Kentucky Gazette

From the Wilmington (Del.) Watchman.

In introducing the ensuing extract from the memoirs of Mr. Sampson, we shall not pretend to depict the various emotions on the one hand, and detestation on the other, which will steal on the soul of sensibility. They are beyond the power of language, and would baffle all our attempts at description. The story is so inimitably told, that it must afford a rich literary repast to every reader of taste. It displays such sufferings and such cruelty, that it must awaken the most obdurate heart to the feelings of pity, and the sensations of humanity.

THE IRISH IMMIGRANT

Born in the country of affliction—his days were days of sorrow. He tilled the soil of his fathers, and was an alien in their land. He tasted not of the fruits which grew by the sweat of his brow. He fed a foreign landlord whose face he never saw, and a minister of the gospel whose name he hardly knew—an unfeeling bailiff was his tyrant, & the tax-gatherer his oppressor. Hunted by unrighteous magistrates, and punished by unjust judges. The soldier devoured his substance, and laughed his complaints to scorn. He toiled the hopeless day, and at night lay down in weariness. Yet noble was he of heart, altho' his estate was lowly—his cottage was open to the poor. He brake his children bread, and ate of it sparingly, that the hungry might have a share. He welcomed the benighted traveller, and rose with the stars of the morning to put him on his way; but his soul repined within him, and he sought relief in change. He had heard of a land where the poor were in peace, and the laborer thought worthy of his hire—where the blood of his fathers had purchased an asylum. He leads the aged parent whom love had grappled to his heart—he bears his infants in his arms; his wife follows his weary steps—they escape from the barbarous laws that would make their country their prison—they cross the trackless ocean—they descry the promised land, and hope brightens the prospect of their view; but alas, happiness is not for him—the ruthless spirit of persecution pursues him from the waste of the ocean. Shall his foot never find rest, nor his heart repose? No! The prowling bird of prey hovers on Columbia's coast—wafted on eagle wings, the British pirate comes, ravishes the poor fugitive from the partner of his sorrows and the tender pledges of their love. See the haggard eyes of a father to which nature denies a tear! a stupid monument of living death—he would interpose his feeble arm but it is motionless—he would bid adieu, but his voice refuses its office. The prop of his declining years torn remorselessly from him, he stands like the blasted oak, dead to hope and every earthly joy!!

Was it not, then, enough, that this victim of oppression had left his native land to the rapacity of its invaders? Might he not be permitted to seek a shelter in the gloom of the wilderness? No? the ruthless spirit of persecution is not yet satiated with his sufferings; the torments of one element exhausted, those of another are now prepared for him. Enslaved to scornful masters, the authors of his misery, and forced to fight the battles of those his soul abhors. Death, that relieves the wretch, brings no relief to him, for he lived not for himself, but for those more dear to him than life. Not for himself does he feel the winter's blast, but for those who are now unprotected, houseless and forlorn. Where shall his wife now wander, when maddened with despair? Where shall his father lay his wearied bones? Where shall the little babes find food, unless the ravens feed them? Oh hard and cruel men! may not the poor find pity? What's he that now reviles them? beshrew his withered heart!

Oh Stewart! Oh West! children of genius—sons of Columbia!—where are now your pencils? Will you profane the bountious gifts of nature, in flattering the mighty and the great! and withhold a nobler aid to the cause of the poor and the afflicted?