of an uncontrollable destiny, but has felt that the hope on which he has leaned, has wounded instead of sustaining him, and has lain down at last "wearied with the greatness of the way."

One thus stricken, even to the death, with the shaft which his own hand had pointed, the Author has attempted to delineate in the character of the Unbeliever. A man who, desiring to be led by the laws or instincts of his nature, began life firm in his purpose to become the arbitrator of his fate,-to "work and acquire" in his own strong "Will," and thus "chain the wheel of chance and always drag her after him;" but, blinded by those very instincts, the distrust of a naturally corrupt and suspicious heart, prepares for himself a hell of misery from the creations of his own fancy, and sinks at once into the abyss :-as if Nature were herself wearied of the presumption of his flattering adoration, and had arisen to vindicate the authority of Him, "the thunder of whose power" her deluded votary was unable to understand.

Of the causes which led to the publication of the narrative, it is unnecessary to say more, than that it is the

most earnest wish of the Author, that it may find its way to the heart of one, who, perhaps even in early youth,

has forgotten the covenant of his God,-one who is already involved in the intricacies of life's fearful laby

rinth, but who has lost the mystic thread or clue, by which alone he can be extricated-the faith of the Revelation of God.

82, 19, for Monastecism, read Monasticism.

82, 20, 21, for hath planted, read had planted.

89,

90,

149,

THE MODERN UNBELIEVER.

CHAPTER I.

"Nature is but a name for an effect, whose cause is God."

WE doubt not but those of us who are familiar with the old coach road between Birmingham and Oxford, have noticed a substantial white stone house, which stands about fifty yards south of a pretty, rural village, the name of which we have just now forgotten. It has a somewhat antiquated appearance, and was once, we believe, the favorite villa of some wealthy alderman, but is now changed into a busy, bustling hotel,-its spacious rooms affording excellent accommodation for weary travellers, and its smooth green lawn cut up into potatoe fields or kitchen gardens.

It is not with the hotel, however, that we have to do at present, but with a certain grass grown lane, separated from the above mentioned building by a range of fields-cornfields they were, when we saw them last, and cornfields promising a good, old fashioned English harvest, though plentifully besprinkled with mischievous poppies, nodding their scarlet heads among the green grain, as conspicuously as if they had been plants of the husbandman's own planting. Well, in this identical lane, and beneath the shade of a grove of sycamores,

B

through whose wide spread arms, blinked the red evening light of the 29th of May, 18-, stood WALLACE ARNOLD, gazing earnestly into the eyes of the fragile, fairylike little lady, who but yesterday had become his bride; while she, as if unheeding the passionate devotion that had filled the soul of her husband, gazed from him upon the extensive landscape, which stretched itself far off into the hazy horizon in the distance; and she thought of life, and death, and heaven, and the long, long future of human existence, which at that moment was stretched out in her imagination in colors just as fair and beautiful as the same green landscape; and she felt like a little child, when it looks up at the golden beams of the setting sun, and fancies them the windows of paradise.

But Wallace Arnold, whom, to prevent confusion, or otherwise misconception, we shall at once introduce to you under the designation of the UNBELIEVER, still gazed earnestly, as if he would see into the very soul of his beloved; and he thought of nothing but his beautiful bride, and felt nothing but the magic of her bright eyes.

The evening advanced,-Night hovered in the distance like a dim cloud-The sun sunk lower and lower as if stooping to embrace the earth-White mists began to rise and fold themselves in whimsical shapes in the twilight. Then, the fragile little lady coughed ; and her husband laid his hand upon her shoulder, and in a tone of voice, deep, impassioned, earnest, he said, 'Agnes, come with me."

The lady raised her eyes to his, but did not speak. She was watching a tiny, purple cloud which had been sail