Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated)

by Ann Radcliffe

  This was the state of my mind during a year which I passed in Sir George’s house: his fondness was unabated for eight months of the time; and as I had no other object to share my attention, neither friend nor relation to call off any part of my tenderness, all the love of a heart naturally affectionate centered in him. The first dawnings of unkindness were but too visible to my watchful eyes. I had now all the torments of jealousy to endure, till a cruel certainty put an end to them; I learnt, at length, that my false lover was on the brink of marriage with a lady of great fortune. I immediately resolved to leave him, but could not do it without first venting my full heart in complaints and reproaches. This provoked his rage, and drew on me insolence, which, though I had deserved, I had not learnt to bear. I returned with scorn, which no longer became me, all the wages of my sin, and the trappings of my shame, and left his house in the bitterest anguish of resentment and despair.

  I returned to my old lodgings; but unable to bear a scene which recalled every circumstance of my undoing, ashamed to look in the fac [...] of any creature who had seen me innocent, wretched in myself, and hoping from change of place some abatement of my misery, I p [...]t myself into a post-chaise at two in the morning, with orders to the driver to carry me as far from town as he could before the return of night, leaving it to him to chuse the road.

  My reason and my senses seemed benumbed and stupified during my journey. I made no reflections on what I was about, nor formed any design for my future life. When night came, my conductor would have stopped at a large town, but I bid him go on to the next village: there I alighted at a paltry inn, and dismissed my vehicle, without once considering what I was to do with myself, or why I chose that place for my abode. To say truth, I can give no account of my thoughts at this period of time: they were all confused and distracted. A short frenzy must have filled up those hours, of which my memory retains such imperfect traces. I remember only, that without having pulled off my clothes, I left the inn as soon as I saw the day, and wandered out of the village.

  My unguided feet carried me to a range of willows by a river’s side, where, after having walked some time, the freshness of the air revived my senses, and awakened my reason. My reason, my memory, my anguish, and despair returned together. Every circumstance of my past life was present to my mind; but most the idea of my faithless lover, and my criminal love tortured my imagination and rent my bleeding heart, which, in spite of all its guilt and all its wrongs, retained the tenderest and most ardent affection for its undo [...]r. This unguarded affection, which was the effect of a gentle and kind nature, heightened the anguish of resentment, and compleated my misery. In vain did I call off my thoughts from this gloomy retrospect, and hope to find a gleam of comfort in my future prospects. They were still more dreadful: poverty, attended by infamy, and want groaning under the cruel hand of oppression, and the taunts of insolence were before my eyes. I, who had once been the darling and the pride of indulgent parents, who had once been beloved, respected, and admired, was now the outcast of human nature; despised and avoided by all who had ever loved me, by all whom I had most loved! hateful to myself, belonging to no one, exposed to wrongs and insults from all.

  I tried to find out the cause of this dismal change, and how far I was myself the occasion of it. My conduct, with regard to Sir George, though I spontaneously condemned, yet, upon recollection, I thought the arguments which produced it would justify. But as my principles could not preserve me from vice, neither could they sustain me in adversity: conscience was not to be perverted by the sophistry which had beclouded my reason. And if any, by imputing my conduct to error, should acquit me of guilt, let them remember, it is yet true, that in this uttermost distress, I was neither sustained by the consciousness of innocence, the exultation of virtue, nor the hope of reward: whether I looked backward or forward, all was confusion and anguish, distraction and despair. I accused the Supreme Being of cruelty and injustice, who, though he gave me not sufficient encouragement to resist desire, yet punishes me with the consequences of indulgence. If there is a God, cried I [...] he must be either tyrannical and cruel, or regardless of her creatures. I will no longer endure a being which is undeservedly miserable, either from chance or design, but fly to that annihilation in which all my prospects terminate. Take back, said I, listing my eyes to Heaven, the hateful gift of existence, and let my dust no more be animated to suffering, and exalted to misery.

