CONTENTS OF FILE: 1. REVIEW OF ANN RADCLIFFE, *THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO*, *THE CRITICAL REVIEW*, AUGUST, 1794, pp. 361-72. 2. ADDENDUM TO AUGUST 1794 REVIEW OF RADCLIFFE, *THE CRITICAL REVIEW*, NOVEMBER 1794. 3. REVIEW OF MATTHEW G. LEWIS, *THE MONK*, *THE CRITICAL REVIEW*, FEBRUARY, 1797, PP. 194--200. 4. REVIEW OF ANN RADCLIFFE, *THE ITALIAN*, *THE CRITICAL REVIEW*, JUNE, 1798, pp. 166-9. 5. REVIEW OF MARY ROBINSON, *HUBERT DE SEVRAC*, *THE CRITICAL REVIEW*, AUGUST, 1798, P. 472. 1. REVIEW OF ANN RADCLIFFE, *THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO*, *THE CRITICAL REVIEW*, AUGUST, 1794, pp. 361-72. *The Mysteries of Udolpho, a Romance; interspersed with some Pieces of Poetry*. By Ann Radcliffe, Author of the *Romance of the Forest*, &c. 4 Vols. Robinsons, 1794. [epigram] Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy ! This can unlock the gates of joy, Of horror, that and thrilling fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears. SUCH were the presents of the Muse to the infant Shakespeare, and though perhaps to no other mortal has she been so lavish of her gifts, the keys referring to the third line Mrs. Radcliffe must be allowed to be completely in possession of. This, all who have read the *Romance of the Forest* will willingly bear witness to. Nor does the present production require the name of its author to ascertain that it comes from the same hand. The same powers of description are displayed, the same predilection is discovered for the wonderful and the gloomy--the same mysterious terrors are continually exciting in the mind the idea of a supernatural appearance, keeping us, as it were, upon the very edge and confines of the world of spirits, and yet are ingeniously explained by familiar causes; curiosity is kept upon the stretch from page to page, and from volume to volume, and the secret, which the reader thinks himself every instant on the point of penetrating, flies like a phantom before him, and eludes his eagerness till the very last moment of protracted expectation. This art of escaping the guesses of the reader has been improved and brought to perfection along with the reader's sagacity; just as the various inventions of locks, bolts, and private drawers, in order to secure, fasten, and hide, have always kept pace with the ingenuity of the pickpocket and house-breaker, whose profession is to unlock, unfasten, and lay open what you have taken so much pains to conceal. In this contest of curiosity on one side, and invention on the other, Ms Radcliffe has certainly the advantage. She delights in concealing her plan with the most artificial contrivance, and seems to amuse herself with saying, at every turn and doubling of the story, 'Now you think you have me, but I shall take care to disappoint you.' This method is, however, liable to the following inconvenience, that in the search of what is new, an author is apt to forget what is natural; and, in rejecting the more obvious conclusions, to take those which are less satisfactory. The trite and the extravagant are the Scylla and Charybdis of writers who deal in fiction. With regard to the work before us, while we acknowledge the extraordinary powers of Ms Radcliffe, some readers will be inclined to doubt whether they have been exerted in the present work with equal effect as in the *Romance of the Forest*. Four volumes cannot depend entirely on terrific incidents and intricacy of story. They require character, unity of design, a delineation of the scenes of real life, and the variety of well supported contrast. The *Mysteries of Udolpho* are indeed relieved by much elegant description and picturesque scenery; but in the descriptions there is too much of sameness: the pine and the larch tree wave, and the full moon pours its lucre through almost every chapter. Curiosity is raised oftener than it is gratified; or rather, it is raised so high that no adequate gratification can be given it; the interest is completely dissolved when once the adventure is finished, and the reader, when he is got to the end of the work, looks about in vain for the spell which had bound him so strongly to it. There are other little defects, which impartiality obliges us to notice. The manners do not sufficiently correspond with the a era the author has chosen; which is the latter end of the sixteenth century. There is, perhaps, no direct anachronism, but the style of accomplishments given to the heroine, a country young lady, brought up on the banks of the Garonne; the mention of botany; of little circles of infidelity, &c. give so much the air of modern manners, as is not counter-balanced by Gothic arches and antique furniture. It is possible that the manners of different ages may not differ so much as we are apt to imagine, and more than probable that we are generally wrong when we attempt to delineate any but our own; but there is at least a style of manners which our imagination has appropriated to each period, and which, like the costume of theatrical dress, is not departed from without hurting the feelings. The character of Annette, a talkative waiting-maid, is much worn, and that of the aunt, madame Cheron, is too low and selfish to excite any degree of interest, or justify the dangers her niece exposes herself to for her sake. We must likewise observe, that the adventures do not sufficiently point to one centre: we do not, however, attempt to analyse the story; as it would have no other effect than destroying the pleasure of the reader, we shall content ourselves with giving the following specimen of one of those picturesque scenes of terror, which the author knows so well to work up: 'During the remainder of the day, Emily's mind was agitated with doubts and fears and contrary determinations, on the subject of meeting this Barnardine on the rampart, and submitting herself to his guidance, she scarcely knew whither. Pity for her aunt and anxiety for herself alternately swayed her determination, and night came, before she had decided upon her conduct. She heard the cable clock strike eleven--twelve--and yet her mind wavered. The time, however, was now come, when she could hesitate no longer: and then the interest she felt for her aunt overcame other considerations, and bidding Annette follow her to the outer door of the vaulted gallery, and there await her return, she descended from her chamber. The castle was perfectly still, and the great hall, where so lately she had witnessed a scene of dreadful contention, now returned only the whispering footsteps of the two solitary figures gliding fearfully between the pillars, and gleamed only to the feeble lamp they carried. Emily, deceived by the long shadows of the pillars, and by the catching lights between, often stopped, imagining she saw some person, moving in the distant obscurity of the perspective; and, as she passed these pillars, she feared to turn her eyes towards them, almost expecting to see a figure start out from behind their broad shaft. She reached, however, the vaulted gallery, without interruption, but unclosed its outer door with a trembling hand and, charging Annette not to quit it, and to keep it a