squerading!--what on earth is it all about?"

I pitied Leicester, he looked such an extraordinary figure in his
ambiguous dress, and seemed so thoroughly ashamed of himself; so
displaying the tops and cords in which I had enacted Hastings, I
acknowledged my share in the business, and gave a brief history of the
drama during my management. The dean endeavoured to look grave: Dyson
gave way to undisguised amusement, and repeatedly exclaimed, "Oh! why
did you not send me a ticket? When do you perform again?"

Alas! never. Brief, as bright, was our theatrical career. But the memory
of it lives in the college still: of the comedy, and the supper, and the
curious mistake which followed it: and the dean has not to this hour
lost the credit which he then gained, of having a remarkably keen eye
for a petticoat.

LINES WRITTEN IN THE ISLE OF BUTE.

BY DELTA.

I.

Ere yet dim twilight brighten'd into day,
Or waned the silver morning-star away,
Shedding its last, lone, melancholy smile,
Above the mountain-tops of far Argyle;
Ere yet the solan's wing had brush'd the sea,
Or issued from its cell the mountain bee;
As dawn beyond the orient Cumbraes shone,
Thy northern slope, Byrone,
From Ascog's rocks, o'erflung with woodland bowers,
With scarlet fuschias, and faint myrtle flowers,
My steps essay'd; brushing the diamond dew
From the soft moss, lithe grass, and harebell blue.
Up from the heath aslant the linnet flew
Startled, and rose the lark on twinkling wing,
And soar'd away, to sing
A farewell to the severing shades of night,
A welcome to the morning's aureate light.
Thy summit gain'd, how tranquilly serene,
Beneath, outspread that panoramic scene
Of continent and isle, and lake and sea,
And tower and town, hill, vale, and spreading tree,
And rock and ruin tinged with amethyst,
Half-seen, half-hidden by the lazy mist,
Volume on volume, which had vaguely wound
The far off hills around,
And now roll'd downwards; till on high were seen,
Begirt with sombre larch, their foreheads green.

II.

There, save when all, except the lark, was mute,
Oh, beauty-breathing Bute
On thee entranced I gazed; each moment brought
A new creation to the eye of thought:
The orient clouds all Iris' hues assumed,
From the pale lily to the rose that bloom'd,
And hung above the pathway of the sun,
As if to harbinger his course begun;
When, lo! his disk burst forth--his beams of gold
Seem'd