overtaken her, to which she is patiently resigned, and departs in peace and charity with all the world, praying the Lord to have mercy on her parting soul.' POSTSCRIPT TO THE CONFESSION. prefixed an interesting criticism and memoir. He alludes to her defective narratives or plots, but considers her characters to be conceived with truth and force, though none bears the stamp of actual novelty. He adds: 'She is uniformly happy in supplying them with language fitted to their station in life; nor are there many dialogues to be found which are at once so entertaining, and approach so nearly to truth and reality.' ANN RADCLIFFE. MRS ANN RADCLIFFE-who may be denominated the Salvator Rosa of British novelist—was born in London, of respectable parents, on the Her maiden name was Ward. 9th of July 1764. 'So great was this unhappy woman's terror of death and the awful judgment that was to follow, that when sentence was pronounced upon her she fell into a swoon, from that into convulsions, from which she never entirely recovered, but was delirious to the time of her execution, except that short interval in which she made her confession to the clergyman who attended her. She has left one child, a youth almost sixteen, who has never forsaken his mother during all the time of her imprisonment, but waited on her with true filial duty; and no sooner was her final sentence passed than he began to droop, and now lies dangerously ill near the prison from which she is released by death. During the loss of her senses, the said Agnes Primrose In her twenty-third year she married Mr William raved continually of her child; and, asking for pen, Radcliffe, a student of law, but who afterwards ink, and paper, wrote an incoherent petition to the became the editor and proprietor of a weekly judge, recommending the youth to his protection and paper, the English Chronicle. Two years after mercy; but notwithstanding this insanity, she behaved her marriage, in 1789, Mrs Radcliffe published with composure and resignation when the fatal morning her first novel, The Castles of Athlin and Dunarrived in which she was to be launched into eternity. bayne, the scene of which she laid in Scotland She prayed devoutly during the last hour, and seemed during the remote and warlike times of the feudal to have her whole mind fixed on the world to which she barons. This work gave but little indication of was going. A crowd of spectators followed her to the the power and fascination which the authoress fatal spot, most of whom returned weeping at the recol-afterwards evinced. She had made no attempt to lection of the fervency with which she prayed, and the impression which her dreadful state seemed to make upon her.' No sooner had the name of 'Anfield' struck William, on his mind to give him full conviction who it was he had judged and sentenced. He recollected the sad than a thousand reflections and remembrances flashed remains of Agnes, such as he once had known her; and now he wondered how his thoughts could have been absent from an object so pitiable, so worthy of his attention, as not to give him even suspicion who she was, either from her name or from her person, during the whole trial. But wonder, astonishment, horror, and every other sensation was absorbed by-remorse. It wounded, it stabbed, it rent his hard heart as it would do a tender one: it havocked on his firm inflexible mind as it would on a weak and pliant brain! Spirit of Agnes! look down, and behold all your wrongs revenged! William feels-remorse. CHARLOTTE SMITH. The novels of MRS CHARLOTTE SMITH aimed more at delineating affections than manners, and they all evinced superior merit. The first, Emmeline, published in 1788, had an extensive sale. Ethelinde (1789) and Celestina (1791) were also received with favour and approbation. These were followed by Desmond (1792), The Old English Manor-house (1793), The Wanderings of Warwick, The Banished Man, Montalbert, Marchmont, The Young Philosopher (1798), &c. She wrote also Rural Walks, and other works. Her best is The Old English Manor-house, in which her descriptive powers are found united to an interesting plot and well-sustained dramatis persona. She took a peculiar pleasure in caricaturing lawyers, having herself suffered deeply from the 'law's delay; and as her husband had ruined himself and family by foolish schemes and projects, she is supposed to have drawn him in the projector who hoped to make a fortune by manuring his estate with old wigs! Sir Walter Scott, in acknowledgment of many pleasant hours derived from the perusal of Mrs Smith's works,' included her in his British Novelists, and She has portray national manners or historical events—in * This honour more properly belongs to Sir Philip Sidney; In and does not even John Bunyan demand a share of it? Smollett's novels there are many poetical conceptions and descriptions. Indeed, on this point Sir Walter partly contradicts himself, for he elsewhere states that Smollett expended in his novels many of the ingredients both of