by her beauty and innocence, and then by the glimpse of the portrait which leads him to believe she is his daughter, is finely conceived and finely executed.  Afterwards, Ellena proves only to be his niece, but we have had our thrill and nothing can rob us of it. The Italian depends for its effect on natural terror, rather than on supernatural suggestions.  The monk, who haunts the ruins of Paluzzi, and who reappears in the prison of the Inquisition, speaks and acts like a being from the world of spectres, but in the fulness of time Mrs. Radcliffe ruthlessly exposes his methods and kills him by slow poison.  She never completely explains his behaviour in the halls of the Inquisition nor accounts satisfactorily for the ferocity of his hatred of Schedoni.  We are unintentionally led on false trails.

The character of Schedoni is undeniably Mrs. Radcliffe’s masterpiece.  No one would claim that his character is subtle study, but in his interviews with the Marchesa, Mrs. Radcliffe reveals unexpected gifts tor probing into human motives.  He is an imposing figure, theatrical sometimes, but wrought of flesh and blood.  In fiction, as in life, the villain has always existed, but it was Mrs. Radcliffe who first created the romantic villain, stained with the darkest crimes, yet dignified and impressive withal.  Zeluco in Dr. John Moore’s novel of that name (1789) is a powerful conception, but he has no redeeming features to temper our repulsion with pity.  The sinister figures of Mrs. Radcliffe, with passion-lined faces and gleaming eyes, stalk—­or, if occasion demand it, glide—­through all her romances, and as she grows more familiar with the type, her delineations show increased power and vigour.  When the villain enters, or shortly afterwards, a descriptive catalogue is displayed, setting forth, in a manner not unlike that of the popular feuilleton of to-day, the qualities to be expected, and with this he is let loose into the story to play his part and act up to his reputation.  In the Sicilian Romance there is the tyrannical marquis who would force an unwelcome marriage on his daughter and who immures his wife in a remote corner of the castle, visiting her once a week with a scanty pittance of coarse food.  In The Romance of the Forest we find a conventional but thorough villain in Montalt and a half-hearted, poor-spirited villain in La Motte, whose “virtue was such that it could not stand the pressure of occasion.”  Montoni, the desperate leader of the condottieri in The Mysteries of Udolpho, is endued with so vigorous a vitality that we always rejoice inwardly at his return to the forefront of the story.  His abundant energy is refreshing after a long sojourn with his garrulous wife and tearful niece.