Quotes from Ann Radcliffe

to the enjoyments of a writer of romance, conscious of inventive power. If in the mere perusal of novels we lose our painful sense of the realities of "this unimaginable world," and delightedly participate in the sorrows, the joys, and the struggles of the persons, how far more intensely must an authoress like Mrs. Radcliffe feel that outgoing of the heart, by which individuality is multiplied, and we seem to pass a hundred lives!

Nobody likes to go near that chateau after dark.

Incited by the intellectual recompense of such a pursuit, Mrs. Radcliffe gave her romances in quick succession to the world: — her first work, "The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne," was published in the year 1789; the "Sicilian Romance," in 1790; the "Romance of the Forest," in 1791; "The Mysteries of Udolpho," in 1794; and " The Italian," in 1797.

The Italian was published in 1797 and is considered the novel where Radcliffe's talents for describing nature and focusing on the sublime reached its peak of sophistication. The importance of the idea of the sublime and the ability of nature to awaken it are crucial to the author's philosophy. The success of Radcliffe's previous works enabled her to receive a payment of eight hundred pounds for her original manuscript, a very sizable sum for a novel at that time.

The torments of his mind and the severe penance he had observed, had produced a surprising change in his appearance, so that he resembled a spectre rather than a human being. His visage was wan and wasted, his eyes were sunk and become nearly motionless, and his whole air and attitudes exhibited the wild energy of something — not of this earth.

Is power then," said Vivaldi, "the infallible test of justice? Is it morality to obey where the command is criminal? The whole world have a claim upon the fortitude, the active fortitude of those who are placed as you are, between the alternative of confirming a wrong by your consent, or preventing it by your resistance. Would that your heart expanded towards that world, reverend father!

And yet I fear you; for you are fatal then, When your eyes roll so. Alas! why gnaw you so your nether lip? Some bloody passion shakes your very frame: These are portents; but yet I hope, I hope, They do not point on me." Shakspeare.

though but too well acquainted with the lawless and desperate manners of those days, yet refused to acknowledge, that a man of the Prior's office and rank could be guilty of the crime.

I dare not say what that fate would be," interrupted the father, "or what my own, should I consent to assist you; but, though I am old, I have not quite forgotten to feel for others! They may oppress the few remaining years of my age, but the blooming days of youth should flourish; and they shall flourish, my children, if my power can aid you. Follow me to the gate; we will see whether my key cannot unfasten all the locks that hold it.

Though splendour may grace happiness, virtue only can bestow it.

All night he either traversed his apartment with an agitation equal to that, which anxiety had so lately inflicted, or composed and destroyed letters to Ellena; sometimes fearing that he had written too much, and at others feeling that he had written too little; recollecting circumstances which he ought to have mentioned, and lamenting the cold expression of a passion, to which it appeared that no language could do justice.

The weakness of humanity is never willingly perceived by young minds.

what yesterday affected us strongly, is to-day but imperfectly felt, and to-morrow perhaps shall be disregarded.

You see," said Paulo, when they had departed, and he came to himself again, "you see how people get through their misfortunes, if they have but a heart to bear up against them, and do nothing that can lie on their conscience afterwards; and how suddenly one comes to be happy, just when one is beginning to think one never is to be happy again!

Why, that is just what he would say, Signor; but bad deeds will out, whether people like them to be known or not. This man comes to our town sometimes to market, and nobody knew where he came from for a long while; so they set themselves to work and found it out at last.

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.

Can this be in human nature! — Can such horrible perversion of right be permitted! Can man, who calls himself endowed with reason, and immeasurably superior to every other created being, argue himself into the commission of such horrible folly, such inveterate cruelty, as exceeds all the acts of the most irrational and ferocious brute.

A circumstance occurred that renewed the misery, which, can now never quit me but in the grave, to which I look with no fearful apprehension, but as a refuge from calamity, trusting that the power who has seen good to afflict me, will pardon the imperfectness of my devotion, and the too frequent wandering of my thoughts to the object once so dear to me.

And now the Marquis, who interpreted her silence into a secret compliance with his proposal, resumed all his gaiety and spirit, while the long and ardent regards he bestowed on Adeline, overcame her with confusion and indignation.

I will defend the oppressed, and glory in the virtue, which teaches me, that it is the first duty of humanity to do so. Yes, my Lord, if it must be so, I am ready to sacrifice inferior duties to the grandeur of a principle, which ought to expand all hearts and impel all actions. I shall best support the honour of my house by adhering to its dictates.

There can be no degradation, my Lord, where there is no vice," replied Vivaldi; "and there are instances, pardon me, my Lord, there are some few instances in which it is virtuous to disobey.

An assassin!' exclaimed one of the Englishmen; 'an assassin and at liberty!' An Italian gentleman, who was of the party, smiled at the astonishment of his friend. 'He has sought sanctuary here,' replied the friar; 'within these walls he may not be hurt.' 'Do your altars, then, protect the murderer?' said the Englishman. 'He could find shelter no where else,' answered the friar meekly.

The Gaston de Blondeville was written in the early ninteenth century, but published posthumously in 1826 by Henry Colburn, three years after Radcliffe's death.

Henry III (1207–1272) was the son and successor of King John, reigning for 56 years from 1216 until his death.