Philip Sidney was born in November, 1554. He was the son of Sir Henry
Sidney, the dear friend of the amiable young King Edward VI., who died
in his arms, and of the Lady Mary, only daughter of the ambitious and
unfortunate Duke of Northumberland.
From his early childhood, Philip was remarkable for his genius, his
beauty, his sweet and generous disposition, and the modesty and grace
of his manners. Sir Fulke Greville--who was one of his schoolmates,
knew him all his life, and so dearly loved and highly honored him that
he directed it should be put on his tombstone, that, he was "the friend
of Sir Philip Sidney"--said of him, that, while yet a child, he seemed
a man, in gravity and wisdom, in steadiness of purpose, and love of
knowledge, and that even his teachers found in him something to wonder
at and learn, above what they could find in books, or were able to
teach.
At the age of twelve, Philip corresponded with his father in French and
Latin, with correctness and elegance; at thirteen, he entered the
University at Oxford, where he distinguished himself by his
scholarship, by his noble character, and blameless life. At the age of
seventeen, having left college, he went to Paris in the suite of the
Earl of Lincoln, the ambassador extraordinary of Queen Elizabeth to the
court of France. Because of his high connections and reputation, and
the letters which he carried from his uncle, Robert Dudley, Earl of
Leicester, he was received with much distinction. Charles IX., a
courteous, though treacherous prince, and his wily mother, Catharine de
Medicis, were extremely gracious to him. The king gave him an office
of honor in his palace, and strove in various ways to win his regard
and confidence. But Philip neither liked nor trusted him, but gave the
respect and friendship of his noble heart to a more truly royal object,
the brave and good King Henry of Navarre.
It was soon evident what secret object King Charles had in trying to
conciliate the English at his court. It was to blind their eyes, that
they should not foresee and help to arrest one of the most fearful and
cruel crimes to be found in the dark history of Catholic persecution,
the Massacre of St. Bartholomew. Charles, his wicked mother, and the
priests, their advisers, chose this time when a large number of
Protestants were assembled at Paris on the occasion of the marriage of
the young Prince of Navarre to the sister of the King of France, for a
general massacre of the Huguenots, throughout the city and kingdom. On
St. Bartholomew's day the slaughter began, and lasted until many
thousand Protestants--men, women, and children--were murdered, shot
down and cut down in their houses, their churches, and in the open
street. King Charles himself, though scarcely more than a boy, was the
most brutal and blood-thirsty of all the persecutors. He stood at one
of the windows of his palace, and fired at the poor, shrieking,
struggling people, as fast as his carbine could be loaded. Many a
brave Christian father and noble youth were laid low by his cruel shot,
in those dreadful streets and courts, where the hard stones steamed
with warm blood as meadows in May mornings smoke with ascending dews,
and where down the very gutters, instead of swift currents of summer
rain, ran sluggish red rivulets, slowly flowing from the bodies of the
dead and dying, piled on either side. But though that bad and mad
young king cruelly meant every shot, and though every drop of blood he
shed was a guilt-stain on his soul, and every dying groan he caused was
to ring on his ear and pierce his wicked heart till he died, yet, after
all, he harmed only the poor, perishing bodies of his victims; their
deathless souls he but early set free from mortal bondage, and hastened
home to God.
But to return to Philip Sidney. During the massacre, he took refuge
with the English resident minister, Sir Francis Walsingham, one of the
most distinguished men of the age and court of Elizabeth.
Sir Francis had a young daughter, a beautiful, sweet-tempered little
girl, in whom Philip Sidney became much interested. This child felt
very deeply for the poor Huguenot martyrs. She prayed for them
constantly, and wept for them tears of bitter anguish, that seemed to
quench the glad sparkle of her tender blue eyes, and to wash all the
rosy bloom from her soft, round cheeks.
Philip, who saw her sadness, often tried to comfort her; but her grief
and her sweet, sorrowful words always so touched his own tender heart,
that his manly voice trembled, and sometimes he bowed his beautiful
face on her head, as it lay on his breast, and wept with her silently.
