THREE FRIENDS
'To lose good days that might be better spent,
To waste long nights in pensive discontent,
To speed to-day--to be put back to-morrow--
To feed on hope--and pine with fear and sorrow.'
SPENSER.
The gentlewomen in attendance on the Queen had a sorry time of it during
Philip Sidney's absence from the Court.
She was irritable and dissatisfied with herself and everyone besides.
Fearing lest the French Ambassador should not be received with due pomp in
London, and sending for Lord Burleigh and the Earl of Leicester again and
again to amend the marriage contract which was to be discussed with the
Duke of Anjou's delegates.
Secret misgivings were doubtless the reason of the Queen's uneasy mood, and
she vented her ill-humour upon her tire-women, boxing their ears if they
failed to please her in the erection of her head-gear, or did not arrange
the stiff folds of her gold-embroidered brocade over the hoop, to her
entire satisfaction.
Messengers were despatched several times during the process of the Queen's
toilette on this May morning to inquire if Mr Philip Sidney had returned
from Penshurst.
'Not returned yet!' she exclaimed, 'nor Fulke Greville with him. What keeps
them against my will? I will make 'em both rue their conduct.'
'Methinks, Madam,' one of the ladies ventured to say, 'Mr Philip Sidney is
wholly given up to the effort he is making that the coming tourney may be
as brilliant as the occasion demands, and that keeps him away from Court.'
'A likely matter! You are a little fool, and had best hold your tongue if
you can say nought more to the purpose.'
'I know Mr Sidney spares no pains to the end he has in view, Madam, and he
desires to get finer horses for his retinue.'
'You think you are in his confidence, then,' the Queen said, angrily. 'You
are a greater fool than I thought you. I warrant you think Philip Sidney is
in love with you--you are in love with him, as the whole pack of you are, I
doubt not, and so much the worse for you.'
Then the Queen having, by this sally, brought the hot tears to the lady's
eyes, recovered her composure and her temper, and proceeded to take her
morning draught of spiced wine, with sweet biscuits, and then resorted to
the Council chamber, where all matters of the State were brought before her
by her ministers. Here Elizabeth was the really wise and able monarch, who
earnestly desired the good of her people; here her counsellors were often
fairly amazed at her far-seeing intelligence and her wide culture. No
contrast could be greater than between the middle-aged Maiden Queen pluming
her feathers to win the hearts of her courtiers, and listening with
satisfaction to the broadest flattery with which they could approach her,
and the sovereign of a nation in times which must ever stand out in the
history of England as the most remarkable the country has ever known,
gravely deliberating with such men as Lord Burleigh and Sir Francis
Walsingham on the affairs of State at home and abroad.
Elizabeth had scarcely seated herself in her chair, and was about to summon
Sir Francis Walsingham, when one of the pages-in-waiting came in, and,
bending his knee, said,--
'Mr Philip Sidney craves an audience with your Highness.'
Philip was only waiting in the ante-chamber to be announced, and, being
secure of his welcome, had followed the page into the Queen's presence,
and, before Elizabeth had time to speak, he was on his knees before her,
kissing the hand she held out to him.
'Nay, Philip, I scarce know whether I will receive you--a truant should be
whipped as a punishment--but, mayhap, this will do as well for the nonce,'
and the Queen stroked Philip Sidney on both cheeks, saying, 'The gem of my
Court, how has it fared with him?'
'As well as with any man while absent from you, fair Queen. Gems,' he added
playfully, 'do not shine in the dark, they need the sun to call forth their
brightness, and you are my sun; apart from you, how can I shine?'
'A pretty conceit,' Elizabeth said. 'But tell me, Philip, are things put in
train for the due observance of such an event as the coming of the
delegates from France? It is a momentous occasion to all concerned.'
'It is, indeed, Madam,' Philip Sidney said, 'and I pray it may result in
happiness for you and this kingdom.'