little open, that she might be heard if she called, she delivered to her the lamp, which she did not dare to take herself because of the men on watch, and, alone, stepped out upon the dark terrace. Every thing was so still, that she feared lest her own light steps should be heard by the distant sentinels, and she walked cautiously towards the spot, where she had before met Barnardine, listening for a sound, and looking onward through the gloom in search of him. At length, she was startled by a deep voice, that spoke near her, and she paused, uncertain whether it was his, till it spoke again, and she then recognized the hollow tones of Barnardine, who had been punctual to the moment, and was at the appointed place, resting on the rampart wall. After chiding her for not coming sooner, and saying, that he had been waiting nearly half an hour, he desired Emily, who made no reply, to follow him to the door through which he had entered the terrace. While he unlocked it she looked back to that she had left, and observing the rays of the lamp stream through a small opening, was certain that Annette was still there. But her remote situation could little befriend Emily, after she had quitted the terrace; and, when Barnardine unclosed the gate, the dismal aspect of the passage beyond, shewn by a torch burning on the pavement, made her shrink from following him alone, and she refused to go, unless Annette might accompany her. This, however, Barnardine absolutely refused to permit, mingling at the same time with his refusal such artful circumstances to heighten the pity and curiosity of Emily towards her aunt, that she, at length, consented to follow him alone to the portal. He then took up the torch, and led her along the passage, at the extremity of which he unlocked another door, whence they descended, a few steps, into a chapel, which, as Barnardine held up the torch to light her, Emily observed to be in ruins, and she immediately recollected a former conversation of Annette, concerning it, with very unpleasant emotions. She looked fearfully on the almost roofless walls, green with damps, and on the Gothic points of the windows, where the ivy and the briony had long supplied the place of glass, and ran mantling among the broken capitals of some columns, that had once supported the roof. Barnardine stumbled over the broken pavement, and his voice, as he uttered a sudden oath, was returned in hollow echoes, that made it more terrific. Emily's heart sunk: but she still followed him, and he turned out of what had been the principle aisle of the chapel. "Down these steps, lady," said Barnardine, as he descended a flight, which appeared to lead into the vaults; but Emily paused on the top, and demanded, in a tremulous tone, whither he was conducing her. "To the portal," said Barnardine. "Cannot we go through the chapel to the portal?" said Emily. "No, Signora; that leads to the inner court, which I don't choose to unlock. This way, and we shall reach the outer court presently." Emily still hesitated; fearing not only to go on, but, since she had gone thus far, to irritate Barnardine by refusing to go further. "Come, lady," said the man, who had nearly reached the bottom of the flight, "make a little haste; I cannot wait here all night." "Whither do these steps lead?" said Emily, yet pausing. "To the portal," repeated Barnardine, in an angry tone, "I will wait no longer." As he said this, he moved on with the light, and Emily, fearing to provoke him by further delay, reluctantly followed. From the steps, they proceeded through a passage adjoining the vaults, the walls of which were dropping with unwholesome dews, and the vapours, that crept along the ground, made the torch burn so dimly, that Emily expected every moment to see it extinguished, and Barnardine could scarcely find his way. As they advanced, these vapours thickened, and Barnardine believing the torch was expiring, stopped for a moment to trim it. As he then rested against a pair of iron gates, that opened from the passage, Emily saw, by uncertain flashes of light, the vaults beyond, and, near her, heaps of earth, that seemed to surround an open grave. Such an object, in such a scene, would, at any time, have disturbed her; but now she was shocked by an instantaneous presentiment, that this was the grave of her unfortunate aunt, and that the treacherous Barnardine was leading herself to destruction. The obscure and terrible place, to which he had conducted her, seemed to justify the thought; it was a place suited for murder, a receptacle for the dead, where a deed of horror might be committed, and no vestige appear to proclaim it. Emily was so overwhelmed with terror, that, for a moment, she was unable to determine what conduct to pursue. She then considered, that it would be vain to attempt an escape from Barnardine, by flight, since the length and the intricacy of the way she had passed, would soon enable him to overtake her, who was unacquainted with the turnings, and whom feebleness would not enable her to run long with swiftness. She feared equally to irritate him by a disclosure of her suspicions, which a refusal to accompany him further certainly would do; and, since she was already as much in his power as it was possible she could be, if she proceeded, she, at length, determined to suppress, as far as she could, the appearance of apprehension, and to follow silently whither he designed to lead her. Pale with horror and anxiety, she now waited till Barnardine had trimmed the torch, and, as her sight glanced again upon the grave, she could not forbear enquiring for whom it was prepared. He took his eyes from the torch, and fixed them upon her face without speaking. She faintly repeated the question, but the man, shaking the torch, passed on; and she followed, trembling, to a second flight of steps; having ascended which, a door delivered them into the first court of the cable. As they crossed it, the light showed the high black walls around them, fringed with long grass and dank weeds, that found a scanty soil among the mouldering stones; the heavy buttresses, with, here and there, between them, a narrow grate, that admitted a freer circulation of air to the court, the massy iron gates that led to the cable, whose clustering turrets appeared above, and, opposite, the huge towers and arch of the portal itself. In this scene the large, uncouth person of Barnardine, bearing the torch, formed a characteristic figure. This Barnardine was wrapt in a long dark cloak, which scarcely allowed the kind of half-boots, or sandals, that were laced upon his legs, to appear, and shewed only the point of a broad sword, which he usually wore, slung in a belt across his shoulders. On his head was a heavy flat velvet cap, somewhat resembling a turban, in which was a short feather; the visage beneath it shewed strong features, and a countenance furrowed with the lines of cunning, and darkened by habitual discontent. The view of the court, however, reanimated Emily, who, as she crossed silently towards the portal, began to hope, that her own fears, and not the treachery of Barnardine, had deceived her. She looked anxiously up at the first casement, that