This was a man of remarkable powers. He was the son of Sir Richard Sackville, and born at Withyam, in Sussex, in 1527. He was educated and became distinguished at both the universities. While a student of the Inner Temple, he wrote, some say in conjunction with Thomas Norton, the tragedy of 'Gorboduc,' which is probably the earliest original tragedy in the English language. It was first played as part of a Christmas entertainment by the young students, and subsequently before Queen Elizabeth at Whitehall in 1561. Sackville was elected to Parliament when thirty years of age. In the same year (1557) he formed the plan of a magnificent poem, which, had he fully accomplished it, would have ranked his name with Dante, Spenser, and Bunyan. This was his 'Mirrour for Magistrates,' a poem intended to celebrate the chief of the illustrious unfortunates in British history, such as King Richard II., Owen Glendower, James I. of Scotland, Henry VI., Jack Cade, the Duke of Buckingham, &c., in a series of legends, supposed to be spoken by the characters them- selves, and with epilogues interspersed to connect the stories. The work aspired to be the English 'Decameron' of doom, and the part of it extant is truly called by Campbell 'a bold and gloomy landscape, on which the sun never shines.' Sackville had coadjutors in the work, all men of considerable mark, such as Skelton, Baldwyn, a learned ecclesiastic, and Ferrers, a man of rank. The first edition of the 'Mirrour for Magistrates' appeared in 1559, and was wholly composed by Baldwyn and Ferrers. In the second, which was issued in 1563, appeared the 'Induction and Legend of Henry Duke of Buckingham' from Sackville's own pen. He lays the scene in hell, and descends there under the guidance of Sorrow. His pictures are more condensed than those of Spenser, although less so than those of Dante, and are often startling in their power, and deep, desolate grandeur. Take this, for instance, of 'Old Age:'-- 'Crook-back'd he was, tooth-shaken, and blear-eyed, Went on three feet, and sometime crept on four, With old lame bones, that rattled by his side; His scalp all piled, and he with eld forelore, _His wither'd fist still knocking at Deaths door;_ Fumbling and drivelling, as he draws his breath; For brief--the shape and messenger of Death.'