'Nay, now, Philip, are you going back to what you dared to say of
disapproval of this marriage three years ago? I would fain hope not, for
your own sake.'
'Madam, I then, in all humility, delivered to you my sentiments. You were
not pleased to hear them, and I was so miserable as to offend you.'
'Yes, and,' using her favourite oath 'you will again offend me if you
revive the old protest, so have a care. We exercise our royal prerogative
in the matter of marriage, and I purpose to wed with the Duke of Anjou,
come what may.'
'I know it, Madam, and, as your faithful subject, I am doing my utmost to
make the coming jousts worthy of your approval and worthy of the occasion.
The Fortress of Beauty is erected, and the mound raised, and I would fain
hope that you will be pleased to honour the victors with a smile.'
'And with something more valuable; but tell me, Philip, how does it fare
with my Lady Rich? Rumour is busy, and there are tale-bearers, who have
neither clean hearts nor clean tongues. Sure you can pick and choose
amongst many ladies dying for your favour; sure your Queen may lay claim to
your devotion. Why waste your sighs on the wife of Lord Rich?'
Immediately Philip Sidney's manner changed. Not even from the Queen could
he bear to have this sore wound touched. He rose from his half-kneeling,
half-sitting position at the Queen's feet, and said in a grave voice,--
'I await your commands, Madam, which I shall hold sacred to my latest
breath, but pardon me if I beseech your Highness to refrain from the
mention of one whom I have lost by my own blind folly, and so made
shipwreck.'
'Tut, tut, Philip; this is vain talking for my fine scholar and statesman.
Shipwreck, forsooth! Nay, your craft shall sail with flying colours yet.
But I hear the voices of Burleigh and Leicester in the ante-chamber! Your
good uncle is like to die of jealousy; if he finds I am closeted with you
he will come to the Council in an ill temper, and rouse the lion in me. So,
farewell till the evening, when I command your presence at the banquet.'
'Madam, there is yet one word I would say. It is upon my good father's
affairs.'
'What now? Henry Sidney is always complaining--no money, no favour! As to
the money, he has spent a goodly sum in Ireland, and yet cries out for
more, and would fain go thither again, and take you with him, to squander
more coin.'
'I have no desire, Madam, either for him to go to Ireland or for myself to
accompany him. But I pray you to consider how small a pittance he receives
as Lord President of Wales. It is ever a struggle for my mother to maintain
the dignity of your representative there. She is wearing out her life in a
vain effort, and you, Madam, surely know that her nature is noble, and that
she seeks only to promote the welfare of others.'
'Ay! Mary Sidney is well enough. We will think over the matter. Command her
to come to Court for this Whitsuntide, there is a chamber at her service.
Now, I must to business. Stay if it suits you; you have more wits than all
the rest of us put together. Yes, that is Leicester's step and voice.'
Philip knew better than to remain without express invitation to do so from
his uncle, the Earl of Leicester. It was, perhaps, only natural that the
elder man should be jealous of the younger, who had, when scarcely
four-and-twenty, already gained a reputation for statesmanship at home and
abroad. Brilliant as Leicester was, he was secretly conscious that there
were heights which he had failed to reach, and that his nephew, Philip
Sidney, had won a place in the favour of his sovereign, which even the
honest protest he had made against this marriage with the Duke of Anjou had
failed to destroy; a high place also in the esteem of the world by the
purity of his life and the nobleness of a nature which commended itself
alike to gentle and simple; while he had the reputation of a true knight
and brave soldier, pure, and without reproach, as well as a scholar versed
in the literature of other countries, and foremost himself amongst the
scholars and poets of the day.
Philip Sidney left the presence-chamber by another door as his uncle and
Lord Burleigh entered it, and went to his own apartments, where he expected
to meet some friends, and discuss with them topics more interesting and
profitable than the intrigues of the Court and the Queen's matrimonial
projects.
