“_The Italian_” has more unity of plan than “The Mysteries of Udolpho;” and its pictures are more individual and distinct; but it has far less tenderness and beauty. Its very introduction, unlike the gentle opening of the former romance, impresses the reader with awe. Its chief agent, Schedoni, is most vividly painted; and yet the author contrives to invest him with a mystery, which leads us to believe, that even her image is inadequate to the reality. Up to the period, at which he unnaturally melts from demon to man, he is the always chief figure when he is present; and, where we do not see him, his spirit yet seems to influence all around us. The great scenes of this romance stand out in bold relief as in compartments; of which the chief are the adventures in the vaults of Pallozzi; the machinations of Schedoni and the Marchioness, for the destruction of the heroine; her confinement in the monastery of San Stephano, and her escape with Vivaldi; her terrible sojourn in Spalatro’s cottage on the seashore; and the whole representation of the Inquisition, which fills the mind when Schedoni’s supremacy ceases. Of these, perhaps the very finest is the scene in the church, where the Confessor makes palpable to the Marchioness the secret wishes of her heart for Ellena’s death: the situation is essentially fearful; and all the circumstances are contrived with admirable effect to heighten, vary and prolong the feeling of curiosity and terror. The dreary horrors of the fisherman’s cottage are admirably painted; but the effort to produce a great theatrical effect is very imperfectly concealed; and we cannot help being somewhat dissatisfied with the process of bringing a helpless orphan to such a distance, merely that she may be murdered with eclat; with the equally unaccountable delay in performing the deed; the strange relentings of the ruffian; and the long preparation, which precedes the attempt of Schedoni to strike the fatal blow. There is great art in the scene, to which all this is introductory; and the discovery of the portrait is a most striking _coup de theatre_; but the art is too palpable, and the contrast between the assassin and the father too violent—at least, for a second perusal. Not so, the graphic description of the vast prisons of the Inquisition; they are dim, prodigious, apparently eternal; and the style is solemn and weighty as the subject. Mrs. Radcliffe alone could have deepened the horror of this gloom by whispers of things yet more terrible; and suggest fears of the unseen, which should overcome the present apprehensions of bodily torture. Of the tale and the poems now first presented to the world, it would scarcely become us particularly to speak. The verses, scattered through all the romances, are so inartificially introduced, that they have little chance of being estimated by an impatient reader; but, when examined, they will be found replete with felicitous expression and with rich though indistinct imagery.