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BOOK VII.

DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.

DEAR

66

CHAP. I.

SENSIBILITY.

EAR Senfibility! fource inexhausted of all that's percious in our joys, or coftly in our forrows! thou chainest thy martyr down upon his bed of ftraw, and it is thou who lifteft him up to Heav'n. Eternal Fountain of our feelings! It is here I trace thee, and this is thy divinity which firs within me not, that in fome fad and fickening moments, my foul fhrinks back upon herself, and startles at destruction". '-mere pomp of words!—but that I feel fome generous joys and generous cares beyond myfelf-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 defert of thy creation. Touched with thee, Eugenius draws my curtain when I languifh; hears my tale of fymptoms, `and blames the weather for the disorder of his nerves. Thou givest a portion of it fometimes to the roughest peasant who

traverfes

traverses the bleakeft mountains.-He finds the lacerated lamb of another's flock. This moment I 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 fwain! I fee thou walkeft off with anguish-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

CHAP. II.

LIBERTY AND SLAVERY.

DISGUISE

SE thyfelf as thou wilt, ftill SLAVERY! still 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 tafte 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, thou great Beftower of it, and give me but this fair goddess as my companion; and fhower down thy mitres, if it feems 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

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 firft 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 wasted 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 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 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 sticks 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-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 flick 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.

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CHAP. III.

CORPORAL TRIM's ELOQUENCE.

My young mafter in London is dead, faid Oba

-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!

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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, 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 fifh-kettle upon her knees, was roufed with it-The whole kitchen crowded about the corporal. "ARE we not here now-and gone !-in a moment ?” There was nothing in the fentence-it was one of your felf

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(Book VII. 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 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.

CHAP. IV.

THE MAN OF ROSS.

STERNE

ALL our praifes why should 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 useless columns tost,
Or in proud falls magnificently loft,

But clear and artlefs, pouring through the plain
Health to the fick, and folace to the swain.
Whose causeway 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:

BEHOLD

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