self-denial, and honesty, where smaller pains would constitute greater virtues. Had William followed the common dictates of charity, had he adopted private pity instead of public munificence, had he cast an eye at home before he sought abroad for objects cf compassion, Agnes had been preserved from an ignominiors death, and he had been preserved from- remorse, the tortures of which he for the first time proved on reading a printed sheet of p vor, ace deptally thrown in his way a few days after he Lud left the town in which Le had condemned her to die.

March 10, 179-.

"The last dying Words, Speech, and Confession, birth, parentage, and education, life, character, and behaviour, of Agues Primrose, who was executed this morning between the hours of ten and twelve, pursuant to the sentence passed upon her by the Honourable Justice Norwynne.

Agnes Primrose was born of honest parents, in the village of Anfield, in the county of [William started at the name of the village and county); but being led astray by the arts and flattery of seducing man, she fell from the paths of virtue, and took to bad company, which instilled into her young heart all their evil ways, and at length brought her to this untimely end. So she hopes her death will be a warning to all young persons of her own sex, how they listen to the praises and courtship of young men, especially of those who are their betters; for they only court to deceive. But the said Agnes freely forgives all persons who have done her injury or given her sorrow, from the young man who first won her heart, to the jury who found her guilty, and the judge who condemned her to death.

And she acknowledges the justice of her sentence, not only in respect of her crime for which she suffers, but in regard to many other heinous sins of which she Ias been guilty, more especially that of once attempting to commit a murder upon her own helpless child; for which guilt she now considers the vengeance of God has overtaken her to which she is patiently resigned, : nd departs in peace and charity with all the world, praying the Lord to have mercy on her parting soul.'

POSTSCRIPT TO THE CONFESSION.

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 a'most sixteen, who has never forsaken his mother during all the time of her in prisonment, 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 prisen from which she is released by death. During the loss of her senses, the said Agnes Primrose raved continually of her child; and, asking for pen, ink, and paper, wrote an incoherent pedition to the judge, recommending the youth to his protection and mercy: but notwithstanding this insanity, she behaved with composure and resignation when the fatal morning arrived in which she was to be launched into eternity. She prayed devoutly during the last hour, and seemed to have her whole mind fixed on the world to which she was going. A crowd of spectators followed her to the fatal spot, most of whom returned weening at the recollection 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. than a thousand reflections and rensen brences flashed on His pind to give him full conviction who it was he had jndeed red sentenced. He recollected the sad remains of Agnes, such as he once had known her: and now he wonder d how his thoughts could have been absent from an cbject so piti bl so worthy of his att ntion, as not to give him even suspicion who she was, either from her name or from her person, during the whole trial. But wend r. astonishme: t. horror, and every other sensation was absorbed by-remorse. It wounded, it stabbed. t rent his and heart as it would do a tender one: it havocked on his firm infi xible nind es 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 wellsustained 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 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 of 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 novelists-was born in London, of respectable parents, on the 9th of July 1764. Her maiden name was Ward. In her twenty-third year she married Mr. Williain Radcliffe, a student of law, but who afterwards became the editor and proprietor of a weekly paper, the English Chronicle.' Two years after her marriage, in 1789, Mrs Radcliffe published her first novel, The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne,' the scene of which she laid in Scotland during the remote and warlike times of the feudal barons. This work gave but little indication of the power and fascination which the authoress afterwards evinced. She had made no attempt to portray national manners or historical events-in which, indeed, she never excelledand the plot was wild and unnatural. Her next effort, made in the following year, was more successful. The Sicilian Romance' at tracted attention by its romantic and numerous adventures, and the copious descriptions of scenery it contained. These were depicted with the glow and richness of a poetical fancy. Fielding, Richardson, Smollett, and even Walpole,' says Sir Walter Scott, though writing upon an imaginative subject, are decidedly prose authors.

Mrs. Radcliffe has a title to be considered as the first poetess of romantic fiction; that is, if actual rhythm shall not be deemed essential to poetry. Actual rhythm was also at the command of the ac complished authoress. She has interspersed various copies of verses throughout her works, but they are less truly poetical than her prose. They have great sameness of style and diction, and are often tedious, because introduced in scenes already too protracted with description or sentiment.

