If we were to instal all our NOVELS in the

Spectator's Library, it would excel the most brilliant circulating ones of the neighbour- hood: We are in some arrear in examining their claims. Fres- call's, or Scenes in Paris, has laid by unnoticed some time ; for which we demand pardon of its lively author. It might be sup- posed, from a perusal of Frescati's, that the English in Paris were divided into two large classes of rooks and pigeons. Roguery and dupery are the sole subjects of Frescati's : its characters are sharpers, its scenes gaming-houses. It turns upon the Morgue. We should be sorry to think that it presented a faithful picture of our countrymen abroad, though it is very possible it may describe some of them correctly. Frescati's is a picture of Paris, painted ;rouge et noir : it is no book for our library. The tailor has a com- partment under his board, in which he deposits his rejected slips and strips ; it is called by a name not whispered to ears polite : to a similar, and similarly-named abode, where wander the unhappy shades of our " condemned," we must consign the soul (if it has one) of Frescati's.

Russell, or the Reign of Fashion, is a novel of far better-founded pretension. It is by the author.of the Winter in London, who by this time must be a mantolerably advanced in years. He is of the old schoql, and so is his book ; neither are without talent. The foundation of the novel of five-and-twenty years ago was mystery--a secret in three volumes, and but imperfectly commu- nicated after all. Thus it is in Russell ; with, however, the modern addition of scenes of manners and character. These are not ill- drawn, though perhaps too lengthily drawn out. Some of his characters are conceived even in a masterly style. The concep- tion of the character of Obadiah Slee is exceedingly happy ; and that of Ezekiel Jenkins, a sectarian preacher (a Tartuffe), most. powerfully supported. The author has probably had some bitter sectarian experience, and has taken ample revenge. We will transcribe a. couple of specimens from Russell; they will prove that it richly deserves a place, not only in the Fiction class A of our library, but in the library of all those who dread the approaching long winter evenings.

CHARACTER OF OZADIAR GLEE, CHIEF CLERK IN AN EMINENT DRYSALTER'S HOUSE IN THE CITY.

" On Obadiah Slee, therefore, did the boy Gregory fix his vigilant, minute, and constant observation. His grace and favour were so obvi- ously necessary to a successful progress in the voyage of discovery'on which the young adventurer had embarked, that be studied day and night how to ingratiate himself into the notice-of this important personage. " It was byno means a difficult task to please the simple-minded Obadiah Slee ; but James found it impossible to excite him. Every body pleased him that attempted it ; the difficulty was, to offend him, for he was as in. offensive and as unpresuming as an infant. For two years James had had the privilege to enter the sanctum regularly every morning, to place at the feet of Mr. Slee his well-shined shoes and highly-polished silver buckles ; and many a time, when rheumatism glued the joints of Oba. diab, had James even been permitted to fall upon his knees and buckle on those shoes ; but not even an inch of a torn letter, or any other paper, could he there pick up—no book was left open, nor could all his servile arts extract one syllable beyond the repetition of the same expression, Thank you, James,' from the taciturn lips of this true secret-keeper.

" Obadiah Slee was, indeed, a being of such extraordinary passiveness of mind, that his character will most probably be deemed by the majority of readers rather over-strained, even as a fancy-sketch, instead of a genuine portrait, accurately copied from an original of 'sixty years ago. " In the art and mystery of a drysalter, Obadiah was an adept ; and the rant and rhapsodies of enthusiasm which he constantly heard from some of the earliest and most illiterate disciples of George Whitfield, he could, on occasion, echo, with a warmth of zeal that was prodigious, in eon. trast with his taciturnity on all other subjects ; but even this was truly a zeal without knowledge.' A babe could be scarcely less ignorant of the world.

" In his early youth he was apprenticed to the father of the late Sir Watkin ; and he had been ever since such a living fixture in the counting. house for six days of the week, and such a constant attendant at the Tabernacle on the seventh, that it has been said, his acquaintance with the topography of London, in which he bad lived all his life, was actually confined to the line of streets and alleys which then connected Lane, in Fenchurch Street, with the new temple of Whitfield, in Moorfields. " The circumscribed routine of his daily avocations proceeded so mono. tonously, that his existence seemed more the effects of mechanism than animation. The stated and regular performance of his counting-house duties resembled the automatical action of a piece of clock-work, being neither the consequence of reflection, nor the offspring of feelings; for he moved through the various stages of life almost as passively and me- chanically as the hands of a clock traverse the dial-plate, each move- ment merely marking the departure of minute after minute and hour after hour, till at length the wheels stop, and the vibration of the pen- dulum ceases for ever !

" Upon such a passionless being as this, the manceuvrer tries his art in vain. Thus every new experiment of James, to ingratiate himself into the favodr of Slee, was only a fresh failure ; and he was, consequently, almost tempted to despair of ever rising from his lowly level".—Russell, or the Reign of Fashion.

This poor Slee is alternately circumvented by the priest he trusted and venerated ; overreached by a junior clerk, cl-decant a Scotch footboy ; and turned out of the house and firm, on the day of the said clerk's marriage with the widow of Slee's ancient mas- ter. It was heartbreaking enough, after fifty years of service and fidelity, to be sent adrift ; but the sudden discovery that it had been the work of treachery on the part of his spiritual adviser and soul's confessor and comforter, deprives., the poor old creature of his senses first, and then his life.

