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BOOK VII.

DESCRIPTIVE. PIECES.

CHAPTER I.

SENSIBILITY.

DEAR Senfibility! fource inexhaufted of all that's preci ous in our joys, or coftly in our forrows! thou chainest thy martyr down upon his bed of straw, and it is thou who 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 sad and sickening mo- ments," my foul shrinks back upon herself, and startles at deftruction". -mere pomp of words !-but that I feel fome generous joys and generous cares beyond myselfall comes from thee, great, great Senforium 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 fymptoms, and blames the weather for the diforder of his nerves. Thou giveft a portion of it fometimes to the roughest peasant who traverses the bleakest mountains. He finds the lacerated lamb of another's flock. This moment 1 beheld him leaning with his head against his crook,-with piteous inclination looking down upon it-Oh! had I come one moment fooner!it bleeds to death-his gentle heart bleeds with it.

Peace to thee, generous swain! I fee thou walkest off with anguifh-but thy joys fhall 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 II.

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 fweet and gracious goddess, whom all in public or in private worship, whose taste is grateful, and ever will be fo, till nature herself shall change-no tint of words can spot thy fnowy mantle, or chymic power turn thy fceptre into iron-with thee to fmile upon him as he eats his cruft, the swain is happier than his monarch, from whofe court thou art exiled. Gracious Heaven! grant me but health, thou great beftower of it, and give me but this fair goddess as my companion; and shower down thy mitres, if it seems good unto thy divine providence, upon thofe heads which are aching for them.

Pursuing these ideas, I fat down close by my table, and leaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure to my felf the miseries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and fo I gave full fcope to my imagination.

I was going to begin with the millions of my fellowcreatures born to no inheritance but flavery; 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 diftract me

-I 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 wafted away with long expectation and confinement, and felt what kind of fickness of the heart it was which arifes from hope deferred. Upon looking nearer, I faw him pale and feverish in thirty

years the western breeze had not once fanned his bloodhe had seen no fun, 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 fitting upon the ground upon a little ftraw, in the 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 paffed there he had one of thefe little fticks in his hand, and with a rusty nail he was etching another day of mifery to add to the heap. As I darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye towards the door, then caft it down-fhook 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 ftick upon the bundle-He gave a deep figh-1 faw the iron enter into his foul-1 burft into tears-I could not fuftain the picture of confinement which my fancy had drawn.

STERNE.

CHAPTER III.

CORPORAL TRIM's ELOQUENCE.

My young mafter in London is dead, faid Obadiah-Here is fad news, Trim, cried Sufannah, wiping her eyes as Trim ftepped into the kitchen,mafter Bobby is dead.

I lament for him from my heart and my foul, said Trim, fetching a fighpoor creature! poor boy! poor gentleman!

He was alive last Whitfuntide, faid the coachman.. Whitfuntide! alas! cried Trim, extending his right arm, and falling inftantly into the fame attitude in which he

read the fermon,-what is Whitfuntide, Jonathan, (for that was the coachman's name) or Shrovetide, or any tide or time paft, to this? Are we not here now, continu ed the corporal, (striking the end of his stick perpendicu lar upon the floor, fo as to give an idea of health and ftability) and are we not (dropping his hat upon the ground) gone! in a moment!It was infinitely ftriking! Sufannah burft into a flood of tears. We are not stocks

and ftones Jonathan, Obadiah, the cook-maid, all melted. The foolish fat fcullion herself, who was scouring a fish kettle upon her knees, was roufed with it.whole kitchen crowded about the corporal.

The

"Are we not here now,—and gone! in a moment ?”. There was nothing in the fentence-it was one of your felf-evident truths we have the advantage of hearing every day; and if Trim had not trufted 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 Jump of clay had been kneaded into the crown of it. Nothing could have expreffed the fentiment of mortality, of which it was the type and forerunner, like it; his hand feemed to vanish from under it, it fell dead, the corporal's eye fixed upon it, as upon a corpfe, and Sufannah burst into a flood of tears.

CHAPTER IV.

THE MAN OF ROSS.

STERNE.

ALL our praifes why fhould lords engrofs? Rife, honest mufe! and fing the Man of Rofs : Pleas'd Vaga echoes through her winding bounds, And rapid Severn hoarfe applaufe refounds.

Who hung with woods yon mountain's fultry brow?
From the dry rock who bade the water's flow?
Not to the fkies in useless columns toft,

Or in proud falls magnificently lost,

But clear and artless, pouring through the plain
Health to the fick, and folace to the fwain.
Whofe caufeway parts the vale with fhady rows?
Whofe feats the weary traveller repofe?

Who taught that heav'n directed spire to rife?
"The Man of Rofs," each lifping babe replies.
Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread!
The Man of Rofs divides the weekly bread :
He feeds you alm's-house, neat, but void of state,
Where age and want fit fmiling at the gate :
Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans bleft,
The young who labour and the old who reft.
Is any fick? The Man of Rofs relieves,
Prefcribes, attends, the med'cine makes, and gives..
Is there a variance? Enter but his door,
Balk'd are the courts, and conteft is no more.
Defpairing quacks with curfes fled the place,
And vile attornies, now a useless race.
Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue
What all fo with but want the power to do!
Oh, fay, what fums that generous hand supply ♪
What mines to fwell that boundless charity?

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

And what! no monument, infcription, flone!.. 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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