Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated)

by Ann Radcliffe

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

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

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

  “In returning, we endeavoured to follow a path down the steeps near Bonchurch, and to find some steps, cut in the precipice, by which to descend. The look down upon the shores and sea tremendous — steeps below steeps, to the surge beating and whitening below all. Followed, for some time without dizziness, till we lost our little track, and saw all around and beneath us scarcely any thing but pathless descents — tremendous. From the fear of coming to some impracticable steep in this wild descent and being unable to find the hewn steps, we reascended to the Signal-house, and so returned home. The sea a desert, except that a fine frigate sailed majestically at a distance, and one brig was also in sight.

  “How sweet is the cadence of the distant surge!

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

  ‘Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell,

  Ding, dong, bell!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Oct. 21, 1812. — Having slept at the Foley Arms hotel, an excellent inn, delightfully situated, we walked out, about eleven, hoping to reach the highest point of the Malvern Hills. By the zigzag turf-path, we reached the little Well-house, where we came upon the wild turf, and began to ascend the higher steeps of a mountain. The hoary crags, in vast masses, looked out from among the brown and red tints of the autumnal fern, and from the green earth, but the crags ceased below the summits, which were smooth and still green. Our view here commanded the vast expanse to the eastward, which we had seen from the inn; but we now saw over the broad Breedon hill, which there bounded the horizon in one direction; and many lines were now visible beyond it. This view is great and comprehensive, but not sublime; the elevation reducing the importance of other heights, so that no single object remains sufficiently striking, either in form or character, to arrest attention, and break the uniform harmony of that rich and woody scene, the vale of the Severn, whose waters were visible only here and there, in little glimmering threads of light. At the summit, we could just discern them near Bristol, rolling in greater breadth. From the Well-house, we soon reached a good winding path, cut in the turf, which led us round one mountain, overlooking other craggy or green steeps of Malvern, till we caught a first glimpse of Herefordshire and of the hills of South Wales, over the ridge, to the west. They were more distant, and less broken and individual, than I had hoped, but grand notwithstanding. Having, at length, turned into a sort of intrenchment, which runs up to the summit, and divides Worcestershire and Herefordshire, we walked in this securely, and with some little shelter from the winds, till we
reached the highest point of Malvern, and beheld a vast horizon circling at our feet. Thirteen counties are said to be visible from this summit, which overlooks the other heights of Malvern. It is indeed a defect in the scene, that there are no other supereminent heights, except those which are too distant to have a fully impressive effect. Even Breedon-hill, that broad feature in the vale of the Severn, was here too much lowered. Towns and villages were often distinguishable chiefly by the wreaths of smoke that spread from them along the vale, but sometimes by the broad tower of a church. On a more intent view, white mansions and woody parks would frequently appear; and rich meadows, hedge-rows and groves filled the vale, ascended to the hills of other counties, and often spread over their summits too. Few of the mountains of South Wales were sharp, or very bold, at this distance. On this side of them, the square mass of the tower of Hereford Cathedral was perceivable; and, far more southward, the high, level downs of Clifton. Bristol itself is sometimes seen hence. The broad Gloucester hills — the Cotswolds — and the city of Gloucester, with its noble cathedral, are in the nearer vale. From this spot, we could distinguish, merely by turning round, three great cities, with their cathedrals — Gloucester, Worcester, and Hereford, to say nothing of the fine abbey-church of Tewksbury. The tower of Malvern church, once a priory-church, is also a venerable feature in the scene. One of the most striking circumstances was the vast sweep of shadows and lights thrown from the clouds over this great prospect. The mottled expanse of moving lights over the surface of the wide vale sometimes resembled the billows of a sea, on which you look down from some lofty cliff. The lights brought out the villages and mansions on the knolls of Herefordshire surprisingly; and many are most charmingly seated.” Mrs. Radcliffe was particularly interested by Kenilworth Castle, and spent much time in exploring its history after she had visited its ruins. The subject struck her imagination; and in the winter of 1802, she wrote the tale of Gaston de Blondeville, now for the first time given to the world. After this, she undertook no work of magnitude, but occasionaly employed her leisure in composing poems, from which a selection has been made for these volumes. In Romance, she probably felt that she had done enough; and, feeling it impossible to surpass her “Mysteries of Udolpho” and her “Italian,” declined again to subject herself to criticism by publication. Though gratified by a sense of the enjoyment she had provided for multitudes, and justly proud of the honest and blameless means by which it was produced, she rarely alluded to her novels. At first, the sums she received, though not necessary, were welcome; but, as her pecuniary resources became more ample, she was without sufficient excitement to begin on an extended romance, though, had the first effort been made, the pursuit must have been delightful. Even Gaston de Blondeville was not intended for the press, and, having amused herself and her husband, was laid aside, so disinclined had she become to publication.