89 No. IV. MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE. AMONG the eminent Englishwomen who have contributed by their talents to the intellectual character of their country, the name of Mrs. Ann Radcliffe will always stand highly distinguished. Mrs. Radcliffe was a native of London, and was born on the 9th of July, 1764. By a communication which we shall annex to this brief memoir, it appears that her family and connections were of the most respectable description. Her maiden name was Ward. In her twenty-third year she married at Bath (where her parents then resided), William Radcliffe, Esq., a graduate of Oxford; and who, intending to pursue the profession of the law, kept several terms at one of the Inns of Court; but, changing his resolution, was never called to the bar. Mr. Radcliffe subsequently became the proprietor and editor of the English Chronicle. Soon after her marriage, the powers of Mrs. Radcliffe's mind began to develope themselves in the production of a series of romances, of which it is not too much to say that they rank with the best that have appeared in the English language. They have been translated into every European tongue; and have been everywhere read with enthusiastic delight. Of the peculiar character of Mrs. Radcliffe's works we cannot convey a more adequate notion than by quoting the following extracts from a prefatory introduction written by Mrs. Barbauld to “The Romance of the Forest," which, with "The Mysteries of Udolpho," was incorporated by that lady into her edition of THE BRITISH NOVELISTS: 66 Though every production which is good in its kind entitles its author to praise, a greater distinction is due to those which stand at the head of a class; and such are undoubtedly the novels of Mrs. Radcliffe; which exhibit a genius of no common stamp. She seems to scorn to move those passions which form the interest of common novels: she alarms the soul with terror; agitates it with suspense, prolonged and wrought up to the most intense feeling by mysterious hints and obscure intimations of unseen danger. The scenery of her tales is in "time-shook towers," vast uninhabited castles, winding staircases, long echoing aisles; or, if abroad, lonely heaths, gloomy forests, and abrupt precipices, the haunt of banditti; the canvass and the figures of Salvator Rosa. Her living characters correspond to the scenery: their wicked projects are dark, singular, atrocious. They are not of English growth; their guilt is tinged with a darker hue than that of the bad and profligate characters we see in the world about us; they seem almost to belong to an unearthly sphere of powerful mischief. But to the terror produced by the machinations of guilt, and the perception of danger, this writer has had the art to unite another, and possibly a stronger feeling. There is, perhaps, in every breast at all susceptible of the influence of imagination, the germ of a certain superstitious dread of the world unknown, which easily suggests the idea. of commerce with it. Solitude, darkness, low-whispered sounds, obscure glimpses of objects, flitting forms, tend to raise in the mind that thrilling mysterious terror, which has for its object the "powers unseen, and mightier far than we." But these ideas are suggested only; for it is the peculiar management of this author, that though she gives, as it were, a glimpse of the world of terrible shadows, she yet stops short of any thing really supernatural: for all the strange and alarming circumstances brought forward in the narrative are explained in the winding up of the story by natural causes; but in the mean time the reader has felt their full impression. "The first production of this lady, in which her peculiar genius was strikingly developed, is 'The Romance of the Forrest,' and in some respects it is perhaps the best. It turns upon the machinations of a profligate villain, and his agent, against an amiable and unprotected girl, whose birth and fortunes have been involved in obscurity by crime and perfidy. The character of La Motte, the agent, is drawn with spirit. He is represented as weak and timid, gloomy and arbitrary in his family, drawn by extravagance into vice and atrocious actions, capable of remorse, but not capable of withstanding temptation. There is a scene between him and the more hardened Marquis, who is tempting him to commit murder, which has far more nature and truth than the admired scene between King John and Hubert, in which the writer's imagination has led him rather to represent the action to which the King is endeavouring to work his instrument, as it would be seen by a person who had a great horror of its guilt, than in the manner in which he ought to represent it in order to win him to his purpose: 666 If the midnight bell Did with his iron tongue, and brazen mouth, -if thou could'st see me without eyes, 999 &c. What must be the effect of such imagery but to infuse into the mind of Hubert that horror of the crime with which the spectator views the deed, and which it was the