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That a person may write many pretty little detached pieces of poetry, who cannot render a tale interesting, experience has repeatedly proved before the appearance of Mrs. R's [sic] novel; yet we expected to have met with more passion and character in the production of a female who has not been an idle spectator of life. This story, however, wants a connecting thread, and the episodes are, literally speaking, introduced to spin it out; yet are not in the smallest degree interwoven with the woof. Moral the tale is, most undoubtedly; but very insipid. The very incident on which the catastrophe turns is trite, a mouse creeping out of a mountain, that had long been rumbling; and then the heroine is allowed to depart to the tomb of all the milk and water heroines without a sigh, because the close of the volume is anticipated when she bows her head and dies. Some remarks are just and well expressed; but the descriptions of nature, which are for ever recurring, are seldom poetical, and always so redundant, that they scarcely leave a distinct idea in the mind, and the language is as artificial as the sentiments are common.

The first description, written with care, is a favourable specimen: P. I.

'Upon the side of a beautiful forest, sheltered from the northern blasts by a chain of mountains, bordered with trees and shrubs, the growth of many centuries, rising above a canopy of luxuriant foliage, the gilded vanes of Vancenza glistened to the eye of the far-distant traveller - while the lofty turrets cast their long shadows across an extensive lake, that partly overspread the neighbouring valley.

'The towering precipice, from whose dizzy height the fearful shepherd gazed with terror and astonishment, hung over its woody skirts tremendously sublime; while down its winding paths the rushing torrents scattered their white foam, sometimes lost in unseen channels, at others dividing in small currents towards the lake beneath!

'So wild, so romantic a spot, seemed rather the work of inchantment [sic], than the earthly habitation of any thing mortal! the harmonious warblings of the feathered minstrels; the murmuring sound of intermingling streams; the lulling moan of the confined breezes, amidst the flint-rooted pines, that waved their tall heads, rocking their callow tenants in leafy cradles; the verdant glades, here and there opening to the skies, and scattered over with sheep and wild goats; the adjacent hills hanging their dark brows over a vast sheet of quivering water; presented a scene so magnificent, so abstracted from the busy world, that the beholder's heart thrilled with delicious transport, harmonized by the sublime sensations of enchanting melancholy.

'The castle of Vancenza had been built in the beginning of the twelfth century; the structure consisting of a spacious court-[341]yard, encircled with a vast pile of architecture of the most exquisite order; at each corner a lofty tower commanded a variety of luxuriant prospects; the front facing the lake, was raised upon an invulnerable rampart, whose ivy-covered battlements formed a beautiful and extensive terrace; the southern aspect which led to the boundaries of Old Castile. - The northern view was terminated by mountains grandly romantic; the valley beyond the lake led to a verdant opening, of some miles in length, revealing at once a thousand undescribable and fascinating attractions!'

[complete] Provided by Julie Shaffer, August 1999.