LIFE AND WRITINGS OF MRS. RADCLIFFE. (continued 2)

At the upper end of the lofty and noble hall, where the high table stood, is now a very large statue of Demosthenes, robed, with buskined feet and a book or scrowl in his hand; the attitude composed; the countenance expresses nothing of the energy and fire that characterize his eloquence. lxxIt was bought by the late Duke in Italy, for seven hundred pounds. The brown gallery is almost covered with portraits by Holbein, the greatest assemblage of famous persons I ever saw. In the little closet of entrance, the countenance of Giardini, the composer, gives you the idea that he is listening to the long drawn notes of his own violin. Holbein’s Erasmus, in the gallery, must be truth itself: the keen and quick, small eye; the humorous, though serious smile; the thin, finely-pointed, yet bending nose; the thin-drawn lips and chin, are all exquisite. In a picture containing three portraits, that in the middle is of Luther. His bluff, blunt, strong habits of expression; his dauntless and persevering mind; his consciousness of the truth and importance of his cause, and his resolution to maintain it, are well expressed: strength and resolution in the chin. On his right is Melancthon, reasoning, acute, amiable. On his left, Pomeranius; a somewhat sly and monkish countenance. Queen Elizabeth and several of her Court: Salisbury, civil, sagacious and fastidious; effeminate; very fair: Burleigh, with a steady, penetrating, grey eye, high forehead, with black hair; a cast of humour: Leicester, sturdy and crafty.

“Lord Surrey, the poet, young, thin and melancholy. No very fine pictures in what is called Lady Betty Germain’s room, which looks delightfully upon the green and stately alleys of the garden. lxxiHigh state-bed; dingy white plumes crown the bed-posts. In the dressing-room are three Earls of Dorset, and drawings by Titian and Michael Angelo. In another room a state-bed, presented by James the First. In the dressing-room, among many fine pictures, is one of Sir Theodore Mayerne, physician to James the First, and to two of his successors, by Vandyke: he is seated in an armchair, and his right hand rests on a human skull; his own head is grey, and he looks at you with a mild and sensible countenance, turned a little towards his left shoulder; the fading look of age, without actual weakness.

“In the great dining-room below, Hoppner’s copy of his portrait of Mr. Pitt, a strong, and, I think, not a flattering likeness. Fletcher, intelligent, thoughtful, and tender; brown complexion, acute black eyes. Beaumont, florid, with light blue eyes; of an open, cheerful, handsome countenance. Near the windows is a group of portraits, painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds, with one of himself, in the midst of these his familiar friends, now all dead. On his right is Doctor Johnson, drawn bareheaded—a severe deduction from the harmonies of any frame: it is nearly a profile; intense thought and anxiety press down the benevolent brow. On the left is Goldsmith, painted in the same style, a strong countenance, but of very different expression; coarse; the eyebrow’s not bent, like Johnson’s, firmly and evenly lxxiiover the eyes, but only towards the nose; the other end highly hoisted, as if with caprice; unpleasing countenance; nothing of the goodness of Johnson. Garrick, with a most pleasant and living look, piercing eyes fixed upon you, with perfect ease and kindness, as he leans with both arms on a table; older than the portraits I have seen. Burke, vulgarized by Opie. Betterton, the actor, manly, sensible face. Pope, old, wrinkled, spectre-like. Swift, gentle in comparison with Pope. Otway, heavy, squalid, unhappy; yet tender countenance, but not so squalid as one we formerly saw; full, speaking, black eyes; it seems as if dissolute habits had overcome all his finer feelings, and left him little of mind, except a sense of sorrow. Dryden, in his velvet cap, younger than usual. Addison, mild. Waller, thinner and older than usual, with scarce a spark of his fire left, but still a courtier-like gentleman.

“In a small, domestic parlour, leading into the book-room, is that fine picture of Lord Gowrie and Vandyke, by the latter; the finest portrait I ever saw, except one of Rubens, by himself, at Buckingham House, and another at Warwick, in the cabinet that terminates the long suite of staterooms.

“In a blue room, a domestic drawing-room, Lord Whitworth, a shrewd and comely man of the world, with spirited and penetrating grey eyes; an expressive but somewhat clouded brow. The lxxiiiDuchess, in a black velvet riding habit, with a hat and feather, by Opie; a pleasing picture: you do not think of her in this portrait as of the Duchess, which is the object of one in the drawing-room, but as of a happy wife and a good-natured, sensible woman; a little too much care in the attitude.

“In one room a head of Louis the Fourteenth, all flutter and fume.

“The rooms are so numerous and the suites of them so long, that, though I have seen them twice, I could not now find my way through them, and cannot even recollect them all. All the principal rooms look upon the garden, with its lawns and lofty shades. Scarcely a spot of brown earth is visible: so many various tints of green; the trees sometimes bending their branches down to the shrubs and flowers.

“In the Park, abounding with noble beech groves, is one, on the left of the road leading to the house, which, for mass and overtopping pomp, excels even any in Windsor Park, when viewed as you descend from the Park gate, whence shade rises above shade, with amazing and magnificent grandeur. In this mass of wood is one beech, that stretches upwards its grey limbs among the light, feathery foliage to a height and with a majesty that is sublime. Over a seat, placed round the hole, it spreads out a light yet umbrageous fan, most graceful and beautiful. With all its grandeur and luxuriance, there is nothing in this beech heavy or lxxivformal; it is airy, though vast and majestic, and suggests an idea at once of the strength and fire of a hero! I should call a beech-tree—and this beech above every other—the hero of the forest, as the oak is called the king.”

In the autumn of 1811, Mrs. Radcliffe went again to Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight. The following extracts bear but a small proportion to her entire journal of this little tour.—“Passed through Bere Forest, on the right, with many seats and woods and spires, around. Almost dusk. An horizon of glowing crimson lay behind the woods on the right, where the sun had set. Delightful to catch the different saffron, crimson, or fiery tints among the purple streaks. All the prospect lay in sullen twilight from Portsdown Hill, and it was quite dark when we reached Portsmouth. Could just discern the high rampart walks, with trees, before we rambled under the deep, fortified gateway of Portsea. Went to the George Inn, a very large handsome house, with many galleries and staircases. Handsome furniture and excellent accommodation, except that you could get nothing when you wanted it. We had fish brought without plates, and then plates without bread. All this owing to a vast throng of company, two hundred vessels or more being detained by winds, besides many ships of war. Nothing but ringing of bells and running about of waiters. If you ask a waiter a question, he begins a civil answer, but lxxvshuts the door before you have heard it all. It was very diverting to hear the different tones and measure of the ringings, particularly about supper time, and the next day about five, when every body happened to be dining at one and the same time, to hear them all ringing together, or in quick succession, in different keys and measure, according to the worn out, or better, patience of the ringer. These different keys enabled me to distinguish how often each bell was rung before it was answered; also the increasing impatience of the ringer, till, at the third, or fourth summons, the bell was in a downright passion. There was a mischievous amusement in this, after we had gone through the delay ourselves, and had gotten what we wanted. Such life and bustle is inspiriting, for a little while. Before supper, we had been down to the platform, over the sea. All was indistinct and vast; the comet high, but no moon; calm. Heard the falling of the tide—monotonous, not grand—cannon all around and sentinels; some old seamen.

“Oct. 11.—Cloudy, with silver gleams. In the afternoon, sailed in the packet for Ryde. The wind being contrary, though moderate, we were two hours and a half on our passage; had a delightful sail, festooning among all the fleet at Spithead. A passenger asked ‘What brig is that?’ as we passed a man-of-war. A midshipman, who leaned over the side, made no answer. ‘What brig is that, sir?’—‘The Rover.’ Every body lxxviadmired this vessel. Two ships of 100 guns, one of 74, and many of other degrees of force. It was a grand and glorious sight, this anchored fleet, at various distances on the gleaming waves, some in shadow, others upon long lines of distant light, of coldest silver. Among other passengers were two Missionaries going to Sierra Leone in the brig Minerva, belonging to Mr. Macaulay: the eldest Wilhelm, a German, the younger a Persian; modest, sedate, well-intentioned men; had some knowledge of Greek; one of them was taking his wife with him. The captain of their ship, on board, seemed to be a good sort of German. Another captain of a trading ship was a passenger, Captain Reynolds, going to his ship, the Crescent, bound for the Mediterranean: a plain, steady, grave seaman, of the old stamp; good sense, with a pious tender heart. Said he had carried, or that he was then about to carry, several hundred copies of the New Testament in the modern Greek, to be distributed under the direction of agents of the British and Foreign Bible Society. Captain ——, a Cornish man, going to his ship, the Commerce. These two captains had met “on strands afar remote,” and now, by accident, on board this packet. One of them accosted the other with an apology for some apparent inattention at Malta, where they had last parted—his ship having been “so far to leeward.” They talked of parts of Smyrna, Constantinople, and other ports beyond lxxviithe Straights, as familiarly as they could of London or Bristol. Mr. W——, a London merchant, having a seat somewhere in the west, a tall thin man, about sixty, with a florid face and white hair; an unassuming well-bred man. The captain of the packet, formerly a pilot, had a keen, steady, dark eye, with a brow low-bent, from attention to distant objects, and a countenance quick and firm, that seemed to say he was master of his business, and proud of it.

“Landed at Ryde, after a fine sail, through a grand and interesting scene.

