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Updated: May 19, 2025
THE chateau into which my valet had ventured to make forcible entrance, rather than permit me, in my desperately wounded condition, to pass a night in the open air, was one of those piles of commingled gloom and grandeur which have so long frowned among the Appennines, not less in fact than in the fancy of Mrs. Radcliffe. To all appearance it had been temporarily and very lately abandoned.
In that very year was born Anne Ward, who, in 1787, married William Radcliffe, Esq., M.A., Oxon. In 1789 she published "The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne." The scene, she tells us, is laid in "the most romantic part of the Highlands, the north-east coast of Scotland." On castles, anywhere, she doted. Walpole, not Smollett or Miss Burney, inspired her with a passion for these homes of old romance.
Watching the stranger covertly, she understood that this man whom she had seen for the first time three days before had done exactly what she would have expected of him. "I saw a great deal of Lance Radcliffe when I was younger," she said. "His people still live at Garside Scar, close by Dufton Holme. I presume you will call on them?"
She did not seem any worse than usual, and her last words were of you. Let us know at once what plans we shall make. Nurse Radcliffe." That was the telegram she sent. Poor Amelia Ellen was all broken up. Her practical common sense for once had fled her. She would do nothing but weep and moan for the beloved invalid whom she had served so long and faithfully.
Since the death of Napoleon, circumstances, about which the author must keep silence, have still farther dissolved the original bond of this secret society, always extraordinary, sometimes sinister, as though it lived in the blackest pages of Mrs. Radcliffe. In this permission the writer fancied he detected a vague desire for personal celebrity.
"Our Village" is perfect of its kind; nothing can be more animated than her description of a game of cricket. I met with Miss Austin's novels at this time, and thought them excellent, especially "Pride and Prejudice." It certainly formed a curious contrast to my old favourites, the Radcliffe novels and the ghost stories; but I had now come to years of discretion.
No one knew what to say; we looked blankly at our neighbours, and one man got down on his hands and knees and peered under the body of the machine as if he suspected Radcliffe of hiding there. Then the chairman of the meeting, Lord Fallowfield, made a curious discovery. "Look," he said in a high, shaken voice, "the steering wheel is jammed!" It was true.
Then Wyllard seemed to rouse himself. "I wonder if I ought to write Major Radcliffe and tell him what my object is before I call?" he said. "It would make the thing a little easier." The girl rose. "Yes," she assented, "that would, perhaps, be wiser." Then she glanced at the photograph which was still in her hand. "It has served its purpose.
There is certainly a good deal of perversity about the abuse of Vathek, so startlingly combined with almost immoderate eulogy: to which the discriminating enthusiasm of his Coleridge affords a pleasing contrast. It would be out of place here to enter upon any biography or criticism of the author of Waverley, or for that matter of Jane Austen. Radcliffe and Clara Reeve. Indeed, the essay on Mrs.
Among the works collected at a somewhat later period are translations of Ann Radcliffe, of Scott's early novels, and of Ducray Dumenil, whose stories, "Lolotte et Fanfan" and "Victor," once enjoyed a great reputation.
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