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"Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother," for whom Ben Jonson wrote the celebrated epitaph. I am almost afraid to say it, but I never could admire the line, "Lies the subject of all verse," nor the idea of Time dropping his hour-glass and scythe to throw a dart at the fleshless figure of Death. This last image seems to me about the equivalent in mortuary poetry of Roubiliac's monument to Mrs.
He had drawn the car close to a bank, and they were sitting in the shade, on the grass. It was the Sunday afternoon after Sidney's experience in the operating-room. "You took her out, Max, didn't you?" "A few times, yes. She seemed to have no friends. I was sorry for her." "That was all?" "Absolutely. Good Heavens, you've put me through a catechism in the last ten minutes!"
The question was unoriginal and obvious; but the newsboy showed imagination at his second effort, which was the opening line of an old music-hall chorus: "Sidney's 'olidays er in Septembah!" Marmaduke called at another shop and chose the stiffest hat he could find.
For him there is no longer savour in the viands, or sparkle in the wine, man delights him not, nor woman neither. He is alone with Old Age, and in the sight of Death. With the exception of Simon, who died in his chair not many days after Sidney's marriage, Robert Beaufort is the only one among the more important agents left at the last scene of this history who has passed from our mortal stage.
Sidney's side, watching the changing crowd through the half-opened shutters, listening incredulously, at first, to the practical application of his science to the unsuspecting individuals below, till my derision was changed to admiration, and I was thoroughly convinced of his power. As my friends of both sexes passed under the ordeal, it was intensely bewitching.
'You know your way upstairs, I b'lieve, said Clem, as if he were all but a stranger. 'Thank you, I do, was Sidney's reply. For many months now every visit had been with heavier heart; his tap at the Hewetts' door had a melancholy sound to him. A woman's voice bade him enter. He stepped into a room which was not disorderly or unclean, but presented the chill discomfort of poverty.
Sir William Russell, too, all blood-stained from the fight, threw his arms around his friend, wept like a child, and kissing his hand, exclaimed, "Oh! noble Sir Philip, never did man attain hurt so honourably or serve so valiantly as you." Sir William Pelham declared "that Sidney's noble courage in the face of our enemies had won him a name of continuing honour."
Sidney was running by that time; they were gaining. Their quarry, a four-inch chipmunk, hesitated, gave a protesting squeak, and was caught in Sidney's hand. "You wretch!" she cried. "You miserable little beast with cats everywhere, and not a nut for miles!" "That reminds me," Joe put a hand into his pocket, "I brought some chestnuts for him, and forgot them. Here."
Sidney could not remember when her Aunt Harriet had not sat at the table. It was one of her earliest disillusionments to learn that Aunt Harriet lived with them, not because she wished to, but because Sidney's father had borrowed her small patrimony and she was "boarding it out." Eighteen years she had "boarded it out."
At the word a hundred horsemen, Sidney in the midst, with lance in hand and curtel-axe at saddle-bow, spurred to the charge. The enemy's cavalry broke, but the musketeers in the rear fired a deadly volley, under cover of which it formed anew. A second charge re-broke it. In the onset Sidney's horse was killed, but he remounted and rode forward.
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