his wife and son. Ten years of war, and as many of peace, had passed away, and yet of wife, child, or home, he had heard literally nothing; and, so far as he was aware, not one of his family was conscious of his existence. At length his pride yielded to his love of country, and the still unextinguished remains of early affection triumphed over his sense of shame :-he sold his West Indian effects, and returned to England. Now while the melodies of Eve Suit feeling's soothing numbers well, That from the heart's deep chords shall swell. The rising tide of memory flows In fresh'ning streams along my breast; And every flower of fancy blows; To me oft pleasure's wide domain, Oft nature's admiration caught, And shed the tear of exstacy Although long estranged from the scenes of his childhood, and although his maturer years had been sufficiently embitterred to efface, in a great measure, the remembrance of happier times, yet the first sight of the blue bleak hills in the distance, as the vessel neared the coast of Scotland, awakened in their morning ardour, all his youthful And there the casement, whence mine eye and fondest reminiscences. His mind dwelt upon the wild glen, and the bleak mountain beside which he had been born; and sterile as was the spot, he thought he loved it the more because it was loved by few beside himself. He bethought him of the crag, and the grey ash-tree up which he had climbered when a boy; the birchen dell through which he had been accustomed to roain; and the hoary hawthorn under whose shade he had stolen many an interview with that loved one whom he had, as he now felt, so cruelly abandoned; and a tear stood in his eye, the first that had glistened there for many a year, when he thought that Vale of my birth! they were not thine,— she whom he had thus deserted might have died in penury and grief; that his wife and his child might have been cast upon the charity of a heartless world; and that his brothers and sisters might be enjoying that portion of his patrimony which by remaining at home he might have secured for himself and his family. He heaved a sigh-the blood revulsed upon his heart-and he sank spiritless, and almost lifeless, upon the gunwale of the vessel. (TO BE CONTINUED.) TO THE PLACE OF MY BIRTH. Seene of my infancy's soft days! Scene of my youth's yet dearer hours! (Tho' not they shone with cloudless rays, Tho' not entwined with thornless flowers;) To feel its humblest radiance mine, In childhood's blest simplicity Beholding rapture in its shine: False, false-like all those glimmering lights Erst clean and bright is dimm'd with tears; And darken'd now its currents glide O'er scenes of my advancing years I will not breathe their cares to thee, Thon in my being's map shall smile Or Like an oasis in the waste; some sweet, lonely spring-deck'd isle, O'er which the storm more pitying pass'd. I'll turn me still on thee to gaze, In all thy first young morning rays. And when I reach the destined verge That terminates the world to me, And death my weary steps shall urge (Not lingering) to eternity; Then only then thy tints will fade, Like a fair Landscape from my view, Wrapp'd in the deep night's shrouding shade And thou shalt share my long my last adieu. S. E. H. June, 1826. Each takes his place as fancy bids, Two in her Eyes their torches light, But one who haply came too late BIRTHS-IN MAY. At Helston, the lady of the Rev. E. Daniel, At Helston, Mrs. James Rowe, of a daughter. At Helston the lady of Capt. Gilbert of a daughter. At Chacewater, Mrs. N. Paul, of a daughter. At Boscastle, the wife of J. Hocken, of a son, At Truro, Mrs. T. Powell, Junr. of a daughter. MARRIAGES-IN MAY. At Madron, Mr. Trevening James, to Miss K. At St. Columb, Mr. T. Hawken, to Miss M. At Tregony, Mr. M. Roberts, to Miss Sarah Hearle. At Bristol, Mr. J. Bond, of Camelford, to Miss At St. Tudy, Mr. G. Stephens, to Miss Symonds. IN JUNE. At Constantine, Revd. C. Colivell, to Miss At Redruth, Mr. J. Hocking, to Miss Phillips. At St. Austle, Mr. Brenton, to Miss Wheeler. At Crowan, Thomas, eldest sou of Capt. T. Lean. At East Looe, Mrs. J. Loady, aged 73. At Truro, Mr. A. Jane, aged 62. At Bodmin, Mrs. Stone, aged 95. At Newlyn, Mr. E. James, aged 85. At London, the Right Hon. Lady Charlotte At Falmouth, Mrs. Margaret Skillikon, aged 81. At St. Agnes, Miss Opie aged 78, only sister of IN JUNE. At Truro, Mr. J. Chappel, aged 68. Then pleas'd exclaimed," No more rejoice!" At Truro, Mrs. J. Jago. "That faster you can fly," "For see, tho' first you made your choice," "You're far less blest than 1." Mount-Sion, 1st July, 1826. 