* Penshurst is situated in Kent, near Tunbridge, in a wide and rich valley. The grey walls and turrets of the old mansion; its mingled with the ancient fabric, present a very striking and venerable aspect. It is a fitting abode for the noble Sidneys. The park contains trees of enormous growth, and others to which past events and characters have given an everlasting interest; as Sir Philip Sidney's Oak, Saccharissa's Walk. Gamage's Bower, &c. The ancient massy oak tables remain; and from Jonson's description of the hospitality of the family, they must often have groaned with the weight of the feast. Mr William Howitt has given an interesting account of Penshurst in his Visits to Remarkable Places, 1840. high-peaked and red roofs, and the new buildings of fresh stone, Thou hast thy walks for health as well as sport; At his great birth where all the Muses met. Penshurst. There, in the writhed bark, are cut the names Of many a Sylvan token with his flames. And thence the ruddy Satyrs oft provoke The lighter Fauns to reach thy Ladies' Oak. Thy copse, too, named of Gamage, thou hast here That never fails, to serve thee, season'd deer, When thou would'st feast or exercise thy friends. The lower land that to the river bends, Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine, and calves do feed: The middle ground thy mares and horses breed. Each bank doth yield thee conies, and the tops Fertile of wood. Ashore, and Sidney's copse, To crown thy open table doth provide The purpled pheasant, with the speckled side: The painted partridge lies in every field, And, for thy mess, is willing to be kill'd. And if the high-swollen Medway fail thy dish, Thou hast thy ponds that pay thee tribute fish, Fat, aged carps that run into thy net, And pikes, now weary their own kind to eat, As loath the second draught or cast to stay, Officiously, at first, themselves betray. Bright eels that emulate them, and leap on land, Before the fisher, or into his hand. Thou hast thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers, The early cherry with the later plum, Fresh as the air, and new as are the hours. Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come: The blushing apricot and woolly peach Hang on thy walls that every child may reach. And though thy walls be of the country stone, They're rear'd with no man's ruin, no man's groan; There's none that dwell about them wish them down; But all come in, the farmer and the clown, And no one empty handed, to salute Thy lord and lady, though they have no suit. Some bring a capon, some a rural cake, Some nuts, some apples; some that think they make The better cheeses, bring them, or else send The need of such whose liberal board doth flow But gives me what I call, and lets me eat; On thy good lady then, who therein reap'd These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all; have been taught religion; thence Those proud ambitious heaps, and nothing else, To the Memory of my beloved Master, William Shakspeare, and what he hath left us. To draw no envy, Shakspeare, on thy name, That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses, Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, Of all, that insolent Greece or haughty Rome Of Shakspeare's mind and manners brightly shines In each of which he seems to shake a lance, And despairs day, but for thy volume's light! On the Portrait of Shakspeare. [Under the frontispiece to the first edition of his works: 1623] O could he but have drawn his wit, Not on his picture but his book.* *This attestation of Ben Jonson to the first engraved portrait of Shakspeare, seems to prove its fidelity as a likeness. The portrait corresponds with the monumental effigy at Stratford, but both represent a heavy and somewhat inelegant RICHARD CORBET. RICHARD CORBET (1582--1635) was the son of a man who, though only a gardener, must have possessed superior qualities, as he obtained the hearty commendations, in verse, of Ben Jonson. The son was educated at Westminster and Oxford, and having taken orders, he became successively bishop of Oxford and bishop of Norwich. The social quali ties of witty Bishop Corbet, and his never-failing vivacity, joined to a moderate share of dislike to the Puritans, recommended him to the patronage of King James, by whom he was raised to the mitre. His habits were rather too convivial for the dignity of his office, if we may credit some of the anecdotes which have been related of him. Meeting a balladsinger one market-day at Abingdon, and the man complaining that he could get no custom, the jolly doctor put off his gown, and arrayed himself in the leathern jacket of the itinerant vocalist, and being a handsome man, with a clear full voice, he presently vended the stock of ballads. One time, as he was confirming, the country people pressing in to see the ceremony, Corbet exclaimed-Bear off there, or I'll confirm ye with my staff.' The bishop and his chaplain, Dr Lushington, it is said, would sometimes repair to the wine-cellar together, and Corbet used to put off his episcopal hood, saying, There lies the doctor; then he put off his gown, saying, "There lies the bishop; then the toast went round, Here's to thee, Corbet; Here's to thee, Lushington.' Jovialities like these seem more like those of figure. There is, however, a placid good humour in the ex pression of the features, and much sweetness in the mouth and lips. The upper part of the head is bald, and the lofty forehead is conspicuous in both, as in the Chandos and other pictures. The general resemblance we have no doubt is correct, but considerable allowance must be made for the defective state of English art at this period. the jolly Friar of Copmanhurst than the acts of a Protestant bishop, but Corbet had higher qualities; his toleration, solid sense, and lively talents, procured him deserved esteem and respect. His poems were first collected and published in 1647. They are of a miscellaneous character, the