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able with the common blunder of confounding, or teaching ris readers to confound, the widely distinct characters of priest and presbyter. The legal or ceremonial purity required in the Levitical priest, is repeatedly alluded to in the New Testament, but not as implying the slightest similarity of office or character between priests of old and ministers of the Gospel: it is in reference to the general body of believers, that St Peter says, "But ye are a holy priesthood"; and that St. Paul beseeches those whom he is addressing, to present their bodies "a living sacrifice." With regard to the appropriateness of the Ordination Service, Mr. J. must think and let think'. In the section on Tithes, we have the following remarks:

From the case of Abraham giving the tenth of all the spoil to Melchisedeck, the priest of the Most High God, and from that of Jacob vowing and solemnly promising to give to God the tenth of all that God would bless him with, we see that tithes are of very ancient origin. Almost all the nations of the earth, particularly the Greeks and Romans, have agreed in giving a tenth part of their property to be employed in religious uses. Reason seems to point out the propriety of consecrating part of one's substance for the support and subsistence of ministers of religion, who were obliged to devote their time and labours to the work of the ministry, and consequently were deprived of the opportunity of providing for themselves in any secular way. And experience found out that a tenth part was a necessary and just proportion for that end. Hence this mode of supporting the Priests and Levites was instituted by God himself as the most rational and just, and thus, the law of tithes was enacted.'

As to the antiquity of tithes, there can be no controversy; nor will any one be found to deny the propriety of consecrating part of one's substance to the maintenance of religion; and further, as a general rule, the tenth of a man's income may be with good reason deemed a proper portion to be set apart for that purpose. Some divines have insisted upon this as the law of Christian liberality, and many private Christians have conscientiously acted upon it. But would our Author contend, that the tenth of a man's income should therefore be taken from him by the State, to be distributed among the clergy and the parish poor? We presume not. His reasoning, therefore, which, if valid, would prove too much, proves, in respect to the modern law of tithes, nothing. Neither in the design, nor in the circumstances, nor in the application of the Jewish tithes, is there the slightest analogy to the existing tithe-system, which, had it no other support than it derives from reason, experience, and Scripture, would long since have fallen to pieces. No real Christian can consider himself as consecrating', in the tithe the law exacts from him, a part of his substance to God. It is there

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fore, a sad abuse of words, to adopt such language in reference to it. In deciding what proportion of his income he should set apart for purposes of piety and benevolence, he must put what the State demands of him in the shape of tithe and poor's rate wholly out of his calculation. He then can do no better than adopt the rule of a tenth; and the advocates and receivers of tithes, to be consistent, should themselves set him the example; remembering always the Apostolic direction: "Every "man according as he purposeth in his heart, so let him give; not grudgingly, or of necessity for God loveth a cheerful "giver."

On the whole, while we wish that Mr. Jones had kept clear of these vulgar errors', we do not hesitate cordially to recommend his work, which does great credit to his industry. A short section on the geography of Palestine, though not strictly within the Author's plan, would, perhaps, have rendered the volume more complete as an introductory help to the understanding of the Scriptures.

Art. VI. Metrical Epistles chiefly from Florence. 12mo. pp. 148. Price 5s. London. 1821.

WE have readers to whom the most varied or elaborate Number of our Journal would be incomplete without a poetical article; and such is the prolific exuberance of our versifiers, there seems to be no danger that we shall be at a loss for matter to gratify them. The work before us is a trifle, but an elegant one; and it suits our present purpose better than a volume whose higher pretensions might tempt or force us into critical discus

sions.

Florence is or was very recently-high in the favour of English emigrants of the beau monde. These Epistles from Mr. M., aud Mrs.——, and the Lady's Maid Jane, contain a tolerably lively and faithful description of the sights and the perils, the sweets and the sours, the wonders and the drawbacks attendant on tourification and a winter in Italy. We have been much amused with the letters of the Lady's Maid. For instance, her description of the horrors of the Simplon, is what hundreds of her betters have thought and felt, though they have not dared disclose it.

In the Valais I gaz'd on the wonderful Craws,
That travelled thro' England with so much applause:
They came with the beasts and were shown at our fair,
But here they are thought neither monstrous nor rare.
Then we went along hills by the side of the Rhone;
Here a poor muddy stream and the colour of stone.
VOL. XVII. N. S.

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At mid-day we stopt at the sign of the Lion,
In the dismal and capital city of Sion.

I wonder they give such a name to a place
Where ideots and Craws are the principal race.
Lack-a-day! when we came to the village of Brigg,
I declare I'd have given my life for a fig:

But a danger at distance will often appear
A great deal more dreadful than when it is near;
And I took the precaution that commonly serves,
To strengthen my spirits and settle my nerves;
I swallow'd my drops, and so slept half the day,
And saw nothing of caverns and rocks in my way,
'Till we came to the Simpel, and simple was he
Who made a fine road for no creature to see.
'Tis covered with snow the best part of the year;
And there is not a gentleman's residence near.
The trustee of the turnpike has set up an inn,
'Tis dismal without, but they're civil within:
I pity the people, for once in the morning
They found themselves buried without any warning;
And can we do less than civility show

To those who for our sakes are buried in snow?
The morning we left this delectable place,

We travell'd for miles without seeing a face:

I don't count the men with their shaggy black locks,
Who stood on the road to mend caverns and rocks;
I don't count the sheep, nor the goats wild and gay,
Who stared at the strangers and bounded away;
Like children who stare at the company's coach,
'Half pleas'd, and half frighten'd, to see it approach.
We went by a precipice deep as St. Paul's,

Then by mountains and rocks that seem'd turrets and walls:
Then thro' caverns and caves like the tombs under-ground;
There I. M. P. imp, and some figures I found;
Which I thought were an epitaph raised over head
For some venturous traveller mix'd with the dead."
But that imp was Napoleon, so famous in story,
Who cut for himself this new pathway to glory.
He finished this road in eight hundred and five,
But now like the Simpels he's buried alive.

pp. 20-2

The following is her mistress's more polished description of

the scene.

