can't say my caution never permits me to obtrude opinion-I never pry into the secrets of others. These remarks she concluded with the most confident assurance of our indubitable assent, and then launched forth in the same breath in a tirade about the times.

"O dear, must tell you-E. called upon me t'other day soliciting charity for a poor family in extreme wanthad just been to ascertain their real situation-the wife confined to her bed, or rather heap of straw-every moveable sold to support naturetheir children begging most piteously for bread-without covering to protect them from the biting cold-they too in sickness-the husband out of employ-ill-in fine, all driven to the last extremity of want. Well, I gave him a trifle for their immediate necessities, told him to call again:-could you suppose it?-all an imposture-my friend last night detected the idle jade in a state of intoxication-there's for you. Charity indeed-to be thus imposed upon! However, it shall be a warning to my credulity in future."

Thus she exhausts her breath in the extreme desire to impart all the marvellous within the radii of her extended circle, labouring with inward exultation, in the utmost confidence of her superior accomplishments and information: entertaining us, as she very naturally presumed, with every iota of news that had transpired in her neighbourhood, where she is held up as a great prodigy, with the additional compliment of being an acute and discerning woman."

We could be content to hear and even admire all these exudations of so fertile an intellect, were it not for certain doubts pervading the mind as to the degree of truth due to these high-coloured drawings; for we have at times unfortunately discovered,

sur

My children too appeared quite electrified by the astounding shocks of her eloquence. Fixed in one position, as statues-dumb, with their little hands crossed, mouths wide open, eyes keenly attentive to the perpetual motion of the glib organ of speech, they dared not on any consideration move from the magic circle of her witchery, till her exit dissolved the enchantment, and set them free. Thus, Sir, are we at certain times situated, which, to a person of sedate habits, reflective disposition, and withal a lover of retirement, is but a few degrees removed from the pleasure of being tormented to death by the ingenious mechanism of the Inquisition, or enjoying the airy whirl of the quick revolving wheel at the place of execution. You, Sir, I am sure will compassionate my condition; and if perchance this should meet the eye of any individuals gifted with such rare endowments, and should be found in the slightest degree useful to their forming a just estimation of those talents, and point out a right distribution of them, the sincere wish of your obedient servant will be obtained.

CHRISTOPHER CONTEMPLATIVE. Dec. 9, 1823.

HINTS TO SOCIAL PARTIES.

No person but a blockhead proves tedious to a company. A man of the world presently comprehends whether he ought to stay or go; and knows to a moment the time it is fit for him to leave those who wish him at a distance. Nor is the loss which our departure occasions of much importance; for if we were seriously to consider how uninteresting, frivolous,

and puerile we generally are in ordinary conversation, we should be ashamed either to speak or to listen, and perhaps condemn ourselves to a perpetual silence.

The spirit of polite conversation does not so much consist in shewing we have some wit, as in behaving in such a manner that others may think they have some themselves. He that goes out of your company well pleased with himself, and with his own parts, is perfectly pleased with you. Men do not love so much to admire others, but they are disposed to draw approbation themselves, and chuse not so much to be instructed, as to be

applauded. The most delicate pleasure is that of contriving to please others.

interest comes too late to be the cause of his actions.

Foreign Traits of Benevolence. The opulent citizens of Dresden having formed themselves into an association to succour humanity in distress, determined also to furnish work to the poor of that city and electorate. These generous personages having exhausted their fund, voluntarily stripped themselves of their jewels, pictures, and other objects of curiosity, taste, and attachment, with which them with new resources to gratify they made a lottery, that supplied

their benevolence.

ing, by swearing and repeated oaths. An honest man who says yes or no, deserves to be believed. His charac

ter swears for him, gives credit to what he says, and makes every body trust him. He who is incessantly affirming that he is a man of honour and integrity, and wishing that he may suffer all the evil he would do to others, and swearing to make you believe that he is sincere in such a wish, does not make a cunning use of the mask of honesty. Dec. 15, 1823.

THE BENEVOLENT MAN.

A BENEVOLENT man is an honest one: and he who means to be honest, must determine to be independent; he must be no man's retainer, and allow no shackle to be thrown over him, either of interest or affection, that may interrupt the free circulation of his affections. If a man of fortune, he will put no improper restraint on his dependents; if he possess not fortune, he will endeavour to maintain by industry what cannot always be obtained by riches. He will be thankful for civilities, but will depend on his own endeavours. He is heartily desirous of doing good to mankind, and evinces the natural tendency of his disposition, as ability enables, or opportunity offers. He promotes the happiness of others, before reason has finished her cool calculations; and hence sordid

The

was produced, and her master offered to divide it. Those who were very poor, but in a capacity to work, would the whole should be distributed among not touch a farthing, but insisted that such of the relations as were old, decrepit, and past labour. Yarmouth, July, 1823.

