in honor of Henry III. (of France). The Piazza of San Marco was for days and nights together a blaze of light and of splendor: what a city to visit for this young Briton, who came accredited by Elizabeth and by Leicester! The palaces of the Foscari and of the Contarini would be open to him; the younger Aldus Manutius was making imprints of the classics that would delight his eye; the temple fronts of Palladio were in their first freshness: Did he love finer forms of art—the great houses were rich in its trophies: the elder Palma and Tintoretto were still at work: even the veteran Titian was carrying his ninety-eight years with a stately stride along the Rivi of the canal: if he loved adventure, the Venetian ladies were very beautiful, and the masks of the Ridotto gave him the freedom of their smiles; the escapade of Bianca Capello was a story of only yesterday; and for other romance—the air was full of it; snatchesfrom Tasso’sRinaldo[94]were on the lips of the gondoliers, and poetic legends lurked in every ripple of the sea that broke upon the palace steps. It is said that Sidney was painted in Venice by Paul Veronese; and if one is cunning in those matters he may be able to trace the likeness of the heir of Penshurst in some one of those who belong to the great groups of noble men and women which the Veronese has left upon the walls of the Ducal Palace.

In 1575 he came home, with all the polish that European courts and European culture could give him. We may be sure that he paid dainty compliments to the Queen—then in the full bloom of womanhood: we may be sure that she devoured them all with a relish that her queenliness could not wholly conceal. He won his sobriquet of “The Gentleman” in these times; elegantly courteous; saying the right thing just when he should say it:—perhaps too elegantly courteous—too insistent that even a “Good-morning” should be spoken at precisely the right time, and in the right key—tooobservant of the starched laws of a deportment that chills by its own consciousness of unvarying propriety, as if—well, I had almost said—as if he had been born in Boston. His favorite sister meantime has married one of the Pembrokes, and has a princely place down at Wilton, near Salisbury (now another haunt of pleasure-seekers). Sidney was often there; and he wrote for this cherished sister his book, or poem—(call it how we will) ofArcadia; writing it, as he says, off-hand—and without re-reading—sheet by sheet, for her pleasure: I am sorry he ever said this; it provokes hot-heads to a carelessness that never wins results worth winning. Indeed I think Sidney put more care to hisArcadiathan he confessed; though it is true, he expressed the wish on his deathbed, that it should never be printed.

Shall I tell you anything of it—that it is an Allegory—shaped in fact after a famous Italian poem of the same name—that few people now read it continuously; that it requires great pluck to do so; and yet that no one can dip into it—high or low—without finding rich euphuisms, poetic symphonies, noble characters, dexterous experimentationin verse—iambics, sapphics, hexameters, all interlaced with a sonorous grandiloquence of prose—a curious medley, very fine, andverydull? When published after his death it ran through edition after edition, and young wives were gravely cautioned not to spend too much time over that cherished volume. His little book of theDefence of Poesie, which he also wrote down at Wilton, appeals more nearly to our sympathies, and may be counted still a good and noble argument for the Art of Poetry. And Sidney gave proof of his skill in that art, far beyond anything in theArcadia—in some of those amatory poems under title ofAstrophel and Stella, which were supposed to have grown out of his fruitless love for Penelope Devereux, to which I made early reference. I cite a single sonnet that you may see his manner:—

“Stella, think not, that I by verse seek fame,Who seek, who hope, who love, who live—but thee;Thine eyes my pride, thy lips mine history.If thou praise not, all other praise is shame,Nor so ambitious am I as to frameA nest for my young praise in laurel tree;In truth I vow I wish not there should beGraved in my epitaph, a Poet’s name.Nor, if I would, could I just title makeThat any laud thereof, to me should growWithout—my plumes from other wings I take—For nothing frommywit or will doth flowSince all my wordsthybeauty doth indite,And Love doth hold my hand, andmakeme write.”

“Stella, think not, that I by verse seek fame,

Who seek, who hope, who love, who live—but thee;

Thine eyes my pride, thy lips mine history.

If thou praise not, all other praise is shame,

Nor so ambitious am I as to frame

A nest for my young praise in laurel tree;

In truth I vow I wish not there should be

Graved in my epitaph, a Poet’s name.

Nor, if I would, could I just title make

That any laud thereof, to me should grow

Without—my plumes from other wings I take—

For nothing frommywit or will doth flow

Since all my wordsthybeauty doth indite,

And Love doth hold my hand, andmakeme write.”

