Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life .

by William Harrison Ainsworth

George Ade (February 9, 1866 – May 16, 1944) was an American writer, newspaper columnist, and playwright.George Ade was born in Kentland, Indiana, one of seven children raised by John and Adaline (Bush) Ade. While attending Purdue University, he became a member of the Sigma Chi fraternity. He also met and started a lifelong friendship with fellow cartoonist and Sigma Chi brother John T. McCutcheon and worked as a reporter for the Lafayette Call. He graduated in 1887.In 1890 Ade joined the Chicago Morning News, which later became the Chicago Record, where McCutcheon was working. He wrote the column, Stories of the Streets and of the Town. In the column, which McCutcheon illustrated, George Ade illustrated Chicago life. It featured characters like Artie, an office boy; Doc Horne, a gentlemanly liar; and Pink Marsh, a black shoeshine boy. Ade's well-known "fables in slang" also made their first appearance in this popular column.Ade's literary reputation rests upon his achievements as a great humorist of American character during an important era in American the first large wave of migration from the countryside to burgeoning cities like Chicago, where, in fact, Ade produced his best fiction. He was a practicing realist during the Age of (William Dean) Howells and a local colorist of Chicago and the Midwest. His work constitutes a vast comedy of Midwestern manners and, indeed, a comedy of late 19th-century American manners. In 1915, Sir Walter Raleigh, Oxford professor and man of letters, while on a lecture tour in America, called George Ade "the greatest living American writer."

Genres: Gothic, Historical Fiction, Horror, Fiction

111 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1844

About the author

William Harrison Ainsworth was educated at Manchester Grammar School and later articled to a solicitor, deserting this profession for literature.

Among his best known novels are The Tower of London (1840), Old St. Paul's (1841), Windsor Castle (1843) and The Lancashire Witches (1848).

Reviews

[Adam Stevenson · Rating 4 out of 5]

The high number of stars for this book is because of how much I enjoyed it, not because it was particularly good in itself.

I picked this book up after reading Dickens and it is painfully clear how poor a writer Harrison Ainsworth is in comparison. Where Dickens can’t help describing things in surprising ways, Ainsworth is painfully bogged down by cliche, especially when he tries to make the writing soar.

A few pages in and this doesn’t matter. What Ainsworth does have is a delight in drama and story. Three pages in and we have already had a man half-killed for trying to remove severed heads from London Bridge and a miracle recovery. By the sixth, the man has discovered that the alchemist who made him better is his grandfather, by the eighth the alchemist has created the elixir of life and by the ninth he has had a sudden heart attack and his grandson has stolen the elixir of life rather than made him better, taken it and stepped out into an eternal life… What he lacks in skill at words, he makes up for in skill of action.

The writing is so by-the-numbers, an alchemical chamber is simply described by what it has in it and the people speak to themselves in a peculiar stagey dialect that no-one would ever use but this is because they are the simple tools needed to convey the happening in the story, so it never lets up.

The dialogue is particularly awful. I’d noticed, but not hated the clunky nature of it in other Ainsworth books but here it really sticks out. The shady characters speak in a pinfull inwented speach vat grates on the eyes. I might have liked the character of Ginger, the dognapper with a couple of Charleys in his pockets, if he hadn’t been so painful to read. (I also thought it weird that in this, of all books, there was an attempt at a message against the law’s indifference to dognapping).

The book has a weird structure. There’s the prologue with the young man, Auriol, and his grandfather and his drinking of the elixir. There was a first part about Auriol’s secrets being found out and exploited by ruffians, his falling in love with Ebba Thorneycroft and his bargain with a mysterious man in a black cloak who demands a woman Auriol loves every ten years. Then there was an interlude set thirty years earlier where the man in the cloak discovers his powers and makes his deal with Auriol. Then the second part, which was a group of people going to rescue Ebba and being trapped in a fiendish house of death before the end of the book when Auriol woke up and discovered he’d been mad and dreamed the last three-hundred years.

I didn’t understand why Auriol made a deal with the man in black after he’d been alive for two-hundred years already. My assumption was that the elixir’s downside is that the person would live forever but have no financial luck and the man in black promised to take this downside away for the price of a soul every ten years - but I had no confirmation. We never find out what happens to the intrepid rescuers trapped in the house of death nor the fate of Ebba Thorneycroft and the other women. I was not convinced as a reader that the whole story had been a result of Auriol’s madness, the details of his imagined future were too accurate to not have taken place.

That’s not to mention the chapter in the barber’s that takes four pages describing a barber’s shop to only lead to a character gaining a new master called Loftus, which doesn’t really go anywhere because a few chapters later he is working for the man in black. That’s not to mention the mysterious figure in a mask who helps the rescuers whose identity is revealed in the following deft piece of exposition; “Is it you, Gerard Paston, the brother of Clara, my second victim?” We hadn’t even heard of Gerard or Clara before this moment.

All this moaning is not to say I didn’t love the book - I did. Any book where a man turns a key in a lock, pushes the door and the whole thing falls down is one I want to read. Any book with a bizarre trap with self-imprisoning chairs that give immobilising electric shocks and then huge helmets come from the ceiling to suffocate the sitters, is one worth reading. There was also a moment in the book where an immortal character complained that he’d been drowning for three days but it took that long to untie the stone from him. I loved the book, but it feels threadbare.

Essentially, it feels unfinished, and perhaps it was, but I can’t find any authoritative source to say so. The Dickens I was reading before this was ‘The Mystery of Edwin Drood’, which has had people writing endings for it since Dickens died half-way through. This similarly feels like half a book, ending on the cliff-hanger of Auriol ‘waking up’ and it would be enormous fun to Drood it up, try and work out the relationships and bring it to a satisfying conclusion. If I had the time, I’d do it myself.

[shapeofaflyingdeer · Rating 5 out of 5]

Priceless. A screenplay.

[Mr James · Rating 3 out of 5]

The sandman and the tinker seemed to talk in some sort of old cockney slang,which at times was hard to follow.
The story is very gothic and I am sure some would really appreciate its dark edge.
Certainly different from what my usual reads but I will give it a 3 stars for its weirdness

[Tom · Rating 3 out of 5]

The ending though... 😑

[Petra · Rating 3 out of 5]

Most of the book is fine, the plot seems interesting and intriguing. But the end... It seemed to be really going for a big finish and then in couple short chapters it went south to a disappointment.

[Surreysmum · Rating 2 out of 5]

Read this in the "edition de Luxe" with illustrations by Phiz. The subtitle of this novel is "The Elixir of Life", and it is suitably Faustian/Wandering Jew-ish. The ending is almost Shelleyishly peculiar and unsatisfactory (I am thinking of P.B. Shelley's youthful Gothic novels, of course, not Mary Shelley's masterpiece). Auriol is restored to his own century and the situation seems to be as it was in the first chapter - except that we are given to understand that this is all a (literally) devilish trick, and that he is, in fact, still in the nineteenth century where he has just delivered up yet another woman he loves to death-in-life. The volume closes with two short pieces - a rather tedious evocation of Christmas-time and description of an "old London merchant"; and a fairly effective "night's adventure in Rome" which is strangely reminiscent of - or anticipatory of, I suppose - James' Daisy Miller or (even more) Hawthorne's Marble Faun, though much more melodramatic than either. Ainsworth is a curiously uneven writer - some things he does veyr well, but you get the feeling he's doing them by imitation. [These notes made in 1983:]