Chapter L: E. L.--Monthly Magazine (1)

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TIMBER IN BOGS.

It is stated in the second report of the commissioners on the bogs of Ireland, that _three_ distinct growths of timber, covered by three distinct masses of bog, are discovered on examination. But whether these morasses were at first formed by the destruction of whole forests, or merely by the stagnation of water in places where its current was choked by the fall of a few trees, and by accumulations of branches and leaves, carried down from the surrounding hills, is a question.

Professor Davy is of opinion, that in many places where forests had grown undisturbed, the trees on the outside of the woods grew stronger than the rest, from their exposure to the air and sun; and that, when mankind attempted to establish themselves near these forests, they cut down the large trees on their borders, which opened the internal part, where the trees were weak and slender, to the influence of the wind, which, as is commonly to be seen in such circumstances, had immediate power to sweep down the whole of the internal parts of the forest. The large timber obstructed the passage of vegetable recrement, and of earth falling towards the rivers; the weak timber, in the internal part of the forest after it had fallen, soon decayed, and became the food of future vegetation.

Mr. Kirwan observes, that whatever trees are found in bogs, though the wood may be perfectly sound, the bark of the timber has uniformly disappeared, and the decomposition of this bark forms a considerable part of the nutritive substance of morasses. Notwithstanding this circumstance, tanning is not to be obtained in analysing bogs; their antiseptic quality is however indisputable, for animal and vegetable substances are frequently found at a great depth in bogs, without their seeming to have suffered any decay; these substances cannot have been deposited in them at a very remote period, because their form and texture is such as were common a few centuries ago. In 1786 there were found, seventeen feet below the surface of a bog in Mr. Kirwan’s district, a woollen coat of coarse, but even, network, exactly in the form of what is now called a spencer; a razor, with a wooden handle, some iron heads of arrows, and large wooden bowls, some only half made, were also found, with the remains of turning tools: these were obviously the wreck of a workshop, which was probably situated on the borders of a forest. The coat was presented by him to the Antiquarian Society. These circumstances countenance the supposition, that the encroachments of men upon forests destroyed the first barriers against the force of the wind, and that afterwards, according to sir H. Davy’s suggestion, the trees of weaker growth, which had not room to expand, or air and sunshine to promote their increase, soon gave way to the elements.

* * * * *

MODES OF SALUTATION.

Greenlanders have none, and laugh at the idea of one person being inferior to another.

Islanders near the Philippines take a person’s hand or foot, and rub it over their face.

Laplanders apply their noses strongly against the person they salute.

In New Guinea, they place leaves upon the head of those they salute.

In the Straits of the Sound they raise the left foot of the person saluted, pass it gently over the right leg, and thence over the face.

The inhabitants of the Philippines bend very low, placing their hands on their cheeks, and raise one foot in the air, with the knee bent.

An Ethiopian takes the robe of another and ties it about him, so as to leave his friend almost naked.

The Japanese take off a slipper, and the people of Arracan their sandals, in the street, and their stockings in the house, when they salute.

Two Negro kings on the coast of Africa, salute by snapping the middle finger three times.

The inhabitants of Carmene, when they would show a particular attachment, breathe a vein, and present the blood to their friend as a beverage.

If the Chinese meet, after a long separation, they fall on their knees, bend their face to the earth two or three times, and use many other affected modes. They have also a kind of ritual, or “academy of compliments,” by which they regulate the number of bows, genuflections, and words to be spoken upon any occasion. Ambassadors practise these ceremonies forty days before they appear at court.

In Otaheite, they rub their noses together.

The Dutch, who are considered as great eaters, have a morning salutation, common amongst all ranks, “Smaakelyk eeten?”--“May you eat a hearty dinner.” Another is, “Hoe vaart awe.”--“How do you sail?” adopted, no doubt, in the early periods of the republic, when they were all navigators and fishermen.

The usual salutation at Cairo is, “How do you sweat?” a dry hot skin being a sure indication of a destructive ephemeral fever. Some author has observed, in contrasting the haughty Spaniard with the frivolous Frenchman, that the proud, steady gait and inflexible solemnity of the former, were expressed in his mode of salutation, “Come esta?”--“How do you stand?” whilst the “Comment vous portez-vous?” “How do you carry yourself?” was equally expressive of the gay motion and incessant action of the latter.

The common salutation in the southern provinces of China, amongst the lower orders, is, “Ya fan?”--“Have you eaten your rice?”

In Africa, a young woman, an intended bride, brought a little water in a calabash, and kneeling down before her lover, desired him to wash his hands; when he had done this, the girl, with a tear of joy sparkling in her eyes, drank the water; this was considered as the greatest proof she could give of her fidelity and attachment.

* * * * *

~Omniana.~

POETRY.

_For the Table Book._

The poesy of the earth, sea, air, and sky,
Though death is powerful in course of time
With wars and battlements, will never die.
But triumph in the silence of sublime
Survival. Frost, like tyranny, might climb
The nurseling germs of favourite haunts; the roots
Will grow hereafter. Terror on the deep
Is by the calm subdu’d, that Beauty e’en might creep
On moonlight waves to coral rest. The fruits
Blush in the winds, and from the branches leap
To mossy beds existing in the ground.
Stars swim unseen, through solar hemispheres,
Yet in the floods of night, how brightly round
The zone of poesy, they reflect the rolling years.

P.

* * * * *

A BAD SIGN.