In 1791 appeared The Romance of the Forest,' exhibiting the pow ers of the novelist in full maturity. To her wonderful talent in producing scenes of mystery and surprise, aided by external phenomena and striking description, she now added the powerful delineation of passion. Her painting of the character of La Motte, hurried on by an evil counsellor, amidst broken resolutions and efforts at recall, to the most dark and deliberate guilt and cruelty, approaches in some respects to the genius of Godwin. Delineation of character, however, was not the forte of Mrs. Radcliffe: her strength lay in description and in the interest of her narrative. Like the great painter with whom she has been compared, she loved to sport with the romantic and the terrible-with the striking imagery of the mountainforest and the lake-the obscure solitude-the cloud and the stormwild banditti-ruined castles-and with those half-discovered glimpses or visionary shadows of the invisible world which seem at times to cross our path, and which still haunt and thrill the imagination. This peculiar faculty was more strongly evinced in Mrs. Radcliffe's next romance, The Mysteries of Udolpho,' published in 1794, which was the most popular of her performances, and is justly considered her best.

Mrs. Barbauld seems to prefer The Romance of the Forest' as more complete in character and story; but in this opinion few will concur: it wants the sublimity and boldness of the later work. The interest, as Scott remarks, is of a more agitating and tremendous nature, the scenery of a wilder and terrific description, the characters distinguished by fiercer and more gigantic features. Montoni, a lofty-souled desperado and captain of condottieri, stands beside La Motte and his marquis like one of Milton's fiends beside a witch's familiar. Adline is confined within a ruined manor-house, but her sister-heroine, Emily, is imprisoned in a huge castle like those of feudal times; the one is attacked and defended by bands of armed banditti, the other only threatened by constables and thieftakers. The scale of the landscape is equally different; the quiet

This honour more properly belongs to Sir Philip Sidney; and does not even John Bunyan demand a share of it? In 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.

and limited woodland scenery of the one work forming a contrast with the splendid and high-wrought descriptions of Italian mountain grandeur which occur in the other.' This parallel applies very strikingly to the critic's own poems, the Lay' and Marinion. TR latter, like Mrs. Radcliffe's second romance, has blemishes of construction and style from which the first is free; but it has the breadth and magnificence, and the careless freedom of a master's hand, in a greater degree than can be found in the first production. About this time Mrs. Radcliffe made a journey through Holland and the western frontier of Germany, returning down the Rhine, of which she published an account in 1795, adding to it some observations during a tour to the lakes of Lancashire, Westmoreland, and Cumberland. The picturesque fancy of the novelist is seen in these sketches, with their usual luxuriance and copiousness of style.

In 1797, Mrs. Radcliffe made her last appearance in fiction. 'The Mysteries of Udolpho had been purchased by her publisher for what was then considered an enormous sum, £500; but her new work brought her £800. It was entitled 'The Italian,' and displayed her powers in undiminished strength and brilliancy. Having exhausted the characteristics of feudal pomp and tyranny in her former productions, she adopted a new machinery in The Italian,' having selected a period when the Church of Rome was triumphant and unchecked. The grand Inquisition, the confessional, the cowled monk, the dungeon, and the rack, were agents as terrible and impressive as ever shone in romance. Mrs. Radcliffe took up the popu far notions on this subject without adhering to historical accuracy, and produced a work which, though very unequal in its execution, contains the most vivid and appalling of all her scenes and paintings. The opening of the story has been praised by all critics, for the exquisite art with which the authoress contrives to excite and prepare the mind of the reader. It is as follows:

English Travellers visit a Neapolitan Church.

Within the shade of the portico, a person with folded arms, and eres 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 pansing, 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 tail thin figure, bends Ing 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 sometiines 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 were returning throngh an obscure aisle towards the portico, they perceived the person who had appeared 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 enquired 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 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.

'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? The colours of the glass throw. instead of a light, a shade over that part of the church, which perhaps prevents your distinguishing what I meɛn.'

The Englishmau 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 night 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 behield; the view of it is enough to strike a er minal 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 nave 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 exagge rated horror, constitute the strongest painting which has been produced by Mrs. Radcliffe's pencil, and form a crisis well fitted to be