The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Read online

  The Works of

  WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH

  (1805-1882)

  Contents

  The Novels

  SIR JOHN CHIVERTON

  ROOKWOOD

  JACK SHEPPARD

  THE TOWER OF LONDON

  GUY FAWKES

  OLD ST PAUL’S

  THE MISER’S DAUGHTER

  WINDSOR CASTLE

  THE LANCASHIRE WITCHES

  THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF MERVYN CLITHEROE

  AURIOL

  THE STAR-CHAMBER

  OVINGDEAN GRANGE

  TALBOT HARLAND

  TOWER HILL

  BOSCOBEL

  THE GOOD OLD TIMES

  PRESTON FIGHT

  THE LEAGUER OF LATHOM

  STANLEY BRERETON

  The Shorter Fiction

  DECEMBER TALES

  The Poetry

  BALLADS

  LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

  The Biography

  SHORT BIOGRAPHY: WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH by Stewart Marsh Ellis

  © Delphi Classics 2015

  Version 1

  The Works of

  WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH

  By Delphi Classics, 2015

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  The Novels

  King Street, Manchester — Ainsworth’s birthplace

  King Street, Manchester c. 1820

  SIR JOHN CHIVERTON

  After leaving school, Ainsworth began to study for the law, having been encouraged by his father to pursue that career, though he was to be accused of being lazy by his law employer. Instead of working, Ainsworth spent his time reading literature at his home and various libraries, including the Chetham Library. He continued to work as an attorney in Manchester and spent his time when not working or reading at the John Shaw’s Club. By the end of 1822, Ainsworth was writing for The London Magazine, which allowed him to become close to Charles Lamb, to whom Ainsworth sent poetry for guidance. After receiving a favourable response for one set of works, Ainsworth had them published by John Arliss as Poems by Cheviot Ticheburn. In August 1822 Ainsworth visited his childhood friend James Crossley in Edinburgh and was introduced to William Blackwood, the owner of Blackwood’s Magazine.

  The following year, Ainsworth formed a literary friendship with J. P. Aston (1805-82), the son of a liquor merchant in Manchester, who had also been educated at the Grammar School. Aston and Ainsworth began to write several works together, including what would become Ainsworth’s first novel, Sir John Chiverton. Ainsworth wrote to Thomas Campbell, editor of The New Monthly Magazine, about publishing the work, but Campbell lost the letter. At the request of Ainsworth, Aston travelled to London to meet Campbell and discuss the matter before visiting in November. Although the novel was not yet published in December 1823, Ainsworth was able to convince G. and W. Whittaker to publish a collection of his stories as December Tales. Ainsworth then set about working on various other writing projects, including producing his own magazine, The Boeotian, which was first published on 20 March, before reprising work on his novel.

  Sir John Chiverton was finally published by Ebers in July 1826. Ebers had become interested in the novel early on and started to add discussions about it in The Literary Souvenir in order to promote the work. Although it was jointly written and sometimes claimed by Aston as solely his, many of the reviews described the novel as Ainsworth’s alone. The novel also brought Ainsworth to the attention of the historical novelist Walter Scott, who later wrote about the work in various articles and the two later met in 1828. During that year, J. G. Lockhartt published Scott’s private journals and instigated the notion that the novel was an imitation of Scott.

  Sir John Chiverton is neither a true historical novel, nor is it a gothic novel. It was also seen by Ainsworth as an incomplete work and he later ignored it when creating his bibliography. However, it does serve as a precursor to Ainsworth’s first major novel, Rookwood.

  The original title page

  Ainsworth, aged 21, close to the time of his first novel’s publication

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I.

  CHAPTER II.

  CHAPTER III.

  CHAPTER IV.

  CHAPTER V.

  CHAPTER VI.

  CHAPTER VII.

  John Ebers (c. 1785 – c. 1830), Ainsworth’s eventual father-in-law and the publisher of his first novel. Ebers introduced Ainsworth to literary and dramatic circles, and to his daughter, who became Ainsworth’s wife.

  SIR JOHN CHIVERTON.

  A ROMANCE.

  She died before her time.

  WILLIAM AND MARGARET.

  DEDICATORY STANZAS

  TO

  —— ——

  —— ——

  WHEN last we parted, lady, ’twas in tears;

  Thy cheek was dimmed with sorrow’s trickling dew,

  And from my heart the grief of many years,

  Hoarded ‘till nigh forgotten, burst anew,

  Sad offerings to love and memory true: —

  Shall ever memory faint, or love be cold?

  Ah, no! that cheek may lose its breathing hue,

  And those dear eyes their living beams withhold,

  But love shall still endure, with faith unknown, untold.

  II.

  Accept the tribute that to thee I bring,

  (It is the first, and it will he the last,)

  The leisure fruit of fancy’s wandering:

  But fancy rules no more — her sway is past,

  And into other paths my course is cast;

  Me now no more shall fiction’s dreams beguile;

  Their hues like fading rainbows vanish fast;

  My feet shall tread in ways of drearier toil,

  And fiction hide her wreath, and poesy her smile.

  III.

