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happy influences of returning reafon, and of the effects of an orginal good education.

I am, Sir, Your humble fervant

To the Editor of the Bee.

A Sermon.

A. B.

Naked I came out of my mother's womb, and naked I shall return thither. Job, Chap. 1, Ver. 21.

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IN difcourfing from these words, I fhall obferve tlie following things:

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Firft, Man's ingrefs into the world.

Secondly, His progrefs through the world.
Thirdly, His egrefs out of the world.

To return,

1. Man's ingrefs into the world,
is naked and bare.

2. His progrefs through the world,
is trouble and care.

3. His egrefs out of the world,
is, nobody knows where.

To conclude,

We shall be well there, if we do well here,

And I could tell you no more, were I to preach a

whole year.

This very elegant fermon is extracted from a book called the fashionable tell-tale, by

CAPTAIN FIRELOCK.

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SIR,

To the Editor of the Bee.

I AM forry I have it in my power to affure you, that the ftory which gave rife to the following lines, is not fictitious, but a real fact, that happened in the land of Jamaica, not many years ago. The man who perpetrated the deed, a Scotchman too, is, I believe, alive in that Island at this time. It was the practice of this man, from deliberate system, to work out his flaves with hard labour; and when the doctor reported that they were no longer able to work, nor any hopes remained of their recovery, they were ordered to be carried immediately to the launch, an inclined plane made of feveral boards fastened together, whose lower extremity pointed over the edge of a precipice feveral hundred feet in height, that hung over a deep ravine on his plantation. This was, in general, a pretty certain launch into eternity, though, in the prefent cafe, it failed. Noffak had been declared by the Doctor incapable of any further service, and was ordered, as ufual, to the launch. The poor fellow begged hard that he might not be carried to the launch, as he faid he was not yet dead :-But nothing could prevail with his inhuman mafter. Like his fellows, he muft take his fate; but, by a kind of miracle, he escaped with life, and made a fhift to crawl away from the foot of the rocks. Some of his black friends fell in with him, had compaffion on him, and ufed means for his recovery. Some time after, the mercilefs wretch who had caused him to be launched over the precipice, was fomewhat furprized at feeing his flave, whom he had believed to be in the other world, begging in one of the streets of a neighbouring town; but had the modeft affurance to wish to reclaim him as his property. The poor fellow's story, however, prevailed, even in the Weft Indies, to make all agree in thinking he

had got a full discharge from his fervice: And the tyrant owner seeing the general indignation rifing high against him, was glad, at length, to make his efcape from the mob as quickly as poffible, though no public vengeance overtook him.

If I fhall be told this ftory cannot be true, because it is contrary to the laws provided for the fafety of the negroes, I anfwer, that I difpute not about the law; but that the fact is literally true, I do maintain, and am ready to prove it upon the most undeniable evidence, fhould it be neceffary-And this I aver, though I am no friend to the abolition of the flave-trade.

The negroes themfelves made up a ballad in their own way, which they used to fing at their public merry makings, the chorus of which was,

Maffa, Maffa, no launch,

Thefe

Maffa, no dead yet,-or fomething to that purpose, which I am forry I did not then take down. gave rife to the following lines:

M. H.

THOUGH, Sir, I obferve you avoid faying any thing that might give rife to jangling difputes, yet your having inferted a little piece, expreffive of the fentiments of an Indian warrior, makes me hope you may also admit this story of a West India flave, which happened lately to fall in my way. I do not pretend to judge of its merit, but leave that to you; and I am, Sir, refpectfully, your's,

A COUNTRY READER.

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The Poor Negro Beggar's Petition and Complaint.

O MASSA, poor negro! God Almighty you bless :
O Maffa, poor negro in utmost diftrefs.

Much beating, much lafhing, poor Nossak endur'd;
No toil, no fubmiffion, good ufage infur'd.
Provifions were bad; our allowance was fmall;
Hard work; no relief for poor Noffak at all.
Sick, fick, and not able to ftand to the hoe;
"Given up by the doctor, to the launch he must go,”
Said my mafter, unfeeling, and sent me away,
Though I pleaded, intreated," O let me but stay,
"O Maffa, no launch, me no dead, me no dead,
"No launch, me grow well again, Maffa," I said.
He was deaf to nay cries;-fo dragg'd to the rock,
From the plank I was launched, the terrible fhock!
got faft afleep, but awaking again,

I

Alas! I awoke to much forrow and pain;

My legs they were broke,-all my body much bruif'd;

No hope; even death to relieve me refus'd;

Dry bones of poor negroes were scatter'd around;

Like me they were launch'd; but fweet death they had found;
Had efeaped, exulting, from flavery and pain;

Their fpirits high foaring had croff'd the wide main,

To vifit the land of their fathers and brothers;

To falute the lov'd fouls of their fifters and mothers.

O death! why so flow?-but why should I complain,

Since the launch has releaf'd me from collar and chain *?

O Maffa, a bit on poor Noffak bestow,

God Almighty you bless, no distress may you know.

Here laid on a dunghill, pocr Noffak must lie;
No eye drops a tear; no breaft heaves a figh;
But death fhall release me from forrow and pain;
Then my dear native home I'll revisit again.

*To the iron chain which they wear conftantly, a half hundred weight is appended, to prevent their running away during the night; and the collar has long spikes running out from it in every direction, to prevent their laying down their heads to reft.

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The Wee Thing; or Mary of Castle Cary, an old Scots

Slow

Song.

Saw ye my wee thing? Saw ye mine ain thing? Saw ye my true love

down on yon lea? Crofs'd fhe the meadow, ye

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ftreen at the gloaming? Sought the the burnie whar flow'rs the haw tree?

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"Her hair it is lint white! her fkin it is milk-white!
"Dark is the blue of her faft rolling, ee!

"Red red her ripe lip is, and fweeter than roses!
"Whar could my wee thing wander frae me?"

I faw na your wee thing, I faw na your ain thing,
Nor faw I your true love down by yon lea;
But I met my bonny thing late in the gloaming,
G Down by the burnie whar flow'rs the haw tree.'

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