John Ritson

“ J. K. esquire, bailiff of the liberty of [the lord the King] of E. in the county of Middlesex, to L. M. N. O. and John Doe, my deputies, greeting. By virtue of a precept in writing, under the seal of the sheriff of the said county, to me directed, I command you and every of you jointly and severally, that you, some or one of you take A. B. if he shall be found in my bailiwick, and him safely keep, so that I may have his body before the lord the King, on Wednesday next after fifteen days from the day of Easter, to answer C. D. gentleman of a plea of trespass ”

“ For instance, in his version of Sir Cauline he inserts such well-worn saws as the following:—
"Everye white will have its blacke,
And everye sweete its sowre:
This founde the ladye Cristabelle
In an untimely howre." [14]
Ritson also remarks upon the distinctive styles of the ancient and modern writers, but, as observed above, he had the bad taste to prefer the work of [Pg xxix] the later ballad-writer. His opinion is given in the following passage:—"These songs [of the minstrels] from their wild and licentious metre were incapable of any certain melody or air ”

“ For declining to obey the precepts set forth in the pamphlet, Ritson is said to have driven his nephew from his house. After some months' incessant work Ritson's brain completely gave way. Barricading himself within his chambers at Gray's Inn early in September 1803, he threatened with violence all who approached him. On 10 Sept. he set fire to masses of manuscripts, including a valuable catalogue of romances; and the steward of Gray's Inn broke into his rooms in the fear that he would burn the house down. ”

“ Hugh Ritson was touched. Somewhere deep down in that frozen nature the angel of love troubled the still waters.
Bending his head, he would have touched the cold forehead with his feverish lips. But he drew back. No, no, no! Tenderness was not for him. The good God gave it to some as manna from heaven. But here and there a man, stretched on the rack of life, had not the drop of water that would cool his tongue. ”

“ The window was half open; the lawyer walked to it and looked out. At that moment the two men were back to back. Hugh Ritson's head was bent over the keyboard. Mr. Bonnithorne's eyes were on the tranquil landscape lying in the sun outside. The faces of both wore curious smiles.
Hugh Ritson leaped from his seat.
"Ah, I feel like another man already," he said, and took a step or two up and down the room, his infirm foot betraying no infirmity. There was the noise of fresh arrivals in the hall. ”

“ At length Hugh Ritson perceived that the girl's heart was touched. If he came late he found her leaning over the gate, her eyes bent down among the mountain grasses at her feet, and her cheeks colored by a red glow. It is unnecessary to go further. ”

“ A tall thin young man, with dark wiry hair brushed on one side, was drawing on a pair of white Woodstock gloves, and affecting to look round the room with the supreme indifference of bon ton.
"Ah, Ritson," said another young Cheltenhamian to him of the Woodstock gauntlets, "hav'n't you been dancing yet?"
"No, Smith, 'pon honour!" answered Mr. Ritson; "it is so overpoweringly hot; no fashionable man dances now;—it isn't the thing." ”

“ Ritson's impatience of inaccuracy led him to unduly underrate the labours of his contemporaries, and his suspicions of imposture were often unwarranted. But his irritability and eccentricity were mainly due to mental malady. He showed when in good health many generous instincts, and he cherished no personal animosity against those on whose published work he made his splenetic attacks. With Surtees, George Paton, Walter Scott, and his nephew he corresponded good-humouredly to the end. ”

“ Hugh Ritson stepped out, plucked his candle from his hat, and held it before his feet.
"Where are you?" he called, and his voice came back through the echoing depths beyond. Presently a man could be dimly seen clinging to a cross-piece in an alcove made for an air-shaft from the main working. To get to him the treacherous ground must be crossed, with its cracking roof, through which the sand slid even yet, and under the split timbers that still creaked. ”

“ Hugh Ritson had gained his end, and yet he felt more crushed than at the darkest moment of defeat. He had conquered his own manhood; and now he crept away from the scene of his triumph with a sense of utter abasement. When he had talked with Mr. Bonnithorne it was with a feeling of the meanness of the folly in which he was involved; and if any sentiment touching the girl's situation was strong upon him it was closely bound up with a personal view of the degradation that might come of a man's humiliating unwisdom. ”