During a late calling out of the North Somerset yeomanry, at Bath, the service of one of them, a “Batcome boy,” was enlivened by a visit from his sweetheart; after escorting her over the city, and being fatigued with showing her what she had “ne’er zeed in all her life,” he knocked loudly at the door of a house in the Crescent, against which a hatchment was placed, and on the appearance of the powdered butler, boldly ordered “two glasses of scalded wine, as hot as thee canst make it.” The man, staring, informed him he could have no scalded wine there--’twas no public-house. “Then dose thee head,” replied Somerset, “what’st hang out thik there zign var.”

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INSCRIPTION

FOR A TOMB TO THE MEMORY OF CAPTAIN HEWITSON, OF THE SHIP, TOWN OF
ULVERSTON.

_By James Montgomery, Esq._

Weep for a seaman, honest and sincere,
Not cast away, but brought to anchor here;
Storms had o’erwhelm’d him, but the conscious wave
Repented, and resign’d him to the grave:
In harbour, safe from shipwreck, now he lies,
Till Time’s last signal blazes through the skies:
Refitted in a moment, then shall he
Sail from this port on an eternal sea.

Vol. I.--7.

He only who is “noseless himself” will deem this a trifling article. My prime minister of pleasure is my snuff-box. The office grew out of my “liking a pinch, now and then,” and carrying a bit of snuff, screwed up in paper, wherewith, some two or three times a day, I delighted to treat myself to a sensation, and a sneeze. Had I kept a journal of my snuff-taking business from that time, it would have been as instructive as “the life of that learned antiquary, Elias Ashmole, Esq., drawn up by himself by way of diary;” in submitting which to the world, its pains-taking editor says, that such works “let us into the secret history of the affairs of their several times, discover the springs of motion, and display many valuable, though minute circumstances, overlooked or unknown to our general historians; and, to conclude all, satiate our largest curiosity.” A comparative view of the important annals of Mr. Ashmole, and some reminiscent incidents of my snuff-taking, I reserve for my autobiography.

To manifest the necessity of my present brief undertaking, I beg to state, that I still remain under the disappointment of drawings, complained of in the former sheet. I resorted on this, as on all difficult occasions, to a pinch of snuff; and, having previously resolved on taking “the first thing that came uppermost,” for an engraving and a topic, my hand first fell on the top of my snuff-box. If the reader be angry because I have told the truth, it is no more than I expect; for, in nine cases out of ten, a preference is given to a pretence, though privily known to be a falsehood by those to whom it is offered.

As soon as I wear out one snuff-box I get another--a silver one, and I, parted company long ago. My customary boxes have been _papier-maché_, plain black: for if I had any figure on the lid it was suspected to be some hidden device; an answer of direct negation was a ground of doubt, offensively expressed by an insinuating smile, or the more open rudeness of varied questions. This I could only resist by patience; but the _parlement_ excise on that virtue was more than I could afford, and therefore my choice of a black box. The last of that colour I had worn out, at a season when I was unlikely to have more than three or four visitors worth a pinch of snuff, and I then bought _this_ box, because it was two-thirds cheaper than the former, and because I approved the pictured ornament. While the tobacconist was securing my shilling, he informed me that the figure had utterly excluded it from the choice of every one who had noticed it. My selection was agreeable to him in a monied view, yet, both he, and his man, eyed the box so unkindly, that I fancied they extended their dislike to me; and I believe they did. Of the few who have seen it since, it has been favourably received by only one--my little Alice--who, at a year old, prefers it before all others for a plaything, and even accepts it as a substitute for myself, when I wish to slip away from her caresses. The elder young ones call it the “ugly old man,” but _she_ admires it, as the innocent infant, in the story-book, did the harmless snake, with whom he daily shared his bread-and-milk breakfast. I regard it as the likeness of an infirm human being, who, especially requiring comfort and protection, is doomed to neglect and insult from childhood to the grave; and all this from no self-default, but the accident of birth--as if the unpurposed cruelty of nature were a warrant for man’s perversion and wickedness. Of the individual I know nothing, save what the representation seems to tell--that he lives in the world, and is not of it. His basket, with a few pamphlets for sale, returns good, in the shape of knowledge, to evil doers, who, as regards himself, are not to be instructed. His upward look is a sign--common to these afflicted ones--of inward hope of eternal mercy, in requital for temporal injustice: besides that, and his walking-staff, he appears to have no other support on earth. The intelligence of his patient features would raise desire, were he alive and before me, to learn by what process he gained the understanding they express: his face is not more painful, and I think scarcely less wise than Locke’s, if we may trust the portrait of that philosopher. In the summer, after a leisure view of the Dulwich gallery for the first time, I found myself in the quiet parlour of a little-frequented road-side house, enjoying the recollections of a few glorious pictures in that munificent exhibition; while pondering with my box in my hand, the print on its lid diverted me into a long reverie on what he, whom represented, might have been under other circumstances, and I felt not alone on the earth while there was another as lonely. Since then, this “garner for my grain” has been worn out by constant use; with every care, it cannot possibly keep its service a month longer. I shall regret the loss: for its little Deformity has been my frequent and pleasant companion in many a solitary hour;--the box itself is the only one I ever had, wherein simulated or cooling friendship has not dipped.

*

* * * * *

~Garrick Plays.~

No. IV.

[From “All Fools” a Comedy by George Chapman: 1605.]

_Love’s Panegyric._

-------------’tis Nature’s second Sun,
Causing a spring of Virtues where he shines;
And as without the Sun, the world’s Great Eye,
All colours, beauties, both of art and nature,
Are given in vain to man; so without Love
All beauties bred in women are in vain,
All virtues born in men lie buried;
For Love _informs_ them as the Sun doth colours
And as the Sun, reflecting his warm beams
Against the earth, begets all fruits and flowers
So Love, fair shining in the inward man,
Brings forth in him the honourable fruits
Of valour, wit, virtue, and haughty thoughts.
Brave resolution, and divine discourse.

