LIFE AND WRITINGS OF MRS. RADCLIFFE.

The Life of Mrs. Radcliffe is a pleasing phenomenon in the literature of her time. During a period, in which the spirit of personality has extended its influence, till it has rendered the habits and conversation of authors almost as public as their compositions, she confined herself, with delicate apprehensiveness, to the circle of domestic duties and pleasures. Known only by her works, her name was felt as a spell by her readers. Among the thousands, whose life blood curdled beneath her terrors, many little suspected, that the potent enchantress was still an inhabitant of this “bright and breathing world.” Even her romances, forming a class apart from all, which had gone before, and unapproached by imitators, wore a certain air of antiquity, and seemed scarcely to belong to the ivpresent age. Having long ceased to publish, she acquired in her retreat the honours of posthumous fame. Her unbroken retirement suggested to those, who learned that she still lived, a fancy that something unhappy was connected with her story, and gave occasion to the most absurd and groundless rumours, respecting her condition. But, while some spoke of her as dead, and others represented her as afflicted with mental alienation, she was thankfully enjoying the choicest blessings of life—with a cheerfulness as equable as if she had never touched the secret springs of horror, and with a humility as genuine as though she had not extended the domain of romance, for the delight and the benefit of her species.

In drawing aside the veil from the personal course of this celebrated lady, her biographer cannot exhibit any of the amusing varieties, which usually chequer the lives of successful authors: here are no brilliant conversational triumphs; no elaborate correspondence with the celebrated, or the great; no elegant malice; no anecdotes of patrons or rivals; none of fashion’s idle pastime, nor of controversy’s more idle business. Even the great events of Mrs. Radcliffe’s life, the successive appearances of her novels, extend over a small part only of its duration. A stranger, witnessing its calm tenor of happiness, would little guess to what high and solemn inventions some of its hours had been devoted; yet the more attentive observer vwould perceive, in her ordinary reflections and pleasures, indications of the power so marvellously exerted in her works. Fortunately, the means of watching the developement of her faculties and tastes in her daily pursuits are supplied by copious memorandums written on several of her journeys; in which, among rich and vivid descriptions, many characteristic traits of sentiment and feeling are scattered, and her moral excellencies shine forth in a lustre which warms, while it enlightens.

Mrs. Radcliffe was born in London, in July 1764. She was the only child of William and Ann Ward, persons of great respectability, who, though engaged in trade, were allied to families of independent fortune and high character. She was descended from the family of the De Witts of Holland. It appears, from some of the documents in the hands of her friends, that a member of this distinguished house came to England in the reign of Charles the First, under the patronage of Government, to execute a plan for draining the fens of Lincolnshire. The project was interrupted by the political troubles which ensued; but its author remained in England, and passed the remainder of his days in a mansion near Hull. He brought with him an infant daughter, named Amelia, who was the mother of one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s male ancestors. Her paternal grandmother was the sister of Cheselden, the celebrated Surgeon, of whose kindness her father retained a lively recollection. viHer maternal grandmother was Ann Oates, the sister of Doctor Samuel Jebb, of Stratford, who was the father of Sir Richard Jebb; and she was related, on her mother’s side, to Dr. Halifax, Bishop of Gloucester, and to Dr. Halifax, Physician to the King. She was instructed in all womanly accomplishments after the earlier fashion of the time, but was not exercised in the classics, nor excited to pursue the studies necessary to form the modern heroine of conversations. In childhood, her intelligence and docility won the marked affection of her relatives, who moved in a somewhat higher sphere than her parents, and she passed much of her time at their houses. Her maternal uncle-in-law, the late Mr. Bentley, of the firm of Wedgewood and Bentley, was exceedingly partial to his niece, and invited her often to visit him at Chelsea, and afterwards at Turnham Green, where he resided. At his house she enjoyed the benefit of seeing some persons of literary eminence, and many of accomplished manners. Mrs. Piozzi, Mrs. Montague, Mrs. Ord, and the gentleman called “Athenian Stuart,” were among the visitors.

Although the quickness and accuracy of Mrs. Radcliffe’s powers of observation were early felt by her friends, it does not seem, that the peculiar bent of her genius was perceived till after her marriage. She had been educated among members of the old school, in manners and morals, whose notions, while they prompted the most considerate viikindness towards their young charge, did not perhaps tend to excite precocious intellect, especially in a female of diffidence, approaching to shyness. Something of the formality derived from education may be traced in her works, supplying a massive but noble and definite frame-work for her sombre and heroic pictures. There was also, in the feeling of old gentility, which most of her relatives cherished, a natural repugnance to authorship, which she never entirely lost even after her splendid success was ensured, and she had found herself the creator of a new class in English romances.

In the twenty-third year of her age, Miss Ward was married to Mr. William Radcliffe, a graduate of Oxford, who, at one period, intended to follow the profession of the law, and, with that view, kept several terms at one of the Inns of Court, but who afterwards changed his purpose. The ceremony was performed at Bath, where her parents then resided, and she afterwards proceeded with her husband to live in the neighbourhood of London. Encouraged by him, she soon began to employ her leisure in writing; and, as her distrust of herself yielded to conscious success, proceeded with great rapidity. Mr. Radcliffe, about this time, became the proprietor of “The English Chronicle,” and took an active share in the management of the paper, which, with other avocations, obliged him to be frequently absent from home till a late viiihour in the evening. On these occasions, Mrs. Radcliffe usually beguiled the else weary hours by her pen, and often astonished her husband, on his return, not only by the quality, but the extent of the matter she had produced, since he left her. The evening was always her favourite season for composition, when her spirits were in their happiest tone, and she was most secure from interruption. So far was she from being subjected to her own terrors, that she often laughingly presented to Mr. Radcliffe chapters, which he could not read alone without shuddering.

Although Mrs. Radcliffe was as far as possible removed from the slavery of superstitious fear, she took an eager interest in the work of composition, and was, for the time, completely absorbed in the conduct of her stories. The pleasures of painting have been worthily celebrated by men, who have been devoted to the art; but these can scarcely be regarded as superior to the enjoyments of a writer of romance, conscious of inventive power. If in the mere perusal of novels we lose our painful sense of the realities of “this unimaginable world,” and delightedly participate in the sorrows, the joys, and the struggles of the persons, how far more intensely must an authoress like Mrs. Radcliffe feel that outgoing of the heart, by which individuality is multiplied, and we seem to pass a hundred lives! She spreads out many threads of ixsympathy and lives along every line. The passions, the affections, the hopes of her character are essentially hers; born out of her own heart; figured from the tracings of her own brain; and reflecting back again, in shape and form, the images and thoughts, which work indistinctly in the fancies of others. There is a perpetual exercise of that plastic power, which realizes the conceptions of the mind to itself, and gives back to it its own imaginations in “clear dream and solemn vision.” How delightful to trace the dawnings of innocent love, like the coming on of spring; to unveil the daily course of a peaceful life, gliding on like smooth water; to exhibit the passions in their high agitations and contests; to devise generous self-sacrifice in heroic thought; to pour on the wearied and palpitating heart overflowing happiness; to throw the mind forward to advanced age, and through its glass to take a mournful retrospect of departed joy, and pensively understand a mild and timely decay! No exertion of the faculties appears more enviable than that of forming the outline of a great tale, like “The Mysteries of Udolpho;” bringing out into distinctness all the hints and dim pictures, which have long floated in the mind; keeping in view the catastrophe from the first, and the relations to it of the noblest scenes and most complicated adventures; and feeling already, as through all the pulses of the soul, the curiosity, the terror, the pity and the admiration, xwhich will be excited by the perusal in the minds of thousands and thousands of readers.

Incited by the intellectual recompense of such a pursuit, Mrs. Radcliffe gave her romances in quick succession to the world:—her first work, “The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne,” was published in the year 1789; the “Sicilian Romance,” in 1790; the “Romance of the Forest,” in 1791; “The Mysteries of Udolpho,” in 1794; and “The Italian,” in 1797. It is pleasing to trace the developement of her resources and her gradual acquisition of mastery over them in these productions. The first, with a goodly number of old towers, dungeon keeps, subterraneous passages and hair-breadth escapes, has little of reality, or life; as if the author had caught a glimpse of the regions of romance from afar, and formed a sort of dreamy acquaintance with its recesses and glooms. In her next work, the “Sicilian Romance,” she seems to obtain a bird’s-eye view of all the surface of that delightful region—she places its winding vales and delicious bowers and summer seas before the eye of the mind—but is as yet unable to introduce the reader individually into the midst of the scene, to surround him with its luxurious air, and compel him to shudder at its terrors. In the “Romance of the Forest,” she approaches and takes up her very residence in the pleasant borders of the enchanted land; the sphere she chooses is small and the persons limited; but xihere she exercises clear dominion, and realizes every thing to the fancy. The “Mysteries of Udolpho” is the work of one, who has entered and possessed a mighty portion of that enchanted land; who is familiar with its massive towers and solemn glooms;—and who presents its objects of beauty, or horror, through a certain haze, which sometimes magnifies and sometimes veils their true proportions. In the “Italian,” she occupies a less space; but, shining in golden light, her figures have the distinctness of terrible pictures; and her scenes, though perhaps less astounding in the aggregate, are singly more thrilling and vivid.