POETRY.

A PARAPHRASE OF PSALM CIV.

AWAKE, my glory! reason, memory, wake!
To sing Jehovah, all my powers awake!
Amazing majesty, O God, is thine,
And peerless strength and honour round thee
As in thy garment hid of dazzling light,
shine,
High thron'd thou sitt'st in heaven's eternal
height.

All heaven, earth, hell, are naked to thine eyes.

[skies, O'er earth thou hang'st sublime the starry Like a wide azure curtain wrought with gold, Pavilion great, and glorious to behold. Firm on the water-floods that float in air,

Thy chambers stand, their beams are founded

there;

Thou robedst earth with ocean, till the flood
O'er all her hills, in crystal billows stood;
At thy rebuke it fled-the waves gave way,
They heard thy thunder, and refus'd to stay;
Affrighted o'er the bills and dales they sweep
To their own place, the caverns of the deep,
Whose sandy shores they ne'er can pass again,
Drowning all cattle, creeping things, and men.
From craggy rocks that crown the barren
hills,

He sendeth to the vales a thousand rills;

Wild asses drink, and all the beasts of prey; And there the fowls in verdant branches play, Pleas'd, to the murmuring brooks that run along,

To join the softer music of their song.

He from his chambers waters all the bills, And all the earth with plenteous goodness fills. See how he bids, his tender care to show, For cattle grass, for man all herbs, to grow; To cheer the sick he plants the generous vine, He bids the olive make our faces shine, Makes the glad fields the poor revive with bread;

So vast his grace on sinners hourly shed.

The trees of God are full of sap. They grow On Lebanon, whose tops are crown'd with

snow;

There the tall cedars planted by thy hand, Wave their green foliage at thy high command. There all the fowls of heaven repair for rest. There the wild stork, returning, builds her nest;

That skill divine which teaches her to roam, Marks out the lofty fir-trees as her home, While crags and cliffs the wild goats seek in flocks,

As conies run for refuge to the rocks;

Heaven having thus, for all his creatures, made From foes a shelter, from the storm a shade.

He bids the moon for seasons fill her horn. The ploughers plough, the reapers reap the

corn.

Each opening morn he bids the sun arise, The waken'd sun rolls onward through the skies;

Then darkness comes sublime, and, lo! 'tis night,

And famish'd tribes, which hate the golden light,

Creep from their horrid holes till dawn of day; And roaring ask for food, and snuff the prey! The sun awakes, and now they seek their den, And frighted leave the world to peaceful men, Who singing from their couch to labour go, And reap the harvest, or the harvest sow.

O Lord, how manifold! how great! how small,

Thy works!-in wisdom thou hast made them all!

The earth is full of thy rich deeds and thee;
So is this great wide sea which now I see!
There pond'rous creeping things and tiny dwell,
In numbers vast, too vast for tongue to tell!
There go the ships: there thou hast made to
play,

And spout their mighty raptures to the day,
Leviathans, sole lords of all the main,
And vassals only of thy boundless reign.
These wait on thee, and ask thy hand to give
The daily sustenance by which they live;
No. 61,-VOL. VI.

Thy open hand, stretch'd out with vast supplies,
Their full desire of good to none denies.
Yet when thou hid'st thy smiling face, the deep
Is troubled sore, and ocean seems to weep;
Thou tak'st their breath, unnumber'd millions
die,

And to their dust return'd, in watery graves they lie.

But when thy quick'ning Spirit walks abroad,
Created nature feels the present God.
Their new-made powers the scaly tribes om-
ploy,

Hills, woods, and valleys feel thy quick'ning From pole to pole all ocean tastes the joy; breath,

And wake to vernal bloom from winter's death.

Thy glory, wondrous God, shall never fade, Creation trembles at thy look, thine ire And thou shalt joy in all thy hands have made! Dissolves the lofty hills in liquid fire; At thy rebuke they all consume away, And their expiring smoke conceals the day. I'll praise him still while endless ages last. Him will I sing.-And when this life is past, In heavenly musing sweet, my soul shall dwell Fast by his throne, while sinners sink to hell, Proud sons of Belial, who shall be no more!Praise HIM, my soul; HIM, kings of earth, ADORE!

Gravesend, Feb. 17, 1823.

A. W.

CAPTAIN PARRY, AND HIS LATE EXPEDITION.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE IMPERIAL MAGAZINE.
GUID editorial Sir, I thank ye
Ye were na wi' my musie crankie,
Nor ca'd ye her wee bairn a monkey,
An' guid for naithing;

Tho' (as weans aye are) something fankie
In duds an' claithing.