  Yet, if to me a loftier lyre were given,

  And round my harp were twined a brighter wreath;

  If I could snatch immortal verse from heaven,

  And pour its melody to souls beneath,

  It may be that I would not cease to breathe

  Thy name in accents love should make divine,

  And round thy beauteous brows a band enwreath,

  A garland bright, whose flowers should brightly shine,

  More lovely, and more bright, when sunned by smiles of thine.

  IV.

  My Lady Love! am I not far from thee? —

  Far, far away — but soon again we meet;

  Ye moments swift, oh, yet more swiftly flee,

  Ye slower hours, away on winged feet;

  Waft me, oh, waft me upon pinions fleet,

  Give me again my vows of love to tell,

  Steal fond approval from her blushes sweet,

  Adore her glowing cheek and bosom’s swell,

  And win the silent thoughts, that in that bosom dwell.

  Eustace. — Is that the merrie old hall? Doth its table still groan with the chyne — and its tankards foam as they were wont? Doth old Badge, the servitor, still sit at the porch; and Sir John telleth he at his third cup, how he hunted the boar at Furness; and of his merrie pranks with the Keeper’s daughter at Bowland? Talketh Master Hugh, the parson, still of Beza and Whittaker, and the New Doctrines — and goeth the Steward forth at Martinmas with his staff, to call the tenants to suit and service — and to drink their Lord’s health in a humming cup of
the best — Are these still as heretofore?

  Lancelot. — Lord help thee, Eustace! Have thy thoughts gone a woolgathering? Sir John and the Parson and the Steward, sleep soundly enough under an hic jacet this many longsome years! Little of festivity seeth the old Hall now! Its courts are grass grown, and its floors are mottled with mud! Clean gone are its old faces, and it looketh for all the world like the prodigal who bad run his career of jollity, and now aketh his orts at the spittal.

  MERRIE DAIES, OR HIE AWAY FOR HULME HALL.

  CHAPTER I.

  THE HALL.

  THERE is a degree of pleasure, not unmingled with sad and melancholy reflections, in comparing with the records that remain to us of the manners and private life of our distant progenitors, the mouldering and dilapidated remnants of their habitations, which time and the wasting hand of violence have suffered to survive; the monuments of a people, whose habits, long become obsolete, owe their existence, even in remembrance, to the minute and laborious zeal of the chronologers of the past, and the excursive researches of antiquarian curiosity. It is gratifying to have somewhat real and tangible to connect us with days and scenes, on which we are wont to look back with the sensations of the landscape gazer, who straining his glances through the gathering twilight, sees in the dim, though it may be beautiful outlines of the indistinct prospect, much to awaken, but little to satisfy his feelings of inquisitive admiration; vainly endeavouring to distinguish, until he almost doubts the reality of the blended mass of wood, and mountain, and gleamy lake, which growing every moment more dim and shapeless, leave it to the power of fancy to adorn, and fill up the traces so faintly supplied by observation. It is thus we picture to ourselves, the hearth glowing with the ruddy volumes of cheerful blaze; the hospitality, arising to profusion, of the well stocked board; the warm-hearted, sparkling joviality of the revels; and the gay and gallant companies of the halls of our progenitors; contemplated more eagerly, because, ever clinging to the bright and the brilliant, the imagination rarely impedes its workings with tardy inquiries into darker tints of the piece. Uniting with these venerable edifices, our ideas of the splendour, and gallantry, and romance of the days with which they are coeval, we fondly imagine that the spirit of high romance, that in early days animated their magnificence, continues yet to linger round, and haunt them in their decay.

  It not unfrequently happens that the remains of these antique mansions are overlooked, and disregarded, not merely when buried in sequestered corners, but even when placed in the vicinity of populous cities, and cultivated districts. The eye becomes familiar with them, and seeks not to inquire into the origin or decorations of structures, which it has learnt to consider as indifferent and every day objects; and it is, in general, the part of the casual stranger, to discover and admire those picturesque beauties of situation and architecture, that have failed to attract the observation of those, who think not of looking so near home for subjects of interest or curiosity. A specimen, of such habitations, so situated, exists at this day, in a fair state of perfection, in one of the northern counties of England.

  So few, indeed, are the changes which Chiverton Hall has undergone in its general structure, that a tolerable idea may still be formed of it, as it stood in the days of its pristine beauty. It is true, that its noble entirety has been subdivided into humble habitations, whose squalid appearance differs lamentably from the gay and magnificent decorations and accompaniments, which as the residence of its earlier possessors, it could have boasted of; — the pavement is broken and neglected, and rendered in many places uneven, from the partial displacing of the stones, by the rank weeds that have sprung up in the interstices. Broken glass, ruinous gateways, and courts strewed with, nameless and accumulating litter, give to the place, on a near approach, an appearance of neglect and desolation, that jars most harshly upon the mind, when reverting to the fancy-traced picture of its ancient splendour. But the building itself retains much of its original aspect, and rising from a distance, on the right, imbedded in the spreading foliage that surrounds it, still presents to the eye of observation, an object of no common beauty and interest.