grave and humorous poetry. Mrs Radcliffe gave a greater prominence to poetical description than any of her predecessors. -with the striking imagery of the mountain-forest English Travellers visit a Neapolitan Church. Within the shade of the portico, a person with folded arms, and eyes directed towards the ground, was pacing behind the pillars the whole extent of the pavement, and was apparently so engaged by his own thoughts as not to observe that strangers were approaching. He turned, however, suddenly, as if startled by the sound of steps, and then, without further pausing, glided to a door that opened into the church, and disappeared. There was something too extraordinary in the figure of this man, and too singular in his conduct, to pass unnoticed by the visitors. He was of a tall thin figure, bending forward from the shoulders; of a sallow complexion and harsh features, and had an eye which, as it looked up from the cloak that muffled the lower part of his countenance, was expressive of uncommon ferocity. The travellers, on entering the church, looked round for the stranger who had passed thither before them, but he was nowhere to be seen; and through all the shade of the long aisles only one other person appeared. This was a friar of the adjoining convent, who sometimes pointed out to strangers the objects in the church which were most worthy of attention, and who now, with this design, approached the party that had just entered. When the party had viewed the different shrines, and whatever had been judged worthy of observation, and portico, they perceived the person who had appeared were returning through an obscure aisle towards the upon the steps passing towards a confessional on the left, and as he entered it, one of the party pointed him out to the friar, and inquired who he was. The friar, turning to look after him, did not immediately reply; but on the question being repeated, he inclined his head, as in a kind of obeisance, and calmly replied: 'He is an assassin.' '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 a murderer?' said the Englishman. He could find shelter nowhere else,' answered the friar meekly.. ... The 'But observe yonder confessional,' added the Italian, that beyond the pillars on the left of the aisle, below a painted window. Have you discovered it? colours of the glass throw, instead of a light, a shade over that part of the church, which perhaps prevents your distinguishing what I mean.' The Englishman looked whither his friend pointed, and observed a confessional of oak, or some very dark wood, adjoining the wall, and remarked also that it was the same which the assassin had just entered. It consisted of three compartments, covered with a black canopy. In the central division was the chair of the confessor, elevated by several steps above the pavement of the church; and on either hand was a small closet or box, with steps leading up to a grated partition, at which the penitent might kneel, and, concealed from observation, pour into the ear of the confessor the consciousness of crimes that lay heavy at his heart. 'You observe it?' said the Italian. 'I do,' replied the Englishman; 'it is the same which the assassin had passed into, and I think it one of the most gloomy spots I ever beheld: the view of it is enough to strike a criminal with despair.' We in Italy are not so apt to despair,' replied the Italian smilingly. 'Well, but what of this confessional?' inquired the Englishman. The assassin entered it.' He has no relation with what I am about to mention,' said the Italian; but I wish you to mark the place, because some very extraordinary circumstances belong to it.' 'What are they?' said the Englishman. 'It is now several years since the confession which is connected with them was made at that very confessional,' added the Italian; 'the view of it, and the sight of the assassin, with your surprise at the liberty which is allowed him, led me to a recollection of the story. When you return to the hotel, I will communicate it to you, if you have no pleasanter mode of engaging your time.' After I have taken another view of this solemn edifice,' replied the Englishman, and particularly of the confessional you have pointed to my notice.' While the Englishman glanced his eye over the high roofs and along the solemn perspectives of the Santa del Pianto, he perceived the figure of the assassin stealing from the confessional across the choir, and, shocked on again beholding him, he turned his eyes, and hastily quitted the church. The friends then separated, and the Englishman, soon after returning to his hotel, received the volume. He read as follows. After such an introduction, who could fail to continue the perusal of the story? Scott has said that one of the fine scenes in The Italian, where Schedoni, the monk-an admirably drawn character-is 'in the act of raising his arm to murder his sleeping victim, and discovers her to be his own child, is of a new, grand, and powerful character; and the horrors of the wretch who, on