deford; then at Exeter College,
where he had become a friend of Sir Philip Sidney's, and many another
young man of rank and promise; and next, in the summer of 1572, on his
way to the University of Heidelberg, he had gone to Paris, with (luckily
for him) letters of recommendation to Walsingham, at the English
Embassy: by which letters he not only fell in a second time with Philip
Sidney, but saved his own life (as Sidney did his) in the Massacre of
St. Bartholomew's Day. At Heidelberg he had stayed two years, winning
fresh honor from all who knew him, and resisting all Sidney's entreaties
to follow him into Italy. For, scorning to be a burden to his parents,
he had become at Heidelberg tutor to two young German princes, whom,
after living with them at their father's house for a year or more, he at
last, to his own great delight, took with him down to Padua, "to
perfect them," as he wrote home, "according to his insufficiency, in all
princely studies." Sidney was now returned to England; but Frank found
friends enough without him, such letters of recommendation and diplomas
did he carry from I know not how many princes, magnificos, and learned
doctors, who had fallen in love with the learning, modesty, and virtue
of the fair young Englishman. And ere Frank returned to Germany he had
satiated his soul with all the wonders of that wondrous land. He had
talked over the art of sonneteering with Tasso, the art of history
with Sarpi; he had listened, between awe and incredulity, to the daring
theories of Galileo; he had taken his pupils to Venice, that their
portraits might be painted by Paul Veronese; he had seen the palaces of
Palladio, and the merchant princes on the Rialto, and the argosies of
Ragusa, and all the wonders of that meeting-point of east and west; he
had watched Tintoretto's mighty hand "hurling tempestuous glories o'er
the scene;" and even, by dint of private intercession in high places,
had been admitted to that sacred room where, with long silver beard and
undimmed eye, amid a pantheon of his own creations, the ancient Titian,
patriarch of art, still lingered upon earth, and told old tales of the
Bellinis, and Raffaelle, and Michael Angelo, and the building of St.
Peter's, and the fire at Venice, and the sack of Rome, and of kings and
warriors, statesmen and poets, long since gone to their account, and
showed the sacred brush which Francis the First had stooped to pick up
for him. And (license forbidden to Si