PENSHURST CASTLE. 27 tion of the poet's dream; for surely we may venture to bestow upon the romancer, whom Cowper styles "a warbler of poetic prose," the title of Poet. In plain prose, however, Penshurst is situated on an extensive and fertile valley in Kent; not far from Tunbridge. The gray walls and battlemented turrets of the ancient mansion; its old-fashioned, high-peaked roofs; together with the more modern additions which have been made to the original fabric, present a picturesque and highly venerable appearance. Its noble park contains, among numerous trees remarkable for their antiquity and vast size, some which, in consequence of the associations which connect them with events and characters belonging to past ages, possess a peculiar, and never-dying interest. Sir Philip Sidney's oak "That taller tree which of a nut was set At his great birth where all the muses met ;" and Saccharissa's Walk, where many of England's ripest scholars have mused in solitude, or taken sweet counsel together "Beneath the broad beech, and the chesnut's shade," will continue to attract the attention of the visitor to Penshurst, so long as English literature shall preserve the memory of past times and departed genius. Much also of the antique furniture of this seat of the Sidneys remains; and among other things, the massive old oaken tables, which, in by-gone centuries, groaned under the weight of their hospitality. Sir Philip Sidney, the "bright consummate flower" of this noble house, was the son of Sir Henry Sidney, Lord Deputy of Ireland; and was born at Penshurst, on the 29th of November, 1554. He was a man of most heroic valour, and of singular virtue and generosity; yet it is in his character of an encourager of learning, and of a man of elegant erudition and most accomplished manners, that he perhaps chiefly lives in the memory of the present age. The governor of Flushing, the victor of Axel, and the assailant of Gravelines, is now but little thought of; but the generous friend and patron of Edmund Spenser, will for ever retain his place in the affectionate remembrance of his compatriots. As a poet, indeed, Sir Philip Sidney is less remarkable in the literary history of his country, than as a prose writer. His poetry, though exhibiting exquisite touches, when, on rare occasions, he suffers his own natural genius and tender feelings to inspire him, is yet, for the most part, cold and affected. His verses, as it has been remarked, came rather from his somewhat "too metaphysicophilosophical head," than from his "own noble heart." In prose writing, however, he stood upon a "vantage ground." Before his time, prose fiction, or romance, was almost unknown. His Arcadia, was universally read and admired in the courts of Elizabeth and her successor; and has since so far supported its reputation, that it has passed through numerous editions, and has been translated into various European languages. The noble sister for whose amusement this elegant performance was intended, and to whom it was dedicated, Mary, Countess of Pembroke, herself a lover of the muses, and an encourager of polite literature, has been immortalized by Ben Johnson's well-known epitaph. "Underneath this sable hearse Like most men of high sensibility, Sir Philip Sidney seems to have had a dash of melancholy in his mental constitution. He was also marked by that impetuosity of temper which is, perhaps, not unfrequently found in conjunction with ardent feelings and a lofty and independent spirit. This remarkable man died at Arnheim, at the age of thirty-two, on the 16th of October, 1586, in consequence of a wound received at the battle of Zutphen; in which engagement he is said to have "performed actions which give credibility to those of the bravest heroes described in his Arcadia." He exhibited at the close of his brief life that fortitude and resignation which Christian principles alone can support; and took his final leave of his brother, Sir Robert Sidney, in the following remarkable words:" My dear, much loved brother, love my memory; cherish my friends; their fidelity to me, may assure you that they are honest; but, above all, govern your will and affections by the will and Word of your Creator; in me beholding the end of this world, with all her vanities!" Such was the man whose memory is indissolubly associated with the ancient halls and embowering groves of PENSHurst. ONE HOUR OF JOY. BY MRS. ELLIS. ONE HOUR OF JOY! how fleetly Then bind her brow with roses, Less brilliant in their hue, Than the cheek where health reposes, And smiles are ever new. |