The Sun.
London, England, 1854-07-03 00:00:00

LITERATURE.

The _Flitch of Bacon; or, The Custom of Dunmow.
A Tale of English Home. By W. Harrison
Ainsworth. Routledge.
It would be scarcely surprising that Harrison
Ainsworth should have secured to himself a very
wide popularity—supposing his fictions to have
possessed scarcely any other merit besides that of
being based upon themes of the most felicitous
selection. We have remarked this more than once
already, but the thought recurs to us again with
every additional contribution offered in succession
by our novelist to what have long since been thesuf-
ficiently ample stores of English imaginative litera-
ture. Sometimes it has so happened that, by the
luckiest inspiration, he has chosen as the subject
of his romance—be sure of this, a romance of cap-
tivating and enthralling fascination—a celebrated
personage, half real, half mythical, the marvel of
his generation and the glory of his country, such as
" Crichton," James Crichton, the Admirable
Crichton, the paragon of Scots, the beau ideal of a
scholar and a gentleman, as daring as handsome,
as learned as accomplished. Surely no one ever hit
upon a worthier hero of Romance—not from the
days of Apuleius to those of Lesage or of Bulwer
Lytton. Sometimes, and this, by the way, not
unfrequently, as the readers of Mr. Ainsworth—
readers numbered now by thousands upon thou-
sands—merely require to be reminded—sometimes
the scene and the very title of his romance have
been some renowned structure, some really national
edifice, a palace, or a prison, or a fortress (occasion-
ally even all three together, as in the instance of
" The Tower of London' ), a building, the very name of
which conjures up on the instant a multitude of
historic and heroic associations. It was thus with
" Windsor Castle" depicted by him at the time
when its royal precincts were haunted by the burly
form of Harry VIII., and the beautiful face of
Anne Boleyn, and the phantom shape of Herne the
goblin hunter. It was thus with the old palatial
fabric of " St. James's," the gorgeous interior of
which the romancist revealed to us, as it appeared
in the age of Addison and Marlborough,illus-
trating anew that famous couplet of Pope in re-
ference to Hampton Court—
" Here thou, great Anna! whom three realms obey,
Dost sometimes counsel take—and sometimes tea."
Thus, likewise, have we listened, "spell bound" to
the tale of " Old Saint Paul's," recounted in such
wierd and eldritch tones by the modern novelist,
who had not scanned in vain the wonderful
record of the Plague, by Defoe, or the no less mar-
vellous celebration of the Fire, by Dryden ; that
terrible plague which devastated London almost as
fearfully as the Angel of Death the army of
Sennacherib, and that dreadful fire which seemed
only to spare the remnant of the city, as by a
miracle, according to the bard of the year and the
event towards the close of his Annus
when-
-64 The Eternal heard, and from the heavenly quire,
Chose out the cherub with flaming sword ;
And bade him slowly drive th' approaching fire
From where our naval magazines were stored."
When, in obedience to the summons—
" The blessed minister his wings display'd,
And like a shooting star, he cleft the night.
He charged the flames, and those that disobey'd
He lashed to duty with his sword of light."
Sometime, again, with no less adroitness than that
displayed by him in the selection of a celebrated
character, or of some celebrated palace or cathe-
dral, Mr. Ainsworth has found a fitting theme for
romantic narrative in a renowned fable like that of
the Rosicrucians, vide " Auriol," or in a memor-
able incident like that of the discovery of the Gun-
powder Plot, vide" Guy Fawkes." To say nothing
of the skill disclosed in the selection (as a kindred
theme for glamour or witchery over the mind of a
romance-reader) of the association of the fortunes
of the notable housebreaker, "Jack Sheppard," with
those of the far-famed. Jonathan Wild the Great,
already celebrated by the classic pen of Fielding ;
or of the association, again, of the fortunes of the
House of " Rookwood" with those of Dick Turpin,
the pink and pattern of highwaymen. Scarcely
less ability, or rather, we should say, perhaps more
correctly, scarcely less adroitness in the choice of a
new theme, was very recently shown once more by
Harrison Ainsworth, in the instance of one of the
latest of his literary productions—we mean his ro-
mance of the " Star Chamber." Prior to this he
had taken a popular phrase, or legend, or whatever
else you may like to call it, as the theme of an-
other romantic narrative, meaning that of his demi-
diabolic story about Pendle Forest, called the
" Lancashire Witches." Not one of his ingeniously
selected subjects for romance, however, can be
deemed, we conjecture, in any one respect more
peculiarly happy as the theme for a thoroughly
English story—a story racy of the soil from
which it may bo said to have sprung, as
really as any atom of its indigenous vegetation
—than the one which has here suggested to
our popular novelist this charming tale of
Home, anent " The Flitch of Bacon." It may be
remembered by the readers of the New Monthly
Magazine as having adorned that periodical by
instalments inserted in it at uncertain and some
of them very protracted intervals. Completed at
length,its chapters have now been republished in
this goodly form collectively.
The volume is
gracefully illustrated by woodcuts from designs I y
John Gilbert, and is dedicated, moreover, quaintly,
but prettily, to " The Chevalier and Madame Bern-
hard Tauchnitz, of Leipsig, says
the author, " I have never known a more fondly
united couple"--wherefore
with reasons enow are
their names, indeed, appropriately enough,
.inscribed
at the head of the dedication.
itselfn other
th
The Flitch of Bacon" may be oewhf
Dunmow—
"hronmileofa
deemed accept-
able,matter of fact, or,
we are fain to believe even to the most
o
terest of the tale i tohfe
which
ht
imaginative of antiquary. While the alluring in-
the peculiarities of this eccentric old custom of
Dunmow may be said to be embalmed, must render
the book a welcome boon to the lover of genuine
romance.. As the words,inci incidents e nt s
preface to the volume under
notice reminds. ,us sighificantly—it has been said,
and said truly by Grose, " Among the jocular
treasures of England none have been more talked
of than the Bacon o f Dunmow." Talked of, in
truth, so much has it been generation after gene-
ration that, as Mr. Ainsworth adds, " the Dun-
mow Flitch has passed into a proverb." A pro-
verb not unfrequently referred to in our na-
tional literature—mentioned by a writer in our
language as remote and venerable as Geoffrey
Chaucer—the Custom alluded to having been origi-
nated, it is generally believed, by a Fitzwalter, in
the early part of the thirteenth. century. Wonder-
ful to relate, moreover, it is a custom which ap-
pears, from reliable records, to have survived the
lapse of nearly five hundred years, having only very
recently, indeed, fallen into desuetude—namely,
about the middle of the last century. It is about
that period that the date of his pleasant'story has
been fixed by Mr. Ainsworth--who informs his
readers at the outset, not merely that he has dis-
covered that the last delivery of the Flitch occurred
on the 20th of June, 1751—just three years and a
few days over a century from the present time—but
observes, I possess a very curious print, quite
Hogarthian in its character, from a drawing taken
on the spot by David Ogborne, representing (appa-
rently with great accuracy) the ceremony and proces-
sion on that occasion." It appears, by the way, that
a similar custom to that so long in vogueat Dunmow,
in Essex, existed at one time at Wichenoure, in
Staffordshire. But as our romancist observes it was
much less generally known, that of the Dunmow
Flitch being in much greater request. According
to Grose—" some persons having demanded the
Flitch, it has, as is said, been refused "—hence
several of the more ludicrous scenes introduced
into Mr. Ainsworth's amusing narrative. " Many
years ago I planned this tale,,, writes the author,
" but it is only now that my long-meditated plan
has been accomplished." For the which may we,
with considerable reason, proffer him our felicita-
tions. Divided into five parts or books, the story
refers in the opening part to the Old Inn at Dun-
mow, in the second to the Lady of the Manor of
Little Dunmow, in the third to the Haunted
Chamber, in the fourth to Monkbury Palace, and
in the closing book to the Procession of the
Dunmow Flitch. No less than ten of Harrison
Ainaworth's animated and musical " Lyrics" will
be found scattered through the work—happiest
among which is Captain Juddock, s bacchanalian,
entitled " The Wine-Drinker's Declaration." The
different personages grouped together m this tale
of English Home are excellently well delineated.
First and foremost there is Jonas N.ettlebed, other-
wise Jovial Jonas, otherwise Friar 8ac0n....tb,0

