Here lived the earliest and bravest of the Anglo-Norman knights. Here dwelt the ill-fated Bohuns—the three unhappy Dukes of Buckingham, who perished in succession, one in the field and two on the scaffold. And here flourished the Sidneys! Here, during his few brief years of absence from turmoil in the turbulent countries of Ireland and Wales, resided the elder Sidney, Sir Henry, who, although his fame has been eclipsed by the more dazzling reputation of his gallant son, was in all respects good as well as great—a good soldier, a good subject, a good master, and a good counsellor and actor under circumstances peculiarly perilous. This is the birthplace of “the darling of his time,” the “chiefest jewel of a crown,” the “diamond of the court of Queen Elizabeth.” Here, too, was born—and here was interred the mutilated body of—the “later Sidney:” he who had “set up Marcus Brutus for his pattern,” and perished on the scaffold—a martyr for the “good old cause,” one of the many victims of the meanest and most worthless of his race. With the memories of these three marvellous men—the Sidneys, Henry, Philip, and Algernon—are closely blended those of the worthies of the two most remarkable eras in English history. Who can speak of Penshurst without thinking of Spenser, (“For Sidney heard him sing, and knew his voice,”) of Shakspere, of Ben Jonson—the laureate of the place—of Raleigh, the “friend and frequent guest” of Broke, whose proudest boast is recorded on his tomb, that he was “the servant of Queen Elizabeth, the counsellor of King James, and THE FRIEND of Sir Philip Sidney”—of the many other immortal men who made the reign of Elizabeth the glory of all time? Reverting to a period less remote, who can think of Penshurst without speaking of the high spirits of a troubled age— “The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington, Young Vane, and others, who called Milton—friend.” Although its glory is of the past, and nearly two centuries have intervened between the latest record of its greatness and its present state; although it has been silent all that time—a solemn silence, broken only by the false love-note of an unworthy minstrel, for the names of “Waller” and “Sacharissa” discredit rather than glorify its grey walls—who does not turn to Penshurst as to a refreshing fountain by the wayside of wearying history? [Illustration: _Penshurst, from the President’s Court._]