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.
“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 near 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 quite, 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.”
Footnote 1:
Her favourite Dog.
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 our
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.
‘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 Wight.
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 the 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 to 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 many 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.
“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 effect 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.
“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
walls, 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; listened 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, I 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, that 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, “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.