  So saying, I ran to the brink of the river, and was going to plunge in, when the cry of some person very near me made me turn my eyes to see whence it came. I was accosted by an elderly gentleman, who, with looks of terror, pity, and benevolence, asked what I was about to do? At first I was sullen, and refused to answer him: but by degrees the compassion he shewed, and the tenderness with which he treated me, softened my heart, and gave vent to my tears.

  “O, Madam!” said he, “these are gracious signs, and unlike those which first drew my attention, and made me watch you unobserved, fearing some fatal purpose in your mind. What must be the thoughts which could make a face like yours appear the picture of horror? I was taking my morning walk, and have seen you a considerable time: sometimes stopping and wringing your hands, sometimes quickening your pace, and sometimes walking slow, with your eyes fixed on the ground, till you raised them to Heaven, with looks not of supplication and piety, but rather of accusation and defiance. For pity tell me, how it is that you have quarrelled with yourself, with life, [...]ay even with Heaven? Recal your reason and your hope, and let this seasonable prevention of your fatal purpose be an earnest to you of good things to come, of God’s mercy not yet alienated from you, and stooping from his throne to save your soul from perdition?”

  The tears which flowed in rivers from my eyes while he talked, gave me so much relief, that I found myself able to speak, and desirous to express my gratitude for the good man’s concern for me. It was so long since I had known the joys of confidence, that I felt surprising pleasure and comfort from unburdening my heart, and telling my kind deliverer every circumstance of my story, and every thought of my distracted mind. He shuddered to hear me upbraid the Divine Providence, and stopping me short, told me he would lead me to one who should preach patience to me whilst she gave me the example of it.

  As we talked he lead me to his own house, and there introduced me to his wife, a middleaged woman, pale and emaciated, but of a cheerful placid countenance, who received me with the greatest tenderness and humanity. She saw I was distressed, and her compassion was before hand with my complaints. Her tears stood ready to accompany mine; her looks and her voice expressed the kindest concern; and her assiduous cares demonstrated that true politeness and hospitality, which is not the effect of art but of inward benevolence. While she obliged me to take some refreshment, her husband gave her a short account of my story, and of the state in which he found me. “This poor lady,” said he, “from the fault of her education and principles, sees every thing through a gloomy medium. She accuses Providence, and hates her existence for those evils which are the common lot of mankind in this short state of trial. You, my dear, who are one of the greatest sufferers I have known, are best qualified to cure her of her faulty impatience, and to convince her, by your own example, that this world is not the place in which virtue is to find its reward. She thinks no one so unhappy as herself; but i [...] she knew all that you have gone through, she would surely be sensible, that if you are happier than she, it is only because your principles are better.”

  “Indeed, my dear madam!” said she, “that is the only advantage that I have over you; but that indeed out weighs every thing else. It is now but ten days since I followed to the grave my only son, the survivor of eight children, who were all equally the objects of my fondest love: my heart is no less tender than your own, nor my affections less warm. For a whole year before the death of my last darling, I watched the fatal progress of his disease, and saw him suffer the most amazing pains. Nor was poverty, that dreaded evil, to which you could not submit, wan
ting to my trials: though my husband is, by his profession, a gentleman, his income is so small, that I and my children have often wanted necessaries: and though I had always a weakly constitution, I have helped to support my family by the labour of my own hands At this time I am consuming, by daily tortures, with a cancer, which must shortly be my death. My pains, perhaps, might be mitigated by proper assistance, though nothing could preserve my life; but I have not the means to obtain that assistance.” O, hold! interrupted I, my soul is shocked at the enumeration of such intolerable sufferings: how is it that you support them? Why do I not see you, in despair like mine, renounce your existence, and put yourself out of the reach of torment? But, above all, tell me how it is possible for you to preserve, amidst such complicated misery, that appearance of cheerfulness and serene complacency which shines so remarkably in your countenance, and animates every look and motion.