_Love with Jealousy._

--------such Love is like a smoky fire
In a cold morning. Though the fire be chearful,
Yet is the smoke so foul and cumbersome,
’Twere better lose the fire than find the smoke.

_Bailiffs routed._

I walking in the place where men’s Law Suits
Are heard and pleaded, not so much as dreaming
Of any such encounter; steps me forth
Their valiant Foreman with the word “I ’rest you.”
I made no more ado but laid these paws
Close on his shoulders, tumbling him to earth;
And there sat he on his posteriors
Like a baboon: and turning me about,
I strait espied the whole troop issuing on me.
I step me back, and drawing my old friend here.
Made to the midst of ’em, and all unable
To endure the shock, all rudely fell in rout.
And down the stairs they ran in such a fury,
As meeting with a troop of Lawyers there,
Mann’d by their Clients (some with ten, some with twenty,
Some five, some three; he that had least had one),
Upon the stairs, they bore them down afore them.
But such a rattling then there was amongst them.
Of ravish’d Declarations, Replications,
Rejoinders, and Petitions, all their books
And writings torn, and trod on, and some lost,
That the poor Lawyers coming to the Bar
Could say nought to the matter, but instead
Were fain to rail, and talk beside their books,
Without all order.

* * * * *

[From the “Late Lancashire Witches,” a Comedy, by Thomas Heywood.]

_A Household Bewitched._

My Uncle has of late become the sole
Discourse of all the country; for of a man respected
As master of a govern’d family,
The House (as if the ridge were fix’d below,
And groundsils lifted up to make the roof)
All now’s turn’d topsy-turvy,
In such a retrograde and preposterous way
As seldom hath been heard of, I think never.
The Good Man
In all obedience kneels unto his Son;
He with an austere brow commands his Father.
The Wife presumes not in the Daughter’s sight
Without a prepared curtsy; the Girl she
Expects it as a duty; chides her Mother,
Who quakes and trembles at each word she speaks.
And what’s as strange, the Maid--she domineers
O’er her young Mistress, who is awed by her.
The Son, to whom the Father creeps and bends,
Stands in as much fear of the groom his Man!
All in such rare disorder, that in some
As it breeds pity, and in others wonder,
So in the most part laughter. It is thought,
This comes by WITCHCRAFT.

* * * * *

[From “Wit in a Constable,” a Comedy, by Henry Glapthorn.]

_Books._

_Collegian._ Did you, ere we departed from the College,
O’erlook my Library?
_Servant._ Yes, Sir; and I find,
Altho’ you tell me Learning is immortal,
The paper and the parchment ’tis contain’d in
Savours of much mortality.
The moths have eaten more
Authentic Learning, than would richly furnish
A hundred country pedants; yet the worms
Are not one letter wiser.

C. L.

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THE TURK IN CHEAPSIDE

_For the Table Book._

TO MR. CHARLES LAMB.

I have a favour to ask of you. My desire is this: I would fain see a stream from thy Hippocrene flowing through the pages of the _Table Book_. A short article on the old Turk, who used to vend rhubarb in the City, I greatly desiderate. Methinks you would handle the subject delightfully. They tell us he is gone----

We have not seen him for some time past--Is he really dead? Must we hereafter speak of him only in the past tense? You are said to have divers strange items in your brain about him--Vent them I beseech you.

Poor Mummy!--How many hours hath he dreamt away on the sunny side of Cheap, with an opium cud in his cheek, mutely proffering his drug to the way-farers! That deep-toned bell above him, doubtless, hath often brought to his recollection the loud Allah-il-Allahs to which he listened heretofore in his fatherland--the city of minaret and mosque, old Constantinople. Will he never again be greeted by the nodding steeple of Bow?--Perhaps that ancient beldame, with her threatening head and loud tongue, at length effrayed the sallow being out of existence.

Hath his soul, in truth, echapped from that swarthy cutaneous case of which it was so long a tenant? Hath he glode over that gossamer bridge which leads to the paradise of the prophet of Mecca? Doth he pursue his old calling among the faithful? Are the blue-eyed beauties (those living diamonds) who hang about the neck of Mahomet ever qualmish? Did the immortal Houris lack rhubarb?

Prithee teach us to know more than we do of this Eastern mystery! Have some of the ministers of the old Magi eloped with him? Was he in truth a Turk? We have heard suspicions cast upon the authenticity of his complexion--was its tawniness a forgery? Oh! for a _quo warranto_ to show by what authority he wore a turban! Was there any hypocrisy in his sad brow?--Poor Mummy!

The editor of the _Table Book_ ought to perpetuate his features. He was part of the living furniture of the city--Have not our grandfathers seen him?

The tithe of a page from thy pen on this subject, surmounted by “a true portraicture & effigies,” would be a treat to me and many more. If thou art stil ELIA--if thou art yet that gentle creature who has immortalized his predilection for the sow’s baby--roasted without sage--this boon wilt thou not deny me. Take the matter upon thee speedily.--Wilt thou not endorse thy Pegasus with this pleasant fardel?

