And he had the heroic sincerity which belongs to such modesty.  Of a noble ambition, and sensitive to applause,—­as every delicate nature veined with genius always is,—­he would not provoke the applause by doing anything which, although it lay easily within his power, was yet not wholly approved by him as worthy.  Many men are ambitious and full of talent, and when the prize does not fairly come they snatch at it unfairly.  This was precisely what he could not do.  He would strive and deserve; but if the crown were not laid upon his head in the clear light of day and by confession of absolute merit, he could ride to his place again and wait, looking with no envy, but in patient wonder and with critical curiosity upon the victors.  It is this which he expresses in the paper in the July number of this magazine, “Washington as a Camp,” when he says,—­“I have heretofore been proud of my individuality, and resisted, so far as one may, all the world’s attempts to merge me in the mass.”

It was this which made many who knew him much, but not truly, feel that he was purposeless and restless.  They knew his talent, his opportunities.  Why does he not concentrate?  Why does he not bring himself to bear?  He did not plead his ill-health; nor would they have allowed the plea.  The difficulty was deeper.  He felt that he had shown his credentials, and they were not accepted.  “I can wait, I can wait,” was the answer his life made to the impatience of his friends.

We are all fond of saying that a man of real gifts will fit himself to the work of any time; and so he will.  But it is not necessarily to the first thing that offers.  There is always latent in civilized society a certain amount of what may be called Sir Philip Sidney genius, which will seem elegant and listless and aimless enough until the congenial chance appears.  A plant may grow in a cellar; but it will flower only under the due sun and warmth.  Sir Philip Sidney was but a lovely possibility, until he went to be Governor of Flushing.  What else was our friend, until he went to the war?

The age of Elizabeth did not monopolize the heroes, and they are always essentially the same.  When, for instance, I read in a letter of Hubert Languet’s to Sidney, “You are not over-cheerful by nature,” or when, in another, he speaks of the portrait that Paul Veronese painted of Sidney, and says, “The painter has represented you sad and thoughtful,” I can believe that he is speaking of my neighbor.  Or when I remember what Sidney wrote to his younger brother,—­“Being a gentleman born, you purpose to furnish yourself with the knowledge of such things as may be serviceable to your country and calling,” or what he wrote to Languet,—­“Our Princes are enjoying too deep a slumber:  I cannot think there is any man possessed of common understanding who does not see to what these rough storms are driving by which all Christendom has been agitated now these many years,”—­I seem to hear my friend, as he used to talk on the Sunday evenings when he sat in this huge cane-chair at my side, in which I saw him last, and in which I shall henceforth always see him.