In the JANUARY NUMBER was commenced,

THE FLITCH OF BACON:

OR,

The Custom of Dunmow.

A TALE OF ENGLISH HOME.

BY W. HARRISON AINSWORTH, ESQ.

SUN.

HARRISON AINSWORTH redivivus! Yes; and restored to his admirers under the happiest auspices-by the commencement, with the new year, of a good old English tale founded upon a good old English custom. It has been the good fortune of our author to hit upon-or rather we should say it has been wonderfully to the credit of his judgment that he has selected-some of the most admirable subjects for fiction ever chosen by a contributor to our national literature. What, for instance, could be happier as a selection than that famous one of "The Tower of London ?" What again could be more felicitous than the notion of repeopling from the Past, in like manner, the gorgeous fane and verdant haunts of "Windsor Castle ?"--an idea further developed afterwards in regard to the town dwelling of our monarchs-"St. James's." Victor Hugo had celebrated in this way the Cathedral of Paris in his masterly fiction of "Notre Dame"-and Harrison Ainsworth did the same by the Cathedral of London, in his "Old St. Paul's"-enhancing the interest of the story, by recounting in it the horrors of that Plague and Fire which successively devastated this metropolis in the seventeenth century. Happier still was our author's choice of a subject in “Guy Fawkes," and happiest of all, to our mind, that of "Crichton" the Admirable! In this manner, upon various occasions before now, he has continued to create a soul under the ribs of death, by reviving some dim old legend, or doubtfully remembered story, in the picturesque guise of a living and attractive romance. It is with the like skilfulness of selection that Mr. Ainsworth has taken now as the theme of his new domestic tale of life in England, "The Flitch of Bacon; or, the Custom of Dunmow." Having rendered his readers familiar at once with the Old Inn and the Custom of Dunmow, Mr. Ainsworth loses no time in introducing the principal personages 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 new story opens-a story which, we trust, may shed fresh lustre on the New Monthly Magazine, and impart new popularity to the already popular name of Harrison Ainsworth.

MORNING HERALD.

"The Flitch of Bacon" is the title of a new work of fiction which Mr. Ainsworth has begun in the January number of the New Monthly Magazine, and which, although a serial, we depart from our usual custom to notice, on account of the abundant promise it holds out of equalling in interest any of the previous romances which its popular author has produced. The "Custom of Dunmow" has so long been associated with the pleasantest of England's traditions, that a full illustration of the gamesome test of connubial felicity cannot but be received with welcome. The story, though only just begun, has already a stirring plot toward and a number of lively characters on the scene, not the least important personage being Dr. Plot, whose peculiarities appear likely to be brought out to great advantage as the narrative progresses. Some glimpses of the supernatural are also glanced at, which indicate the revelation of that never-failing attraction a ghost story, which, in Mr. Ainsworth's practised hands, we may be assured, will prove a good one. It therefore behoves the lovers of domestic fiction to look out for the monthly visitation of "The Flitch."

LONDON: CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY.

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

THE FLITCH OF BACON:

OR,

THE CUSTOM OF DUNMOW.

A TALE OF ENGLISH HOME.*

BY THE EDITOR.

The Bacon was not set for them I trow,

That some men have in Essex at Dunmow.

CHAUCER. Wife of Bath's Prologue.

PART THE SECOND.

The Gamekeeper's Cottage.

I.

How DOCTOR PLOT VISITED THE OLD PRIORY CHURCH OF Dunmow.

DOCTOR PLOT found it bitterly cold.

The wind seemed to come from "thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice," and penetrated to his very bones, through his roquelaure and muff. Besides, he could scarcely keep his feet, owing to the slippery state of the road, which in some places was covered with ice. The steward, however, had a strong arm, and to this the old gentleman clung for support, and so kept himself from falling. Thus he toiled on, slipping and swearing, and grumbling incessantly at the severity of the weather, but exhibiting no inclination to turn back.

Mr. Roper found it very cold too, but he was well buttoned up, and had it not been for the wind, which caught him at corners, and threatened to blow off his hat and wig, he would have cared nothing about the weather. To secure himself against mishap he tied his handkerchief over his head, and then bade lusty defiance to the hyperborean blast.

They had quitted the main town, and crossing the bridge over the frozen Chelmer, were slowly mounting the ascent leading to Little Dunmow-a work of some labour and difficulty to the old gentleman.

