Chapter 2

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.

LITTLE ROBERT AND HIS NOBLE FRIEND.

Greenwich, though a large market town, containing a goodly number of elegant and noble buildings, and many thousand inhabitants, appears in this age of steam to form a part of London--for when you set out from the metropolis to visit it, you seem to have hardly got comfortably seated in the railway carriage, before you are _there_.

Greenwich is delightfully situated on the south bank of the Thames, and is certainly one of the most beautiful and interesting places in the vicinity of London. From the time of Edward I., the English monarchs had a royal residence here, but by the time of Charles II., this old palace had become a rather mouldy and tumble-down affair, so he commanded that it should be demolished entirely, and a magnificent structure of freestone erected in its place. We read that "riches take to themselves wings," but King Charles's riches seem to have gone off with one wing, for he had only means enough to finish that much of his new palace, and even that cost him thirty-six thousand pounds--an enormous sum for his time, or for any time, indeed. This answered his purpose tolerably well, and he condescended to reside here occasionally, when he was tired of Hampton Court and his London palaces.

No more was done to the building till the reign of William III. It had been suggested by his queen, Mary, that an asylum for old and disabled seamen should be built, and as the royal family had really no need of the palace at Greenwich, Sir Christopher Wren ventured to advise that it should be finished, and converted into a hospital. The king and queen graciously consented, and so the good work went on. The building was enlarged, beautified, and finished with simple elegance, and now there is not a more imposing palace in all England. Not only is it a princely, but a comfortable and happy home for nearly three thousand poor seamen. Here they have excellent and abundant food and clothing; skilful medical treatment, when they are ill, and their wives, as paid nurses, to attend them; a reasonable sum of pocket-money is given them to spend as they please. Here is a library, a picture-gallery, and a chapel, for their especial benefit, and a school, where their children can be educated. Is it any wonder that these veteran seamen, nearly every man of whom has lost a leg or an arm in the service of his country, should be contented and happy, in such a noble asylum as this--such a quiet and comfortable place of refuge and rest?

Near the hospital is Greenwich Park, an inclosure of nearly two hundred acres, planted principally with elms and Spanish chestnuts, many of which are very large and magnificent trees. This park is hilly, and on the highest eminence stands the Royal Observatory, where, as you know, many valuable astronomical calculations are made.

In the park, on pleasant days, many of the old pensioners can always be seen, hobbling along the shady avenues, or sitting together on the benches, under the great trees, talking over old times--telling tales of storms and shipwrecks, or more terrible still, of battles at sea.

Those who fought under the heroic Lord Nelson most love to talk of him, for he was idolized by all his men.

In the great hall of the hospital hang many pictures of him and his battles; and there also, in a glass case, are kept the clothes which he wore when he was killed--all stained with his blood. Not a man among his veteran seamen can look at these relics without feeling his dim old eyes grow yet more dim with tears. Among the pictures, there was one which, though not very fine in itself, impressed me not a little at the time, and which I still remember vividly. It represents an adventure which happened to Lord Nelson when he was a young sailor-boy, cruising in the north seas. In the picture, he seems to have wandered off in a freak of boyish rashness, far from the boat and crew, and is standing on the ice, surrounded by vast wastes and mountains of ice, alone, but in a very fearless attitude, facing a monstrous white bear, who is evidently coming up, eagerly, to _hug_ the young mariner, yet has any thing but an affectionate expression on his ugly face. Nelson has his long knife drawn, and seems to say: "Come on; I'm ready for you, old fellow!"

I do not remember ever to have read any account of this adventure, so I cannot tell how it terminated for the bear. We know well enough that Bruin did not get the better of Nelson, for he lived to fight again and again with foes no less ferocious than the bear, though without his excuse of brute instincts and hunger. But only suppose it had been different; suppose the bear had killed and eaten the hero of Trafalgar, like any common sailor-boy, what a difference it would have made with the glory and boasting of England, and it may be, in its power on land and sea.