Edmund Spenser's dedication to the _Shepherd's Calendar_ is well known, and
there can be no doubt that he owed much to Sidney's discriminating
patronage.
That dedication was no empty compliment to win favour, and the friendship
between Edmund Spenser and Philip Sidney gathered strength with time. They
had often walked together under the trees at Penshurst, and a sort of club
had been established, of which the members were Gabriel Harvey, Edward
Dyer, Fulke Greville and others, intended for the formation of a new school
of poetry. Philip Sidney was the president, and Spenser, the youngest and
most enthusiastic member, while Gabriel Harvey, who was the oldest, was
most strict in enforcing the rules laid down, and ready with counsel and
encouragement.
The result of all the deliberations of this club were very curious, and the
attempt made to force the English tongue into hexameters and iambics
signally failed.
Philip Sidney and Spenser were the first to discover that the hexameter
could never take its place in English verse, and they had to endure some
opposition and even raillery from Gabriel Harvey, who was especially
annoyed at Edmund Spenser's desertion; and had bid him farewell till God or
some good angel put him in a better mind.
This literary club had broken up three years before this time, but Edmund
Spenser and Sir Fulke Greville still corresponded or met at intervals with
Sidney to compare their literary efforts and criticise them freely,
Spenser's always being pronounced, as doubtless they were, far above the
others in beauty of style and poetical conception.
By Philip Sidney's influence Spenser had been sent to Ireland as secretary
to Lord Grey of Wilton, whose recall was now considered certain. Sir Henry
Sidney would have been willing to return as Deputy with his son under him;
but, having been badly supported in the past, he stipulated that the Queen
should reward his long service by a peerage and a grant of money or lands
as a public mark of her confidence.
Philip found Sir Fulke Greville in his room, and with him Edward Dyer, who
had come to discuss a letter from Edmund Spenser, which he wished his
friends to hear.
'He fears he shall lose his place if Lord Grey be recalled, and beseeches
me,' Philip said, 'to do my best that he should remain secretary to
whomsoever the Queen may appoint.'
'And that will be an easy matter, methinks,' Dyer said, 'if the rumour is
true that your good father is again to be appointed Deputy of Ireland, with
you for his helper.'
'Contradict that rumour, good Ned,' Philip said. 'There is but the barest
chance of the Queen's reinstating my father, and if, indeed, it happened
so, I should not accept the post under him. I will write to our friend
Spenser and bid him take courage. His friends will not desert him. But I
have here a stanza or two of the _Fairie Queene_, for which Edmund begs me
to seek your approval or condemnation.'
'It will be the first,' Fulke Greville said, 'as he very well knows, and it
will not surprise me to find our good friend Harvey at last giving him his
meed of praise, albeit he was so rash as to say that hexameters in English
are either like a lame gosling that draweth one leg after, or like a lame
dog that holdeth one leg up.'
Fulke Greville laughed, saying,--
'A very apt simile; at least, for any attempt I was bold enow to make; but
read on, Philip. I see a whole page of Edmund's somewhat cramped writing.'
'It is but a fragment,' Philip said, 'but Edmund makes a note below that he
had in his mind a fair morning, when we walked together at Penshurst, and
that the sounds and sights he here describes in verse are wafted to him
from that time.'
'Why do you sigh as you say that, Philip? Come, man, let us have no
melancholy remembrances, when all ought to be bright and gay.'
'The past time has ever somewhat of sadness as we live in it again. Have
you never heard, Fulke, of the hope deferred that maketh a sick heart, nor
of the hunger of the soul for the tree of life, which is to be ever
denied?'
'I am in no mood for such melancholy,' was the answer. 'Let us hear what
Spenser saith of that time of which you speak. I'll warrant we shall find
it hard to pick out faults in what he writes therein.