SCENE FROM RUSSELL---HWIT OF OBADIAM,,SFEE•

" Such was the letter which, by a most extraordinary train of accidents, was thus placed in the hands of Obadiah Slee at that very moment, when, as we have stated, ' his brain was phrensied with the struggle between the resentment—a natural and rational suspicion of dupery gave rise to—and the phantasmagoria, which at the same time rose to baffle each suspicious thought, by construing every doubt into a sin' " Like the lightning's flash, at the same moment it illumined and de- stroyed the brain. He read, and he was instantaneously enlightened. But, alas ! the light came too sudden, as well ai too late. He attempted to read again—his eyeballs almost started from their sockets with strain- ing agony—amazement first—then horror seized him. He felt not a single selfish pang. The pecuniary loss he sustained—all the worldly effects of such impious hypocrisy, were totally annihilated from his me- mory by the horror of his soul at the hideous sight of the hypocrite un- masked. There were no longer torturing doubts of the sanctity and in- fallibility of that spiritual man, on whose breath his meek and simple spirit had reposed its hopes of everlasting peace, as one of the purest 'in- terpreters of the oracles of Heaven—no—these doubts were in an instant swept away. All doubts were vanished, and for ever ; but in their stead arose a hideous reality, a being so exactly resembling the Evil One in his desperate defiance of the Deity and his arthil hypocrisy towards man- kind, that the contemplation at once broke the heart and shattered the intellects of poor Obadiah Slee. Too weak for such a shock, it totally destroyed him. " Falling on his knees,ats he still held the fatal letter in his hand, he exclaimed, 0 Lord, save me—save me from this devil's snares. I have bowed down and worshipped Beelzebub, but I saw not his cloven foot. He came in thy holy name, clothed in the whitest garments, and he has robbed me of my soul.'

" His ideas now becoming more and more mingled and confused, the poor maniac—for such he was—rose again suddenly from his kneeling posture, and lifting his hands to his burnirw and throbbing temples, walked up and down the room uttering one °frightful ejaculation after another, totally unconscious of all the real and outward objects around him, seeing nothing but the distorted image of Ezekiel, which appeared i to his diseased brain in the most horrid shapes. This feverish excitement was, however, of short duration. His brain suddenly became icy cold, a chilling tremor seized his frame, and his eyes became immoveable. Whilst he was sitting in this state, with his back to the room-door, it

opened, and Peter Price, the Welch footman, entered. Peter had thrown off his livery, and was dressed in plain clothes. He had a bundle in one hand, and his hat in the other and, standing at the door, said, I 'beg pardon for intruding, Mr. Slee, Sir, but I could not find in my heart to go away without saying 'good bye to you, Sir, and wishing you health and happiness- God bless you, good bye, Mr. Slee.'

" No answer was made. " I shall never set foot in this house again, Sir. No, Sir, I'll beg—I'll starve before ever I'll degrade myself to stand behind my dear master's coach again, now the Scotch beggar rides in his place. Mr. Slee—Sir--' " No answer still from poor Slee. The footman approached—he pro. ceeded towards the front of the chair. His bat and his bundle fell from

his hands, at a spectre more terrifying than death. The poor maniac sat stiff in the chair—he held the open letter in one hand, the fore-finger of

the other was placed on the centre of his chin—his eyes were fixed on the ground. He slowly raised them at the appearance of the footman, and seemed to look the trembling Peter full in the face, but his eyes were senseless as stone. "At that moment the sound of a carriage was followed by a loud knock- ing at the street-door. The maniac started up, and thrusting the letter into his bosom, ran into a corner of the room, whilst Peter as rapidly quitted it, without hat or bundle, and hurried to the door. It was opened—and the impious author of this misery, Ezekiel himself, appeared. " Peter, astonished as he was at the return of Ezekiel, was still more so at his manner. Hurry and anxiety were strongly displayed—he rushed by the footman with as much rapidity as he was able, and without utter- ing a word, was half-way up stairs, ere the tongue of the terrified Peter could utter—' Stop—stop, Mr. Jenkins—stop—stop, Sir, for God's sake, stop ! " Ezekiel's hurrying footsteps were arrested.

" What's the matter, Peter ?'

" Oh, poor Mr. Slee I Poor Mr. Slee 11-

" How ? What of Mr. Slee ?—Speak, man ! '

" Peter, in a few words, described the exact posture in which he found the maniac.

" A letter in his hand !' exclaimed the almost breathless Ezekiel, are you sure it was a letter ?' " It looked like one—it was some sort of paper-writing.'

" That this menial was not sure it was a letter, gave Ezekiel power to breathe again, for it was proof he knew not that it was the letter ; and he proceeded with indescribable agitation to the dining-room, followed at a due distance by the trembling Peter. " On their entrance, they saw the unhappy man again seated in the very chair, and in precisely the same attitude, as that before described, except that the letter was crumpled up in his clenched hand. " Ezekiel stopped at the door, He motioned with his finger to Peter also to stand still. He then softly and cautiously approached nearer and nearer to the back of the chair. Just as he was about to pass it, the ma- niac rose slowly from the chair—his eye then turned on Ezekiel—on him he thought the Evil One 1 The poor creature shrieked—staggered—fell ! The dart of death had struck him,—and that moment brought to his bruised and broken spirit a happy liberation from its mortal state—its passport to another and a better world.

"The heart of Ezekiel, hardened as it was, for once shrunk appalled. He felt that this death-stroke, though not inflicted by his hands, was one of the consequences of his crimes ; and whilst Peter was despatched for aid (now all in vain), the self-accused wretch, with trembling fingers, clutched from the dead man's grasp the accursed letter, and hurried it into his own bosom, for concealment, with-the same alarm and horror that the assassin secretes his dagger, the instrument and evidence of a more sanguinary, but not more atrocious murder."—Russell, or the Reign of Fashion.