“Oct. 15.—After a foggy night, a clear and cloudless day, with the warmth of June. At Steephill; saw the skirts of the fog clearing up the steeps of Boniface, like a curtain, and the sea below brightening from misty grey into it’s soft blue, and the whole horizon gradually clearing, till all was cheerful warmth and sunshine, about ten o’clock. About twelve, we set off to walk to the Signal-house, on the highest steep of Boniface, not visible near the house, nor indeed till we had gone a long way, being on the eastern side of the down. Followed the steep Newport road, for a mile or two; looked down on the vast sea-line, and on the huge promontories and broken rocks of the Undercliffe. Then, leaving the road, turned into a field on the right, with heathy steeps and downs, that would have been capped with clouds, had there been any. The air keen, and the climate lxxviiiconsiderably different from that below. The views astonishing and grand in a high degree. From these ridges we looked down, on one side, over the whole interior of the island: but the sublime view was that to the south; where, as we seemed perched on an extreme point of the world, we looked immediately down on hills and cliffs of various height and form, tumbled in confusion, as if by an earthquake, and stretching into the sea, which spreads its vast circumference beyond, and its various shades of blue. This soft blue, thus spreading below us, was, in general, deeper than that of the cloudless sky; and the sky itself was paler at the horizon than high above, appearing there like the dawn of light, and deepening as the arch ascended. This might be the effect of vapour, drawn up from the sea. Found our way at length over nearly trackless furze and heath, to the Signal-house, which looks down on the steeps of Boniface, and the rocks of Bonchurch, and over to the sweep of Sandown Bay, then all over Brading Harbour and the long coast of Sussex, which, in clear weather, may be seen as far as Beachy Head.

“In returning, we endeavoured to follow a path down the steeps near Bonchurch, and to find some steps, cut in the precipice, by which to descend. The look down upon the shores and sea tremendous—steeps below steeps, to the surge beating and whitening below all. Followed, for some time lxxixwithout dizziness, till we lost our little track, and saw all around and beneath us scarcely any thing but pathless descents—tremendous. From the fear of coming to some impracticable steep in this wild descent and being unable to find the hewn steps, we re-ascended to the Signal-house, and so returned home. The sea a desert, except that a fine frigate sailed majestically at a distance, and one brig was also in sight.

“How sweet is the cadence of the distant surge! It seemed, as we sat in our inn, as if a faint peal of far-off bells mingled with the sounds on shore, sometimes heard, sometimes lost: the first note of the beginning, and last of the falling peal, seeming always the most distinct. This resounding of the distant surge on a rocky shore might have given Shakspeare his idea when he makes Ferdinand, in the Tempest, hear, amidst the storm, bells ringing his father’s dirge; a music which Ariel also commemorates, together with the sea-wave:—

‘Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell,

Ding, dong, bell!’

“This chiming of the surge is when the tide is among the rocks, and the wind, blowing from the sea, bears and softens all the different notes of the waves to a distance, in one harmonious cadence; as in a concert, your distance from the orchestra blends the different instruments into a richer and softer harmony.”

lxxxFrom several walks in the neighbourhood of Steephill, we select the following:—

“Passed Lord Dysart’s beautiful cottage. It stands at some distance from the shore, and has several distinct roofs, well thatched: a large conservatory stands on a winding lawn, with a fine beech grove and a long and richly coloured copse, bending along down, and afterwards along the feet of cliffs below. The crimson berries of the hawthorn gave exquisite tints to this coppice, among the brown and various shades of the autumnal woods, and appeared in abundance every where among the trees and wild shrubs of the whole Undercliffe. The little church of St. Lawrence, perhaps the smallest in England, stands on a knoll, and terminates the cultivated valley; immediately beyond which, we entered upon a scene of extreme wildness, grandeur and solitude. Many of the ruinous precipices of the upper cliffs project in horizontal strata, yet have perpendicular rents. Some of the shattered masses give most clear echoes: we stood before one, which repeated every syllable of several passages from the most sonorous languages, with an exactness of tone that was truly astonishing. It seemed as if a living spirit was in the rock, so near, so loud, and so exact! ‘Speak to it, Horatio!’ I could have listened to it for hours. How solemn is the voice of cliffs and seas! How great the style of Nature! how expressive! ‘Speak to the rock!’ and again it gave every word, as if in sport or lxxxiimitation, but with truth itself. How long had it slumbered in silence? We returned by the course we had come, the yellow sun lighting up seas and shores with the warmth of May, and the birds singing every where.

“Oct. 19.—Left Steephill. Sailed from Cowes in the Southampton packet, about half past five; the Naiad frigate lying before the town. What particularly struck me in the passage was, not only the sun actually appearing to set in the sea, but the splendid amber light, left upon that long level perspective of waters, and the vessels upon it at various distances, seeming dark on this side, and marking out its extent to the eye. The grace and majesty of an anchored ship, too, lying with her stern to the eye, though at less distance, is indescribable; showing all her shrouds and yards lessening, like a pyramid, as they rise upon the light. How tranquil and grand the scene lay, beneath the gradually deepening shade! Still the dark shores and stately vessels kept their dignity upon the fading waters. How impressive the silence, and then how according the solemn strain, that died upon the waves from unseen and distant bugles, like a song of peace to the departing day! Another of those measured portions that make up our span of life, was gone; every one who gazed upon this scene, proud or humble, was a step nearer to the grave—yet none seemed conscious of it. The scene itself, great, benevolent, sublime—powerful, yet silent in its power—progressive and lxxxiicertain in its end, steadfast and full of a sublime repose: the scene itself spoke of its Creator.”

In this year Mrs. Radcliffe visited Penshurst. From some very extensive notes upon this ancient seat of the Sydneys, we extract the following:—

“As we drew near, the woods began to thin; and an old latticed wooden gate showed one entrance into a park, now in ruins, for the grass is tall, scanty, and intermingled with taller fern. No deer appeared on the rusty lawns, or under the scattered trees, or decaying groves, of this once rich domain. Penshurst lies in a small valley of its own, that hangs upon the ridge of hills which form the southern boundary of the grand valley overlooked from Riverhill. All its heights are hung with its own woods, which shut out every distant prospect from the house, except from the turrets; and even from these, at least from the one I climbed, the view is not extensive; but it is a pleasing scene, with here and there an intermingled spire and ancient mansion. After following for a considerable time the paling of this extensive park, an elderly woman admitted us to it through the chief gate, and the ancient mansion immediately appeared over a rough lawn, surrounded with groves. The house is much in the style of Knole, but more irregular, and not of half the size. It is of brick and rough stone, with now a tower, and now a turret; high lozenge chimneys, an embattled lxxxiiiwall, and, above all, the long peaked roof of the great hall. In the court, over the arched portal, is a row of five shields of the family arms, in stone. The great hall is on the opposite side: it is grand, but gloomy, showing the dark rafters of the roof; the tall, pointed windows below shed but a subdued light on the pavement, which is of brick. The rafters have been blackened by the fires of two centuries, lighted on the centre of the pavement, where the bricks, raised half a foot, form a small octagon, on which, perhaps, Sir Philip Sydney and the knights his companions have often stood round the blazing fagots, piled upon the same iron dogs, of enormous size, that still remain there. I think I see, in glimpses, the strong blaze of the wood flashing on their visages. The armour of Sir Philip himself, with helm (the vizor closed), stands at the back of an obscure gallery, and close beneath a high window, whose small frames admit a blunted, melancholy light. It stands like a spectre in arms, watching over the scene it once inhabited; and is admirably placed to touch the imagination, but not to gratify curiosity, its distance being considerable. A partial light, thrown more strongly on the head, would give it very fine effect. It is best seen from one of the doors, that open from the raised step at the upper end of the hall, where the high table stood.

“The hall being so lofty as to seem shorter than it should be, and than it really is, one of the late lxxxivowners, to remedy this defect, had a painted perspective placed at one end—a most unsuitable expedient in so great and simple a scene; but the drawings of knights in armour, larger than life, between the windows, are well done. Several very rudely carved wooden images, now whitened and probably brought from some other part of the house, are placed in front of the gallery, as if looking over the railing.

“Mrs. Perry, the grandmother of the present Mr. Sydney, who changed his name from Shelley, was a niece of Sydney, Earl of Leicester, and co-heiress with her sister, Lady Howard, of the Penshurst estates. The old housekeeper, who attended us, lamented much that Mr. Sydney did not now live here, but hoped to see him return. She had been all her life on the spot, and told us what fine times she remembered when Lady Perry used to drive to the gate in a coach and six, and come down with such ‘a sight of servants.’ All the tenants used to come to meet her, and ‘we girls’ (the speaker was a grandmother) used to stand all in a row to meet her. Such noble liveries! and then the poor woman shook her head, and bustled about, with emotion. The bells were a ringing all day, and there were such goings on. ‘Was she Lady Perry?’ ‘Yes, sir,’ rather sharply, as if astonished that we could doubt it. ‘Was she a Lady by birth?’ ‘Yes, sir,’ more sharply, ‘she was a Lady indeed.’ She led us down a modernized lxxxvwinding staircase into a small hall in the chief part of the mansion, opening into the garden. We passed a fine Gothic window, that gives light to it, having painted shields of arms; among them Queen Elizabeth’s. From the great dining-parlour, a staircase leads past many rooms lined with oak panels, worm-eaten; among them the nursery, which the housekeeper pointed out, with a strong regret of old times—not those of Sir Philip Sydney, but of Lady Perry. And there were the children’s playthings; there they were all—with some sighs. As I humoured her, she began, in the midst of her regrets, to apologize for her dress, and to lament that she had not had time to appear better. ‘Do the stairs near the nursery lead to the top of the turret?’—‘I don’t know, ma’am, but I’ll see.’ I followed to the small platform, and looked over the battlements upon the wood and the valley. The view was pleasing, but not impressive, or extensive.

