inferior in themselves to its commencement; but they gratify by affording a worthy solution of the intricacies of a plot, which has excited so deep an interest in its progress. “_The Mysteries of Udolpho_” is by far the most popular of Mrs. Radcliffe’s works. To this preeminence it is, we think, justly entitled; for, although “_The Italian_” may display more purely intellectual power, it is far less enchanting. Of all the romances in the world, this is perhaps the most romantic. Its outline is noble, it is filled with majestic or beautiful imagery; and it is touched throughout with a dreamy softness, which harmonizes all its scenes, and renders its fascination irresistible. It rises from the gentlest beauty by just gradations to the terrific and the sublime. Nothing can be fancied more soothing to the mind, fevered with the bustle of the world, than the picture of domestic repose, with which it opens. We are dwellers in the home of the good St. Aubert, who has retired to a beautiful spot, once the favourite scene of his youthful excursions; and sharers in its elegant and tranquil pleasures. Next come the exquisite journey of the father and daughter through the heart of the Pyrenees, where we trace out every variety of mountain grandeur; the richly coloured scene of vintage gaiety among the woods of the chateau; and the death of St. Aubert in the neighbourhood of a place, which we understand to be connected with his destiny, and where strains of unearthly music are heard in sad accordance with human sorrow. When Emily’s aunt, to whose care she is consigned, marries the desperate Montoni, we feel that the clouds are gathering round her progress, and we shudder at the forebodings of approaching peril. A little interval is given among the luxuries of Venice, which are painted with exquisite delicacy and lightness; and then the work of terror begins. Nothing can be more picturesque than the ascent of the Apennines; mountain seems to rise above mountain in gloomy stateliness before us, till we skirt the inmost valley, far shut out from the world, and Montoni, breaking a long silence, utters the charmed words, “There is Udolpho!” The ideas of extent, of massiveness, and austere grandeur, conveyed in the description of the castle, have matchless force and distinctness, and prepare the mind for the crimes and wonders, of which it is the silent witness. Every thing beneath “these dark battlements” is awful; the slightest incidents wear a solemn hue, and “Fate in sullen echoes” seems to “tell of some nameless deed.” Not only the mysterious appearances and sounds appal us, but the rushing wind, a rustling curtain, the lonely watch-word on the terrace, have power to startle, and keep curiosity awake. The whole persecution and death of Madame Montoni seem prodigious, as though they were something out of nature; yet they derive all this importance from the circumstances, with which they are