appeared above the lofty arch of the portcullis; but it was dark, and she enquired whether it belonged to the chamber, where Madame Montoni was confined. Emily spoke low, and Barnardine, perhaps, did not hear her question, for he returned no answer; and they, soon after, entered the postern door of the gateway, which brought them to the foot of a narrow staircase, that wound up one of the towers. "Up this staircase the Signora lies," said Barnardine. "Lies! " repeated Emily faintly, as she began to ascend. "She lies in the upper chamber," said Barnardine. As they passed up, the wind, which poured through the narrow cavities in the wall, made the torch flare, and it threw a stronger gleam upon the grim and sallow countenance of Barnardine, and discovered more fully the desolation of the place--the rough stone walls, the spiral stairs, black with age, and a suit of ancient armour, with an iron visor, that hung upon the walls, and appeared a trophy of some former victory. Having reached a landing-place, "You may wait here, lady," said he, applying a key to the door of a chamber, " while I go up, and tell the Signora you are coming." "That ceremony is unnecessary," replied Emily, "my aunt will rejoice to see me." "I am not so sure of that," said Barnardine, pointing to the room he had opened. "Come in here, lady, while I step up." Emily, surprised and somewhat shocked, did not dare to oppose him further, but, as he was turning away with the torch, desired he would not leave her in darkness. He looked around, and, observing a tripod lamp, that stood on the stairs, lighted and gave it to Emily, who stepped forward into a large old chamber, and he closed the door. As she listened anxiously to his departing steps, she thought he descended, instead of ascended, the stairs; but the gusts of wind, that whistled round the portal, would not allow her to hear distinctly any other sound. Still, however, she listened, and, perceiving no step in the room above, where he had affirmed Madame Montoni to be, her anxiety increased, though she considered that the thickness of the floor in this strong building might prevent any sound reaching her from the upper chamber. The next moment, in a pause of the wind, she distinguished Barnardine's step descending to the court, and then thought she heard his voice; but, the rising gust again overcoming other sounds, Emily, to be certain on this point, moved softly to the door, which, on attempting to open it, she discovered was fastened. All the horrid apprehensions, that had lately assailed her, returned at this infant with redoubled force, and no longer appeared like the exaggerations of a timid spirit, but seemed to have been sent to warn her of her fate. She now did not doubt, that Madame Montoni had been murdered, perhaps in this very chamber; or that she herself was brought hither for the same purpose. The countenance, the manners, and the recollected words of Barnardine, when he had spoken of her aunt, confirmed her worst fears. For some moments, she was incapable of considering of any means, by which she might attempt an escape. StiIl she listened, but heard footsteps neither on the stairs nor in the room above; she thought, however, that she again distinguished Barnardine's voice below, and went to a grated window, that opened upon the court, to enquire further. Here, she plainly heard his hoarse accents, mingling with the blast, that swept by, but they were Iost again so quickly, that their meaning couId not be interpreted; and then the light of a torch, which seemed to issue from the portaI below, flashed across the court, and the long shadow of a man, who was under the arch-way, appeared upon the pavement. Emily, from the hugeness of this sudden portrait, concluded it to be that of Barnardine; but other deep tones, which passed in the wind, soon convinced her he was not alone, and that his companion was not a person very liable to pity. When her spirits had overcome the first shock of her situation, she held up the Iamp to examine if the chamber afforded a possibility of an escape. It was a spacious room, whose waIIs, wainscoted with rough oak, showed no casement but the grated one, which Emily had Ieft, and no other door than that by which she had entered. The feeble rays of the lamp, however, did not allow her to see at once its full extent; she perceived no furniture, except, indeed, an iron chair, fastened in the centre of the chamber, immediately over which, depending on a chain from the ceiling, hung an iron ring. Having gazed upon these, for some time, with wonder and horror, she next observed iron bars below, made for the purpose of confining the feet, and on the arms of the chair were rings of the same metaI. As she continued to survey them, she concIuded that they were instruments of torture, and it struck her, that some poor wretch had once been fastened in this chair, and had there been starved to death. She was chilled by the thought; but, what was her agony when, in the next moment, it occurred to her, that her aunt might have been one of these victims, and that she herself might be the next! An acute pain seized her head, she was scarcely able to hold the lamp, and, looking round for support, she was seating herself, unconsciously, in the iron chair itself; but suddenly perceiving where she was, she started from it in horror, and sprung towards a remote end of the room. Here again she looked round for a seat to sustain her, and perceived only a dark curtain, which, descending from the ceiling to the floor, was drawn along the whole side of the chamber. Ill as she was, the appearance of this curtain struck her, and she paused to gaze upon it, in wonder and apprehension. It seemed to conceal a recess of the chamber; she wished, yet dreaded, to lift it, and to discover what it veiled: twice she was withheld by a recollection of the terrible spectacle her daring hand had formerly unveiled in an apartment of the castle, till, suddenly conjecturing that it concealed the body of her murdered aunt, she seized it, in a fit of desperation, and drew it aside. Beyond, appeared a corpse, stretched on a kind of low couch, which was crimsoned with human blood, as was the floor beneath. The features, deformed by death, were ghastly and horrible, and more than one livid wound appeared in the face. Emily, bending over the body, gazed, for a moment, with an eager, frenzied eye; but, in the next, the lamp dropped from her hand, and she fell senseless at the foot of the couch. When her senses returned, she found herself surrounded by men, among whom was Barnardine, who was lifting her from the floor, and then bore her along the chamber. She was sensible of what passed, but the extreme languor of her spirits did not permit her to speak, or move, or even to feel any distinct fear. They carried her down the stair-case, by which she had ascended; when, having reached the arch-way, they stopped, and one of the men, taking the torch from Barnardine, opened a small door, that was cut in the great gate, and, as he stepped out upon the road, the light he bore shewed several men on horse-back, in waiting. Whether it was the freshness of the air, that revived