{"id":351,"date":"2008-08-12T17:34:05","date_gmt":"2008-08-12T17:34:05","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.literaryplaces.co.uk\/?p=351"},"modified":"2023-12-16T11:31:55","modified_gmt":"2023-12-16T11:31:55","slug":"curfew-must-not-ring-to-night","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/www.literaryplaces.co.uk\/?p=351","title":{"rendered":"Curfew must not ring to-night"},"content":{"rendered":"

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According to the original inscription, my copy of Curfew Must Not Ring To-night<\/em>, by Rose Hartwick Thorpe, dates from before 1896. It was given as a present to my grandmother from her mother in March 1912, and along with her copy of Hans Andersen’s Fairy Tales <\/em>it provided some of the outlines for my earliest literary ‘mental maps’.<\/p>\n

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England’s sun was slowly setting oe’r the hills so far away,
\nFilling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day;
\nAnd its last rays kissed the faces of a man and maiden fair,–
\nHe with step so slow and feeble; she with sunny, floating hair;
\nHe with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she with lips so cold and white,
\nFirmly set to hush the murmur, “Curfew must not ring to-night.”<\/p>\n

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“Sexton,” Bessie’s white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old,
\nWith its walls so grey and dismal,– walls so dark and damp and cold,–
\n“I’ve a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die
\nAt the ringing of the Curfew, and no earthly help is nigh.
\nCromwell will not come till sunset;” and her face grew strangely white
\nAs she spoke in husky whispers, “Curfew must not ring to-night.”<\/p>\n

“Bessie,” calmly spoke the sexton — every word pierced her young heart
\nLike a fatal, gleaming arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart,–
\n“Long, long years I’ve rung the Curfew from that gloomy shadowed tower;<\/p>\n

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“Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour:
\n“I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right;
\n“Now I’m old, I will not miss it: Girl, the Curfew rings to-night!”<\/p>\n

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow,
\nAnd within her heart’s deep centre, Bessie made a solemn vow,
\nShe had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh,
\n“At the ringing of the Curfew, Basil Underwood must die.”<\/em>
\nAnd her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright–
\nOne low murmur, scarcely uttered,– “Curfew must not<\/em> ring to-night.”<\/p>\n

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She with light step bounded forward, sprang within the old church door,
\nLeft the old man coming slowly, paths he’d trod so oft before;
\nNot one moment paused the maiden, but with cheek and brow aglow,
\nStaggered up the tower so gloomy, where the bell swung to and fro:
\nThen she climbed the slimy ladder, dark, without a ray of light,
\nUpward still, her pale lips saying,– “Curfew shall not ring to-night”<\/p>\n

She has reached the topmost ladder, o’er her hangs the great dark bell;
\nAwful seems the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell;
\nSee the ponderous tongue is swinging,– ’tis the hour of Curfew now,<\/p>\n

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And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow.
\nShall she let it ring? No, never! Flash her eyes with sudden light,
\nAs she springs, and grasps it firmly, “Curfew shall not ring to-night!”<\/p>\n

Out she swung,– far out. The city seemed a tiny speck below;
\nThere, twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell swung to and fro;
\nAnd the half-deaf Sexton ringing (never now he heard<\/em> the bell!)
\nSadly thought the twilight Curfew rang young Basil’s funeral knell;
\nStill the maiden, clinging firmly, cheek and brow so pale and white,
\nStilled her frightened heart’s wild beating, “Curfew shall not ring tonight.”<\/p>\n

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It was o’er; the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped once more
\nFirmly on the damp old ladder, where, for hundred years before,
\nHuman foot had not been planted,– dreamt not that the brave deed done
\nShould be told long ages after; yet, while rays of setting sun
\nLight the sky with mellow beauty, aged sires, with heads of white
\nTell the children why the Curfew did not ring that one sad night.
\n

\nO’er the distant hills came Cromwell; Bessie saw him; and her brow,
\nLately white with care and anguish, glows with sudden beauty now,
\nAt his feet she told her story, showed her hands, all bruised and torn;<\/p>\n