  “That cheerfulness and complacency,” answered the good woman, “I feel in my heart. My mind is not only serene, but often experiences the highest emotions of joy and exultation, that the brightest hopes can give.” And whence, said I, do you derive this astonishing art of extracting joy from misery, and of smiling amidst all the terrors of pain, sorrow, poverty, and death? She was silent for a moment, then stepping to her closet, reached a Bible, which she put into my hands: “See there,” said she, “the volume in which I have learnt this art. Here I am taught, that everlasting glory is in store for all who will accept it upon the terms which Infinite Perfection has prescribed; here I am promised consolation, assistance, and support from the Lord of Life; and here I am assured, that my transient afflictions are only meant to fit me [...] eternal and unspeakable happiness. This happiness is at hand. The short remainder of my life seems but a point, beyond which opens the glorious prospect of immortality: thus encouraged, how should I be dejected? Thus supported, how should I sink? With such prospects, such assured hopes, how can I be [...]therways than happy?”

  While she spoke, her eyes sparkled, and her whole face seemed animated with joy. I was struck with her manner, as well as her words. Every syllable she uttered seemed to sink into my soul, so that I never can forget it. I resolved to examine a religion, which was capable of producing such effects as I could not attribute either to chance or error. The good couple pressed me, with so much unaffected kindness, to make their little parsonage my asylum till I could better dispose of myself, that I accepted their offer. Here, with the assistance of the clergyman, who is a plain, sensible, and truly pious man, I have studied the Holy Scriptures, and the evidences of their authority. But after reading them with candour and attention, I found all the intrinsic arguments of their truth superfluous: the excellency of their precepts, the consistency of their doctrines, and the glorious motives and encouragements to virtue which they propose; together with the striking example I had before my eyes of their salutary effects, left me no doubt of their divine authority.

  During the time of my abode here, I have been witness to the more than heroic, the joyful, the triumphant death of the dear good woman. With as much softness and tenderness as I ever saw in a female character, she shewed more dauntless intrepidity than the sternest philosopher, or the proudest hero. No torment could shake the constancy of her soul, or length of pain wear out the strength of her patience. Death was to her an object not of horror but of hope. When I heard her pour forth her last breath in thanksgiving, and saw the smile of extasy remain on her pale face when life was fled, I could not help crying out in the beautiful language I had lately learnt from the Sacred Writings, “O Death! where is thy sting? O Grave! where is thy victory?”

  I am now preparing to leave my excellent benefactor, and get my bread in a service, to which he has recommended me in a neighbouring family. A state of servitude, to which once I could not resolve to yield, appears no longer dreadful to me; that pride, which would have made it galling, Christianity has subdued, though philosophy attempted it in vain. As a penitent, I should gratefully submit to mortification; but as a Christian, I find myself superior to every mortification, except the sense of guilt. This has humbled me to the dust: but the assurances that are given me by the Saviour of the world of the divine pardon and favour, upon sincere repentance, have calmed my troubled spirit, and filled my mind with peace and joy, which the world can neither give nor take away. Thus, without any change for the better in my outward circumstances, I find myself changed from a distracted, poor, despairing wretch, to a contented, happy, grateful being; thankful for, and pleased with my present state of existence; yet exulting in the hope of quitting it for endless glory and happiness.

  O! Sir, tell the unthinking mortals, who will not take the pains of enquiring into those truths which most concern them, and who are led by fashion, and the pride of human reason, into a contempt for the sacred oracles of God, tell them this truth, which experience hath taught me, that though vice is constantly attended by misery, virtue itself cannot confer happiness in this world, except it is animated with the hopes of eternal bliss in the world to come.

  FINIS

  The Biography

  Ramsgate, Kent, in the early nineteenth century. During the last twelve years of her life, Radcliffe suffered from a spasmodic asthma, calling for the unwearied attentions of her affectionate husband. In the hope of obtaining relief, they visited Ramsgate in the autumn of 1822. Radcliffe wrote her last piece of writing here.

  LIFE AND WRITINGS OF MRS. RADCLIFFE

  An anonymous 1826 biography, with extracts from Mrs. Radcliffe’s journals

  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 development 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.<
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  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.