But it is, after all, more his personality than his books that draws our attention toward him, amid that galaxy of bright spirits which is gathering around the court of Elizabeth. In all the revels, and the pageants of the day the eyes of thousands fasten upon his fine figure and his noble presence. Though Scott—singularly enough—passes him by without mention, he is down at Kenilworth, when the ambitious Leicester turns his castle-gardens into a Paradise to welcome his sovereign. When he goes as ambassador to Rudolph of Germany, he hangs golden blazonry upon the walls of his house: Englishmen, everywhere, are proud of this fine gentleman, Sidney, who can talk in so many languages, who can turn a sonnet to a lady’s eyebrow, who can fence with the best swordsmen of any court, who can play upon six instruments of music, who can outdance even his Grace of Anjou. His death was in keeping with his life; it happenedin the war of the Low Countries, and was due to a brilliant piece of bravado; he and his companions fighting (as at Balaclava in the Charge of the Light Brigade) where there was little hope of conquest. All round them—in front—in rear—in flank—the arquebuses and the cannon twanged and roared. They beat down the gunners; they sabred the men-at-arms; thrice and four times they cut red ways through the beleaguering enemy; but at last, a cruel musket-ball came crashing through the thigh of this brave, polished gentleman—Philip Sidney—and gave him his death-wound. Twenty-five days he lingered, saying brave and memorable things—sending courteous messages, as if the sheen of royalty were still upon him—doing tender acts for those nearest him, and dying, with a great and a most worthy calm.

We may well believe that the Queen found somewhat to wipe from her cheek when the tale came of the death of “my Philip,” the pride of her court. Leicester, too, must have minded it sorely: and of a surety Spenser in his far home of Kilcolman; writing there, maybe—by the Mulla shore—hisapostrophe to Sidney’s soul, so full of his sweetness and of his wonderful word-craft:—

“Ah me, can so Divine a thing be dead?Ah no: it is not dead, nor can it dieBut lives for aye in Blissful Paradise:Where, like a new-born Babe, it soft doth lieIn bed of Lilies, wrapped in tender wiseAnd compassed all about with Roses sweetAnd dainty violets, from head to feet.There—thousand birds, all of celestial broodTo him do sweetly carol, day and nightAnd with strange notes—of him well understoodLull him asleep in angelic DelightWhilst in sweet dreams, to him presented beImmortal beauties, which no eye may see.”

“Ah me, can so Divine a thing be dead?

Ah no: it is not dead, nor can it die

But lives for aye in Blissful Paradise:

Where, like a new-born Babe, it soft doth lie

In bed of Lilies, wrapped in tender wise

And compassed all about with Roses sweet

And dainty violets, from head to feet.

There—thousand birds, all of celestial brood

To him do sweetly carol, day and night

And with strange notes—of him well understood

Lull him asleep in angelic Delight

Whilst in sweet dreams, to him presented be

Immortal beauties, which no eye may see.”

Two black palls fling their shadows on the court of Elizabeth in 1587: Sidney died in October of 1586; and in the following February Mary Queen of Scots was beheaded. The next year the Spanish Armada is swept from the seas, and all England is given up to rejoicings. And as we look back upon this period and catch its alternating light and shade on the pages of the historians and in the lives of English poets and statesmen, the great Queen, in her ruff and laces, and with her coronet of jewels, seems somehow, throughout all, the central figure.We see Raleigh the Captain of her Guard—the valiant knight, the scholar, the ready poet—but readiest of all to bring his fine figure and his stately gallantries to her court: We see Sir Francis Drake, with his full beard and bullet-head—all browned with his long voyages, from which he has come laden with ingots of Spanish gold—swinging with his sailor-gait into her august presence: We catch sight of Lord Burleigh, feeble now with the weight of years, leading up that young nephew of his—Francis Bacon, that he may kiss the Queen’s hand and do service for favors which shall make him in time Lord Chancellor of England. Perhaps the rash, headstrong Oxford may be in presence, whose poor wife was once the affianced of Sidney: And the elegant Lord Buckhurst, decorous with the white hair of age, who, in his younger days, when plain Thomas Sackville, had contributed the best parts to theMirror for Magistrates: Richard Hooker, too, may be there—come up from the “peace and privacy” of his country parsonage—in his sombre clerical dress, bent with study, but in the prime of his age and power, with the calm face and the severephilosophy with which he has confronted a termagant of a wife and the beginnings of Dissent. And, if not in this presence, yet somewhere in London might have been found, in that day, a young man, not much past twenty—just up from Stratford-upon-Avon—to take his part in playing at the Globe Theatre; yet not wholly like other players. Even now, while all these worthies are gathering about the august Queen in her brilliant halls at Greenwich or at Hampton Court, this young Stratford man may be seated upon the steps of Old St. Paul’s—with his chin upon his hand—looking out on the multitudinous human tide, which even then swept down Ludgate Hill, and meditating the speeches of those shadowy courtiers of his—only creatures of his day-dreams; yet they are to carry his messages of wisdom into all lands and languages.

But I must shut the books where I see these figures come and go.

