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 FIRST. The Old Inn at Dunmow. I. FROM WHICH IT MAY BE INFERRED THAT PERSEVERANCE IN A GOOD CAUSE WILL MEET ITS REWARD. A GOOD Old Inn was the Dunmow Flitch. None better in Essex. The house had known better days, and wealthier inmates-though not merrier, perhaps than it did, since it had come into the occupation of Jonas Nettlebed: "Jovial Jonas,” as he called himself,—or “Friar Bacon," as some of his customers styled him : and who, out of his exceeding love and respect for the time-honoured Custom of the Manor of Dunmow, had adopted the Flitch as his sign, and underneath the great gilded daub, supposed to represent a side of fatted bacon, that hung before his door, had caused these lines to be written: Painted in gold, The FLITCH behold, Of fam'd Dunmow the boast! Then here should call Fond couples all, And pledge it in a toast! This sign caused much laughter, and provoked much rustic wit, chiefly at the landlord's expense; but as it lured most of the jesters into the house, it perfectly answered its purpose. Though Jovial Jonas had prospered in his calling, which he richly 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. deserved to do, seeing that he brewed the best ale in Essex; the one grand wish of his life was still ungratified. This was possession of the Flitch-not metaphorically, but literally. He coveted the prize more than any worldly honour, and though often disappointed, he had not given up the expectation of gaining it. Hitherto, he had not been able to take the Oath prescribed by the Charter, which was rather strict in its conditions, requiring that any married couple claiming the Flitch should swear that they had lived together in perfect amity for a Twelvemonth and a Day, and never for a single moment, whether sleeping or waking, in bed or at board, had repented them of their choice, or wished themselves asunder. This was more than Jonas could conscientiously affirm of any of his unions. Any, we say, for he had been thrice married, and in each instance the match was so ill-assorted that both parties often sighed for freedom from their fetters. Jonas's first wife was a shrew, and never allowed him a moment's peace; his second was soft-spoken enough, but a sad flirt, who drove him nearly distracted with jealousy; and his third cared more about the bottle than she did about him. Nothing daunted, and animated by the same ambition as before, Jonas married again, in the full belief that this time his effort would be crowned with success. And the odds seemed now rather more in his favour, for his fourth wife, Nelly, was not only by far the prettiest of the bunch, but very amiable, and well-conducted, and apparently very much attached to him. Moreover, Nelly Nettlebed was as anxious to gain the Flitch as her husband; and that was something. The worst that could be said of her was that she was a little disposed to coquetry, and liked flattery; "but this," Jonas said, "was quite natural in a pretty young woman. As to her personal graces, he had been known to sum them up thus: "There is not too much of Nelly-not half so much as there was of my last wife, Chloe, but, what there is, is good, and of the right sort. Her eyes are brighter than my first wife's-Kate-you recollect Kate's black eyes, eh, neighbour ?-and her waist is trimmer, and her ankles neater than Jane's my second-you remember Jenny, neighbour-a fine woman, but rather too free in her manners-in short, Nelly's worth 'em all three put together. I'm a lucky man, neighbour-by the marry maskins! I am. I envy no man his wife-not even you-and I care not if any man envies me, seeing I'm now as sure of the Flitch as I am that my name's Jonas-Jovial Jonas-ha! ha! I mean to claim it when the time of probation is over. So look out for rare doings, neighbourrare doings-ho! ho!" The village chum to whom these remarks were addressed, though he agreed with the uxorious landlord in his estimate of his wife's beauty, was by no means so sure that Jonas would win the prize. However, he kept his thoughts to himself, and merely nodded his head, as if in assent. He was married himself, and knew the difficulties and dangers of the case. The claimant of the Flitch in expectation, was by no means an illlooking little fellow-in his own opinion. We are compelled to qualify the description in this way, for most people thought him too short, too stout, too red in the gills, too puffy, too snub-nosed-too anything you please except too handsome. But Jonas viewed his own figure and face in the glass in a very different light, and thought himself an extremely personable little man. He was rather a lady-killer too; persuading himself that the sex doted upon him-and he had some show of reason for the belief, since he had obtained four wives; but other explanations of his good luck had been given. Howbeit, he took con siderable pains in the adornment of his person; wore flowered waistcoats, and coats of showy colour; was particular about the tie of his wig, and the nice sit of his hose. Nor could any innkeeper boast a whiter apron than he. In a conspicuous part of the house, placed there for the edification of his guests for he knew it by heart himself-and fairly copied out and framed, was the Oath, administered to the claimants of the Flitch, which had always hitherto appeared so formidable to him, but which he now hoped to be able to pronounce, without any omission, or the slightest mental reservation. And as this singular formula will be frequently referred to in the course of our story, it may be here recited in full. The Oath, You shall swear by Custom of Confession, For this is our Custom of Dunmow well known:- No Brawls. No Regrets. No Transgressions. Constant Love and Devotion. Twelve Honeyed Moons; and One Day over, to make all sure. The conditions were so hard, and so little applicable to the cases of married folk in general, and those of Dunmow in particular, that they were never accepted. 