church, possessing the sole power of ordaining, he gets over the difficulty by drawing largely on the credulity of his reader, in saying that for the first six hundred years it was not the case. To say nothing of that sole episcopal power possessed by Timothy and Titus, Mr. Powell afterwards tells us that there is a difference of opinion as to who was the second Bishop of Rome; i. e. the successor of the apostle who founded the see. We do not suppose Mr. Powell will venture to say, that whether it were Linus, or Cletus, or Clemens, who was the second bishop, he was, in fact, only the chief of a presbytery.

Whenever any remarkable change has taken place in ecclesiastical affairs, it has always been noticed; if, therefore, episcopacy had been a device of man's finding out, it would have been noticed by historians, whereas all historians, in speaking on this subject, regard it as emanating from the apostles themselves.

As a fitting appendix to this furious tirade against episcopacy, Mr. Powell has added a review of Dr. Hook's justly celebrated sermon on "HEAR THE CHURCH;" and we think we cannot give our readers a clearer indication of Mr. Powell's principles as well as feelings, than in his own words at the commencement of the review in question :-" Dr. Hook is the apostle and high-priest of the High-Church scheme of the present times," p. 169. There is a practical comment on 1 Cor. xiii.! There is a proof how much the advice and admonition of the apostle contained in that chapter are needed, even in christian communities!

Dr. Hook has clearly proved that there has been an indefectibility of essentials in the church at all times; and that in consequence of this indefectibility, the Church of England after the Reformation is the Church of Christ, purified from those corruptions which had gradually crept into it and in so doing, he introduced the well-known saying of Luther, that a man remains the same man after he has washed his face as he was before. Now here is an identity of essentials, and this Mr. Powell attempts to ridicule by an indecent comparison between a virgin and a harlot, forgetting that there is an essential difference between them, and that no purification can restore a harlot to her virginity.

The peculiar doctrines which Mr. Powell adduces, in order to prove the difference between the church as constituted before and after the Reformation, happen to be those very corruptions which the Reformers cast off. The peculiar doctrines to which Dr. Hook alludes were the doctrines held in the primitive church, and retained in the reformed one. It is this retention of primitive Christianity in our Church which is a source of increasing satisfaction to most of her members; they see in her scriptural doctrines, in her decent rites, and in her holy ceremonies, the doctrines, the rites, and the ceremonies of the primitive church, planted by the apostles, and watered with the blood of martyrs; and they rejoice in their privileges. But all this is a subject fraught with

excessive mortification to Mr. Powell and his clique. They well know that they have no claim to be regarded as apostolical ministers, in the scriptural acceptation of the term; and like the fox in the fable, which had lost his tail, they want to persuade others to be content with the deficiency of which they are keenly sensible.

But however Mr. Powell may falsify, misquote, and rail at the Church of England, she stands upon an immovable basis of remote antiquity; built as she is " upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Jesus Christ himself being the chief corner-stone," all the combined hosts of hell will not be able to prevail against her.

We before disclaimed any intention of proving the divine origin of episcopacy; that has already been too well done to require any additional arguments. Our object is simply to expose some of the falsehoods with which Mr. Powell attempts to impose upon the public, and to protest against the garbled statements of ecclesiastical writers, both ancient and modern, being received as evidences of their opinions.

This we have briefly done, and we would, in conclusion, recommend Mr. Powell to adhere more closely to the truth, and not again to palm a superficial display of learning upon the public for deep research and accurate scholarship.

ART. II.-Tranquil Hours. Poems by Mrs. EDWARD THOMAS. London: Saunders and Otley. 1838. Pp. xi. 226.

WHEN we speak in flattering terms of this elegant little volume of poems, we beg our readers to understand that we are influenced by a spirit of critical justice, rather than moved by a feeling of gallantry towards the fair authoress, to whose poetic talent and unaffected sensibility we are anxious to give our testimony. We could well have spared the "Preface;" and especially its introductory sentence, which contains a hackneyed apology for publication, (the opinion of " several too partial friends,") and that not well expressed; nevertheless we beg leave to assure Mrs. E. Thomas that her fears of critical castigation, however becoming the character of a lady, are altogether unnecessary. Her genuine pathos and simplicity deserve no inconsiderable admiration. Indeed, we are bound to add our sincere persuasion that our gifted poetess is blessed with talents, which may secure for her a distinguished place in the galaxy of female writers whose works have cast so bright a lustre upon the literary hemisphere of England, when her taste shall have become more perfect, her ear more skilled in harmony, and herself more experienced in the mechanism of composition. We need hardly remark, that of intellectual differences there are none more striking than what respectively characterise the one

sex and the other. The offspring of the male and of the female mind are easily distinguished. If strength be characteristic of the one, elegance is the feature of the other; if vigorous passion mark the former, refined sentiment is the handmaid of the latter; and whilst men rejoice in logical argument, there are in the writings of women a copious flow of eloquence, and an irresistible charm of style, which, however they may fail sometimes to subjugate our reason, are quite sure to captivate our hearts!

The attractions of female literature admit of no question; and least of all will it be permitted us to doubt its charms, when employed in the service of the muses. In this delightful path women seem to walk with a peculiar grace, and their minstrelsy steals over us with a fascinating melody, to which it would be difficult to discover a more faithful resemblance, whether we consider its harmony or its persuasiveness, than the silver sound of the female voice,

"Mild as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes."