And so he grew to love her; and she loved him more than all the world.
As soon as quiet was restored--a sad quiet it was--Philip Sidney set
out to travel in Germany and Italy. He was glad to leave Paris, its
vile court and viler king; he was sorry to leave nobody but little
Fanny Walsingham.
Soon after returning to England, and when only twenty-one, Sidney was
sent as ambassador to Vienna, by Queen Elizabeth, who knew how to
perceive talent and worth, though she did not always reward them
generously. He faithfully discharged the duties of his office, and was
most honorably received by the queen on his return. But he was not of
the stuff out of which courtiers are made. He was too honest,
independent, and disinterested to gain wealth or power by intrigue or
flattery; so, though the queen respected him, and often advised with
him, he received neither gifts nor offices, but lived for several years
in retirement, devoting himself to study and writing.
In 1583, he married Frances, only daughter of Sir Francis Walsingham,
his well remembered little friend, now grown into a beautiful woman,
well worthy of his noble love. During that same year he was knighted
by the queen at Windsor, and became Sir Philip Sidney.
By the time that he reached the age of thirty, the fame of his many
splendid qualities--his learning and literary talent, his bravery, and,
above all, his noble honesty--had spread over Europe, while in England,
he was the glory of the court and the idol of the people.
There are a kind of little great men who seek to impose on you by
pompous ways, proud looks, and high-sounding words; but there was no
such poor pride and pretension about Sir Philip Sidney. He was gay and
free-hearted, frank in his words, simple and gentle in his manner, and
always earnest in the endeavor to be and do good. His writings were
full of noble thought and pure, sweet feeling, worthy his true heart
and his great soul.
In 1585, a wonderful tribute was paid to the talent and exalted worth
of Sir Philip Sidney.
The throne of Poland having become vacant by the death of Stephen
Bathori, he was invited to enroll himself among the candidates. He
does not seem to have been tempted by this splendid opportunity of
obtaining sovereign power and honors, but cheerfully acquiesced in the
queen's will that he should remain her loyal subject. She said, rather
selfishly, I think, that she "could not consent to lose the jewel of
her times."
Soon after this, she appointed him to a military command in the Low
Countries. Here he soon distinguished himself by skilful generalship,
rare coolness in danger, and courage in action. At last, on the 24th
of September, 1586, in a gallant attack on a greatly superior force of
the enemy, near Zutphen, a town he was besieging, after having had one
horse shot from under him, he was severely wounded by a musket-ball in
the left leg.
As his soldiers were bearing him from the field of battle toward his
camp, he grew very faint from loss of blood, and asked for water. It
was brought to him; but just as the glass was raised to his parched
lips, he caught the eye of a poor dying soldier fixed wistfully upon
it. In an instant he passed it to him, without having tasted a drop,
saying, "Drink, my friend; thy necessity is yet greater than mine."
Oh, in all his noble life, Sir Philip Sidney had never done so grand a
deed as this! It was, in truth, a Christ-like act, though performed
upon a bloody battle-field,--and it will be remembered and honored
while the world endures.
Sir Philip's wound was unskilfully treated, and finally caused his
death. He died at Arnheim, about the middle of the next month.
This seemed a sad closing to so brilliant a life. Far away from
country and home, from his dearest friends, his beloved wife, and his
darling child, with no loving one to sympathize with him in his pain,
and comfort him in his sadness--to listen reverently to his dying
words, to close tenderly his darkened eyes, and to weep over the pale
beauty of his dead face. But we may trust, from all we know of his
pure Christian life, that comforting angels were near him, whispering
hope and peace to his heart--that divine love sustained him; and we may
feel assured that, for the gift of that "cup of cold water" to the
dying soldier, his soul drunk deep of "the waters of life that now from
the throne of the Lamb," and make beautiful forever the Paradise of God.
Greenwich Hospital--The Park, etc.