all probability, Sir Philip Sydney himself passed in his passages between his paternal walls and that court of which he was the brightest ornament and the best support. This road turns to the right out of the great London road, about three miles on this side of Tunbridge Wells, and lies the whole way along the topmost edge of that range of high ground at the foot of which is the valley I have just named; so that the lovely valley itself lies within the traveller's view at every point where the road-side trees open to admit the sight of it. Nothing can be more charming than these various vistas that salute you through each opening; and what on the present occasion adds to the charm of them is, that they are all purely and exclusively English in their character; as all ought to be, that in any way connects itself with one, who, with all the variety of his accomplishments, made it his boast and glory to be an Englishman in them all. Passing along for about three miles of this almost private road, (for it leads only to the little village of Penshurst,) the views that present themselves from time to time, though varying in detail, are all of a similar kind, consisting of, first, the delicious declivity of the hill in the summit of which the road is situated,-sweeping down abruptly for a space, and then gently, till it meets the meadows that lie at its feet, and everywhere clothed with a rich garment of trees of every variety of hue, interspersed at intervals with bright spots of pasture, or rich corn-fields; and then the valley itself, presenting one wide flush of cultivation, studded here and there with little villages embosomed in groves of trees, and looking, at a distance, like summer-houses erected in a rich garden. Passing along this lovely road for about three miles, at the end of that distance the little village of Penshurst is seen terminating the prospect of the valley, and in the midst of it the Castle rises, overlooking all around it with an air of modest superiority, as if, like its once illustrious inhabitant, it were anxious to be above those about it, not that it might look down upon, but only beyond them. Beside, and as if forming a part of it, the village church lifts its unpresuming walls; as if to remind us that he, whose fame has attracted us here, was no less good than great-no less pious than wise and kind and brave. The building is of an irregular construction, and presents no particular points for description, or even for admiration. Neither does it, from the distance that we are now contemplating it, present any marks of decay. It may, for any thing we can see to the contrary, be exactly in the state that it was at the period we are now connecting it with; for it was then an antique building, and was granted to the Sydneys by Edward VI.-having been forfeited to the crown by its former possessors. This being the case, we may do well, now that the road before us begins to descend and wind down towards the castle, to think of it as it was when he inhabited it who would have equally illustrated it to the imagination, whether it had been the humblest cottage that it now overlooks, or the palace of a prince. We shall thus, on reaching it, add a zest to our visit, which nothing but contrast is capable of producing. Let us think of it, then, at the period when it stood here alone, the lord of the rich valley which its topmost windows overlook; when its courts were thronged with gay attendants and pampered menials, and its halls were alive with the noise of the ban quet; and its chambers echoed to the light footsteps of the revellers; and its bowers were conscious of the lover's whispers, or were whispering their own sweet music into the poet's ear for here Spenser me ditated his rich lays, and Waller sighed in sweet rhymes to his Sacharissa. Let us, as we descend the steep declivity that leads to the castle, and lose sight of it in passing over the little bridge and through the village, think of it under the above aspect, and connect it with the kind of associations there alluded to; and then, passing through the church-yard, an ominous road! and over the little stile that divides the latter from the park, approach the great gate of entrance, and knock, with an undecided hand, for admittance. The scene is somewhat different from that which we have just looked at in fancy. The knocker falls a dead weight upon the decaying door, and there is no answering sound within to say that it is heard; all is silent as the graves that we have just passed by to arrive here. We may venture to knock again, and less gently; but not without waiting more than the due time between,-for we are not beneath the portico of a modern mansion in May-fair, and there is no sleek porter seated in the hall within, who has mistaken our modest rap for that of a poor relation, and therefore waits to have it repeated. But hark! a lumbering tread upon the stone pavement of the inner court proclaims that we have been heard-and see! the wicket opens slowly and we are invited to enter. But who is it that offers us this courtesy ?