The female hand, though destitute of masculine vigour, may be permitted to boast of peculiar skill in gathering native flowers on the precincts of Parnassus; and the odoriferous garlands thence woven by female taste have no parallel, but in the balmy breath of female loveliness! Tender thoughts and melting tones may well be looked for at the hands of the fair, whose susceptibility of heart, and "sweet attractive grace," have made them at once the recipients of our love, and the soothers of our afflictions! But, then, maugre their idiosyncratical" softness," there are occasions when the female mind can appal us with " thoughts that burn," and stir our bosoms with passionate emotion. The power of jealousy, the intenseness of maternal yearning,-the bitterness of unrequited love, the scalding tear of widowed grief,-the withering shame of violated chastity, endow a woman's bosom with an energy not its own; and it is especially in the development of these affections that poetesses have vindicated their claim to the inspiration of Apollo. But our limits forbid us to expatiate in general remarks, and we must, therefore, without further ceremony, introduce our readers to Mrs. Edward Thomas.

Her elegant volume contains seventy-nine miscellaneous pieces, and twelve songs. Where the subjects are so various, he must be a fastidious reader who cannot find something agreeable to his taste;-and he who expects, in such a variety of themes and of metres, to see everything equally good, is as unreasonable as the man who should require all the rooms of a palace to be of the same size, or all the wines at a banquet to be of the same vintage.

"The Magdalen," the fourth of Mrs. Thomas's poems, affords us an opportunity of adorning our pages with a fair specimen of her powers. The appeal of the forlorn and deserted outcast, once so lovely, and now

so abject, to the dear mother, who "wept ecstatic at her birth," is singularly touching; and the bitterness of her repentance might read an awful lesson to female credulity. We give the piece entire.

"Tis shame has dimm'd this rayless, tear-fraught eye,
And stamp'd this fever-spot on my sunk cheeks;
And keen remorse awakes the anguish'd sigh,
That hidden sorrow but too plainly speaks.
How joyous fled my unsuspecting youth!
For I was gay, was beautiful, like thee;
Till falsehood stole the artless guise of truth;
Then basely hurl'd to scorn and infamy!
Could the fond mother but behold me now,
Who wept ecstatic at her darling's birth,
Bereft of all, with death-chill on my brow,
And my sole pillow the unfriendly earth,
Surely a curse from her pale lips would break,
In retribution on this guilty head;
Who home, and peace, and virtue could forsake,
For one who pointed where destruction led!
My mother!-O that venerated name!—

And couldst thou curse in thy distraction wild?
No! though I wrung thee with remorse and shame,
Still hadst thou blest thy poor repentant child;
Though spurn'd by all mankind, to thee still dear,
Those trembling, fond, expanding arms had press'd,
While silent fell compassion's tender tear,

The wandering outcast to thy sorrowing breast!
How oft thy lips thank'd Heaven for its sweet boon,
As, calm in innocence, I smiling lay;

Did nought predict, thy bud of beauty soon,
Allured by vice, would fall its easy prey?
Sweet, gentle mother, thou that pang wert sav'd!
Still memory's dreams revive the warm caress,
That fond affection deeply there engrav'd,

When I was pure, and worthy thee to bless!
O, if thou'rt conscious of my dark misdeed,
If aught impure can reach yon heaven above,
In mercy, mercy, my repentance plead,

And come, an angel wing'd with pardoning love!
Young eyes will gaze on this neglected form,

And read distraction in this haggard face;
Yet, yet, unheed the dark, the louring storm
Soon to o'erwhelm them in a like disgrace!
Could my sad fate but save one trusting heart
From base, deceptive man's insidious snare,
Sweet would it medicate the rankling smart
That aggravates the horror of despair!
Come, meek-eyed Pity! thou that ne'er didst scorn
To drop a tear o'er the sequester'd spot,
Where Folly's child, abandoned and forlorn,
Serenely sleeps, her pain, and grief forgot!
And thou, blest mother, from thy bright abode
To that lone grave descend, and hover near,
To guide my trembling, erring soul to God,
And deprecate the doom I dread to hear!

Pp. 15-17.

We venture to think, that the following stanzas are original, as well as pathetic; and we again take pleasure in transferring the whole piece to our pages, sensible that, in so doing, we give a better sample of the volume before us than what could be had from a mutilated extract. The poem is entitled

TEARS.

There is a tear for every pain;
But oh! how different they!
It gushes from the frenzied brain,
When crime attempts to pray!
It softly falls-a hopeless tear-
By youthful parents shed,
When their first blossom on its bier
Lies wither'd, cold, and dead!
There is a timid, trembling tear,
That veils young beauty's eye,
When first into her conscious ear
Is breath'd affection's sigh!
A bitterer tear that heart conceals,
To cool its throbbing brow,
In secret shed, when time reveals
The falsehood of that vow!

There is a sweet, a grateful tear,
Distils from pity's eye,

As its succ'ring step steals softly near
The couch of misery!

There is a blighting, withering tear
Wrung from indignant pride,
When hate, with cold sarcastic sneer,
Its agonies deride!

There is a tear unseen by all,

The widow's lone eyes shed,
While bending o'er the funeral pall,
Where all her hopes lie dead!

A frantic tear dims the upraised eye,
When gapes the horrid tomb :
Sin contemplates the awful sky,
To deprecate its doom!

There is a bright, triumphant tear,

Steals from the Christian's eyes,

When closing on death's welcome bier,

To open in the skies!

And, oh! there is another tear,

All other tears above ;

"Tis, when repentance is sincere,

The tear of pardoning love!-Pp. 66-69.*

"The Burnt Love-letter" we have marked with our professional opelos, and recommend it to the perusal of such of our readers as delight in pretty and tender thoughts beautifully expressed.

"The Boy and his Mother" is remarkable for the affectionate tone of