In the eastern part of Greenwich Park are "the barrows," very singular circular mounds, supposed to be burial-places of ancient Britons. These the English people so much respect that they will not suffer them to be opened, or even levelled.

Just without the park lies Blackheath, a large expanse of common, full a mile wide, and more than that long, I should say. Opening off from this is Blackheath Park, and here, in a lovely homelike cottage, embowered in trees and flowers and vines, I spent some of the happiest days of my happy visit in England. Oh, I so often think with a sad longing of that home, and wonder if I shall ever see it again! There is a certain pleasant window of the family parlor, looking out into the garden, and sometimes, when I sit alone at evening, I dream that I am sitting at that window, enjoying the long English twilight. I seem to see one very dear to me, flitting lightly about among the flowers, singing low, and smiling to herself, because her heart is made so glad by their beauty and their fragrance. And the flowers seem to know her, and bend to her and claim relationship with her--the roses for her bloom, the lilies for her white dress and innocent look, while the violets kiss her feet, as she passes, because she is good.

I can almost hear the good-night song of the blackbird, before he goes to sleep among the golden laburnum boughs; can almost smell the good-night sigh of the flowers, as they nod their sleepy heads and swing lazily in the evening wind.

Just across the heath lives another dear friend, Mrs. Crosland, whom my little readers know. When going to visit her, I never chose to ride, enjoying much more that walk across the heath. Here the air was always fresh and cool, and the winds, without a tree or house to obstruct them, had a bold, strong, frolicsome sweep, as though glad to be free of both forest and town.

The ground of this heath is smooth, and gently rolling. It does not grow the heather, but is covered everywhere with a firm turf of fine grass, which, thanks to frequent showers, always looks soft and green, though it is kept very closely cropped.

In pleasant summer weather there can always be seen ranged along one side of this heath, queer little pony chaises, donkey carts, goat carriages, and ponies and donkeys saddled and bridled, all waiting to be let to invalids and children, by the hour, or for the ride.

It was very amusing, on Saturday afternoons, to see school children consoling themselves for the week's confinement and study, by a wild pony trot, or a scrambling donkey gallop across the heath. Wild girls, with gipsy bonnets falling on their shoulders, and their long hair flying in the wind; wilder boys, with their satchels bobbing at their backs, their hats swung in the air, and their feet remorselessly digging into the sides of the poor little bewildered beasts who carried them.

"Great fun!" "splendid sport!" they said it was, when they dismounted and paid their six-pence, but perhaps the ponies and donkeys had an opinion of their own on the subject.

Donkey-riding is said to be a very healthful exercise, and invalids often drive out from town to the heaths, where these animals are always to be had, for the sake of a free ride in those fresh, open places.

Hampstead-heath, which lies on the other side of London, is more frequented, both for health and pleasure; and as this was the scene of the story I am about to tell, we will take leave of Blackheath, a dear, pleasant, sunny place, in spite of its name.

LITTLE ROBERT AND HIS NOBLE FRIEND.

Robert Selwyn was the only son of a poor widow, who kept a small green grocer's shop, at Hampstead.

Robert, at the period at which our story commences, was a fine, handsome, intelligent lad of twelve, with frank, engaging manners, and a warm, honest heart.

For a boy of his age, he was remarkably thoughtful and serious; he loved books more than any thing in the world, except his mother, and actually seemed to hunger and thirst after knowledge. Mrs. Selwyn was a woman of considerable education, as she had seen better days in her youth, and now she taught Robert all that she knew, beside sending him to the parish school as often as she could spare him.

The widow owned a very pretty fawn-colored donkey,--good tempered and well trained, which she used to hire out to invalids, and so added something to her little income. Every pleasant summer afternoon she would send Robert with "Billy" to the heath, telling him never to allow any wild boys or girls to ride the good little animal for sport, but to let him to invalids or very young children, and always to walk or run by his side. Robert faithfully obeyed his mother, and though bold boys and girls thought him hard and disobliging, he and his pretty donkey were in great demand among the invalids and children. Many were the sweet little girls and gentle boys that he taught to ride--trotting along beside them, up and down the heath.