Emily, or that the objects she now saw roused the spirit of alarm, she suddenly spoke, and made an ineffectual effort to disengage herself from the grasp of the ruffians, who held her. Barnardine, meanwhile, called loudly for the torch while distant voices answered, and several persons approached, and, in the same instant, a light flashed upon the court of the cable. Again he vociferated for the torch, and the men hurried Emily through the gate. At a short distance, under the shelter of the castle walls, she perceived the fellow, who had taken the light from the porter, holding it to a man, busily employed in altering the saddle of a horse, round which were several horsemen, looking on, whose harsh features received the full glare of the torch; while the broken ground beneath them, the opposite walls, with the tufted shrubs, that overhung their summits, and an embattled watch-tower above, were reddened with the gleam, which, fading gradually away, left the remoter ramparts and the woods below to the obscurity of night. "What do you waste time for, there?" said Barnardine with an oath, as he approached the horsemen. " Dispatch--dispatch." "The saddle will be ready in a minute," replied the man who was buckling it, at whom Barnardine now swore again, for his negligence, and Emily, calling feebly for help, was hurried towards the horses, while the ruffians disputed on which to place her, the one designed for her not being ready. At this moment a cluster of lights issued from the great gates, and she immediately heard the shrill voice of Annette above those of several other persons, who advanced. In the same moment, she distinguished Montoni and Cavigni, followed by a number of ruffian-faced fellows, to whom she no longer looked with terror, but with hope, for, at this instant, she did not tremble at the thought of any dangers that might await her within the castle, whence so lately and so anxiously she had wished to escape. Those, who threatened her from without, had engrossed all her apprehensions. A short contest ensued between the parties, in which that of Montoni, however, were presently victors, and the horsemen, perceiving that numbers were against them, and being, perhaps, not very warmly interested in the affair they had undertaken, galloped off, while Barnardine had run far enough to be lost in the darkness, and Emily was led back into the castle. As she re-passed the courts, the remembrance of what she had seen in the portal-chamber came, with all its horror, to her mind; and when, soon after, she heard the gate close, that shut her once more within the castle walls, she shuddered for herself, and, almost forgetting the danger she had escaped, could scarcely think that any thing less precious than liberty and peace was to be found beyond them.' These volumes are interspersed with many pieces of poetry, some beautiful, all pleasing, but rather monotonous. We cannot resist the temptation of giving our readers the following charming one, more especially as poetical beauties have not a fair chance of being attended to, amidst the stronger interest inspired by such a series of adventures. The love of poetry is a taste; curiosity is a kind of appetite, and hurries headlong on, impatient for its complete gratification: THE SEA-NYMPH. 'Down, down a thousand fathom deep, Among the sounding seas I go; Play round the foot of every steep Whose cliffs above the ocean grow. There, within their secret caves, I hear the mighty rivers roar; And guide their streams through Neptune's waves To bless the green earth's inmost shore: And bid the freshen'd waters glide, For fern-crown'd nymphs of lake, or brook, Through winding woods and pastures wide, And many a wild, romantic nook. For this the nymphs, at fall of eve, Oft dance upon the flow'ry banks, And sing my name, and garlands weave To bear beneath the wave their thanks. In coral bow'rs I love to lie, And hear the surges roll above, And through the waters view on high The proud ships sail, and gay clouds move. And oft at midnight's stillest hour, When summer seas the vessel lave, I love to prove my charmful pow'r While floating on the moon-light wave. And when deep sleep the crew has bound, And the sad lover musing leans O'er the ship's side, I breathe around Such strains as speak no mortal means! O'er the dim waves his searching eye Sees but the vessel's lengthen'd shade; Above--the moon and azure sky; Entranc'd he hears, and half afraid! Sometimes, a single note I swell, That, softly sweet, at distance dies; Then wake the magic of my shell, And choral voices round me rise ! The trembling youth, charm'd by my strain, Calls up the crew, who, silent, bend O'er the high deck, but list in vain; My song is hush'd, my wonders end! Within the mountain's woody bay, Where the tall bark at anchor rides, At twilight hour, with tritons gay, I dance upon the lapsing tides: And with my sister-nymphs I sport, Till the broad sun looks o'er the floods; Then, swift we seek our crystal court, Deep in the wave, 'mid Neptune's woods. In cool arcades and glassy halls, We pass the sultry hours of noon, Beyond wherever sun-beam falls, Weaving sea-flowers in gay festoon. The while we chant our ditties sweet To some soft shell that warbles near; Join'd by the murmuring current, fleet, That glide along our halls so clear. There, the pale pearl and sapphire blue, And ruby red, and em'rald green, Dart from the domes a changing hue, And starry columns deck the scene. When the dark storm scowls o'er the deep, And long, long peals of thunder sound, On some high cliff my watch I keep O'er all the restless seas around: Till on the ridgy wave afar Comes the lone vessel, labouring slow, Spreading the white foam in the air, With sail and top-mast bending low. Then, plunge I mid the ocean's roar, My way by quiv'ring lightnings shewn, To guide the bark to peaceful shore, And hush the sailor's fearful groan. And if too late I reach its side To save it from the 'whelming surge, I call my dolphins o'er the tide, To bear the crew where isles emerge. Their mournful spirits soon I cheer, While round the desert coast I go, With warbled songs they faintly hear, Oft as the stormy gust sinks low. My music leads to lofty groves, That wild upon the sea-bank wave; Where sweet fruits bloom, and fresh spring roves, And closing boughs the temper brave. Then, from the air spirits obey My potent voice they love so well, And, on the clouds, paint visions gay, While strains more sweet at distance swell And thus the lonely hours I cheat, Soothing the ship-wreck'd sailor's heart, Till from the waves the storms retreat, And o'er the east the day-beams dart. Neptune for this oft binds me fast To rocks below, with choral chain, Till all the tempest's over-past, And drowning seamen cry in vain. Whoe'er ye are that love my lay, Come, when red sun-set tints the wave, To the still sands, where fairies play; There, in cool seas, I love to lave.' If, in consequence of the criticisms impartiality has obliged us to make upon this novel, the author should feel disposed to ask us, Who will write a better? we boldly answer her, *Yourself*; when no longer disposed to sacrifice excellence to quantity, and lengthen out a story for the sake of filling an additional volume. 