of waiting-maids, and the delay produced by their coarse pleasantries and circumlocutions, have been imitated in all similar productions. For this incongruity, Mr Walpole offers as an apology, that Shakspeare was the model he copied, who, in his deepest tragedies, has introduced the coarse humour of grave-diggers and clumsy jests of Roman citizens. He argues, that however important may be the duties, and however graye and melancholy the sensations, of heroes and princes, the same affections are not stamped on their domestics, at least they do not express their passions in the same dignified tone, and the contrast thus produced between the sublime of the one, and the naiveté of the other, sets the pathetic of the former in a stronger point of view.

The Old English Baron, written by Clara Reeve, and published in 1780, is the literary offspring of the Castle of Otranto, and, like it, hinges on the discovery of a murder by supernatural agency, and the consequent restoration of the rightful heir to his titles and fortune. This romance is announced as an attempt to unite the most attractive and interesting circumstances of the ancient romance, with the incidents and feelings of real life. The latter, however, are sometimes too accurately re

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presented, and the most important and heroic characters in the work exhibit a natural anxiety about settlements, stocking of farms, and household furniture, which ill assimilates with the gigantic and awful features of the romance. Philip had a conference with Lord Fitz-Owen, concerning the surrender of the estate, in which he insisted on the furniture, and stocking of the farm, in consideration of the arrears. Lord FitzOwen slightly mentioned the young man's education and expences. Sir Philip answered, 'You are right, my lord, I had not thought of this point.'' And again, "You, my son, shall take possession of your uncle's house and estate, only obliging you to pay to each of your younger brothers the sum of one thousand pounds.'" The baron caught Sir Philip's hand; "Noble sir, I will be your tenant for the present. My castle in Wales shall be put in repair in the mean time. There is another house on my estate that has been shut up many years. I will have it repaired and furnished properly at my own charge.'"

The observations on the romantic species of novel, may conclude with the writings of Mrs Radcliffe, since those who followed her in the same path, have in general imitated her manner with such servility, that they have produced little that

is new either in incident or machinery. The three most celebrated of her productions, and indeed the only ones which I have read, are the Romance of the Forest, the Mysteries of Udolpho, and the Italian, or Confessional of the Black Penitents.

Of this justly celebrated woman, the principal object seems to have been to raise powerful emotions of surprise, awe, and especially terror, by means and agents apparently supernatural. To effect this, she places her characters, and transports her readers, amid scenes which are calculated strongly to excite the mind, and to predispose it for spectral illusion: gothic castles, gloomy abbeys, subterraneous passages, the haunts of banditti, the sobbing of the wind, and the howling of the storm, are all employed for this purpose; and in order that these may have their full effect, the principal character in her romances is always a lovely and unprotected female, encompassed with snares, and surrounded by villains. But, that in which the works of Mrs Radcliffe chiefly differ from those by which they were preceded is, that in the Castle of Otranto and Old English Baron, the machinery is in fact supernatural, whereas the means and agents employed by Mrs Radcliffe are in reality human, and such as can be, or, at

least, are professed to be, explained by natural events. By these means she certainly excites a very powerful interest, as the reader meanwhile experiences the full impression of the wonderful and terrific appearances; but there is one defect which attends this mode of composition, and which seems indeed to be inseparable from it. As it is the intention of the author, that the mysteries should be afterwards cleared up, they are all mountains in labour, and even when she is successful in explaining the marvellous circumstances which have occurred, we feel disappointed that we should have been so agitated by trifles. But the truth is, they never are properly explained, and the author, in order to raise strong emotions of fear and horror in the body of the work, is tempted to go lengths, to account for which the subsequent explanations seem utterly inadequate. Thus, for example, after all the wonder and dismay, and terror and expectation, excited by the mysterious chamber in the castle of Udolpho, how much are we disappointed and disgusted to find that all this pother has been raised by an image of wax! In short, we may say not only of Mrs Radcliffe's castles, but of her works in general, that they abound "in passages that lead to nothing."

In the writings of this author there is a considerable degree of uniformity and mannerism, which is perhaps the case with all the productions of a strong and original genius. Her heroines too nearly resemble each other, or rather they possess hardly any shade of difference. They have all blue eyes and auburn hair-the form of each of them has "the airy lightness of a nymph❞—they are all fond of watching the setting sun, and catching the purple tints of evening, and the vivid glow or fading splendour of the western horizon. Unfortunately they are all likewise early risers. I say unfortunately, for in every exigency Mrs Radcliffe's heroines are provided with a pencil and paper, and the sun is never allowed to rise or set in peace. Like Tilburina in the play, they are "inconsolable to the minuet in Ariadne," and in the most distressing circumstances find time to compose sonnets to sun-rise, the bat, a sea-nymph, a lily, or a butterfly.

Mrs Radcliffe is indeed too lavish of her landscapes, and her readers have frequent occasion to lament that she did not follow the example of Mr Puff in the play, "I open with a clock striking, to beget an awful attention in the audience-it also marks the time, which is four o'clock in the morning, and saves a description of the rising sun,