The style which proved so attractive to Elizabeth"s courtiers had three princ.i.p.al characteristics, which the reader will perceive in the extracts hereafter to be given--a pedantic exhibition of learning, an excess of similes drawn from natural history, usually untrue to nature, and a habit of ant.i.thesis, which, by constant repet.i.tion becomes exceedingly wearisome. Euphues, wishing to convince his listeners of the inferiority of outward to inward perfection, pursues the following argument:
The foule Toade hath a fayre stone in his head, the fine golde is found in the filthy earth; the sweet kernell lyeth in the hard sh.e.l.l; vertue is harboured in the heart of him that most men esteeme misshappen. Contrarywise, if we respect more the outward shape, then the inward habit, good G.o.d, into how many mischiefs do wee fall? into what blindnesse are we ledde? Due we not commonly see that in painted pottes is hidden the deadlyest poyson? that in the greenest gra.s.se is ye greatest serpent? in the cleerest water the vgliest Toade? Doth not experience teach vs, that in the most curious sepulcher are enclosed rotten bones? That the Cypresse tree beareth a faire leafe, but no fruite? That the Estridge carrieth faire feathers, but ranke flesh? How frantick are those louers which are carried away with the gaye glistering of the fine face?
"In the coldest flint," says Lucilla, "there is hot fire, the Bee that hath hunny in hir mouth, hath a sting in hir tayle; the tree that beareth the sweetest fruite, hath a sower sap; yea, the wordes of men though they seeme smooth as oyle: yet their heartes are as crooked as the stalke of luie."
Lyly"s ant.i.thetical style is well ill.u.s.trated by the following pa.s.sage, in which he means to be particularly serious and impressive:
If I should talke in words of those things which I haue to conferre with thee in writings, certes thou would blush for shame, and I weepe for sorrowe: neither could my tongue vtter yat with patience, which my hand can sca.r.s.e write with modesty, neither could thy ears heare that without glowing, which thine eyes can hardly vewe without griefe. Ah, Alcius, I cannot tell whether I should most lament in thee thy want of learning, or thy wanton lyvinge, in the on thou art inferiour to all men, in the other superiour to al beasts. Insomuch as who seeth thy dul wit, and marketh thy froward will, may well say that he neuer saw smacke of learning in thy dooings, nor sparke of relygion in thy life. Thou onely vauntest of thy gentry: truely thou wast made a gentleman before thou knewest what honesty meant, and no more hast thou to boast of thy stocke, than he, who being left rich by his father, dyeth a beggar by his folly. n.o.bilitie began in thine auncestors and endeth in thee, and the generositie that they gayned by vertue, thou hast blotted with vice.[62]
The popularity of "Euphues" excited much imitation, and its influence is strongly marked in the works of Robert Greene. Born in Norfolk in 1560, Greene studied at Cambridge and received the degree of Master of Arts. After wasting his property in Italy and Spain, he returned to London to earn his bread by the pen. As a pamphleteer, as a poet, and especially as a dramatist, Greene achieved a considerable reputation.
But his improvident habits and a life of constant debauchery brought his career to a close, amidst poverty and remorse, at the early age of thirty-two. He died in a drunken brawl, leaving in his works the evidence of talents and qualities which the degradation of his life had failed to destroy.
Greene"s "Arcadia" was published in 1587, and bears in its fanciful t.i.tle of "Camilla"s Alarum to Slumber Euphues," the evidence of its inspiration. Even among pastorals the improbability of this story is surpa.s.sing. Damocles, king of Arcadia, banished his daughter with her husband and son. Sephestia, the daughter, arrived in a part of Arcadia entirely inhabited by shepherds. There she becomes a shepherdess under the name of Samela, and meets her husband, Maximus, who is already tending sheep in the same neighborhood with the name of Melicertus.
