Part 2

_Why_ she came to the university was best known to herself. I cannot bring myself always to analyze the motives of people's actions; and if Mrs. Welborn _really_ desired, in lieu of acting mamma to children she did not possess, to play the part of gouvernante to a couple of wild, uncouth lads, (her nephews,) during their residence in college, it speaks much for her good nature, at all events. They were not, I believe, grateful for the means she adopted to display this amiable trait in her disposition, nor did people in general appreciate it as they surely ought to have done. _Ill nature_--and there is often a frightful preponderance of _that_ quality in a small town--did not hesitate to assert that the widow Welborn's motive for pitching her tent amid scholastic shades was _in toto_ a _selfish_ one; even that of a design, if she could but accomplish it, of adding _another_ self to _self_. I dare not, in this era of refinement, speak plainer, but will take for granted that I am understood. The widow Welborn, or, as she was more commonly termed. "The gay Widow" from certain gregarious propensities, resided with a couple of female servants in a small house, situated in the most public street of the town; which I know, for this reason,--the principal court of our college was opposite to it, and its gateway was the approved lounge, from morning till night, of the most idle and impudent amongst us. Various were the surmises as to _who, what,_ and from _whence_ the gay widow was; by many she was supposed to be immensely rich; and by a few, some lady of quality _incog_. Many, however, asserted, that her jewels were glass; her gold, tinsel, and her glittering ornaments, beads sewed upon pasteboard. Nevertheless, in the very face of this shameful detraction, to her delightful little soirées flocked the best families in the town, (there were not many,) the heads of houses, (scarcely room had they in her mansion for their bodies,) and many a, fellow, senior and junior, of many a college in----. I had the honour of attending sometimes at these parties, of which all that I remember at present is, that the sugar was nipped into pieces so small, as to oblige those who liked their tea sweet to put in two or three spoonsfull, instead of an equal _quantum_ of lumps, to the astonishment and visible dismay of the waiters. There was generally, too, a sad deficiency in cake; and, oh! when the negus was handed round,----Well, perhaps her nephews drew largely upon her stock of wine; or the widow possibly thought her young men got too much of that commodity in _our_ parties, and therefore needed it less in her own. As to the senior members of the university, I never could comprehend the reasons that induced their endurance of such an aqueous beverage. Sometimes I have attributed their visits to Mrs. Welborn's merely to a ramification of that system of espionage which she thought proper to employ upon her nephews, and they to extend indiscriminately towards every undergraduate; whereas being myself a well-intentioned, modest young man, mine own honour has seemed grievously insulted; but again, may not _vanity_, the hope, paramount in the breast of every individual, of being admired by "_a fortune_," have influenced these old gentlemen to swallow lukewarm potations, (_minus_ wine, lemon, and sugar,) which were a kind of nutmeg broth? I can certainly aver, that old Rightangle, of our college, was, or pretended to be, desperately enamoured with the gay widow; indeed, his doleful looks at one period, and his shyness of the fair lady in question, were to me pretty evident proofs that he had made her an offer, which had been _rejected_. The gossips of ---- had long set it down as a match, but were, it seems, doomed to be disappointed of their cake and wine. I honestly believe that the widow _hated_ Rightangle; and conscientiously declare, to the best of my knowledge, that her antipathy towards my very excellent tutor arose from the circumstance of his having a large red nose, and winning her money whenever they played at the same card-table. Strange stories were afloat respecting the _menage_ of Mrs. Welborn; my bed-maker affirmed, upon her (?) honour and veracity, that a lady and gentleman, who had favoured her with a visit, had 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 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.

The story of the Sorrows of Rosalie (there's music in the name) is not of uncommon occurrence; would to heaven it were more rare. Rosalie, won by her omnipotent lover, Arthur, leaves her aged father; is deceived by promises of marriage, and at length deserted by her seducer. She seeks her betrayer in London, (where the many-headed monster, vice, may best conceal herself,) is repulsed, and after enduring all the bitterness of cruelty, hunger, and remorse, she returns to her father's house; but nothing of him and his remains but his memory and his tomb. She is then driven to dishonesty to supply the cravings of her child--is tried and acquitted. During her imprisonment, the child dies; distress brings on her temporary insanity; but she at length flies to a secluded part of the country, and there seeks a solace for her miseries in making peace with her offended Maker.

