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no sun, 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, in the farthest corner of his dungeon, which was alternately his chair and bed : a little calendar of small sticks was laid at the head, notched all over with the dismal days and niglats 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 toward the door, then cast 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 sigh-I saw the iron enter into his soul-I burst into tears I could not-suştain the picture of confinement, which my fancy had drawn.

STERNE.

CHAP. III.

CORPORAL TRIM'S ELOQUENCE. _My

-My young master in London is dead, said Obadialı

-Here is sad news, Trim, cried Susannah, wiping her eyes as Trim stepped into the kitchen-master Bobby is dead.

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

He was alive last Whitsuntide, said the coachman. Whitsuntide! alas! cried Trim, extending his right arm, and falling instantly into the same attitude in which he read the sermon,—what is Whitsuntide, Jonathan, (for that was the coachnran'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 stick perpendicularly upon the floor, so as to give an idea of health and stability), and are we

not (dropping his hat upon the ground) gone! in a moinent! -It was infinitely striking! Susannah burst into a flood of tears—We are not stocks and stones—Jonathan, Obadiah, the cook-maid, all melted. The foolish fat scullion herself, who was scouring a fish kettle upon 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 couid have expressed the sentiment of mortality, of which it was the type and forerunner, like it; his hand seemed to vanish from under it, it fell dead, the corporal's eye fixed upon it as upon a corpse,--and Susannah burst into a flood of tears.

STERNE.

CHAP. IV.

THE MAN OF ROSS.

-All our praises why should Lords engross ?
Rise, honest Muse! and sing the Man of Ross :
Pleas'a Vaga echoes through her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.
Who hung with woods you mountain's sultry brow?
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Not to the skies in useless columns tost,
Or in proud falls magnificently lost,
But clear and artless, pouring through the plain
Health to the sick, and solace 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 Ross divides the weekly bread :
He feeds yon almshouse, neat, but void of state,
Where age and want sit smiling at the gate :
Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans bless,
The

young who labour, and the old who rest.
Is any sick? The Man of Ross relieves,
Prescribes, attends, the med'cine makes, and gives.
Is there a variance? Enter but his door,
Balk'd are tlie courts, and contest is no more.
Despairing quacks with curses fled the place,
And vile attornies, now a useless race.
Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue
What all so wish, but want the power to do!.
() say! what sums that gen'rous hand supply?
What mines, to swell 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 little stars! hide

your

diminish'd rays.
And what! no monument, inscription, 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 search 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.

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CHAP. V.

THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN.
Near yonder copse, where once the garden smild,
And still where many a garden flow'r grows wild ;
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year;

Remote from towns he ran bis godly race,
Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change his place ;
Unpractis'd he to fawn, or seek for pow'r,
By doctrines fashion’d to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,
More skill'd to raise the wretched, than to rise,
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain;
The long remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast :
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd:
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sate by his fire, and talk'd the night away;
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,
Shoulder'd bis 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 wo;
Careless their merits, or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And ev'n his failings lean'd to Virtue's side:
But in his duty prompt at ev'ry call,
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all.
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt it's new-fledg’d offspring to the skies ;
He tried each art, repror'd each dull delay,
Allur’d to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd,
The rev'rend Champion stood. At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ;
Confort came down, the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last falt'ring accents whisper'd praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn’d the venerable place ;
Truth from luis lips prevail'd with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray:
The service past, around the pious man
With ready zeal each honest rustic ran :
Ev'n children follow'd with endearing wile,
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good mau's smile;

His ready smile a parent's warmth expressid,
Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distress'd;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were giv'n,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heav'n.
As some tall cliff that lifts it's awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round it's breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on it's head. GOLDSMITH.

CHAP. VI.

THE WISH.

CONTENTMENT, parent of delight,
So much a stranger to our sight,
Say, goddess, in what happy place
Mortals behold thy blooming face ;
Thy gracious auspices impart,
And for thy temple choose my heart.
They, whom thou deignest to inspire,
Thy science learn, to bound desire ;
By happy alchymy of mind
They turn to pleasure all they find ;
They both disdain in outward mien
The grave and solemn garb of spleen,
And meretricious arts of dress,
To feign a joy, and hide distress :
Unmov'd when the rude tempest blows,
Without an opiate they repose ;
And cover'd by your shield, defy
The wbizzing shafts, that round them fly:
Nor meddling with the gods' affairs,
Concern themselves with distant cares ;
But place their bliss in mental rest,
And feast upon the good possess'd.

Forc'd by soft violence of pray'r,
The blithsome goddess sooths my care ;
I feel the deity inspire,
And thus she models my

desire.

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