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And her sweet young face, still wearing traces of the anguish borne,
\nTouched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light.
\n“Go! your lover lives,” cried Cromwell. “Curfew shall not ring to-night.”<\/p>\n

*\u00a0 *\u00a0 *\u00a0 *\u00a0 *<\/p>\n

While writing this piece I’ve discovered a final verse which isn’t included in my edition, but I think the poem works better without it:<\/p>\n

Wide they flung the massive portals, led the prisoner forth to die,<\/em>
\nAll his bright young life before him. Neath the darkening English sky,<\/em>
\nBessie came, with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with lovelight sweet;<\/em>
\nKneeling on the turf beside him, laid his pardon at his feet.<\/em>
\nIn his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face upturned and white,<\/em>
\nWhispered, “Darling, you have saved me, curfew will not ring to-night.”<\/em><\/p>\n

*\u00a0 *\u00a0 *\u00a0 *\u00a0 *<\/p>\n

ROSE HARTWICK THORPE AND THE STORY OF ‘CURFEW SHALL NOT RING TO-NIGHT’<\/strong><\/p>\n

I began my research into the history of the poem after dipping into Folklore, Myths and Legends of Britain<\/em> (Reader’s Digest Association, 1973), where I came across a much earlier version of the Curfew story than the one I grew up with:<\/p>\n

During the Wars of the Roses, a nephew of the Earl of Warwick was captured by the Yorkists and condemned to die at Chertsey, Surrey, within 24 hours; the signal for his execution was to be the tolling of the curfew bell in St Peter’s Church. A messenger was sent to the king for a pardon, but when the time came for the bell to ring, he still had a mile to ride. As if by a miracle, the bell did not ring that night and the condemned man’s life was saved. It turned out that his sweetheart, Blanche Heriot, had climbed into the belfry and hung on the great bell’s clapper until he was reprieved. This exploit became a favourite theme of later storytellers, and in America it inspired the well-known ballad:<\/em><\/p>\n

‘As you swing to the left,<\/em>
\nAnd you swing to the right,<\/em>
\nRemember the curfew<\/em>
\nMust never ring tonight.’
\n<\/em><\/p>\n

In this version the story is set in 1471 rather than in the 17th century, and an internet search suggests that the legend of Blanche Heriot was first brought to a wider public in two works by the Chertsey-born Victorian writer Albert Smith (1816 – 1860). His play, Blanche Heriot, or the Chertsey Curfew, <\/em>was produced in 1842, and in 1843 his short story on the same subject, “Blanche Heriot: A Legend of Old Chertsey Church” was published in The Wassail-Bowl: A Comic Christmas Sketchbook<\/em>, Volume II. In 1865 an article by Lydia Sigourney (1791 – 1895), “Love and Loyalty”, appeared in the American publication, ‘Peterson’s Magazine’, and this seems to have provided inspiration for a further version by another American writer, Rose Hartwick Thorpe (1850 – 1939).<\/p>\n

The Open Library website has an online version of George Wharton James’s 55-page book Rose Hartwick Thorpe and the story of Curfew Must Not Ring To-night, <\/em>first published in 1916,<\/em> which provides lots more fascinating detail, including the fact that Rose’s family could trace their ancestry back to Old King Cole and that ‘one of the treasured possessions of the family to this day is the Coat of Arms of the Coles, which clearly indicates the kingly descent claimed’. Rose was only 16 when she wrote Curfew, <\/em>in 1867, <\/em>and she went on to publisha number of further works, including Remember The Alamo<\/em>. Her poems were collected and published in the 1880s as Ringing ballads, including Curfew must not ring tonight<\/em>.<\/p>\n

The poem, a favorite of Queen Victoria’s, was one of the most popular of the 19th century. It was set to music in 1895, by Stanley Hawley and published as sheet music by Robert Cooks and Co. As a child I learned to sing the chorus of one of the comic versions, ‘Hang on the Bell, Nellie’, but until now I didn’t know any verses – the internet is an endless source of entertainment. Apparently it was recorded by Billy Cotton of ‘Billy Cotton’s Bandshow’ fame – see Links at the bottom of the page.<\/p>\n

