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Updated: June 10, 2025
Radcliffe's face had suggested that she understood the situation, which was beginning to appear a little more difficult to him. It was, it seemed, his task to explain delicately to a girl brought up among such people what she must be prepared to face as a farmer's wife in Western Canada.
Radcliffe's Mysteries of Udolpho, a book after his own heart, and he wrote to his mother at this time, "You see I am horribly bit by the rage of writing." The Monk was written in ten weeks, and published in the summer of 1795, before its author's age was twenty.
"I never knew he had it," she asserted. "Perhaps he got it from his sister." She paused, and then, as if impelled to make the fact quite clear, added, "I certainly never gave it to him." Wyllard smiled gravely, for he recognized that while she was clearly grieved to hear of young Radcliffe's death, she could have had no particular tenderness for the unfortunate lad.
She had talked with them about their life and preparation for it, and when she could no longer stand the great empty house with only Aunt Maria for company, who had come back just before Mr. Radcliffe's death, she determined to become a nurse herself.
A little bit of plaster tumbled down the chimney, and startled me confoundedly. Then some time after, I fancied I heard a creaking step on the lobby outside, and, candle in hand, opened the door, and looked out with an odd sort of expectation, and a rather agreeable disappointment, upon vacancy. I was growing most uncomfortably like one of Mrs. Anne Radcliffe's heroes a nervous race of demigods.
Sir Bernard Burke writes that Cheslyn "at dinner-parties, at which every portion of his dress was the cast-off clothes of his grander friends, always looked and was the gentleman; he made no secret of his poverty or of the generous hands that had 'rigged him out. 'This coat, he has been heard to say, 'was Radcliffe's; these pants, Granby's; this waistcoat, Scarborough's. His cheerfulness never forsook him; he was the victim of others' mismanagement and profusion, not of his own."
Radcliffe's method of dealing with the supernatural: From the disturbed slumber into which she then sunk, she was soon awakened by a noise, which seemed to arise within her chamber; but the silence that prevailed, as she tearfully listened, inclined her to believe that she had been alarmed by such sounds as sometimes occur in dreams, and she laid her head again upon the pillow.
Radcliffe's castles, with their suites of rooms opening one into another; but yet its very domesticity its look as if long ago it had been lived in made it only the more ghostly; and so Redclyffe felt the more as if he were wandering through a homely dream; sensible of the ludicrousness of his position, he once called aloud; but his voice echoed along the passages, sounding unwontedly to his ears, but arousing nobody.
I couldn't make out much from Radcliffe's description, but apparently the dog is a pedigree animal." Mrs. Slawson's shoulders, in her sudden revulsion of feeling, shook with soundless mirth. "Pedigree animal!" she repeated. "Certaintly! Shoor, he's a pedigree animal. He's had auntsisters as far back as any other dog, an' that's a fack. What's the way they put it?
"Eh! but you have ideas, young man. Very well, I will read your book, I promise you. I would rather have had something more in Mrs. Radcliffe's style; but if you are industrious, if you have some notion of style, conceptions, ideas, and the art of telling a story, I don't ask better than to be of use to you. What do we want but good manuscripts?" "When can I come back?"
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