Let me for a moment quit the cold track of narrative.

Let me not fritter away by servile adaptation those reflections and the feelings they gave birth to.

Let me transcribe them fresh as they arose, ardent and generous, though hopeless and romantic.

I every day see wretches pale with disease and wasted with famine, struggle against the horror's of their situation.

How striking is the effect of subordination; how dreadful is the fear of punishment! The allotted task is still performed, even on the present reduced subsistence.
The blacksmith sweats at the sultry forge, the sawyer labours pent-up in his pit and the husbandman turns up the sterile glebe.