Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) (349 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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