Now dinna tak it to yoursel
That I suppos'd you'd use it ill;
But editors sae aft repel

Wi' wrathfa' names,
An' brawl (e'en some wha bear the bell)
Like scaulding dames.

You ken it's na mysel I'm meanin';
There I hae sma' cause o' complainin';
But when a writer-chiel's been strainin'
A point to please ye,

Its na just cannie to disdain him,
Unless he tease ye.

But wi sic clatter, I'm neglectin'
The matter I'm to write respectin';
Its na about the Spaniards fechtin',
The snoolin' knaves!
But o' the chiels we fear't were wreck't in
The polar waves.

The braw renowned Captain Parry,
King George's plen'potentiary,
Wha gaed to beg frae his Maist Furry
An' Bearish Highness,

A passage thro' his territory,

Wi' usual finesse.

This alludes to the piece on Irving, in No. 59. E

Unlike the lads, wha stout on limbs up,
An'
gaun wi' gifts wad mak large sums up,
Wi' auld Ding-dong to mak their crumbs up,
Thought it a hardship

To knock their heads, and cock their -ms up
Afore his warship;

He, an' his men, na just sae nice,
Dirlt their noddles gin the ice,
Aiblins as aft as wad suffice,

In low prostration;

To be stiff non-conformists twice

Wad hurt the nation.

An' it's but right, an' hands wi' grace,
To mind the customs o' a place;
But if ye wisst, to keep your pace

Withouten slidderin'

'S na just sae easy, in the case

We're now considerin'.

An' it's na snoolin'! ding me! na:
For if Sir Bruin rais'd his paw,
They gather'd roun' him, ane an' a',
An' wi' a devel

Soon buire the rascal to the wa',
An' made him civil.

But och! we're sairly disappointed!
To learn they could na get ayont it,
The norland pole: (they'd na been stinted
In pay, I'm sure,)

An' hae na in three simmers join't it
Wi' Britain's power.

Ye voyageurs! we aye did reckon,
By this ye wad possession taken,
An' weel could tell, how far 'twas stickin'
Out frae the base o't,

An' if it be a guid strang thick ane,
An' brought a piece o't.

Now had ye sped in your intentions,
(Leeze me! but ye wad a' had pensions!)
An' wi' you brought the true dimensions,
That great, an' gran'

Steam-engine, wale o' a' inventions!

Wad been in han'.

An' when 'twas done, ye wad hae staw'd it In's monie ships as weel could haud it, Whilk, havin' raught the pole weel-loaded, Ye'd disembark it,

An' takin' care o' bein' scanded,

Set up an' wark it.

Disputes upo' it wad be en'less,
But the earth's axis just a spindle is,
An' the north pole its upper handle is,
Whilk, weel bored thro',
Ye'd fasten'd, like a walie win❜lass,
This engine to.

Then under our guid King's direction,
An' the best engineers' inspection,
Ye'd use it for our lan's protection,
Gin every nation,

An' wow! my lads! but ye wad mak soon
An alteration!

An' sud auld Brakmou Makgab-rusti,
Or France, or onie power, turn crusty,
We'd sen' you ward, an' ye wad, lusty,
Set to your wark,

An' twa-three turns hae gied 'em, just aye
Into the dark.

An' still's the light was comin' to them,
Ye'd turn, an' turn, an' still 'twad lea'e them:
Weel-pleas'd, then, thrangin, wad we see 'em,
Wi' prayers maist fervent,

That we a spunk o' light wad gie them!
Our humble servant.

They'd come frae a' the courts o' Europe,
An' Africa, an' Asia 'd spur up,

An' ye douce Yankee lads! your war-whoop
Wad lose it's savour,

An' ye'd sen' your ambassador ap
To carry favour.

Then this wad offer heaps o' money
To turn him to a place that's sunny,
An' that, large gear to be our croney.—
Afore thy fa',

Had thou secur'd the pole, dead Boney!
Thou'd waur't us a'.

The earth's four quarters, in thy quarrels,
Thou wad devour'd like butter'd farls!
An' then hae rais'd loud greetin' skirls,
Whan it was done,

(Like him wha gree't for ither warls)
To get the moon!

We're sairly bauk'd, an' sairly too
Was bauk'd the Quarterly Review;
Four months ago, I'll wad it's true,
Our poet-laureate,

Or ither chiel, wha gets burgoo
By clarkin' for it,

Tauld straught aff han' the speed they'd mak,
An' just the time the ice wad crack,
An' pointed out the vera track
O' their return,

Down the Pacific, wi' a tack

An roun' Cape Horn.

RUTH.-A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT.

