Let us hope that the frequenters of the Wells will not, in their grave moments, forget the olden glory of Penshurst, about six miles N.W. of the gay resort,—Penshurst, as Mr. Britton terms it, "the memorable, the once splendid, but now sadly dilapidated mansion of the Sydneys," or as Charlotte Smith sung with touching simplicity, in 1788:
Upon this spot,
Ye towers sublime, deserted now and drear,
Ye woods deep sighing to the hollow blast!
The musing wand'rer loves to linger near,
While History points to all your glories past.
Yet, how can we enumerate the ancient fame of Penshurst in this brief memoir; from Sir John de Poulteney, who first embattled the mansion in the reign of Edward II:, to Sir John Shelley Sydney, the present proprietor of the estate; or how can we here describe the mansion, wherein that pains-taking investigator, Mr. Carter, in 1805, recognised the architectural characteristics of the reigns of Henry II., Richard III., Henry VIII., Elizabeth, James I. and George I. and III. But we must observe, "it is presumed, that whilst residing here, Henry VIII. became acquainted with Anne Boleyn, then living with her father at Hever Castle, in this neighbourhood." Among the more glorious events of the place, is the birth of the amiable Sir Philip Sydney here, Nov. 29, 1554, as Spencer dignified him, "the president of nobleness and chivalrie;" the celebrated Algernon; and his daughter, the Saccharissa of Waller. In this romantic retreat, Sydney probably framed his Arcadia; here he may have sung
O sweet woods, the delight of solitariness!
O how much do I like your solitariness.
Enough of the baronial hall at Penshurst has been spared to show the lantern for ventilation in the roof, "the original fire-hearth beneath it, with a large and-iron for sustaining the blazing log;" though of the place generally, Mr. Britton observes, "A house that has been so long deserted by its masters must exhibit various evidences of ruin and decay. Not only walls, roofs, and timbers, but the interior furniture and ornaments are assailed by moth, rust, and other destructive operations." Alas! the fittest scene of Burke's lament for chivalry would have been the hall of Penshurst. Yet, a Sir Philip Sydney exists, and has lately been honoured with some distinction, as Churchill would say, "flowing from the crown." In the park at Penshurst, is, however, one of Nature's memorials of one of her proudest sons—"a fine old oak tree, said to have been planted at Sir Philip Sydney's birth:" and in Penshurst churchyard, on the south side of the mansion, several of the Sydneys lie sleeping. Requiescant in pace.