NOTICE.-The Author reserves the copyright of this Tale in France, and the right of publishing a French Translation of the work; as provided by the Treaty. Feb.-VOL. XCVII. NO. CCCLXXXVI.

L

Before they got half-way up the hill, night had come on; but the moon had arisen, and there was a brilliant array of stars in the firmament. The frosty particles on the hedges glittered like diamond spray. Very lovely was the scene around them in spite of the rigour of the season; and indeed, the sharp frost rather contributed to the beauty of the landscape than diminished it. The wind had dispersed the mists usually hanging over the marshy grounds in the valley, and an uninterrupted view was obtained of the course of the Chelmer for miles through the lowlands, its frozen surface sparkling in the moonlight. In other respects the country was beautifully undulating and diversified: in parts well wooded, and though the trees were robbed of their foliage, they formed fine dark masses on the hill sides. At some distance on the left, crowning the heights, might be discerned Stansted House, a noble mansion, belonging to Sir Gilbert de Montfichet. It was surrounded by a park, and an enchanting effect was produced by some clumps of timber on the slopes, and a few large single trees in the hollows. Cottages and granges were scattered about at intervals; and nearer to Dunmow and by the river side, were grounds and works showing where the woollen manufactures were carried on, for which the place had long been noted. Dunmow itself looked unusually picturesque in the magical light of the moon, which gave a kind of spiritual beauty to every object it fell upon; and a cheerful hum arose from the little town as if the inhabitants were all making merry.

A ruddy gleam burst from the windows of most of the cottages they passed, giving the little tenements an air of such comfort, that Dr. Plot was more than once tempted to stop and warm himself at their fires. Mirthful voices and laughter generally resounded from within. But this was not the case with a forlorn-looking and solitary hovel, that stood by the road-side. No smoke issued from its chimney; no sound of cheerfulness arose from it; only a faint light struggled through its frosty panes. Its appearance was so miserable that Dr. Plot's compassion being aroused, he peeped in.

He beheld a wretched-looking object in female attire crouching before a few decaying embers. A farthing candle burnt on the table beside her, and revealed the forlorn condition of the place. A sad picture altogether.

Dr. Plot felt it terribly cold just then. The wind was keener than ever. It cut him like a knife.

He was raising his hand to knock against the door, when the steward stopped him.

"What are you about to do, sir?" Mr. Roper said. deserve your charity, A bad, mischievous woman, sir."

"She does not

"Mischievous or not," Dr. Plot rejoined, "I cannot see her sit there and starve on such a night as this."

So he knocked. With slow and tottering steps the woman answered the summons. A ghastly-looking creature: prematurely old: with haggard features, and grizzled hair. Dr. Plot appeared to recognise her; he uttered an exclamation of surprise, and bethought him of the steward's caution. But he had gone too far to retreat now, so hastily thrusting a piece of money into the woman's hand, he departed.

Not unseen nor unnoted, though. The woman had recognised him, also. She staggered back and sank into a chair; and it was long ere she regained her senses. On recovering, she fancied she had beheld a phan

tom. But a piece of gold was in her hand; so it must have been a living person she had seen. She looked at the gold long and steadily, and then laid it down upon the table muttering:

"He is come back to judge me--he is come back. be made before I join her in the grave."

Reparation must

Meantime, Dr. Plot and his companion toiled on. Thoughts of other days and other scenes, with which that haggard-looking woman had possibly been connected, passed through his mind, and he became perfectly silent, and self-engrossed. The wind might blow as keenly as it listed now. He felt it not. An icier breath than that from the north chilled him.

The summit of the hill was at length attained, and before them stood the old Priory Church of Dunmow. All that remained of it at least, for the little structure they beheld, with its grey walls bathed in the moonbeams, its three round-arched windows, its solitary buttress, its tiny belfry surmounted by a quaint extinguisher-like roof, was the mere fragment of a vast and stately pile; that in its time had formed part of a range of monastic buildings, covering many a rood around. The ragged state of the masonry at either end of the church showed the devastation that had been committed, and the rude and imperfect character of the repairs. Within, one aisle and part of the choir were all that remained of the original fabric. Of the long rows of columns that once supported the high-arched roof now few continued standing! The hand of the Destroyer had fallen heavily on the fane; hurling down solid walls, and buttresses built in defiance of time; toppling the tower from its base; desecrating the shrines; stripping off the ornaments; tearing up the tombs; and shaking the pile to its foundations. Yet some little had been spared. Underneath a low-browed arch, encased like saintly relics in a coffer, lay the hallowed bones of the Lady Juga, by whom, early in the Twelfth Century, the Convent was founded, and dedicated to Our Lady. Of the various monastic edifices reared and endowed by the pious Juga, all were gone, save this fragment of the church: not a stone to mark their site: and the holy men whom she appointed to abide there, were gone likewise : their very graves unhonoured and unknown. But her ashes had not been disturbed; as if some good spell guarded them.