Strange to say, Sephestia fails to recognize her husband, and receives his addresses as a favored lover. Soon after, Pleusidippus, Sephestia"s son, is stolen by pirates, and adopted by the king of Thessaly, in whose court he grows up. The fame of Sephestia"s beauty reaches her father and her son, who, ignorant of the relationship in consequence of Sephestia"s change of name, both set out to woo the celebrated shepherdess. The repulsive scene of the same woman being the object at once of the pa.s.sion of her father and her son is ended by Damocles carrying off Sephestia to his own court, where he proposes to execute Maximus as his successful rival, and Sephestia for her obstinate refusal of his addresses. The Delphian oracle, however, interposes in time by declaring the ident.i.ty of Sephestia, and the story terminates as usual in weddings and reconciliations.
The conventional shepherd"s life is well described in the "Arcadia,"
and the pastoral tone is skilfully maintained. The language, however, is confessedly euphuistic, as may be seen by the author"s comment on a speech of Samela:
Samela made this reply, because she had heard him so superfine, as if Ephebus had learned him to refine his mother"s tongue; wherefore though he had done it of an ink horn desire to be eloquent, and Melicertus thinking Samela had learned with Lucilla in Athens to anatomize wit, and speak none but similes, imagined she smoothed her talk to be thought like Sappho, Phaon"s paramour.
The following pa.s.sage could hardly be distinguished from the writings of Lyly:
I had thought, Menaphon, that he which weareth the bay leaf had been free from lightning, and the eagle"s pen a preservative against thunder; that labour had been enemy to love, and the eschewing of idleness an antidote against fancy; but I see by proof, there is no adamant so hard, but the blood of a goat will make soft, no fort so well defended, but strong battery will entry, nor any heart so pliant to restless labours, but enchantments of love will overcome.
Melicertus addresses Samela, whom he finds feeding her flocks, in the following terms:
Mistress of all eyes that glance but at the excellence of your perfection, sovereign of all such as Venus hath allowed for lovers, Oenone"s over-match, Arcadia"s comet, Beauty"s second comfort, all hail! Seeing you sit like Juno when she first watched her white heifer on the Lincen downs, as bright as silver Phoebe mounted on the high top of the ruddy element, I was, by a strange attractive force, drawn, as the adamant draws this iron, or the jet the straw, to visit your sweet self in the shade, and afford you such company as a poor swain may yield without offense; which, if you shall vouch to deign of, I shall be as glad of such accepted service, as Paris was first of his best beloved paramour.
Another of Samela"s lovers, despairing of success, "became sick for anger, and spent whole ecologues in anguish."
Greene"s story of "Pandosto," of "Dorastus and Fawnia," which attained a great popularity, and went through at least fourteen editions, is well known as the foundation of Shakespeare"s "Winter"s Tale."
Shakespeare has followed Greene in the material points of the story, even so far as to make Bohemia a maritime country. But the genius of the dramatist is manifest in the miraculous and happy ending which he subst.i.tutes for the unlawful love and inconsistent suicide of Pandosto in the work of Greene. Shakespeare borrowed from the text, as well as from the plot of the novelist. The lines,
The G.o.ds themselves, Humbling their deities to love, have taken The shapes of beasts upon them: Jupiter Became a bull, and bellowed: the green Neptune A ram, and bleated; and the fire robed G.o.d, Golden Apollo, a poor humble swain, As I seem now,
are evidently a reproduction of the soliloquy of Dorastus:
And yet Dorastus, shame not at thy shepheard"s weede: The heavenly G.o.des have sometime earthly thoughts: Neptune became a ram, Jupiter a bull, Apollo a shepheard; they G.o.ds, and yet in love; and thou a man appointed to love.[63]
The story of "Philomela," "penned to approve women"s chast.i.ty," is the best of Greene"s tales, and approaches more closely the modern novel than any work of the time. It is related with much less than the usual prolixity, and contains two characters of distinct individuality. The scene is placed in Venice, partly in consequence of the Italian origin of the story, and partly, it would seem, because writers of fiction imagined that the further distant they could represent their incidents to have occurred, the more interest and probability would attach to them. Philippo Medici possessed a wife Philomela, renowned, "not for her beauty, though Italy afforded none so fair--not for her dowry, though she were the only daughter of the Duke of Milan--but for the admirable honours of her mind, which were so many and matchless, that virtue seemed to have planted there the paradise of her perfection."