10X01 INTELLIGENCE. J. The County Election took place ou Tuesday 20th June. A severe contest was expected, but owing to Mr. Tremayne withdrawing himself, Sir R. Vyvyan, and E. Pendarves Esq. were returned without opposition. At Manaccan, Mr. S. Uren, aged 79. At Camborne, youngest daughter of Mrs. A. Bennet. At St. Anstie, Mary Hamlett, daughter of Capt. At Dinabroad, wife of Mr. W. Hawken. At Chacewater, Mr. J. Northey. At Trembeath, Mrs. Roberts. At St. Columb, Mr. T. Martin, Surgeon, No. 8.] The Selector. "WE CULL THE CHOICEST." COUNTRY LIFE. AUGUST, 1826. OUR forefathers lived in the country, the natural home of man, who is the child of the earth, and never does much good when he tries to escape from the embraces of his mother. It may seem very idle to enter into the Arcadian story of rural happiness and innocence, but is it a story without truth? As Nature has born man an animal, she seems to have provided, in the first place, in the life she has created for him, for his animal welfare. The air she gives him to breathe,the earth she has spread out for his vigorous feet, the simple food which she has made tasteful to his uncorrupted palate, the calm sound sleep she sends down from her silent skies,-are prepared in benediction upon his natural life;-from all of which he withdraws himself when he escapes from her scenes. To breathe, to walk, to eat, to sleep, are natural enjoyments to the offspring of Nature. How of ten does each become a seperate torment to the unnatural son who has severed himself from her! The powerful races of men are formed under the hand of Nature, where the land is yet but half-tamed by civilization. Even in civilized countries, the children of the soil are still their strength. Man is best nursed on the lap of his mother Earth; and the pride of his race fades within the breath of cities. See next what is the effect upon his mind. It is a calmer life ;-the tranquility of all things around him,-the deep repose of inanimate nature,—the quiet happiness of all the living creatures, the peaceful avocations that are proceeding around him,—and, to him [Price 3d. self, the more even tenor and still flow of every day's existence,-all breathe over his spirit a continual calm ;they did so, at least, with a former age, to those whose hearts were wedded to the quiet lot for which they lived. Our own are drawn so strongly to a busier life, our desires are so mingled in the strife of the world,that the spirit flies from the seat of peace to mingle in the world we have left; and we hardly know how deep a quiet reigns around, while our bosoms contain their own springs of agitation. We are disturbed with ambition, and are unfitted for the lot of peace. If it were not so, if we could be indeed at home in these quiet scenes,-we might feel the power of this tranquility very deeply in the temper of our spirits, O, if we could escape from that feverish world, and live to the peace of our own hearts, how much might we find of enjoyment which has now forsaken us. There is a wakeful observation of a thousand little touches on our senses, which could not be felt amidst the thronging sensations of ardent life; and pleasure springs up in the bosom in eager play, and with a sort of grateful response to the most insignificant objects that seek to solicit it. The senses, the fancy, and even the reasoning intelligence, are awake to the observation of pleasures natural and inherent, feeding even the deeper happiness of the mind, and strengthening its strong affections with their constant gentle supply. It becomes not only tenderer; but the more solemn thoughts and feelings which visit at times every human mind,-which belong to its nature and condition, and are a necessary part both of its wisdom and its virtue,-are known in the seasons of silence and solitude. The hurry of the world shuts them out from the soul; but when there is silence in the mind,-when the heart rests, when the hush of the world has breathed over the spirit,-when the mind, self-left, feels itself in its loneliness, then is its hour of contemplation! The indulgence of the natural pleasure, impressed upon our senses by the common elements of nature, in their simplest appearances, seems to be one of the important enjoyments provided for us, and clings round the extinction of imagination in old age. It breaks in upon us in the midst of the cares and passions that possess the strong activity of manhood, and never falls on the unprepared heart, without surprising it into remembrance of purer, loftier existence. When we walk abroad in Nature, we go not as artists to study her scenes, but as her children to rejoice in her bounty. The breath of the air, the blue of the unclouded sky, the shining sun, and the green softness of the unflowered turf beneath our feet, are all that we require to make us feel that we are transported into a region of delights. We breathe and tread in a pure untroubled world, and the fresh clear delight that breathes round our senses seems to bathe our spirits in the innocence of Nature. Beyond this simplicity of pleasure, there is an enjoyment of Nature of a very different kind, which takes strong hold of the imagination, and may be said to partake of the character of passion. It is "a pleasure high and turbulent," which, seeking the greater scenes of Nature, and their more powerful appearances, seems to owe its enjoyment to something that is disclosed to the mind in the signs it contemplates. It is not that we have found a world which seems fitted to receive our steps, and to cherish our happiness, it is not that we have prized a solitude which secludes us from the world of life;-but the aspects on which we look breathe a spirit, the characters we read speak a language which, mysterious and ob scurely intelligible as they are, draw us on with an eager and undefined desire. In shapes and sounds of fear, in naked crags,-gulfs,-precipices, torrents that