landlord of tho Dunmow Flitch, the sign of whose
house was a great gilded daub representing a side
of fatted bacon with this superscription :

" Painted in gold
The Flitch behold,
Of famed llitninow the boast !
Then here should call
Fond couples all
And pledge it in a toast."
Then there are—Abel Roper, the steward ; and
Frank Woodbine, the gamekeeper ' • and Roger
Bowes, the clerk ; and Timothy Tipeat, the beadle;
and Captain Juddock' aforesaid ; and Dr. Plot,
the mysterious ; and Squire Monkbury, the Lord
of the manor ; and Parson Bush, his chaplain ; and
Dr. Sidebottom, the vicar of Dunmow—and Grub,
and Chip, and Clot, and all sorts of merry tag,
rag, and bobtail. And for heroines—have we not
here the three graces attendant on the presiding
Venus of the Flitch ?—Nelly Nettlebed, and Rose
Woodbine, and Bab Bassingbourne ! Delightfully
has Harrison Ainsworth acquitted himself of his
well-chosen responsibility of writing what may be
called the crowning chapter in the gay and festive
annals of Dunmow—with the memory of which,
so long as it shall survive, his name must hence-
forth be associated. As a thoroughly national story
—in truth as well as in title, a Tale of English
Home—it is among the most acceptable of his
many popular romances, about the happiest among
his many successful literary achievements.