Philippo was so p.r.o.ne to jealousy, that he suspected even this paragon, and worked himself into a belief in her infidelity by such euphuisms as these: "The greener the Alisander leaves be, the more bitter is the sap, and the salamander is the most warm when he lieth furthest from the fire," therefore "women are most heart-hollow, when they are most lip-holy." Inflamed by this reasoning, he induced a friend, one Lutesio, to attempt his wife"s virtue, enjoining him to bring immediate information in case of any evidence of success. Lutesio, after some misgivings, undertook the task, and under the influence of Philomela"s beauty, found it a very agreeable one. His most elaborate discourses on love in the abstract were met by Philomela with replies fully as long and fully as lofty, but when he made the conversation personal, and declared his att.i.tude to be that of a lover, he was met with a virtuous indignation which fully bore out the reputation of Philomela. Even this conclusive test did not satisfy the jealous mind of the wretched Philippo. Having hired two slaves to swear in court to his wife"s infidelity, he procured her banishment to Palermo. By the efforts of the Duke of Milan, this infamous proceeding was finally exposed, and Philippo, overcome by remorse, set out in search of Philomela. At Palermo, he accused himself, in a fit of despair, of a murder which had been committed in that city. But while the trial was in progress, Philomela, in order to shield her husband, appeared in court and proclaimed herself guilty of the crime. The innocence of both was discovered. Philippo, as he deserved, died immediately in an "ecstacy,"
and Philomela "returned home to Venice, and there lived the desolate widow of Philippo Medici all her life; which constant chast.i.ty made her so famous, that in her life she was honoured as the paragon of virtue, and after her death, solemnly, and with wonderful honour, entombed in St. Mark"s Church, and her fame holden canonized until this day in Venice."
The character of Philomela possesses strong traits of feminine virtue and wifely fidelity. Philippo has little distinctiveness except in his extreme susceptibility to jealousy--a fault which was exaggerated by the author to set off the opposite qualities of Philomela. The story has no little merit in regard to the construction and sequence of the narrative, and holds up to admiration a high moral excellence. But its interest is seriously impaired by the same defect which marks all the fiction of the time. Philomela is almost the only tale which makes any pretence to being a description of actual life, or which deals with possible incidents. Yet the language, although it has some elegance, is so affectedly formal, that all sense of reality is destroyed. When Philippo"s treachery to his wife is discovered, and he himself is plunged in remorse, it is in such words as these that he speaks of his exposure: "There is nothing so secret but the date of days will reveal; that as oil, though it moist, quencheth not fire, so time, though ever so long, is no sure covert for sin; but as a spark raked up in cinders will at last begin to glow and manifest a flame, so treachery hidden in silence will burst forth and cry for revenge."[64]
A prose idyl is the term which best describes the courtly and pastoral character of Lodge"s "Rosalynde," the last work of fiction of any importance which distinctly bears the impress of euphuism. Published in 1590, the ten editions through which it pa.s.sed during the next fifty years are sufficient evidence of its popularity. It is probably the only work of fiction of Elizabeth"s time which could be read through at the present day without impatience, and its story and personages are well known to all through their reproduction in Shakespeare"s "As You Like it." The author of "Rosalynde" was a man of very varied talents and experience. The son, it is believed, of a Lord Mayor of London, he graduated at Trinity College, Oxford, and followed successively the professions of an actor, soldier, lawyer, and physician. In the intervals of these occupations, he found time to join in two privateering expeditions to the Pacific, and to publish a number of literary productions, of which the most successful were dramas and poems. He is thought to have died of the plague in 1625.
"ROSALYNDE. EUPHUES" GOLDEN LEGACIE: _Found after his death in his cell at Silexedra, Bequeathed to Philantus" sonnes nursed up with their Father in England. Fetched from the Canaries by T.L., Gent._" Such is the fanciful t.i.tle of the story which Shakespeare transformed into "As You Like it." In the comedy, the characters of Touchstone, Audrey, and Jacques are added, but otherwise the dramatist has followed his original quite closely. He made use, not infrequently, of the language as well as the incidents of Lodge, which in itself is sufficient praise. "Rosalynde," is, indeed, a charming tale, containing agreeable and well drawn characters, dramatic incidents, and written in an elevated strain of dignity and purity. Occasionally, the influence of "Euphues" is manifest:--"Unhappy Saladyne, whom folly hath led to these misfortunes, and wanton desires wrapt within the laborinth of these calamities. Are not the heavens doomers of men"s deedes? And holdes not G.o.d a ballance in his fist, to reward with favour and revenge with justice? Oh, Saladyne, the faults of thy youth, as they were fond, so were they foule; and not onely discovering little nourture, but blemishing the excellence of nature."