An’ thou wilt not I shall be malicious and wish thee some trifling evil: to wit--by way of revenge for the appetite which thou hast created among the reading public for the infant progeny--the rising generation of swine--I will wish that some of the old demoniac leaven may rise up against thee in the modern pigs:--that thy sleep may be vexed with swinish visions; that a hog in armour, or a bashaw of a boar of three tails, may be thy midnight familiar--thy incubus;--that matronly sows may howl after thee in thy walks for their immolated offspring;--that Mab may tickle thee into fits “with a tithe-pig’s tail;”--that wheresoever thou goest to finger cash for copyright, instead of being paid in coin current, thou mayst be enforced to receive thy _per-sheetage_ in guinea-pigs;--that thou mayst frequently dream thou art sitting on a hedge-hog;--that even as Oberon’s Queen doated on the translated Bottom, so may thy batchelorly brain doat upon an ideal image of the swine-faced lady----

Finally, I will wish, that when next G. D. visits thee, he may, by mistake, take away thy hat, and leave thee his own----

“Think of that Master Brook.”--

Yours ever,

E. C. _M. D._

_January 31, 1827._

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~Literature.~

GLANCES AT NEW BOOKS ON MY TABLE.

SPECIMENS OF BRITISH POETESSES; selected, and chronologically
arranged, by the Rev. _Alexander Dyce_, 1827, cr. 8vo. pp. 462.

Mr. Dyce remarks that, “from the great Collections of the English Poets, where so many worthless compositions find a place, the productions of women have been carefully excluded.” This utter neglect of female talent produces a counteracting effort: “the object of the present volume is to exhibit the growth and progress of the genius of our countrywomen in the department of poetry.” The collection of “Poems by eminent Ladies,” edited by the elder Colman and Bonnel Thornton, contained specimens of only eighteen female writers; Mr. Dyce offers specimens of the poetry of eighty-eight, ten of whom are still living. He commences with the dame Juliana Berners, Prioress of the Nunnery of Sopwell, “who resembled an abbot in respect of exercising an extensive manorial jurisdiction, and who hawked and hunted in common with other ladies of distinction,” and wrote in rhyme on field sports. The volume concludes with Miss Landon, whose initials, L. E. L., are attached to a profusion of talented poetry, in different journals.

The following are not to be regarded as examples of the charming variety selected by Mr. Dyce, in illustration of his purpose, but rather as “specimens” of peculiar thinking, or for their suitableness to the present time of the year.

Our language does not afford a more truly noble specimen of verse, dignified by high feeling, than the following chorus from “The Tragedy of Mariam, 1613,” ascribed to lady Elizabeth Carew.

_Revenge of Injuries._

The fairest action of our human life
Is scorning to revenge an injury;
For who forgives without a further strife.
His adversary’s heart to him doth tie.
And ’tis a firmer conquest truly said,
To win the heart, than overthrow the head.

If we a worthy enemy do find,
To yield to worth it must be nobly done;
But if of baser metal be his mind,
In base revenge there is no honour won.
Who would a worthy courage overthrow,
And who would wrestle with a worthless foe?

We say our hearts are great and cannot yield;
Because they cannot yield, it proves them poor:
Great hearts are task’d beyond their power, but seld
The weakest lion will the loudest roar.
Truth’s school for certain doth this same allow,
High-heartedness doth sometimes teach to bow.

A noble heart doth teach a virtuous scorn,
To scorn to owe a duty overlong;
To scorn to be for benefits forborne,
To scorn to lie, to scorn to do a wrong.
To scorn to bear an injury in mind,
To scorn a free-born heart slave-like to bind.

But if for wrongs we needs revenge must have,
Then be our vengeance of the noblest kind;
Do we his body from our fury save,
And let our hate prevail against our mind?
What can, ’gainst him a greater vengeance be,
Than make his foe more worthy far than he?

Had Mariam scorn’d to leave a due unpaid,
She would to Herod then have paid her love,
And not have been by sullen passion sway’d.
To fix her thoughts all injury above
Is virtuous pride. Had Mariam thus been proud.
Long famous life to her had been allow’d.

Margaret duchess of Newcastle, who died in 1673, “filled nearly twelve volumes folio with plays, poems, orations, philosophical discourses,” and miscellaneous pieces. Her lord also amused himself with his pen. This noble pair were honoured by the ridicule of Horace Walpole, who had more taste than feeling; and, notwithstanding the great qualities of the duke, who sacrificed three quarters of a million in thankless devotion to the royal cause, and, though the virtues of his duchess are unquestionable, the author of “The Dormant and Extinct Baronage of England” joins Walpole in contempt of their affection, and the means they employed to render each other happy during retirement. This is an extract from one of the duchess’s poems:--

_Melancholy._

I dwell in groves that gilt are with the sun,
Sit on the banks by which clear waters run;
In summers hot down in a shade I lie.
My music is the buzzing of a fly;
I walk in meadows, where grows fresh green grass,
In fields, where corn is high, I often pass;
Walk up the hills, where round I prospects see,
Some brushy woods, and some all champains be;
Returning back, I in fresh pastures go,
To hear how sheep do bleat, and cows do low;
In winter cold, when nipping frosts come on,
Then I do live in a small house alone;
Altho’ tis plain, yet cleanly ’tis within,
Like to a soul that’s pure and clear from sin;
And there I dwell in quiet and still peace,
Not fill’d with cares how riches to increase;
I wish nor seek for vain and fruitless pleasures,
No riches are, but what the mind intreasures.
Thus am I solitary, live alone.
Yet better lov’d, the more that I am known;
And tho’ my face ill-favour’d at first sight,
After acquaintance it will give delight.
Refuse me not, for I shall constant be,
Maintain your credit and your dignity.

