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.

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.

66

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."*

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.

* Dr. Drake's Shakspeare and his Times. See also the Every-Day Book for large particulars of the day.

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.
Monthly Magazine.

A. S.

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 visions of law,
ye,

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 *
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 luck 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!

"Si mea cum Vestris valuissent vota !"-OVID Met.

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.

New Monthly Magazine.

୫

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.

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.

It is common with persons who inherit a good stock of health from their ancestors, to argue that they take no particular pains to preserve it, and yet are well. This may be true; and it is also true, that there is a painstaking to that effect, which is superfluous and morbid, and helps to do more harm than good. But it does not follow from either of these truths, that a neglect of the rational means of retaining health will ultimately be good for any body. Healthy people may live a good while upon their stock. Children are in the habit of doing it. But healthy children, especially those who are foolishly treated upon an assumption that health consists in being highly fed, and having great beef-eating cheeks, very often turn out sickly at last; and grown-up people, for the most part, at least in great towns, have as little really good health, as children in general are given credit for the reverse. Nature does indeed provide liberally for abuses; but the abuse will be felt at last. It is generally felt a long while before it is acknowledged. Then comes age, with all its train of regrets and superstitions; and the beauty and the man, besides a world perhaps of idle remorse, which they would not feel but for their perverted blood, could eat their hearts out

for having been such fools as not to secure a continuance of good looks and manly feelings, for want of a little handsome energy.

The ill taste of existence that is so apt to come upon people in middle life, is too often attributed to moral causes. Moral they are, but very often not in the sense imagined. Whatever causes be mixed up with them, the greatest of all is, in ninetynine instances out of a hundred, no better or grander than a non-performance of the common duties of health. Many a fine lady takes a surfeit for a tender distress; and many a real sufferer, who is haunted by a regret, or takes himself for the most ill-used of bilious old gentlemen, might trace the loftiest of his woes to no better origin than a series of ham-pies, or a want of proper use of his boots and umbrella.*

A SONG.

Young Joe, he was a carman gay,

As any town could show;
His team was good, and, like his pence,
Was always on the go;

A thing, as every jackass knows,
Which often leads to wo!

It fell out that he fell in love,

By some odd chance or whim, With Alice Payne-beside whose eyes All other eyes were dim: The painful tale must out-indeed, She was A Pain to him. For, when he ask'd her civilly

To make one of they two,

She whipp'd her tongue across her teeth,
And said, "D'ye think it true,
I'd trust my load of life with sich

A waggoner as you?

"No, no-to be a carman's wife

Will ne'er suit Alice Payne;
I'd better far a lone woman

For evermore remain,
Than have it said, while in my youth,

My life is on the wain !"

"Oh, Alice Payne! Oh, Alice Payne!

Why won't you meet with me?" Then up she curl'd her nose, and said, "Go axe your axletree;

I tell you, Joe, this-once for all—
My joe you shall not be."

She spoke the fatal "no," which put
A spoke into his wheel-
And stopp'd his happiness, as though

She'd cry wo! to his weal:-
These women ever steal our hearts,
And then their own they steel.

New Monthly Magazine.