A more natural and attractive pa.s.sage is the discussion between Rosalynde and Alinda,[65] regarding their escape from court.
Rosalynde began to comfort her, and after shee had wept a fewe kind teares in the bosome of her Alinda, she gave her heartie thankes, and then they sat them downe to consult how they should travel.
Alinda grieved at nothing but they might have no man in their company; saying it would be their greatest prejudice in that two women went wandering without either guide or attendant. "Tush (quoth Rosalynde), art thou a woman and hast not a sodeine shift to prevent a misfortune? I, thou seest, am of a tall stature, and would very wel become the person and apparel of a Page: thou shalt bee my mistresse, and I wil play the man so properly, that (trust me) in what company so ever I come I will not be discovered: I wil buy me a suite, and have my Rapier very handsomely at my side, and if any knave offer wrong, your Page wil shew him the poynt of his weapon."
Shakespeare has followed this scene very closely in "As You Like It."
_Ros._ Alas, what danger will it be to us, Maids as we are, to travel forth so far!
Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.
_Cel._ I"ll put myself in poor and mean attire, And with a kind of umber smirch my face; The like do you; so shall we pa.s.s along And never stir a.s.sailants
_Ros._ Were it not better, Because that I am more than common tall, That I did suit me all points like a man?
A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh.
A boar spear in my hand; and in my heart, Lie there what hidden woman"s fear there will,-- We"ll have a swashing and a martial outside.
As many other mannish cowards have That do outface it with their semblances.[66]
The most brilliant and characteristic work of fiction belonging to the Elizabethan era composed by a man who was himself regarded by his contemporaries as the embodiment of all the qualities they most loved and admired. During the three hundred years which have elapsed since the death of Sir Philip Sidney, the same enthusiastic praise has accompanied the mention of his name. Sir William Temple, writing in a critical time, and when the effect of Sidney"s personal character need no longer have bia.s.sed a literary judgment, p.r.o.nounced Sir Philip to be "the greatest poet and the n.o.blest genius of any that have left writings behind them."[67] Such were the words of a man of genius, who was acquainted with the works of Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Spenser.
While all admirers of Sidney must regret a praise of his literary abilities so exaggerated and mistaken, the eulogies which have been lavished upon his personal character have never been thought to surpa.s.s the worth of their object. Sir Philip Sidney, in the short life allotted to him, had added to his personal beauty and amiable disposition all that was most fitted to win the admiration of his time.
His rare accomplishments, his chivalrous manners and unusual powers of conversation made him so great a favorite at court, that it was the pride of Elizabeth to call him "her Philip." A considerable knowledge of military affairs, and a fearless gallantry in battle, combined, with Sidney"s genial disposition, to win for him the universal affection of the army. The violence of the Middle Ages lingers in Sir Philip"s angry words to his father"s secretary: "Mr. Molyneux, if ever I know you to do so much as read any letter I write to my father, without his commandment or my consent, I will thrust my dagger into you. And trust to it, for I speak it in earnest." But the spirit of generosity and self-sacrifice, which we are also accustomed to a.s.sociate with mediaeval knighthood, was realized in the famous scene on the battle-field before Zutphen. With good natural talents and an untiring industry, Sir Philip acquired a knowledge of science, of languages, and of literature, which gave him a reputation abroad as well as at home. The learned Languet relinquished his regular duties without prospect of pecuniary reward "to be a nurse of knowledge to this hopeful young gentleman."[68] The regrets of the universities at Sidney"s death filled three volumes with academic eulogies. But a better testimony than these volumes to the general admiration for Sidney"s talents, and to his position as a patron of literature, is to be found in the beautiful lines in which Spenser lamented his benefactor, and in two sentences by poor Tom Nash[69], who knew but too well the value of what he and his fellow-laborers had lost: "Gentle Sir Philip Sidney, thou knewest what belonged to a scholar; thou knewest what pains, what toil, what travel conduct to perfection; well could"st thou give every virtue his encouragement, every art his due, every writer his desert, cause none more virtuous, witty, or learned than thyself. But thou art dead in thy grave, and has left too few successors of thy glory, too few to cherish the sons of the Muses, or water those budding hopes with their plenty, which thy bounty erst planted." The public manifestations of grief at Sidney"s death, and the rivalry of two nations for the possession of his remains, seem to have proceeded rather from the fame of his personal virtues than from the accomplishment of great achievements. It was recorded on the tomb of the learned Dr. Thornton that he had been "the tutor of Sir Philip Sidney," and Lord Brooke caused the inscription to be placed over his own grave: "Fulke Greville, servant to Queen Elizabeth, counsellor to King James, and friend to Sir Philip Sidney."
