were not in the brightest condition; and a few incoher ent, "A B's equal to A C's," &c. were sufficient to satisfy him of my knowledge of the theorem. After about two hours spent in this manner, the power of the draught began to be expended, and, by degrees, the Doctor's senses were cleared from the haze which had enveloped them; when I caught up the well-conned words of the last proposition, and brought my demonstration to a close, in the finest style imaginable.

The Dean was here in a dilemma. His principles, his character, would not permit him to confess his somnolency, which he hoped I had overlooked; so, extricating himself in the best manner he could, by praising my application and mathematical knowledge, he consented to my marriage with his niece. I flew with his sanction to Louisa, and we were married in a few months.

Years have passed since our union, during which our happiness has augmented in geometrical progression. For a long time the good gentleman was the centre of attraction to a large system of grand nephews and nieces, who, although by his death deprived of his directing impulse, still continue to move in the orbits of virtue and perseverance, upon which his authority had incited

them to enter.

D. S.

LINES ON VISITING CATHCART.

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL.

OH! scenes of my childhood, and dear to my heart,
Ye greenwaving woods on the margin of Cart,
How bless'd in the morning of life I have strayed,
By the stream of the vale, and the grass-cover'd glade!

Then, then, every rapture was young and sincere, Ere the sunshine of bliss was bedimmed by a tear, And a sweeter delight every scene seemed to lend, That the mansion of peace was the house of a FRIEND.

Now the scenes of my childhood, and dear to my heart, All pensive I visit, and sigh to depart,

Their flowers seemed to languish, their beauty to cease, For a STRANGER inhabits the mansion of peace.

But hushed be the sigh, that untimely complains, While Friendship and all its enchantment remains, While it blooms like the flower of a winterless clime, Untainted by chance, unabated by time.

THE FALL OF ALCAHMAN.

See Southey's Roderick. Book 28.1

'Tis dawn, but yet the misty cloud Hangs wreathing o'er the dark ravine, Prophetic shadows dimly shroud

The brightness of the mountain green; "Tis of war's harvest work they tell, And flowing blood in the peaceful dell.

And Freedom's gale blows proudly past,
As conscious of some triumph high,

And the breaking sun shines bright on the last
Of the Tyrants' days who are coming nigh:
Hark! mounting on the wind of morn,
The cymbal's clang, and the waking horn.

Far distant rise the martial strains,

And trembling burst the notes of war!

More near, more near, from the burning plains,

And Afric's glowing sands afar,

And the blast that comes from the valley's gloom

Fans them in place of the hot simoom.

The turban'd host of Greek and Moor
March glittering in their glory on,
Their trump is echoed, as they pour
All mirthful in the gleaming sun;

And hark! they sing their prophet's song,
Wild music as they wind along.

They wind along to a bloody grave,
To vengeful Freedom's altar bound,
Like shrouds, their pennons broadly wave,
And like a dirge their music's sound:

To the palmtree's stem, from the vines of Spain,
They may strain with their dying eyes in vain.

The olive groves, which were wont to light
In the ruddy rays of retiring day,

They have wrapt in the smoke of destruction's night,
And their peaceful shades have passed away,
But the moment is come, it is vengeance' hour,

For each city sacked, and polluted bower.

Proudly they rear the crescent's form,
Their sacred banners toss and curl,
But trembling, as in thunder storm,
The rocks their foemen prostrate hurl,
The clamorous echo whispering dies,
Deep sleeps the Moor, and lowly lies.

Then shakes that mountain pass again,

"For God,-for vengeance, and for Spain!"
Through mist is seen the tide of war,
Fast rushing o'er the mangled slain;

They've done their harvest work full well,
Alcahman sleeps in that peaceful dell.

R. M.

HENRY COLVILLE.

Cut off with all the weight of unrepented sin
Upon his head.

Southey.

DURING the relief from my medical studies, which the summer of 17— brought with it, I occupied myself with a tour in Scotland, a country which till that time I had known only by its metropolis. I shall not now stop to describe the various beauties, which Albyn's thousand hills and her silvery lakes disclosed to my view, but shall pass on to the narration of an adventure, which, from the feelings it excited in myself, I have perhaps rather rashly presumed will in some degree interest my readers.

In the course of the above-mentioned tour, I arrived at the little village of Colville, where the universal theme of conversation, at the time, was the awfully mysterious fate of the heir to the fine estate, of which the village forms a part. Unable to learn any thing from the indistinct and contradictory accounts which were showered upon me by various individuals, I had recourse to my landlady, who, as a person of con