Elizabeth Thomas, (born 1675, died 1730,) in the fifteenth year of her age, was disturbed in her mind, by the sermons she heard in attending her grandmother at meetings, and by the reading of high predestinarian works. She “languished for some time,” in expectation of the publication of bishop Burnet’s work on the Thirty-nine Articles. When she read it, the bishop seemed to her more candid in stating the doctrines of the sects, than explicit in his own opinion; and, in this perplexity, retiring to her closet, she entered on a self-discussion, and wrote the following poem:--

_Predestination, or, the Resolution._

Ah! strive no more to know what fate
Is preordain’d for thee:
’Tis vain in this my mortal state,
For Heaven’s inscrutable decree
Will only be reveal’d in vast Eternity.
Then, O my soul!
Remember thy celestial birth,
And live to Heaven, while here on earth:
Thy God is infinitely true.
All Justice, yet all Mercy too:
To Him, then, thro’ thy Saviour, pray
For Grace, to guide thee on thy way,
And give thee Will to do.
But humbly, for the rest, my soul!
Let Hope, and Faith, the limits be
Of thy presumptuous curiosity!

Mary Chandler, born in 1687, the daughter of a dissenting minister at Bath, commended by Pope for her poetry, died in 1745. The specimen of her verse, selected by Mr. Dyce, is

_Temperance._

Fatal effects of luxury and ease!
We drink our poison, and we eat disease,
Indulge our senses at our reason’s cost,
Till sense is pain, and reason hurt, or lost.
Not so, O Temperance bland! when rul’d by thee,
The brute’s obedient, and the man is free.
Soft are his slumbers, balmy is his rest,
His veins not boiling from the midnight feast.
Touch’d by Aurora’s rosy hand, he wakes
Peaceful and calm, and with the world partakes
The joyful dawnings of returning day,
For which their grateful thanks the whole creation pay,
All but the human brute: ’tis he alone,
Whose works of darkness fly the rising sun.
’Tis to thy rules, O Temperance! that we owe
All pleasures, which from health and strength can flow;
Vigour of body, purity of mind,
Unclouded reason, sentiments refin’d,
Unmixt, untainted joys, without remorse,
Th’ intemperate sinner’s never-failing curse.

Elizabeth Tollet (born 1694, died 1754) was authoress of Susanna, a sacred drama, and poems, from whence this is a seasonable extract:--

_Winter Song._

Ask me no more, my truth to prove,
What I would suffer for my love:
With thee I would in exile go,
To regions of eternal snow;
O’er floods by solid ice confin’d;
Thro’ forest bare with northern wind;
While all around my eyes I cast,
Where all is wild and all is waste.
If there the timorous stag you chase,
Or rouse to fight a fiercer race,
Undaunted I thy arms would bear,
And give thy hand the hunter’s spear.
When the low sun withdraws his light,
And menaces an half year’s night.
The conscious moon and stars above
Shall guide me with my wandering love.
Beneath the mountain’s hollow brow.
Or in its rocky cells below,
Thy rural feast I would provide;
Nor envy palaces their pride;
The softest moss should dress thy bed,
With savage spoils about thee spread;
While faithful love the watch should keep.
To banish danger from thy sleep.

Mrs. Tighe died in 1810. Mr. Dyce says, “Of this highly-gifted Irishwoman, I have not met with any poetical account; but I learn, from the notes to her poems, that she was the daughter of the Rev. William Blachford, and that she died in her thirty-seventh year. In the _Psyche_ of Mrs. Tighe are several pictures, conceived in the true spirit of poetry; while over the whole composition is spread the richest glow of purified passion.” Besides specimens from that delightful poem, Mr. Dyce extracts

_The Lily_.

How wither’d, perish’d seems the form
Of yon obscure unsightly root!
Yet from the blight of wintry storm,
It hides secure the precious fruit.

The careless eye can find no grace,
No beauty in the scaly folds,
Nor see within the dark embrace
What latent loveliness it holds.

Yet in that bulb, those sapless scales,
The lily wraps her silver vest,
Till vernal suns and vernal gales
Shall kiss once more her fragrant breast.

Yes, hide beneath the mouldering heap
The undelighting slighted thing;
There in the cold earth buried deep,
In silence let it wait the Spring.

Oh! many a stormy night shall close
In gloom upon the barren earth,
While still, in undisturb’d repose,
Uninjur’d lies the future birth;

And Ignorance, with sceptic eye,
Hope’s patient smile shall wondering view;
Or mock her fond credulity,
As her soft tears the spot bedew.

Sweet smile of hope, delicious tear!
The sun, the shower indeed shall come;
The promis’d verdant shoot appear.
And nature bid her blossoms bloom.

And thou, O virgin Queen of Spring!
Shalt, from thy dark and lowly bed,
Bursting thy green sheath’d silken string,
Unveil thy charms, and perfume shed;

Unfold thy robes of purest white,
Unsullied from their darksome grave,
And thy soft petals’ silvery light
In the mild breeze unfetter’d wave.

So Faith shall seek the lowly dust
Where humble Sorrow loves to lie,
And bid her thus her hopes intrust,
And watch with patient, cheerful eye;

And bear the long, cold wintry night,
And bear her own degraded doom,
And wait till Heaven’s reviving light,
Eternal Spring! shall burst the gloom.

Every one is acquainted with the beautiful ballad which is the subject of the following notice; yet the succinct history, and the present accurate text, may justify the insertion of both.

_Lady Anne Barnard._

Born ---- died 1825.

Sister of the late Earl of Balcarras, and wife of Sir Andrew Barnard,
wrote the charming song of _Auld Robin Gray_.