The work of a man who belonged so thoroughly to his own time, and who united in himself talents and virtues so remarkable could hardly fail to be of historical interest. Such is the value now belonging to the "Arcadia"--a work unrivalled in its own day, and deserving the admiration of the present, but which has been left behind in the great advance of English prose fiction. In the courtly pages of the "Arcadia"
are brilliantly reflected the lofty strain of sentiment characteristic of Elizabeth"s time, and the chivalry, the refinement, and the impetuosity of if its n.o.ble author. "Heere have you now," wrote Sir Philip to his sister, the Countess of Pembroke, "most deare, and most worthy to be most deare Ladie, this idle worke of mine. * * * Youre deare self can best witnesse the manner, being done in loose sheetes of paper, most of it in your presence, the rest by sheetes sent unto you, as fast as they were done." It would be tedious to the reader to receive a detailed description of the story which extends through the four hundred and eighty pages of Sidney"s folio. The plot turns on the fulfilment of a Delphian prophecy, in fear of which Basilius, king of Arcadia, retires to a forest with his wife and two daughters. One daughter, Philoclea, lives with her father Basilius, and the other, Pamela, is confided to the care of Dametas, a country fellow, in the service of Basilius, who lives close by with his wife. Pyrocles, prince of Macedon, and Musidorus, prince of Thessaly, are wrecked on the coast of Arcadia, where they soon become enamored of the two daughters of Basilius. To the better attainment of their ends, Pyrocles obtains admittance to the house of Basilius in the disguise of an Amazon, and Musidorus enters the service of Dametas in the character of a shepherd.
The story which is unrolled in the remainder of the work relates the extraordinary occurrences which are necessary to the fulfilment of the Delphian prophecy, together with the intrigues and adventures of the young lovers. Shipwrecks, attacks by pirates, rescues, journeys through Arcadia among poetic shepherds, a war with the Helots, through forests and carving sonnets on trees,--such are the scenes which succeed each other with unending variety. On the arrival of Pyrocles and Musidorus in Arcadia, the reader is introduced to that ideal land, never more happily described than by Sidney"s pen[70]:
The third day after, in the time that the Morning did strow roses and violets in the heavenly floore against the comming of the sunne, the Nightingales, (striving one with the other which could in most daintie varietie recount their wrong caused sorrow,) made them put off their sleepe, and rising from under a tree, (which that night had bin their pavillion,) they went on their journey, which by and by welcomed Musidorus eies (wearied with the wasted soile of Laconia) with delightfull prospects. There were hills which garnished their proud heights with stately trees: humble vallies, whose base estate seemed comforted with the refreshing of silver rivers: medowes, enameled with all sorts of eie pleasing flowers; thickets, which being lined with most pleasant shade, were witnessed so too, by the cheerfull disposition of manie well tuned birds: each pasture stored with sheep feeding with sober securitie, while the prettie lambes with bleating oratorie craved the dammes comfort: here a shepheards boy piping, as though he should never be old: there a young shepheardesse knitting, and withall singing, and it seemed that her voice comforted her hands to worke, and her hands kept time to her voice"s musick. As for the houses of the country, (for manie houses came under their eye,) they were all scattered, no two being one by th" other, and yet not so farre off as that it barred mutuall succour: a shew, as it were, of an accompanable solitarinesse, and of a civill wildeness.