the brink of murder, has just escaped from committing a crime of yet more exaggerated horror, constitute the strongest painting which has been produced by Mrs Radcliffe's pencil, and form a crisis well fitted to be actually embodied on canvas by some great master.' Most of this lady's novels abound in pictures and situations as striking and as well grouped as those of the artist and melodramatist. The latter years of Mrs Radcliffe were spent in retirement, partly induced by ill health. She had for a long period been afflicted with spasmodic asthma, and an attack proved fatal to her on the 7th of February 1823. She died in London, and was interred in a vault of the chapel-of-ease at Bayswater, belonging to St George's, Hanover Square. A posthumous romance by Mrs Radcliffe, entitled Gaston de Blondeville, was published under the editorial superintendence of Serjeant Talfourd; and her Poems were collected and published in 1834. not of one, but of various classes. There is none of this reality about Mrs Radcliffe's creations. the light of sober investigation. Deeply as they Her scenes of mystery and gloom will not bear affect the imagination at the time, after they have been once unfolded before the reader, they break up like dreams in his recollection. The remembrance of them is confused, though pleasant, and we have no desire to return to what enchanted us, unless it be for some passages of pure description. The want of moral interest and of character and dialogue, natural and truthful, is the cause of this evanescence of feeling. When the story is unravelled, the great charm is over-the talisman ceases to operate when we know the materials of which it is composed. trary rule of composition: she made the whole of Mrs Radcliffe restricted her genius by an arbiher mysterious circumstances resolve into natural causes. The seemingly supernatural agencies are explained to be palpable and real: every mystery is cleared up, and often by means very trifling or disproportioned to the end. In one sense, this restriction increases our admiration of the writer, as evincing, in general, the marvellous ingenuity with which she prepares, invents, and arranges the incidents for immediate effect as well as subsequent explanation. Every feature in the surrounding landscape or objects described― every subordinate circumstance in the scene, however minute, is so disposed as to deepen the impression and keep alive curiosity. This prelude, as Mrs Barbauld has remarked, '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.' No writer has excelled, and few have approached, Mrs Radcliffe in this peculiar province. A higher genius, however, would have boldly seized upon supernatural agency as a proper element of romance. Radcliffe had never been in Italy when she wrote The Mysteries of Udolpho, yet her paintings of Italian scenery, and of the mountains of Switzerland, are conceived with equal truth and richness of colouring. And what poet or painter has ever surpassed (Byron has imitated) her account of the first view of Venice, as seen by her heroine Emily, with its islets, palaces, and terraces rising out of the sea; and as they glided on, the grander features of the city appearing more distinctly—its terraces crowned with airy yet majestic fabrics, touched with the splendour of the setting sun, appearing as if they had been called up from the ocean by the wand of an enchanter rather than reared by human hands!' Her pictures are innumerable, and they are always introduced with striking effect. The romantic colouring which Mrs Radcliffe could throw over actual objects, at the same time preserving their symmetry and appearance entire, is finely displayed in her English descriptions, one of which (Hardwick) is included among our extracts. Mrs The success which crowned Mrs Radcliffe's romances led several writers to copy her peculiar manner, but none approached to the original either in art or genius. The style of which she may be considered the founder is powerfully attractive, and few are able to resist the fascinations of her narrative; but that style is obviously a secondary one. To delineate character in the many-coloured changes of life, to invent natural, lively, and witty dialogues and situations, and to combine the whole, as in Tom Jones, in a regular progressive story, complete in all its parts, is a greater intellectual effort than to construct a romantic plot where the author is not confined to probability or to the manners and institutions Description of the Castle of Udolpho. of any particular time or country. When Scott Towards the close of the day, the road wound into a transports us back to early times and to Scottish deep valley. Mountains, whose shaggy steeps appeared life and character, we feel he is embodying his-to be inaccessible, almost surrounded it. To the east, tory, animating its records with his powerful im- a vista opened, and exhibited the Apennines in their agination, and introducing us to actual scenes and darkest horrors; and the long perspective of retiring persons such as once existed. His portraits are summits rising over each other, their ridges clothed with pines, exhibited a stronger image of grandeur than any that Emily had yet seen. The sun had just sunk below the top of the mountains she was descending, whose long shadow stretched athwart the valley; but his sloping rays, shooting through an opening of the cliffs, touched with a yellow gleam the summits of the forest that hung upon the opposite steeps, and streamed in full splendour upon the towers and battlements of a castle that spread its extensive ramparts along the brow of a precipice above. The splendour of these illumined objects was heightened by the contrasted shade which involved the valley below. 