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DESCRIPTIVE PIECES:

CHAPTER I.

SENSIBILITY. Dear Sensibility! source inexhausted of all that's preciaous in our joys, or costly in our sorrows! thou chainest thy martyr down upon his bed of straw, and it is thou wlio lifteft him up to Heaven. Eternal fountain of our feelings! It is here I trace thee, and this is thy divinity which ftirs within me: not, that in some fad and sickening mo- ments, .“ my soul shrinks back upon herself, and startles at destruction” -mere pomp of words !--but that I feel some generous joys and generous cares beyond myself all comes from thee, great, great Sensorium of the world!: which vibrates, if a . hair of our head but falls upon the ground, in the remotest desert of thy.creation. Touched : with thee, Eugenius draws my curtain when I languish; hears

my tale of symptoms, and blames the weather for the disorder of his nerves. Thou gives a portion of it sometimes to the roughest peasant who traverses the bleakest mountains. He finds the lacerated lamb of another's flock. This moment I beheld him leaning with his head against his crook, -with piteous inclination looking down upon

it-Oh! had I come one moment sooner ! it bleeds to death his gentle heart bleeds with it.

Peace to thee, generous swain! I see thou walkest off with anguish--but thy joys shall balance it; for happy is thy cottage, and happy. is the sharer of it, and happy are the lambs which sport about you..

STERNE

CHAPTER 11.

LIBERTY AND SLAVERY.

Disguise thyself as thou wilt, ftill Slavery ! ftill thou art a bitter draught; and though thousands in all ages have been made to drink of thee, thou art no lefs bitter on that account. It is thou, Liberty, thrice sweet and gracious goddess, whom all in public or in private worship, whose taste is grateful, and ever will be so, till nature herself Ahall change-no tint of words can fpot thy snowy mantle, or chymic power turn thy sceptre into iron--with thee to smile upon him as he eats his cruft, the fwain is happier than his monarch, from whose court thou art exiled. Gracious Heaven ! grant me but health, thou great bestower of it, and give me but this fair goddess as my coinpanion ; and shower down thy mitres, if it seeins good unto thy divine providence, upon those heads which are aching for them.

Pursuing these ideas, I sat down close by my table, and Jeaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure to my . self the miseries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and so I gave full scope to my imagination.

I was going to begin with the millions of my fellowa creatures born to no inheritance but slavery; but finding, however affecting the picture was, that I could not bring it nearer me, and that the multitude of fad groups in it did but distract' me

- took a fingle captive, and having first fhut him up in his dungeon, I then looked through the twilight of his grated door to take his picture,

I beheld his body half wasted away with long expectation and confinement, and felt what kind of fickness of the heart it was which arises from hope deferred. Upon looking nearer, I faw him pale and feverish: in thirty

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years

the western breeze had not once fanned his blood he had seen no fue, no moon in all that time--nor had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed through his lattice. His children

But here my heart began to bleed--and I was forced to go on with another part of the portrait.

He was sitting upon the ground upon a little straw, inthe furtheft corner of his dungeon, which was alternately his chair and bed ; a little calendar of small sticks were laid at the head, notched all over with the dismal days and nights he had passed there--he had one of these little sticks in his hand, and with a rusty nail he was etching another day of misery to add to the heap. As I darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye towards the door, then cast it down-hook his head, and went on with his work of affliction. I heard his chains upon his legs, as he turned his body to lay his little stick upon the bundle-He gave a deep lighfaw the iron enter into his soul burft into tears- could not sustain the picture of confinement which my fancy had drawn.

STERNE.

CHAPTER III.

CORPORAL TRIM's ELOQUENCE.

My young master in London is dead, faid Obadiah: --Here is sad news, 'Trim, cried Susannah, wiping her eyes as Trim stepped into the kitchen,---master Bobby is dead.

I lament for him from my heart and my soul, said Trim, fetching a light-poor creature ! poor boy ! poor gentleman !

He was alive last Whitsuntide, said the coachman.Whitsuntide! alas ! cried Triin, extending his right arm, and falling instantly into the same attitude in which he

tead the sermon,-- what is Whitsuntide, Jonathan, (for that was the coachman's name) or Shrovetide, or any tide or time past, to this? Are we not here now, continued the corporal, (striking the end of his fick perpendicu: lar upon the floor, so as to give an idea of health and liability) and are we: not (dropping his hat upon the ground) gone! in a moment !t was infinitely striking! Susannah burst into a flood of tears. We are not stocks and stones-- Jonathan, Obadiah, the cook-maid, all melted. The foolith fat scullion herself, who was scouring a filh kettle upout her knees, was roused with it. The whole kitchen crowded about the corporal.

“ Are we not here now,-and gone! in a moment ?"There was nothing in the sentence-it was one of your self-evident truths we have the advantage of hearing every day ; and if Trim had not trusted more to his hat than his head, he had made nothing at all of it.

“ Are we not here now, continued the corporal, and are we not”? (dropping his hat plump upon the ground and pausing, before he pronounced the word) “ gone! in a moment ?" The descent of the hat was as if a heavy lump. of clay had been kneaded into the crown of it.Nothing could have expressed the sentiment of mortality, of which it was the type and forerunner, like it; his hand feemed to vánish from under it, it fell dead, the corporal's eye fixed upon it, as, upon a corpse, and Susannahi burst into a flood of tears.

STERNE.

CHAPTER IV.
THE MAN OF ROSS.

All our praises why should lords engrofs ?" Rile, honeit muse ! and fing the Man of Ross : Pleas'd Vaga echoes through her winding bounds, And rapid Severa hoarfe applaufe resounds.

Who hung with woods yon mountain's fultry brow?
From the dry rock who bade the water's flow?
Not to the skies in useless columns toit,
Or in proud falls magnificently lost,
But clear and artless, pouring through the plain
Healtła to the sick, and folace to the swain.
Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows?
Whose seats the weary traveller repose ?
Who taught that heav'n directed spire to rise ?
" The Man of Ross,” each lisping babe replies.

Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread!
The Man of Rofs divides the weekly bread :
He feeds yon alm's-house, neat, but void of state,
Where

age and want fit fimiling at the gate :
Him portion'id maids, apprentic'd orphans blest,
The young who labour and the old who reft.
Is any fick ? The Man of Ross relieves,
Prescribes, attends, the med'cine makes, and gives,
Is there a variance ? Enter but his door,
Balk'd are the courts, and contest is no more,
Despairing quacks with curses fled the place,
And vile atornies, now a useless race.
Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue
What all so wish but want the power to do !
Oh, say, what sums that generous hand supply?
What mines to (well that boundless charity?

Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear,
This man possess'd five hundred pounds a year.
Blush grandeur, blush ! proud courts withdraw your blaze!
Ye littie stars hide your diminish'd rays.

And what! no monument, inscription, fone! His race, his form, his name almost unknown ! Who builds a church to God, and not to fame, Will never mark the marble with his name :

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