“She led us through the great hall, to see the kitchen; one suitable to such a hall, with a lofty, raftered roof, enormous chimney, and long old tables of oak, not nearly so thick as those in the hall at Coventry. Here the good woman was at the climax of her regrets, and she shook her head and sighed often. ‘It is a dismal place now, and what do I remember it in Lady Perry’s time! I remember, when all them hooks,’ pointing to rows of them that run, at a great height, over the wide lxxxviand lofty chimney piece and round the roof, ‘were hung with sides of bacon; ay, I ha’ seen them all hung with bacon. And here was such a sight of servants running about, some one way, some another.’ She then reverted to Lady P.’s coach and six, and the rejoicings that were to take place when she came down, and ‘we girls used to stand all in a row.’ In short, one would have thought that nobody had ever lived in this mansion but Lady Perry. As to Sir Philip and the rest of the Sydneys, they were never thought of when she spoke of old times—a neglect which at first somewhat embarrassed me, who thought of them and old times as inseparable. She took us into a smaller kitchen, to show us the stoves and the iron plates, on which, in her old times, teacakes and crumpets were baked, and related, with pride, that she used to assist in turning them.”

In October 1812, Mrs. Radcliffe visited Malvern. The following is her note of her walk to the summit of the hills:—

“Oct. 21, 1812.—Having slept at the Foley Arms hotel, an excellent inn, delightfully situated, we walked out, about eleven, hoping to reach the highest point of the Malvern Hills. By the zigzag turf-path, we reached the little Well-house, where we came upon the wild turf, and began to ascend the higher steeps of a mountain. The hoary crags, in vast masses, looked out from among the brown and red tints of the autumnal fern, and lxxxviifrom the green earth, but the crags ceased below the summits, which were smooth and still green. Our view here commanded the vast expanse to the eastward, which we had seen from the inn; but we now saw over the broad Breedon hill, which there bounded the horizon in one direction; and many lines were now visible beyond it. This view is great and comprehensive, but not sublime; the elevation reducing the importance of other heights, so that no single object remains sufficiently striking, either in form or character, to arrest attention, and break the uniform harmony of that rich and woody scene, the vale of the Severn, whose waters were visible only here and there, in little glimmering threads of light. At the summit, we could just discern them near Bristol, rolling in greater breadth. From the Well-house, we soon reached a good winding path, cut in the turf, which led us round one mountain, overlooking other craggy or green steeps of Malvern, till we caught a first glimpse of Herefordshire and of the hills of South Wales, over the ridge, to the west. They were more distant, and less broken and individual, than I had hoped, but grand notwithstanding. Having, at length, turned into a sort of intrenchment, which runs up to the summit, and divides Worcestershire and Herefordshire, we walked in this securely, and with some little shelter from the winds, till we reached the highest point of Malvern, and beheld a vast horizon circling at our lxxxviiifeet. Thirteen counties are said to be visible from this summit, which overlooks the other heights of Malvern. It is indeed a defect in the scene, that there are no other supereminent heights, except those which are too distant to have a fully impressive effect. Even Breedon hill, that broad feature in the vale of the Severn, was here too much lowered. Towns and villages were often distinguishable chiefly by the wreaths of smoke that spread from them along the vale, but sometimes by the broad tower of a church. On a more intent view, white mansions and woody parks would frequently appear; and rich meadows, hedge-rows and groves filled the vale, ascended to the hills of other counties, and often spread over their summits too. Few of the mountains of South Wales were sharp, or very bold, at this distance. On this side of them, the square mass of the tower of Hereford Cathedral was perceivable; and, far more southward, the high, level downs of Clifton. Bristol itself is sometimes seen hence. The broad Gloucester hills—the Cotswolds—and the city of Gloucester, with its noble cathedral, are in the nearer vale. From this spot, we could distinguish, merely by turning round, three great cities, with their cathedrals—Gloucester, Worcester, and Hereford, to say nothing of the fine abbey-church of Tewksbury. The tower of Malvern church, once a priory-church, is also a venerable feature in the scene. One of the most striking circumstances lxxxixwas the vast sweep of shadows and lights thrown from the clouds over this great prospect. The mottled expanse of moving lights over the surface of the wide vale sometimes resembled the billows of a sea, on which you look down from some lofty cliff. The lights brought out the villages and mansions on the knolls of Herefordshire surprisingly; and many are most charmingly seated.”

Mrs. Radcliffe was particularly interested by Kenilworth Castle, and spent much time in exploring its history after she had visited its ruins. The subject struck her imagination; and in the winter of 1802, she wrote the tale of Gaston de Blondeville, now for the first time given to the world. After this, she undertook no work of magnitude, but occasionally employed her leisure in composing poems, from which a selection has been made for these volumes. In Romance, she probably felt that she had done enough; and, feeling it impossible to surpass her “Mysteries of Udolpho” and her “Italian,” declined again to subject herself to criticism by publication. Though gratified by a sense of the enjoyment she had provided for multitudes, and justly proud of the honest and blameless means by which it was produced, she rarely alluded to her novels. At first, the sums she received, though not necessary, were welcome; but, as her pecuniary resources became more ample, she was without sufficient excitement to begin on an extended xcromance, though, had the first effort been made, the pursuit must have been delightful. Even Gaston de Blondeville was not intended for the press, and, having amused herself and her husband, was laid aside, so disinclined had she become to publication.

It is curious that several years after this tale was written, Mrs. Radcliffe, having forgotten many of the incidents, perused it with nearly the same interest as if it had been the production of a stranger. It was again laid aside; and in the latter part of life she repeated the experiment, but it did not absorb her attention as before, the former perusal having stamped the contents on her memory.

Secluded as Mrs. Radcliffe was from the world, she was tremblingly alive to every circumstance which could, by the remotest possibility, raise an inference injurious to the personal character she valued far above literary fame; and, as nothing could induce her to appear before the public in any sort of contention, every thing of this nature preyed long upon her mind. She was much affected by a passage of Miss Seward’s correspondence, which seemed, to her apprehensive feelings, to convey an imputation that she had allowed the dramas afterwards avowed by Miss Baillie to be attributed to her pen. Miss Seward in one of her letters dated May 21, 1799, after mentioning the plays, gave the following quotation from a letter of “her literary friend and correspondent Mrs. Jackson”—“Before their author was known, I observed so xcimuch of the power and defects of Mrs. Radcliffe’s compositions in these dramas, as to believe them hers, and I hear she owns them. Mrs. Radcliffe, in whatever she writes, attentive solely to the end, is not sufficiently attentive to observe probability in the means she uses to attain it. She bends her plan—or, if it will not bend, she breaks it, to her catastrophe, by making it grow out of the preceding events. Still she always takes hold of the reader’s feelings, and effects her purpose boldly if not regularly. Her descriptive talent, used to satiety in her novels, is here employed with more temperance, and consequently to better purpose.”

The imputation thus conveyed was, perhaps, implicitly removed by two letters of a few months later date; in one of which Miss Seward, speaking of the Plays on the Passions, says, “My literary friends now assert that they are not Mrs. Radcliffe’s;” and in the other, “The literary world now asserts, that the Plays on the Passions are not Mrs. Radcliffe’s;” for, if Mrs. Radcliffe had really owned them, it is scarcely probable the literary world could so soon have discredited her acknowledgment, while the real author remained unknown. This implied vindication from a charge, which perhaps no one ever regarded, was not sufficient for Mrs. Radcliffe’s delicate sense of propriety and honour. She made inquiries after Mrs. Jackson, the lady mentioned as Miss Seward’s xciiinformant, in order that she might trace out the origin of her rumour. Having learned that Mrs. Jackson, after residing at Bath, had removed to Edinburgh, she requested Mr. Davies, of the firm of Cadell and Davies, who had ample opportunities of procuring information respecting the literary society of Edinburgh, to ascertain if Mrs. Jackson was still in that city. In the result of these inquiries it appeared, that the lady, to whom the report was ascribed, had left Edinburgh; that her residence was unknown; and that she was not even supposed to be living. Under these circumstances, Mrs. Radcliffe was obliged to leave her vindication (as, in truth, she safely might) to the tenor of her whole literary course; for no one ever felt, or expressed, more repugnance to factitious praise, or more strenuously declined to avail herself of the warmth of private regard in softening the rigour of criticism. The prayer of the poet, “O grant an honest fame, or grant me none!” was the language of all her actions. She even took pains to prevent some, who, she knew, were desirous of expressing their sense of her genius, from writing eulogies on her works, as she could not endure the conscious degradation of being exalted even by the genial quackery of friendship. It is scarcely necessary now to assert, that the supposition of her having laid claim to the authorship of the Plays on the Passions, or voluntarily endured the ascription of those powerful compositions to her pen, xciiiwas utterly groundless. Rich as these works are in passion, and richer in fancy, they could not tempt the author of the Mysteries of Udolpho, even if she had not been restrained by any higher feeling than pride, to claim them—not because they would have been unworthy of her, if she had written them, but because the secret sense of merited reputation must alone have created a distaste for eulogies which she did not deserve. Anxious as Mrs. Radcliffe was to repel the suggestion, she felt that, as she could not discover its author, it would not become her to intrude on Miss Baillie a denial of the report, which she had not sanctioned; and the same susceptible delicacy, which made her feel it so deeply, compelled her to bear it in silence. The subject, which was always painful to her, is rather now alluded to as an instance of the singular apprehensiveness of her moral sense, than as at all required for the vindication of her character.

