But it is, after all, more his personality than his books that draws our attention toward him, amid that galaxy of bright spirits which is gathering around the court of Elizabeth. In all the revels, and the pageants of the day the eyes of thousands fasten upon his fine figure and his noble presence. Though Scott--singularly enough--passes him by without mention, he is down at Kenilworth, when the ambitious Leicester turns his castle-gardens into a Paradise to welcome his sovereign. When he goes as ambassador to Rudolph of Germany, he hangs golden blazonry upon the walls of his house: Englishmen, everywhere, are proud of this fine gentleman, Sidney, who can talk in so many languages, who can turn a sonnet to a lady’s eyebrow, who can fence with the best swordsmen of any court, who can play upon six instruments of music, who can outdance even his Grace of Anjou. His death was in keeping with his life; it happened in the war of the Low Countries, and was due to a brilliant piece of bravado; he and his companions fighting (as at Balaclava in the Charge of the Light Brigade) where there was little hope of conquest. All round them--in front--in rear--in flank--the arquebuses and the cannon twanged and roared. They beat down the gunners; they sabred the men-at-arms; thrice and four times they cut red ways through the beleaguering enemy; but at last, a cruel musket-ball came crashing through the thigh of this brave, polished gentleman--Philip Sidney--and gave him his death-wound. Twenty-five days he lingered, saying brave and memorable things--sending courteous messages, as if the sheen of royalty were still upon him--doing tender acts for those nearest him, and dying, with a great and a most worthy calm. We may well believe that the Queen found somewhat to wipe from her cheek when the tale came of the death of “my Philip,” the pride of her court. Leicester, too, must have minded it sorely: and of a surety Spenser in his far home of Kilcolman; writing there, maybe--by the Mulla shore--his apostrophe to Sidney’s soul, so full of his sweetness and of his wonderful word-craft:-- “Ah me, can so Divine a thing be dead? Ah no: it is not dead, nor can it die But lives for aye in Blissful Paradise: Where, like a new-born Babe, it soft doth lie In bed of Lilies, wrapped in tender wise And compassed all about with Roses sweet And dainty violets, from head to feet. There--thousand birds, all of celestial brood To him do sweetly carol, day and night And with strange notes--of him well understood Lull him asleep in angelic Delight Whilst in sweet dreams, to him presented be Immortal beauties, which no eye may see.”