This splendid series of fictions became immediately popular with the numerous class of readers, who seek principally for amusement, and soon attracted the attention of the finer spirits of the age. Dr. Joseph Warton, the Head Master of Winchester School, who was far advanced in life when “The Mysteries of Udolpho” was published, told Mr. Robinson, the publisher, that, happening to meet with it, he was so fascinated, that he could not go to bed till he had finished it, and actually sat up the greater part of the night for the purpose. Mr. Sheridan spoke of the same work in terms of the highest eulogy. Mr. Fox, in a letter written to an intimate friend, soon after the publication of “The Italian,” spoke of Mrs. Radcliffe’s works in terms of high praise, and entered into a xiisomewhat particular examination and comparison of the respective merits of the “Mysteries of Udolpho” and “The Italian.” The author of the Pursuits of Literature, not much given to commend, describes her as “The mighty magician of The Mysteries of Udolpho, bred and nourished by the Florentine muses, in their sacred, solitary caverns, amid the paler shrines of Gothic superstition, and in all the dreariness of enchantment: a poetess, whom Ariosto would, with rapture, have acknowledged as

—— La nudrita

Damigella Trivulzia al sacro speco.”

The pecuniary advantages, which she derived from her works, though they have been exaggerated, were considerable, according to the fashion of the times. For the “Mysteries of Udolpho” she received from Messrs. Robinson £500.; a sum then so unusually large for a work of fiction, that Mr. Cadell, who had great experience in such matters, on hearing the statement, offered a wager of £10. that it was untrue. By the Italian, although considerably shorter, she acquired about the sum of £800.

The reputation, which Mrs. Radcliffe derived from her writings did not draw her from the retirement, in which they were written. Although, as she had no children, the duties of a family did not engross her attention, she declined entering xiiiinto the society she was so well calculated to adorn. Nothing but entire reciprocity in all the accompaniments of society could satisfy her ideas of the independence it became her to preserve. She would, indeed, have conferred honour and obligation on any circle, which she could prevail on herself to join; but a scrupulous self-respect, almost too nice to be appreciated in these days, induced her sedulously to avoid the appearance of reception, on account of her literary fame. The very thought of appearing in person as the author of her romances shocked the delicacy of her mind. To the publication of her works she was constrained by the force of her own genius; but nothing could tempt her to publish herself; or to sink for a moment, the gentlewoman in the novelist. She felt also a distaste to the increasing familiarity of modern manners, to which she had been unaccustomed in her youth; and, though remarkably free and cheerful with her relatives and intimate friends, she preferred the more formal politeness of the old school among strangers. Besides these reasons for preserving her seclusion, she enjoyed, with peculiar relish, the elegant pleasures it gave her the means of partaking with her husband. She chose at once the course she would pursue, and, finding that her views met the entire concurrence of Mr. Radcliffe, adhered to it through life. Instead of lavishing time and money on entertainments, the necessity for which, according to xivher feelings, was connected with a participation in general society, she sought the comforts of residing in airy and pleasant situations, of unbroken leisure and frequent travelling; and, as her income was increased by the death of relatives, she retained the same plan of living, only extending its scale of innocent luxury.

In the summer of 1794, subsequent to the publication of “The Mysteries of Udolpho,” Mrs. Radcliffe accompanied her husband on a tour through Holland and the western frontier of Germany, returning down the Rhine. This was the first and only occasion, on which she quitted England; though the vividness of her descriptions of Italy, Switzerland and the south of France, in which her scenes are principally laid, induced a general belief, that she had visited those countries. So strongly was this conviction impressed on the public mind, that a recent traveller of celebrity referred to her descriptions as derived from personal observation; and it was asserted in the “Edinburgh Review” for May 1823, that she accompanied her husband to Italy, when he was attached to one of the British Embassies, and that “it was on that occasion she imbibed the taste for picturesque scenery, and the obscure and wild superstitions of mouldering castles, of which she has made so beautiful a use in her romances.” After their return from the Continent, Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe made a tour to the English Lakes, and xvwere highly gratified by the excursion. On these journeys, Mrs. Radcliffe almost invariably employed snatches of time at the inns where she rested, in committing to paper the impressions and events of the day, which she could afterwards review at leisure—a happy mode of prolonging those vivid pleasures of life, for which she had a fine relish. Such a habit, when it does not become too frequently introspective, or “sickly o’er” our enjoyments with “the pale cast of thought,” tends to impart a unity to our intellectual being. It enables us to live over again the unbroken line of existence; to gather up the precious drops of happiness, that they be not lost; and, in the last moments of feeling and thought, to find “a glass which shows us many more.” After Mrs. Radcliffe’s return, she was prevailed on to give to her notes a regular form, and to publish them in a quarto volume, which met with a favourable reception.

The subsequent excursions of Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe were of less extent, and chiefly directed to the southern coast of England. Always once, and generally twice in the year, they took a journey through some beautiful or interesting country, limiting themselves to no particular course, but enjoying the perfect freedom, which was most agreeable to their tastes. Mrs. Radcliffe continued her little diary of these pleasant rovings, but without the slightest idea of publication, from which she generally shrunk as an evil. Some specimen of these xvijournals are now first presented to the reader, which will exhibit her mind in its undress—show her feelings as they were undisguised—and display her tact of observation and descriptive power, as existing simply for her own gratification. She always travelled with a considerable number of books, and generally wrote, while Mr. Radcliffe derived amusement from reading them.

The following notes are extracted from memoranda made on a little tour to the coast of Kent, in the autumn of 1797. They appear to have been written at the Inn at Hythe, while Mr. Radcliffe rode to Folkstone.

“September 1st. Began our tour to the seaside. Between Gravesend and Rochester, the road, though farther from the river than about Northfleet, commands delightful views of it, expanding to great breadth, and in length reaching towards the Nore; ranges of distant hills in Essex and Kent finally close the prospect. The shores green and rich, and the water covered with sails tacking in all directions. Sweet afternoon. Continual villages; neat and pleasant country houses, with lawns and shrubberies and high-walled kitchen gardens. Views of the river. The dignity of these views now much increased; the distant hills run out into long ridges, and fold one behind the other. The river often seen between green-dipping hills, and then opening in vast majesty. Descended towards Rochester: solemn appearance xviiof the castle, with its square ghastly walls and their hollow eyes, rising over a bank of the Medway, grey and massive and floorless; nothing remaining but the shell. From the bridge looked on the right, up the Medway, winding broad between woody picturesque heights, sometimes shelving into points. On the left, the river busy with shipping, as it winds round the town, towards the Thames, and very broad.

“Made our way in the gig through the long narrow streets, and then, leaving Chatham on the left, mounted a very steep road, having wide views of Chatham, the docks and shipping, the new barracks—a town themselves—rising up a hill, with fortifications above its green mounds, with cannon and two small artificial hills, with flags. A great prospect, but too broken, and full of scars and angles of fortifications and other buildings and of excavations, to be quite pleasing. Further on, mounted Chatham Hill; the view wonderfully grand and various. The vale of the Medway, sweeping from Rochester to Sheerness, and the Nore, with the Essex hills beyond the Thames, bounding the scene to the north-west; one of the richest green landscapes, with wood and villages, I ever saw. The Thames itself visible for many miles, running sometimes almost parallel with the green, rich vale of the Medway, till it pours its broad waves into the sea opposite Sheerness. The fortress lying low upon this side of the Medway, xviiiwith its shipping distinctly seen by the help of a good glass; the sea, animated with ships beyond Southend, visible on the Thames opposite to Sheerness, almost upon the open sea: knew a sloop to be one, which we had seen sailing on the Thames by Greenhithe. Proceeded to Sittingbourn, through orchards, pastures and fragrant villages; the road frequently rose and fell, but the prospects were not considerable, except at Sittingbourn, an open, pleasant town.

“September 2.—Set out about eleven for Canterbury. The road very hilly, but through a most rich country of orchards, hop-grounds and pastures, villages and pretty houses, with lawns and gardens frequently occurring. Feversham, a mile on the left; saw it with its arm of the sea, and the sea itself, at a distance. Soon after began the long ascent of Boughton Hill; the summit rewarded us with a prodigious prospect. The hill itself wild with fern and coppice wood. Many woods also in the near prospect, intermingled with surprising richness of pasture, orchard and hops. Descending the other side, saw the tower of Canterbury cathedral, cresting a hill beyond; the body of the cathedral and the city not yet appearing; the tower became visible again at intervals, and, at length, the city, with its ancient gates and buildings. The cathedral itself looked very tall and solemn, like a spectre of ancient times, and seemed to hint of what it had witnessed. As we approached xixthe gate, supported by octagonal towers, a long line of horses and soldiers poured from the high narrow arch. Proceeded, after dinner, to Dover over Barham Downs. Views into rich little valleys on the right; each village having its tall grey steeple. Noble mansions and parks frequently on the rising grounds.

“September 3.—Walked on the beach, watching the retiring and returning waves, and attending to the bursting thunder of the surge.

“Afterwards stood on a fortified point below the castle, immediately and high over the beach, commanding a vast marine horizon, with a long tract of the French coast, a white line bounding the blue waters. Below, on the right, Dover curves picturesquely along the sea-bay; the white and green cliffs rising closely over it, except near the castle, where they give place to hills, that open to a green valley, with enclosures and a pretty village, beyond which it winds away. The most grand and striking circumstances, as we stood on the point, were—the vast sea view—the long shades on its surface of soft green, deepening exquisitely into purple; but, above all, that downy tint of light blue, that sometimes prevailed over the whole scene, and even faintly tinged the French coast, at a distance. Sometimes, too, a white sail passed in a distant gloom, while all between was softly shadowed; the cliffs above us broken and encumbered with fortifications; the sea viewed beyond them, xxwith vessels passing from behind; the solemn sound of the tide, breaking immediately below, and answered, as it were, at measured intervals, along the whole coast; this circumstance inexpressibly grand; the sound more solemn and hollow than when heard on the beach below. A fleet of merchantmen, with a convoy, passed and spread itself over the channel.