Another circumstance, of a more trivial nature, gave her uneasiness, though in a less degree. In one of the published letters of the late Mrs. Carter, was a passage of a eulogistic nature, alluding to her works; and to this a note was appended by the editor, showing that “Mrs. Carter had no personal acquaintance with Mrs. Radcliffe.” This statement was literally true; but to her sensitive nature it seemed to bear the construction, that the excellent lady referred to would have avoided her xcivacquaintance. The fact, indeed, was exactly the reverse; for, in the spring of 1799, Mrs. Carter sent to Mrs. Radcliffe a letter of introduction from a lady of high respectability at Bath, and proposed by note to wait on her on the following day; but Mrs. Radcliffe, being engaged to leave town in the morning with her husband, whose health required country air, was obliged respectfully to decline the intended honour. The correspondence appeared in the Annual Biography for 1824, with a short Memoir of Mrs. Radcliffe; and produced from Dr. Pennington, the writer of the note, a most handsome letter, in which he earnestly disclaimed even the slightest idea of disrespect to Mrs. Radcliffe, stating that he was not aware of the little correspondence, or he would have mentioned it with pleasure. Dr. Pennington also avows, not merely with candour, but cordially, the admiration and personal respect, with which Mrs. Carter thought and spoke of Mrs. Radcliffe.

With more reason, Mrs. Radcliffe was amazed at an absurd report, that, haunted by the images of fear, with which she had thrilled her readers, she had sunk into a state of mental alienation. A more unphilosophical foundation for an untruth was never imagined; for it is obvious, that through all her works she holds entire mastery over the terrors which she employs, and even sedulously prepares the means of explaining them by natural causes. It seems, however, that the authoress of xcva Tour through England, in noticing the Duke of Rutland’s venerable and romantic seat, called Haddon House, asserted that it was there that Mrs. Radcliffe acquired her taste for castles and ancient buildings, and proceeded to lament that she had, for many years, fallen into a state of insanity, and was under confinement in Derbyshire:—the fact being, not only that the main assertion was false, but that all its accompaniments were destitute of foundation;—for Mrs. Radcliffe was only in Derbyshire on two occasions, for a few days each, after her marriage, and never saw Haddon House at all. This report, the falsehood of which might have been ascertained by the authoress, on a reference to her own publisher, was copied in a larger work of more recent date; and to complete the fiction, a plate and description of Haddon House, as the scene of Mrs. Radcliffe’s early impressions, were annexed by way of illustration. It also supplied materials for poetry; as in an “Ode to Terror,” with other effusions, published by a clergyman in 1810, Mrs. Radcliffe is bemoaned, as having died in that species of mental derangement called “the horrors.” Some of these rumours reached her; but she could not endure the thought of writing in the newspapers that she was not insane; and, at last, learned to smile at the pity of those, who thought her in confinement, and the charity of others, who had kindly permitted her to find a release in death from her supposed intellectual sufferings.

xcviWhile the fate of the authoress of Udolpho was thus considered by the world as sealed, she was enjoying her wonted recreations and studies, with entire relish. As, however, curiosity was satiated with exploring all the finest country within 100 miles of London, and she became more attached to the comforts of home, she contracted the sphere of her excursions. Instead of making journeys of length, Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe hired a carriage for the summer months, in which they were accustomed to make frequent trips to beautiful spots in the neighbourhood of London, where they dined and spent the day at some good inn, and returned in the evening. Esher, Stanmore, Richmond, Southgate, and Harrow, were their favourite places of resort, especially the latter, where they chose the room, not the largest, but which commands the richest prospect, and where Crawley Wood, near Ashridge, could be often distinctly seen. Mrs. Radcliffe also was much attached to St. Alban’s, the antiquities of which she explored with unwearied zeal, and the historical dignity of which she has vindicated in her longest poem. From 1812 to 1815 inclusive, she passed much time at Windsor and its neighbourhood, and formed an intimate acquaintance with all the recesses of its forest.

“She knew each lane, and every alley green,

Dingle or bushy dell of those old woods,

And every bosky bower from side to side.”

She often vividly described the beautiful spots xcviiof this regal domain. There was scarcely a tree of importance, with the peculiar form of which she was not familiar, and the varieties of whose aspect in light and shade she could not picture in words. With reference to their age and to the analogy she fancied to the lines of monarchs, with which they might be coeval, she described the trees separately as Plantagenet oaks, Tudor beeches, or Stuart elms. At this time, she expressed her feelings in verse, rather than in prose, and the reader will find them chronicled in several of her poems. One night-scene on the terrace, however, deserves to be inserted; and may be compared with the descriptions of castellated heights, which abound in her novels.

“We stood in the shade on the north terrace, where a platform projects over the precipice, and beheld a picture perfect in its kind. The massy tower at the end of the east terrace stood up high in shade; but immediately from behind it the moonlight spread, and showed the flat line of wall at the end of that terrace, with the figure of a sentinel moving against the light, as well as a profile of the dark precipice below. Beyond it, was the park and a vast distance, in the faint light, which spread over the turf, touched the avenues, and gave fine contrast to the deep shades of the wooded precipice, on which we stood, and to the whole line of buildings, which rise on the north terrace. Above this high dark line the stars appeared with a very sublime effect. No sound but xcviiithe faint clinking of the soldier’s accoutrements, as he paced on watch, and the remote voices of people turning the end of the east terrace, appearing for a moment in the light there and vanishing. In a high window of the tower a light. Why is it so sublime to stand at the foot of a dark tower, and look up its height to the sky and the stars?

“What particularly strikes at Windsor is the length of terrace in the east, thus seen by moonlight; the massy towers, four in perspective; the lights and shades of the park below, the obscure distance beyond them, the low and wide horizon, which you seem to look upon, the grandeur of the heavenly arch, which appears to spring from it, and the multitude of stars, which are visible in so vast and uninterrupted a view. Then the north terrace stretching and finally turning away from them towards the west, where high dark towers crown it. It was on this terrace, surely, that Shakspeare received the first hint of the time for the appearance of his ghost.—

‘Last night of all,

When yon same star that westward from the Pole

Had made his course to illume that part of heaven

Where now it burns, Marcellus and myself,

The bell then beating one——’”

From inclination, Mrs. Radcliffe was minutely attentive to her household affairs, probably thinking with Schiller, that, after all, one of the best enjoyments of life arises from the exact performance xcixof some mechanical duty. Although by no means disposed to parsimony, she kept an exact account of daily disbursements, until a very short time before her death. Much of her leisure was spent in reading the literary productions of the day, especially poetry and novels. Of the latter works she always spoke with an entire freedom from jealousy, and devoured the earlier Scotch novels with all the avidity of youth, although she felt deeply a slighting expression in “Waverley,” towards herself, which the author might have spared. Sir Walter Scott has, however, made ample amends to her reputation by his elaborate criticism prefixed to Ballantine’s edition of her romances. To music she was passionately attached, and sang herself with exquisite taste, though her voice, remarkably sweet, was limited in compass. At the Opera she was a frequent visitor, and on her return home would sit up singing over the airs she had heard, which her quickness of ear enabled her to catch, till a late hour. She was peculiarly affected by sacred music, and occasionally went to the oratorios, when they afforded her the opportunity of listening to the compositions of Handel. She sometimes, though more rarely, accompanied Mr. Radcliffe to the theatres; and was a warm admirer of Mrs. Siddons, whom she recollected at Bath, when herself was young. She used to speak with much pleasure of having seen this great actress, before the commencement of her splendid ccareer in London, going to Church with her little son Henry, and was struck by her exceeding dignity and grace. When she visited the theatre, Mrs. Radcliffe generally sat in the pit, partly because her health required warm clothing, and partly because, in that situation, she felt more withdrawn from the observation she disliked. She was fond of listening to any good verbal sounds, and would often desire to hear passages from the Latin and Greek classics, requiring at intervals the most literal translations, that could be given, however much the version might lose in elegance by the exactness.

During the last twelve years of her life, Mrs. Radcliffe suffered at intervals from a spasmodic asthma, which occasioned a general loss of health, and called for the unwearied attentions of her affectionate husband. In the hope of obtaining relief, she visited Ramsgate in the autumn of 1822, and, deriving benefit from the air, recurred to her old habit of noting down her impressions of scenery. The following is the last she ever wrote.

