The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, April 1844 | Page 4

of this region, now diversified with the traces of civilization
and culture, and at the distance of some thirty miles from London,
stands Penshurst, for many generations the domain and seat of the
illustrious family of Sydney. The mansion is of that class termed
castellated houses, as retaining some of the features of the feudal castle,
but accommodated to the more secure and less circumspect usages of a
later age. In itself, it presents perhaps no very striking example of the
merits or defects of its class, but it claims a much higher distinction in
having been the birth-place and paternal home of Sir Philip Sydney.
To what name can we point which is more brightly adorned than his
with all the accomplishments of the soldier, the courtier and the scholar?
Still rises upon the memory through the mists of three centuries that
touching legend of Zutphen, where the wounded hero waived from his
lips the cup of water because it was more needed by the dying comrade

at his side; and the pure morality and lofty chivalry which animate the
'Arcadia,' still bear witness to us of the personal merit of this pride and
ornament of the English court. His sagacious but selfish mistress,
Elizabeth, once stood, we are told, between him and the proffered
crown of Poland, as being loth to part (so she expressed herself,) with
him who was 'the jewel of her time.' She is reported too to have denied
him on another occasion the permission which he earnestly sought, of
connecting his fame and fortunes with those trans-atlantic enterprises
which were already beginning to crown with success and distinction the
efforts of such men as Drake and Frobisher. This last is a field of
adventure upon which we must still regret that Sir Philip was not
allowed to enter. The New World was then no less the region for
romantic enterprise than profitable exertion, although the explorers of
these distant climes had too often sunk the generosity of the soldier in
the rapacity of the spoiler. In Sir Philip Sydney the world of Columbus
would have had a visitor of a different order. To the courage of Smith
and the accomplishments of Raleigh he would have added a spirit of
honor and moderation peculiarly his own, and we should still have
delighted to trace the impressions of his genius and virtue in the early
annals of our continent. But his fate was destined to a different scene;
and his career, though thus limited by a jealous sovereign and an early
death, has left little which we can reasonably deplore but its brevity;
while that brevity itself throws around his character the last touches of
romantic interest, and assigns him the not unenviable lot of having
carried off the rewards of age without its infirmities, and borne a
maturity of honors into the safe asylum of a premature grave:
'Invida quem Lachesis raptum, Dum numerat palmas, credidit esse
senem.'
In this age of literary and multifarious pilgriming, it cannot be
unacceptable to propose an excursion to a mansion dignified by its
associations with such a name. Neither is it a slight recreation to him
who has been confined for weeks and months within the dusky
enclosures of London, to break his bounds and emerge into the
breathing fields of Surry and Kent. The father of English poetry, and
poet of English pilgrims, Chaucer himself, stands ready to accompany

us for at least a small portion of our route: it was along the road on
which we enter, that he conducted, ages ago, those pilgrims to the
shrine of Canterbury who still live in his verses; and we may glance at
the Tabard Inn whence they set forth, and indulge our fancy with the
thought of their quaint equipments, while we betake ourselves to the
modern 'hostelrie' of the Elephant and Castle, and commit our persons
to the modern comforts of an English coach. Alas! for the fickleness of
a world which changes its idols almost as often and as easily as its
fashions. Time was when we should have found this great highway
strewn with devotees hurrying to the shrine of St. Thomas à Becket.
But now, though we might detect, no doubt, in the throng around us,
the counterpart of each individual whom Chaucer committed to his
living canvass; of the knight who 'loved chevalrie' and the Frankelein
'who loved wine;' of the young squire 'with his locks in presse,' and the
fair lady who
----'of her smiling was ful simple and coy, Her gretest oathe n'as but by
Seint Eloy;'
all as intent as of old upon objects not less fleeting, and changed in
little but the fashion of their attire; now there is none so poor as to do
reverence to the martyr-prelate for the