“Afternoon.—Walked towards Shakspeare’s Cliff; the fleet still in view. Looked down from the edge of the cliffs on the fine red gravel margin of the sea. Many vessels on the horizon and in mid-channel. The French coast, white and high, and clear in the evening gleam. Evening upon the sea becoming melancholy, silent and pale. A leaden-coloured vapour rising upon the horizon, without confounding the line of separation; the ocean whiter, till the last deep twilight falls, when all is one gradual, inseparable, undistinguishable, grey.

“September 4.—Morning fine, calm, but become slightly cloudy. Walked to the topmost point of Shakspeare’s Cliff, which appears a huge face of chalk over the sea. The way through fields; the path constantly rising, and leading near the edge of the cliffs; leaned sometimes over the railing, and looked down the precipices and on the blue sea; little boats and a sloop below. Coast of France visible; though always most clearly seen about sunset, when the western xxirays strike horizontally upon it, and light up all its features. Proceeding to the point of the cliff, had no longer the protection of a railing; bushes of hawthorn, mossed with yellow, alone fence the precipice. Putting our hands on the ground, we peeped over, ledge below ledge, abrupt down. Many of the ledges hung with plants and bushes. On the east, Dover—the bay—the castle—cliffs beyond—the boundless sea. In front, France, (Calais not visible,) a long tract sinking away to the West, and leaving a wider sea. Westward, charming view towards Beachy Head, the high and farthest promontory; black points of land, or rather low promontories, running out, one beyond another, into the sea; hills retiring to some margin, wild, heathy and broken; then the coast makes a fine sweep; and, after forming a vast bay, stretches out in the long, low point of land, called Dungeness, on which stands a light-house. Within this fine bay, Folkstone was visible, with Sandgate castle and village on the margin; then Hythe, a little more removed and higher; then an old castle, higher still and further from the shore; Romney, with its long marshes, beyond; and far beyond all, the high lands of Beachy Head, so eminent and bold, as scarcely to be known for a continuation of the same coast. The cliffs decline towards Folkstone, and there are none beyond, on this side of Beachy Head; but at some distance, from the shore, rise xxiibroken and wild, though small hills. The best circumstances in the view are, first, the fine dark points and then the noble sweep of the coast, the dark levels of the marshes contrasting with the blue sea they skirt. Crows took wing for their nests in the cliffs below us. Thought of “the midway air;” no sea-fowl. The white surf beating far along the curving margin below to where other chalky points uprear themselves. Within land, the hills are brown and bleak and broken. The castle hills, on the land side, scarred by roads and far from picturesque; steep chalk hollows among the heath.

“About half past five in the afternoon, set off for Hythe, ten miles, chiefly along the high sea-cliffs, except that about a mile from Dover, we wound among brown hills, and, the cliffs sometimes sinking a little, we had catches of the sea and of France, between green-dipping heights. Near Folkstone, descended a very long chalk hill, whence an enchanting view towards Beachy Head; the hills, retiring at some distance from the shore, open a curving bosom, and show towns and villages at their feet. Glad to get through the narrow steep streets of Folkstone, though the town is well situated. Proceeded in the dusk for Sandgate. Descended upon it—a white, new village, straggling along the beach, on each side of the wide road. Green hills rising all about it, and the place wide and free and pleasant; the sea beach appearing at xxiiievery step between the houses, on one side, and as easy an access to the hills, on the other side. On the beach an ancient castle, of several round towers, ivied and clustered together, and built low like Sandwich castle. Soldiers on guard at the gate; thick walls; cannon; all on the outside was green sod. The village being full, proceeded through deepening dusk to Hythe, a mile and a half farther, the road leading along the beach, at the foot of green hills; the sea appearing to flow even with us. Cottages by the road side and people straggling all the way. Came late to Hythe, and slept there. Its ancient church stands high, is a sea-mark and a picturesque object, its grey towers and gothic windows appearing among wood, and having a hill behind them.”

In the autumn of 1798, Mrs. Radcliffe, accompanied by her husband, visited Portsmouth, the Isle of Wight and Winchester. Her journal on this little tour, which she seems to have particularly enjoyed, is too minute to give entire; but we select the following specimens.

“September 20—Set out in a beautiful afternoon for Portsmouth. Ascending to Esher by twilight, heard the bells sounding, with most melancholy sweetness, from the summit, and strengthening as we approached: every thing pensive, and tranquil.

“September 21, 1798. Sweet fresh morning. Left Cobham between seven and eight. Passed xxivunder a picturesque bridge uniting the grounds of Paine’s hill; high, rough, broken banks, topped with lofty trees, that hang over a light rustic bridge. Then enter upon a wide scene of heath, skirted here and there with rich distances; afterwards, many miles of heath, of a dull purple and dusty iron brown, with, sometimes, sudden knolls planted with firs; sometimes distances let in between bold hills. After Guildford, a large neat old town, and pretty Godalmin, at the end of a green level; steep hills to Haslemere and beyond it, but opening to vast prospects:—again, many miles of purple and rusty heath, with scarcely a tree or a hut. Nearer to Horndon, the country, though it continues to be heathy, is upon a grander scale, opening to distant ridges of high swelling hills, that probably overlook the sea; the hills in Hampshire, on the right, more cultivated; those in Sussex vast, sweeping and downy. Fine sunset from under clouds; the strong gleam almost blinded us as we descended in a hollow; the high, heathy banks receiving the full effulgence, while all below was gloom. The rays had already become much fainter, as we wound up a chalky precipice of great sweep and length, with steep downs rising over it; sheep on the summit showing themselves against the sky. A fine moon rose, and lighted us over the downs to Horndon. Heard only the sheep-bells, as the shepherd lad xxvwas folding his flocks, and they came down from the hills. Slept at Horndon.

“September 22. Showers, but cleared up to a fine morning. Passed over two or three miles of the beautiful forest of Bere, the most picturesque of any we have seen in England, breaking in sweet woodland glades, all around to other hills and valleys, with patches of green-sward and heath; and to the bold ridges, that extend to the sea. A cottage, here and there, under the trees, with its grey curling smoke. As we mount Portsdown hill, views, on the left, towards Chichester and the bay of the sea; on the right, towards Southampton; retrospect of Bere forest in the valley, and ascending among the Hampshire hills most beautifully. Having reached the summit of Portsdown hill, the channel, the blue, high, sweeping ridge of the Isle of Wight, Spithead, Portsmouth, with its long embankments and spacious harbour, spread before our eyes. This view, though very grand, was not so striking as I expected. The hills do not advance near enough to the shore to hang over it, nor are they bold and broken in their shapes. We are not allowed to look down abruptly on the sea and the Isle of Wight; but view the first at four miles distance, after the eye has gradually passed over the flat lands below, and the landlocked harbours, which break the scene with comparative littlenesses. The shipping at Spithead appeared beyond the town, on the left, where a low xxvicoast extends to the Chichester river, and towards St. Helens on the main sea. The Isle of Wight rises immediately in front of the picture. Farther is the chalky ridge, that sinks towards the Southampton water, and admits within its concave a tract of low coast, that extends towards the channel.

“Descend, and pass through the village of Cosham, at its foot. The road now becomes animated, and shows symptoms of a populous place; carts, coaches, horsemen, private carriages, soldiers, frequent signs and dusty air, instead of the lonely wilderness and breezy freshness of the hills and forest. Pass Portsea bridge, fortified and guarded, and so to Portsmouth, between other fortifications and the deeply-arched gates of the town. The ditches, the turfed embankments, crowned with rows of trees, reminded me of Bommel, in Holland. On the right, a view over the harbour, with huge, black prison-ships moored upon it. Passed through the long dusty old suburbs. The town itself old, level and somewhat mean, except the High-street, and about the seaward ramparts. Drove to the Fountain, a large and good inn, but could hardly get a room to dine in, as a West India and a Lisbon fleet were waiting to sail in a day or two. Went to the ramparts over the sea, crowded with officers of the army and navy, their wives and friends, and many well-dressed people attending to see the guns fired, in xxviihonour of the coronation. From this place the shipping at Spithead in front, and the Isle of Wight, with the whole channel, are enchanting. Returned to the Inn.

“After dinner we left the horse and chaise at the inn, and walked down to the busy, dirty place, called the Point, where we got into a wherry, and so went over the harbour to the decked passage-boat, that was to carry us to the Isle of Wight. Adverse wind, but not much of it. Sat on the deck; a fine view of the town, the hospital, the forts and harbour, as we sailed out: the sea not rough. Hear the he-hoes of the sailors, afar in the channel, and the boatswain’s shrill whistle. Passed through a part of the fleet; saw Sir Sidney Smith’s fine ship, of immense size, with many other large ones round it. A cloudy sunset, but a gleam came out that fell upon the distant town and harbour, lighted up the sea, and touched the dark polished sides of all the ships; glanced athwart the western hills of the island, of which we were now gaining a view. Sailed down the channel for Cowes. The breeze gradually sunk, and we were becalmed. A full September moon rose, and shed its radiance on the waters. Glided along the woody steeps of the island, and saw many a sweeping bay and obscure valley beyond. Reached Cowes about nine; the approach to it, in a beautiful bay, striking, with its summer lights illuminating many windows, and its houses seeming to rise xxviiisteeply from the shore; many vessels at anchor in the bay; its slopes of scattered wood and pasture traced darkly round the bright clear water, and opening to an obscure valley. Landed at West Cowes, and went to the Vine Inn.