Then Philip read,--
'Eftsoones they heard a most melodious sound
Of all that mote delight a daintie eare,
Such as att once might not on living ground,
Save in this paradise, be heard elsewhere:
Right hard it was for wight which did it heare,
To read what manner musicke that mote bee,
For all that pleasing is to living eare
Was there consorted in one harmonee--
Birdes, voices, instruments, windes, waters, all agree.
'The joyous birdes, shrouded in cheerefull shade,
Their notes unto the voyce attempred sweet,
Th' angelicall soft trembling voyces made
To th' instruments divine respondence meet;
The silver-sounding instruments did meet
With the base murmure of the waters' fall,
The waters' fall with difference discreet,
Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call,
The gentle warbling wind low answered to all.'
We may well think that these stanzas, which form a part of the 12th canto
of the Second Book of the _Faerie Queene_ have seldom been read to a more
appreciative audience, nor by a more musical voice. After a moment's
silence, Edward Dyer said,--
'I find nought to complain of in all these lines. They flow like the stream
rippling adown from the mountain side--a stream as pure as the fountain
whence it springs.'
'Ay,' Fulke Greville said; 'that is true. Methinks the hypercritic might
say there should not be two words of the same spelling and sound and
meaning, to make the rhyme, as in the lines ending with meet.'
'A truce to such comment, Fulke,' Philip said. 'Rhyme is not of necessity
poetry, nor poetry rhyme. There be many true poets who never strung a
rhyme, and rhymers who know nought of poetry.'
'But, hearken; Edmund has wrote more verses on the further side of this
sheet. I will e'en read them, if it pleases you to hear.'
Fulke Greville made a gesture of assent, and Philip Sidney read, with a
depth of pathos in his voice which thrilled the listeners,--
'Ah! see, whoso faire thing dost faine to see,
In springing flowre the image of thy day!
Ah! see the virgin rose, how sweetly shee
Doth first peepe foorth with bashful modestee,
That fairer seemes, the lesse ye see her may!
Lo! see soone after how more bold and free
Her bared bosome she doth broad display.
Lo! see soone after how she fades and falls away!
'So passeth, in the passing of a day,
Of mortall life, the leafe, the bud, the flowre,
No more doth flourish after first decay.
That erst was sought to deck both bed and bowre
Of many a ladie, and many a paramoure!
Gather, therefore, the rose, whilst yet is prime,
For soon comes age that will her pride deflowre;
Gather the rose of love, whilst yet is time,
Whilst loving thou mayst loved be with equall crime.'
These last verses were received in silence. There was no remark made on
them, and no criticism.
Probably both Sidney's friends felt that they referred to what was too
sacred to be touched by a careless hand; and, indeed, there was no one,
even amongst Philip's dearest friends, except his sister Mary, the Countess
of Pembroke, who ever approached the subject of his love for Stella--that
rose which Philip had not gathered when within his reach, and which was now
drooping under an influence more merciless than that of age--the baneful
influence of a most unhappy marriage.
The Queen had that very morning spoken out with a pitiless bluntness, which
had made Philip unusually thoughtful. The very words the Queen had used
haunted him--'tale-bearers, who had neither clean hearts nor clean
tongue.'
Edward Dyer, according to the custom of the friends when they met, read
some verses he had lately composed, and Fulke Greville followed.
Then Philip Sidney was called upon to contribute a sonnet or stanza.
If he never reached the highest standard of poetry, and, even in his best
stanzas of _Stella and Astrophel_, rivalled the sweet flow of Edmund
Spenser's verse, he had the gift of making his verses vividly express what
was uppermost in his mind at the moment, as many of the _Stella and
Astrophel_ poems abundantly testify.
In early youth Philip Sidney had been influenced by a distinguished convert
to the Reformed Faith, Hubert Languet, whom he met at Frankfort. Between
this man of fifty-four and the boy of eighteen, who had gone abroad for
thoughtful travel and diligent study, a strong--even a romantic--friendship
had sprung up, and the letters which have been preserved show how
unwavering Hubert Languet was in his devotion to the young Englishman,
whose fine and noble qualities he had been quick to discover.
