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Noblest of works created; more divine
Than all the starry worlds that nightly shine
Formed to live on, unconscious of decay,
When the wide universe shall melt away:
That mind, which, hid in savage breasts of yore,
Lay, like Golconda's gems, a useless ore,
Now greatly dares sublimest aims to scan;
Enriches science, and ennobles man;

Unveils the semblance which its God bestowed,

And draws more near the Fount from whence it flowed.

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MY NATIVE LAND.

From the Lay of the Last Minstrel.

By Sir Walter Scott.

BREATHES there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,

"This is my own, my native land!"
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned
of bete As home his footsteps he hath turned,
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well!
For him no minstrel-raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
10w Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
23 The wretch, concentered all in self,
Living shall forfeit fair renown,
fbiAnd, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he
Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung.

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The Fireside Companion;

NO. VII.

SIR,

To the Editor of the Plain Englishman's Library.

"Slow rises worth by poverty depress'd."-JOHNSON.

My father was a lieutenant in the navy. He had struggled hard for preferment, and at length gained his commission by his bravery and good conduct. He was a gentleman by birth and education, but had forfeited the favour of his relations by marrying the daughter of a decent tradesman who lived in his native place. He made what is called a low match. At an early age he found a partner every way worthy of his affection, excepting that point which the world deems indispensible, and gave his hand to the woman of his heart, who tenderly loved him, though she had not a groat. Fortune at first smiled on them. A little prize-money enabled him to fix her in a neat cottage, not far from the port where the little vessel he commanded used to refit; and the short intervals of happiness which he enjoyed with his Mary, when away from 'the laborious duties of his profession, amply repaid the many hours of anxious tenderness which he passed at sea. I was the first pledge of their affection; and, a year after, a little girl also blessed their union. My mother, bred up in prudence and frugality, managed so well in his absence, that every thing wore the appearance of neatness and comfort. Her little parlour was always tidy, and our humble meal was spread with the nicest cleanliness. Her children were dressed so decently that they were admired by all the village, and every one praised the virtuous prudence of my mother.

My father's attachment, founded in reason and virtue, increased daily. The charms which first attracted his fancy were soon eclipsed by the superior beauty of a mind that beamed on him with the purest affection. Every hour that he stole to his home increased his regret on leaving it; and the tenderness of his Mary's farewell spoke only in her looks, while her lips refused utterance to the fulness of her heart.

Three years thus passed away; my father looking steadily forward to the day when fortune should raise him to rank and independence, which he coveted rather for her sake than his own. He was attached to the honourable profession he had chosen; and, though great the temptation, he never slackened his zeal or attention, even for the 3 A

VOL. I.

society of his Mary. Nor did she once endeavour to detain him at home when duty called him away from her.

At length he was induced, by hopes of preferment, to exchange his little command for the service of a foreign station, and sailed for the Mediterranean in the year 1798, as first lieutenant of the of

74 guns. He was soon distinguished by his captain for his abilities and excellent conduct. He won the esteem of his brother officers by his gentle manners, and the respect and love of the crew by his justice and humanity.

On the glorious first of August his behaviour was the admiration of all around him: his coolness, intrepidity, and judgment, were eminently distinguished; and it was not till the close of that memorable day, he received a severe wound, which at length proved fatal to his life, after a lingering and painful struggle.

During his absence, my mother's hopes had been flattered by the most pleasing accounts from him. He had already gained the notice of his illustrious commander, and often anticipated the prospect of such a day as would secure his promotion, and raise him to the height of his ambition. My mother was of a mind not to be bowed down with imaginary evils; and though she suffered many a severe pang on his departure, she never gave way to that querulous despondency with which women in her situation too often deplore their separation. She redoubled her activity, and roused her spirits to exertion by such employments as her little family required.

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Her neighbours saw her always serene and smiling; and those who looked not attentively on the face of nature, doubted the fervency of that affection which did not show itself to the world in the garb of

sorrow.

She checked every feeling of alarm as it arose, and in those hours of sleepless anxiety the world could not witness, when foreboding fears would involuntarily take possession of her fancy, the blessed aid of divine confidence never failed to soothe her troubled spirit, and she arose contented and assured to her morning duties.

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When the news of the victory reached England, my mother spent many anxious days before it was possible to ascertain, in her remote situation, the fate of her husband. He knew her fond anxiety; and though unable to write himself, a letter, feebly subscribed with his name, announced the melancholy tidings of his fatal wound. He knew the religious firmness of her mind, and simply told her the truth, exhorting her to look forward with composure to the period when he must be taken away from her and his darling children. But he gave her also some faint comfort. The surgeon of the hospital had given him hopes that he might be removed to England; and he yet hoped to breathe his last sigh on the faithful bosom of his wife. I was then very little, yet I remember well, and I never shall forget, the look of devout resignation which my poor mother threw up to Heaven, when she had finished the reading of these mournful tidings. She snatched us to her arms, and for many minutes concealed her sorrows in our embraces.

