When the memorable marriage-project of Queen Elizabeth with Anjou seemed about to take effect, he denounced the scheme in a most spirited and candid letter, addressed to her Majesty; nor is it recorded that the Queen was offended with his frankness.  Indeed we are informed that “although he found a sweet stream of sovereign humours in that well-tempered lady to run against him, yet found he safety in herself against that selfness which appeared to threaten him in her.”  Whatever this might mean, translated out of euphuism into English, it is certain that his conduct was regarded with small favour by the court-grandees, by whom “worth, duty, and justice, were looked upon with no other eyes than Lamia’s.”

The difficulty of swimming against that sweet stream of sovereign humours in the well-tempered Elizabeth, was aggravated by his quarrel, at this period, with the magnificent Oxford.  A dispute at a tennis-court, where many courtiers and foreigners were looking on, proceeded rapidly from one extremity to another.  The Earl commanded Sir Philip to leave the place.  Sir Philip responded, that if he were of a mind that he should go, he himself was of a mind that he should remain; adding that if he had entreated, where he had no right to command, he might have done more than “with the scourge of fury.”—­“This answer,” says Fulke Greville, in a style worthy of Don Adriano de Armado, “did, like a bellows, blowing up the sparks of excess already kindled, make my lord scornfully call Sir Philip by the name of puppy.  In which progress of heat, as the tempest grew more and more vehement within, so did their hearts breathe out their perturbations in a more loud and shrill accent;” and so on; but the impending duel was the next day forbidden by express command of her Majesty.  Sidney, not feeling the full force of the royal homily upon the necessity of great deference from gentlemen to their superiors in rank, in order to protect all orders from the insults of plebeians, soon afterwards retired from the court.  To his sylvan seclusion the world owes the pastoral and chivalrous romance of the ‘Arcadia’ and to the pompous Earl, in consequence, an emotion of gratitude.  Nevertheless, it was in him to do, rather than to write, and humanity seems defrauded, when forced to accept the ‘Arcadia,’ the `Defence of Poesy,’ and the ‘Astrophel and Stella,’ in discharge of its claims upon so great and pure a soul.

Notwithstanding this disagreeable affair, and despite the memorable letter against Anjou, Sir Philip suddenly flashes upon us again, as one of the four challengers in a tournament to honour the Duke’s presence in England.  A vision of him in blue gilded armour—­with horses caparisoned in cloth of gold, pearl-embroidered, attended by pages in cloth of silver, Venetian hose, laced hats, and by gentlemen, yeomen, and trumpeters, in yellow velvet cassocks, buskins, and feathers—­as one of “the four fostered children of virtuous desire” (to wit, Anjou) storming “the castle of perfect Beauty” (to wit, Queen Elizabeth, aetatis 47) rises out of the cloud-dusts of ancient chronicle for a moment, and then vanishes into air again.