2. ADDENDUM TO AUGUST 1794 REVIEW OF RADCLIFFE, *THE CRITICAL REVIEW*, NOVEMBER 1794. CORRESPONDENCE Mysteries of Udolpho WE have received a remonstrance on this subject; and can only say that we are sorry and surprised that any reader should so far mistake the object and intention of our critique on that ingenious performance; we, however, rejoice in the opportunity which is thus afforded us of explaining our sentiments, which we doubt not will be to the satisfaction of all parties. It never could be our intention to depreciate the genius of Ms Radcliffe; for if our Correspondent will re-examine the introductory sentences of the Review in question, he will find such a compliment paid to the powers of her imagination as we seldom condescend to pay to any writer whatever. It could not be our intention to speak slightingly of a work which all must admire, and which we have no hesitation in pronouncing 'The most interesting novel in the English language.' If such indeed had been our view, the very specimen which we selected would have completely refuted our decision. But, while we cheerfully give to literary excellence its full tribute of praise, we must be allowed to point out whatever appears faulty in the most unexceptionable productions; and the more eminent the writer, the more pressing is our duty to guard against those faults which are concealed from common eyes under an accumulation of beauties. It does not at all destroy the merit of Udolpho to say that it is not perfect-- 'Whoever thinks a perfect piece to see, Thinks what nor is, nor was, nor e'er shall be.'-- But the very circumstance which we blamed in the work was an additional commendation of the author's genius-- 'His only fault was wit in its excess, He more had pleas'd us had he pleas'd us less, was the compliment of Addison to Cowley. The circumstance to which we objected in the *Mysteries of Udolpho*, was an exuberance of description. We agree, 'that not many of our readers would consider this as a fault;' on the contrary, we allow that many of the best writers of antiquity, and Virgil himself, the most correct of them all, have fallen into a similar error.--Our Correspondent, however, must consider that we were criticising for the world in general; and though it is true, that 'Mr. Gibbon's history is liable to the same objection,' and though it does not derogate, on the whole, from the charms of that elegant work, yet it is an error in composition, against which writers in general ought to be on their guard, and young writers in particular, who, without the same powers as Mr. Gibbon or Mrs. Radcliffe, may chuse to imitate them even in their defects. We must repeat it, that we are happy in being afforded this opportunity for explanation. Whatever men may think of the severity and sourness of professed critics, we beg leave to assure our readers, that when we do err, we wish it always to be on the side of liberality and candour. Far be from us the base and malignant gratification of giving pain to any writer whatever! and least of all to one, in whom (if we are rightly informed) the highest endowments of the imagination are enriched by the more substantial excellence of amiable manners, and genius is accompanied by its best ornament, modesty. 3. REVIEW OF MATTHEW G. LEWIS, *THE MONK*, *THE CRITICAL REVIEW*, FEBRUARY, 1797, PP. 194-200. The Monk. A Romance. By M. G. Lewis, Esq. M.P. 3 Vols. Bell. I796. THE horrible and the preternatural have usually seized on the popular taste, at the rise and decline of literature. Most powerful stimulants, they can never be required except by the torpor of an unawakened, or the languor of an exhausted, appetite. The same phaenomenon, therefore, which we hail as a favourable omen in the belles lettres of Germany, impresses a degree of gloom in the compositions of our countrymen. We trust, however, that satiety will banish what good sense should have prevented; and that, wearied with fiends, incomprehensible characters, with shrieks, murders, and subterraneous dungeons, the public will learn, by the multitude of the manufacturers, with how little expense of thought or imagination this species of composition is manufactured. But, cheaply as we estimate romances in general, we acknowledge, in the work before us, the offspring of no common genius. The tale is similar to that of *Santon Barsista* in the *Guardian*. Ambrosio, a monk, surnamed the Man of Holiness, proud of his own undeviating rectitude, and severe to the faults of others, is successfully assailed by the tempter of mankind, and seduced to the perpetration of rape and murder, and finally precipitated into a contract in which he consigns his soul to everlasting perdition. The larger part of the three volumes is occupied by the under plot, which, however, is skilfully and closely connected with the main story, and is sub-servient to its development. The tale of the bleeding nun is truly terrific; and we could not easily recollect a bolder or more happy conception than that of the burning cross on the forehead of the wandering Jew (a mysterious character, which, though copied as to its more prominent features from Schiller's incomprehensible Armenian, does, nevertheless, display great vigour of fancy). But the character of Matilda, the chief agent in the seduction of Antonio [*sic* Ambrosio], appears to us to be the author's master-piece. It is, indeed, exquisitely imagined, and as exquisitely supported. The whole work is distinguished by the variety and impressiveness of its incidents; and the author everywhere discovers an imagination rich, powerful, and fervid. Such are the excellencies;--the errors and defects are more numerous, and (we are sorry to add) of greater importance. All events are levelled into one common mass, and become almost equally probable, where the order of nature may be changed wherever the author's purposes demand it. No address is requisite to the accomplishment of any design; and no pleasure therefore can be received from the perception of *difficulty surmounted*. The writer may make us wonder, but he cannot surprise us. For the same reasons a romance is incapable of exemplifying a moral truth. No proud man, for instance, will be made less proud by being told that Lucifer once seduced a presumptuous monk. *Incredulus odit*. Or even if, believing the story, he should deem his virtue less secure, he would yet acquire no lessons of prudence, no feelings of humility. Human prudence can oppose no sufficient shield to the power and cunning of supernatural beings; and the privilege of being proud might be fairly conceded to him who could rise superior to all earthly temptations, and whom the strength of the spiritual world alone would be adequate to overwhelm. So falling, he would fall with glory, and might reasonably welcome his defeat with the haughty emotions of a conqueror. As far, therefore, as the story is concerned, the praise which a romance can claim, is simply that of having given pleasure during its perusal; and so many are the calamities of life, that he who has done this, has not written uselessly. The children of sickness and