A quarto tract, edited by “the Ariosto of the North,” and circulated
among the members of the Bannatyne Club, contains the original ballad,
as corrected by Lady Anne, and two Continuations by the same
authoress; while the Introduction consists almost entirely of a very
interesting letter from her to the Editor, dated July 1823, part of
which I take the liberty of inserting here:--

“‘Robin Gray,’ so called from its being the name of the old herd at
Balcarras, was born soon after the close of the year 1771. My sister
Margaret had married, and accompanied her husband to London; I was
melancholy, and endeavoured to amuse myself by attempting a few
poetical trifles. There was an ancient Scotch melody, of which I was
passionately fond; ---- ----, who lived before your day, used to sing
it to us at Balcarras. She did not object to its having improper
words, though I did. I longed to sing old Sophy’s air to different
words, and give to its plaintive tones some little history of virtuous
distress in humble life, such as might suit it. While attempting to
effect this in my closet, I called to my little sister, now Lady
Hardwicke, who was the only person near me, ‘I have been writing a
ballad, my dear; I am oppressing my heroine with many misfortunes. I
have already sent her Jamie to sea--and broken her father’s arm--and
made her mother fall sick--and given her Auld Robin Gray for her
lover; but I wish to load her with a fifth sorrow within the four
lines, poor thing! Help me to one.’--‘Steal the cow, sister Anne,’
said the little Elizabeth. The cow was immediately _lifted_ by me, and
the song completed. At our fireside, and amongst our neighbours,
‘Auld Robin Gray’ was always called for. I was pleased in secret with
the approbation it met with; but such was _my dread_ of being
suspected of writing _anything_, perceiving the shyness it created in
those who could write _nothing_, that I carefully kept my own
secret. * * * *

“Meantime, little as this matter seems to have been worthy of a
dispute, it afterwards became a party question between the sixteenth
and eighteenth centuries. ‘Robin Gray’ was either a very very ancient
ballad, composed perhaps by David Rizzio, and a great curiosity, or a
very very modern matter, and no curiosity at all. I was persecuted to
avow whether I had written it or not,--where I had got it. Old Sophy
kept my counsel, and I kept my own, in spite of the gratification of
seeing a reward of twenty guineas offered in the newspapers to the
person who should ascertain the point past a doubt, and the still more
flattering circumstance of a visit from Mr. Jerningham, secretary to
the Antiquarian Society, who endeavoured to entrap the truth from me
in a manner I took amiss. Had he asked me the question obligingly, I
should have told him the fact distinctly and confidentially. The
annoyance, however, of this important ambassador from the Antiquaries,
was amply repaid to me by the noble exhibition of the ‘Ballat of Auld
Robin Gray’s Courtship,’ as performed by dancing-cogs under my window.
It proved its popularity from the highest to the lowest, and gave me
pleasure while I hugged myself in obscurity.”

The two versions of the second part were written many years after the
first; in them, Auld Robin Gray falls sick,--confesses that he himself
stole the cow, in order to force Jenny to marry him,--leaves to Jamie
all his possessions,--dies,--and the young couple, of course, are
united. Neither of the Continuations is given here, because, though
both are beautiful, they are very inferior to the original tale, and
greatly injure its effect.

_Auld Robin Gray_.[47]

When the sheep are in the fauld, when the cows come hame,
When a’ the weary world to quiet rest are gane,
The woes of my heart fa’ in showers frae my ee,
Unken’d by my gudeman, who soundly sleeps by me.

Young Jamie loo’d me weel, and sought me for his bride;
But saving ae crown-piece, he’d naething else beside.
To make the crown a pound,[48] my Jamie gaed to sea;
And the crown and the pound, O they were baith for me!

Before he had been gane a twelvemonth and a day.
My father brak his arm, our cow was stown away;
My mother she fell sick--my Jamie was at sea--
And auld Robin Gray, oh! he came a-courting me,

My father cou’dna work--my mother cou’dna spin;
I toil’d day and night, but their bread I cou’dna win;
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi’ tears in his ee,
Said, “Jenny, oh! for their sakes, will you marry me?”

My heart it said na, and I look’d for Jamie back;
But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack:
His ship it was a wrack! Why didna Jamie dee?
Or, wherefore am I spar’d to cry out, Woe is me!

My father argued sair--my mother didna speak,
But she look’d in my face till my heart was like to break;
They gied him my hand, but my heart was in the sea;
And so auld Robin Gray, he was gudeman to me.

I hadna been his wife a week but only four,
When mournfu’ as I sat on the stane at my door,
I saw my Jamie’s ghaist--I cou’dna think it he,
Till he said, “I’m come hame, my love, to marry thee!”

O sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of a’;
Ae kiss we took, nae mair--I bad him gang awa.
I wish that I were dead, but I’m no like to dee;
For O, I am but young to cry out, Woe is me!

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin;
I darena think o’ Jamie, for that wad be a sin.
But I will do my best a gude wife aye to be,
For auld Robin Gray, oh! he is sae kind to me.

The great and remarkable merit of Mr. Dyce is, that in this beautifully printed volume, he has reared imperishable columns to the honour of the sex, without a questionable trophy. His “specimens” are an assemblage so individually charming, that the mind is delighted by every part whereon the eye rests, and scrupulosity itself cannot make a single rejection on pretence of inadequate merit. He comes as a rightful herald, marshalling the perfections of each poetess, and discriminating with so much delicacy, that each of his pages is a page of honour to a high-born grace, or dignified beauty. His book is an elegant tribute to departed and living female genius; and while it claims respect from every lady in the land for its gallantry to the fair, its intrinsic worth is sure to force it into every well-appointed library.

[47] The text of the corrected copy is followed.

