quitted her residence thrice thinner than they were
when they entered it; and that a gentleman had hastily departed from the
shelter of her hospitable roof, upon her refusing him the indulgence of a
_Welsh rabbit_ at _breakfast!_ These, and similar 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 ar