“As the father was, so was the son;” the son being Sir Philip Sidney, to whom we have alluded. Sir Philip was born at Penshurst, November 29th, 1554. His life was one scene of romance from its commencement to its close. His early years were spent in travel; and on his return he was married to the daughter of Sir Francis Walsingham, a lady of many accomplishments, and of “extraordinary handsomeness,” but his heart was given to another. The Lady Penelope Devereux won it, and kept it till he fell on the field of Zutphen. Family regards had forbidden their marriage, but she was united to the immortal part of him, and that contract has not yet been dissolved. She is still the Philoclea of the “Arcadia,” and Stella in the poems of “Astrophel.” It is unnecessary to follow in detail the course of Sir Philip Sidney’s life. There is no strange inconsistency to reason off, no stain to clear, no blame to talk away. [Illustration: _View from the Garden._] We describe it when we name his accomplishments; we remember it as we would a dream of uninterrupted glory. His learning, his beauty, his chivalry, his grace, shed a lustre on the most glorious reign recorded in the English annals. England herself, “by reason of the widespread fame of Sir Philip Sidney,” rose exalted in the eyes of foreign nations—he was the idol, the darling of his own. For with every sort of power at his command, it was his creed to think all vain but affection and honour, and to hold the simplest and cheapest pleasures the truest and most precious. The only displeasure he ever incurred at court was when he vindicated the rights and independence of English commoners in his own gallant person against the arrogance of English nobles in the person of the Earl of Oxford. For a time, then, he retired from the court, and sought rest in his loved simplicity. He went to Wilton; and there, for the amusement of his dear sister, Mary, Countess of Pembroke, he wrote, between the years 1579 and 1581, the “Arcadia,” a work whose strange fortune it has been to be too highly valued in one age, and far too underrated in another. Immediately after its publication it was received with unbounded applause. “From it was taken the language of compliment and love; it gave a tinge of similitude to the colloquial and courtly dialect of the time; and from thence its influence was communicated to the lucubrations of the poet, the historian, and the divine.” The book is a mixture of what has been termed the heroic and the pastoral romance, interspersed with interludes and episodes, and details the various and marvellous adventures of two friends, Musidorus and Pyrocles. It was not intended to be published to the world, but was written merely to pleasure the Countess of Pembroke—“a principal ornament to the family of the Sidneys.” The famous epitaph, usually ascribed to the pen of Ben Jonson, though in reality, it appears, written by William Browne, the author of “Britannia’s Pastorals,” and preserved in a MS.