Historical Romance or Gothic Horror?

The all-too-common description of Ainsworth as a writer of 'historical romances' is perhaps a factor which deters many readers today. It might be more interesting to think about our author as a master of the Gothic, following in the tradition of eighteenth-century shockers like Horace Walpole, Ann Radcliffe and 'Monk' Lewis. Indeed, in the preface to Rookwood, the author confesses that 'I resolved to attempt a story in the bygone style of Mrs. Radcliffe (which had always inexpressible charms for me), substituting an old English squire, and old English manorial residence, and an old English highwayman, for the Italian marchese, the castle, and the brigand of the great mistress of Romance'. Many of his novels contain Gothic elements and some would have been worthy of films in the Hammer Horror mould. Given the insatiable public appetite for ghost stories, which has not varied over the centuries, there should be a ready reading public for Ainsworth's work. Here's a brief example from Rookwood, following on from the earlier poetical post about the family legend. Ranulph Rookwood has returned from a continental sojourn to his family home, to attend the funeral of his recently deceased father. He relates the following experience, when he was enjoying the pleasures of a country garden as the evening light began to fade:

"I had been musing for some moments, with my head resting upon my hand,
when, happening to raise my eyes, I beheld a figure immediately before
me. I was astonished at the sight, for I had perceived no one
approach--had heard no footstep advance towards me, and was satisfied
that no one besides myself could be in the garden. The presence of the
figure inspired me with an undefinable awe! and, I can scarce tell why,
but a thrilling presentiment convinced me that it was a supernatural
visitant. Without motion--without life--without substance, it seemed;
yet still the outward character of life was there. I started to my feet.
God! what did I behold? The face was turned to me--my father's face! And
what an aspect, what a look! Time can never efface that terrible
expression; it is graven upon my memory--I cannot describe it. It was
not anger--it was not pain: it was as if an eternity of woe were stamped
upon its features. It was too dreadful to behold, I would fain have
averted my gaze--my eyes were fascinated--fixed--I could not withdraw
them from the ghastly countenance. I shrank from it, yet stirred not--I
could not move a limb. Noiselessly gliding towards me, the apparition
approached. I could not retreat. It stood obstinately beside me. I
became as one half-dead. The phantom shook its head with the deepest
despair; and as the word 'Return!' sounded hollowly in my ears, it
gradually melted from my view. I cannot tell how I recovered from the
swoon into which I fell, but daybreak saw me on my way to England. I am
here. On that night--at that same hour, my father died."