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the miferies 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 distract 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 blood-he had feen no fun, no moon in all that time-nor had the voice of friend or kinfinan breathed through his lattice. His children—

--Bur 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 fmall flicks 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 rufty 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-shook 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 figh-I faw the iron enter into his foul-I burst into

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tears.

tears I could not sustain the picture of confinement which

my fancy had drawn.

STERNE.

CHAP. III.

CORPORAL TRIM's ELOQUENCE.

MY young mafter in London is dead, faid

-M

Obadiah

-HERE is fad news, Trim, cried Susannah, 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 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 pait, 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 stability) 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 stocks and ftones-Jonathan, Obadiah, the cook-maid, all melted.-The foolish fat fcullion herself, who was fcouring a fish-kettle upon her knees, was roufed 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 one of your

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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 "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.

CHAP. IV.

THE MAN OF ROSS.

ALL our praifes why fhould Lords engross?

Rife, honeft Mufe! and fing the MAN of Ross:
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 waters flow?
Not to the skies in ufelefs 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.
Whofe caufeway parts the vale with shady rows?
Whofe feats the weary traveller repose?

Who taught that heav'n directed spire to rise?
"The MAN of Ross," each lifping babe replies.

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Behold

Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread!
The MAN of Ross divides the weekly bread:
He feeds yon alms-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.
fick? The MAN of Ross relieves,
Prescribes, attends, the med'cine makes, and gives.
Is there a variance? Enter but his door,

Is any

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 swell 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 ftars! hide diminish'd rays.
your

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.

СНА Р. V.

THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN.

TEAR yonder copfe, where once the garden fmil'd,

NEAR

And ftill 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 wish'd to change his place;
Unpractis'd he to fawn, or feek 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 rise.
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 guest,
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 his fire, and talk'd the night away;
Wept o'er h's wounds, or tales of forrow done,

Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won.
Pleas'd with his guests, 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

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