“Ramsgate, Saturday morning, Oct. 19, 1822.—Stormy day, rain without sun, except that early a narrow line of palest silver fell on the horizon, showing, here and there, distant vessels on their course. Ships riding in the Downs, exactly on the sea-line, over the entrance into the harbour, opposite to our windows, were but dim and almost shapeless cihints of what they were. Many vessels, with sails set, making for the port; pilot-boats rowed out of the harbour to meet them; the tide rolling in, leaving the foaming waves at its entrance, where vessels of all kinds, from ships to fishing-boats, appeared in succession, at short intervals, dashing down among the foam, and rushing into the harbour. The little black boats around them often sunk so low in the surge, as to be invisible for a moment. This expansive harbour, encircled by the noble piers, might be considered as a grand theatre, of which the entrance and the sea beyond were the stage, the two pier-heads the portals, the plain of the harbour the pit, and the houses at the end of it the front boxes. This harbour was not now, as some hours since, flooded with a silver light, but grey and dull, in quiet contrast with the foaming waves at its entrance. The horizon thickened, and the scene around seemed to close in; but the vessels, as they approached, though darker, became more visible and distinct, the sails half-set, some nearly whole set. They all kept away a little to the westward of the west pier, the wind south-west, then changed their course, and dashed round the light-house pier-head, tossing the foam high about them, some pitching head foremost, as if going to the bottom, and then rolling helplessly, and reeling in, settled in still waters. A lofty tide.”

Although the health of Mrs. Radcliffe was improved ciiby this excursion, she was much affected by the severe cold in the beginning of the ensuing winter. On the ninth of January, 1823, another attack of her disease commenced, which ultimately proved fatal. At first it appeared less serious than some of her previous seizures; but it soon became alarming. On the eleventh of January, Dr. Scudamore, to whose care she had formerly been indebted, was called in, and did every thing for her that skill and tenderness could suggest; but in vain. A few days before her death, an account, which she had accidentally read, of a shocking murder recently perpetrated, pressed on her memory, and joined with the natural operation of the disease to produce a temporary delirium. From this, however, she completely recovered, and remained sensible to the last. On the sixth of February, she did not appear to be in any immediate danger, though in a state of great weakness. At twelve at night, Mr. Radcliffe assisted in giving her some refreshment, which she took with apparent satisfaction, her last words being, “There is some substance in that.” She then fell into a slumber; but, when Mr. Radcliffe, who had been sitting up in the next room, re-entered her apartment, in the course of an hour or two, she was breathing rather hardly, and neither he nor the nurse was able to awake her. Dr. Scudamore was instantly sent for; but, before his arrival, she tranquilly expired, at between two and three o’clock in the morning of the ciiiseventh of February, 1823, being in the 59th year of her age. Her countenance after death was delightfully placid, and continued so for some days. Her remains were interred in a vault in the Chapel of Ease, at Bayswater, belonging to St. George’s, Hanover Square.

As, since Mrs. Radcliffe’s death, the story of her mental alienation has been revived, in reference to her later days, it has been deemed right to apply to Dr. Scudamore for an authentic statement, which he has kindly given, and which must set such idle reports entirely at rest. It is as follows:

“Mrs. Radcliffe had been for several years subject to severe catarrhal coughs, and also was occasionally afflicted with asthma.

“In March 1822, she was ill with inflammation of the lungs, and for a considerable time remained much indisposed. With the summer season and change of air, she regained a tolerable state of health.

“In the early part of January 1823, in consequence of exposure to cold, she was again attacked with inflammation of the lungs, and much more severely than before. Active treatment was immediately adopted, but without the desired relief; and the symptoms soon assumed a most dangerous character. At the end of three weeks, however, and contrary to all expectation, the inflammation of the lungs was overcome; and the amendment civwas so decided, as to present a slight prospect of recovery.

“Alas! our hopes were soon disappointed. Suddenly, in the very moment of seeming calm from the previous violence of disease, a new inflammation seized the membranes of the brain. The enfeebled frame could not resist this fresh assault: so rapid in their course were the violent symptoms, that medical treatment proved wholly unavailing.

“In the space of three days, death closed the melancholy scene.

“In this manner, at the age of fifty-nine, society was deprived of a most amiable and valuable member, and literature of one of its brightest ornaments.

“The foregoing statement will, I hope, afford all the explanation, which can be required, of the nature of Mrs. Radcliffe’s illness. During the whole continuance of the inflammation of the lungs, the mind was perfect in its reasoning powers, and became disturbed only on the last two or three days, as a natural consequence of the inflammation affecting the membranes of the brain.

“Previously to the last illness, and at all times, Mrs. Radcliffe enjoyed a remarkably cheerful state of mind; and no one was farther removed from “mental desolation,” as has been so improperly described of the latter part of her life.

“She possessed a quick sensibility, as the necessary ally of her fine genius; but this quality would cvserve to increase the warmth of the social feelings, and effectually prevent the insulation of the mind, either as regards the temper or the understanding.”

Mrs. Radcliffe was, in her youth, exquisitely proportioned, though she resembled her father, and his brother and sister, in being low of stature. Her complexion was beautiful, as was her whole countenance, especially her eyes, eyebrows, and mouth. She was educated in the principles of the Church of England; and through life, unless prevented by serious indisposition, regularly attended its services. Her piety, though cheerful, was deep and sincere. Although perfectly well bred, and endowed with faculties and tastes which rendered her a delightful companion, she wanted that confidence which is necessary to mixed society, and which she could scarcely acquire, without losing something of the delicacy of feeling, which marked her character. If, in her retirement, she was sometimes affected by circumstances which would have passed unheeded amidst the bustle of the world, she was more than repaid by the enjoyments, which were fostered in the shade; and perhaps few distinguished authors have passed a life so blameless and so happy.

Mrs. Radcliffe may fairly be considered as the inventor of a new style of romance; equally distinct from the old tales of chivalry and magic, and from modern representations of credible incidents cviand living manners. Her works partially exhibit the charms of each species of composition; interweaving the miraculous with the probable, in consistent narrative, and breathing of tenderness and beauty peculiarly her own. The poetical marvels of the first fill the imagination, but take no hold on the sympathies, to which they have become alien: the vicissitudes of the last awaken our curiosity, without transporting us beyond the sphere of ordinary life. But it was reserved for Mrs. Radcliffe to infuse the wondrous in the credible; to animate rich description with stirring adventure; and to impart a portion of human interest to the progress of romantic fiction. She occupied that middle region between the mighty dreams of the heroic ages and the realities of our own, which remained to be possessed; filled it with goodly imagery; and made it resonant with awful voices. Her works, in order to produce their greatest impression, should be read first, not in childhood, for which they are too substantial; nor at mature age, for which they may seem too visionary; but at that delightful period of youth, when the soft twilight of the imagination harmonizes with the luxurious and uncertain light cast on their wonders. By those, who come at such an age to their perusal, they will never be forgotten.

The principal means, which Mrs. Radcliffe employed to raise up her enchantments on the borders of truth, are, first, her faculty of awakening cviiemotions allied to superstitious fear; and, secondly, her skill in selecting and describing scenes and figures precisely adapted to the feelings she sought to enkindle. We will examine each of these powers, and then shortly advert to their developement in her successive romances.

I. The art, by which supernatural agency is insinuated, derives its potency from its singular application to human nature, in its extremes of weakness and strength. Simply considered, fear is the basest of emotions, and the least adapted to the dignity of romance; yet it is that, of which the most heroic heart sometimes whispers a confession. On the other hand, every thing, which tends to elevate and ennoble our feelings, to give the character of permanency to our impressions, and impart a tongue to the silence of nature, has reference to things unseen. The tremblings of the spirit, which are base when prompted by any thing earthly, become sublime when inspired by a sense of the visionary and immortal. They are the secret witnesses of our alliance with power, which is not of this world. We feel both our fleshly infirmity and our high destiny, as we shrink on the borders of spiritual existence. Whilst we listen for echoes from beyond the grave, and search with tremulous eagerness for indications of the unearthly, our Curiosity and Fear assume the grandeur of passions. We might well doubt our own immortality, if we felt no restless desire to forestal the cviiiknowledge of its great secret, and held no obstinate questionings with the sepulchre. We were not of heavenly origin, if we did not struggle after a communion with the invisible; nor of human flesh, if we did not shudder at our own daring;—and it is in the union of this just audacity and venial terror, that we are strangely awed and affected. It is, therefore, needless to justify the use of the supernatural in fiction; for it is peculiarly adapted to the workings of the imagination—that power, whose high province is to mediate between the world without us and the world within us; on the one hand to impart sentiment and passion to the external universe, and make it redolent of noble associations; and, on the other, to clothe the affections of the heart and the high suggestions of the reason with colour and shape, and present them to the mind in living and substantial forms.