*\u00a0 *\u00a0 *\u00a0 *\u00a0 *<\/p>\n

“The Chertsey Curfew” (below), a poem written sometime in the later part of the 19th century by Boyd Montgomerie Ranking, is a less successful attempt to cover the same theme. I haven’t been able to find out much about Montgomerie Ranking but he’s described as a journalist and a writer of ‘valentines and poetry’. He was apparently based in London, and between September 1881 and December 1884 he was first proprietor and then editor of the magazine ‘Time – a monthly miscellany of interesting and amusing literature’. The magazine’s fortunes slumped under his charge and he was dismissed by a subsequent owner on the grounds that he was attracting an inferior class of writer. However, I also found a mention of him in a William Butler Yeats chronology (23 June 1887: ‘Calls on the journalist Boyd Montgomerie Ranking’<\/em>), so either Yeats, twenty-two years old and newly returned to London, was working hard to get published and not too fussy about who he dealt with, or the definition of ‘inferior class of writer’ has shifted a bit since then.<\/p>\n

*\u00a0 *\u00a0 *\u00a0 *\u00a0 *<\/p>\n

The Chertsey Curfew<\/strong><\/p>\n

by Boyd Montgomerie Ranking<\/em><\/p>\n

It is the autumn of the year,
\nThe woods are turning brown,
\nThe Lammas rains have swelled the weir,
\nThe sun is sinking down,
\nAll things seem calm and quiet here
\nIn pleasant Chertsey town.<\/p>\n

All nature seems serene and fair,
\nAs sunset gleams are shed,
\nIn gold across the churchyard, where
\nThere sleep the quiet dead;
\nBut a woman is climbing the belfry stair
\nWith a swift and silent tread.<\/p>\n

Up and up the winding stair
\nAnd now at last she stands–
\nA set look on her face so fair.
\nWith tight-clenched writhing hands–
\nWithin the belfry dim and bare
\nAnd eyes the tight rope’s strands.<\/p>\n

It seems the goal she sought is found,
\nHer bosom ‘gins to swell;
\nThen, as she stands and looks around,
\nTo the great curfew-bell
\nShe mutters, “Thou shall never sound
\nTo toll my Martin’s knell!”<\/p>\n

For the bitter Puritans have sworn
\nAt curfew chime that day
\nYoung Martin’s life-thread shall be shorn
\nBecause he dared to pray
\nAs his fathers prayed ere he was born,
\nIn the old accustomed way.<\/p>\n

And Blanche has prayed with sobs and tears
\nThe sexton, deaf and old,
\nThat now first in so many years
\nThat bell may not be tolled;
\nBut he only answers, as half he hears,
\n“My hand I shall not hold!”<\/p>\n

“Through all my life, in peace or strife,
\nI’ve set that bell a-swing;
\nThe neighbours round expect its sound,
\nRelief from toil to bring;
\nHave done, I say! no use to pray,
\nThe curfew-bell must ring!”<\/p>\n

Then with a set and steadfast face
\nShe got her up the tower;
\nAnd now within that dismal place
\nShe waits the fated hour,
\nA-gazing on the hollow bass
\nThat hath such deadly power.<\/p>\n

The rope grows tight through all its strands,
\nAnd with a sudden bound
\nShe has leapt aloft, and the small white hands
\nThe cruel tongue around
\nAre clasped :-the sexton tolling stands,<\/p>\n

Now too and fro the clapper swings
\nHer hands are bruised and bleeding
\nBut still with close-shut eyes she clings,
\nHer agony unheeding;–
\nNever a note of curfew rings,
\nAnd the minutes fast are speeding.<\/p>\n

The deed is done, her end is won,
\nThe bell stays in mid-air;
\nWith a strange smile she stands awhile,
\nAs past were all her care,
\nNor pain she heeds ;-anon, she speeds
\nAdown the belfry stair.<\/p>\n

