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For the Literary Magazine.

terrific novels.

THE Castle of Otranto laid the
foundation of a style of novel writing,
which was carried to perfection
by Mrs. Radcliff, and which may
be called the terrific style. The
great talents of Mrs. Radcliff made
some atonement for the folly of this
mode of composition, and gave some
importance to exploded tables and
childish fears, by the charms of sen-
timent and description; but the mul-
titude of her imitators seem to have
thought that description and senti-
ment were impertinent intruders,
and by lowering the mind somewhat
to its ordinary state, marred and
counteracted those awful feelings,
which true genius was properly em-
ployed in raising. They endeavour
to keep the reader in a constant
state of tumult and horror, by the
powerful engines of trap-doors, back
stairs, black robes, and pale faces:
but the solution of the enigma is
ever too near at hand, to permit the
indulgence of supernatural appear-
ances. A well-written scene of a
party at snap-dragon would exceed
all the fearful images of these books.
There is, besides, no keeping in
the author's design: fright succeeds
to fright, and danger to danger,
without permitting the unhappy
reader to draw his breath, or to re-

pose for a moment on subjects of
character or sentiment.

I lately took up a novel of this
kind, and it having been some time
since I looked into a similar per-
formance, I read with some degree
of curiosity, and congratulated my-
self on having fallen on so fine a spe-
cimen of the prevailing taste. I
cannot forbear admitting my reader
to a participation of my pleasure,
by transcribing a page or two. All
its chapters are so nearly alike that
any one will answer, and the saga-
cious reader need not be apprized
of preliminary matters.

‘Edmund, at first undetermined
how to act, now arose, and went
down to the next story. The room
which he recognized as the apart-
ment of his Adelaide, and which a
few hours before was, as well as the
rest of the house involved in total
darkness, was now, to his extreme
surprise, in the middle of the night
completely illuminated. He enter-
ed: but the object which presented
itself rivetted him to the spot. Eve-
ry function of his body, every sen-
sation of his soul was suspended; a
deadly chilling stopped the circula-
tion of his blood: without having
fainted, and in an erect posture, he
appeared annihilated. On a table,
surrounded by large sable wax ta-
pers, lay a coffin, covered by a black
cloth reaching the ground.

When recovering from this stu-
por, the dread of the worst that
could betide him quickened his heart
to every racking sensation. Twice,
urged by despair, he attempted to
lift up the pall, and to discover by
the plate on the coffin, whether his
Adelaide—twice the dread of a
horrid certainty withheld his arm.
During this excruciating suspence,
he again heard steps ascending the
stairs: wanting resolution to make
enquiries, he with precipitation with-
drew behind a curtain suspended in
a corner of the apartment.

A young lady of the most elegant
form, and arrayed in deep mour-
ning, now entered, eagerly ap-
proached the coffin, then turning to

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her female attendants, by a motion
of her hand bade them withdraw.

Oh, Edmund! what were the ec-
tasies of thy heart, how enviable thy
feelings when so suddenly revived
from the dread of losing for ever
thy richest treasure, in the beautiful
mourner thou beheldest thine. But
hush! she speaks!

“Precious remains of an ever-be-
loved parent,” softly breathed Ade-
laide, mournfully viewing the cof-
fin, “let me take one last look, let
me behold once more those features
whose image will ever live in my
heart.”

As she spoke, she slowly removed
a part of the pall, lifted up the lid,
and in silent sorrow gazed on the
countenance of her departed aunt.
Then recollecting her own forlorn
situation, she continued, her eyes
swimming in tears:

“O thou! from whom I experi-
enced—”

She could say no more, but kneel-
ing by the coffin, she reclined her
head on the edge of the table. Her
tears, her sobs bespoke the abun-
dance of her grief.

“No!” said the deeply affected
Edmund starting from behind the
curtain, kneeling by her, and taking
her hand, “No! thine Edmund, at
least, lives for thee.”

He was proceeding; but the ter-
rified, amazed Adelaide shrunk
from his touch, uttered a piercing
shriek, and sunk on the ground.

Her lover, astonished at her ac-
tion, and excessively alarmed, has-
tened to afford her all possible relief.
He had already placed her on the
nearest chair, when he felt himself
touch by a kind of wand, and, as he
turned round, a deep-toned voice
awfully pronounced the portentous
word—FORBEAR!

Edmund then beheld a tall figure
completely clad in a loose black
gown that swept the ground. The
face of the object was concealed by
a veil of the same colour reaching
his girdle.

“Who art thou? Whence com-
est thou? Why this disguise?”

“forbear: I charge thee,
forbear!” was the awful reply.

“To thine admonition, in that
treacherous garb, I shall not attend;
but, by Heaven, I'll know who thou
art.”

At the same time, while, with his
left hand he sustained the swooning
maid, by a sudden spring with his
right he tore off the veil, that, to his
amazement and horror, had con-
cealed the fleshless, worm-eaten
head of a skeleton, whose eyes alone
rolled alive in their hollow sockets.’

This dismal visage was enough to
rob ordinary mortals of their five
wits, it must be acknowledged.—
What wonders may be extracted
from a simple piece of pasteboard,
painted into a resemblance of a
death's head, with two holes,
through which the wearer's eyes
may perform their part!