The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  Secluded from the pleasures of the world, they were without many of its calamities. When once separated from society — once cut off from the bulk of mankind — when the pain of that one parting was over, they had nothing more to dread — they had taken up their abode for life; whatever storms might agitate the wayward passions or feelings of others, they had no connexion with them — they were secure in their loneliness. True, they saw the companions of their solitude fall around them — one by one they followed them to their common bed, and strewed upon the lifeless clay, the fresh plucked flowers — the emblems of mortality. But this was all — they had no other partings.

  To me this would have been the greatest, the most valuable of their immunities. I have a vivid sensitiveness to the associations of time and place. I do not care to have any of these ties, feeble and gossamer-like as they may seem, rudely snapped asunder; I cannot leave a place where I have passed even a few days, without regret, sometimes not without sorrow. To those spots where I have made a longer residence, I am more strongly bound. And yet I have frequently parted from scenes endeared by a thousand sweet and soothing remembrances. I have passed my childhood, boyhood, manhood, and old age, amid different scenes, and in widely varied situations; yet I cannot revisit any of them without finding something which has a hold upon my best affections, something which awakens a flood of grief, whose luxury joy could never equal. But this is the softened down feeling — the reflected emotion robbed of its poignancy — the grateful shadow of what I felt at the time of separation — the moment of parting — that moment when every dear and cherished feeling, connected with the scenes we leave, rises up more vividly to our hearts — when, even if we part with no friends, nor kindred, none whom sociable and constant interchange of good wishes and friendly services, have made, as it were, part of our very being, necessary to our existence; yet the very inanimate objects to which we have been accustomed — a book, a drawing, an instrument, seem to claim the rights of old acquaintances, to expostulate with us, to upbraid us for our departure — it is then, that in all the fulness and bitterness of feeling we know the pain of parting, the rending of the heart, which accompanies a separation from the things which have grown around us, and twined round our very souls.

  Much of our happiness here depends upon possibilities! Such is the pleasure which we derive — friends, kindred, and relationship.

  How great is the possibility that we may part from them — that we may be left solitary and lonely sojourners — desolate in the midst of crowds — wretched, while joy is every where sparkling round us. There is one possibility upon which I rest with pleasant and grateful expectation: — it is, that when the writer of these trifles shall have withered away, and become as a thing that was, some one who may casually peruse them may be led by the brief mention he may find of those whose talent and writings have adorned his country, to look farther into them; to explore their beauties, and venerate their genius; and that something may be found amid these hasty thoughts and ramblings of imagination, to touch the feeling, and awaken not ungrateful associations in the hearts of his reader. If so, his wish will have been fulfilled, and his aim accomplished.

  L’ENVOY.

  THOUGH long usage has rendered a preface an almost necessary part of a work, a kind of expected “how d’ye do,” salute, to neglect which is considered a breach of the courtesy which a writer owes to his readers, I am not equally authorized by custom in prolonging the time of separation by a valedictory address. And yet I feel a kind of reluctance to leave the volume, trilling and insignificant as it is, without a shake of the hand, and a parting “good-bye.” The fondness of an author for his works is indeed excessive, and it is not without feelings of regret that he lays down the pen, after adding the finishing stroke to his production. I feel, with Gibbon, a sober melancholy spread over my mind, by the idea that I have taken an everlasting leave of an old and agreeable companion; there is a kind of vacancy in one’s daily routine of occupations, and though the task may at times have been irksome, the want of it is felt as an evil.

  To spin out sentences in this manner, after the proper termination of the book, may perhaps be deemed egotistical. But, in the writer of tales, this egotism may be forgiven. His chance of fame is slight indeed. Longevity is denied to his labours. The philosopher, politician, divine, or scholar, may endure for ages. What has once been well said, and established in the walks of science, needs not repetition, and is preserved in the works of its author. But, with the writer of amusing volumes, it fares differently. New novelties spring up; to be read, he must have allurements of style; and as style rapidly changes, his writings please no longer. Bacon and Sidney were contemporaries; each was the leader in his own peculiar walk; the Novum Organum is quoted with reverence, and relied on as authority; but the dust accumulates on the unopened tome of the Arcadia.

