The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, April 1844 | Page 8

scenery are spread before him. His guide-book will tell him of
grotesque rocks upon lonely heaths where Druids may have worshipped;
and of Bayham Abbey, with its mouldering walls and 'antiquary ivy,'
which still attests amidst its ruins the luxury and wealth of its ancient
masters. He may look in one direction over the broad lands and
towering spires of Eridge Castle, or turning in another, soon lose
amidst the recollections of Penshurst and in the homage which the heart
renders to departed virtue, all sense of the vexatious forms and
frivolous though perhaps inseparable distinctions of modern society.
Approaching Penshurst from Tonbridge, we alight at the ancient church
which stands in close contiguity with the family mansion. A ramble
amidst its graves, a walk through its solemn aisles, a moment's pause
among its darkened monuments, seems to be but a suitable preparation
for our farther researches. It is scarcely possible to enter one of these
venerable religious edifices of the old world, which form so striking a
feature in its scenery, without feeling in some degree an impression as
if the dim and solemn fane were peopled with shadows; as if indistinct
forms were beckoning along its lonely aisles, or waiting the stranger's
approach in its deep and vaulted recesses. The building is not always of

great extent, (this of Penshurst is not so,) but the impression seems to
be the result not more of the solemn style of the building and its
accessories, than of the admirable harmony which they preserve with
the recollections and associations of all around them. Hence it may well
be doubted whether, if we could transport one of these time-honored
structures to our own land, with all its architectural peculiarities, it
would have for us exactly the meaning or the charms which it possesses
at home. Our career is as yet too brief, our land too full of the sounds of
enterprise and excitement; our interest lies too largely and exclusively
in the present and the future. The dawning light and the keen air of
morning (soevus equis oriens anhelis) are not, as represented by the
poets, more uncongenial to the spectral shapes of night, than the recent
origin and energetic action of our rising country to the dim traditions
and mouldering memories which have grown incorporate with the
weather-stains and damps of these hoary sanctuaries. At Penshurst in
particular, so complete is this harmony between the ideal and the actual,
and so strongly does it bring before us the image of the past, that it
might seem no unnatural incident of our reverie, were the grave and
reverend knight, the ancient head of the Sydneys and patron of the
church, once more to enter with his retinue from the neighboring
mansion and take his seat in the family chancel. But of that honored
name nothing remains to Penshurst except the memory, and those
fading inscriptions which inform us that they who slumber here bore it
irreproachably in life, and have long since ceased from their earthly
labors. Among these, however, we look in vain for the name of Sir
Philip Sydney. He fell in a foreign land, and his country, we are told,
mourned for him with a loud and poignant lamentation. His remains
were afterward transferred to Saint Paul's, where the ruin which fell at a
later period upon the great national temple involved also the memorial
of Sir Philip Sydney. But it matters less, since the achievements of his
pen and sword have made all places where the name of England comes,
his monument, and every heart which is alive to honor, a sanctuary for
his memory.
Let us then pass on to that venerable mansion which having witnessed
many of the incidents of his life may still be considered the lasting
memorial of his virtues. Before us rises a building irregular in its

design, but presenting an extensive line of front, in which square
towers and pointed gables, connected by walls of unequal height,
succeed each other with that sort of caprice which is common in
mansions of the same age. Entering through a spacious gate-way, we
cross a quadrangular court, and gain access by an unfurnished passage
to the great hall, which formed the distinguishing feature of the feudal
homestead. In the vast extent of this apartment we perceive an image of
the pride which gloried more in the number of its retainers than in the
luxury or refinement of its accommodations. Oaken tables, and benches
of the same homely material, stretched from side to side, show that our
ancestors required but rude accessories to recommend to them the
substantial enjoyments of their mighty repasts. Through lofty windows
strengthened by mullions and decorated with intricate carvings, the
light streams softened by neither blind nor curtain. The middle of the
hall