'There,' said Montoni, speaking for the first time in several hours, is Udolpho.' Emily gazed with melancholy awe upon the castle, which she understood to be Montoni's; for, though it was now lighted up by the setting sun, the Gothic greatness of its features, and its mouldering walls of dark gray stone, rendered it a gloomy and sublime object. As she gazed, the light died away on its walls, leaving a melancholy purple tint, which spread deeper and deeper as the thin vapour crept up the mountain, while the battlements above were still tipped with splendour. From these, too, the rays soon faded, and the whole edifice was invested with the solemn duskiness of evening. Silent, lonely, and sublime, it seemed to stand the sovereign of the scene, and to frown defiance on all who dared to invade its solitary reign. As the twilight deepened, its features became more awful in obscurity, and Emily continued to gaze till its clustering towers were alone seen rising over the tops of the woods, beneath whose thick shade the carriages soon after began to ascend. The extent and darkness of these tall woods awakened terrific images in her mind, and she almost expected to see banditti start up from under the trees. At length the carriages emerged upon a heathy rock, and soon after reached the castle gates, where the deep tone of the portal bell, which was struck upon to give notice of their arrival, increased the fearful emotions that had assailed Emily. While they waited till the servant within should come to open the gates, she anxiously surveyed the edifice; but the gloom that overspread it allowed her to distinguish little more than a part of its outline, with the massy walls of the ramparts, and to know that it was vast, ancient, and dreary. From the parts she saw, she judged of the heavy strength and extent of the whole. The gateway before her, leading into the courts, was of gigantic size, and was defended by two round towers, crowned by overhanging turrets embattled, where, instead of banners, now waved long grass and wild plants that had taken root among the mouldering stones, and which seemed to sigh, as the breeze rolled past, over the desolation around them. The towers were united by a curtain, pierced and embattled also, below which appeared the pointed arch of a huge portcullis surmounting the gates; from these the walls of the ramparts extended to other towers, overlooking the precipice, whose shattered outline, appearing on a gleam that lingered in the west, told of the ravages of war. Beyond these, all was lost in the obscurity of evening. Hardwick, in Derbyshire. Northward, beyond London, we may make one stop after a country not otherwise necessary to be noticed, to mention Hardwick, in Derbyshire, a seat of the Duke of Devonshire, once the residence of the Earl of Shrewsbury, to whom Elizabeth deputed the custody of the unfortunate Mary. It stands on an easy height, a few miles to the left of the road from Mansfield to Chesterfield, and is approached through shady lanes, which conceal the view of it till you are on the confines of the park. Three towers of hoary gray then rise with great | majesty among old woods, and their summits appear to be covered with the lightly shivered fragments of battle ments, which, however, are soon discovered to be perfectly carved open work, in which the letters E. S. frequently occur under a coronet, the initials and the memorials of the vanity of Elizabeth, Countess of Shrewsbury, who built the present edifice. Its tall features, of a most picturesque tint, were finely disclosed between the luxuriant woods and over the lawns of the park, which every now and then let in a glimpse of the Derbyshire hills. In front of the great gates of the castle court, the ground, adorned by old oaks, suddenly sinks to a darkly shadowed glade, and the view opens over the vale of Scarsdale, bounded by the wild mountains of the Peak. Immediately to the left of the present residence, some ruined features of the ancient one, enwreathed with the rich drapery of ivy, give an interest to the scene, which the later but more historical structure heightens and prolongs. We followed, not without emotion, the walk which Mary had so often trodden, to the folding-doors of the great hall, whose lofty grandeur, aided by silence, and