Amid such scenes dwell Basilius and his wife, whose two daughters are described by Sidney in language unsurpa.s.sed for delicacy and charm.
Of these two are brought to the world two daughters, so beyond measure excellent in all the gifts allotted to reasonable creatures, that we may thinke they were borne to shew, that nature is no stepmother to that s.e.xe, how much so ever some men (sharp witted onely in evill speaking) have sought to disgrace them. The elder is named Pamela, by many men not deemed inferiour to her sister: for my part, when I marked them both, me thought there was, (if at least such perfections may receive the word of more,) more sweetness in Philoclea, but more majestie in Pamela: mee thought love plaied in Philoclea"s eies, & threatened in Pamela"s; me thought Philoclea"s beautie only perswaded, but so perswaded that all hearts must yield; Pamela"s beautie used violence, and such violence as no heart could resist. And it seems that such proportion is betweene their mindes; Philoclea so bashfull, as though her excellencies had stolne into her before she was aware, so humble, that she will put all pride out of countenance; in summe, such proceeding as will stirre hope, but teach hope good maners. Pamela of high thoughts, who avoids not pride with not knowing her excellencies, but by my making that one of her excellencies to be void of pride: her mother"s wisdome, greatnesse, n.o.bilitie, but (if I can guesse aright) knit with a more constant temper.[71]
The description of an envious man in the second book,[72] which suggested to Sir Richard Steele his essay in the nineteenth number of the _Spectator_, is another good example of Sidney"s ability in delineating character. The pa.s.sage in which Musidorus is represented showing off the paces of his horse,[73] a subject especially adapted to excite the best effort of the author, is a very remarkable effort of descriptive power, for the insertion of which, unfortunately, s.p.a.ce is wanting here. Sidney might have quoted his description of Pamela sewing, to justify his belief that "It is not rhyming and versing that maketh poesy":
Pamela, who that day having wearied her selfe with reading, * * * was working upon a purse certaine roses and lillies. * * * The flowers shee had wrought caried such life in them, that the cunningest painter might have learned of her needle: which, with so pretty a manner, made his careers to & fro through the cloth, as if the needle it selfe would haue been loth to haue gone fromward such a mistresse, but that it hoped to returne thitherward very quickly againe; the cloth looking with many eyes vpon her, and louingly embracing the wounds she gaue it: the sheares also were at hand to behead the silke that was growne too short. And if at any time shee put her mouth to bite it off, it seemed, that where she had beene long in making of a rose with her hands, she would in an instant make roses with her lips; as the lillies seemed to haue their whitenesse rather of the hand that made them, than of the matter whereof they were made; & that they grew there by the suns of her eyes, and were refreshed by the most * * * comfortable ayre, which an unawares sigh might bestow upon them.[74]
Charles I. pa.s.sed many hours of his prison life in reading the "Arcadia," and Milton[75] accused him of stealing a prayer of Pamela to insert in the "Eikon Basilike": "And that in no serious book, but the vain amatorious poem of Sir Philip Sidney"s "Arcadia"; a book in that kind, full of worth and wit, but among religious thoughts and duties not worthy to be named: nor to be read at any time without good caution, much less in time of trouble and affliction to be a Christian"s prayerbook." This prayer is in itself so beautiful, coming from the lips of Pamela, and the greater part of it suits so perfectly the unhappy circ.u.mstances of King Charles, that at the risk of unduly multiplying our extracts from the "Arcadia," it will be inserted here:--
And therewith kneeling downe, euen where shee stood, she thus said: O All-seeing Light, and eternall Life of all things, to whom nothing is either so great, that it may resist; or so small, that it is condemned: looke vpon my misery with thine eye of mercie, and let thine infinite power vouchsafe to limite out some proportion of deliuerance vnto me, as to thee shall seeme most conuenient. Let not injurie, O Lord, triumph ouer me, and let my faults by thy hand bee corrected, and make not mine vnjust enemy the minister of thy justice. But yet, my G.o.d, if in thy wisdome this be the aptest chastis.e.m.e.nt for my vnexcusable folly: if this low bondage be fittest to my ouerhigh desires: if the pride of my not inough humble heart be thus to be broken, O Lord I yeeld vnto thy will, and joyfully embrace what sorrow thou will haue mee suffer. Onely thus much let me craue of thee, (let my crauing, O Lord, be accepted of thee, since euen that proceeds from thee,) let me craue, euen by the n.o.blest t.i.tle, which in my greatest affliction I may give myself, that I am thy creature, and by thy goodness (which is thyselfe) that thou wilt suffer some beame of thy Majestie so to shine into my minde, that it may still depend confidently on thee.