“September 23. Lovely day. Walked down to the shore and to the castle, a low grey tower on a rocky point, washed by the tide and shadowed by lofty elms; sentinels pacing under them, round the fort; fine view of Cowes and the bay. Thence mounted the rising ground over the shore, and walked a mile on the Yarmouth road, the views opening between trees and hedges to the dark lines of the New Forest; the Southampton water just opposite; eastward, Portsmouth faintly seen and the shipping at Spithead; the masts of the ships at Cowes caught among the trees below; the scene changing at every step, with the winding road; sometimes quite shut out, then smiling in the softest colours. All was in gradual shades of blue; the calm sea below, the shores and distant hills, stretching along a cloudless blue sky. Innumerable vessels and little sails, whose whiteness was just softened with the azure tint. It is impossible to express the beauty of those soft melting tints, that painted the distant perspective, towards Spithead, where sea and sky united, and where the dark masts and shapes of shipping, drawing themselves on the horizon, gave this softness its utmost effect.

xxix“Returned to dine at the Vine. Hired a good sailing-boat, to take us to Ryde; and, after dinner, sailed from the harbour. The points, that form the horns of the crescent, are of rough, dark rock and shrub. On a brow, over a wood, rose the picturesque tower of a modern castle, which we heard had lately been the residence of a sister of Admiral Macbride. Glided with gentle breeze along the quiet and beautiful shores of the island, undulating in gentle slopes, covered with woods, to the water’s edge; sometimes the lighter green of meadows and pastures stretched to the very bank, with here and there a cottage, a village church, or some ornamented house on an ascent among trees, above which rose the main hills of the island. The shore seldom runs out into points, but winds into easy bays, hung with woods, sometimes opening into sweet valleys, at others, advancing gently, with all their “green delights,” to meet the passing sails. The coast immediately opposite is uninteresting and flat; the chalky ridge of Portsdown too distant and uniform to be grand. In the retrospect, indeed, the New Forest spread a dark line along the sea, and the western hills of the island, near Yarmouth, waved along the horizon, and two pointed summits of the Isle of Purbeck folded in behind them, making it difficult to discern which were the different coasts. Sea-fowl showing their white wings in the sun, as they circled over the waters. The breeze increased, xxxand we sailed finely among the now roughening, yet still green and almost transparent waves, along the shore. About half way, the coast returns into a green recess, and the waters wind away among the hills verdant with thick woods and enclosures. Here the Governor has built a picturesque tower above his woods. Hence extend along the shore the fine woods of the rector of a village on an ascent, where the tower of the church, almost hid in wood, insists upon being painted. Here imagination has nothing to do; we have only to preserve the impression of the living picture on the memory, in its own soft colours.

“Vessels of all sizes in the channel; the sailors’ he-ho, the shrill whistle, and the rattle of cordage, as the sails were altered.

“Reached Ryde, about sunset. The town, among trees, rises from the shore up a long hill.

“At the inn, though very neat, accommodations were so inadequate, that we resolved to proceed in an open boat, which was about to return to Portsmouth. After taking a hasty dish of very good tea, went down a rough causeway, where many people were hurrying to the same boat, and such a crowd collected as alarmed me. A small party was, however, soon made up for a second boat; when, with little sails and two oars, we launched among the peaceful waters; tinged, on one side of the horizon with the red glow of sunset, and brightening on the other, under a broad moon xxxirising over the ships at Spithead. Passed through the fleet. Heard voices talking far off over the dim waves, and sometimes laughter and joviality; especially as we passed near a large ship, where lights in the great cabin high above, told of the Captain and cheer. Distant lights appearing from the ships successively, as the evening deepened, like glowworms, and dotting the waters far around. As we drew near the shore, the music of French horns sounded with faint and melancholy sweetness; discovered at last to come from Monckton Fort. Landed after an hour and a half, at the rampart steps. Walk by moonlight on the rampart. Supped and slept at the Fountain, after a day the most delightful of the whole tour.”

From Portsmouth Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe proceeded by Winchester to London. The following is her notice of the approach to Winchester, of the City and the Cathedral.

“Saw the City lying deep among the hollows, sheltered from the winds by bare hills, which half conceal the town at their feet. The King’s house, once really a palace, with new houses, conspicuous on rising ground. Found out at last, through the dusk, the venerable Cathedral, with its long roofs and very low tower, among fine old elms; a recess deep and retired. The streets clean and quiet; not a student visible. This decorum and neatness form a curious contrast to the bustle and tumult of Portsmouth, sending forth her people to the whole world; xxxiiwhile Winchester seems to be so much withdrawn from it. Went to the George, a noble inn: sat in a part of the Assembly room, severed off. Angelica Kauffman’s drawings at each end. Walked by moonlight up the High-street; good, terminated by a fine old gate. Led by the sound of martial music to the court of the barracks in the old palace. The suburbs old and narrow.

“September 25. Sweet morning. Rose soon, and went, before breakfast, to see the Cathedral, a very large ancient fabric, not highly ornamented without. Walks round it of most noble, tall elms, forming almost a perfect archway and as high as the roof of the Church. Old men employed to weed them. The Cathedral, we were told, is fifteen feet longer than any other in England, but it did not appear to the eye so long as that of Canterbury. Nave of great height; painted windows poor, but the choir affords the most beautiful coup d’œil I ever saw; the carving of the dark stalls, and of the pulpit exquisitely fine; but the white filigranne-work of the altar is as delicate to the eye as point-lace. The altar-piece, by West, is Lazarus rising from the dead. The face well expresses the wanness and sharpness of death; but it might have been much more descriptive of reviving life, beginning to steal upon the languor of death; and of surprise and joyful hope, on beholding our Saviour. The attitude of Lazarus is indeed such, that he might be taken for a person dying rather than one returning to life. The countenance xxxiiiof our Saviour is full of placid benevolence; but the action should have been more expressive of command——of command, without effort. The principal female figure, who supports Lazarus, is clear, beautiful and natural; she looks up to our Saviour, with tears of awe and gratitude; but the grief and anxiety she has suffered are not yet entirely chased from her countenance by joy and thankfulness; their impression was too deep to be suddenly effaced, though the cause of them is removed. The faces of the spectators do not sufficiently speak astonishment, awe and adoration, except that of one, seen remotely and obscurely, as if pressing forward more fully to ascertain the fact.”

On the 10th of July, 1800, Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe left home on a tour to the southern coast. The first evening they reached Capel;—after this the Journal proceeds.

“July 11th.—Fine airy morning. Set off at ten. Hilly road, often narrow and shady. Upon the eminences views over the tops of oaks to mountainous hills and promontories, covered nearly to their summits with thick, woody inclosures; whenever the bank-trees opened, caught blue, peeping hill tops, or mountainous lines, coloured with a lovely blueish haze, and seen enchantingly beyond the dark, tufted foliage of majestic oak. Passed several open, pleasant villages. Every where, vegetation seems in the utmost luxuriance; every xxxivcottage-window arboured with rose, or woodbine. The South Downs, at a distance, heaved up their high, blue lines, as ramparts worthy of the sublimity of the ocean, from whose power they seemed to guard the island. Dined at a little inn in a village—Billinghurst. Terrible road after this; flinty, sandy, and over frequent hills, but with some recompensing prospects. As we drew nearer the South Downs, distinguished the smooth green of their swelling summits from the dark woods below, and in the hollows of the hills, over which the evening sun threw rich lights and shadows. Abundance of wood round the villages; good gardens to the cottages.

“Came at length to Bury, only four miles from Arundel; but our horse wanted rest after so toilsome a road, and we drank tea, before beginning to mount one of the prodigious hills we had long seen. Came at last to the fine downs on its summit, whence a world seemed to lie before us. Grandeur, grace and beauty united in this wonderful view. We could just distinguish doubtfully in the twilight, at great distance, the channel between the coast and the Isle of Wight, a line of light upon the scene, with faint cloudy lands of the island beyond. We soon entered upon the domain of Arundel, the road winding finely among its pompous woods and rough forest lawns. Partly by the tediousness of the ascent and partly by our delay upon the summit, these four miles occupied xxxvan hour and a half. We did not see the castle from the road, but the woods and the remains of old gateways were perceptible. A church of great extent, apparently old and grand. The main street of the town fearfully steep. Reached an excellent inn, about half past nine.

“July 12. Fine day, but very hot. Went in the morning to see the castle, which stands on an eminence, near the town, about four miles from the sea. An irregular avenue leads to a solemn old gateway very deep and bending like those at Mentz, which, with the ruinous tower over it, mantled with ivy, looked well in the dark perspective of the trees. Low arched doors in the gateway, at the sides; loops for archers and abundance of room for them in the immense thickness of the walls.

“The library is in a long gallery, where hang some portraits; among them James the Second; his first wife, Lord Clarendon’s daughter, handsome, but with an air of discontent; Elizabeth of Bavaria and her husband; two Cardinals, one of them a Howard. In many of the rooms, the walls, wherever a window occurs, are lined with dark mahogany, which forms the cases into frames, as it were, for the landscape seen through them, but in general looks brown and poor: little wood visible from this side of the castle. We passed through several noble apartments, not quite finished, and others indifferently furnished; the walls of xxxviseveral, however, wainscoted, chair-high, with beautiful mahogany. The pillars and Gothic arch-work of the music-gallery exquisitely carved.