best known being a Journey into France, written in a light easy strain of descriptive humour. The Farewell to the Fairies is equally lively, and more poetical. [To Vincent Corbet, his Son.] What I shall leave thee none can tell, Nor too much wealth, nor wit come to thee, I wish thee all thy mother's graces, [Journey to France.] I went from England into France, Nor yet to learn to cringe nor dance, Nor yet to ride nor fence: But I to Paris rode along, I on an ambling nag did get, And spurr'd him on each side. (The man that shows them snuffles), Her breast, her milk, her very gown When in the inn she lay. There is one of the cross's nails, And, if he will, may kneel. *This alludes to one of the most celebrated of the old English ballads. It was the favourite performance of the English minstrels, as lately as the reign of Charles II., and Dryden alludes to it as to the most hacknied thing of the time But Sunderland, Godolphin, Lory, When fiddlers sing at feasts. Rilson's Ancient Songs, p. 163 There is a lanthorn which the Jews, And then 'twas very light. There's one saint there hath lost his nose: His elbow and his thumb. We came to Paris on the Seine, There many strange things are to see, The Place Royal doth excel: For learning, th' University; The house the Queen did build. And there the King was killed: But if you'll see the prettiest thing, He is, of all his dukes and peers, Farewell to the Fairies. Farewell rewards and fairies, Good housewives now may say, For now foul sluts in dairies Do fare as well as they. And though they sweep their hearths no less Than maids were wont to do, Yet who of late, for cleanliness, Finds sixpence in her shoe? Lament, lament, old Abbeys, The fairies lost command; They did but change priests' babies, But some have changed your land; At morning and at evening both, These pretty ladies had; When Tom came home from labour, Louis XIII. Witness those rings and roundelays Or else they take their ease. SIR JOHN BEAUMONT-DR HENRY KING. En Among the numerous minor poets who flourished, or rather composed, in the reign of James, were SIR JOHN BEAUMONT (1582-1628) and DR HENRY KING, bishop of Chichester (1591-1669). The former was the elder brother of the celebrated dramatist. joying the family estate of Grace Dieu, in Leicestershire, Sir John dedicated part of his leisure hours to the service of the Muses. He wrote a poem on Bosworth Field in the heroic couplet, which, though generally cold and unimpassioned, exhibits correct and forcible versification. As a specimen, we subjoin Richard's animated address to his troops on the eve of the decisive battle: My fellow soldiers! though your swords name. Be still yourselves! Ye fight against the dross Sir John Beaumont wrote the heroic couplet with great ease and correctness. In a poem to the memory of Ferdinando Pulton, Esq., are the following excellent verses: Why should vain sorrow follow him with tears, Whose thread exceeds the usual bounds of life, The shortest space, which we so lightly prize On my dear Son, Gervase Beaumont. Can I, who have for others oft compiled The songs of death, forget my sweetest child, Which like a flow'r crush'd with a blast, is dead, And ere full time hangs down his smiling head, Expecting with clear hope to live anew, Among the angels fed with heavenly dew? We have this sign of joy, that many days, While on the earth his struggling spirit stays, The name of Jesus in his mouth contains His only food, his sleep, his ease from pains. O may that sound be rooted in my mind, Of which in him such strong effect I find! Dear Lord, receive my son, whose winning love To me was like a friendship, far above The course of nature, or his tender age; Whose looks could all my bitter griefs assuage: Let his pure soul-ordain'd seven years to be In that frail body, which was part of meRemain my pledge in heaven, as sent to show How to this port at every step I go. Dr Henry King, who was chaplain to James I., and did honour to the church preferment which was bestowed upon him, was best known as a religious poet. His language and imagery are chaste and refined. Of his lighter verse, the following song may suffice: Song. Dry those fair, those crystal eyes, To drown their banks: grief's sullen brooks Then clear those waterish stars again, Sic Vita. Like to the falling of a star, The wind blows out, the bubble dies; The spring entomb'd in autumn lies; The dew dries up, the star is shot; The flight is past-and man forgot. The Dirge. What is the existence of man's life, It is a flower-which buds, and grows, It is a weary interlude Which doth short joys, long woes, include; FRANCIS BEAUMONT. most conspicuous as a dramatist, in union with that FRANCIS BEAUMONT (1585-1616), whose name is of Fletcher, wrote a small number of miscellaneous pieces, which his brother published after his death. Some of these youthful effusions are witty and amusing; others possess a lyrical sweetness; and a few are grave and moralising. The most celebrated is the letter to Ben Jonson, which was originally published at the end of the play Nice Valour,' with the following title: Mr Francis Beaumont's letter to Ben Jonson, written before he and Master Fletcher came to London, with two of the precedent comedies then not finished, which deferred their merry meetings at the Mermaid.' Notwithstanding the admiration of Beaumont for 'Rare Ben,' he copied Shakspeare in the style of his dramas. Fletcher, however, was still more Shakspearian than his associate. Hazlitt says finely of the premature death of Beaumont and his more poetical friendThe bees were said to have come and built their Ihive in the mouth of Plato when a child; and the fable might be transferred to the sweeter accents of Beaumont and Fletcher. Beaumont died at the age of five-and-twenty [thirty]. One of these writers makes Bellario, the page, say to Philaster, who threatens to take his life "Tis not a life, "Tis but a piece of childhood thrown away. |