This very article, ours, is much less suitable for polite ears than any page of the novel presented to us; and the reason is that we call things by their names, whereas the novel never alludes to the shocking words which belong to these things, but, like the mephistophiles, insinuates that the arch-demon himself is some kind very tolerable person, if no one wanted it. call him Mr. Devil. We have heard of people who could not bear to read certain lessons from the Old Testament in the service of the Church: such people would be delighted with our author's story; and the young ladies who shrink from reading the Decalogue would probably enjoy bathing their imagination in the crystal of its delicate sensuality. Our author's language, like the patent blackening, "would not stain the whitest linen," and yet the composition itself would suffice, if well applied, to Ethiopianize the snowiest consciousness that ever sat as a swan on this mirror of the sky. the imagination of a young Christian girl. We are not sure we speak loudly enough when we say that we would much rather listen to the crudest scene from Goldsmith's Vicar, read aloud by a sister or daughter, than hear such lips speak perfectly chaste of a scene from "The Scarlet Letter", in which a married woman and her reverend lover, with their unfortunate offspring, are presented as the