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 2 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 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: But clear and artlefs, pouring through the plain Who taught that heav'n directed spire to rise? 1 Behold Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread! Is any Balk'd are the courts, and conteft is no more. Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear, Blush Grandeur, blush! proud Courts, withdraw your blaze! And what! no monument, infcription, stone? 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; A man he was, to all the country dear, Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, But |