“ Hugh Ritson's infirm foot trailed heavily on the stones. His lips quivered. For a moment he seemed to be rapt. Then he swung about and muttered:
"Tut! it isn't within belief. Thrusted home, it might betray a man, Heaven only knows how deeply."
Mr. Bonnithorne looked up inquiringly.
"Pardon me; I fail, as you say, to catch the relevance."
"Mr. Bonnithorne," said Hugh Ritson, holding out his hand, "you and I have been good friends, have we not?" ”

“ B. Ritson, an estimable clergyman: here, all ranks and conditions of men mingle their undistinguishable dust; here, are high and low, rich and poor, together; here, it seems as though all strifes are hushed and discords forgotten—one stone, however, close to the wall, on the west side of the churchyard, lifts its querulous head to perpetuate the remembrance of a family disagreement; it is raised to the memory of Charles Ward, and informs the visiter, who goes to meditate among the tombs that his heart may be made better, that “it is not erected by Susan his (i.e. Mr. Ward’s) wife ”

“ On returning from Lasswade to London, Ritson resumed his literary labours with renewed energy, and in 1802 he produced two works of value. The earlier, the suggestion of which he acknowledged was due to Steevens, was the useful ‘Bibliographia Poetica: a Catalogue of English Poets of the Twelfth, Thirteenth, Fourteenth, Fifteenth, and Sixteenth Centurys, with a Short Account of their Works,’ 1802, 8vo. The second was his ‘Ancient Engleish Metrical Romanceës,’ 1802, 3 vols. 8vo, which opens with a learned dissertation, once more censuring Bishop Percy. ”

“ Hugh Ritson drew himself up, and took his breath audibly. In one swift instant his face became discolored and his features pinched and rigid. There was silence, and then in a low, broken tone, he said:
"Paul, you know well what sort of a man I am; don't drive me too hard. I have come here to do you a service. Remember your sufferings—"
Once again the convict broke into a cold laugh.
"Remember that others—one other—may be suffering with you." ”

“ The evening had closed in; the watery veil that goes between day and night was hanging in the air; the wind had risen, and the trees were troubled. When Hugh Ritson reached the cottage, all was dark about the house save for the red glow from the peat fire which came out into the open porch. The old Laird Fisher was sitting there, a blackthorn stick at his feet, his elbows on his knees, his cheeks rested on his hands. The drowsy glow fell on his drooping white head. As Hugh Ritson passed into the kitchen, the old man lifted to his a countenance on which grief and reproach were stamped together. ”

“ Joseph Ritson, the antiquary, who, though not a poet, was a great writer on poetry and our early English songs and ballads, complained bitterly of the ignorant reviewers, and described himself as brought to an end in ill-health and low spirits—certain to be insulted by a base and prostitute gang of lurking assassins who stab in the dark, and whose poisoned daggers he had already experienced. Ritson himself was a fairly venomous critic, and the "Ritsonian" style has become proverbial. Nowadays authors do not usually die of criticism, not even susceptible poets. ”

“ Hugh Ritson's breath came in gusts through his quivering, unseen lips.
"Bonnithorne, it cannot be—it is mere coincidence, seductive, damning coincidence. My mother knows all. If it were true that Paul was the son of Lowther, she would know that Paul and Greta must be half-brother and half-sister. She would stop their unnatural union." ”

“ Ritson has availed himself, more successfully than any antiquary in poetry, of the book treasures in this museum.
A very few years after the death of this distinguished character, died Dr. Francis Bernard; [362] a stoic in317 bibliography. Neither beautiful binding, nor amplitude of margin, ever delighted his eye or rejoiced his heart: for he was a stiff, hard, and straight-forward reader—and learned, in Literary History, beyond all his contemporaries. His collection was copious and excellent ”

“ Like master, like man: Natt brewed himself an ample pint of hot ale, pulled off his great boots, and drew up to warm himself before the remains of a huge fire.
Hugh Ritson's bedroom opened off his sitting-room. He went to bed; he tried to sleep, but no sleep came near him; he tossed about for an hour, rose, walked the room again, then went to bed once more.
He was feeling the first pangs of honest remorse. A worse man would have accommodated himself more speedily to the altered conditions when he found that he had pursued a phantasm. ”