of solitude shall thank him. To this praise, however, our author has not entitled himself. The sufferings which he describes are so frightful and intolerable, that we break with abruptness from the delusion, and indignantly suspect the man of a species of brutality, who could find a pleasure in wantonly imagining them; and the abominations which he pourtrays with no hurrying pencil, are such as the observation of character by no means demanded, such as 'no observation of character can justify, because no good man would willingly suffer them to pass, however transiently, through his own mind.' The merit of a novellist is in proportion (not simply to the effect, but) to the *pleasurable* effect which he produces. Situations of torment, and images of naked horror, are easily conceived; and a writer in whose works they abound, deserves our gratitude almost equally with him who should drag us by way of sport through a military hospital, or force us to sit at the dissecting-table of a natural philosopher. To trace the nice boundaries, beyond which terror and sympathy are deserted by the pleasurable emotions,--to reach those limits, yet never to pass them, *hic labor, hic opus eat*. Figures that shock the imagination, and narratives that mangle the feelings, rarely discover *genius*, and always betray a low and vulgar *taste*. Nor has our author indicated less ignorance of the human heart in the management of the principal character. The wisdom and goodness of providence have ordered that the tendency of vicious actions to deprave the heart of the perpetrator, should diminish in proportion to the greatness of his temptations. Now, in addition to constitutional warmth and irresistible opportunity, the monk is impelled to incontinence by friendship, by compassion, by gratitude, by all that is amiable, and all that is estimable; yet in a few weeks after his first frailty, the man who had been described as possessing much general humanity, a keen and vigorous understanding, with habits of the most exalted piety, degenerates into an uglier fiend than the gloomy imagination of Dante would have ventured to picture. Again, the monk is described as feeling and acting under the influence of an appetite which could not co-exist with his other emotions. The romance-writer possesses an unlimited power over situations; but he must scrupulously make his characters act in congruity with them. Let him work *physical* wonders only, and we will be content to *dream* with him for a while; but the first *moral* miracle which he attempts, he disgusts and awakens us. Thus our judgment remains unoffended, when, announced by thunders and earthquakes, the spirit appears to Ambrosio involved in blue fires that increase the cold of the cavern; and we acquiesce in the power of the silver myrtle which made gates and doors fly open at its touch, and charmed every eye into sleep. But when a mortal, fresh from the impression of that terrible appearance, and in the act of evincing for the first time the witching force of this myrtle, is represented as being at the same moment agitated by so fleeting an appetite as that of lust, our own feelings convince us that this is not improbable, but impossible; not preternatural, but contrary to nature. The extent of the powers that may exist, we can never ascertain; and therefore we feel no great difficulty in yielding a temporary belief to any, the strangest, situation of *things*. But that situation once conceived, how beings like ourselves would feel and act in it, our own feelings sufficiently instruct us; and we instantly reject the clumsy fiction that does not harmonise with them. These are the two *principal* mistakes in *judgment*, which the author has fallen into; but we cannot wholly pass over the frequent incongruity of his style with his subjects. It is gaudy where it should have been severely simple; and too often the mind is offended by phrases the most trite and colloquial, where it demands and had expected a sternness and solemnity of diction. A more grievous fault remains, a fault for which no literary excellence can atone, a fault which all other excellence does but aggravate, as adding subtlety to a poison by the elegance of its preparation. Mildness of censure would here be criminally misplaced, and silence would make us accomplices. Not without reluctance then, but in full conviction that we are performing a duty, we declare it to be our opinion, that the Monk is a romance, which if a parent saw in the hands of a son or daughter, he might reasonably turn pale. The temptations of Ambrosio are described with a libidinous minuteness, which, we sincerely hope, will receive its best and only adequate censure from the offended conscience of the author himself. The shameless harlotry of Matilda, and the trembling innocence of Antonia, are seized with equal avidity, as vehicles of the most voluptuous images; and though the tale is indeed a tale of horror, yet the most painful impression which the work left on our minds was that of great acquirements and splendid genius employed to furnish a *mormo* for children, a poison for youth, and a provocative for the debauchee. Tales of enchantments and witchcraft can never be *useful*: our author has contrived to make them *pernicious*, by blending, with an irreverent negligence, all that is most awfully true in religion with all that is most ridiculously absurd in superstition. He takes frequent occasion, indeed, to manifest his sovereign contempt for the latter, both in his own person, and (most incongruously) in that of his principal characters; and that his respect for the *former* is not excessive, we are forced to conclude from the treatment which its inspired writings receive from him. Ambrosio discovers Antonia reading-- 'He examined the book which she had been reading, and had now placed upon the table. It was the Bible. "How!" said the friar to himself," Antonia reads the Bible, and is still so ignorant?" 'But, upon a further inspection, he found that Elvira had made exactly the same remark. That prudent mother, while she admired the beauties of the sacred writings, was convinced that, unrestricted, no reading more improper could be permitted a young woman. Many of the narratives can only tend to excite ideas the worst calculated for a female breast: every thing is called plainly and roundly by its name; and the *annals of a brothel would scarcely furnish a greater choice of indecent expressions*. Yet this is the book which young women are recommended to study, which is put into the hands of children, able to comprehend little more than those passages of which they had better remain ignorant, and which but too *frequently inculcates the first rudiments of vice*, and gives the first alarm to the still sleeping passions. Of this was Elvira so fully convinced, that she would have preferred putting into her daughter's hands "Amadis de Gaul," or "The Valiant Champion, Tirante the White"; and *would sooner have authorised her studying the lewd exploits of Don Galaor, or the lascivious jokes of the Damsel Plazer di mi vida*.' Vol. II, p. 247. The impiety of this falsehood can be equal led only by its impudence. This is