means. If we scan her romances with a coldly critical eye--an
almost criminal proceeding--obvious improbabilities start into
view. For instance, the oppressed marchioness, who has not seen
her daughter Julia since the age of two, recognises her without a
moment's hesitation at the age of seventeen, and faints in a
transport of joy. It is no small tribute to Mrs. Radcliffe's
gifts that we often accept such incidents as these without demur.
So unnerved are we by the lurking shadows, the flickering lights,
the fluttering tapestry and the unaccountable groans with which
she lowers our vitality, that we tremble and start at the wagging
of a straw, and have not the spirit, once we are absorbed into
the atmosphere of her romance, to dispute anything she would have
us believe. The interest of the _Sicilian Romance_, which is far
greater than that of her first novel, arises entirely out of the
situations. There is no gradual unfolding of character and
motive. The high-handed marquis, the jealous marchioness, the
imprisoned wife, the vapid hero, the two virtuous sisters, the
leader of the banditti, the respectable, prosy governess, are a
set of dolls fitted ingeniously into the framework of the plot.
They have more substance than the tenuous shadows that glide
through the pages of Mrs. Radcliffe's first story, but they move
only as she deftly pulls the strings that set them in motion.

In her third novel, _The Romance of the Forest_, published in
1792, Mrs. Radcliffe makes more attempt to discuss motive and to
trace the effect of circumstances on temperament. The opening
chapter is so alluring that callous indeed would be the reader
who felt no yearning to pluck out the heart of the mystery. La
Motte, a needy adventurer fleeing from justice, takes refuge on a
stormy night in a lonely, sinister-looking house. With startling