Chapter I: Front Matter (1)

ST. ALBAN’S ABBEY

A

POETICAL ROMANCE.

GASTON DE BLONDEVILLE,
OR
THE COURT OF HENRY III.
KEEPING FESTIVAL IN ARDENNE,
=A Romance.=

ST. ALBAN’S ABBEY,
A METRICAL TALE;
WITH SOME POETICAL PIECES.

BY ANNE RADCLIFFE,

AUTHOR OF “THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO,” “ROMANCE OF THE FOREST,” &c.

TO WHICH IS PREFIXED

A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR,

WITH EXTRACTS FROM HER JOURNALS.

IN FOUR VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1826.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY S. AND R. BENTLEY, DORSET-STREET.

CONTENTS
OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

Page.
Memoir of the Life and Writings of Mrs. Radcliffe iii
GASTON DE BLONDEVILLE.
Introduction 3
The First Day 79
The Second Day 105

MEMOIR

OF THE

LIFE AND WRITINGS

of

MRS. RADCLIFFE.

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 present 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 would 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. Her 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 kindness 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 hour 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 sympathy 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, which 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 here 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 somewhat 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 into 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 her 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 were 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 journals 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 of 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, with 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 the 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, with 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 rays 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 broken 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 every 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 under 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 was 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 coast 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 honour 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 steeply 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.

“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, and 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 rising 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; while 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 of 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 cottage-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 an 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 several, 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 from 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 guarding 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, over 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 places a striking scene before us, with a few strokes of a masterly pencil.