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.’”
[Illustration: ~Hiring Servants at a Statute Fair.~]
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.~