About this time Philip was anxious as to the health of his old friend. His
letters had been less frequent, and the last he had received during the
present year, had seemed to tell of failing powers of body, though the mind
was as vigorous as ever.
Thus, the two verses which Philip now read from his _Arcadia_ had reference
to his old and dearly-loved counsellor and friend, and were inspired by
the lifelong gratitude he felt for him. They are clothed, as was the two
frequent custom of the time, in pastoral images; but Fulke Greville and
Edward Dyer listened spellbound as the words were uttered, in musical
tones, with a strength of feeling underlying them, which gave every line a
deep significance.
'The song I sang, old Languet had me taught,
Languet, the shepherd, best swift Ister knew;
For, clerkly read, and hating what is naught
For faithful heart, clean hands, and mouth as true,
With his sweet skill my skilless youth he drew,
To have a feeling taste of Him that sits
Beyond the heaven, far more beyond our wits.
'He said the music best those powers pleased,
Was jump accord between our wit and will,
Where highest notes to godliness are raised,
And lowest sink, not down to jot of ill,
With old true tales he wont mine ears to fill,
How shepherds did of yore, how now they thrive,
Spoiling their flock, or while 'twixt them they strive.'
'There is naught to complain of in those verses, Philip,' Fulke Greville
said. 'He must be a sharp censor, indeed, who could find fault with them.
We must do our best to bring good old Gabriel Harvey back to join our
Areopagus, as Edmund Spenser is bold enough to call it.'
'Have you heard aught of the friend in whose praise the verses were
indited?' Edward Dyer asked.
'Nay, as I said, I have had but one letter from Languet for many months.
As soon as this tourney is over I must get leave to make a journey to
Holland to assure myself of his condition.'
'The Queen will rebel against your absence, Philip. You are in higher
favour than ever, methinks; nor do I grudge you the honour, as, I fear,
some I could name grudge it.'
Philip rose quickly, as if unwilling to enter into the subject, and,
gathering together their papers, the three friends broke up their meeting
and separated till the evening.
Anyone who had seen Philip Sidney as he threw himself on a settle when
Fulke Greville and Edward Dyer had left him, and had watched the profound
sadness of his face as he gave himself up to meditation on the sorrow which
oppressed him, would have found it difficult to imagine how the graceful
courtier, who that evening after the banquet at Whitehall led the Queen, as
a mark of especial favour, through the mazes of the dance, could ever have
so completely thrown off the melancholy mood for one of gaiety and apparent
joyousness. How many looked at him with envy when the Queen gave him her
hand in the dance then much in fashion called the 'Brawl!' This dance had
been lately introduced, and the Queen delighted in it, as it gave her the
opportunity of distinguishing the reigning favourite with an especial mark
of her favour.
This evening the ring was formed of ladies and gentlemen chosen by
Elizabeth, who gorgeously attired, her hoop and stiff brocade making a
wide circle in the centre of the ring, called upon Philip Sidney to stand
there with her.
The Queen then, giving her hand to Philip, pirouetted with him to the sound
of the music, and, stopping before the gentleman she singled out for her
favour, kissed him on the left cheek, while Philip, bending on his knee,
performed the same ceremony with the lady who had been the partner of the
gentleman before whom the Queen had stopped. By the rules of the dance, the
couple who stood in the centre of the ring now changed places with those
who had been saluted, but this did not suit the Queen's mind this evening.
She always delighted to display her dancing powers before her admiring
courtiers, exciting, as she believed, the jealousy of the ladies, who could
not have the same opportunity of showing their graceful movements in the
'Brawl.'
The Queen selected Lord Leicester and Christopher Hatton and Fulke Greville
and several other gentlemen, and curtseyed and tripped like a girl of
sixteen instead of a mature lady of forty-nine.