  Farewell then to these, the (at least) harmless amusement of my solitary hours. That they may amuse his readers, is the highest ambition of the writer. Philosophical theories, or learned researches, he has not to offer. To wile away an idle hour in a not unpleasant, perhaps not unprofitable manner, is all he aspires to. If he succeeds in this, he will be satisfied. Too humble to attract the smile, he will also escape the lash of criticism. How it is received, will matter little to him. In the words of a great moralist he can say, that he dismisses it with tranquillity, having “little to fear or hope from censure or from praise.”

  THE END

  The Poetry

  Arundel Terrace, Kemptown, Brighton — Ainsworth’s home in East Sussex from 1853-1867

  BALLADS

  CONTENTS

  Legendary and Romantic Ballads

  THE CUSTOM OF DUNMOW.

  THE LEGEND OF THE LIME THEE.

  THE LEGEND OF THE LADY OF ROOKWOOD.

  CHARLES IX. AT MONTFAUCON.

  YOLANDE.

  ESCLAIRMONDE.

  YUSEF AND ZORAYDA.

  THE LEGEND OF VALDEZ.

  DITTY OF DU GUESCLIN.

  THE SWORD OF BAYARD.

  THE SCOTTISH CAVALIER.

  THE BLOOD-RED KNIGHT.

  HYMN OF THE CONSPIRATORS IN THE GUNPOWDER PLOT.

  DIRGE OF BOURBON.

  ANACREONTIC ODE.

  MARGUERITE DE VALOIS.

  THE ADMIRABLE CRICHTON.

  THE THREE ORGIES.

  ALL-SPICE, OR A SPICE OF ALL.

  DEATH TO THE HUGUENOT.

  LA GITANILLA.

  THE TWICE-USED RING.

  THE SOUL-BELL.

  HYMN TO SAINT THECLA.

  HYMN TO SAINT CYPRIAN.

  THE CHURCHYARD YEW.

  BLACK BESS.

  THE OLD OAK COFFIN.

  Fantastical Ballads

  THE SORCERERS’ SABBATH.

  INCANTATION.

  THE WONDROUS STONE.

  THE CRYSTAL VASE.

  THE NAMELESS WITCH.

  THE TEMPTATION OF SAINT ANTHONY.

  INSCRIPTION ON A GOLDEN KEY.

  A MIDNIGHT MEETING OF THE LANCASHIRE WITCHES.

  THE MANDRAKE.

  EPHIALTES.

  THE CORPSE-CANDLE.

  THE HAND OF GLORY.

  THE CARERION CROW.

  THE HEADSMAN’S AXE.

  Humorous Ballads

  THE CHRONICLE OF GARGANTUA: SHOWING HOW HE TOOK AWAY THE GREAT BELLS OF NOTRE-DAME

  MY OLD COMPLAINT: ITS CAUSE AND CURE.

  JOLLY NOSE.

  THE WINE DRINKER’S DECLARATION.

  WITH MY BACK TO THE FIRE.

  THE OLD WATER-DRINKER’S GRAVE.

  CIDER OF DEVONSHIRE.

  VENITE POTEMUS.

  THE SCHOLAR’S LITANY.

  ALE AND SACK.

  DRUID.

  THE THIRTY REQUISITES.

  LOVE’S HOMILY.

  PERORATION.

  A CHAPTER OF HIGHWAYMEN.

  THE RAPPAREES.

  A ROMANY CHANT.

  OLIVER WHIDDLES!

  WILL DAVIES AND DICK TURPIN.


  THE FOUR CAUTIONS.

  THE DOUBLE CROSS.

  THE MODERN GREEK.