“Monday, July 14.—Cool, cloudy morning. Set off, at eleven, for Worthing. A flat, uninteresting coast. Drove partly over the sands, the tide being down. Larks singing among the corn, near the shore. A sea-gull fishing in the salt-pools, near the sands. Within a few miles of Worthing discovered the sweep of grey downs about Brighton, that form a background to the large bay; within which, Brighton, Worthing, &c. are seated. Soon after, distinguished the dark masts of vessels lying before Worthing, some of which, seen upon the lighter grey of the distant hills, forming that fine bay, were picturesque, and seemed to be of consequence, but proved to be only small sloops. Horses and a carriage upon the sands informed us of our nearer approach to Worthing, which stands well upon the beach; the tide out, and a fine plain of sand spread before the village. It was animated by groups of the busy and the idle; little boats along the edge of the tide, others at anchor: altogether it was a very lively and amusing scene. A fleet of ships, said to be transports, convoyed by two men-of-war, came upon the distance, and clouded the horizon for some time, but were too far off to be interesting. Dined at a pleasant hotel near the beach, with a grass-plot before it. Amused with numerous parties, who had come xxxviifrom Brighton in sociables, chariots and gigs, to dine, and who exhibited themselves on the grass-plot under our window. After dinner, and after seeing the tide flow up the beach, very high, set off for Little Hampton, by an inner road, through pleasant, shady lanes, between corn fields, with a range of distant hills on one side, their feet darkened with wood. Delightful afternoon. After a sweet ride, met the sea again, at the Beach House, where we drank tea, supped, and slept.

“July 15. Lovely day. Left Little Hampton about one for Worthing. Could not go by the sands, the tide being too near. Stopped to dine at the village of Terring, at a small house with a garden. After dinner, walked up a high hill to see a celebrated prospect. Gained the summit of the sheep-down, and stood on the top, whence we saw the whole compass of the horizon and such a stretch of sea and landscape! The whole southern sky, and the blue sea, extending from the Isle of Wight (its faint blue-lands rising towards the west) to the white face of what we took to be Beachy Head, but afterwards learned to be Seaford Cliffs: beneath, lay sloping towards the sea, a landscape of exquisite hues, of corn and thick hedge-rows of woods and intermingled villages. Within the scope of the bay, towards Beachy Head, Worthing, Shoreham, Brighton, on the sea edge, backed with downs. Farther on, the hills begin to whiten, and rise into the high face xxxviiiguarding the entrance of Newhaven river, which seems to fall into a fine bay. To the west, Little Hampton, the woods, town and castle of Arundel; further on, amidst a long tract of woody country, the spire of Chichester Cathedral; further still, the high point of Portsdown hill, but not Portsmouth. The whole of the Isle of Wight clearly within view; the ridge of hills divided into three parts. Spithead may be distinguished, it is said, at times. To the north, we looked down into woody valleys at the feet of the Downs, and saw Mr. Shelly’s new mansion, among his fine woods.

“Went back to our cottage inn delighted. Went to Worthing to tea. The tide just turning, the blue sea flowing almost even with our windows. Parties again from Brighton at our inn. Lovely evening. When the tide was lower, the sands were gay with fine company. In another part, a cricket match going on upon the sands. Fishing vessels at anchor. Saw the Isle of Wight under the evening light, more distinctly in some respects, than before, yet like a dark cloud rising out of the sea.”

From Worthing, Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe went by short journeys to Seaford. The following reflections, prompted by the “melancholy greatness of nature,” on a little excursion by the shore, will strikingly illustrate the thoughtful and pious cast of the writer.

“July 19.—Went to see the rural village of Alfriston, xxxixover such a road as I never saw before; and leading over such hills! Two men helped the chaise down one of them. Some finely spreading oaks about the village, which stands on an eminence in a green valley backed by grey downs. Dined at a very old inn; had seats brought on the ground, before and after dinner. Walked the greatest part of the way back to Seaford; saw the sun set behind one of the vast hills. The silent course over this great scene awful—the departure melancholy. Oh God! thy great laws will one day be more fully known by thy creatures; we shall more fully understand Thee and ourselves. The God of order and of all this and of far greater grandeur, the Creator of that glorious sun, which never fails in its course, will not neglect us, His intelligent, though frail creatures, nor suffer us to perish, who have the consciousness of our mortal fate long before it arrives, and of Him. He, who called us first from nothing, can again call us from death into life.

“In this month, on the 24th of July, my dear father died two years since: on the 14th of last March, my poor mother followed him: I am the last leaf on the tree! The melancholy greatness with which I was surrounded this evening, made me very sensible of this.”

From Seaford the tourists proceeded to Eastbourne, and visited Beachy Head. The journal contains the following short description, which xlplaces a striking scene before us, with a few strokes of a masterly pencil.

“July 20.—Dined at the little village of Friston, seated deep down between immense hills, in a valley, that about a mile off opens to the sea, at the dangerous place called Burling Gap. A Prussian captain, whose vessel had been wrecked at the foot of Beacky, as our landlord called it, had been nine weeks at our poor little inn. The village had been almost buried in the snow, which came down upon the village from the steep sides of the hills; then the thaw nearly overwhelmed it. From the summit of a hill, on our way to Eastbourne, immense retrospect of sea and land. Surprising appearance of the sea, which seemed to rise so high, that it could scarce be distinguished from clouds; ships looked like birds in the sky. Nothing seen but great and simple objects—the round sea—the huge uncultivated headlands.”

The ascent of Beachy Head, and the view from it, are described at some length in the Journal; but the following scene on the shore is more peculiar and striking.

“July 23. Walked to the shore and along it, with a hope of having some sight of the sea—front of Beachy Head from beneath it, though four or five miles off. The beach impassable by any sort of carriage. A shore of ruins under the cliffs, which gradually rise from what is called the Wish-House, a small white building standing sweetly xlinear the beach, to the summit of the Cape. Large blocks of granite imbedded on the shore, and extending to the waves, which rage and foam over them, giving one dreadful ideas of shipwreck. Sometimes, patches of gravelly sand, or pebbles, soon ending against masses of granite, or chalk, between which it is difficult, and not always possible to walk; some of them must be stepped upon. Within half a mile of the great front, unable to proceed farther; sat down on a block, wearied out, desiring William to go on; he was soon hid by a turn of the cliffs. Almost frightened at the solitude and vastness of the scene, though Chance^[1] was with me. Tide almost out; only sea in front; white cliffs rising over me, but not impending; strand all around a chaos of rocks and fallen cliffs, far out into the waves; sea-fowl wheeling and screaming; all disappeared behind the point, beyond which, is the great cliff; but we had doubled point after point, in the hope that this would be the next, and had been much deceived in the distances by these great objects; after one remote point gained, another and another succeeded, and still the great cliff was unattained; the white precipices beautifully varied with plants, green, blue, yellow and poppy. Wheat-ears flew up often from the beach: Chance pursued them. At length, William returned, having been nearly, but not xliiquite, in front of the great promontory. Slowly and laboriously we made our way back along the beach, greatly fatigued, the day exceedingly hot, the horizon sulphurous, with lowering clouds; thunder rolled faintly at a distance.”

The same afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe continued their tour to Hastings. The following is the picturesque view of their journey from Bexhill to Hastings, in the evening.

“From Bexhill, descended between the high, shrubby banks of lanes, so narrow, that the wheels seemed to fill the passage; in some places a horse could not have passed; we met no carriage, or we must have backed a great way. Breathing honeysuckles on the banks; deep twilight. Heard the sea frequently on our right when the wheels stopped. We had before passed Pevensey levels and the town, with its fine old castle: towers in ruins. On our approach, it reminded one of Newark castle. Near eleven, before we reached Hastings; no moon; starlight; milky-way very lucid; seemed to rise out of the sea. Solemn and pleasing night-scene. Glowworms, in great numbers, shone silently and faintly on the dewy banks, like something supernatural. Judgment of Shakspeare in selecting this image to assist the terrific impression in his ghost-scene. May be called earth-stars. The coast patrole passed us. How far to Hastings? Three miles. Farther on had a narrow escape: horse and chaise suddenly plunged down a bank into the pebbles; nearly overturned. Happily xliiiour horse stood quite still, after the shock, and until we had ascertained the rugged course we were in; I walked the rest of the way. Pass under grand, dark rocks, disjointed and starting up in splintered points, and huge masses. These rocks, near the beach and over the road, continue to where the houses open.”

From Hastings Mrs. Radcliffe proceeded along the coast to Dover, to which place she was extremely partial, and thence by Feversham to London. After minutely detailing her little adventures, she thus concludes her journey:—

“In all our tour saw nothing so fine and beautiful as the views of sea and land from the Downs over the East Bourne. The sweet repose of the landscape and sea-bay to Hastings, and the grandeur of the various views, on all sides between the valleys of the South Downs, and even above these summits, circling nearly the whole horizon, with soft blue waves.”

In the autumn of this year, Mrs. Radcliffe spent a fortnight at Little Hampton, and returning by Haslemere, thus describes the country immediately southward of that place.

“Three miles of continual ascent, or descent of almost tremendous hills, long and steep opening to vast distances, now obscured in ruin, but sublime in their obscurity—

‘Where wilds immeasurably spread,

Seem lengthening, as we go.’—Goldsmith.

xliv‘These high, wild hills and rough uneven roads,

Drag out our miles and make them wearisome.’

Cymbeline.

“This is the country, from which Collins drew his first ideas, and fed his early taste for the wild and the grand.

’O! vales and wild-woods, would he say,

In yonder grave your Druid lies.”

Collins.

“Have never seen such wild woody mountains before in England; they resemble the forests of Wetteravia more than any I have seen, but with this difference, that there the mountains are more pointing, abrupt and rocky, and that here the road often winds round the edge of the hills into deep and most picturesque glades, where comfortable cottages lie snug beneath noble trees, and ruddy children play under the branches, among the huge timber felled on the ground, the Woodman’s implements and the thatched hovel. Sylvan, or other rural industry appeared in every hamlet. Clouds of smoke from places, where wood was charred, sometimes darkened the air. This is the most woody tract in Sussex, and probably in England. The eastern end of the country has no wood: the immense hills stand bare in all their grandeur.”

