the miseries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and fo I gave full scope 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 single captive, and having firft fhut him up in his dungeon, I then looked through the twilight of his grated door to take his picture.

I BE HELD his body half wafted 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 saw him pale and feverish: in thirty years the western breeze had not once fanned his blood-he had feen no fun, no moon in all that time-nor had the voice of friend or kinfman 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 difmal days and nights he had paffed there he had one of thefe little flicks 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-I burst into

tears

tears I could not sustain the picture of confinement which

-HERE is fad news, Trim, cried Sufannah, wiping her eyes as Trim stepped into the kitchen,-mafter Bobby is dead.

I LAMENT for him from my heart and my foul, faid Trim, fetching a figh-poor creature ;-poor boy?-poor gentleman!

He was alive laft 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, continued the corporal, (ftriking the end of his ftick perpendicular 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 burst into a flood of tears. We are not ftocks and ftones-Jonathan, Obadiah, the cook-maid, all melted. The foolish fat fcullion herfelf, who was fcouring a fifh-kettle upon her knees, was roused with it.-The whole kitchen crouded about the corporal.

“Are we not here now,-and gone in a moment ?'' There was nothing in the fentence-it was on of your

Telf-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 "paufing, before he pronounced the word) gone! in a "moment?" The defcent of the hat was as if a heavy lump 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.

STERNE.

CHA P. IV.

THE MAN OF ROSS.

A

LL our praises why fhould Lords engrofs?

Rise, honest Muse! and fing the MAN of Ross
Pleas'd Vaga echoes through her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarse applause refounds.

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

Or in proud falls magnificently lost,

But clear and artlefs, pouring through the plain
Health to the fick, and folace to the fwain.
Whose causeway parts the vale with fhady rows?
Whofe feats the weary traveller repose?
Who taught that heav'n directed spire to rife?

The MAN of Ross," each lifping babe replies.

Behold

Behold the market-place with poor o'erfpread!
The MAN of Ross divides the weekly bread :
He feeds yon alms-house, neat, but void of state,
Where age and want fit smiling at the gate :
Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans bleft,
The young who labour and the old who rest.
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 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 wish, but want the power to do!
Oh fay, what fums that gen'rous 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, blufh! proud Courts, withdraw your blaze!
Ye little ftars! hide your diminish'd rays.

And what! no monument, infcription, stone ?
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:
Go fearch it there, where to be born and die,
Of rich and poor makes all the history;
Enough, that Virtue fill'd the space between ;
Prov'd by the ends of being to have been.

POPE.

CHAP.

CHA P. V.

THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN.

EAR yonder copfe, where once the garden fmil'd, And still where many a garden flower grows wild ; There, where a few torn fhrubs the place difclofe, The village preacher's modeft manfion rofe. A man he was, to all the country dear, And paffing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wifh'd to change his place; Unpractis'd he to fawn, or feck for power, By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, More fkill'd to raise the wretched than to rife. His houfe was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wanderings, but reliev'd their pain, The long remember'd beggar was his gueft, Whofe beard defcending fwept his aged breaft; The ruin'd fpendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd; The broken foldier, kindly bade to stay; Sate by the fire, and talk'd the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of forrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and fhow'd how fields were won. Pleas'd with his grefts, the good man learn'd to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits, or their faults to fcan, His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And even his failings lean'd to Virtue's fide;

But