view to his succeeding to the well-established business which his father carried on in partnership with his son's early and intimate friend, the present President of the Chetham Society.

Mr. Thomas Ainsworth, the father, to whose energy and public spirit the improvements in Manchester were materially indebted, died at a comparatively speaking early age, in 1824. His son, William Harrison, went through the regular legal curriculum, and from Mr. Kay's office in Manchester proceeded to Mr. Jacob Phillips's chambers in King's Bench Walk, to be perfected in the higher mysteries of conveyancing. Here he copied precedents, and we have a folio volume in which his labours are embodied, but the rule in Shelley's case and Fearne's contingent remainders had no charms for him. His aspirations were of another kind-to give new associations to the name of Ainsworth unconnected with Law, Mathematics, or Lexicography-in short, to enter upon a literary career; and to know and be known by the leading authors of the day, exchanging Manchester with all its prospects for the great metropolis. In this resolve he was confirmed by marrying (October, 1826) Ann Frances, the beautiful daughter of Mr. John Ebers, of Old Bond-street, then lessee of the Opera House, whose London connexions were large and extensive; and the young man accordingly became settled in the midst of the world of letters and fashion. For some time he carried on the business of a publisher, and several works of interest and value may be found with his name attached; but this, after giving it a full and fair trial, he thought fit for wise reasons to discontinue; having, however, acquired an experience from his publishing operations which was afterwards undoubtedly beneficial to him. During all this period-at school, while going through his professional education in Manchester and London, and the years which immediately followed-he devoted the greater part of his leisure to contributing, sometimes solely, sometimes with a friendly collaborateur, to various periodicals; commencing with Arliss's little but elegantly illustrated magazine, and proceeding onward to those of larger size and greater pretensions. But, leaving these prolusions, as well as the separate works in poetry and prose, of what we may style the præ-Rookwoodian Era, to be indicated and enumerated by his future biographer-and biography has nothing more interesting than the examination of the early works of successful writers-we must come to the production which first gave Mr. Ainsworth a solid footing as an author. This was

the striking story of Rookwood, which contained what was at once acknowledged to be a masterpiece of descriptive power; we need not add that we refer to Turpin's celebrated Ride to York, which at once, delighting the young and the old, established the writer as a favourite of the reading public.

Rookwood was followed by Crichton, which sustained, if it did not increase, the reputation Mr. Ainsworth had acquired. Most of the works which succeeded appeared originally in a serial form either in Bentley's Miscellany, Ainsworth's Magazine, the Sunday Times, or in monthly numbers, and were afterwards collected into volumes. The first of these was the wonderfully popular and much calumniated Jack Sheppard, which, admirably illustrated by George Cruikshank, was universally read; and, by its extraordinary success, called forth attacks on all sides, and a spirit which, to lovers of fair play, looked very much like persecution. On this subject, we cannot do better than refer to Laman Blanchard's very sensible remarks in his Memoir.

The storm which Jack Sheppard had evoked was in a great measure appeased by the Tower of London, which deals with a higher class of criminals, and must always be placed amongst the best, if it be not indeed the best of the author's historical novels. During nearly forty years it has certainly lost none of its original popularity. Its great success gave occasion to a large dinner, which we well remember, in which were present, by Mr. Ainsworth's invitation, the leading authors, critics, artists, and publishers of London, at which Serjeant Talfourd presided. We doubt much whether, amongst the many similar celebrations which have since occurred in London, there has been any which went off more brilliantly, or with which the author, in compliment of whom the gathering took place, had better reason to be satisfied.

The narrow limits of this sketch necessarily prevent more than a simple enumeration of the titles of the novels which Mr. Ainsworth's creative power and extraordinary fertility have produced, from the date of Rookwood (1834) to the present time. One of them we must not, however, omit to single out from the rest-Mervyn Clitheroe-as it gives many graphic sketches of the friends and scenes with which he was familiar in boyhood. Another, The Lancashire Witches, dedicated to his old friend, the President of the Chetham Society, in which, with great artistic skill, he has worked up the materials contained in two works in the Chetham series of very different character-Potts's Discovery and