The following notes are extracted from the Journal of a Tour, made in the autumn of 1801, to Southampton, Lymington, and the Isle of xlvWight. The two first days’ journey supply no matters of interest: in the afternoon of the third day, 29th Sept. the travellers thus approach the beautiful neighbourhood of Southampton:

“At length, the blue hill tops of the Isle of Wight appeared faintly on the horizon, over the stretching forest masses of the near scene. At the sixth mile-stone, entered a part of the New Forest; beautiful woods and glades; thick trees shadowing the road; wherever the woods opened, especially on the right and in front, other rich masses and others still beyond, rose pompously. One of the perspectives in front particularly fine, as we saw our road descending among the deep woods, and other woods rising up the hills and crowning the bold summit of an eminence, that seemed to rear itself over all the forest. The deep gloom of stormy clouds and fleeting lights of sunshine extremely various; the sun often shedding a misty glory over the solemn woods in the west, while sudden and awful shadows dwelt wide over other summits. Passed a most picturesque hamlet of green mossed cottages scattered round a little lawn, where the woods opened, but closed again in thicker shades. Four miles of this sweet scenery, when we entered upon heath, and came upon a high level common, extending a mile, or two, that opened upon a vast prospect on either hand: in front, all the hills of the Isle of Wight, from east to west, swelled along the horizon. On xlvithe right, the wavy woods of the New Forest bounded all the western and northern view. The richness of this vast mass of tufted woods is indescribable. Part of the Southampton water was visible on this side, flowing between wooded banks with villages on its edge. On the left, the view over the vale was not so grand, but more diversified by the light green of pastures and by frequent villages and white mansions among the woods, that spread among the gentle slopes. Showers and sunshine alternately dimmed and brightened the hills. The splendour of the sun fell, at times, upon the forest, in the west, while a heavy shower darkened an open valley in the east, softened the verdure of the nearer hills, and spread over the woods and meadows and villages a gradual chastening tint, that was enchanting. At length, the spire of the great church of Southampton appeared over the woods in front, while the town was yet unseen.”

After a short notice of Southampton, where Mrs. Radcliffe remained only two nights, the Journal proceeds:—

“After breakfast, set off for Lyndhurst; passed along the head of the bay, and by Millbrook, then the long bridge and causeway. After a long hill, descend upon the New Forest, and pass between open lawns and woods, capping every little eminence, and spreading round like those of Kensington Gardens. Longed for the speed of a stag xlviito bound along these lawns and endless forest-glades. Dined at the Crown, in a parlour opposite to the inn, which was full; some forest-commissioners here. The Princess Sophia of Gloucester expected at the King’s House; shown to us by an elderly woman. Good rooms; ancient furniture. A wood fire on the hearth of the Princess’s room and on that of the dining-room below. All these rooms look under thick lofty trees to the forest woods, that rise close over the village, towards Brokenhurst. Oak-benches at the upper end of Rufus’-hall, where the forest courts are held—the most ancient part of the building. A large iron stirrup, called Rufus’s stirrup.

“From Lyndhurst, the ride to Brokenhurst is through five miles of pompous forest groves, of which grandeur is the characteristic, mingled with great beauty. The forest crowds over the road. Only two spots the whole way where the trees retire round lawns. Hence to Lymington: the country is inclosed; but still the lanes are forest-lanes. Passed Boldre, leaving Mr. Gilpin’s a mile on the left, and soon came in view of the Isle of Wight, with Lymington, and its neat cupola-church. Came in at dusk; made our way in the market-place, between waggons and cheese piled up for the morrow’s fair.

“Oct. 3. Left Lymington at half past three, in the packet for Yarmouth; after viewing the fair, and the fine booths of trinkets and plate. Passed xlviiimany charming residences among the woody banks on the left. Glided smoothly under a light summer air; the evening splendid, and the scene most lovely. The Needles are vast dark blocks of rock, tall, but not pointed, standing out from the island in the sea. Hurst castle, with its dark line of peninsula stretching athwart the Channel. The Needles become more huge seen against the light, with the point of the Alum Rock in shade. These objects, with the high line of the Isle of Purbeck, faintly grey beyond, composed a perfect picture, with most harmonious colouring. The light silver grey of the sea first met the eye, then the dark Alum Rock projected to meet Hurst Castle, whose towers were pencilled in deep grey beyond, which softened away to the heights of Purbeck, that closed the perspective. After sunset, streaks of brightest crimson appeared on the sky, behind clouds, black and swelling; the upper shores clear, though dark. Approached Yarmouth, under this sweet twilight. The western shore of Yarmouth goes off in a darkly wooded point, with many white houses, or cottages, among the trees. Landed on Yarmouth quay, small, and crowded with people. Dutch sentinels on the little fort over the quay and rampart of the old castle. Our inn built by Sir Robert Holmes, governor of the island, on the scite, I fancy, of Henry the Eighth’s old castle. Our horse and gig came in another packet.

xlix“Oct. 4. After breakfasting at Yarmouth, set out in a bright morning for the Light-house above the Needles. As we rose, the Channel and the English coast, from Portsdown Hill (known by its long chalk-pit) to the shore near Pool in Dorsetshire, lay before us, bounded partly by the New Forest and thick inclosures, and spreading with towns and villages and innumerable seats and farms, with a vast extent of the northern part of the Isle of Wight, and with Southampton Bay, to Lymington, here and there a white house on the shore, snug under trees, and other house-tops peeping out, almost wherever I directed the glass, above the forest. Discovered Lyndhurst steeple, with the large white house at Mount Royal, ‘bosomed high in tufted trees.’ The whole country, from the neighbourhood of Southampton to the West, rises gradually from the shore into a line of horizon little varied; but the richness and cheerful beauty of this widely extending amphitheatre, seen over the calm blue Channel, with here and there a white sail and a ship of war at anchor, permit no desire for greater variety. As we rose upon the down, this scene enlarged: the Isle of Purbeck became more majestic; its outline is more mountainous than that of the Isle of Wight, with a range of high awful cliffs below. It was now tinged with misty azure, but the sun brightened all the sea before it. Two of its summits appeared finely in the perspective from Cowes’ Point. The leffect of the sea so close on either hand of this vast western promontory, called the Needle Point, or the Alum rock, running out upon the ocean like a long narrow causeway, is awful. You have a wonderful and rather a painful sensation of the narrowness of the earth that bears you, though it may be half a mile, or more, in width. As the Needle rocks were not visible from the Light-house, we left the chaise, and descended the down half a mile, and looked upon them. On their summits, which now seem sharp, and splintered into ledges and points, perceived with the glass numbers of dark birds quietly seated; not one took wing, or uttered any cry. Perhaps it was owing to our great height, that the Needles disappointed us, and appeared insignificant, compared with the grander objects around us: listened to the surge breaking below, round the feet of these rocks. Did not venture near enough the edge to see into Alum Bay. Drove to Freshwater Bay. The inn at Freshwater Gate in the bottom is a little cottage, with two or three rooms apart on the beach. A ruinous and desolate shore spreads and rises on either hand. Mounted a promontory, which confined our view from the inn, on the right. Greatness and desolation. As the tide was coming in, could not see a cave in the cliff below. Returned to Yarmouth at five.”

The following is Mrs. Radcliffe’s account of a visit to the tract called Undercliffe.

li“Oct. 6. Set off for the Undercliffe, a tract of shore formed by fallen cliffs, and closely barricadoed by a wall of rock of vast height. Entered upon it about a mile from Kniton, and found ourselves in such a scene of ruin, as we never saw before. The road is, for the most part, close to the wall of rock, which seems to lie in loose horizontal strata, with frequent perpendicular fissures, which threaten the traveller with destruction, as he passes sometimes beneath enormous masses, that lean forward. This is the boundary on one side of the road; on the other side, is an extremely irregular and rugged descent of half a mile towards the sea: on this side, there are sometimes what may be called amphitheatres of rock, where all the area is filled with ruins, which are, however, frequently covered with verdure and underwood, that stretch up the sides, with the wildest pomp, and shelter here a cottage, here a villa among the rocky hillocks. We were two hours and a half in going from Kniton to the inn at Steephill, five miles, W. leading the horse almost the whole way: a Druid scene of wildness and ruin. Sometimes the road led us into vast semicircular bays of rock, filled up entirely to the eye with wild wood and broken hillocks; the sea below appearing to stretch so from point to point, that it seemed impossible to make our way out, till the road led us under projecting crags of the promontory into other recesses, and, winding under these threatening liiwalls, again led near the sea, on which I looked down, not without terror. Descended upon the romantic and sweet village of St. Lawrence, among thickets on a hill, near the shore. Beautiful cottages, covered with ivy even to the chimney tops, with each its garden, and some with little orchards hung with golden fruit; clear, gushing rills passing under the shades to the sea. A mile beyond, the beautiful village of Steephill, in the same style. Went to the New Inn, standing on a hill, with a wide sea view in front, half a mile off, and at the foot of St. Boniface Downs, whose steep green sides rise to a tremendous height behind it, having below them, on the other hand, the little woody village of St. Boniface, with its beautiful cottages and villas.”

The remaining memoranda of the visit to Steephill, are too long to be extracted, but contain some beautiful descriptions, and several vivid notices of the effects of light, as for example:—“The sea in gloom, with gleams of cold silvery light upon it, where the clouds began to break: these lights finely marked the distances on the grand surface of the ocean, as they fell in blue lines.” Again, “Sunlights on the sea, and, now and then, bright green spots between black shadows;”—in the evening “a fiery sunset with sullen clouds.” The following short recollection of a storm is full of feeling and power:—

“After dark, a storm, with thunder and lightning; liiilistened to the strong, steady force of the wind and waves below. The thunder rolled and burst at intervals, and often the sound was so mingled with that of the wind and waves, as to be scarcely distinguished from it. No complaining of the wind, but a strong and awful monotony. Lightning, very blue, showed at moments the foaming waves far out: utter darkness between the flashes. Glad to hear from the other side of the house, cheerful voices talking, or singing. When the storm subsided, the thunder rolled away towards the Sussex coast. This display of the elements was the grandest scene I ever beheld; a token of God directing his world. What particularly struck me was the appearance of irresistible power, which the deep monotonous sound of the wind and surge conveyed. Nothing sudden; nothing laboured; all a continuance of sure power, without effort.”