indeed as if a Corinthian harlot, clad from head to foot in the transparent thinness of the Coan vest, should affect to view with prudish horror the naked knee of a Spartan matron! If it be possible that the author of these blasphemies is a Christian, should he not have reflexed that the only passage in the scriptures [*Ezekiel* XXIII], which could give a *shadow* of plausibility to the *weakest* of these expressions, is represented as being spoken by the Almighty himself? But if he be an infidel, he has acted consistently enough with that character, in his endeavours first to influence the fleshly appetites, and then to pour contempt on the only book which would be adequate to the task of recalming them. We believe it not absolutely impossible that a mind may be so deeply depraved by the habit of reading lewd and voluptuous tales, as to use even the Bible in conjuring up the spirit of uncleanness. The most innocent expressions might become the first link in the chain of association, when a man's soul had been so poisoned; and we believe it not absolutely impossible that he might extract pollution from the word of purity, and, in a literal sense, *turn the grace of God into wantonness*. We have been induced to pay particular attention to this work, from the unusual success which it has experienced. It certainly possesses much real merit in addition to its meretricious attractions. Nor must it be forgotten that the author is a man of rank and fortune. Yes! the author of the Monk signs himself a LEGISLATOR! We stare and tremble. The poetry interspersed through the volumes is, in general, far above mediocrity. We shall present our readers with the following exquisitely tender elegy, Which, we may venture to prophesy, will melt and delight the heart, when ghosts and hobgoblins shall be found only in the lumber-garret of a circulating library. THE EXILE 'Farewell, oh native Spain! farewell for ever! These banished eyes shall view thy coasts no more: A mournful presage tells my heart, that never Gonzalvo's steps again shall press thy shore. Hushed are the winds; while soft the vessel sailing With gentle motion plows the unruffled main, I feel my bosom's boasted courage failing, And curse the waves which bear me far from Spain. I see it yet! Beneath yon blue clear heaven Still do the spires, so well-beloved, appear. From yonder craggy point the gale of even Still wafts my native accents to mine ear. Propped on some moss-crowned rock, and gaily singing, There in the sun his nets the fisher dries; Oft have I heard the plaintive ballad, bringing Scenes of past joys before my sorrowing eyes. AHD! happy swain! he waits the accustomed hour, When twilight-gloom obscures the closing sky; Then gladly seeks his loved paternal bower, And shares the feast his native fields supply. Friendship and Love, his cottage guests, receive him With honest welcome and with smile sincere: No threatening woes of present joys bereave him; No sigh his bosom owns, his cheek no tear. Ah! happy swain! such bliss to me denying, Fortune thy lot with envy bids me view; Me, who, from home and Spain an exile flying, Bid all I value, all I love, adieu. No more mine ear shall list the well-known ditty Sung by some mountain-girl, who tends her goats, Some village-swain imploring amorous pity, Or shepherd chanting wild his rustic notes. No more my arms a parent's fond embraces, No more my heart domestic calm must know; Far from these joys, with sighs which memory traces, To sultry skies and distant climes I go. Where Indian suns engender new diseases, Where snakes and tigers breed, I bend my way, To brave the feverish thirst no art appeases, The yellow plague, and madding blaze of day. But not to feel slow pangs consume my liver, To die by piece-meal in the bloom of age, My boiling blood drank by insatiate fever, And brain delirious with the day-star's rage, Can make me know such grief, as thus to sever With many a bitter sigh, dear land! from thee; To feel this heart must dote on thee for ever, And feel that all thy joys are torn from me! Ah me! how oft will fancy's spelIs, in slumber, Recall my native country to my mind! How oft regret will bid me sadly number Each lost delight, and dear friend left behind! Wild Murcia's vales and loved romantic bowers, The river on whose banks a child I played, My castle's antient halls, its frowning towers, Each much-regretted wood, and well-known glade; Dreams of the land where all my wishes centre, Thy scenes, which I am doomed no more to know, Full oft shall memory trace, my soul's tormentor, And turn each pleasure past to present woe. But, lo! the sun beneath the waves retires; Night speeds apace her empire to restore! Clouds from my sight obscure the village-spires, Now seen but faintly, and now seen no more. Oh, breathe not, winds! Still be the water's motion! Sleep, sleep, my bark, in silence on the main! So, when to-morrow's light shall gild the ocean, Once more mine eyes shall see the coast of Spain. Vain is the wish! My last petition scorning Fresh blows the gale, and high the billows swell: Far shall we be before the break of morning: Oh! then, for ever, native Spain, farewell!' Vol. II, p. I65. 4. REVIEW OF ANN RADCLIFFE, *THE ITALIAN*, *THE CRITICAL REVIEW*, JUNE, 1798, pp. 166-9. *The Italian, or the Confessional of the Black Penitents*. A Romance. By Ann Radcliffe, author of the *Mysteries of Udolpho*, &c. 3 Vols. Cadell and Davies. 1797. It was not difficult to foresee that the *modern romance*, even supported by the skill of the most ingenious of its votaries, would soon experience the fate of every attempt to please by what is unnatural, and by a departure from that observance of real life, which has placed the works of Fielding, Smollett, and some other writers, among the permanent sources of amusement. It might for a time afford an acceptable variety to persons whose reading is confined to works of fiction, and who would, perhaps, be glad to exchange dullness for extravagance; but it was probable that, as its constitution (if we may so speak) was maintained only by the passion of terror, and that excited by trick, and as it was not conversant in incidents and characters of a natural complexion, it would degenerate into repetition, and would disappoint curiosity. So many cries 'that the wolf is coming,' must at last lose their effect. In reviewing the *Mysteries of Udolpho*, we hazarded an opinion, that, if a better production could appear, it must come only from the pen of Mrs. Radcliffe; but we were not totally blind to the difficulties which even she would have to encounter, in order to keep up the interest she had created in that work, and in the *Romance of the Forest*; and the present publication confirms our suspicions. The *Mysteries of Udolpho* fell short of the *Romance of the Forest*, by the tedious protraction of events, and by a redundancy of description: the *Italian* falls short of the *Mysteries of Udolpho*, by reminding us of the same characters and the same scenes; and, although the descriptive part is less prolix, the author has had recourse to it in various Instances, in which it has no natural connexion with the story. There are, however, some scenes that powerfully seize the imagination, and interest the passions. Among these we prefer the interview between the marchesa and Schedoni in the church, and the discovery made by Schedoni that Ellena was his daughter. On the latter subject, we will gratify our readers with an extract. Schedoni approached Ellena with an intention of murdering her; but, 'as often as he prepared to plunge the poignard in her bosom, a shuddering horror restrained him. Astonished at his own feelings, and indignant at what he termed a dastardly weakness, he found it necessary to argue with himself, and his rapid thoughts said, "Do I not feel the necessity of this act! Does not what is dearer to me than existence--does not my consequence depend on the execution of it? Is she not also beloved by the young Vivaldi?