The Sun.
London, England, 1853-01-25 00:00:00

THE FLITCH OF BACON.

"An old custom this delivery of the flitch; so old that
the date of its institution is lost. Thus much only is
known about it. Tho earliest claim on record was made
tinhethe guesredvoenntohf yreaarreocof tnhjeugreailgii.ovofe Eanddwatrurdththwe
aFsoubrtesh and
to,
wed
upon Steven Samuel and his wife by the good Prior of the
Convent of Our Lady at Dunmow. Twice again in monkish
times was the prize won—at long intervals, indeed, for the
second application occurred in the reign of Henry the
Sixth, and the third at the commencement of the Eighth
Hurry's rule. But the good old custom was continued long
after the dissolution of the monasteries ; in fact, it could
not be dispensed with, being part of the manorial tenure.
Part of the venerable fabric, which had once sheltered the
old Augustine canons and their superior, was still stand-
ing, where those, who had lived and loved as few love and
live, had come, in days gone by, to make their claim, and
hold themselves up as a bright example to their fellows ;
the very stones beneath the porch were left—sharp-pointed
flints they were, and little worn—on which three proud
and happy couples had knelt to verify their faith, and re-
ceive the priestly benediction and reward ; the ancient and
curiously-formed oak chair was still preserved in which
those worthy folk had sat together, and thus placed had
been borne upon men's shoulders, round the precincts of
the sacred edifice, to the sound rebec, psaltery, and lute,
and amidst joyous shouting from admiring crowds; the
flitch of bacon being carried before them on a lofty pole.
All these forms and ceremonies were yet observed, or ready
to be observed, save that tho Lord of the Manor, together
with the steward and other officers, were substituted for
the Prior and his white-robed brethren. But alack ! and
well-a-day. Wedded love and faith would seem a fable.
Only two more claimants came in two centuries. It was
now in the middle of the third—that is to say, in 1750—
and none had yet offered—though a flitch of bacon was
regularly salted and dried, and proclamation constantly
made at the Court Baron that it was ready for delivery—
securaum jormant donationi4—to any applicants,
fulfilment of the conditions annexed to the gift." on due
Having in this way rendered his readers familiar at
once with the Inn and the Custom of Dunmow, Mr.
Ainsworth loses no time in introducing the principal per-
sonages destined to figure in the narrative. Besides the
garrulous and uxorious old landlord, Jonas Nettlebed,
and the third wife of Boniface, Nelly Nettlebed—
we have already become acquainted with Carroty Dick,
the ostler, and Peggy, the pretty chambermaid, with
Dr Plot, the mysterious, and Mr. Roper, the crabbed ;
but most agreeably of all, with Rose Woodbine, the
heroine, and Frank Woodbine, the hero—doubtless the
future and successful claimants of the Dunmow
Flitch of Bacon. It is in this fashion that
the now story opens story which, we trust,
may shed fresh lustre on the New Monthly, and impart
new
Ainsworth.
popularity
to the already popular name of Harrison

The Bouquet. A Monthly Periodical.
A charming little publication, with, a title at onoe
graceful and suggestive. It blooms in the boudoirs of
e.ll
ty and Mignionette. In
little magazine, Mayfair, and in the drawing-rooms of Belgravia, having
been culled at intervals of every four or five weeks in
otherl‘lary lweboorndes:gtahredßenosu,qubyetßis a d
lueba
m
con-
sisting of prose and poetic contributions from a number
of young ladies, who are accustomed to meet in the gar-
dens of Park-crescent, not only for the purpose of social
recreation, but for that also, it would seem of intellectual
improvement. It is a happy thought most happily real-
ised. There is no alloy of vanity in it either—for each
of the fair contributors to the Bouquet (and hence its
title) conceals her identity under the name of some plant
or blossom—the only clue to the authorship being that
the initial letters in the names of bud and writer in each
instance are identical. Mother Bunch, by right, ought to
have been the editor—but, instead of that, we find the
post occupied by a noli me tangere sort of personage,
namely, Thistle, who must, one would fancy, alarm the
more timorous aspirants, by telling them on the title-
page of every number that—Nemo me impune lascessit I
Happily, if the Bouquet is arranged (and admirably ar-
L ranged, it is under those auspices) by Thistle, it is origi.