“ Ritson was a thoroughly critical, conscientious student of poetic antiquities and held the right theory of an editor's functions. In his own collection of early English poetry he rendered a valuable service to all later inquiries. These included "Pieces of Ancient Popular Poetry," 1791; "Ancient Songs," 1792; "Scottish Songs," 1794; "Robin Hood," 1795; besides editions of Laurence Minot's poems, and of "Gammer Gurton's Needle," as well as other titles. He was an ill-tempered and eccentric man: a vegetarian, a free-thinker, a spelling reformer, [41] and latterly a Jacobin. ”

“ Never for an instant, never in his bitterest agony, did Hugh Ritson lie to his own soul and say that the resolution he had formed was prompted by remorse for what he had done to Paul Ritson; not revenge for what he had suffered from Paul Drayton. To be a saint when sick; to find the conscience active when defeat overwhelmed it—that was for the weak dregs of humanity. ”

“ Bonnithorne nodded his head in the direction of the voice, and said softly: "So our friend Greta is here to-day?"
"Yes," said Hugh Ritson very quietly.
Then the friends walked some distance in silence.
"It is scarcely worthy of you to talk in this brain-sick fashion," said Mr. Bonnithorne. There was a dull irritation in the tone. "You place yourself in the wrong point of view. You do not love the little being."
Hugh Ritson's forehead contracted, and he said: "If I have wrecked my life by one folly, one act of astounding unwisdom, what matter? ”

“ Manliness? He has none. He is a pitiful, truculent, groveling coward, ready to buy profit at any price. He has robbed me of my inheritance. He stands in my place. He is a living lie. Revenge? It will be retribution!"
Hugh Ritson's composure was gone. Mr. Bonnithorne, not easily cowed, dropped his eyes before him. ”

“ After the second marriage he set people to find the poor woman and child. They were never found. His last days were overshadowed by his early fault. I believe he died broken-hearted. In his will—I drew it for him—he left, as I say, a sum to be paid to this son of his first wife—when found."
Hugh Ritson laughed half mockingly.
"I thought he was a fool. A scoundrel is generally a fool as well."
"Generally; I've often observed it," said Mr. Bonnithorne. ”

“ You know I am superior to prejudice." Hugh Ritson dropped his voice and said, as if speaking into his breast: "If the worst comes to the worst, I can marry her."
Mr. Bonnithorne laughed lightly.
"Ho! ho! And in what turgid melodrama does not just such an episode occur?"
Hugh Ritson drew up sharply.
"Why not? Is she poor? Then what am I? Uneducated? What is education likely to do for me? A simple creature, all heart and no head? God be praised for that!"
At this moment a girl's laugh came rippling through the air. It was one of those joyous peals that make the heart's own music. ”

“ The light laugh once more. "Perhaps not so manly as robbing the dead and dying," said Hugh Ritson, and his voice was deep and cold.
Mercy heard another muttered oath. Dear God! what was about to be done? Could she escape? The door was closed. Still, if she could but reach it, she might open it and fly away.
At that instant, Hugh Ritson, as if apprehending her thought, said, "Wait," and then stepped back to the door and drew the snap bolt. Mercy leaned against the wall, and heard the beating of her heart. In the darkness she knew that Paul Drayton had thrown off his coat. ”

“ But literary criticism should be content with a man’s works; his domestic life is matter, as Aristotle often says, “for a separate kind of investigation.” Old Ritson used to say that “every literary impostor deserved hanging as much as a common thief.” W. H. Ireland’s merits were never recognised by the law.
How old Ritson would have punished “the old corrector,” it is “better only guessing,” as the wicked say, according to Clough, in regard to their own possible chastisement. ”

“ As Hugh Ritson went up the steep Haymarket, his infirmity became more marked, and he walked with a sliding gait. Seeing this, a woman who stood there halted and limped a few paces by his side, and pretending not to see him, shouted with a mocking laugh, "What is it—a man or a bat?" ”