Let calamitie be the exercise, but not the ouerthrow or my vertue; let their power preuaile, but preuaile not to destruction; let my greatnesse be their pray; let my paine bee the sweetnesse of there reuenge: let them, (if so it seeme good vnto thee) vexe me with more and more punishment. But, O Lord, let neuer their wickednesse haue such a hand, but that I may cary a pure minde in a pure body.
(And pausing a while.) And O most gracious Lord, (said she) what euer become of me, preserve the vertuous Musidorus.[76]
The "Arcadia" combines the elements of both the chivalric and the pastoral romance. Sidney"s familiarity with the legends of Arthur, together with his own gallantry and love of adventure, peculiarly adapted him to describe martial scenes. But the chivalry of Sir Philip is not more apparent where he describes the shock of arms than where, with such exquisite delicacy, he writes of women. The student of English fiction would fain linger long over the pages which describe the loves of Pamela and Philoclea. For when these pages are laid aside, it is long before he may again meet with the poetry, the manly and womanly sentiment, and the pure yet stirring pa.s.sion which adorn the romance of Elizabeth"s Philip. Three centuries have pa.s.sed away since the "Arcadia" was written, and we who live at the end of this period not unjustly congratulate ourselves on our superior civilization and refinement. And yet in all this time we have arrived of no higher conception of feminine virtue or chivalrous manhood than is to be found in this sixteenth-century romance, and during one half of these three hundred years there was to be seen so little trace of such a conception, whether in life or in literature, that the word love seemed to have lost its n.o.bler meaning and to stand for no more than animal desire. There is not in English fiction a more charming picture of feminine modesty than that of Pamela hiding her love for Musidorus.
How delightfull soeuer it was, my delight might well bee in my soule, but it neuer wente to looke out of the window to doe him any comforte. But how much more I found reason to like him, the more I set all the strength of my minde to conceale it. * * * Full often hath my breast swollen with keeping my sighes imprisoned: full often have the teares I draue back from mine eyes turned back to drowne my heart. But, alas, what did that helpe poore Dorus?[77]
Hardly less beautiful is the gradual yielding, through pity, of Pamela"s maidenly heart.
This last dayes danger having made Pamela"s loue discerne what a losse it should haue suffered if Dorus had beene destroyed, bred such tendernesse of kindnesse in her toward him, that she could no longer keepe loue from looking out through her eyes, and going forth in her words; whom before as a close prisoner, shee had to her heart onely committed: so as finding not onely by his speeches and letters, but by the pitifull oration of a languishing behaviour, and the easily deciphered character of a sorrowfull face, that despaire began now to threaten him destruction, she grew content both to pitie him, and let him see shee pitied him. * * * by making her owne beautifull beames to thaw away the former ycinesse of her behaviour.[78]
That portion of the "Arcadia" which relates to pastoral life owes its origin to Spanish and Portuguese works. But there were not wanting to Sidney"s experience actual examples of that peaceful existence to which, in troubled times, men have so often turned as a pleasing contrast to their own cares, and dangers. The shepherds of the Suss.e.x Downs, pursuing through centuries their simple vocation, unheeded by the world, untouched by revolution or civil war, tended their sheep with little thought or knowledge of the world beyond the downs, and presented to the poet a picture of calm content, in pleasing contrast to the active or terrible incidents which more frequently made up the sum both of romance and of actual life. The shepherds of the "Arcadia"