business, indeed, of Shakspeare to impress upon the mind of the spectator, but not of King John to impress upon Hubert? In the scene referred to, on the other hand, the Marquis, whose aim is to tempt La Motte to the commission of murder, begins by attempting to lower his sense of virtue, by representing it as the effect of prejudices imbibed in early youth, reminds him that in many countries the stiletto is resorted to without scruple; treats as trivial his former deviations from integrity; and, by lulling his conscience and awakening his cupidity, draws him to his purpose. "There are many situations in this novel which strike strongly upon the imagination. Who can read without a a shudder, that Adeline in her lonely chamber at the abbey hardly dared to lift her eyes to the glass, lest she should see another face than her own reflected from it? or who does not sympathize with her feelings, when, thinking she has effected her escape with Peter, she hears a strange voice, and finds herself on horseback in a dark night carried away by an unknown ruffian? "The next work which proceeded from Mrs. Radcliffe's pen was 'The Mysteries of Udolpho.' Similar to the former in the turn of its incidents, and the nature of the feelings it is meant to excite, it abounds still more with instances of mysterious and terrific appearances, but has perhaps less of character, and a more imperfect story. It has been the aim in this work to assemble appearances of the most impressive kind, which continually present the idea of supernatural agency, but which are at length accounted for by natural means. They are not always, however, well accounted for; and the mind experiences a sort of disappointment and shame at having felt so much from appearances which had nothing in them beyond "this visible diurnal sphere." The moving of the pall in the funereal chamber is of this nature. The curtain which no one dares to withdraw interests us strongly; we feel the utmost stings and throbs of curiosity; but we have been affected so repeatedly, the suspense has been so long protracted, and expectation raised so high, that no explanation can satisfy, no imagery of horrors can equal the vague shapings of our imagination. "The Mysteries of Udolpho' is the most popular of this author's performances, and as such has been chosen for this selection; but perhaps it is exceeded in strength by her next publication, 'The Italians.' Nothing can be finer than the opening of the story. An Englishman on his travels, walking through a church, sees a dark figure stealing along the aisles. He is informed that he is an assassin. On expressing his astonishment that he should find shelter there, he is told that such adventures are common in Italy. His companion then points to a confessional in an obscure aisle of the church. There,' says he, in that cell, such a tale of horror was 6 once poured into the ear of a priest as overwhelmed him with astonishment, nor was the secret ever disclosed.' This prelude, like the tuning of an instrument by a skilful hand, has the effect of producing at once in the mind a tone of feeling correspondent to the future story. In this, as in the former productions, the curiosity of the reader is kept upon the stretch by mystery and wonder. The author seems perfectly to understand that obscurity, as Burke has asserted, is a strong ingredient in the sublime:-a face shrouded in a cowl; a narrative suddenly suspended; deep guilt half revealed; the untold secrets of a prison-house; the terrific shape, if shape it might be called that shape had none distinguishable;' —all these affect the mind more powerfully than any regular or distinct images of danger or of woe. "But this novel has also high merit in the character of Schedoni, which is strikingly drawn, as is his personal appearance. His figure,' says the author, was striking, but not so from grace. It was tall, and though extremely thin, his limbs were large and uncouth; and as he stalked along, wrapped in the black garments of his order, there was something terrible in his air, something almost superhuman. His cowl, too, as it threw a shade over the livid paleness of his face, increased its severe character, and gave an effect to his large melancholy eye, which approached to horror. His physiognomy bore the trace of many passions, which seemed to have fixed the features they no longer animated. His eyes were so piercing that they seemed to penetrate with a single glance into the hearts of men, and to read their most secret thoughts; few persons could support their scrutiny, or even endure to meet them twice.' A striking figure for the painter to transfer to the canvass; perhaps some picture might originally have suggested it. The scene where this singular character is on the point of murdering his own daughter, as she then appears to be, is truly tragical, and wrought up with great strength and pathos. It is impossible not to be interested in the situation of Ellen, in the convent, when her lamp goes out while she is reading a paper on which her fate |