It happened that the ship which brought her the sad intelligence conveyed him to Plymouth; and being now reduced to the last extremity, he prayed to be spared only to see his wife and children, and die in peace. His scanty means were unequal to convey him to the end of his painful journey, and he was considering how he might perform the remainder, when he was overtaken at the little inn which he had reached, almost fainting with fatigue and pain, by some honest fellows who had shared in the battle, and were proceeding in a postchaise upon leave to see their friends. They insisted on seating him in their places, and, mounting on the top, declared they would see his honour safe to his own house before they thought any more of themselves. My father repaid their affectionate regard like a true seaman. He thanked them from his heart, and cordially accepted their kindness as the most liberal return he could make them.

As the carriage slowly approached, every eye was turned on it with expectation. The cheers of his gallant comrades announced his arrival; and my poor mother received a dying husband in her arms, as the hand of death pressed heavily on his heart, and seemed ready to snatch him from us for ever. The whole village sympathized in her distress. Every arm was extended to assist him into his little dwelling; every tongue spoke the accents of condolence; and every eye glistened with sorrow around him. His senses remained unimpaired; and when placed in his bed, and refreshed by some cordial nourishment, he had strength to relate the circumstances of his sufferings, and to pour out his soul in thankfulness to Providence, which had spared him the blessing of that parting hour. My mother brought us to him. He pressed us to his embrace with fondness, and we received from his pale lips the solemn blessing of an expiring father. He repeated again and again his expressions of the most affectionate gratitude to her for all her tender interest for his happiness, and strove to make me sensible, young as I then was, of the duty I owed to so excellent a mother! I remember at this moment the countenance of sad resignation with which she looked down upon this mournful scene, while, instructed by her, we knelt by his bed and raised our little hands together. And when her feelings became too powerful for the conflict, she burst from the room, to conceal her agitation from his sight. But he was uneasy if his eye missed her for a moment. She dried up her tears in haste, and returned to him again with an air of calmness and composure. His strength rapidly declined, and we were not permitted to witness the last struggles of that spirit, which seemed to breathe only for our sakes. A short interval, and all was over!- -My poor mother has often declared she never, till that trying hour, knew the true strength and consolation of Religion, which supported both of them to the last, and preserved her senses in the moment when she was separated from him who constituted all her hopes in this world, -for ever.

The last offices of respect were paid to my father's memory in the presence of the whole parish. When his mourning widow looked down for the last time upon the coffin in which her fondest affections were buried with a beloved husband, there was not a dry eye present. She

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led back her infant charge to her home, followed by the compassion and the blessings of the whole neighbourhood. Her spirits had received an irrecoverable shock, but her resolution remained unchanged. She resolved if possible to live for the sake of those pledges endeared to her by the memory of their departed parent. She strove against affliction. She was never heard to complain; and though she would often steal away to that spot where all her happiness was deposited, she carefully concealed her steps from every eye. She would sit there for hours in silent meditation. There alone the tear of anguish was permitted to flow without control, and imagination delighted to dwell with the spirit of him who slumbered in the grave. A little pension · was allotted her by her Sovereign's bounty, sufficient to maintain her with decency; and she sought her only comfort in rearing us in the world, as the remaining objects of her tenderest affection.

The distresses of humbler life, Mr. Editor, are seldom interesting to the public; and I fear those I have described have already fatigued' both yourself and your readers; but, if encouraged, I will very readily continue my story in a future letter.

I am, Sir,

Your constant Reader,

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L.

A MIDSHIPMAN.

ON CLEANLINESS AND VENTILATION.

[We have received the following communication, on a subject of the first importance to the Labouring Classes, from a Medical Gentleman of ability and experience; and we hope to be able to derive from the same source a series of popular observa-s tions on the preservation of health, which may have the effect, not of leading the people to neglect a proper and early application for professional advice, but to cultivate those habits which may render such advice less indispensible.]

THE improvidence of mankind is in nothing more strongly exemplified than in the awkwardness of their attempts to remedy those inconveniencies which are too considerable to escape their notice; for it is indeed a most fortunate circumstance, if the means they take to secure them from the present evil does not bring on them several equally great, though not so visible. Thus, in shutting out the inclemencies of the weather, the pains we take to secure ourselves from the external air so effectually prevent its approach, that it becomes stagnant, unfit to support animal life, and the cause of a long train of diseases, far more formidable than the cold which led to such careful exclusion.

Very few persons are aware how necessary a thorough ventilation is to the preservation of health. We can live for a while without food, but without air we can survive but a few minutes. It is necessary also that it be frequently changed; for the vital principle is taken from it by its being breathed. One fourth part only of the atmosphere is capable of supporting life; the remainder serves to dilute the pure vital air, and render it fit for respiration. A full-grown man takes into

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