There are various modes, in which the supernatural may be employed, requiring more or less of a dextrous sympathy, in proportion to the depth and seriousness of the feeling, which the author proposes to awaken. In cases where the appeal is only made to the fancy, it is sufficient if the pictures are consistent with themselves, without any reference to the prejudices, or passions, of those, before whom they are presented. To this class the fables of the Greek mythology belong, notwithstanding their infinite varieties of grandeur and beauty. They are too bright and palpable to produce emotions of cixawe, even among those, who professed to believe them; and rather tended to inclose the sphere of mortal vision, which they adorned and gladdened, with more definite boundaries, than to intimate the obscure and eternal. Instead of wearing, then, the solemn aspect of antiquity, they seem, even now, touched with the bloom of an imperishable youth. The gorgeous Oriental fictions and modern tales of fairy lore are also merely fantastical, and advance no claim on faith, or feeling. Their authors escape from the laws of matter, without deriving any power from the functions of spirit; they are rather without than above nature, and seek only an excuse in the name of the supernatural for their graceful vagaries. Akin essentially to these are mere tales of terror, in which horrors are accumulated on horrors. Beyond the precincts of the nursery, they are nothing but a succession of scenic representations—a finely coloured phantasmagoria, which may strike the fancy, but do not chill the blood, and soon weary the spectator. It is only the “eye of childhood” which “fears a painted devil.” In some of the wild German tales, indeed, there is, occasionally, a forcible exaggeration of truth, which strikes for a moment, and seems to give back the memory of a forgotten dream. But none of these works, whatever poetical merit they may possess, have the power to fascinate and appal, by touching those secret strings of mortal apprehension, which connect our earthly with our spiritual being.

cxIn these later days, it, no doubt, requires a fine knowledge of the human heart to employ the supernatural, so as to move the pulses of terror. Of all superstitions, the most touching are those, which relate to the appearance of the dead among the living; not only on account of the reality which they derive from mingling with the ordinary business of life, but of the cold and shuddering sympathy we feel for a being like to whom we may ourselves become in a few short years. To bring such a vision palpably on the scene is always a bold experiment, and usually requires a long note of preparation, and a train of circumstances, which may gradually and insensibly dispose the mind to implicit credence. Yet to dispense with all such appliances, and to call forth the grandest spirit, that ever glided from the tomb, was not beyond Shakspeare’s skill. A few short sentences only prepare the way for the ghost of the murdered King of Denmark; the spirit enters, and we feel at once he is no creature of time; he speaks, and his language is “of Tartarus, and the souls in bale.” Such mighty magic as this, however, belonged only to the first of poets. Writers who, in modern times, have succeeded in infusing into the mind thoughts of unearthly fear, have usually taken one of these two courses: either they have associated their superstitions with the solemnities of nature, and contrived to interweave them in the very texture of life, without making themselves responsible cxifor the feelings they excite: or they have, by mysterious hints and skilful contrivances, excited the curiosity and terror of their readers, till they have prepared them either to believe in any wonder they may produce, or to image for themselves in the obscurity fearful shapes, and to feel the presence of invisible horrors.

Those, who seek to create a species of supernatural interest by the first of these processes, find abundant materials adapted to their use in the noblest parts of our own intellectual history. There are doubtful phenomena within the experience of all reflecting minds, which may scarcely be referred to their mere mortal nature, and which sometimes force on the coldest sceptic a conviction, that he is “fearfully” as well as “wonderfully made.” Golden dreams hover over our cradle, and shadows thicken round the natural descent of the aged into the grave. Few there are, who, in childhood, have not experienced some strange visitings of serious thought, gently agitating the soul like the wind “that bloweth where it listeth,” suggesting to it holy fancies, and awakening its first sympathy with a world of sorrow and of tears. Who has not felt, or believed that he has felt, a sure presentiment of approaching evil? Who, at some trivial occurrence, “striking the electric chord by which we are darkly bound,” has not been startled by the sudden revival of old images and feelings, long buried in cxiithe depth of years, which stalk before him like the spectres of departed companions? Who has not shrunk from the fascination of guilty thoughts, as from “supernatural soliciting?” Where is the man so basely moulded, that he does not remember moments of inspiration, when statelier images than his common intellect can embody, hopes and assurances brighter than his constitutional temperament, may recal, and higher faculties within himself than he has ever been able to use, have stood revealed to him like mountain-tops at the utmost reach of vision, touched by a gleam of the morning sun? And who, in the melancholy calm of the mind, sadly looking into its depths, has not perceived the gigantic wrecks of a nobler nature, as the fortunate voyager on some crystal lake has discerned, or fancied he discerned, the wave-worn towers of a forgotten city far in the deep waters? There are magic threads in the web of life, which a writer of romance has only to bring out and to touch with appropriate hues of fancy. From the secret places of the soul are voices more solemn than from old superstitions, to which he may bid us hearken. In his works, prophecies may be fulfilled; presentiments justified; the history of manhood may answer to the dreams of the nursery; and he may leave his readers to assert if they can, “These have their causes; they are natural.” Let him only give due effect to the problem, and he may safely trust their hearts to supply the answer!

cxiiiThe other mode of exciting terror requires, perhaps, greater delicacy and skill, as the author purposes to influence the mind directly from without, instead of leaving it, after receiving a certain clue, to its own workings. In this style, up to the point where Mrs. Radcliffe chooses to pause and explain, she has no rival. She knows the string of feeling she must touch, and exactly proportions her means to her design. She invariably succeeds not by the quantity but the quality of her terrors. Instead of exhibiting a succession of magnificent glooms, which only darken the imagination, she whispers some mysterious suggestion to the soul, and exhibits only just enough of her picture to prolong the throbbings she has excited. In nothing is her supremacy so clearly shown, as in the wise and daring economy, with which she has employed the instruments of fear. A low groan issuing from distant vaults; a voice heard among an assembly from an unknown speaker; a little track of blood seen by the uncertain light of a lamp on a castle staircase; a wild strain of music floating over moonlight woods; as introduced by her, affect the mind more deeply than terrible incantations, or accumulated butcheries. “Pluck out the heart of her mystery!”—tell, at once, the secret, the lightest hint of which appals—verify the worst apprehensions of the reader; and what would be the reality in common hands? You can suspect nothing more than a cruel murder perpetrated cxivmany years ago by an unprincipled monk, or an avowed robber! Why should we suffer all the stings of curiosity on such an issue? Human life is not held so precious, murder is not so strange and rare an occurrence, that we should be greatly agitated by the question whether, two centuries ago, a bandit destroyed one of his captives; but the skill of the writer, applying itself justly to the pulses of terror in our intellectual being, gives tragic interest to the inquiry, makes the rusted dagger terrible, and the spot of blood sublime. This faculty is the more remarkable, as it is employed to raise a single crime into importance; while others of equal dye are casually alluded to, and dismissed, as deeds of little note, and make no impression on the reader. Assassins who murder for hire, commonly excite no feeling in romance, except as mere instruments, like the weapons they use; but, when Mrs. Radcliffe chooses to single out one of these from the mass, though undistinguished by peculiar characteristics, she rivets our attention to Spalatro, as by an irresistible spell; forces us to watch every movement of his haggard countenance, and makes the low sound of his stealthy footsteps sink into the soul. Her faculty, therefore, which has been represented as melo-dramatic, is akin to the very essence of tragic power, which is felt not merely in the greatness of the actions, or sorrows, which it exhibits, but in its cxvnice application to the inmost sources of terror and of pity.

It is extraordinary, that a writer thus gifted should, in all her works intended for publication, studiously resolve the circumstances, by which she has excited superstitious apprehensions, into mere physical causes. She seems to have acted on a notion, that some established canon of romance obliged her to reject real supernatural agency; for it is impossible to believe she would have adopted this harassing expedient if she had felt at liberty to obey the promptings of her own genius. So absolute was her respect for every species of authority, that it is probable she would rather have sacrificed all her productions, than have transgressed any arbitrary law of taste, or criticism. It is equally obvious, that there is no valid ground of objection to the use of the supernatural, in works of fiction, and that it is absolutely essential to the perfection of that kind of romance, which she invented. To the imagination it is not only possible, but congenial, when introduced with art, and employed for high and solemn purposes. Grant only the possibility of its truth, which “the fair and innocent” are half disposed to believe, and there is nothing extravagant in the whole machinery, by which it works. But discard it altogether, and introduce, in its stead, a variety of startling phenomena, which are resolved at last cxviinto petty deceptions and gross improbabilities, and you at once disappoint the fancy, and shock the understanding of the reader. In the first case, the reason is not offended, because it is not consulted; in the last, it is expressly appealed to with the certainty of an unfavourable decision. Besides it is clear that all the feelings created up to the moment of explanation, and which it has been the very object of the author to awaken, have obeyed the influence of these very principles, which at last she chooses to disown. If the minds to whom the work is addressed were so constituted as to reject the idea of supernatural agency, they would be entirely unmoved by the circumstances arranged to produce the impression of its existence; and “The Mysteries of Udolpho” would have fallen still-born from the press! Why then should the author turn traitor to her own “so potent art?” Why, having wrought on the fears of her readers till she sways them at her will, must she turn round and tell them they have been awed and excited by a succession of mockeries? Such impotent conclusions injure the romances as works of art, and jar on the nerves of the reader, which are tuned for grand wonders, not paltry discoveries. This very error, however, which injures the effect of Mrs. Radcliffe’s works, especially on a second perusal, sets off, in the strongest light, the wizard power of her genius. Even when she has dissolved mystery after mystery, and abjured spell cxviiafter spell, the impression survives, and the reader is still eager to attend again, and be again deluded. After the voices heard in the chambers of Udolpho have been shown to be the wanton trick of a prisoner, we still revert to the remaining prodigies with anxious curiosity, and are prepared to give implicit credence to new wonders at Chateau le Blanc. In the romance of Gaston de Blondeville, Mrs. Radcliffe, not intending to publish, gratified herself by the introduction of a true spectre; and, without anticipating the opinion of the public on that work, we may venture to express a belief, that the manner, in which the supernatural agency is conducted, will deepen the general regret, that she did not employ it in her longer and more elaborate productions.

