Part 20

“‘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.

There is a notion, that air spoils the complexion. It is possible, that an exposure to all weathers might do so; though if a gipsy beauty is to be said to have a bad complexion, it is one we are very much inclined to be in love with. A russeton apple has its beauty as well as a peach. At all events, a spoilt complexion of this sort is accompanied with none of the melancholy attending the bad complexions that arise from late hours, and spleen, and plodding, and indolence, and indigestion. Fresh air puts a wine in the blood that lasts from morning to night, and not merely for an hour or two after dinner. If ladies would not carry buttered toast in their cheeks, instead of roses, they must shake the blood in their veins, till it spins clear. Cheerfulness itself helps to make good blood; and air and exercise make cheerfulness. When it is said, that air spoils the complexion, it is not meant that breathing it does so, but exposure to it. We are convinced it is altogether a fallacy, and that nothing but a constant exposure to the extremes of heat and cold has any such effect. The not breathing the fresh air is confessedly injurious; and this might be done much oftener than is supposed. People might oftener throw up their windows, or admit the air partially, and with an effect sensible only to the general feelings. We find, by repeated experiments, that we can write better and longer with the admission of air into our study. We have learnt also, by the same experience, to prefer a large study to a small one; and here the rich, it must be confessed, have another advantage over us. They pass their days in large airy rooms--in apartments that are field and champain, compared to the closets that we dignify with the name of parlours and drawing-rooms. A gipsy and they are in this respect, and in many others, more on a footing; and the gipsy beauty and the park beauty enjoy themselves accordingly. Can we look at that extraordinary race of persons--we mean the gipsies--and not recognise the wonderful physical perfection to which they are brought, solely by their exemption from some of our most inveterate notions, and by dint of living constantly in the fresh air? Read any of the accounts that are given of them, even by writers the most opposed to their way of life, and you will find these very writers refuting themselves and their proposed ameliorations by confessing that no human beings can be better formed, or healthier, or happier than the gipsies, so long as they are kept out of the way of towns and their sophistications. A suicide is not known among them. They are as merry as the larks with which they rise; have the use of their limbs to a degree unknown among us, except by our new friends the gymnasts; and are as sharp in their faculties as the perfection of their frames can render them. A glass of brandy puts them into a state of unbearable transport. It is a superfluous bliss; wine added to wine: and the old learn to do themselves mischief with it, and level their condition with stockbrokers and politicians. Yet these are the people whom some wiseacres are for turning into bigots and manufacturers. They had much better take them for what they are, and for what Providence seems to have intended them--a memorandum to keep alive among us the belief in nature, and a proof to what a physical state of perfection the human being can be brought, solely by inhaling her glorious breath, and being exempt from our laborious mistakes. If the intelligent and the gipsy life could ever be brought more together, by any rational compromise, (and we do not despair of it, when we see that calculators begin to philosophize,) men might attain the greatest perfection of which they are capable. Meanwhile the gipsies have the advantage of it, if faces are any index of health and comfort. A gipsy with an eye fit for a genius, it is not difficult to meet with; but where shall we find a genius, or even a fundholder, with the cheek and health of a gipsy?

There is a fact well known to physicians, which settles at once the importance of fresh air to beauty, as well as health. It is, that in proportion as people stay at home, and do not set their lungs playing as they ought, the blood becomes dark, and lags in its current; whereas the habit of inhaling the air out of doors reddens it like a ruby, and makes it clear and brisk. Now the darker the blood, the more melancholy the sensations, and the worse the complexion.