to virtue." And of the historian he speaks as one who is "better acquainted with a thousand years ago, than with the present age, and yet better knowing how this world goeth, than how his own wit runneth; curious for antiquities, and inquisitive of novelties; a wonder to young folks, and a tyrant in table-talk."

Such were the works on which Sidney employed himself while absent from the Court, and which drew him near in close companionship to all the brilliant band of literary men growing up at the time. It was an age, indeed, of great Englishmen. Spenser was born but one year, and Raleigh two years before Sidney. With Spenser Sidney must have had much in common, and of Raleigh's New World he longed to be an explorer, but this the despotic Queen would not allow, though he went so near it as to go on board with Sir Francis Drake, in the hope of sailing with him. But Elizabeth thought that her courtiers were best at Court, and for a time she had him home. again.

In 1583 she knighted him, and in September of the same year he married Frances Walsingham, whose father had been ambassador in Paris at the time of the Huguenot massacre.

Of the marriage we know little, except that a

daughter was born to him two years before his death, and that his wife was with him at the end.

In 1585 the Queen made up her mind to send troops to the assistance of the Netherlands against Spain, and these she sent under the command of the Earl of Leicester. His nephew Sidney was to accompany him, and was to hold the post of Governor of Flushing.

That last year of his life is the best known. First came the short military triumph, in which he led the worn and half-starved soldiers, already stationed in the country, to the successful storming of the little town of Axel, and was rewarded by receiving the rank of Colonel.

Then on the 13th of August the English and their allies surrounded the town of Zutphen by land and water. News reached them that a convoy of provisions was on its way to the besieged city, and on the morning of the 22nd Sidney rode out at the head of two hundred men to surprise and cut off the supplies. The thick mist of early morning covered the ground, and when it suddenly dispersed the little band of English found themselves face to face with a thousand horsemen, and full in firing range of the town. Again and again they charged; Sidney's horse was killed under him, and he took another; in the third charge he was wounded by a

bullet in the left leg, which broke the bone and lodged in the thigh; his horse took fright, and galloped from the field, and he was presently carried to his uncle's station.

It was while being taken there that the incident occurred with which his memory is always linked. His friend, Fulke Greville, tells the gallant tale: "In which sad progress, passing along by the rest of the army, where his uncle the General was, and being thirstie with excess of bleeding, he called for drink, which was presently brought him; but as he was putting the bottle to his mouth, he saw a poor Souldier carryed along, who had eaten his last at the same Feast, gastly casting up his eyes at the bottle. Which Sir Philip perceiving, took it from his head, before he drank, and delivered it to the poor man, with these words, 'Thy necessity is yet greater than mine.'"

Verily the cup of cold water given for the love of Christ! And with this last act of Christian chivalry Sidney passes from the stage of public life.

But as heroic in its way as that unfading deed of charity, was the patient courage with which for three weeks he lay upon his bed of pain at Arnheim. With the skill of modern surgery his wound would probably have been quickly healed,

but it was otherwise in those days; and we shrink from the thought of the repeated operations, so bravely borne, by which the doctors sought to save him.

His wife was with him, and his two brothers, and his spiritual adviser and friend, George Gifford.

He longed to live, and sent a pathetic little letter to another of his friends, John Wier, a celebrated physician, begging him to come to him without delay.

"MI WIERE, veni, veni.-De vitâ periclitor et te cupio. Nec vivus, nec mortuus, ero ingratus. Plura non possum, sed obnixe oro ut festines. Vale.-Tuus, PH. SIDNEY."

"MY DEAR FRIEND WIER,-Come, come. I am in peril of my life, and long for you. Neither living nor dead shall I be ungrateful. I cannot write more, but beg you urgently to hurry. Farewell. Yours, PH. SIDNEY."

But Wier arrived too late.

Sidney's mind was active to the last; he made his will, and took leave of his friends, bidding farewell to his weeping brother Robert in the famous words, "Love my memory, cherish my

friends; their faith in me may assure you they are honest. But above all, govern your will and affections by the will and word of your Creator; in me beholding the end of this world with all her vanities."

His great wish was to pass away in full possession of his senses, and this was granted to him. He had fought against the fear of death, and overcome it, and shortly before the end he said to Gifford, "I would not exchange my joy for the empire of the world."

When his friend, kneeling at his side, saw that speech was passed, he whispered in his ear, “Sir, if you can hear what I say, and if you still have your inward joy and consolation in God, hold up your hand."

And the dying knight raised both hands to heaven, in token of that joy which had been with him throughout the whole of his short life, and which did not fail him at the end.

So died Sir Philip Sidney, the most perfect Christian knight of the Court of Queen Elizabeth.

He was mourned with passionate grief throughout England, and his body was borne with military honours to his ship the Black Prince, and so taken back to London, and amid a sorrowing crowd he was laid to rest in the church of old St. Paul's,