  It is with Chiverton Hall, however, in its former state, that our present concern chiefly lies, as it stood some two centuries back. Rising from the summit of a rock, that sprung abruptly from the spreading waters of the river, by which it was guarded on the west, the building approached so near the brink of the precipice, as to afford space only for a narrow foot-path. From the opposite side of the river, the edifice presented its most irregular, though not less beautiful aspect. A projecting semi-oval turret, the lower part of which was used as a chapel, and in the days of papal dominion, had been consecrated to the services of the Roman ritual, advanced beyond the buildings that extended from it on either side, and which contained the apartments usually allotted to the ladies of the family, and their attendants. Along the entire south side of the house, opened the windows of the chief banquetting-room, or dining hall, whose panes glowing in many colours, and quaintly arranged, exhibited a rich specimen of an art now little known. From these windows, the view lay directly into a spacious garden, curiously laid out, and painfully ornamented, according to the heavy and constrained taste of the period. The garden was bounded by a wall, surrounding the mansion, and which, from its height and apparent strength, had been probably constructed with an eye to its utility, as a barrier of defence in the event of an unforeseen attack; a contingency not so distant in the eventful and unsettled times to which we now revert, as in the present age of calmness and security.

  The principal entrance to the hall was from the east, and was formed by a spacious archway, surmounted by a square tower, and opening into a quadrangular court, surrounded by connected buildings. To the right of the entrance, were doors communicating with the banqueting room, and different smaller apartments. Opposite to these, were the culinary apartments of the establishment, and the space between, forming the third side of the square, was occupied by larders, refectories, and rooms allotted to the higher class of domestics. The remaining side consisted of offices, and the upper stories of the buildings contained the dormitories of the residents, all more or less externally ornamented.

  Such was the general outline of the exterior of the mansion, which, according to the taste of the period, was far from being devoid of ornament. The plaistered walls were coloured with regular chequers of black and white, interspersed with trefoils and other figures, varied as the skill or taste of the artist had directed. As usual, in this style of architecture, the wood work was profuse; timber then forming the principal material, in the structure of domestic habitations. Here it had been used with an unsparing hand, and, wherever the situation of the beams admitted, had been ornamented with elaborate carvings, the chief of which were displayed on the frames of the casements, and the extremities of the rafters, and those solid beams which, protruding beyond the walls on which they rested, supported the successive projections of the superior stories, or tiers of apartments. — But the chief triumph of art was in the execution of the massive oaken pillars, that guarded the great gateway; the strange representations and carvings of which claimed, at least, the credit of perseverance and assiduity, if not of taste, to the operator; whilst above the arch, was suspended an enormous hatchment, whereon were depicted, in the pomp of heraldry, the armorial bearings of the Chivertons.

  The natural advantages of situation conspired to lend beauty and interest to the edifice. The rock, on which the building was placed, was rugged and precipitous, and threw a deep gloom over the waters by which its base was washed. The crumbling of the stone, mingled with the earth casually fallen from the summit, had composed a scanty stratum of soil, sufficient to afford nourishment to a wild and rank vegetation, that spread a dark covering over the face of the precipice, increasing, rather than diminishing, the gloomy sullenness of its aspect; while the beams of light from above were interrupted by the branches of one or two firs, that stood on the brink, and a giant sycamore, that grasping the roc
k with its spreading and sinuous roots, broke with its wild appearance the uniform continuity of the bank. — Following the path which wound in front of the building, and skirted the high wall of the garden, the gaze was lost in a thickly wooded domain. The level plain, stretching on the eastern side of the hall, was more scantily clothed with trees, and its close sward was intersected with a broad path, leading up to the arched entrance of the building; whilst the ground, sloping on the north, lay open, till bounded by an eminence, crowned with a long row of beeches, whose leafy tops, intermingling with each other, formed a mass of dark foliage, rising like a thick cloud upon the sky, which beamed between the trunks like the expanse of a distant sea; and the whole, glowing under the influence of a summer morning’s sun, was arrayed in lively hues of beauty and splendour.

  How different is, alas! the present, though, even yet beautiful, appearance of the same spot. The rich and profuse banquets, of which the noble dining hall was once the scene, have given way to the scanty board of poverty the songs and harpings of minstrels, the gallant conversation of brilliant companies, — the bright sallies of wit, and tender conceits, which so often those walls have listened to, have faded away, as unsubstantial and transient as the breath on which they rose; and are succeeded by the murmurings of discontent, or the irritated tones of strife, and domestic discord. The hand of the spoiler has been there; the figured tapestry of lady’s bower has long since faded from the walls; the laboured carvings, and profuse decorations, of the wainscotted hall are removed, or defaced; and the glories of the painted roof are lost in the coverings of whitewash and accumulated filth. — Timber levelled for the purposes of traffic; — plains covered with upstart dwellings, and redolent of brick kilns, have introduced as much change in the surrounding country, as in the hall itself. Yet still retaining its original outline, and some faint traces of the natural and artificial embellishments that heretofore made it attractive, it still continues worthy to be sought for and admired by the lover of taste, or of antiquity.