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THE NEGRO. 

object or motive, I accidentally entered the place where slaves are exposed to sale. A beautiful and elegant woman struck my sight. Her profound grief made an impression on my mind, which I had never before felt. Forgetting her chains, I approached her with all the respect that suffering beauty can inspire, and all the ardour of a passion which is just enkindled. I entered into conversation with her. She informed me, in bad French, that she was an Hungarian and a Christian; and that her name was W****ki; that she had been unworthily taken away by a merchant whom she shewed to me; and that she now expected, in wretchedness and slavery, the completion of her unhappy destiny.

Love embellished, in my eyes, the action which I was about to do, while I thought I listened only to the voice of religion and humanity. I accosted the merchant, and he offered me this slave for five hundred sequins. I gave him some money as earnest, and ran home to bring the remainder of the sum. I returned, and gave it to the merchant, led away the slave, and presented her to my father. 

He had too much penetration not to perceive my motives, were too virtuous to tolerate my irregularities, but too weak to oppose himself to my pretended happiness. If this slave was of a distinguished family, as she herself had said, of pure manners, and of the same religion, why disdain ties which

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THE NEGRO.

Providence seemed to have formed? Was he not rich enough to be indifferent as to fortune; and ought not my happiness to be superior to all other considerations? It was thus that my good father reasoned. He wrote into Hungary. The intelligence which he received was to the advantage of Elizabeth; and she was no longer regarded but as the woman destined to be my wife.

A profound dissimulation, a heart without principles, but assuming all the appearance of virtue, an enormous ambition, all the arts of refined coquetry, these composed the character of Elizabeth. Such was the woman from whom I looked for the happiness of my life, and who was formed to be the torment of it. 

I will not weary you with the detail of all that my passion employed to gain her love. Tyrannical in her caprices, she had the art to make me pass from uncertainty to despair, and from despair to hope. By turns haughty, gracious, cold, tender, I found myself after all my cares less certain of my fate than on the first day.

I had relied, for the success of my passion, more on my personal accomplishments than on the qualities of the heart, of which I knew not the advantages. The small-pox seized upon me, and in a few days I was at an extremity.

Imagine my father's alarms. Every ef[[fort]]

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