“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,
  O’er which the wall of many a cottage-home
  Graced with the climbing vine, or beautified
  With roses bending to each passing breeze,
  Attracts the eye, and glistens in the sun—­
  Were interspersed around; while in the vale
  The streamlet gave a silver gleam, and flow’d
  Beneath the hill, on whose majestic brow,
  Dimm’d with the ivy of a thousand years,
  The rural fane, encircled with its tombs,
  Displayed its mouldering form.  Amid the light
  And harmony of this enchanting scene,
  ’Tis sweet to have a temple that recalls
  The heart from earth’s turmoil, and hallows it
  With hopes that soar beyond the flight of time.