From Steephill the travellers proceeded to Ryde, where Mrs. Radcliffe made the following characteristic remarks:—“Rejoice to look again on a peopled sea, and prefer this point of the Isle, for animated and beautiful scenery, to any other. The back of the island has very extensive views; and, for that extensiveness, may be called grand; but there are no mountain lines, no shapes, that overwhelm us with admiration: the want of wood forbids them magnificence. The undercliff is wild and romantic, rather than grand; but the sea horizon from it, is often very grand. Upon the whole, livI prefer rich beauty to wild beauty, unless accompanied by such shapes of grandeur as verge upon the sublime. Lovely sunset; a roseate, melting into saffron and shades of blue; some light purple streaks. Below, the dark woody line of shore bending towards Cowes; the bay at its feet, purpled from the clouds. All this seen from our bed-room windows, above and between lofty trees.”

Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe returned by Salisbury. We extract from the journal the approach to Salisbury and the description of its Cathedral.

“Oct. 13. Rainy morning; cleared up to a lovely afternoon. Left Southampton before twelve, for Salisbury. Turned out of the road, at the village of Totting, and soon entered upon the skirts of the New Forest, but saw no avenues there, no lovely forest-glades, rather forest-land, than forest; but we had often rich woody views into the vale, near Southampton on the right, and continual forests rising on the left; and a few miles from Plaitford, came upon some of the sweetest scenery of the New Forest. Upon a wild glade, touching effect of misty light, beyond its gloom. Sometimes an opening in the near copses showed a distant perspective of deep shade. About five miles from Salisbury, gain the summit of a high ridge, and look at once upon a new and grander ridge large and sharper hills rising to a great extent, with the vast Cathedral and lofty spire of Salisbury in front. We had lingered so much on our road, lvthat as we entered Salisbury, a new moon gave us faintly the shadow of its sublime Cathedral, with its pointed roofs and its pinnacles and its noble spire. How could Mr. Gilpin prefer a tower to it! Saw, as we passed, the moonlight shining through the windows of the aisles and touching aslant the lofty spire, while the elms beside it were in deep shade. Had entered the city by a deep Gothic gateway, and saw others lighted up in perspective, in a street, out of which we turned to our inn, the Antelope—a very good inn.

“Oct. 14. Went, in the rain, to the Cathedral; entered it just as the organ and chaunt struck up; very fine, but not so solemn, as at Canterbury. The church most light, beautiful and elegant; but it did not affect me, like the solemn simplicity, the awful roofs and grand perspective of Canterbury. The tone of the organ, too, very good, but did not listen for its swelling and dying sounds, as through the vast aisles of Canterbury; there is not space for them to roll in, and murmur afar off, as there. Was much struck with the effigies of the dead, laid out on each side of the great aisle, from pillar to pillar. Having been brought by Mr. Wyatt from St. Mary’s Chapel, that terminates the choir, they have been placed on a raised step, that seems indeed to have been originally designed for them. The pillars of this Cathedral are in Gothic clusters, not of the slender form, that afterwards prevailed, but, as Mr. Gilpin says, lvi“when Saxon heaviness first began to give way.” Their effect is elegant. They are washed of a stone colour, as are the walls and roofs; the last are without tracery, and are marked as if of brick. The arches are obtusely pointed, having one narrow vein of open work running near the outer edge, which gives lightness to them.”

After an attempt to visit Stonehenge, which was frustrated by a violent storm, Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe returned, in the leisurely manner which they preferred, to London.

In the autumn of 1802, Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe took a journey to Leicester and Warwick, and returned by Woodstock and Oxford. From the journal kept during that tour, the following descriptions of Kenilworth, of one or two scenes in Warwick Castle, and of Blenheim, are perhaps most worthy of selection. Both Warwick Castle and Blenheim are described with great minuteness; but both these mansions are so generally known, that it is thought sufficient to extract such portions of the accounts of them only, as are most characteristic of the writer’s feelings and tastes.

Kenilworth.

“Left Coventry at half past twelve, and passed through a pleasant well-wooded country to Kenilworth. Almost every village over-topped with lofty trees. Passed for some miles over Kenilworth Chase, by a straight road of noble breadth, lviibordered with forest. Part of this forest was, in former times, cut down, in order to dislodge robbers. The gate of the castle, to which we drove up, is in the grey square tower, built on a high rock, by Leicester. This gate being now a residence, the former entrance by it to the court of the Castle is stopped up, and we passed through the garden, at its side, into the green and open area, that was once the grand court of the castle. Hence we looked up to the noble masses of ruin, that still stand proudly, and form three broken and irregular sides of what was once the inner court. Of the buildings that formed the fourth side, there are now no vestiges, except the knolliness of the ground, where they once stood, may be called such, and except part of the buildings still called Leicester’s, these having been built by him. These are a fine mass of ruined walls, covered with thickest ivy, on the left; on the right, stands a more noble mass, with three lofty arches in a row, going the whole depth of the wall, sixteen feet: this is called Cæsar’s Tower, and, though the oldest part of the Castle, appears, on the outside, the freshest and newest. It is of a greyer and more solid stone than the rest. This, too, is finely hung with ivy. Between these masses, in perspective, forming the third side of the court, is the most picturesque remainder of the castle, though Cæsar’s Tower is the grandest. This was once the great hall, or banqueting-room. Its three beautiful pointed lviiiwindow-frames are there still; and the arch of a Gothic door, most elegantly twined with vine-leaves, all now hung and clustered with the richest drapery of ivy. The trunk of some of this ivy is of great thickness, and it is so old, that in some places, the branches are sapless and leafless, and the grey stalks seemed to crawl about the ruin in sympathy. Other remains of buildings partly connect the three sides of the court, and are intermingled and crowned with alder and ash plants. This view of the ruin was very striking; the three chief masses great and solemn, without being beautiful. They spoke at once to the imagination, with the force and simplicity of truth, the nothingness and brevity of this life—‘generations have beheld us and passed away, as you now behold us, and shall pass away: they thought of the generations before them, as you now think of them, and as future ages shall think of you. We have witnessed this, yet we remain; the voices that revelled beneath us are heard no more, yet the winds of Heaven still sound in our ivy.’ And a still and solemn sound it was as we stood looking up at these walls.”

Scenes in Warwick Castle.

“After leaving the great hall, went, on the left, into the chapel—a plain memorable chapel, lined with oak; then to the armoury, a long, narrow gallery, or rather a suite of narrow rooms, communicating by small Gothic doorways, and extending, lixperhaps, nearly the whole length of the Castle, with tall windows of painted glass, bowing out into the court of the Castle. The walls of this armoury were covered with weapons of various kinds and sizes, from the Indian war-spear, to the Highland dirk, with a knife and fork tucked into the same sheath. But what struck me most was near the end of the gallery (when it makes a sudden turn into the tower that terminates the castle), where appeared before me a broad, yet dark staircase of oak, and at the foot of it, as if guarding the passage, a large figure in complete armour, the beaver down, and a sword in its hand! The general twilight, with the last western gleam breaking through the painted window at the foot of the staircase, and touching the bronze, gave full effect to this scene, and heightened the obscurity of the stairs, in perspective. This armour came from Germany; our conductor knew no more. Saw the brass coat, shot-proof, worn by Lord Brooke when he was shot in the eye during his attack upon Lichfield Cathedral. On the opposite side, a complete suit of black armour, the knees with projecting points: could learn nothing of its history. Left the building with regret. Paused again in the court to admire the beautiful lofty acacias and other noble trees surrounding the lawn, and the most majestic towers forming the grand front. The octagon tower, rising in the angle of the walls near the house-door, the most beautiful, lxas far as regards proportion; the one nearest the house the most venerable and warlike. Near the summit an embattled overhanging gallery, where formerly, no doubt, sentinels used to pace during the night, looked down upon the walls of the Castle, the rivers and the country far and wide, received the watch-word from the sentinel, perched in the little watch-tower, higher still and seeing farther in the moonlight, and repeated it to the soldiers on guard on the walls and gates below. Before those great gates and underneath these towers, Shakspeare’s ghost might have stalked; they are in the very character and spirit of such an apparition, grand and wild and strange; there should, however, have been more extent. Stayed before these grey towers till the last twilight.”

Blenheim.