Nicolas Assheton's Journal-will always have a peculiar interest as a powerful and striking delineation of the grand superstition of his native county. Nor should it be omitted that to the very pleasing story, the Flitch of Bacon, we owe, under the auspices of Mr. Ainsworth, the temporary revival of one of the most curious and interesting of the old customs of England, the giving of the Flitch at Great Dunmow. We proceed to the list:

That in so long a series, and dealing with scenes and periods and subjects so diversified, Mr. Ainsworth should still have retained his hold upon public favour, as is sufficiently evidenced by the continually repeated impressions of his works both here, on the Continent, in America, and our colonial dependencies, and the translations of them into most of the languages of Europe, is an ample proof that he possesses those sterling qualities, as a writer of fiction, which will ensure permanence to his name as an author. To continue to please the public by successive productions during

xxiv SKETCH OF WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH.

a period of more than forty years is a distinction accorded to few.

We must not forget to notice the collection of Mr. Ainsworth's ballads, published in 1855, which makes us regret that he has not continued to cultivate a species of composition for which he seems to have a peculiar talent. Nor can we pass by The Combat of the Thirty, from an old Breton Lay of the 14th Century, 1859, 8vo, a most spirited and excellent version which we should be glad to see in an illustrated form, which is all that is needed to give it an extensive popularity.

Mr. Forster, in his Life of Charles Dickens, has referred with evident pleasure to the kindly intercourse which existed between the far-famed Boz, himself, and Mr. Ainsworth, in the days gone by. We believe there is no one connected with literature, who has been brought within the range of the genial sympathy, the considerate feeling, and hearty and liberal hospitality of the subject of this sketch, who will not have equal pleasure in looking back to the occasions when they met. We are sure there are no reminiscences that dwell more agreeably on our minds than of the days when Kensal Manor House, on the Harrow Road, where Mr. Ainsworth resided for many years, was a central point for literary men; and when, after sitting under an admirable host and enjoying the conversation of men whom it was always a delight to meet, the guests were serenaded on those fine summer evenings as they went homewards by the nightingales which had not then deserted that part of the suburbs of London.

One of the advantages of the eminent authors of the present day is the admirable manner in which, as a rule, they have been represented pictorially. The portraits by Pickersgill and Maclise will always give, as far as painting can, to those unacquainted with the original, a perfect idea of the author of Rookwood when in the full bloom of age and authorship.

Mr. Ainsworth was present at the grand banquet in October, 1871, commemorating the new erections of the Manchester Free Grammar School, the Earl of Derby presiding; and, in an interesting and very appropriate speech, from which, if our space had allowed, we should have given some extracts, took a review of the alumni, who in former days had done honour to the School.

DEDICATION.

TO MY MOTHER.

WHEN I inscribed this Romance to you, my dear Mother, on its first appearance, I was satisfied that, whatever reception it might meet with elsewhere, at your hands it would be sure of indulgence.

Since then, the approbation your partiality would scarcely have withheld, has been liberally accorded by the public; and I have the satisfaction of reflecting, that in following the dictates of affection, which prompted me to select the dearest friend I had in the world as the subject of a Dedication, I have not overstepped the limits of prudence; nor, in connecting your honoured name with this trifling production, involved you in a failure which, had it occurred, would have given you infinitely more concern than myself.

After a lapse of three years, during which my little bark, fanned by pleasant and prosperous breezes, has sailed, more than once, securely into port, I again commit it to the waters, with more confidence than heretofore, and with a firmer reliance that, if it should be found "after many days," it may prove a slight memorial of the warmest filial regard.

Exposed to trials of no ordinary difficulty, and visited by domestic affliction of no common severity, you, my dear Mother, have borne up against the ills of life with a fortitude and resignation which those who knew you best can best appreciate, but which none can so well understand, or so thoroughly appreciate, as myself. Suffering is the lot of all. Submission under the dispensation is permitted to few. And it is my fervent hope that my own children may emulate your virtues, if they are happily spared your sorrows.

Hereafter, if I should realise a design, which I have always entertained, of illustrating the early manners and customs, as well as the local peculiarities, of the great commercial town to which I owe my birth, I would inscribe that book to my Father -"une pauvre feuille de papier, tout ce que j'ai, en regrettant