--have I already forgotten the church of the Spirito Santo?" This consideration re-animated him; vengeance nerved his arm, and drawing aside the lawn from her bosom, he once more raised it to strike; when, after gazing for an instant, some new cause of horror seemed to seize all his frame, and he stood for some moments aghast and motionless like a statue. His respiration was short and laborious, chilly drops stood on his forehead, and all his faculties of mind seemed suspended. When he recovered, he stooped to examine again the miniature, which had occasioned this revolution, and which had lain concealed beneath the lawn that he withdrew. The terrible certainty was almost confirmed, and forgetting, in his impatience to know the truth, the imprudence of suddenly discovering himself to Ellena at this hour of the night, and with a dagger at his feet, he called loudly " Awake! awake! Say, what is your name? Speak! speak quickly!' Ellena, aroused by a man's voice, started from her mattress, when, perceiving Schedoni, and, by the pale glare of the lamp, his haggard countenance, she shrieked, and sunk back on the pillow. She had not fainted; and believing that he came to murder her, she now exerted herself to plead for mercy. The energy of her feelings enabled her to rise and throw herself at his feet, "Be merciful, O father! be merciful! " said she, in a trembling voice. "Father!" interrupted Schedoni, with earnestness; and then, seeming to restrain himself, he added, with unaffected surprise, "Why are you thus terrified?" for he had lost, in new Interests and emotions, all consciousness of evil intention, and of the singularity of his situation. "What do you fear ? " he repeated. "Have pity, holy father!" exclaimed Ellena in agony. "Why do you not say whose portrait that is? " demanded he, forgetting that he had not asked the question before. "Whose portrait?" repeated the confessor in a loud voice. "Whose portrait!" said Ellena, with extreme surprise. "Ay, how came you by it? Be quick--whose resemblance is it?" "Why should you wish to know?" said Ellena. "Answer my question," repeated Schedoni, with increasing sternness. "I cannot part with it, holy father," replied Ellena, pressing it to her bosom, "you do not wish me to part with it!" "Is it impossible to make you answer my question ?" said he, in extreme perturbation, and turning away from her, "has fear utterly confounded you!" Then, again stepping towards her, and seizing her wrist, he repeated the demand in a tone of desperation. "Alas! he is dead! or I should not now want a protector," replied Ellena, shrinking from his grasp, and weeping. "You trifle," said Schedoni, with a terrible look, I once more demand an answer--whose picture?" Ellena lifted it, gazed upon it for a moment, and then pressing it to her lips said, " This was my father." "Your father!" he repeated in an inward voice, your father!" and shuddering, turned away. Ellena looked at him with surprise. "I never knew a father's care," she said, "nor till lately did I perceive the want of it.--But now."-- "His name?" interrupted the confessor. "But now," continued Ellena "if you are not as a father to me to whom can I look for protection?" "His name?" repeated Schedoni, with sterner emphasis. "It is sacred," replied Ellena, "for he was unfortunate!" "His name?" demanded the confessor, furiously. "I have promised to conceal it, father." "On your life, I charge you to tell it; remember, on your life!" Ellena trembled, was silent, and with supplicating looks implored him to desist from enquiry, but he urged the question more irresistibly. "His name then," said she, "was Marinella." Schedoni groaned and turned away; but in a few seconds, struggling to command the agitation that shattered his whole frame, he returned to Ellena, and raised her from her knees, on which she had thrown herself to implore mercy. "The place of his residence?" said the monk. "It was far from hence," she replied; but he demanded an unequivocal answer, and she reluctantly gave one. Schedoni turned away as before, groaned heavily, and paced the chamber without speaking; while Ellena, in her turn, enquired the motive of his questions, and the occasion of his agitation. But he seemed not to notice any thing she said, and, wholly given up to his feelings, was inflexibly silent, while he stalked, with measured steps, along the room, and his face, half hid by his cowl, was bent towards the ground. Ellena's terror began to yield to astonishment, and this emotion increased, when, Schedoni approaching her, she perceived tears swell in his eyes, which were fixt on hers, and his countenance soften from the wild disorder that had marked it. Still he could not speak. At length he yielded to the fulness of his heart, and Schedoni, the stern Schedoni, wept and sighed! He seated himself on the mattress beside Ellena, took her hand, which she affrighted attempted to withdraw, and when he could command his voice, said, "Unhappy child! behold your more unhappy father!" As he concluded, his voice was overcome by groans, and he drew the cowl entirely over his face.' Vol. II, p. 294. Among those parts of the romance which we disapprove, we may reckon the examination before the court of inquisition: it is so improbable, that we should rather have attributed it to one of Mrs. Radcliffe's numerous imitators. But, notwithstanding occasional objections, the *Italian* may justly be considered as an ingenious performance; and many persons will read it with great pleasure and satisfaction. 5. REVIEW OF MARY ROBINSON, *HUBERT DE SEVRAC*, *THE CRITICAL REVIEW*, AUGUST, 1798, P. 472. Hubert de Sevrac. A Romance, of the 18th Century. By Mary Robinson, Author of *Poems*, *Angelina*, &c. 3 Vols. Hookham, 1796. The character of Mrs. Robinson's novels being generally known, it is perhaps sufficient to say, that *Hubert de Sevrac* is inferior to her former productions. It is an imitation of Mrs. Radcliffe's romances, but without any resemblance that may not be attained by a common pen. There are detached parts, however, of which we may speak with approbation; and, during the prevalence of the present taste for romances, the whole may afford amusement to the supporters of circulating libraries. But it may be necessary to apprise novel-writers, in general, that this taste is declining, and that real life and manners will soon assert their claims.