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(9) feast for a benevolent heart! and sure I am, you are an epicurean in acts of charity.--You who are univer. fally read, and as universally admired--you could not fail. Dear Sir, think in me you behold the uplifted hands of thousands of my brother Moors. Grief (you pathetically observe) is eloquent : figure to yourself their attitudes; hear their fupplicating addresses ! alas ! you cannot refuse.-Humanity must comply in which hope I beg permission to fubscribe myself,

Reverend Sir, &c.

I. S.

From MR. STERNE TO IGNATIUS SANCHO.'.

THER

Coxwould, July 26, 1766. THERE is a strange coincidence, Sancho, in

the little events (as well as in the great ones) of this world: for I had been writing a tender tale of the : sorrows of a friendless poor negro-girl, and my eyes had scarce done smarting with it, when your letter of rea. commendation, in behalf of so many of her brethren ş and sisters, caine. to me--but why her brethren? or yours, Sancho ? any more than mine. It is by the : finest tints and most insensible gradations, that nature descends from the faireft face about St. James's to the sootiest complexion in Africa :-at which tint of these is it, that the ties, of blood are to cease-and how many shades must we descend lower still in the scalegi, ere. mercy is to vanish with them? But 'tis no.un.:

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common thing, my good Sanche, for one half of the world to use the other half of it like brutes, and then endeavour to make 'em so.-For my own part I never look vef ward (when I am in a pensive mood at least) but I think of the burthens which our brothers and fifters are there carrying, and could I ease their shoulders from one ounce of them, I declare I would set out this hour upon a pilgrimage to Mecca for their fakes-which, by the bye, Sancho, exceeds your walk of ten miles in about the same proportion that a visit of humanity should one of mere form.-However, if you meant my Uncle Toby, inore he is

your

debtor. -If I can weave the tale I have wrote into the work I ain about-'tis at the service of the afflicted and a much greater matter; for, in serious truth, it casts a sad shade upon the world, that so

great a part of it are, and have been so long, bound in chains of darkness, and in chains of misery ; and I cannot but both respect and felicitate you, that by fo much laudable diligence you have broke the one and that by falling into the hands of so great and merciful a family, Providence has rescued

you

from the other. And so, good-hearted Sancho, adieu! and believe me, I will not forget your letter.

Yours,

L. STERNE.

TO ELIZA.

I

MY DEAR ELIZA !*
BEGAN a new journal this morning; you

fhall see it; for if I live not till you return to England, I will leave it you as a legacy. 'Tis a sorrowful page ;

but I will write cheerful ones; and could I write letters to thee, they thould be cheerful onesa too; but few, I fear, will reach thee! However, depend upon receiving something of the kind by every post; till when thou wavest thy hand, and bid'st me write no more.

Tell me how you are; and what sort of fortitude Heaven inspires you

with. How are you accommodated, my dear? Is all right? Scribble away any. thing, and every thing to me. Depend upon seeing me, at Deal, with the James's, should you be detained. there by contrary winds. Indeed, Eliza, I should with pleafure fly to you, could I be the means of rendering you any service, or doing you any kindness. Gracious and merciful God' consider the anguish of a poor girl!-Strengthen and perferve her in all the shocks her frame must be exposed to.

She is now without a protector, but thee! Save her from all accidents of a dangerous element, and give her comfort at the last.

* This Lady's name was Draper, wife of Daniel Draper, Efq of Bombay

My prayer, Eliza, I hope, is heard; for the sky seems to smile upon me as I look up to it. I am just returned from our dear Mrs. James's, where I have been talking of thee for three hours.

She has got your picture, and likes it: but Marriot, and some other judges, agree that mine is the better, and expressive of a sweeter character, but what is that to the original ? yet I acknowledge that hers is a picture for the world, and mine, is calculated only to please a very fincere friend, or sentimental philofopher.--In the one, you are dressed in smiles, and with all the advantages of filks, pearls and ermine;-in the other, simple as a vestal, appearing the good girl nature made you !--which, to me, conveys an idea of more unaffected sweetness, than Mrs. Draper, habited for conquest, in a birth-day suit, with her countenance animated, and her dimples vifible-If I remember right, Eliza, you endeavoured to collect every charm of your person into your face, with more than common care, the day you sat for Mrs.. James Your colour, too, brightened ; and your eyes fhone with more than ufual brilliancy. I then requested you to come simply and unadorned when you sat for Ine-knowing (as I fee with unprejudiced eyes) that you could receive no addition from the filk-worm's aid, or jeweller's polifh. Let me now tell you a truth, which, I believe, I have uttered before. When I first saw you, I beheld you as an object of compaffion, and as a very plaiii woman. The mode of your dress, (though fashionable) disfigured you. But nothing now could render you such, but the being solicitous to

make yourself admired as a handsome one. You are not handsome, Eliza, nor is yours a face that will. please the tenth part of your beholders--but are some thing more; for I scruple not to tell you, I never faw fo intelligent, so animated, so good a countenance ;nor was there (nor ever will be). that man of sense, tenderness, and feeling, in your company three hours, that was not (or will not be) your admirer, or friend, in consequence of it; that is, if you affume, or assumed, no character foreign to your own, but appeared the artless being nature designed you for. A fomething in your eyes and voice, you poffefs in a degree more persuasive than any woman I ever saw, read, or heard of. But it is that bewitching fort of namelefs excellence, that men of nice sensibility alone can be touched with.

Were your husband in England, I would freely give five hundred pounds (if money could purchase the acquisition) to let you only fit by me two hours in a day, while I wrote my Sentimental Journey. I am sure the work would sell fo much the better for it, that I should be reimbursed the sum more than seven times told. I would not give nine-pence for the picture of you the Newnhams have got executed-It is the resemblance of a conceited made-up coquet. Your eyes, and the fhape of your face (the latter the most perfe&t oval I ever saw) which are perfections that must strike the most indifferent judge, because they are equal

of God's works in a similar way, and finer than any I beheld in all my travels, are manifestly injured by

to any

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