Elizabeth's caprice made her pass over again and again several courtiers
who were burning with ill-concealed anger as they saw Leicester and his
nephew chosen again and again, while they were passed over.
At last the Queen was tired, and ordered the music to cease. She was led by
Leicester to the raised dais at the end of the withdrawing-room where the
dancing took place, and then, at her command, Philip Sidney sang to the
mandoline some laudatory verses which he had composed in her honour.
The Queen contrived to keep him near her for most of the evening, but he
escaped now and then to circulate amongst the ladies of the Court and to
answer questions about the coming tournament.
In one of the alcoves formed by the deep bay of one of the windows Philip
found his sister, the Countess of Pembroke, who was purposely waiting there
to see him alone, if possible.
'I have been waiting for you, Philip,' she said, 'to ask who will arrange
the position my gentlewomen will occupy at the tourney. I have several
eager to see the show, more eager, methinks, than their mistress, amongst
them the little country maiden, Lucy Forrester, whom you know of.'
'I will give what orders I can to those who control such matters. But, my
sweet sister, you look graver than your wont.'
'Do I, Philip? Perhaps there is a reason; I would I could feel happy in the
assurance that you have freed yourself from the bonds which I know in your
better moments you feel irksome. You will have no real peace of mind till
you have freed yourself, and that I know well.'
'I am in no mood for reproaches to-night, Mary,' Philip said, with more
heat than he often showed when speaking to his dearly-loved sister. 'Let
me have respite till this tournament is over at least.' And as he spoke,
his eyes were following Lady Rich as she moved through the mazes of a
Saraband--a stately Spanish dance introduced to the English Court when
Philip was the consort of poor Queen Mary.
'I might now be in the coveted position of Charles Blount in yonder dance,'
Philip said. 'I refrained from claiming my right to take it, and came
hither to you instead.'
'Your right! Nay, Philip, you have no right. Dear brother, does it never
seem to you that you do her whom you love harm by persisting in that very
love which is--yes, Philip, I must say it--unlawful? See, now, I am struck
with the change in her since I beheld her last. The modesty which charmed
me in Penelope Devereux seems vanished. Even now I hear her laugh, hollow
and unreal, as she coquettes and lays herself out for the admiring notice
of the gentlemen who are watching her movements. Yes, Philip, nothing but
harm can come of persisting in this unhappy passion.'
'Harm to her! Nay, I would die sooner than that harm should befall her
through me. I pray you, Mary, let us speak of other matters.' But though he
did begin to discuss the affairs of his father, and to beg Lady Pembroke to
advise his mother to be wary in what she urged when the Queen gave her an
interview, it was evident to his sister that his thoughts were in the
direction of his eyes, and that she could not hope to get from him the wise
advice as to her father's embarrassments which she had expected.
But the gently exercised influence of his pure and high-minded sister had
its effect, and long after the sounds of revelry had died away, and the
quiet of night had fallen upon the palace, there was one who could not
sleep.
Philip Sidney was restlessly pacing to and fro in the confined space of the
chamber allotted to him at Whitehall, and this sonnet, one of the most
beautiful which he ever wrote, will express better than any other words
what effect his sister's counsel had upon him.
'Leave me, oh! Love! which reachest but to dust,
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things,
Grow rich in that, which never taketh rust.
Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might,
To that sweet yoke, where lasting freedoms be,
Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light
That doth both shine and give us sight to see.
Oh! take fast hold! let that light be thy guide
In this small course which birth draws out to Death,
And think how evil becometh him to slide
Who seeketh heaven, and comes of heavenly breath.
Then farewell world, thy uttermost I see;
Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me.'
The clouds were soon to break and the light shine upon the way in that
'small course' which yet lay before him.
We who can look onward to the few years yet left to Philip Sidney, and can
even now lament that they were so few, know how his aspirations were
abundantly fulfilled, and that Love Eternal did indeed maintain its life in
his noble and true heart.