A stern, grim man with a piercing eye
\nWith his troop rides past amain,
\nAnd “Cromwell! Cromwell !” is the cry,-
\nThen up she springs, so fain
\nTo stay his course as he passes by,
\nAnd grips at his bridle-rein.<\/p>\n

The steed is stayed, her tale is told;
\nSoft grows that rugged face,
\nAnd something clouds the eye so cold
\nAs he speaks the word of grace,
\nAnd Martin loosed from bonds and hold
\nStoops to his love’s embrace.<\/p>\n

And still as at the evening hour,
\nWith slow and solemn knell,
\nThe curfew tolls from Chertsey tower,
\nIts ringing seems to tell
\nOf brave Blanche Heriot, and the power
\nOf love that nought can quell.<\/p>\n

*\u00a0 *\u00a0 *\u00a0 *\u00a0 *<\/p>\n

HANG ON THE BELL, NELLIE<\/strong><\/p>\n

Words and Music by : T. Connor, C. Erard, R. Parker<\/em><\/p>\n

The scene was in the jailhouse, and if curfew rang that night
\nThe guy in number 13 cell would go out like a light.
\nShe knew her Dad was innocent, so plucky Little Nell
\nHas tied her tender torso to the clapper on the bell.<\/p>\n

Oh, hang on the bell, Nelly, hang on the bell<\/em>
\nYour poor Daddy’s locked in a cold jailhouse cell.<\/em>
\nAs you swing to the left, Nelly swing to the right<\/em>
\nRemember the curfew bell must never ring tonight.<\/em><\/p>\n

It all started when Nelly said, “No! No! No!” to Handsome Jack
\nAnd struggled as he tried to kiss her down by the railroad track;
\nNell’s Dad rushed up to save her as the train came down the line,
\nAnd Jack fell back across the track and paid the price of crime.<\/p>\n

Oh, hang on the bell, Nelly, hang on the bell <\/em>
\nYour poor Daddy’s locked in a cold jailhouse cell. <\/em>
\nAs you swing to the left, Nelly swing to the right <\/em>
\nRemember the curfew bell must never ring tonight.<\/em><\/p>\n

Nell’s Dad he got arrested, and brought up before the Law,
\nThe Policeman said, “Old Handsome Jack ain’t handsome any more!”
\nNelly cried and pleaded, but the jury did not care —
\nThey didn’t have a sofa, so they offered him the chair.<\/p>\n

Oh, hang on the bell, Nelly, hang on the bell <\/em>
\nYour poor Daddy’s locked in a cold jailhouse cell. <\/em>
\nAs you swing to the left, Nelly swing to the right <\/em>
\nRemember the curfew bell must never ring tonight. <\/em><\/p>\n

They pulled on the bell rope, but there was no ting-a-ling
\nThey could not get their business done, for curfew would not ring!
\nTo and fro aloft swung Nelly, as below they pulled and heaved,
\nWhen suddenly a voice cried “Stop! Your daddy’s been reprieved!”<\/p>\n

Oh, hang on the bell, Nelly, hang on the bell <\/em>
\nYour poor Daddy’s locked in a cold jailhouse cell. <\/em>
\nAs you swing to the left, Nelly swing to the right <\/em>
\nRemember the curfew bell must never ring tonight.<\/em><\/p>\n

*\u00a0 *\u00a0 *\u00a0 *\u00a0 *<\/p>\n

Photos \u00a9 Angela Williams, 2008<\/p>\n

LINKS<\/strong><\/p>\n

– Wikipedia: Blanche Heriot by Albert Smith<\/a>.<\/strong><\/p>\n

– The story of the Chertsey Curfew Bell.<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

– ‘The Chertsey Curfew’: a copy of the poem by Montgomerie Ranking<\/a>.<\/strong><\/p>\n

– Rose Hartwick Thorpe and the story of Curfew Must Not Ring To-night<\/em> at The Open Library<\/a>.<\/strong><\/p>\n

– Rose Hartwick Thorpe: a slightly different version of ‘Curfew’<\/em> to the one quoted above: includes the extra verse.<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

– ‘Hang on the Bell, Nellie’ performed by Billy Cotton, on YouTube<\/a>.<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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