She took her determination, and, "drawn by the painting of a cathedral, a superstitious and nervous fancy took possession of me. I felt as if my fate directed me there. I turned my eyes away, and tried to think, but could not. A vague terror pursued me; and still, as I fixed my eyes on this picture, I felt as if there, among those solemn arches, in those dim aisles, I should be safe." We thus conclude our extracts from her manuscript.

The scene is now transferred to Elmsley Priory where we find Mrs. Middleton prematurely grey: "suffering, and not time, had done its work upon her." Alice and Henry were there too the latter bordering upon a state of madness, and receiving the utmost attention from those two persons who were so deeply suffering from the ignominious cause of his illness. In fact, the idea had rooted itself in Henry's mind that Ellen had destroyed herself. After hours of delirium, during which his attendants heard what some of them, at least, would rather have died than heard, he again regained his recollection :

"Alice returned to his side, and he held out his hand to greet her: hers was cold and nervous, and the heart sunk within her as she fixed her eyes on his, and in their wild and restless expression read that fearful retribution which sometimes falls on those who have walked in their own ways, and defied the justice of an Almighty Judge, till the light that was in them has become darkness, and His awful vengeance has overtaken them. Great, indeed, was that darkness in Henry Lovell's case-greater still from the light that had once been in him. Sparks of genius, touches of feeling, relics of the high capabilities of mind that had once been his, flashed through the night of his soul, and made its present darkness more sadly visible."

The scriptural doctrine that our sins will find us out-that the instruments of our sin shall prove the instruments of our punishment is repeatedly inculcated in these volumes. Our fear is lest they, which are amongst the best truths of the tale, should be regarded as mere exercises of ingenuity. Henry goes one morning to the window, and gazed earnestly on some spring flowers which were just coming into blossom. Alice opened a volume lying on the table, and read aloud some stanzas from it. Henry held out his hand for the book, and read over these lines in silence: he then glanced at the title page, shuddered, and flung it from him. Alice picked it up, and looked anxiously at him:

"Was not Dr. Dodd hung for forgery ?'-he exclaimed. She turned very pale: he saw it, and said, You need not be frightened now. I am not mad. In that very book I forged the first link of that infernal chain with which I bound and destroyed her."

This book was the "Christian Year," which Edward had given Ellen, and which Henry had artfully underlined to persuade her that the donor was master of her secret. These wild words immediately follow:

There may be mercy for others there can be none for me. Look into your Bible; you will see in it what I have done turned her body and soul into hell! God alone should do that I have done it. Alice, if you believe you must tremble. Ay, the devils do so too.”

He sunk back in his chair and muttered-"The worm that never dies! Ay, I understand it now."

Mr. Lacy arrived at Elmsley, and forwards a letter to Alice, stating the object of his mission. Henry catches it up, learns that Ellen is alive but dying, and of course is greatly affected. He insists upon seeing Mr. Leslie. The interview is passionate but brief, and Henry terminates it by holding out a letter to Mr. Lacy, who takes it in silence :

"Take that letter to Edward Middleton, Mr. Lacy; you may read it first for yourself. If, when he reads it, he forgives his wife and curses me, I shall be satisfied. Tell him, then, that I am mad or dead; I shall be so by that time. When you see her again" (he added, the mind suddenly wandering and recalling awful phantasmagoria that had haunted its dreams)" tell her not to look so pale, or stare so wildly, when I dream of her; tell her not to hang over me, or stand by my bedside and moan so piteously. Did you say she was dead ?"

This is an unobtrusive touch of dramatic power of the highest order. It reminded us and we can hardly give it higher praise of what we think must have been Shelley's vision of His death whom he would fain have denied:

"Remit the anguish of that lighted stare;

Close those wan lips: let that thorn-wounded brow
Stream not with blood; it mingles with thy tears.
Fix, fix those tortured orbs in peace and death,
So thy sick throes shake not that crucifix,

So those pale fingers play not with thy gore." Henry wildly continued to show that if hell and heaven are fables conscience is not :

"No: she is dying, and she is prepared to die: she prays, she hopes, slie submits, and God will receive her, for his mercy is infinite. A ministering angel will she be, while I lie howling, a gulf between us. What am I thinking of? Where have I read that? There is something wrong here."

Alice is prepared by Mr. Leslie to find her husband raving. She arms herself for the task before her by prayer, and walks

forth with a martyr's strength to minister at the sick couch and to witness the ravings of him she loved beyond all that earth contained. He raved indeed: he called fiercely for music: she could not play: she had never sung to him before; but she obeyed. "Her voice was pure, and sweet, and loud; it ran in the silence of that twilight hour with a strange and awful harmony. She sung the airs of those sacred chants which fall on the ear like dreamings of eternity. Two old servants, who were in the outward room, fell on their knees and listened. For more than an hour that solemn mournful song continued; it thrilled through their very souls, and affected them more deeply than the most passionate cries of grief or of terror could have done."