Adventures of a Bashful Irishman. By William
F. Deacon. New Edition. Bryce.
An old favourite, coming to us again under a
new aspect, is this humorous record of the "Ad-
ventures of a Bashful Irishman." Several years
have gone by since the occasion of its first appear-
ance. But the various merits of the work as a fic-
titious autobiography more than justify, at this
long date after its original advent, the fact of its
present republication. Of the accomplished author
himself we cannot induce ourselves to speak in the
sedate and measured terms of Criticism without
memories, sympathies, or predilections. Associated
so long, so intimately, and we cannot but call to
mind, moreover, so very honourably (to his repu-
tation as a critic and a man of letters) with the
literary department of this journal---,William Fre-
derick Deacon can never be mentioned in the co-
lumns of The Sun otherwise than in terms of sor-
rowing regard and affectionate remembrance. It
is not so very long since we had occasion to wel-
come the romance his hand had scarcely completed
when his career was prematurely closed by his re-
gretted death, the historical romance of "Annette,"
which appeared before the world under the winning
auspices of a generous memorial of its author,
penned by the late Justice Talfourd. That gifted
man has since then himself, too, passed away in his
turn—and we revert now with a twofold interest
of regret to his Life of Mr. Deacon as to the latest,
and not the least generous or the least interesting,
of his literary performances. Besides the amusing
novel now re-issued in a popular form from Mr.
Bryce's establishment, Mr. Deacon had written
prior to his story of "Annette" a number of lively
volumes, among others " Hach°, or the Spell
of St. Wilten," the " Innkeeper's Album," " War-
reniana," and " November Nights," in connection
with some of which his name was favourably known
among his contemporaries. Added to this he un-
dertook the issue at one time of a monthly publica-
tion, as rival (in name) to the famous London Ma-
gazine, and at another of a daily journal, " with-
out politics or scandal," called the " aljefitio, or
Companion to the Breakfast Table"—contributing
at intervals, moreover, and this by no means un-
frequently, to Blackivood's Magazine, and other
first-class periodicals. Speaking of the work at
the present moment jrought once more directly
under our notice by the fact of its reappearance in
the form of a new and cheap republication,, a pro-
duction originally entitled "The Exile of Erin, or
the Sorrows of a Bashful Irishman"—the late Sir
T. N. Talfourd observed in his " Prefatory Me-
moir" of Mr. Deacon—that these "Adventures"
constitute "a pleasant history of an Irish Ord. Blas
with some satirical notices of prominent Irish pa-
triots, somewhat extravagant, but wholly uu-
tinged by ill-nature." Adding, in regard to it, a
little further on, " This work received great praise
from all critical quarters in which it was noticed—
sold well—and was republished in America, Acre
it was largely bought, &a." Turning over its pages
at this time, now nearly twenty years since the
first appearance of the story in two volumes in
1835, it is not difficult to understand almost at a
glance the secret of this early success of the
" Bashful Irishman." It opens at once with a
burst of animal spirits, and continues to the last
chapter, and the closing sentence, gay, rollicking,
and hilarious. Purporting to be mere transcripts
from a fragmentary journal, supposed to have
been kept by the imaginary narrator, one
Terence O'Blarney, it assumes to itself almost from
the outset the importance of a comic autobiography.
Mr. Terence O'Blarney scarcely arrives at the end
of his introductory paragraph before he has in-
formed his reader apologetically—

"My narrative contains no extraordinary nor pa-
thetic adventures ; it has neither continuous interest
nor artfully-elaborated plot ; but abounds in 'passages
that lead to nothing," and characters, or rather shadows
character, that come and go without a why or where-
fore, like the phantoms that flitted before the eyes of
Macbeth in the cavern of Hecate."

Adding sententiously that—
" By far the majority of us are like travellers at an
inn, who, before they have had time to become ac
quainted with each- other's habits, manners, modes of
thought, action and so forth, are complied to hurry away
north, south, east, and west, never perhaps to re•assem-
ble."

He appears to have been tumbled neck and crop
into the world anyhow—himself informing us, in a
rather surprising manner, that ho was born " dur-
ing a shower, beside a hedge, under an umbrella !"
At one bound, however, he skips over the period
of his childhood, and brings us to the time when
he was seventeen. Placed under the care and in
the shop of the village M.D., midwife, surgeon,
apothecary, physician, all in one—Terence thus
drolly sketches off the appearance of Killquick—