PENSHURST CASTLE, AND SIR PHILIP SYDNEY.

DOES the reader, perchance not yet arrived at "years of discretion,” love to sigh forth sweet breath over the sorrows of old romance, or feel his heart's blood dance in unison with its joys?-or does he yearn to act those joys and sorrows over again in fancy-to melt his soul into bright thoughts, and coin those thoughts into burning words, and pour them forth, clothed in the purple hue of love, into the reluctant or not reluctant ear of some ideal lady, with a Greek visage and mellifluous name, beneath the shade of "Arcadian forests old," or in some rich glade of Tempé, where he may lie at her feet on the green turf by the hour together, without the previous precaution of wrapping himself up in lamb's wool?-Or is he albeit a year or two older, but still in the rear of those "years of discretion" aforesaid, smitten with the love of the chase-not as it is pursued in these base and degenerate times, when the hunters and not the hunted are the beasts of prey-but when there was glory in the sport, because there was good in the end of it and danger in the means? Or, best of all, perhaps, does he believe and exult in those times-whether imaginary or not, no matter-when men held their lives but "at a pin's fee," and were content to see their best blood flow from them like water, in search of "that bubble reputation"-not indeed "in the cannon's mouth,"-for the cannon and its cursed kindred had not then blown courage into the air, and made skill a mockery-but when nothing but courage might cope with courage, and nothing but skill could hope to overthrow skill?-Does the reader, I say, chance to possess any or all of these propensities, and seeing that they are proscribed and exploded in practice, would fain practise them in idea? Then let him forthwith close his eyes to all things about him, and plunge headlong into that sea of sweet words in which are floating, like flowers in a crystal fountain, all high thoughts and beautiful imaginations-" the Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia."

But perhaps the majority of my readers have arrived at "the years of discretion" just referred to; in which case they neither possess nor desire to possess the above-named amiable weaknesses: so that I must not urge them even to embark on the ocean I have named; lest, having neither "youth at the prow," nor "pleasure at the helm,"-neither Passion to fill the sails of their vessel, nor Fancy to endure it with a self-moving power within itself-they may presently chance to find themselves becalmed and lying like a log upon the water, unable either to proceed or to return. But even these persons, though they may have outlived the sentiment of intellectual beauty, which was born and lies buried within their breasts-though they may have ceased to consider mental love as any thing more than a subject of belief, or honour as any thing else than a word made up of mortal breath, or beauty as any thing less than "an association of ideas"-still they may like to recall the time when "nothing was but what was not,"-as the grown man loves to remember when he was a schoolboy, not because he liked to be what he then was, but because he dis-likes to be what he now is still they may not object to look upon the express images of what cannot be, by "the light that never was," rather than remain for ever the discontented denizens of that darkness which they believe to exist because they feel it, though they refuse to believe in the brightness that

is passed away from them, for the same reason. If, I say, the above class of persons choose to renew their intercourse with these "airy nothings" in default of those substantial somethings which cannot fill their place, let them fly to the Astrophel and Stella-to the songs and sonnets-and above all, to the Defence of Poesy, of Sir Philip Sydney.

When the above-named classes of persons have followed this first part of my counsel, I shall probably have little occasion to urge upon them that to which it is intended to lead-namely, that they pay a visit, either by themselves or with me, to Penshurst Castle. But there is still another class for whom imaginary realities, so to speak, are not enough -but they must have tangible ones in addition; they are not satisfied with Mr. Coleridge for having written the Ancient Mariner, and the Stanzas to Love, but they would have had him distinguish himself at the Battle of Waterloo! To them, the most convincing proof that Lord Byron has written poetry is, that he has swam across the Hellespont. And they did not believe that Mr. Kean could play Lear till they heard that he could play Harlequin! But as my charity somewhat exceedeth, and as moreover I hold that our reason is never better employed than when it is accounting for the unreasonableness of others, I can excuse even these persons, and would willingly entice them to perform a pilgrimage with me through the desolate courts, the deserted halls, and the mouldering chambers of Penshurst Castle. I must therefore remind them, that the distinguished person in virtue of whose birth these halls have become sacred enclosures, and these courts classical ground, was not only one of the most accomplished scholars and writers of his day (of which day the like has not been seen, either before or since) -but that he was "the observed of all observers" in all other things "that may become a man:"-that he not only wrote a story that young hearts may alternately sigh and smile over till they grow old, and old ones till they grow young again, but that his whole life was employed in acting such an one-that whether in the court or the camp, in hall or in bower, in the council or the field, Sir Philip Sydney bore the palm from all competitors-or rather all competition, for it ceased to be so when he came among them, and waived their claims in token of his undisputed supremacy;-that, in fact, if it were asked, by an enquirer into that most brilliant period of our English annals, who was the most finished courtier and gentleman of the day? who was the wisest counsellor? who was the bravest soldier? who the pink of knighthood and the flower of chivalry? who the favourite of a monarch whose favourites were her friends?—In short, who was par excellence the glory of England, and the admiration of surrounding nations?—— The answer to all must be-SIR PHILIP SYDNEY. Let us then pay a visit to his birth-place with the same reverence that we should feel in standing beside his grave; but without a tinge of that melancholy which his grave, however triumphant a one, might inspire.

Penshurst Castle is situated in a lovely valley lying at the foot of a range of the Kentish hills, near Tunbridge Wells, and forms one of those delightful morning rides, with which the neighbourhood of that most romantic of English villages abounds. But the approach to Penshurst from the London road is even still more beautiful than the above; and it has the additional merit of being the one by which, in all proba

bility, 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 meditated 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,

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'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 it 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 sopha, 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 Jonson 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