II. Mrs. Radcliffe’s faculties of describing and picturing scenes and appropriate figures was of the highest order. Her accurate observation of inanimate nature, prompted by an intense love of all its varieties, supplied the materials for those richly coloured representations, which her genius presented. Without this perception of the true, the liveliest fancy will only produce a chaos of beautiful images, like the remembered fragments of a gorgeous dream. How singularly capable Mrs. Radcliffe was of painting the external world, in its naked grandeur, her published tour among the English Lakes, and, perhaps still more, the notes made on her journeys for her own amusement, cxviiiabundantly prove. In the first, the boldness and simplicity of her strokes, conveying the clear images to the eye of the mind, with scarcely any incrustation of sentiment, or perplexing dazzle of fancy, distinguish her from almost all other descriptive tourists. Still the great charm of simplicity was hardly so complete, as in her unstudied notices of scenery; because in writing for the press, it is scarcely possible to avoid altogether the temptation of high sounding and ambiguous expressions, which always impede the distant presentiment of material forms. To this difficulty, she thus adverts in her account of Ulswater. “It is difficult to spread varied pictures of such scenes before the imagination. A repetition of the same images of rock, wood, and water, and the same epithets of grand, vast, and sublime, which necessarily occur, must appear tautologous, though their archetypes in nature, ever varying in outline or arrangement, exhibit new visions to the eye, and produce new shades of effect on the mind.” In the journals, as no idea of authorship interposed to give restraint to her style, there is entire fidelity and truth. She seems the very chronicler and secretary of nature; makes us feel the freshness of the air; and listen to the gentlest sounds. Not only does she keep each scene distinct from all others, however similar in general character; but discriminates its shifting aspects with the most delicate exactness. No aerial tint of a fleecy cloud is too evanescent to be cxiximaged in her transparent style. Perhaps no writer in prose, or verse, has been so happy in describing the varied effects of light in winged words. It is true, that there is not equal discrimination in the views of natural scenery, which she presents in her romances. In them she writes of places, which she has not visited; and, like a true lover, invests absent nature with imaginary loveliness. She looks at the grandeurs and beauties of creation through a soft and tender medium, in which its graces are heightened, but some of its delicate varieties are lost. Still it is nature that we see, though touched with the hues of romance, and which could only be thus presented by one who had known, and studied its simple charms.

In the estimate of Mrs. Radcliffe’s pictorial powers, we must include her persons as well as her scenes. It must be admitted that, with scarcely an exception, they are figures rather than characters. No writer ever produced so powerful an effect, without the aid of sympathy. Her machinery acts directly on her readers, and makes them tremble and weep, not for others, but for themselves. Adeline, Emily, Vivaldi, and Ellena, are nothing to us, except as filling up the scene; but it is we ourselves, who discover the manuscript in the deserted abbey; we, who are prisoners in the castle of Udolpho; we, who are inmates of Spalatro’s cottage; we, who stand before the secret tribunal of the Inquisition, and even there are cxxstartled by the mysterious voice deepening its horrors. The whole is prodigious painting, so entire as to surround us with illusion; so cunningly arranged as to harrow up the soul; and the presence of a real person would spoil its completeness. As figures, all the persons are adapted with peculiar skill to the scenes in which they appear;—the more, as they are part of one entire conception. Schedoni is the most individual and fearful; but through all the earlier parts of the romance, he stalks like a being not of this world; and works out his purposes by that which, for the time at least, we feel to be superhuman agency. But when, after glaring out upon us so long as a present demon; or felt, when unseen, as directing the whole by his awful energies; he is brought within the range of human emotion by the discovery of his supposed daughter, and an anxiety for her safety and marriage; the spell is broken. We feel the incongruity; as if a spectre should weep. To develope character was not within the scope of Mrs. Radcliffe’s plan, nor compatible with her style. At one touch of human pathos the enchantment would have been dissolved, as spells are broken by a holy word, or as the ghost of Protesilaus vanished before the earthly passion of his enamoured widow.

As the absence of discriminated feeling and character was necessary to the completeness of the effect Mrs. Radcliffe sought to produce, so she was rather assisted by manners peculiarly straight-laced and cxxitimorous. A deep vein of sentiment would have suggested thoughts and emotions inconsistent with that “wise passiveness,” in which the mind should listen to the soft murmur of her “most musical, most melancholy” spells. A moral paradox could not co-exist with a haunted tower in the mind of her readers. The exceeding coldness and prudence of her heroines do not abstract them from the scenes of loveliness and terror through which we desire to follow them. If her scrupulous sense of propriety had not restrained her comic powers, Mrs. Radcliffe would probably have displayed considerable talent for the humorous. But her talkative servants are all very guarded in their loquacity; and even Annette, quaintly and pleasantly depicted, fairly belongs to the scene. Her old-fashioned primness of thought, which with her was a part of conscience, with all its cumbrous accompaniments, serves at once to render definite, and to set off, her fanciful creations. Romance, as exhibited by her, “tricked in antique ruff and bonnet,” has yet eyes of youth; and the beauty is not diminished by the folds of the brocade, or the stiffness of the damask stomacher.

These remarks apply, in their fullest effect, only to “The Mysteries of Udolpho,” and “The Italian,” in which alone the chief peculiarities of Mrs. Radcliffe’s genius are decidedly marked. In her first work, “The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne,” it is scarcely possible to discover their germ. Its scene cxxiiis laid “in the most romantic part of the Highlands of Scotland,” yet it is without local truth or striking picture. It is at once extravagant and cold. Except one scene, where the Earl of Athlin pursues two strangers through the vaults of his castle, and is stabbed by one of them in the darkness, nothing is delineated; but incredible events follow each other in quick succession, without any attempt to realize them. Those, who complain of the minuteness of Mrs. Radcliffe’s descriptions, should read this work, where every thing passes with headlong rapidity, and be convinced of their error. In some few instances, perhaps, in “The Mysteries of Udolpho,” the descriptions of external scenery may occur too often; but her best style is essentially pictorial; and a slow developement of events was, therefore, necessary to her success.

The “Sicilian Romance” is a work of much more “mark and likelihood;” and, very soon after its first appearance, attracted a considerable share of public attention. Here the softer blandishments of our author’s style, which were scarcely perceptible in her first production, were spread forth to captivate the fancy. Transported to the “sweet south,” her genius, which had shrunk in the bleak atmosphere of Scotland, caught the luxurious spirit of a happier clime. Never was a title more justly applied than to this romance; it reminds the reader of “Sicilian fruitfulness.” In tender and luxurious description of natural scenery, it is surpassed by none of Mrs. Radcliffe’s productions. The flight cxxiiiof her heroine is like a strain of “lengthened sweetness long drawn out;”—as one series of delicious valleys opens on us after another; and the purple light of love is shed over all. Still she had not yet acquired a mastery over her own power of presenting terrific incidents and scenes to the eye of the mind, and awakening the throbs of suspense by mysterious suggestions. The light seen through the closed windows of the deserted rooms—the confession of Vincent stopped by death—the groans heard from beneath Ferdinand’s prison—and the figure perceived stealing among the vaults, are not introduced with sufficient earnestness, and lose all claim to belief, by the utter incredibility of the incidents, with which they are surrounded. Escapes, recaptions, encounters with fathers and banditti, surprising partings, and more surprising meetings, follow each other as quickly as the changes of a pantomime, and with almost as little of intelligible connexion. One example may suffice.—Hippolitus enters a ruin by moonlight, for shelter; hears a voice as of a person in agony; sees, through a shattered casement, a group of banditti plundering a man, who turns out to be Ferdinand, his intended brother-in-law; finds himself, he knows not how, in a vault; hears a scream from an inner apartment; bursts open the door and discovers a lady fainting, whom he recognizes as his mistress; overhears a quarrel and combat for the lady between two of the banditti, which ends in the death of one of them; fights with the survivor, cxxivand kills him; endeavours to escape with Julia; finds his way into a “dark abyss,” which is no other than the burial-place of the victims of the banditti, marked with graves, and strewed with unburied carcases; climbs to a grate, and witnesses a combat between the robbers and officers of justice; escapes with the lady through a secret door into the forest, where they are pursued by her father’s party; but, while he fights at the mouth of a cavern, she loses her way in its recesses, till they actually conduct her to the dungeon where her mother, who had been considered dead for fifteen years, is imprisoned;—and all this in a few pages! There are, in this short story, incidents enough for two such works as “The Mysteries of Udolpho,” where, as in that great romance, they should not only be told, but painted; and where reality and grandeur should be given to their terrors.

