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? it by him that we are to be led through the hails 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, "Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:" Is 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 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 desccndants 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 preseuce, 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 1575 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. "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. 2. 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? Can he build by Niagara's foam? And are we interdicted by fate From a spot of the world for our home? Thou art lost to me ev'n as the dead, Yet to think they could cease to be shed, STATE OF PARTIES IN DUBLIN. In a Second Letter to a Friend. My last letter concluded with the trial of the Orange rioters. While the public mind was agitated by the forensic contest, a new and more abundant source of bitterness was unsealed. The death of Mr. Hans Hamilton (of whom I know nothing except that I have seen him read his speeches from his hat) occasioned a vacancy in the representation of the county of Dublin. Sir Compton Domville, who always voted against the Catholics, but of whom it was said that he was ready to pledge himself that he would never speak against them, was persuaded to leave the retirement of private life, for the silent tranquillity of which he seems to be eminently fitted, and upon the strength of the Orange party, backed with twenty thousand pounds a year, to offer himself as an appropriate successor, which he certainly was calculated to be, to the "late lamented member." Circumstances appeared to have combined for his success. The Catholic interest which centered among the middle-men, had seemingly been annihilated by the peace, and Protestant ascendancy was seized in fee-simple of the whole county. The political epidemic, which had broken out like a moral typhus, raged through all classes, and almost every landed proprietor had caught the infection. Calculating upon the entire subserviency of their tenantry, the gentry of the county entered into an apparently invincible combination in favour of Sir Compton, who started as the champion of Orangeism. The certainty of a triumph produced a premature intoxication, and the anticipated election of Sir Compton was held out as a test of their supremacy as unequivocal as if he were already seated in the House. This preposterous vaunt wounded the pride of the opposite party to the quick, and Luke Whyte was not slow to perceive that the moment had at last arrived for the achievement of the darling object of his ambition, in the advancement of his son to the representation of the county. You have not, perhaps, heard of Luke Whyte, but he is well worth a glance, and in this desultory outline, I propose to give you rather a sketch of the individuals engaged in the passing incidents, than a grave and formal detail of the events in which they were involved. Luke Whyte is in Ireland a person of considerable importance, although in England he would in all likelihood have been almost unknown. So many strange and sudden productions of fortune are thrown up by the rich commercial soil of England, that they seldom attract a very peculiar notice; while in Ireland the means of acquisition are so limited, that the wealth of Luke Whyte is regarded as prodigious. The pouch and paunch of the hugest alderman of Cheapside are not beyond the emulation of the humblest tenant of a desk, who, in the nipping of his pen, casts through a dusky window an aspiring glance at the ponderous citizen, and cheered by the golden model, bends with alacrity to his work again; but when the spare figure of Luke Whyte glides like the ghost of Croesus through College-green, where is the Hibernian shopboy who ever dreamed of compassing his portentous treasures? In truth, the amazing fortune of this singularly prosperous man defeats all conjecture of the means by which it could have been |