  PLEDGE OF THE HIGHWAYMAN.

  THE GAME OF HIGH TOBY.

  THE SCAMPSMAN.

  THE KNIGHT OF MALTA.

  SAINT GILES’S BOWL.

  THE NEWGATE STONE.

  THE CARPENTER’S DAUGHTER.

  OWEN WOOD.

  KING FROG AND QUEEN CRANE.

  MARLBROOK TO THE WARS IS COMING.

  THE BOOTS OF MARLBROOK.

  A YEAR AND A DAY.

  THE BALLAD OF THE BEARD.

  OLD GRINDROD’S GHOST.

  THE BARBER OF RIPON AND THE GHOSTLY BASIN.

  Translations.

  ELEGY ON THE CARDINAL CARLO BORROMEO.

  TO GASPAR VISCONTI. (CONGRATULATORY ADDRESS.)

  Ainsworth, 1863

  Legendary and Romantic Ballads

  THE CUSTOM OF DUNMOW.

  SHOWING HOW IT AROSE.

  FYTTE THE FIRST.

  A Fond Couple make a Vow before the Good Prior of the Convent of our Lady of Dunmow, that they have loved each other well and truly for a Twelvemonth and a Day; and crave his Blessing.

  I.

  “WHAT seek ye here, my children dear?

  Why kneel ye down thus lowly

  Upon the stones, beneath the porch

  Of this our Convent holy?”

  The Prior old the pair bespoke

  In faltering speech, and slowly.

  II.

  Their modest garb would seem proclaim

  The pair of low degree,

  But though in cloth of frieze arrayed,

  A stately youth was he:

  While she, who knelt down by his side,

  Was beautiful to see.

  III.

  “A Twelvemonth and a Day have fled

  Since first we were united;

  And from that hour,” the young man said,

  “No change our hopes has blighted.

  Fond faith with fonder faith we’ve paid,

  And love with love requited.

  IV.

  “True to each other have we been;

  No dearer object seeing,

  Than each has in the other found;

  In everything agreeing.

  And every look, and word, and deed

  That breed dissension fleeing.

  V.

  “All this we swear, and take in proof

  Our Lady of Dunmow!

  For She, who sits with saints above,

  Well knows that it is so.

  Attest our Vow, thou reverend man,

  And bless us, ere we go!”

  VI.

  The Prior old stretch’d forth his hands:

  “Heaven prosper ye!” quo’ he;

  “O’er such as ye, right gladly we

  Say ‘Benedicite!’”

  On this, the kneeling pair uprose —

  Uprose full joyfully.

  FYTTE THE SECOND

  The Good Prior merrily bestoweth a boon upon the Loving Couple; and getteth a noble Recompense.

  I.

  Just then, pass’d by the Convent cook —

  And moved the young man’s glee;

  On his broad back a mighty Flitch

  Of Bacon brown bore he.

  So heavy was the load, I wis,

  It scarce mote carried be.

  II.

  “Take ye that Mitch,” the Prior cried,

  “Take it, fond pair, and go:

  Fedelity like yours deserves

  The boon I now bestow.

  Go, feast your friends, and think upon

  The Convent of Dunmow.”

  III.

  “Good Prior,” then the youth replied,

  “Thy gift to us is dear,

  Not for its worth, but that it shows

  Thou deem’st our love sincere.

  And in return broad lands I give —

  Broad lands thy Convent near;

  Which shall to thee and thine produce

  A Thousand Marks a Year!

  IV.

  “But this Condition I annex,

  Or else the Grant’s forsaken:

  That whensoe’er a pair shall come,

  And take the Oath we’ve taken,

  They shall from thee and thine receive

  A goodly Flitch of Bacon.

  V.

  “And thus from out a simple chance

  A usage good shall grow;

  And our example of true love

  Be held up evermo’:

  While all who win the prize shall bless

  The Custom of Dunmow.”

  VI.

