splendid pageantries of the tournament. With Christian man, woman is not the slave of his passions, but the mother of his children-the sharer of his sorrows and his joys-his fellow-traveller to the same happy and eternal home. And shall she be prevented from labouring for the extension of that system which has done so much for her? On the introduction of evil into the world, "woman being deceived, was in the transgression." Let her then be allowed to aid in spreading that light which alone can scatter the darkness herself has caused.

When the Saviour hung upon the cross, woman did not forsake him in that hour of agony and death. On the morning of the third day, when it was yet dark, she hastened to the sepulchre, and complained they had taken away her Lord, and she did not know where they had laid him. The disciples came, and departed; but woman remained, and stood without the sepulchre, weeping. When asked by the two angels why she wept, she reiterated the complaint, "They have taken away my Lord, and I know not where they have laid him." When interrogated again, "Why weepest thou?" she replied, "If thou hast borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away." The sincerity, and the urgency of her sorrow were rewarded by receiving, from the Master himself, the annunciation that he had arisen. And such will always be the character of woman,

"Last at his cross, and earliest at his grave."

CHEVELEY; OR, THE MAN OF HONOUR.

LADY BULWER has succeeded in producing a work of some literary pretension, and of most abominable morality. I am not aware that she has ever before appeared as an authoress. If she have not written, she has thought; and that is the best preparation for writing. Many of the characters are well drawn: and, as she has evidently designed to give a picture of the self. styled lords of creation as little favourable as possible. she has succeeded in that of Lord de Clifford. Many passages might be quoted which would do credit te Bulwer himself: indeed, they sometimes remind the reader of the author of Eugene Aram. I will select one or two:

"There are feelings on the mysterious altars of the human heart, so subtle, so holy, so impalpably delicate. that the realities which rivet, destroy them, like the fairy hues on some rare flowers; too beautiful to last, they perish at the touch."

"Beautiful Naples! whose sapphire waves flow on in music, and whose flower-heathed air laughs out in sunshine, as if primeval Eden's youth still lingered on thy shores, mocking at sin and time! Beautiful Naples! Venus of cities rising from the sea-begirt with beauty

like a zone, and diademed with palaces! Shall I ever again behold you? No-never at least as I beheld you once; for, to the winter of the heart, no second spring succeeds."

"Memory is the conscience of love; and from the moment we leave what we love, its murmurs allow us no peace.

It would not be difficult to select other passages.

Criticism does not consist, alone, in finding faults to condemn. Its more delightful and legitimate task is to unfold beauties to admire: and a true critic will rather desire to dwell on excellencies, than imperfections. I regret that this last part has been performed in what has been already said. Any further remarks must be those of unqualified condemnation.

It is lamentable that genius is so often prostituted to corrupt the taste and morals of society. This is too frequently the fact with the writers of novels: perhaps more so in the days of Fielding and Smollett, than in our own. Public opinion must correct the evil. Whether there will be more, or fewer novels written when that correction takes place, might admit of discussion. The friends of theatres have sometimes said that plays, as moral as sermons, might be written. True: but when only such plays are acted, theatres will be deserted. Sermons can be heard elsewhere, and in more appropriate places.

I shall not enter upon an extended examination of Cheveley: nor instance the examples of bad taste which its pages would furnish. On the work, as a whole, I will remark, that it affords conclusive proof,

that Bulwer must have had strong inducements to separate from a woman who could entertain, and publish to the world, such sentiments. It is probable the keenness of invective, the distortion of portraiture in this work, arose from wrongs she supposed she had suffered. But I presume Bulwer is not so wretched a character as Lord de Clifford; nor Lady Bulwer quite so good as she paints Lady Julia.

Julia was young and possessed of great personal attractions, but poor. Lord de Clifford meets with her, and, attracted by her charms, proposes; and she is persuaded to marry him. As is always the case with marriages, without any congeniality of character, or true love on either side, she soon loses all attraction for him. She endeavours, by kindness and gentleness, to win him back, and retain him. Having failed in this, she meets with Mowbray-afterwards Cheveley-the very man to excite every dormant passion of her ardent nature. After various struggles with a sense of propriety, and every better feeling, a mutual disclosure takes place. The opportune occurrence of Lord de Clifford's death makes her Lady Cheveley.

The doctrine of Cheveley is, if a woman marry a man who is unkind to her, and who does not reciprocate those blandishments which she knows so well how to lavish, she is free to bestow her heart upon another. And the man is styled, emphatically, "The Man of Honour," who wins, and retains the affections of a married woman. I should not be so much surprised to find this view inculcated by one of our sex: but, that a woman should teach such enormity "tis