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Nothing so much as mincing poetry;
HOTSPUR READING A LETTER.
Bur for my own part, my Lord, I could be well con"tented to be there in respect of the love I bear your "house." He could be contented to be there; why is he not then? "In respect of the love he bears our house?” He shows in this, he loves his own barn better than he loves our house. Let me see some more. "The pur
pose you undertake is dangerous." Why, that is certain it is dangerous to take cold, to sleep, to drink : but
I tell you, my Lord fool, out of this nettle danger we pluck this flower safety. "The purpose you undertake is dan66 gerous, the friends you have named uncertain, the time "itself unsorted, and your whole plot too light for the counterpoise of so great an opposition." Say you so! say you so! I say unto you again, you are a shallow cowardly hind, and you lie. What a lackbrain is this! By the Lord, our plot is a good plot as ever was laid; our friends true and constant; a good plot, good friends, and full of expectation; an excellent plot, very good friends. What a frosty-spirited rogue this is! Why, my lord of York commends the plot, and the general course of the action. By this hand, if I were now by this rascal, I could brain him with his lady's fan. Are there not my father, my uncle, and myself, lord Edmund Mortimer, my lord of York, and
Owen Glendower? Is there not, besides, the Douglas? Have I not all their letters, to meet me in arms by the ninth of next month? And are there not some of them set forward already. What Pagan rascal is this! an infidel ! Ha! you shall see now, in very sincerity of fear and cold heart will he to the King, and lay open all our proceedings. O, I could divide myself, and go to buffets, for moving such a dish of skimmed milk with so honourable an action: Hang him, let him tell the King. We are prepared, I will set forward to night. SHAKSPEARE.
DEAR Sensibility! source inexhausted of all that's precious in our joys, or costly in our sorrows! thou chainest thy martyr down upon his bed of straw, and it is thou who liftest him up to Heaven. Eternal Fountain of our feelings! It is here I trace thee, and this is thy divinity which stirs within me not, that in some sad and sickening moments, "my soul shrinks back upon herself, and startles at destruction"-mere pomp of words!-but that I feel some generous joys and generous cares beyond myself-all comes from thee, great, great Sensorium of the world! which vibrates, if a hair of our head but falls upon the ground, in the remotest desert of thy creation. Touched with thee, Eugenius draws my curtain when I languish; hears my tale of symptoms, and blames the weather for the disorder of his nerves. Thou givest a portion of it sometimes to the roughest peasant who traverses the bleakest mountains. He finds the lacerated lamb of another's flock. This moment I behold him leaning with his head against his crook, with piteous inclination looking down upon it.-Oh! had I come one moment sooner!-it bleeds to death-his gentle heart bleeds with it.
Peace to thee, generous swain! I see thou walkest off
with anguish-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. STERNE.
LIBERTY AND SLAVERY.
DISGUISE thyself as thou wilt, still, Slavery! still thou art a bitter draught; and though thousands in all ages have been made to drink of thee, thou art no less 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 so, till Nature herself shall change- -no tint of words can spot thy snowy mantle, or chymic power turn thy sceptre into iron- -with thee to smile upon him as he eats his crust, the swain is happier than his monarch, from whose court thou art exiled. Gracious Heaven! grant me but health, thou great Bestower of it, and give me but this fair goddess as my companion; and shower down thy mitres, if it seems good unto thy divine providence, upon those heads which are aching for them.
Pursuing these ideas, I sat 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 so I gave full scope to my imagination.
I was going to begin with the millions of my fellow-creatures born to no inheritance but slavery; but finding, however affecting the picture was, that I could not bring it nearer me, and that the multitude of sad groups in it did but distract me
I took a single captive, and having first shut 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 sickness of the heart it was which arises 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 seen
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 nights 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 sustain the picture of confinement, which my fancy had drawn. STERNE.
CORPORAL TRIM'S ELOQUENCE.
-My young master in London is dead, said Oba
-Here is sad news, Trim, cried Susannah, wiping her eyes as Trim stepped into the kitchen-master Bobby is dead.
I lament for him from 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 coachman'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