  “Who art thou, son?” the Prior cried;

  His tones with wonder falter —

  “Thou shouldst not jest with reverend men,

  Nor with their feelings palter.”

  “I jest not, Prior, for know in me

  Sir Reginald Fitzwalter.

  VII.

  “I now throw off my humble garb,

  As I what I am, confest;

  The wealthiest I of wealthy men,

  Since with this treasure blest.”

  And as he spoke, Fitzwalter clasp’d

  His lady to his breast.

  VIII.

  “In peasant guise my love I won,

  Nor knew she whom she wedded;

  In peasant cot our truth we tried,

  And no disunion dreaded.

  Twelve months’ assurance proves our faith

  On firmest base is steadied.”

  IX.

  Joy reign’d within those Convent walls

  When the glad news was known;

  Joy reign’d within Fitzwalter’s halls

  When there his bride was shown.

  No lady in the land such sweet

  Simplicity could own;

  A natural grace had she, that all

  Art’s graces far outshone:

  Beauty and worth for want of birth

  Abundantly atone.

  L’ENVOY

  Hence the Custom.

  What need of more? That Loving Pair

  Lived long and truly so;

  Nor ever disunited were; —

  For one death laid them low!

  And hence arose that Custom old —

  The Custom of Dunmow.

  THE LEGEND OF THE LIME THEE.

  AMID the grove o’er-arched above with lime-trees old and tall

  (The avenue that leads unto the Rookwood’s ancient hall),

  High o’er the rest its towering crest one tree rears to the sky,

  And wide out-flings, like mighty wings, its arms umbrageously.

  Seven yards its base would scarce embrace — a goodly tree I ween,

  With silver bark, and foliage dark of melancholy green;

  And ‘mid its boughs two ravens house, and build from year to year,

  Their black brood hatch — their black brood watch — then screaming disappear.

  In that old tree when playfully the summer breezes sigh,

  Its leaves are stirred, and there is heard a low and plaintive cry;

  And when in shrieks the storm blast speaks its reverend boughs among,

  Sad wailing moans, like human groans, the concert harsh prolong.

  But whether gale or calm prevail, or threatening cloud hath fled,

  By hand of Fate, predestinate, a limb that tree will shed:

  A verdant bough, untouched, I trow, by axe or tempest’s breath,

  To Rookwood’s head an omen dread of fast-approaching death.

  Some think that tree instinct must be with preternatural power,

  Like ‘larum bell Death’s note to knell at Fate’s appointed hour;

  While some avow that on its bough are fearful traces seen,

  Red as the stains from human veins commingling with the green.

  Others, again, there are maintain that on the shattered bark

  A print is made, where fiends have laid their scathing talo
ns dark:

  That, ere it falls, the raven calls thrice from that wizard bough;

  And that each cry doth signify what space the Fates allow.

  In olden days, the Legend says, as grim Sir Ranulph view’d

  A wretched hag her footsteps drag beneath his lordly wood,

  His blood-hounds twain he called amain, and straightway gave her chase:

  Was never seen in forest green, so fierce, so fleet a race!

  With eyes of flame to Ranulph came each red and ruthless hound,

  While mangled, tom — a sight forlorn! — the hag lay on the ground.

  E’en where she lay was turned the clay, and limb and reeking bone

  Within the earth, with ribald mirth, by Ranulph grim were thrown.

  And while as yet the soil was wet with that poor witch’s gore,

  A lime-tree stake did Ranulph take, and pierced her bosom’s core.

  And, strange to tell, what next befel! — that branch at once took root,

  And richly fed, within its bed, strong suckers forth did shoot.

  From year to year fresh boughs appear — it waxes huge in size;

  And, with wild glee, this prodigy Sir Ranulph grim espies.

  One day, when he, beneath that tree, reclined in health and pride,

  A branch was found upon the ground — the next, Sir Ranulph died!

  And from that hour a fatal power has ruled that Wizard Tree,