PERSONS.-Men: Boaz, Men of Bethlehem, Reapers. Women: Naomi, Ruth, Orpah,

Jemima, Women of Bethlehem.

ACT FIRST.-Scene Third.

Before a cottage in Moab.-Evening.
NAOMI, (alone.)

AFFLICTION

Have I known; and waters of that bitter spring
My heart has drunk. I am a widow, yea,
A childless woman. Sorrow has pursued
Me wretched, since at first from my own land
I parted; then, supported by the hand
Of him, who was the husband of my youth,
Elimelech-who, tho' he had declined
The zenith of his days, was even then
But in a green old age, as a tall tree,
All verdant, yet untouch'd by stormy winds,
Unscath'd by lightnings, and unwither'd by
The fiery hand of drought. And tho' the dearth
Had driv'n us from our native Bethlehem,
Into a land of strangers, far away
From the all holy tabernacle, where
The God of Judah, the Eternal God
Deign'd to unfold his glory, and to shew
To list'ning myriads, his benign decrees;
And tho' around us idol temples fill'd
With blind and senseless worshippers; and tho'
None knew the God of Israel, or ador'd;
Yet was our humble dwelling-place a fane
Hallow'd to the Eternal Elohim:

Our hearts his altars, and from them arose
The flame of adoration and of love,
The incense of humility and praise;
A sacrifice not unaccepted, e'en
Amid the holy host of offerings, which throng
The adamantine gates of heaven, and come
To the bright seat of the Eternal King:
Our voices were the music of his shrine;
Our hands the servants, and our willing fect
The messengers of that his temple low.
Then were we blest, and by connubial love
We solac'd each the other, while around
Our quiet home, our sons maturing grew,
To bless (as we then fondly hop'd) the time,
When, down the vale of life's declining years,
We hand in hand should travel peacefully,
Till, in the silent grave, we laid us down,
And mixt at last our wedded dust together,
As our souls had long been join'd.

Majestic as the cedar in its youth;
Of daughters, lovely as the virgin rose.
For they were wedded, in the nuptial bond,
Where is the form with Orpah can compare!
To maidens fair as Moab ever saw ;-
Where is the breast that e'er can rival Ruth
In tenderness, susceptibility,

And fervour of affection! But in vain
Were they united, for no offspring blest
Their nuptial bed. Their names no infant lisp'd,
No progeny arose to tell of them
And added, Parent, with endearing smile:
To after years. *

*

** Behold, I am bereaved

Of all my hopes. My lovely sons have sunk
Down into darkness, and the silent grave,
To feed the worm that riots on the dead,
And mix their kindred ashes with their sires;
And I am left to wander thro' the world,
Afflicted, and neglected, and forlorn!

(Enter Buth.) And, oh! my daughter, why did Heav'n refuse To pour destruction on this aged head? Why spare these hairs grown gray with grief and toil?

This cheek all wrinkled by the cutting winds
Of sorrow? furrow'd by the tears of woe?
Why was not this enfeebled body sunk
Down to the dust, before these eyes had seen
Why was I spared to feel the bitterness
The final ruin of my stricken house?
Of widowhood; the double bitterness
Of childless destitution? Why alone
Was I delivered from the darts of death,
Which smote my husband, and my manly sons,
Who, in the bloom of life, their cheeks yet
flush'd

With youthful hues, and their limbs vigorous,
In all the strength of manhood's days mature,
Were suddenly cut off from life and joy?—
Blow on, ye winds of sorrow, then, and let
Your blasts be driv'n with double force upon
My head devoted, till my heart shall break,
That heart already frozen by the hand-
The icy hand of woe, too hard to weep
Over the graves of beings, who were twin'd
So close around it, ne'er to be disjoin'd
By time, or age; by death, or by the tomb!

RUTH.

My mother, calm thy sorrows, nor let grief
Make life a burden to thy woe-worn soul,
And death the only refuge for thy heart.
I've heard thee often say that Elohim,
The God of Israel, hath in safety led
His people thro' the darkest day of woe;
That he is kind to all who trust in him,
And that his mercy favours and protects
The souls who love his name.

should'st thou

Then why

Repine at his decrees, and vainly think
That thou are quite forgotten, or that now
His love for ever hath abandon'd thee?
Behold, the glowing sun hath set, behind
The western hills of Midian; now the shades
Of evening steal upon our humble cot,
And while the night invites us to repose,
And thus affords a time for rest, and gives
Silence and sleep to cheer our mourning hearts
In sweet forgetfulness of all our grief,
Learn from this token, that the glorious God
Is still the same, all merciful and kind,
That he the widow's cause defends in lands
Of banishment, and that he is by thee
More to be loved than husband, sons, or wealth;