seen under the influence of a lowering sky, suited the temper of the whole scene. The tall windows, which half subdue the light they admit, just allowed us to distinguish the large figures in the tapestry above the oak wainscoting, and shewed a colonnade of oak supporting a gallery along the bottom of the hall, with a pair of gigantic elk's horns flourishing between the windows opposite to the entrance. The scene of Mary's arrival, and her feelings upon entering this solemn shade, came involuntarily to the mind; the noise of horses' feet, and many voices from the court; her proud, yet gentle and melancholy look, as, led by my lord-keeper, she passed slowly up the hall; his somewhat obsequious, yet jealous and vigilant air, while, awed by her dignity and beauty, he remembers the terrors of his own queen; the silence and anxiety of her maids, and the bustle of the surrounding attendants. From the hall, a staircase ascends to the gallery of a small chapel, in which the chairs and cushions used by Mary still remain, and proceeds to the first story, where only one apartment bears memorials of her imprisonment the bed, tapestry, and chairs having been worked by herself. This tapestry is richly embossed with emblematic figures, each with its title worked above it, and having been scrupulously preserved, is still entire and fresh. Over the chimney of an adjoining dining-room, to which, as well as to other apartments on this floor, some modern furniture has been added, is this motto, carved in oak: “There is only this: To fear God, and keep his commandments.' So much less valuable was timber than workmanship when this mansion was constructed, that where the staircases are not of stone, they are formed of solid oaken steps, instead of planks; such is that from the second or state story to the roof, whence, on clear days, York and Lincoln cathedrals are said to be included in the extensive prospect. This second floor is that which gives its chief interest to the edifice. Nearly all the apartments of it were allotted to Mary; some of them for state purposes; and the furniture is known, by other proof than its appearance, to remain as she left it. The chief room, or that of audience, is of uncommon loftiness, and strikes by its grandeur, before the veneration and tenderness arise which its antiquities and the plainly told tale of the sufferings they witnessed excite. An Italian Landscape. These excursions sometimes led to Puzzuoli, Baia, or the woody clifts of Pausilippo; and as, on their return, they glided along the moonlight bay, the melodies of Italian strains seemed to give enchantment to the scenery of its shore. At this cool hour the voices of the vine-dressers were frequently heard in trio, as they reposed after the labour of the day on some pleasant promontory under the shade of poplars; or the brisk music of the dance from fishermen on the margin of the waves below. The boatmen rested on their oars, while sentenced to perish, Ambrosio is again visited by their company listened to voices modulated by sensi- Matilda, who gives him a certain mysterious book, bility to finer eloquence than it is in the power of art by reading which he is able to summon Lucifer alone to display ; and at others, while they observed the to his presence. Ambrosio ventures on this airy natural grace which distinguishes the dance of the fishermen and peasant-girls of Naples. Frequently, as The Evil One appears-desperate expedient. they glided round a promontory, whose shaggy masses appropriately preceded by thunder and earthimpended far over the sea, such magic scenes of beauty quake and the wretched monk, having sold his unfolded, adorned by these dancing groups on the bay hope of salvation to recover his liberty, is borne beyond, as no pencil could do justice to. The deep aloft far from his dungeon, but only to be dashed clear waters reflected every image of the landscape; the to pieces on a rock. Such is the outline of the cliffs, branching into wild forms, crowned with groves, monk's story, in which there is certainly no whose rough foliage often spread down their steeps in shrinking from the supernatural machinery that picturesque luxuriance; the ruined villa on some bold Mrs Radcliffe adopted only in semblance, withpoint peeping through the trees; peasants' cabins hang-out attempting to make it real. Lewis relieved ing on the precipices, and the dancing figures on the his narrative by episodes and love-scenes, one of strand-all touched with the silvery tint and soft which-the Bleeding Nun-is told with great anishadows of moonlight. On the other hand, the sea, mation. He introduces us also to a robber's hut trembling with a long line of radiance, and shewing in in a forest, in which a striking scene occurs, the clear distance the sails of vessels stealing in every evidently suggested by a similar one in Smollett's direction along its surface, presented a prospect as grand Count Fathom. Besides his excessive use of conas the landscape was beautiful. jurations and spirits to