BOOK VII. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. CHAP. I. SENSIBILITY. EAR Senfibility! fource inexhaufted of all that's precious in our joys, or costly in our forrows! thou chaineft 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 fad and fickening moments, " my foul shrinks back upon herself, and startles at destruction' mere pomp of words!--but that I feel fome generous joys and generous cares beyond myself- all comes from thee, great, great Senforium of the world! which vibrates, if a hair of our head but falls upon the ground, in the remoteft de fart 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 rough eft eft peafant who traverses the bleakeft mountains.-He finds the lacerated lamb of another's flock. This moment I beheld him leaning with his head againft 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 fwain! I fee thou walkeft off with ánguish- 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. CHA P. II. LIBERTY STERNE. AND SLAVERY. D ISGUISE thyfelf 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 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 smile upon him as he eats his cruft, the fwain is happier than his monarch, from whofe court thou art exiled, Gracious Heaven! grant me but health, theu great Bestower of it, and give me but this fair goddess as my companion; and fhower 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 myself 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 diftra&t 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 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 fmall flicks were laid at the head, notched all over with the difmal 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 ftick upon the bundle-He gave a deep figh-I faw the iron enter into his foul-I burst into tears tears -I could not sustain the picture of confinement which my fancy had drawn. STERNE. CHA P. III. CORPORAL M TRIM'S ELOQUENCE. Y young mafter in London is dead, faid -HERE is fad news, Trim, cried Sufannah, wiping her eyes as Trim ftepped into the kitchen, -mafter Bobby is dead. ILAMENT for him from my heart and my foul, faid Trim, fetching a fighPoor creature!-poor boy! poor gen tleman! 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 stick 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 flocks 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 one of your M 3 felf felf-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 vanifh from under it, it fell dead, the corporal's eye fixed upon it, as upon a corps,-and Sufannah burft into a flood of tears. STERNE. CHA P. IV. THE MAN OF ROSS. A LL our praises why fhould Lords engross? Rife, honeft Mufe! and fing the MAN of Ross: But clear and artlefs, pouring through the plain Behold |