Even those playful turns of words, caught from Italian models, which are
usually condemned, conceal some subtility of feeling, or rise in a
pregnant thought.[7] The intellectual character of Sidney is more
serious than volatile; the habits of his mind were too elegant and
thoughtful to sport with the low comic; and one of the defects of "The
Arcadia" is the attempt at burlesque humour in a clownish family.
Whoever is not susceptible of great delight in the freshness of the
scenery, the luxuriant imagery, the graceful fancies, and the stately
periods of "The Arcadia," must look to a higher source than criticism,
to acquire a sense which nature and study seem to deny him.
I have dwelt on the finer qualities of "The Arcadia;" whenever the
volume proves tedious, the remedy is in the reader's own hands, provided
he has the judgment often to return to a treasure he ought never to
lose.
It is indeed hardly to be hoped that the volatile loungers over our
duodecimos of fiction can sympathise with manners, incidents, and
personages which for them are purely ideal--the truth of nature which
lies under the veil must escape from their eyes; for how are they to
grow patient over the interminable pages of a folio, unbroken by
chapters, without a single resting-place?[8] And I fear they will not
allow for that formal complimentary style, borrowed from the Italians
and the Spaniards, which is sufficiently ludicrous.
The narrative too is obstructed by verses, in which Sidney never
obtained facility or grace. Nor will the defects of the author be always
compensated by his beauties, for "The Arcadia" was indeed a fervent
effusion, but an uncorrected work. The author declared that it was not
to be submitted to severer eyes than those of his beloved sister, "being
done in loose sheets of paper, most of it in her presence, the rest by
sheets sent as fast as they were done." The writer, too, confesses, to
"a young head having many fancies begotten in it, which, if it had not
been in some way delivered, would have grown a monster, and more sorry
might I be that they came in, than they gat out." So truly has Sidney
expressed the fever of genius, when working on itself in darkness and in
doubt--absorbing reveries, tumultuous thoughts, the ceaseless
inquietudes of a soul which has not yet found a voice. Even on his
death-bed, the author of "The Arcadia" desired its suppression; but the
fame her noble brother could contemn was dear to his sister, who
published these loose papers without involving the responsibility of the
writer, affectionately calling the work, "The Countess of Pembroke's
Arcadia;" and this volume of melodious prose, of visionary heroism, and
the pensive sweetness of loves and friendships, became the delight of
poets.
There is one more work of Sidney, perhaps more generally known than "The
Arcadia"--his "Defence of Poetry." Lord Orford sarcastically apologised,
in the second edition of his "Royal and Noble Authors," for his omission
of any notice of this production. "I had forgotten it," he says; and he
adds, "a proof that I at least did not think it sufficient foundation
for so high a character as he acquired." It was a more daring offence to
depreciate this work of love, than the romance which at least lay
farther removed from the public eye. The "Defence of Poetry" has had,
since the days of Walpole, several editions by eminent critics. Sidney,
in this luminous criticism, and effusion of poetic feeling, has
introduced the principal precepts of Aristotle, touched by the fire and
sentiment of Longinus; and, for the first time in English literature,
has exhibited the beatitude of criticism in a poet-critic.
Sir PHILIP SIDNEY assuredly was one of the most admirable of mankind,
largely conspicuous in his life, and unparalleled in his death. But was
this singular man exempt from the frailties of our common nature? If we
rely on his biographer Zouch, we shall not discover any; if we trust to
Lord Orford, we shall perceive little else. The truth is, that had
Sidney lived, he might have grown up to that ideal greatness which the
world adored in him; but he perished early, not without some of those
errors of youth, which even in their rankness betrayed the generous soil
whence they sprung. His fame was more mature than his life, which indeed
was but the preparation for a splendid one. We are not surprised, that
to such an accomplished knight the crown of Poland was offered, and that
all England went into mourning for their hero. We discover his future
greatness, if we may use the expression, in the noble termination of his
early career, rather than in the race of glory which he actually ran.
The life of Sidney would have been a finer subject for the panegyric of
a Pliny, than for the biography of a Plutarch; his fame was sufficient
for the one, while his actions were too few for the other.[9]