[48] “I must also mention” (says lady Anne, in the letter already
quoted) “the laird of Dalziel’s advice, who, in a _tête-à-tête_,
afterwards said, ‘My dear, the next time you sing that song, try to
change the words a wee bit, and instead of singing, ‘To make the crown
a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea,’ say, to make it twenty merks, for a
Scottish pund is but twenty pence, and Jamie was na such a gowk as to
leave Jenny and gang to sea to lessen his gear. It is that line
[whisper’d he] that tells me that sang was written by some bonnie
lassie that didna ken the value of the Scots money quite so well as an
auld writer in the town of Edinburgh would have kent it.’”

This engraving may illustrate Mr. Pare’s account of the Warwickshire “statute” or “mop,”[49] and the general appearance of similar fairs for hiring servants. Even in London, bricklayers, and other house-labourers, still carry their respective implements to the places where they stand for hire: for which purpose they assemble in great numbers in Cheapside and at Charing-cross, every morning, at five or six o’clock. It is further worthy of observation, that, in old Rome, there were particular spots in which servants applied for hire.

Dr. Plott, speaking of the Statutes for hiring servants, says, that at Bloxham the carters stood with their whips in one place, and the shepherds with their crooks in another; but the maids, as far as he could observe, stood promiscuously. He adds, that this custom seems as old as our Saviour; and refers to _Matt._ xx. 3, “And he went out about the third hour and saw others standing idle in the market-place.”

In the statistical account of Scotland, it is said that, at the parish of Wamphray, “_Hiring fairs_ are much frequented: _those who are to hire wear a green sprig in their hat_: and it is very seldom that servants will hire in any other place.”

Of ancient _chartered_ fairs may be instanced as an example, the fair of St. Giles’s Hill or Down, near Winchester, which William the Conqueror instituted and gave as a kind of revenue to the bishop of Winchester. It was at first for three days, but afterwards by Henry III., prolonged to sixteen days. Its jurisdiction extended seven miles round, and comprehended even Southampton, then a capital and trading town. Merchants who sold wares at that time within that circuit forfeited them to the bishop. Officers were placed at a considerable distance, at bridges and other avenues of access to the fair, to exact toll of all merchandise passing that way. In the mean time, all shops in the city of Winchester were shut. A court, called the pavilion, composed of the bishop’s justiciaries and other officers, had power to try causes of various sorts for seven miles round. The bishop had a toll of every load or parcel of goods passing through the gates of the city. On St. Giles’s eve the mayor, bailiffs, and citizens of Winchester delivered the keys of the four gates to the bishop’s officers. Many and extraordinary were the privileges granted to the bishop on this occasion, all tending to obstruct trade and to oppress the people. Numerous foreign merchants frequented this fair; and several streets were formed in it, assigned to the sale of different commodities. The surrounding monasteries had shops or houses in these streets, used only at the fair; which they held under the bishop, and often let by lease for a term of years. Different counties had their different stations.

According to a curious record of the establishment and expenses of the household of Henry Percy, the fifth earl of Northumberland, A.D. 1512, the stores of his lordship’s house at Wresille, for the whole year, were laid in from fairs. The articles were “wine, wax, beiffes, muttons, wheite, and malt.” This proves that fairs were then the principal marts for purchasing necessaries in large quantities, which are now supplied by frequent trading towns: and the mention of “beiffes and muttons,” (which are salted oxen and sheep,) shows that at so late a period they knew little of breeding cattle.

The monks of the priories of Maxtoke in Warwickshire, and of Bicester in Oxfordshire, in the time of Henry VI., appear to have laid in yearly stores of various, yet common necessaries, at the fair of Stourbridge, in Cambridgeshire, at least one hundred miles distant from either monastery.

[49] At p. 171.

* * * * *

~February 14.~

VALENTINE’S DAY.

Now each fond youth who ere essay’d
An effort in the tinkling trade,
Resumes to day; and writes and blots
About true-love and true-love’s-knots;
And opens veins in ladies’ hearts;
(Or _steels_ ’em) with two cris-cross darts,--
(There must be two)
Stuck through (and through)
His own: and then to s’cure ’em better
He doubles up his single letter--
Type of his state,
(Perchance a hostage
To double fate)
For single postage
Emblem of his and my _Cupidity_;
With p’rhaps like happy end--stupidity.

* * * * *

FRENCH VALENTINES.

Menage, in his Etymological Dictionary, has accounted for the term “Valentine,” by stating that Madame Royale, daughter of Henry the Fourth of France, having built a palace near Turin, which, in honour of the saint, then in high esteem, she called the Valentine, at the first entertainment which she gave in it, was pleased to order that the ladies should receive their lovers for the year by lots, reserving to herself the privilege of being independent of chance, and of choosing her own partner. At the various balls which this gallant princess gave during the year, it was directed that each lady should receive a nosegay from her lover, and that, at every tournament, the knight’s trappings for his horse should be furnished by his allotted mistress, with this proviso, that the prize obtained should be hers. This custom, says Menage, occasioned the parties to be called “Valentines.”[50]

* * * * *

An elegant writer, in a journal of the present month, prepares for the annual festival with the following

LEGEND OF ST. VALENTINE.

From Britain’s realm, in olden time,
By the strong power of truths sublime.
The pagan rites were banish’d;
And, spite of Greek and Roman lore,
Each god and goddess, fam’d of yore,
From grove and altar vanish’d.

And they (as sure became them best)
To Austin and Paulinius’ hest
Obediently submitted,
And left the land without delay--
Save Cupid, who still held a sway
Too strong to passively obey,
Or be by saints outwitted.

For well the boy-god knew that he
Was far too potent, e’er to be
Depos’d and exil’d quietly
From his belov’d dominion;
And sturdily the urchin swore
He ne’er, to leave the British shore,
Would move a single pinion.