Would that the same benignant power had preserved from mutilation the tombs of the Fitzwalters! Eleven generations of the house were buried here. An antique sculptured monument, bearing date 1198, covered the founder of the line, Sir Walter Fitzwalter and his dame. Base hands and barbarous were those that shattered the fine recumbent figure of the old warrior, and 'twas pity he could not rise to strike down the sacrilegious wretch! Between two pillars, near him, lay his granddaughter; erstwhile, as fair a piece of clay, and as free from dross, as ever death, before its time, gave back to native dust. The alabaster figure on the tomb strove to shape forth the fatal charms of the hapless Matilda Fitzwalter; fatal to herself, inasmuch as they roused the passions of the ruthless John, by whom she was poisoned because she resisted him. Other graves were there belonging to the same ancient family, though not so noticeable as these; but most of them were reft of their memorials; the inscriptions defaced; the brasses torn from the stones. Little else was left, unless it might be the Old Oak Chair

devoted to the winners of the Flitch, wherein, as we have seen, it was Jonas Nettlebed's ardent desire to be enthroned. This was kept here, though seldom called into use. The venerable monastic fane had dwinded into a little parish church, with whitewashed walls, and a few pews enclosing its pillars.

Having walked up to the churchyard gate, Dr. Plot, whose feelings had evidently undergone some change since he had seen the haggard tenant of the hovel, expressed a strong wish to enter the little structure. The request seemed strange and ill-timed; but the steward, who by this time had apparently become acquainted with some of the old gentleman's peculiarities of character, raised no objection, but at once proceeded to a cottage hard by, and obtained the key from the sexton.

Armed with this, Dr. Plot left his companion beneath a row of limes in the churchyard, and hobbling up to the porch where he nearly stumbled over the sharp stones on which the fortunate couples were required to kneel while reciting their vow of conjugal felicity, he unlocked the door, and closed it after him carefully as he went in.

Why does he go there alone, and at such an hour? We may not disclose the dark secrets of his breast; but we can follow him, and see what he does.

After a step or two he pauses, overcome by emotion. A chill as of death falls upon his heart. The moonbeams are streaming upon the tomb of the first Fitzwalter and his dame, and very ghostly the statues look. The old man advances towards them slowly, as if fascinated by their stony regards. He is talking to himself aloud, but in hollow, broken tones. What words are those he utters? We dare not repeat them. They are such alone as the dead should hear.

No human eye he fancies can behold him; no human ear hear him. His gestures become more frantic; his language more wild and incoherent. No one, who had lately seen him, would recognise him now. His features have assumed a wholly different expression; very fearful to behold. Notwithstanding the deathlike chill of the place, thick damps gather, like heat-drops, on his brow.

The fit passes off, and he grows calm; but so pale, he might pass for one of the marble group before him.

Then he staggers towards the arched recess, beneath which the saintly Juga is deposited, and kneeling before the sepulchral cist, appears to pray. His hands are raised in supplication.

Why does he start back so suddenly? What sounds are those he hears? Can they be echoes of his own sighs and groans? They seem to issue from the very depths of the shell before him. He would fain speak, but his tongue is stayed with wonder and terror. He listens intently for a recurrence of the sounds. In vain. All is silent as the grave. He can see nothing; for the moon having momentarily withdrawn her lustre, the place is buried in darkness.

He puts forth his hand, and encounters only the lid of the sepulchral He touches it reverently. Beyond this, he meets nothing but the stone wall forming the back of the recess.

He shakes off the terror that has numbed him, and asks, in a voice that seems to break harshly upon the stillness of the spot, "Who is there?". No answer. He repeats the question, more loudly and pe