As we open our budget to-day, we are still under kingship of the great Queen Bess, in whose presence we saw the portentous Lord Burleigh, whose nod has passed into history; we saw, too, in our swift way, the wise, the judicious, the simple-minded, the mismarried Richard Hooker. We called Spenser before us, and had a taste of those ever-sweet poems of his—ever sweet, though ever so long. Then his friend Philip Sidney flashed across our view, the over-fine gentleman, yet full of nobility and courage, who wrote a long book,Arcadia, so bright with yellow splendor as to tire one; and still so full of high thinking as to warrant his fame and to lend a halo to his brave and tragic death. You may remember, too, that I made short mention of a certain John Lyly, who was about the same age with Spenser, and who, withhis pretty euphuisms came to cut a larger figure in the days of Elizabeth than many stronger men did.

I recur to him now and tell you more of him, because he did in his time set a sort of fashion in letters. He was an Oxford man,[95]born down in Kent, and at twenty-five, or thereabout, made his fame by a book, which grew out of suggestions (not only of name but largely of intent and purpose) in theSchoolmasterof Roger Ascham; and thus it happens over and over in the fields of literature, that a plodding man will drop from his store a nugget, over which some fellow of lively parts will stumble into renown.

The book I refer to was calledEuphues, or the Anatomy of Wit, which came into such extraordinary favor that he wrote shortly after another, calledEuphues and his England. And the fashion that he set, was a fashion of affectations—of prettinesses of speech—of piling words on words, daintier and daintier—antithesis upon antithesis, with flavors of wide reading thrown in, and spangledwith classic terms and far-fetched similes—so that ladies ambitious of literary fame larded their talk with these fine euphuisms of Mr. Lyly. Something of a coxcomb I think we must reckon him; we might almost say an Oscar Wilde of letters—posing as finely and as capable of drawing female shoals in his wake. His strain for verbal felicities, always noticeable, comparing with good, simple, downright English, as a dancing-master’s mincing step, compares with the assured, steady tread of a go-ahead pedestrian, who thinks nothing of attitudes. Scott, you will remember, sought to caricature the Euphuist, in a somewhat exaggerated way, in Sir Piercie Shafton, who figures in his story of theMonastery; he himself, however, in the later annotations of his novel, confesses his failure, and admitted the justice of the criticism which declared Sir Piercie a bore. Shakespeare, also, at a time not far removed from Lyly’s conquest, perhaps intended a slap at the euphuistic craze,[96]in the pedant Schoolmaster’s talk of “Love’s Labor’s Lost.”

Yet there was a certain good in this massing of epithets, and in this tesselated cumulation of nice bits of language, from which the more wary and skilful of writers could choose—as from a great vocabulary—what words were cleanest and clearest. Nor do I wish to give the impression that there were no evidences of thoughtfulness or of good purpose, under Lyly’s tintinnabulation of words. Hazlitt thought excellently well of him; and Charles Kingsley, in these later times, has pronounced extravagant eulogy of him. Indeed he had high moral likings, though his inspirations are many of them from Plato or Boëthius; it is questionable also if he did not pilfer from Plutarch; certainly he sugar-coats with his language a great many heathen pills.

In observation he is very acute. ThatEuphueswho gives name to his book, is an Athenian youth of rare parts—“well-constituted” as the Greek implies—who has lived long in Italy, and who talks in this strain of the ladies he saw on a visit to England:—

“The English Damoiselles have their bookes tied to their girdles—not feathers—who are as cunning in the Scriptures as you are in Ariosto or Petrark. It is the most gorgeous court [of England] that ever I have seene or heard of; but yet do they not use their apparel so nicely as you in Italy, who thinke scorne to kneele at service, for fear of wrinckles in your silk, who dare not lift up your head to heaven, for fear of rumpling the ruffs in your neck; yet your handes, I confess, are holden up, rather I thinke, to show your ringes, than to manifest your righteousness.”

Elizabeth would have very probably relished this sort of talk, and have commended the writer in person; nor can there be any doubt that, in such event, Lyly would have mumbled his thanks in kissing the royal hands: there are complaining letters of his on the score of insufficient court patronage, which are not high-toned, and which make us a little doubtful of a goodly manhood in him. Certainly his deservings were great, by reason of the plays which he wrote for her Majesty’s Company of Child-players, and which were acted at the Chapel Royal and in the palaces. In some of these there are turns of expression and of dramatic incident which Shakespeare did not hesitate to convert to his larger purposes; indeed there is, up and down in them, abundance of dainty word-craft—ofingenuity—of more than Elizabethan delicacy too, and from time to time, some sweet little lyrical outburst that holds place still in the anthologies.

One of these, with which I daresay you may be over-familiar, is worth quoting again. It is called Apelles’ Song, and it is from the play of “Alexander and Campaspe:”

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