His struggles were fearful; his attempts at self-destruction frequent; three men could hardly hold him. Towards morn ing, in one of those paroxysms of delirious fury, he broke a blood-vessel, and Alice, who had never left his bedside, was covered with blood, Death soon followed, and the last scene is thus described:Lungry end 2 adighet: cas

"After a few minutes of that nameless anguish which thought dares not dwell upon, nor words describe, she saw his eyes open and turn to her with an expression of intense enquiry, full of consciousness of death, of the sense of the coming eternity, and of that question, deferred too long and asked too late, What shall I do to be saved?' She bent over him in speechless sorrow; his dying eyes caught sight of the cross which hung from her neck; she saw it; she held it to his lips, and whispered, None ever perished at His feet.' He heard her, and his lips moved, and his hand grasped hers: he looked at her, raised his eyes to heaven, and he died. On that murmured prayeron that expiring glance-she built hopes which we may not scan," &c.

The rest is briefly told. Mr. Leslie forces Edward to read the letter of which he was the bearer from Henry, and soon we find Ellen again at Hillscombe, her husband's seat. The confession of Julia's death is made before all, and she dies in peace.

The length to which we have protracted this article proves the high estimation in which we hold Lady Fullerton's work; but to be fully appreciated the whole must be read, and certain parts of it, we had almost said, studied. Highly wrought and exaggerated as some of the scenes and characters are, yet we have not to complain that occasional bursts of true eloquence, poetry, and painting are intermingled with rapid declamation, jingle, and sign-daubing. We are willing, however-as we must-to make the same allowance for Lady Fullerton, wh set herself the task of writing a novel in three volumes, as w

A

are for a true poet who determines to write a poem in twelve cantos. To either of these contracts Genius refuses to become a party. We must, therefore, accept the willing offerings of talent, and be thankful if the change is only from gold to silver, and not to copper, or, what is worse still, a base albata mixture. We have endeavoured, too, as we at first proposed, to enable our readers to judge, from copious extracts, how far a religious novel is a reality, and not a romance within a romance. We feel quite sure such is our own judgment-that this is not to be classed with many that have claimed that designation. One of our proofs is, that even the professed novel reader cannot read the romance and skip the religion without despicable frivolity. In other instances this can be and has been done. We recollect asking a young friend how he liked the religious argument which is put off, in a celebrated novel, to the third volume-"Oh (he replied), I took all that for granted." And it is well known that most mamas have denounced Mrs. Sherwood's stories on the Church catechism, because they discovered that their daughters always preferred the kissing to the catechism, and that the two would be well separated. Any such separation, however, as this, in Lady Fullerton's work, would destroy its distinctive character. It is, therefore, truly a religious novel.

There is, however, another question behind :--how far does such a form of teaching religion, or at least of awakening religious emotions, accomplish its object? This, we think, must depend upon temperament. We intimately knew, in former years, a young gentleman of good talent and high accomplishments who was checked at the commencement of an immoral connexion by reading a novel in which the a novel in which the consequences of that sin were powerfully developed. The transition from a life of sinful pleasure to a creed of rigid Calvinism was speedy and permanent. But his case was peculiar, and can form no basis for a theory. We have no space for discussing this question.

We cannot, after all this, but mourn that Lady Fullerton is lost to our literature. We think that, by deserting her faith, she may have deserted a post of much usefulness to the cause of Christianity. Whether she will appear again or not is almost a matter of indifference to us, as we should have no pleasure in reading a work written by Lady Fullerton and Co.that is, one that has been viséd and mutilated by some cold theologian, to qualify it for escaping the " Index Expurgatorius." Roman Catholic Christian literature wants to us the charm of individuality. It is the Church which speaks, and not the

writer; and as we know what the opinions of the Church are, and that a writer's business is but to give them the loudest echo, to the suppression of his own at least Mr. Newman tells us, in his "Development," that the suppression of a man's own opinions is one of the acts of real martyrdom required by the Romish Church we think we can employ our reading hours much better than in looking over such insincere writings.

Mr. Faber, Mr. Newman, even Mr. Ward, with others, could work heavy mischief against us, so long as they remained within our own Church; because it was felt they wrote and spoke as they believed, and all they believed; but they are now muzzled. We care not what they write now; for we have an argument, founded on facts, and very convenient in use, for not reading any Roman Catholic theological work-this may be written against the author's own convictions. For example, we have seen no worse logic anywhere than in portions of Mr. Newman's "Development." But this cannot naturally belong to his high intellect. We must, then, accept his own solution of the difficulty: he has submitted to the martyrdom of yielding up, at another's command, many opinions which he does believe, and of adopting some others which he does not believe.

Lady Fullerton may now understand why we regard her as lost to our Christian literature. We can quite comprehend her conversion to the Romish Church, without supposing her able to grapple with the theological questions which separate the two Churches. Such an imagination as hers and Locke's words are still true, that imagination is the author of all error -if suffered to roam at large amidst all that gorgeous scenery which had its conception, its birth, and has its present life in the imagination alone, could not be saved from the snare but "so as by fire."

ART. IVA Treatise on Justification. By the Right Rev. JOHN DAVENANT, D. D., Bishop of Salisbury; together with Translations of the "Determinationes" of the same Prelate. By the Rev. JOSIAH ALLPORT, of St James's, Birmingham, Chaplain to his grace the Duke of Manchester. Two vols. London: Hamilton and Adams. 1846.

WE think it fortunate that the translation of Davenant's most important work should have fallen into the hands of one who not only understands the doctrines of which it treats, but who is familiar with the cast of thought and style of expression, from having already translated Bishop Davenant's "Exposition of the