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. The earliest claim on record was made in the seventh year of the reign of Edward the Fourth, and the guerdon of rare conjugal love and truth was bestowed 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 Harry'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 standing; 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 receive 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 of 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 the Lord of the Manor, together with the steward and other officers were substituted for the Prior and his whiterobed 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 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-secundum formam donationis—to any applicants, on due fulfilment of the conditions annexed to the gift. We have seen who conceived themselves entitled to it. Jonas and Nelly fully expected to be Number Six, on the list. A few words more in reference to the Old Inn. Many years ago, it had been the most important habitation in the place: in fact, the Hall. Neglected by its owner, Sir Walter Fitzwalter, an eccentric personage about whom strange tales were told, though none to the effect that he had much chance of gaining the Flitch, for indeed he separated from his lady, who died in despair, it was said, soon after that unfortunate event; then altogether abandoned by him; and in the end sold, and for an old song, for like most deserted houses it was supposed to be haunted, and no one would inhabit it. Half of the mansion was next pulled down, including the haunted wing, and the residue being converted into an inn, passed through several hands, and was at length taken by Jonas Nettlebed immediately after his first marriage. But the precautionary measures above detailed had not been entirely effectual in getting rid of the Ghost. It only appeared to have changed its quarters. There was still one chamber left: and the best in the house, unluckily in which whoever slept was sure to be scared by some unaccountable noise or preternatural appearance. With this exception the Old Inn was quiet and comfortable enough, and the general accommodation excellent. Good ale, clean sheets, civil host and buxom hostess what more could any reasonable traveller desire? Let us walk up and look at the old house. Assuredly, it is picturesque, and rich enough in elaborate architectural detail to please you. What a fine façade it presents! high roof, quaint gables, twisted chimneys, and bay-windows, still full of stained glass. And what a large and hospitable porch! Note those noble elm-trees growing near it. To an arm of one of the largest of them is suspended Jonas Nettlebed's gaudy signboard. But for that, and the circular bench embracing the tree, and the wateringtrough for horses, and some other matters, you would never have taken the house for an inn. Now let us enter. The promise without is not belied by what we find within. Here is a spacious and lofty room, capable of accommodating any number of guests; and here no doubt the old Fitzwalters a hospitable race, save the last of the line-must often have feasted their friends, and held their Christmas revels. Is it much changed since their time? We think not. Witness that high, carved mantelpiece, amongst the ornaments of which you may discern their manyquartered shield: and you may also find their armorial bearings in the blushing panes of the bay-windows. The wainscots are of oak as in days of yore; and that ponderous table of the same dark material, and that massive carved sideboard, can never have left their places. They must have belonged to some Fitzwalter in the days of good Queen Bess, when the Hall was built, and that fine oak staircase was reared, which you see leading to the railed gallery above. Many a light foot has tripped down those polished steps: many a heavy boot clanked up them. Rich silks have rustled in the gallery above: fair faces have looked down upon the gallants below, when beards were wagging at the board, and the damsels' names were on their lovers' lips as they raised the cup to them. Many a swift couranto has been danced upon the floor: many a song has echoed from the vaulted roof: many a Yule log has crackled upon the hearth many a sport and pastime has been held round it. All are gone now. No wonder there is a Ghost in the House. It must mourn over past splendours-over the buried joys of other days. But generally the place must be unchanged, except in some minor and unimportant matters. Of that we are quite sure. Its air of antiquity convinces us it is so. There are four doors opening upon the gallery, easily discernible from below. One of them must belong to the Haunted Chamber. No. They are all too public. A ghost requires some seclusion. There is a dark corridor on the left. It must lead to the lonesome room, where the guest's slumbers have been broken at dead of night, and his blood frozen within his veins by a ghastly apparition: a female figure clothed in white, and supposed to be the perturbed spirit of the unhappy Lady Juga Fitzwalter, who destroyed herself, so the story ran, as we have already intimated, in an access of despair, on her separation from Sir Walter. Perhaps, we may visit that Chamber by-and-by, and ascertain if these reports of its being haunted are well founded. Meantime, let us stay below, and see what is going on there. II. HOW JONAS NETTLEBED COUNTED HIS CHICKENS BEFORE THEY WERE HATCHED. THE Old Inn looked unusually cheery. Not that it ever looked dull or uncomfortable, but just now it wore a particularly bright and lively aspect. A good fire was blazing on the hearth, roaring up the wide-mouthed chimney, and shining on the black wainscots, on the twisted legs of the black oak table, and on the carved doors of the black oak sideboard. The good fire was needed, for it was bitterly cold without: a black frost of a week's duration. All the ponds and watercourses about Dunmow were covered with ice, and even the |