tales, were promulgated by the treacherous industry of the widow’s maid-servants.  Mrs. Welborn was fond of claiming an intimate acquaintance with people of rank.  I never, however, met any titled person at her house.  She was a kind of living peerage, and an animated chronicle of the actions of the great, virtuous and vicious:  but, if the truth must be spoken,—­and in a private memoir, why conceal it?—­she had acquaintances of a grade far inferior!  I say not that I saw it, because I was never accustomed to lounge at our college gate; but the men that were most frequently there, insist that they have many times beheld the gay widow steal forth in the dusk of the evening, dressed as for a party, and have tracked her to the house of a haberdasher in the vicinity!  Well! she is married now, and is Mrs. Welborn—­the gay widow no longer.  How she accomplished this affair I know not; it broke like a thunder-clap upon the ears of the good people of—.  Suddenly, the widow was gone—­her house and furniture were sold—­the happy event was announced in the papers—­no cake was sent out—­so the gossips were disappointed; and as I have since learnt, that the lady has thrice undergone a separation from her husband, I imagine that she must have been so likewise.

M. L. B.

* * * * *

THE SELECTOR; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS.

* * * * *

THE SORROWS OF ROSALIE,

A Tale.

This beautiful little volume has, in less than six months, reached a fourth edition, which is to us a proof that the readers of the present day know how to discriminate pure gold from pinchbeck or petit or, and intense, natural feeling from the tinsel and tissues of flimsy “poetry.”  The booksellers, nevertheless, say that poetry is unsaleable, and they are usually allowed to speak feelingly on the score of popularity and success.  Yet within a very short time, we have seen a splendid poem—­the “Pelican Island,” by (the) Montgomery; the “Course of Time,” a Miltonic composition, by the Rev. Mr. Pollock; and now we have before us a poem, of which on an average, an edition has been sold in six weeks.  The sweeping censure that poems are unsaleable belongs then to a certain grade of poetry which ought never to have strayed out of the album in which it was first written, except for the benefit of the stationer, printer, and the newspapers.  Nearly all the poetry of this description is too bizarre, and wants the pathos and deep feeling which uniformly characterize true poetry, and have a lasting impression on the reader:  whereas, all the “initial” celebrity, the honied sweetness, lasts but for a few months, and then drops into oblivion.