“Lovely day. At eleven, walked through the Park. The triumphal arch, at the entrance, has too much the air of a merely handsome gateway; the convenient division into passages in the ordinary mode of considerable gates, leaves nothing appropriate to Fame. The view of the Park, with the turrets of the palace, of the mass of wood beyond, the verdant sweep of the intermediate ground, that descends to the water, with the water itself and the Palladian bridge beyond, is very striking, a few paces after the entrance. The palace itself, though here seen beyond and lxiover clumps of trees, appears to greater advantage than when more distinctly viewed: its many turrets, now beheld in clusters, have an air of grandeur, which they want when separately observable. As we advance, the groves on the left thicken and have a forest-like shade; but the view on the rising ground, including the celebrated pillar, is too much broken into parts. Though the ground rises finely, its great flowing lines are spoiled by too many groves; there should have been one, or two, grand masses of wood, and the rest sweeping lawn. This park is not comparable with that at Knole, either for swell and variety of surface, or for grandeur and disposition of wood; no such enchanting groves of plane and birch and oak, as there. But a very grand avenue extends from the Oxford gate to the palace. On entering the garden, of finest turf and shade, pass the east front to the lawn of the back front, opening to a view of distant hills between the high groves. The back front of the house much the best; more simple, and, seen in perspective, very good. Parterres in the flower-garden, with basket-work round them, in the pretty fashion of the last century in France. Hence, through deep shade to the sheep-walk, where the light opens upon the country, and then soon look down upon another bridge and water. This walk continues on the brow, for about half a mile, very sweetly, and leads to a sloping lawn shaded with the noblest lxiitrees in the garden. More struck with this spot than with any, except about the large lake. First, two poplars of most astonishing height, much larger than those in the avenue at Manheim. At their feet, the light green spray foliage of these deciduous cypresses had a most charming effect. Near the poplars, a lofty plane, but inferior in height. Near this, a surprising Portugal laurel swept the ground, and spread to a vast circumference; a very extraordinary tree for size. Delighted with the steep green slope, the water and bridge below, the abrupt woody banks opposite, and, above all, the grandeur of the shades. Pass the bridge: on the right, the massy rocks of the cascade, but no water; on the left, the water winding beyond the woody banks; a highly tufted island, with a wooden building near its margin, very picturesque.

“Over a sofa, in the dining-room, a large family picture by Sir Joshua Reynolds. The Duke seated, and turning to the Marquis of Blandford, when a boy, with an air and countenance in which the nobleman and the good man are blended; more pleasing and dignified than Romney’s portrait of him. The Duchess, of pleasing countenance, and much sweetness in her eyes. Of the children, the most striking is Lady Charlotte (Nares), five or six years old, playfully holding a mask, and laughing behind it, as she frightens her sister, who draws back in doubt and with some apprehension lxiiibut calmly. The figure of Lady C. has all the natural, playful grace of a child, though the attitude is rather overstrained. Vandyke’s portrait of Charles the First’s Queen is not so fine as his picture of her in the domestic drawing-room at Warwick Castle.

“It is in the superior colours and expressive drawing of the tapestry, that Blenheim chiefly excels the interior decorations of other great mansions. That in the state room is from Brussels, and most exquisite; presented by that city to the great Duke. It entirely covers the lofty walls. Each compartment displays a different siege or battle, and the distance, fading often into blue hills, is so finely shaded, that the whole seems almost a living prospect, and that you might step into the scene. The figures in the foreground are nearly as large as life, and chiefly portraits: they are admirably grouped, and the action not only spirited and natural, but often full of character. The Duke is always on horseback, and has the same air of countenance—attentive and eager; the features somewhat thin. The face of a French spy, under examination before the Duke, is admirable; watchful, sedate, and firm. In the next compartment is a very spirited figure of Lord Cadogan, on horseback, his hat held off at arm’s length, receiving orders from the Duke. His eagerness, proud submission, and impatience to be gone, while he bends to listen, and can scarcely lxivrein his impatient charger, are all conspicuous. His faithful dog, that would be near him in every battle, and that returned safe home at last, is waiting beside him.”

In June 1805, Mrs. Radcliffe went to see Belvedere House, the seat of Lord Eardley. The following is an extract from her account of that mansion.

“The park entrance from Lexden Heath is through a low, iron gate, beyond which is seen the gravel road, winding like a path, among the turf, under the stately branches of clumps of oak, &c. Neither the house, nor any good prospect is visible here; but, as you advance along the elegant plain of the park, a blue distance of the Essex hills appears beneath the low-spread branches of oaks, where there is a seat; on the right, the Grecian portico of the house, among the deep shades, which exclude all other view. The entrance is to a light, elegant hall, or vestibule, of French grey stucco, as are all the extensive passages of the house, the floors covered with oilcloth, of a small pattern, in shades of blue. On the right, through an ante-room of elegant simplicity, pass to a dining-room; the walls of French grey; silk-moreen curtains, orange; chocolate-coloured fringe. Over the door, two exquisite views of Venice, by Canaletti; the Alchymist, Teniers, in a corner near the fire; then Rembrandt (by himself), looking out of the picture, with a broad lxvsmile, a coarse but arch countenance; Van Trump, the Dutch Admiral, a bluff countenance, as if the habits of a seaman predominated over those of the officer. After seeing several other very fine pictures here, pass some smaller rooms and elegant passages to the red drawing-room, the finest in the house; hung with crimson damask, bordered with gold; curtains and chairs the same, and a most rich carpet, in crimson and black. A finely stuccoed carved ceiling; a large bow-window looking upon the woods of the park. In a shaded corner, near the chimney, a most exquisite Claude, an evening view, perhaps over the Campagna of Rome. The sight of this picture imparted much of the luxurious repose and satisfaction, which we derive from contemplating the finest scenes of Nature. Here was the poet, as well as the painter, touching the imagination, and making you see more than the picture contained. You saw the real light of the sun, you breathed the air of the country, you felt all the circumstances of a luxurious climate on the most serene and beautiful landscape; and, the mind being thus softened, you almost fancied you heard Italian music on the air—the music of Paisiello; and such, doubtless, were the scenes that inspired him. Passed into smaller rooms, and by the same elegant lobbies, to the summer drawing-room, where the bowed window looks down upon a noble sweep of the Thames, with the well-wooded sloping hills of lxviEssex in the distance. The noble simplicity of this long bend of the Thames, and of the whole scene, is very striking. The eye passes abruptly, between the hanging woods of two jutting eminences of the park, to the green level below, which forms in front a perfect bow of several miles. The woods near the house are so planted, as to conceal the entrance and exit of the river upon the plains below, leaving nothing of it visible but that line of perfect grace and grandeur which it marks between the two green shores, while the vessels seem to steal upon the scene, appearing and disappearing, on either hand, from behind the woods. The dark verdure of these, the lighter green of the plain beneath, the silver grey of the river that bounds it, the white sails and various shades of the fleeting vessels, ships with clustering top-gallant sails, sloops with the stretching and elegantly swelling sails at their heads and above them, and skiffs, or other boats, with their little spritsails, too often bending low:—these, with the hills of Essex bending into bluish distance, form altogether a soothing harmony of tints and objects.—Among other pictures that struck me, (especially the family of Snyders, by Rubens,) was one of Wouvermans, representing the dark gate of a fort, with cavaliers on war-horses, waiting impatiently for admittance, their horses rearing and prancing; upon the high, shadowing walls, shrubs appear against the light sky, and above them is lxviiseen a high embankment, with a cannon pointed downwards, and near it a tree, down which a man is hastily descending, as if he had been overlooking a skirmish on the plains below, (not in view,) whence the party without the gate seem to have made a precipitate retreat. They are, perhaps, waiting till he has reported to the guard at the gate, whether they are friends or enemies. The impatience for admittance of those who think themselves likely to be pursued, the cautious apprehension of those within the fort, and the unseen and doubtful battle, hinted at by the man on the tree, render this a very interesting picture.

“The grand staircase, by which we passed to the room over this, is remarkable for its lightness and elegance. All its light is received from a raised frame of glass, which crowns a most richly stuccoed roof, that forms a broad border only round it. I was much struck with the lightness, proportion, and elegance of this staircased hall, and indeed with the numerous long passages of the house. In the family dining-room the pictures are all portraits. One of the late Lady Eardley, when young, is a profile of most exquisite sweetness.

‘Softness and sweetest innocence she wears,

And looks like Nature, in the world’s first bloom.’

Strong countenance of a tutor of Lord Eardley. No view, but of the Park, from any of these rooms; nor from the library, opening by pillars from a lxviiikind of ante-room, or vestibule. Before a cone at the upper end, is a most noble mahogany library-table with drawers. Between the windows are semicircular inlaid tables, with deep drawers for maps; some valuable modern books, but no old ones. The art of giving effect to the finest views, by permitting them to be seen only from the rooms whence they may be observed without interruption and in their perfection, is carried very far here; for, as you advance through the grounds to the house, the eye is confined by the woods; and is suffered only once to catch a glimpse of distance under the spreading shades, sufficient to touch the imagination and excite expectation of a scene, whose grandeur and simplicity, when at length it does appear, fully repays the impatience of curiosity. We did not see the woody grounds extending very far along the brow over the Thames, nor the tower of the Belvedere, nearly at the extremity of them and on their highest point. This must look down suddenly upon a new scene of the river, where it spreads into that broad bay, whose eastern point projects opposite to the broken steeps of Purfleet, and comprehends within its curve Erith, with its ivied church, and the hills around it, varied with woods and villas, and whose western point lies near the foot of this eminence, concealed by the woods. But from a window of this lofty tower I doubt not the eye extends to Gravesend in the east, and probably further. Its southern lxixwindow must look athwart the back of Shooter’s Hill to the Knockholt beeches on the ridge near Seven-oaks; and its northern one over Epping Forest and a great part of Essex. Wherever the wood-walks open, there must be a glimpse of the river, and white sails gliding athwart the vista.”

In the autumn of 1807, Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe visited Knole House for the second time. The following is a small portion of Mrs. Radcliffe’s reminiscences of the house, and especially of its pictures.

“We were astonished at the extent of this mansion, and at its vast collection of portraits. Warwick Castle has the greatest number of Vandyke’s pictures; Blenheim of Rubens’s; Knole of Holbein’s, with many of Vandyke too. The old porter at the first gate had lived about the spot fifty years; was there in the time of the late Duke’s grandfather: those were grand times; the late Dukes were very good, but things had got dearer then. When we were going, he desired Mr. R. to write our names in the book, that my lord might have the pleasure of seeing who had been there.