carry on his story, Lewis resorted to another class of horrors, which is simply disgusting-namely, loathsome images of mortal corruption and decay, the festering relics of death and the grave. MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS. Among the most successful imitators of Mrs Radcliffe's peculiar manner and class of subjects, was MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS, whose wild romance, The Monk, published in 1796, was received with mingled astonishment, censure, and applause. The first edition was soon disposed of; and in preparing a second, Lewis threw out some indelicate passages which had given much offence. He might have carried his retrenchments further with benefit both to the story and its readers. The Monk was a youthful production, written, as the author states in his rhyming preface, when he 'scarce had seen his twentieth year.' It has all the marks of youth, except modesty. Lewis was the boldest of hobgoblin writers, and dashed away fearlessly among scenes of monks and nuns, church processions, Spanish cavaliers, maidens and duennas, sorcerers and enchantments, the Inquisition, the Wandering Jew, and even Satan himself, whom he brings in to execute justice visibly and without compunction. The hero, Ambrosio, is abbot of the Capuchins at Madrid, and from his reputed sanctity and humility, and his eloquent preaching, he is surnamed the Man of Holiness. Ambrosio conceives himself to be exempted from the failings of humanity, and is severe in his saintly judgments. He is full of religious enthusiasm and pride, and thinks himself proof against all temptation. The hint of this character was taken from a paper in the Guardian, and Lewis filled up the outline with considerable energy and skilful delineation. The imposing presence, strong passions, and wretched downfall of Ambrosio, are not easily forgotten by the readers of the novel. The haughty and susceptible monk is tempted by an infernal spirit -the Mephistopheles of the tale-who assumes the form of a young and beautiful woman, and, after various efforts, completely triumphs over the virtue and the resolutions of Ambrosio. He ceeds from crime to crime, till he is stained with the most atrocious deeds, his evil genius, Matilda, being still his prompter and associate, and aiding him by her powers of conjuration and sorcery. He is at length caught in the toils, detected in a deed of murder, and is tried, tortured, and convicted by the Inquisition. While trembling at the approaching auto da fé, at which he is pro The only other tale by Lewis which has been reprinted is The Bravo of Venice, a short production, in which there is enough of banditti, disguises, plots, and mysterious adventures-the dagger and the bowl-but nothing equal to the best parts of The Monk. The style is more chaste and uniform, and some Venetian scenes are picturesquely described. The hero, Abellino, is at one time a beggar, at another a bandit, and ends by marrying the lovely niece of the Doge of Venice a genuine character for the mock-heroic of romance. In none of his works does Lewis evince a talent for humour. Scene of Conjuration by the Wandering Jew. Raymond, in The Monk, is pursued by a spectre representing repeating a certain chant, and pressing her lips to his. Every a bleeding nun, which appears at one o'clock in the morning, succeeding visit inspires him with greater horror, and he becomes melancholy and deranged in health. His servant, Theodore, meets with a stranger, who tells him to bid his master wish for him when the clock strikes one, and the tale, as related by Raymond, proceeds. The ingenuity with which Lewis avails himself of the ancient legend of the Wandering Jew, and the fine description of the conjuration, are worthy of note. He was a man of majestic presence; his countenance was strongly marked, and his eyes were large, black, and sparkling; yet there was a something in his look which, the moment that I saw him, inspired me with a his hair was unpowdered, and a band of black velvet, secret awe, not to say horror. He was dressed plainly, which encircled his forehead, spread over his features an additional gloom. His countenance wore the marks of profound melancholy, his step was slow, and his manner grave, stately, and solemn. He saluted me with politeness, and having replied to the usual compli ments of introduction, he motioned to Theodore to quit the chamber. The page instantly withdrew. 'I know your business,' said he, without giving me time to speak. I have the power of releasing you from your nightly visitor; but this cannot be done before Sunday. On the hour when the Sabbath morning breaks, spirits of darkness have least influence over mortals. After Saturday, the nun shall visit you no more. May I not inquire,' said I, 'by what means you are in possession of a secret which I have carefully concealed from the knowledge of every one?' 'How can I be ignorant of your distresses, when their cause at this moment stands before you?' I started. The stranger continued: |