From the peaceful labours of the poet, Sir Philip was now summoned to stir amid the fury and riot of the field; and, foremost in the battle, was struck in the thigh as for the third time he was charging the enemy at the head of his troops. Being borne from the field, and parched with loss of blood (the story is somewhat musty, but we cannot forbear re-relating it), he called for some water, which was brought him. As he was lifting it to his lips, he observed a poor soldier carried along severely wounded, who cast an anxious longing look upon the bottle. Sir Philip instantly withdrew it from his own mouth, and delivered it to the poor fellow with these words: "Thy necessity is yet greater than mine." This last act of his life was characteristic of the whole of it, and neither Spenser's pen nor West's pencil could add a thought or shade to that memory which history awards him.

The celebrated republican Algernon Sidney, was of the same family, and during the government both of the Protector and his son Richard, lived in retirement at Penshurst, where he is supposed to have written his "Discourses on Government." Subsequently, he accepted the appointment of commissioner to mediate a peace between Denmark and Sweden, and while engaged in this embassy, the Restoration took place. His exile and death on the scaffold are so well known to every English reader, that an account of this unfortunate gentleman could be viewed in no other light than as a piece of impertinent supererogation.

Thus associated with two great names, conspicuous in history, Penshurst possesses an almost sacred claim to our reverence. The Countess of Pembroke, the sister of Sir Philip Sidney, whom we have already mentioned,

used to delight in its mazy walks and twilight stillness. This lady lies immortalised in the verse of Jonson. The following admired epitaph was designed for an inscription on her tomb, and written by that great poet.

Underneath this sable herse,

Lies the subject of all verse;
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother.
Death, ere thou hast kill'd another,
Fair, and learn'd, and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee.

SONNET FROM PETRARCH.

From what pure vein, love, didst thou delve the gold
To form those twin bright tresses? from what thorn
Those roses pluck? that snow so pure, so cold,

On what Alps find, my loved one to adorn ?
Where gav'st thou life to smiles inanimate,
Promethean Godhead! kindling with stol'n fire
Pearls set in coral? Beauty's whole attire
Which diadems her brows with more than royal state.

What winged angels' harps or seraphs' lyres

Taught their blest music to her gentle tongue?
And, say, what distant orb in ether hung
Supplied her bright eyes with those magic fires,
Whose flash arouses war and peace by turns,
Chills and inflames at once, freezes and burns?

THE STATUE.

BY THE REV. HOBART CAUNTER, B.D.

O, 'tis the curse of love, and still approv'd,

When women cannot love, where they're belov'd.

SHAKSPEARE.

I was born in Norway, of lordly lineage, and to more than a competency. I was the only survivor of eleven children, and was consequently indulged with that foolish disregard to futurity which so often brings a blight upon our manhood, after it has quenched the sportive happiness of infancy. I was naturally reserved and saturnine, and frequently the prey of a gloomy enthusiasm which, like the hidden fires of a volcano, effervesced unseen within when all was calm without. me, The rigid muscles of the countenance betrayed not the fierce conflict of the spirit. Though of a strange, unsocial temper, I was nevertheless timid to excess, and alive to the acutest feelings of sensibility. Abstraction was the atmosphere in which my spirit delighted to expatiate— here alone it found its home-here alone it seemed to "live and move and have its being." I was shunned by my companions on account of the repulsive aspect with which I generally greeted them, though at the moment that they were shrinking from my presence with an almost instinctive loathing, my bosom was frequently overflowing with the very milk of human kindness towards them. Alas! how was I misunderstood! my heart was a "sealed book ;" and because my countenance too sternly told that its "secrets were hid,” no volume of "black magic" could be more fearfully mis

How

trusted by my mercurial but suspicious compeers. rash does such a conclusion frequently prove! No mortal eye can penetrate the secret repository of another's bosom, yet my sombre lineaments were read as the index of mine, though they were really most faithless interpreters.

My father died when I was about two and twenty, leaving me the possession of a tolerably good estate. My paternal abode was situated nearly in the centre of a vast forest upon the borders of an oozy lake, from which a moat that surrounded the walls was constantly filled. This was a seclusion which suited well with the natural austerity of my taste. I was fond of contemplating nature in her most terrific sublimities, and here I was not without the opportunity. I had seen the pine-tree shivered by the lightning-I had beheld the rock riven by the thunderbolt-I had felt the shock of the earthquake, and witnessed the mighty crash of the avalanche. I had heard the unearthly roar of the maelstrom, and seen the vessel whirled into its foaming vortex, where the shriek of death was drowned in the fierce hiss of the whirlpool;-so that my mind was braced alike against the accidents of time and circumstance the contingencies of climate or of locality.

At the age of twenty-two, I found myself in the midst of a Norwegian forest, almost excluded from human intercourse. This, however, was not to me a matter of regret. I loved occupation, and therefore time never encumbered me with a sad burthen of unoccupied moments. My favourite employment was sculpture, of which I was extremely fond, and in which I was considered to excel. From a child I had manifested an extraordinary predilection for this art; and my parents,

in order to gratify my ambition of distinction as a sculptor, sent me to Rome, where I studied all the finest specimens of ancient and modern art. My progress in improvement was rapid, and I was flattered by the approbation of some of the most celebrated masters of the period. Before I had attained the age of oneand-twenty, I was elected a member of the academy at Rome, and my works were already talked of as those of a young man likely to do honour to his age and country. I returned to Norway "with all my budding honours thick upon me," but was, nevertheless, not happy. There was a vacuum in my mind which I could not fill up-a longing after something that I could not realise. Being of a dreamy and ardent turn of mind, I had pictured to myself a Utopian state of happiness, which it was not in the nature of things that I could ever see fulfilled.

My mother died soon after my return from Rome, and I felt myself at once to be a solitary being cast upon the wide world, without a human creature either to claim my sympathies, or to fix my affections. I have said that my sensibility was strong, and easily excited. There was a tenderness in my nature which perpetually sought to exhibit itself; and I was therefore anxious to unite my destiny with that of some woman who should fix and concentrate it, making my tree of life to blossom and shed its fruits round my domestic hearth; who should share alike in my hopes and disappointments, and cast the sweets of domestic joy among those bitters with which the cup of my existence had, as I thought, so lavishly overflowed. I, however, met no such object. I had seen many clever, many accomplished, many handsome women; but there were such failings in all that I could