One balmy afternoon, late in May, Robert was standing on the edge of the heath, leaning against his donkey, waiting for a customer. Billy always plump and sleek, was wearing, for the first time, a nice new saddle, with a fine white linen cloth, fringed with crimson, and really looked fit to carry a prince.

At length, an open carriage came slowly driving that way; it had a coachman and a footman in handsome livery, and contained a lady and a little boy. This child was about Robert's age, but looked much smaller. He was slight and delicate, and his face, which was very beautiful, was almost as white as marble, and would have been sad to look upon, had it not been for a sweet lovingness about the mouth, and a cheerful, patient spirit smiling out of the eyes.

The lady was a noble, stately person, dressed all in black, and looking as if she had seen a great deal of sorrow. She had an anxious expression on her face, and held the hand of the little boy tenderly clasped in hers.

"Oh, mamma," the child suddenly exclaimed, "may I not have a ride on that nice donkey yonder, standing by that handsome, red-cheeked boy?"

The lady sighed as she looked at Robert's robust form and blooming face, but she answered, cheerfully:--

"Certainly, my love, you may take a little ride, if the donkey and the boy seem trustworthy."

So Robert was called, and questioned about Billy, and answered so frankly and modestly, that the young invalid was soon seated on donkey-back, and gently trotting down the heath, with Robert running at his side. He liked his attendant so well, that he soon got into conversation with him, asked his name, and told him his own. Robert was a little startled, when he found that his sociable new customer was a real young nobleman--Arthur, Lord Evremond.

When they returned to the carriage, his lordship felt so much benefited by his ride, and was so much pleased with both donkey and donkey-boy, that he engaged their services for the next afternoon.

Lady Evremond had come up to London from her country-seat, where she lived in great retirement, for the best medical advice for her son, who had come home from Eton, ill, and who, young as he was, seemed threatened with consumption. Her husband and daughter had died of that disease, in Italy, and she had not the heart to take her Arthur away from England to die.

The physicians gave her hope that the child would recover; he seemed better in the air of London than on his estate, which lay low in a little valley in Devonshire. His new exercise of donkey-riding, seemed to benefit him greatly for awhile. Two or three times a week the little lord drove out to Hampstead, to take his ride on the breezy heath. He became more and more friendly and confiding with Robert, whom he never treated as an inferior. He loved best to talk with him about the good he meant to do if God would only make him well, and let him grow up to be a man. He said that if he died, the title and estates must go to his cousin, who was a wicked, wasteful man, and who would do nothing for the poor and suffering; and that, he said, was what made it hardest for him to die. Next to that, was the thought of leaving his mother; but she would soon come to him in heaven, and all her grief be over--while the sorrows that his hard-hearted cousin might cause his poor tenants, would last a long time.

When the young lord spoke so sweetly and nobly, there was always such a holy light on his beautiful face that he seemed to have become already one of God's blessed angels, and Robert was almost ready to worship him. So great was the boy's reverence for his goodness, not for his _title_, that when Evremond asked him to call him "Arthur," instead of "my lord," he gently shook his head, and said: "I would rather not."

After a few weeks had gone by, Robert noticed that his noble friend seemed to be getting still weaker and paler. He talked more and more earnestly and tenderly of heaven, of his papa and angel sister, and seemed to feel yet more loving pity for all the poor and suffering. He now seldom rode faster than a walk, his voice grew faint, he rested his hand wearily on Robert's shoulder, and fell languidly into his arms, when he dismounted.

At last he failed to keep his engagement at the heath. Day after day, a whole week went by, and still he did not come, and poor Robert was almost heart-broken with disappointment and anxiety. At length, to his great joy, he saw the well-known carriage coming! Alas, it was empty! The footman brought a message from Lady Evremond--her son had been taken alarmingly ill, the night after his last ride--he had been failing ever since, and now it was thought he could not live many hours. The carriage was sent for his friend Robert, whom he wished to see before he died.

Robert sent home his donkey by a friend, and sprang into the carriage, where he buried his face in his hands and wept all the way to Grosvenor Square.