have rage without beauty,-desolate places,--there is to that temper of mind an attractive power. All speak in some way to the spirit, and raise up in it new and hidden emotion, which, even when mingled with pain, it is glad to feel; for such emotion, makes discovery to it of its own nature, and the interest it feels so strongly springs up from and returns into itself. The pleasure which is experienced from contemplating natural scenery, with an eye accustomed to observe and study beauty, appears to be distinct from the natural and simple pleasures now described and in some degree even adverse to them; for in that observation of beauty there is blended a species of intellectual cultivation; and the discernment which is used is not a mere natural endowment, but owes its skill to the interposition of art. Those simpler pleasures breathe over the mind like the springgale, or the storm awakening it to consciousness of the all-powerful presence of Nature! But the skilful observation of the experienced eye subjects Nature, in some form, to the mind; and, while it kindles in it the sense of its own intelligence, seperates it from the dominion of the objects of its contemplation. DANIEL CATHIE, TOBACCONIST. (From the Janus.) DANIEL CATHIE was a reputable dealer in snuff, tobacco, and candles, in a considerable market-town in Scotland. His shop had, externally, something neat and enticing about it. In the centre of one window glowed a transparency of a ferocious-looking Celt, bonneted, plaided, and kilted, with his unsheathed claymore in one hand, and his ram's-horn mull in the other; intended, no doubt, to emblem to the spectator, that from thence he recruited his animal spirits, drawing courage from the titillation of every pinch. Around him were tastefully distributed jars of different dimensions, bearing each the appropriate title of the various compounds within, from Maccuba and Lundyfoot, down to Beggar's Brown and Irish Blackguard. In the other, one half was allotted to tobacco-pipes of all dimensions, tastefully arranged, so as to form a variety of figures, such as crosses, triangles, and squares; decorated, at intervals, with rolls of twist, serpentinings of pigtail, and montaculi of shag. The upper half displayed candles, distributed with equal exhibition of taste, from the prime four in the pound down to the halfpenny dip; some of a snowy whiteness, and others of an aged and delicate yellow tinge; enticing to the eyes of experienced housewives and spectacled cognoscenti. Over the door rode a swarthy son of Congo, with broad nostrils, and eyes whose whites were fearfully dilated, astride on a tobacco hogshead,-his woolly head bound with a coronal of feathers, a quiver peeping over his shoulder, and a pipe in his cheeks, blown up for the eternity of his wooden existence, in the puffy ecstacy of inhalation. Daniel himself, the autocrat of this domicile, was a little squat fellow, five feet and upwards, of a rosy complexion, with broad shoulders, and no inconsiderable rotundity of paunch. His eye was quick and sparkling, with something of an archness in its twinkle, as if he loved a joke occasionally, yet could wink at any one who presumed too far in tampering with his shrewdness His forehead was bald, as well as no small portion of either temple; and the black curls, which projected above his ears, gave to his face the appearance of more than its actual breadth, which was scantily relieved by a light-blue spotted handkerchief, loosely tied around a rather apoplectic neck. His dress was commonly a bottlegreen jacket, single breasted, and square in the tails; a striped cotton waistcoat; velveteen breeches, and light-blue ridge-and-furrow worsted stockings. A watch-chain, of a broad steel pattern, hung glittering before him, at which depended a small gold seal, a white almond-shaped shell, and a perforated Queen Anne's sixpence. Over all this lower display, suppose that you fasten a clean, glossy linen apron, and you have his entire portrait and appearance. From very small beginnings, he had risen, by careful industry, to a respectable place in society, and was now the landlord of the property he had for many years only rented. Daniel was a man of the world, and considered, perhaps not wrongly, that, in society, wealth stamped value upon worth, which otherwise was often little better than useless bullion; and that the voice of virtue, unless sustained by its able assistance, was little better than sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. All men have a ruling passion; some more, and others less praiseworthy. Daniel's was that of adding guinea to guinea. For this end he was up early and lay down late; toiled all day "in the eye of Phoebus," (his shop was on sunny side of the street,) and was, at all times, to be found at the head of his concerns. This was Daniel's way of getting rich; and it was not the least sure one others might sound as well in theory, but this answered to his satisfaction in practice. Daniel had inherited nothing from his parents. His mother was widowed while he was yet in the fourth year of his age; and she had endeavoured, by a thousand honest shifts, to feed, clothe, and give him a tolerable education. At the age of fourteen he entered into |