from this poison. He always drank out of one glass, into
which he daily let fall a drop of sealing-wax. By this means he had
twelve drops less of spirit every day, till at length, his glass being
filled with wax, his habit was cured.

"In the drunkard," says Dr. Willan, "the memory and the faculties
depending on it, being impaired, there takes place an indifference
towards usual occupations, and accustomed society or amusements. No
interest is taken in the concerns of others--no love, no sympathy
remain: even natural affection to nearest relatives is gradually
extinguished, and the moral sense obliterated. The wretched victims of
a fatal poison fall, at length, into a state of fatuity, and die with
the powers both of body and mind wholly exhausted. Some, after
repeated fits of derangement, expire in a sudden and violent phrenzy;
some are hurried out the world by apoplexies; others perish by the
slower process of jaundice, dropsy," &c.

P.T.W.

* * * * *

A SCENE ON WINDERMERE.

"Beautiful scene! how fitted to allure
The printless footsteps of some sea-born maid."

It was a holy calm--the sunbeams tinged
The lake with gold, and flush'd the gorgeous brow
Of many a cloud whose image shone beneath
The blue translucent wave; the mountain-peaks
Were robed in purple, and the balmy air
Derived its fragrance from the breath of flow'rs
That seem'd as if they wish'd to close their eyes,
And yield their empire to the starry throng.
The wind, as o'er the lake it gently died,
Bequeath'd its cadence to the shore, and waked
The echo slumbering in the distant vales,
Diversified with woods, and rural homes.
The calm was lovely! and o'er such a scene
It brooded like a spirit, softening all
That lay beneath its blessed influence!

On Windermere--what poetry belongs
To such a name--deep, pure and beautiful,
As its trout-peopled wave!--on Windermere
Our skiff pursued its way amid the calm
Which fill'd the heart with holiest communings.
On Windermere--what scenes entranced the eye
That wander'd o'er them! either undefined
Or traced upon the outline of the sky.
Afar the lovely panorama glow'd,
Until the mountains, on whose purple brows
The clouds were pillow' d, closed it from our view.
The fields were fraught with bloom, on them appear'd
The verdant robe that Nature loves to wear,
And rocky pathways fringed with bristling pine,