The saints at this were sadly vex’d,
And much their holy brains perplex’d,
To bring the boy to reason;
And, when they found him bent to stay,
They built up convent-walls straightway,
And put poor Love in prison.

But Cupid, though a captive made,
Soon met, within a convent shade,
New subjects in profusion:
Albeit he found his pagan name
Was heard by pious maid and dame
With horror and confusion.

For all were there demure and coy,
And deem’d a rebel heathen boy
A most unsaintly creature;
But Cupid found a way with ease
His slyest vot’ries tastes to please,
And yet not change a feature.

For, by his brightest dart, the elf
Affirm’d he’d turn a saint himself,
To make their scruples lighter;
So gravely hid his dimpled smiles,
His wreathed locks, and playful wiles,
Beneath a bishop’s mitre.

Then Christians rear’d the boy a shrine.
And youths invok’d Saint Valentine
To bless their annual passion;
And maidens still his name revere,
And, smiling, hail his day each year--
A day to village lovers dear,
Though saints are out of fashion.

A. S.

Monthly Magazine.

* * * * *

Another is pleased to treat the prevailing topic of the day as one of those “whims and oddities,” which exceedingly amuse the reading world, and make e’en sighing lovers smile.

SONG

FOR THE 14TH OF FEBRUARY.

_By a General Lover._

“Mille gravem telis exhaustâ pene pharetrâ.”

Apollo has peep’d through the shutter,
And waken’d the witty and fair;
The boarding-school belle’s in a flutter,
The twopenny post’s in despair:
The breath of the morning is flinging
A magic on blossom, on spray;
And cockneys and sparrows are singing
In chorus on Valentine’s Day.

Away with ye, dreams of disaster,
Away with ye, visions of law,
Of cases I never shall master,
Of pleadings I never shall draw:
Away with ye, parchments and papers.
Red tapes, unread volumes, away;
It gives a fond lover the vapours
To see you on Valentine’s Day.

I’ll sit in my nightcap, like Hayley,
I’ll sit with my arms crost, like Spain,
Till joys, which are vanishing daily,
Come back in their lustre again:
Oh, shall I look over the waters,
Or shall I look over the way,
For the brightest and best of Earth’s daughters,
To rhyme to on Valentine’s Day?

Shall I crown with my worship, for fame’s sake,
Some goddess whom Fashion has starr’d,
Make puns on Miss Love and her namesake.
Or pray for a _pas_ with Brocard?
Shall I flirt, in romantic idea,
With Chester’s adorable clay,
Or whisper in transport, “Si mea[51]
Cum Vestris----” on Valentine’s Day?

Shall I kneel to a Sylvia or Celia,
Whom no one e’er saw or may see,
A fancy-drawn Laura Amelia,
An _ad libit._ Anna Marie?
Shall I court an initial with stars to it,
Go mad for a G. or a J.
Get Bishop to put a few bars to it,
And print it on Valentine’s Day?

Alas! ere I’m properly frantic
With some such pure figment as this.
Some visions, not quite so romantic,
Start up to demolish the bliss;
Some Will o’ the Wisp in a bonnet
Still leads my lost wit quite astray,
Till up to my ears in a sonnet
I sink upon Valentine’s Day.

The Dian I half bought a ring for,
On seeing her thrown in the ring;
The Naiad I took such a spring for,
From Waterloo Bridge, in the spring;
The trembler I saved from a robber, on
My walk to the Champs Elysée!--
The warbler that fainted at Oberon,
Three months before Valentine’s Day.

The gipsy I once had a spill with,
Bad lack to the Paddington team!
The countess I chanced to be ill with
From Dover to Calais by steam;
The lass that makes tea for Sir Stephen,
The lassie that brings in the tray;
It’s odd--but the betting is even
Between them on Valentine’s Day.

The white hands I help’d in their nutting;
The fair neck I cloak’d in the rain;
The bright eyes that thank’d me for cutting
My friend in Emmanuel-lane;
The Blue that admires Mr. Barrow;
The Saint that adores Lewis Way;
The Nameless that dated from Harrow
Three couplets last Valentine’s Day.

I think not of Laura the witty,
For, oh! she is married at York!
I sigh not for Rose of the City,
For, ah! she is buried at Cork!
Adèle has a braver and better
To say what I never could say;
Louise cannot construe a letter
Of English on Valentine’s Day.

So perish the leaves in the arbour,
The tree is all bare in the blast!
Like a wreck that is drifting to harbour,
I come to thee, Lady, at last.
Where art thou so lovely and lonely?
Though idle the lute and the lay,
The lute and the lay are thine only,
My fairest, on Valentine’s Day.

For thee I have open’d my Blackstone,
For thee I have shut up myself;
Exchanged my long curls for a Caxton,
And laid my short whist on the shelf;
For thee I have sold my old Sherry,
For thee I have burn’d my new play;
And I grow philosophical--very!
Except upon Valentine’s Day.

Φ

New Monthly Magazine.

* * * * *

In the poems of Elizabeth Trefusis there is a “Valentine” with an expression of feeling which may well conclude the extracts already produced.

When to Love’s influence woman yields,
She loves for life! and daily feels
Progressive tenderness!--each hour
Confirms, extends, the tyrant’s power!
Her lover is her god! her fate!--
Vain pleasures, riches, worldly state,
Are trifles all!--each sacrifice
Becomes a dear and valued prize,
If made for him, e’en tho’ he proves
Forgetful of their former loves.

[50] Dr. Drake’s Shakspeare and his Times. See also the _Every-Day
Book_ for large particulars of the day.

[51] “Si mea cum Vestris valuissent vota!”--Ovid, _Met._

* * * * *

AIR AND EXERCISE

FOR LADIES.