-Is this the sole warder of Penshurst Castle-this fine hale old countryman, who looks fresh from the plough,-in his trim smock-frock, his blue worsted hose, his hobnailed shoes, and his slouched hat doffed to no one? Is it by him that we are to be led through the halls that once echoed to the tread of the Sydneys, the Pembrokes, and the Leicesters? No matter-as all is changed that we are to see, perhaps this is not the worst change we shall encounter before we leave the spot. But let us be content; for one thing, at least, nothing can change: these are the halls of the Sydneys-of THE SYDNEY-every stone of this court, and every plank of the chambers that we are about to pace, prate of his whereabout," and the very winds that whistle through the broken casements, and behind the tattered tapestries, 66 "Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:" so let us brace up our thoughts, and cheerfully complete the object of our visit-which was to look upon what remains, not to lament what has passed away. Passing through the wicket-door which is cut in the great arched gate of entrance, we find ourselves beneath a lofty vaulted gateway, which leads to a square paved court or quadrangle; and traversing this, we reach another lofty door which leads into a narrow dark passage, a few paces on the right of which is the entrance to the great baronial hall. This is the largest and most interesting portion of the building; because that which is most characteristic of the times in connexion with which we are disposed to think of it, and probably more in its original state than any other part. In length it occupies the whole side of the court through which we have just passed; and its height is proportionate--the pointed roof being supported by great oaken beams, black with the smoke of the fire that occupied the centre spot of the hall. The floor is of red brickwork; on either side from end to end stand mas sive oaken tables and benches-apparently as old as the hall itself, and witnesses of all that has passed in it; the tall pointed windows ascend nearly to the roof, commencing at about half the height of the walls, and between them, on these damp-stained walls, are painted, in black and white, rude gigantic figures of armed warriors; and finally, over the entrance door, at a great height against the wall, is placed a suit of armour-black with age-(as indeed every thing is which this hall contains.) This armour is said to have been worn by Sir Philip Sydney at the battle where he received his death; but we shall do well to pay but little attention to on-dits of this kind. In regard to objects of this nature,-where there is the slightest room for doubt, no satisfaction can be felt in the contemplation of them. And it is on this account that, while relics of every kind excite but little attention, however interesting the circumstances or the persons with which they may be said to have been connected-the locales that are in any way associated with similar circumstances, are always worth exploring; for these cannot be changed, or tampered with, or destroyed. I would not give a penny fee to see this armour, which is said to have clasped the body of Sir Philip Sydney, and to have been present (as it were) at the closing scene of his noble life. And yet I would not have missed pacing the courts where he has trodden, and passing through the halls where he has breathed, for more-than any one would have given me to stay away. Passing out of the great hall (in which our innocent attendant wonders what we can have found to admire, since he has seen it so often and found nothing to admire in it yet-) we are led up a narrow staircase, to what is called the ball-room. This is a long spacious apartment, without furniture, except a few faded pictures, the tattered hangings of the walls, and some broken mirrors that serve to multiply the desolation on which they look. A portrait in this room, of Lady Elizabeth Sydney, is the only one worth attention. Without much beauty, it blends, in a very pleasing manner, a calm courtly dignity, with the mild sweetness of nature. An ante-room adjoining this apartment leads us to another, called Queen Elizabeth's drawing-room. In this room the mixture of remnants of antiquated splendour, with bareness and decay, produce even a more desolate effect than the entire emptiness of the other apartments. Here a few faded pictures, set in tarnished frames, hang, as if in mockery, on the mouldering walls, and round the room are placed a set of old chairs and a sofa, of gold and crimson velvet, every one of which is falling to pieces, and strewing with its mildewed fragments the bare worm-eaten floor. Two or three of the pictures, however, are worth attention; one, in particular, of the Countess of Pembroke she for whom the Arcadia was written she whom Ben Johnson celebrates as "the subject of all verse"-is very interesting. With even less of actual beauty than her relative in the last room, there is that about her look, of mingled wisdom and goodness, which makes us feel that she was not unworthy of the immortality she has gained. There is also a portrait of the young Lord Lisle, when a boy, which is very airy, elegant, and lordly. There are two other apartments, each in a similar state with the foregoing, one of which is called the Tapestry Room, and the other the Picture Gallery. The walls of this last are nearly covered with paintings, most of them in a wretched state of decay, and many of which seem to have deserved a better fate than to be left to rot on the damp walls when all things else were