In “The Romance of the Forest,” Mrs. Radcliffe, who, since the dawn of her powers, had been as one “moving about in worlds unrealized,” first exhibited the faculty of controlling and fixing the wild images which floated around her, and of stamping on them the impress of consistency and truth. This work is, as a whole, the most faultless of all her productions; but it is of an inferior order to “The Mysteries of Udolpho” and “The Italian;” and can only be preferred by those, who think the absence of error of more importance than original cxxvexcellence. There is a just proportion between all its parts; its mysteries are adequately explained; it excites and gratifies a very pleasant degree of curiosity; but it does not seem to dilate the imagination, nor does it curdle the blood. Its opening after a sentence of marvellous common-place, is striking; the midnight journey of La Motte and his family they know not whither, and the introduction of the heroine, under extraordinary circumstances, to their care, rivet attention to all that is to follow. The scenes in the forest where they take up their abode are charming. This seems the most delicious asylum for the persecuted outlaw; its wood-walks and glades glisten before us with the morning dew; and there is something in the idea of finding a home in a deserted abbey, which answers to some of the wildest dreams of childhood, and innocently gratifies that partiality for unlicensed pleasure, or repose, which is so natural to the heart. The whole adventure of La Motte and the Marquis is sufficiently probable and interesting; and the influence, which it ultimately enables the more resolute villain to exercise over the weaker, is managed with peculiar skill, and turned to great account in the progress of the story. There is here scarcely any hint of the supernatural; but the skeleton in the chest of the vaulted chamber; the dagger, spotted with rust; the manuscript of the prisoner, which Adeline reads by the fitful light of her lamp, and which proves to be cxxviwritten by her own father, possess us with the apprehension of some secret crime, which acquires importance from its circumstances and its mystery. There are some highly-finished scenes; as that where Adeline, in her solitary chamber, dares not raise her eyes to her glass, lest another face than her own should meet them; her escape with a man whom she supposes to be the servant she had trusted, and who startles her with a strange voice; the luxurious pavilion of the Marquis, to which we are introduced after a frightful journey through a storm; and, above all, the conversation, in which the Marquis, after a series of dark solicitations, understood by La Motte, as pointing to Adeline’s dishonour, proposes her death. This last, as a piece of dramatic effect, is perhaps equal to any passage in the author’s works. The closing chapters of the work are inferior in themselves to its commencement; but they gratify by affording a worthy solution of the intricacies of a plot, which has excited so deep an interest in its progress.

“The Mysteries of Udolpho” is by far the most popular of Mrs. Radcliffe’s works. To this preeminence it is, we think, justly entitled; for, although “The Italian” may display more purely intellectual power, it is far less enchanting. Of all the romances in the world, this is perhaps the most romantic. Its outline is noble, it is filled with majestic or beautiful imagery; and it is touched throughout with a dreamy softness, which harmonizes all its scenes, and renders its fascination cxxviiirresistible. It rises from the gentlest beauty by just gradations to the terrific and the sublime. Nothing can be fancied more soothing to the mind, fevered with the bustle of the world, than the picture of domestic repose, with which it opens. We are dwellers in the home of the good St. Aubert, who has retired to a beautiful spot, once the favourite scene of his youthful excursions; and sharers in its elegant and tranquil pleasures. Next come the exquisite journey of the father and daughter through the heart of the Pyrenees, where we trace out every variety of mountain grandeur; the richly coloured scene of vintage gaiety among the woods of the chateau; and the death of St. Aubert in the neighbourhood of a place, which we understand to be connected with his destiny, and where strains of unearthly music are heard in sad accordance with human sorrow. When Emily’s aunt, to whose care she is consigned, marries the desperate Montoni, we feel that the clouds are gathering round her progress, and we shudder at the forebodings of approaching peril. A little interval is given among the luxuries of Venice, which are painted with exquisite delicacy and lightness; and then the work of terror begins. Nothing can be more picturesque than the ascent of the Apennines; mountain seems to rise above mountain in gloomy stateliness before us, till we skirt the inmost valley, far shut out from the world, and Montoni, breaking a long silence, utters the charmed words, “There cxxviiiis Udolpho!” The ideas of extent, of massiveness, and austere grandeur, conveyed in the description of the castle, have matchless force and distinctness, and prepare the mind for the crimes and wonders, of which it is the silent witness. Every thing beneath “these dark battlements” is awful; the slightest incidents wear a solemn hue, and “Fate in sullen echoes” seems to “tell of some nameless deed.” Not only the mysterious appearances and sounds appal us, but the rushing wind, a rustling curtain, the lonely watch-word on the terrace, have power to startle, and keep curiosity awake. The whole persecution and death of Madame Montoni seem prodigious, as though they were something out of nature; yet they derive all this importance from the circumstances, with which they are invested; for there is nothing extraordinary in the fate of a despicable woman, worried into the grave by her husband, because she will not give up her settlement. The mysteries of Chateau le Blanc are less majestic than those of Udolpho, but perhaps they are even more touching; at least, the visit of Emily to the chamber where the Marchioness died, twenty years before, not without suspicion of poison, and which had been shut up ever since, is most affecting and fearful. The faded magnificence of the vast apartment; the black pall lying on the bed, as when it decked the corpse; the robe and articles of dress remaining as they had been carelessly scattered in the lifetime of their owner; her veil, which hand had cxxixnever approached since, now dropping into pieces; her lute on the table, as it was touched on the evening of her death; would be solemn and spectral, even if the pall did not move and a face arise from beneath it. This scene derives a tenderer interest from the strange likeness, which Emily seems to bear to the deceased lady, and which is artfully heightened by the action of the old housekeeper throwing the black veil over her, and by her touching the long-neglected lute. Such are some among the many striking features of this romance; its defects are great and obvious. Its mysteries are not only resolved into natural causes, but are explained by circumstances provokingly trivial. What reader would bear to be told that the black veil, from which his imagination has scarcely been allowed to turn for three volumes, conceals a waxen image; that the wild music, which has chanced to float on the air, in all the awful pauses of action, proceeded from an insane nun, permitted to wander about the woods; and that the words, which startled Montoni and his friends, at their guilty carousals, were uttered by a man wandering through a secret passage almost without motive; unless the power and sweetness of the spell remained after it was thus rudely broken?

“The Italian” has more unity of plan than “The Mysteries of Udolpho;” and its pictures are more individual and distinct; but it has far less tenderness and beauty. Its very introduction, unlike the gentle opening of the former romance, impresses cxxxthe reader with awe. Its chief agent, Schedoni, is most vividly painted; and yet the author contrives to invest him with a mystery, which leads us to believe, that even her image is inadequate to the reality. Up to the period, at which he unnaturally melts from demon to man, he is the always chief figure when he is present; and, where we do not see him, his spirit yet seems to influence all around us. The great scenes of this romance stand out in bold relief as in compartments; of which the chief are the adventures in the vaults of Pallozzi; the machinations of Schedoni and the Marchioness, for the destruction of the heroine; her confinement in the monastery of San Stephano, and her escape with Vivaldi; her terrible sojourn in Spalatro’s cottage on the seashore; and the whole representation of the Inquisition, which fills the mind when Schedoni’s supremacy ceases. Of these, perhaps the very finest is the scene in the church, where the Confessor makes palpable to the Marchioness the secret wishes of her heart for Ellena’s death: the situation is essentially fearful; and all the circumstances are contrived with admirable effect to heighten, vary and prolong the feeling of curiosity and terror. The dreary horrors of the fisherman’s cottage are admirably painted; but the effort to produce a great theatrical effect is very imperfectly concealed; and we cannot help being somewhat dissatisfied with the process of bringing a helpless orphan to such a distance, merely that she may be murdered with cxxxieclat; with the equally unaccountable delay in performing the deed; the strange relentings of the ruffian; and the long preparation, which precedes the attempt of Schedoni to strike the fatal blow. There is great art in the scene, to which all this is introductory; and the discovery of the portrait is a most striking coup de theatre; but the art is too palpable, and the contrast between the assassin and the father too violent—at least, for a second perusal. Not so, the graphic description of the vast prisons of the Inquisition; they are dim, prodigious, apparently eternal; and the style is solemn and weighty as the subject. Mrs. Radcliffe alone could have deepened the horror of this gloom by whispers of things yet more terrible; and suggest fears of the unseen, which should overcome the present apprehensions of bodily torture.

Of the tale and the poems now first presented to the world, it would scarcely become us particularly to speak. The verses, scattered through all the romances, are so inartificially introduced, that they have little chance of being estimated by an impatient reader; but, when examined, they will be found replete with felicitous expression and with rich though indistinct imagery.

In her own peculiar style of composition, Mrs. Radcliffe has never been approached. Her success naturally drew forth a crowd of imitators, who produced only cumbrous caricatures, in which the terrors were without decorum, and the explanations absolutely farcical. No successful writer has followed cxxxiiher without calling to aid other means, which she would not condescend to use. The Author of “The Monk” mingled a sickly voluptuousness with his terrors; and Maturin, full of “rich conceits,” approached the borders of the forbidden in speculation, and the paradoxical in morals. She only, of all writers of romance, who have awed and affected the public mind, by hints of things unseen, has employed enchantments purely innocent; has forborne to raise one questionable throb, or call forth a momentary blush. This is the great test not only of moral feeling, but of intellectual power; and in this will be found her highest praise.

The Editor of the present Publication, who is not the Writer of the preceding Memoir, is aware, that it would be unbecoming for him to say more of Works, written by one so dear to him, than may be necessary to give the Public an early assurance of their authenticity; and that fact, he apprehends, will be sufficiently proved by the distribution, which he has resolved to make, of the whole purchase-money of the copy-right. Every part of that produce will be paid, as it shall accrue to him, to some public charitable institution in England. The Lord Bishop of Bath and Wells, and Sir Walter Stirling, Bart. in consideration of the utility of this purpose, allow him the honour of saying, that they will audit his account of that distribution.

GASTON DE BLONDEVILLE;

OR THE

COURT OF HENRY THE THIRD

KEEPING FESTIVAL IN ARDEN.

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