uturity. We have lost much; but those days when we ourselves
knew the want of provisions, and even of bread--those days of horror,
danger, and consternation--are past; we yet live, and our city has been
preserved through the favour of Heaven and the generosity of the
conquerors.

One subject of affliction lies heavy upon our hearts. Our prosperous
days afforded us the felicity of being able to perform in its full
extent the duty of beneficence towards the necessitous. We have before
our eyes many thousands of the inhabitants of the adjacent villages and
hamlets, landed proprietors, farmers, ecclesiastics, schoolmasters,
artisans of every description, who, some weeks since, were in
circumstances more or less easy, and at least knew no want; but now,
without a home, and stripped of their all, are with their families
perishing of hunger.

Their fields have gained everlasting celebrity, for there the most
signal of victories was won for the good cause; but these fields, so
lately a paradise, are now, to the distance of from ten to twelve miles,
transformed into a desert. What the industry of many years had acquired
was annihilated in a few hours. All around is one wide waste. The
numerous villages and hamlets are almost all entirely or partially
reduced to ashes; the yet remaining buildings are perforated with balls,
in a most ruinous condition, and plundered of every thing; the barns,
cellars, and lofts, are despoiled, and stores of every kind carried off;
the implements of farming and domestic economy, for brewing and
distilling--in a word, for every purpose--the gardens, plantations, and
fruit-trees--are destroyed; the fuel collected for the winter, the
gates, the doors, the floors, the wood-work of every description, were
consumed in the watch-fires; the horses were taken away, together with
all the other cattle; and many families are deploring the loss of
beloved relatives, or are doomed to behold them afflicted with sickness
and destitute of relief.

The miserable condition of these deplorable victims to the thirst of
conquest, the distress which meets our view whenever we cross our
thresholds, no language is capable of describing. The horrid spectacle
wounds us to the very soul.

But all these unfortunate creatures look up to Leipzig, formerly the
source of their prosperity;--their eloquent looks supplicate our aid;
and the pang that wrings our bosoms arises from this consideration, that
neither the exhausted me