removed. There are two, however, in the recess of the window, by Rembrandt, which are of great merit, and in a tolerable state of preservation; and also one by Holbein, which is exceedingly fine. Let us now take an abrupt leave of this spot, lest the condition in which we find it should tempt us into a train of reflections unsuited to the feelings which should alone occupy the mind, when thinking of the illustrious person whose fame has attracted us hither. If the descendants of the Sydney (who are still in possession of this domain) think fit to cherish the memory of their ancestor elsewhere than on the spot which he has illustrated by his works and beautified with his actual presence, who has any right to complain of them? Perchance they think that, in thus abandoning the spot to the mercy of Time, and leaving it free to the visits of poor pilgrims like myself, who go to it once in their lives as they would to the shrine of a patron-saint,-they better evince their sense of the self-preserving qualities of their ancestor's name and fame, than if they made it the scene of modern "Christmas festivities," shooting-parties, and the like. And I do not know but they are in the right. His memory had better be left to itself than cherished unworthily. And, to say the truth, I scarcely know by what outward manifestations that memory could be worthily cherished, in times like these, in which he himself could not have existed, and in which he would not if he could. I have not thought it necessary to lengthen this paper by recalling the details of Sir Philip Sydney's life, as the records of it are accessible to most. But still the reader may like to have a brief note of it at hand, instead of being compelled to trace such a one for himself out of the various extraneous matters that are usually connected with memoirs of persons of whom so few facts are known. He was born at Penshurst in the year 1554, and before the age of twelve years he had shown so extraordinary a precocity of talent that in 1569 he was entered at Christ Church college, Oxford. His tutor here, Dr. Thomas Thornton, afterwards considered it so great an honour to have had him for a pupil, that he caused it to be mentioned on his tomb, now in the church of Ledbury in Herefordshire. It is not known exactly at what period he quitted Oxford for Cambridge, or at what college he belonged in the latter university; but he was certainly there" probably at Trinity," Zouch says; and Fuller speaks of his parts and learning in the loftiest terms. Certain it is, however, that in 1572-that is, when he was only eighteen years of age-he had completed his studies; for in that year he went abroad on his travels, and was at Paris during the dreadful massacre of the Huegonots, and very narrowly escaped their fate himself-having been evidently marked out as a sharer of it. Here he became acquainted with Henry the Fourth, then Henry Bourbon, King of Navarre. During 1572 and the two following years, he pursued his travels through France, Italy, &c. becoming acquainted, among other distinguished persons, with Tasso; and in 1775 he returned to England, and became the delight and glory of the court and council of Elizabeth-being universally hailed and acknowledged as "the president of noblenesse and chevalrie."* * See Spenser's Dedication to him of the Shepherd's Callender. Another notice of him by that exquisite poet, written after his death, when the imputation of flattery or the hope of patronage were out of the question, will convey a striking idea of the estimation in which he was held. 68 Remembrance of that most heroicke spirit, Little is known with certainty of the detail of his life, from the time he returned to England in 1575 till he left it finally in 1585; except that he was sent on an important mission to Vienna, and that while at home he held the office of Cup-bearer to the Queen. It was, however, during this latter period that he wrote his works, the principal of which (the Arcadia) was not published till after his death, and was not intended by him to have been published at all-being merely written for the amusement of his beloved and accomplished sister, the Countess of Pembroke. In 1585 he was appointed governor of Flushing; and almost immediately after this, being also general of horse under his uncle the Earl of Leicester, he received a wound in the thigh at the battle of Zutphen, of which, after remaining some time in a precarious state, he died. The story of his having given to a common soldier, who lay dying near him on the field of battle, a cup of water which had been brought to him to quench the feverish thirst arising from his wound, saying, "This man's necessity is greater than mine,"—is well known. There are two circumstances worth mentioning in conclusion: while lying on his death-bed he composed an ode referring to his feelings and situation (which, however, is not extant); and on his death there was a general mourning in England among the gentry, and I believe it was extended to several other courts of Europe. Z. THE EMIGRANT. WHEN fire sets the forests on blaze, I must go to the Huron's wild grounds, Whilst thou bloom'st to thine own native sun; Can the eagle fly home to his mate? And are we interdicted by fate From a spot of the world for our home? Yet to think they could cease to be shed, |