Text 5 Sir Philip Sidney
Philip Sidney was born in the year 1554, two years after Raleigh and ten years before Shakespeare. Having many friends at the court of Queen Elizabeth, and being a man of remarkable talent, he became one of the leading men in the kingdom.
He was sent on several missions to the continent, and, having fulfilled them very satisfactorily, he returned to England, visiting several European capitals on the way.
He was not only an able statesman and soldier, but also a writer of prose and poetry, producing some works which, even for that time, the beginning of the Golden Age of English Literature, are not unimportant.
In 1586 he went to Holland to help the Dutch in their wars for religious liberty, having been knighted by Queen Elizabeth three years earlier. This was his last mission to the continent, for, having been wounded at the Battle of Zutphen, he died a fortnight later.
His having fulfilled many difficult missions, his having ably led his soldiers to battle, and even his having written several literary works may easily be forgotten; but one simple act of humanity will probably keep his name alive for ever: —
While lying mortally wounded after his last battle and suffering from thirst, he asked for something to drink. After waiting a long time, he was given some water, hich he put to his lips. But just at this moment he noticed a soldier lying near him, who was wounded worse even than he. Without drinking any himself, he handed it to his comrade in misfortune, saying: “Take it, Friend; your wound is worse than mine.”
Text 6 a Successful Dunce
A thousand miles away from my native country, I receive a newspaper every week, which is sent me by one of my kind friends, who has just been made mayor of the little town where we spent so many years at school together over half a century ago.
The news that he had been raised to such a high position did not surprise me, for, before I heard it, his name had often been mentioned in the paper among those of the greatest men in the town. Yet, when I think of him as I knew him at school, his progress seems most strange to me.
He was the dunce of our form. Now an ordinary dunce can generally do something well: he is not a dunce in everything; but my friend was the most perfect dunce I have ever met or heard of. The masters and the pupils all agreed about that. They said: Nothing is ever done well, nothing has ever been done well by him.
They were quite right then, I “think, for, as far as we knew, everything he had tried to do had been done badly. But when we said: Nothing will ever be done well by him, we were certainly all wrong.
His life has been made a success, in spite of his unsatisfactory work at school. As far as I can see, he developed very late; but when he had once begun, he developed quickly. From the moment of his first success, just before we both left school, everything has gone well with him. By some he is called lucky, by others clever, by me he will always be remembered as the good old dunce of our form.
His first success, which has just been mentioned, was a strange one: During our lesson on English Literature one day, my friend made the whole class laugh as it had never laughed before. The master himself was so amused that he laughed too, and yet, what happened was not so very funny after all.
We had been asked to write a few lines as examples of English verse. This was not easy for any of us; for our dunce it seemed impossible.
When some time had been spent in thinking and writing, the master took my friend’s paper, to see what had been written by him. He read it to himself, then read it also to us. It was such a success, that none of the other examples were even looked at by the master, who, I believe, kept the paper, and showed it to all the other masters.
My friend, the dunce, now Mayor of Vobster, had written:
The night was dark and stormy;
A man came up the street;
His weary eyes were full of tears;
And his boots were full of feet!