As onward we climb to the mountains of snow,
Our journey is awful, and silent, and slow;

But calmly we toil round the perilous steep,
And eye the dark gulfs of the terrible deep.
'Tis fearful and dizzy to turn and look down,

When the guide points his hand to the miniature town;
And above us the chalets peer forth from the sky,
Like the nest of the eagle suspended on high.
The wild roaring cataract foams from above,

Where the mountain-pine waves in the desolate grove;
Dark crags topple o'er us and narrow the way;
And cold rocky caverns that shut out the day;
And ocean-like avalanche, stormy and dread,
Is threat'ning to break o'er the wanderer's lead.
But e'en in these wilds, there are patches of green,
Where the low friendly Houses of Refuge are seen,
And sun-beams enliven the pathway between.
Thus smiles sometimes beam round the lips of despair,
And we think them the sweeter because they are rare!
But little I deemed in so savage a place

To have seen a fair model of beauty and grace :
Young Geneviève blooms like a rose-bud unseen,
And like fabled shepherdess, lovely her mien.
She sat at the door of her Alpine retreat,
With a babe in her arms, and a dog at her feet;
And she said, "Gentle stranger, O tell me, I pray,
The day of the month, and the hour of the day;
For our sand-glass is broke, and we hear not a chime,
And have no pleasant sabbaths to measure the time':
Of spring-time and summer but little I know,
Except by those flowers from the valley below,
That stand in my casement and fade in a row.
My spouse is from home, but from wolves we are free,
And my dog is a guard for my baby and me.
In the winter Cartouche and his master must go
To rescue the stranger o'erwhelm'd by the show;
And then how intently we watch his faint breath,

And warm him, and cheer him, and snatch him from death."
She smil'd, and I saw that fine feelings might glow
Beneath a wild garb, on a mountain of snow;
And bounteous the heart of the fair Geneviève,
For her last summer flowers to a stranger she gave.
Thus we travers'd the Simplon with awe and delight,
The gulfs and the rocks were a marvellous sight;
As if, at the fiat of infinite might,

They were starting from chaos, and bursting to light.
The torrents were foaming above and below,

i And wild rose the Glaciers and mountains of snow.

* Genevieve lives at the third house of Refuge, on ascending the Simplon, from Brigg.'

An avalanche may fall at a sound or a breath,
And man journeys along in the shadow of death;
He looks if the houses of refuge are near,

When the storm is abroad, and the snow-drifts appear.
But calm was the air, when we past thro' the wild,
And near the abyss we stood safely and smil'd.

O thus, when we reach life's invisible bourne,

May we look to our Refuge, nor sigh to return!' pp. 38--41. These lines are very pleasing; but we must turn over to another leaf of the waiting-maid's journal, dated Florence.

Well, my travels are ended! to Florence I'm come,
They'll be lucky, dear girl, if they catch me at Rome.
I am sure neither wages nor board-wages pay
For all the discomfort one finds on the way.
A postchaise is pleasant for ladies within,
But not for their maid, who gets wet to the skin;
Who is certain the worst of bad bed-rooms to share,
And to starve on ragouts and such trumpery fare;
Who must travel for months without hoping to see
A piece of good toast or a cup of black tea;
And what is still worse, at a vile Table d'Hôte,
Must sit near a clown in a livery coat.

"Is the Jeu worth the Chandelle?" I heard t'other day
My master enquire, and my lady said "yea!"
What picturesque tourist would dare to say "
nay ???
All those who have travell'd, seem leagued in a plot
To seduce from their country the folks who have not;
For when the highflyers return to their nest,

They can't leave their stay-at-home neighbours at rest;
But wherever they call and wherever they dine,
Talk of pictures and statues and every thing fine,
Till the happy house-dove feels ashamed not to go,

To acquire" je ne sais quoi," and be quite "comme il faut.”
She must cross the salt seas, 'ere she gets into France,
And the Alps and nine hills should she farther advance;
But great her reward when at home she is able

To hold up her head as she sits at her table,

And say with her guests, "I have travell'd that road,
And there's nothing so charming as living abroad,"
How few really think it so wond'rous a treat

To gaze at the pictures and statues they meet!
These images put one in mind of a ghost:
I'd rather by half fix my eyes on a post,

Mark'd" this way to the hall," and the Red Lion near
Is a painting I love beyond any one here:

They both promis'd comfort and English good cheer.
But I say I'm delighted, as other folks do,

And talk of my virtue, by some call'd vertû.

I have strain'd my short neck, and have blinded my eyes,
To look at the domes, and the saints in the skies.

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