We can only detach a few portions of the poem, just to show the intensity with which even common scenes and occurrences are worked up. Here is a picture of Rosalie's happy home:

Home of my childhood! quiet, peaceful home! Where innocence sat smiling on my brow, Why did I leave thee, willingly to roam, Lured by a traitor's vainly-trusted vow? Could they, the fond and happy, see me _now_, Who knew me when life's early summer smiled, They would not know 'twas I, or marvel how The laughing thing, half woman and half child, Could e'er be changed to form so squalid, wan, and wild.

I _was_ most happy--witness it, ye skies, That watched the slumbers of my peaceful night! Till each succeeding morning saw me rise With cheerful song, and heart for ever light; No heavy gems--no jewel, sparkling bright, Cumbered the tresses nature's self had twined; Nor festive torches glared before my sight; Unknowing and unknown, with peaceful mind, Blest in the lot I knew, none else I wished to find.

I _had_ a father--a gray-haired old man, Whom Fortune's sad reverses keenly tried; And now his dwindling life's remaining span, Locked up in me the little left of pride, And knew no hope, no joy, no care beside. My father!--dare I say I loved him well? I, who could leave him to a hireling guide? Yet all my thoughts were _his_, and bitterer fell The pangs of leaving _him_, than all I have to tell.

And oh! my childhood's home was lovelier far Than all the stranger homes where I have been; It seem'd as if each pale and twinkling star Loved to shine out upon so fair a scene; Never were flowers so sweet, or fields so green, As those that wont that lonely cot to grace If, as tradition tells, this earth has seen Creatures of heavenly form and angel race. They might have chosen that spot to be their dwelling place.

The first approach of her lover is thus told:

He came--admired the pure and peaceful scene, And offer'd money for our humble cot. Oh! justly burn'd my father's cheek, I ween, "His sires by honest toil the dwelling got; _Their_ home was not for sale." It matters not How, after that, Lord Arthur won my love. He smiled contemptuous on my humble lot, Yet left no means untried my heart to move, And call'd to witness _his_ the glorious heavens above.

Oh! dimmed are now the eyes he used to praise, Sad is the laughing brow where hope was beaming, The cheek that blushed at his impassioned gaze Wan as the waters where the moon is gleaming; For many a tear of sorrow hath been streaming Down the changed face, which knew no care before; And my sad heart, awakened from its dreaming, Recalls those days of joy, untimely o'er, And mourns remembered bliss, which can return no more.

It was upon a gentle summer's eve, When Nature lay all silently at rest-- When none but I could find a cause to grieve, I sought in vain to soothe my troubled breast, And wander'd forth alone, for well I guess'd That Arthur would be lingering in the bower Which oft with summer garlands I had drest; Where blamelessly I spent full many an hour Ere yet I felt or love's or sin's remorseless power.

No joyful step to welcome me was there; For slumber had her transient blessing sent To him I loved--the still and balmy air, The blue and quiet sky, repose had lent, Deep as her own--above that form I bent, The rich and clustering curls I gently raised, And, trembling, kissed his brow--I turned and went-- Softly I stole away, nor, lingering, gazed; Fearful and wondering still, at my own deed amazed.

Her first pangs of sorrow at quitting home:

"Oh, Arthur! stay"--he turned, and all was o'er-- My sorrow, my repentance--all was vain-- I dreamt the dream of life and love once more, To wake to sad reality of pain. He spoke, but to my ear no sound was plain, Until the little wicket-gate we passed-- _That sound of home_ I never heard again, And then "drive on--drive faster--yet more fast." I raised my weeping head--Oh! I had looked my last.

One of those precious moments in which remorse overtakes the victims of crime, is thus finely drawn:

Months passed: one evening, as of early days, When first my bosom thrilled _his_ voice to hear, And thought upon the gentle words of praise Which forced my lips to smile, and chased my fear: I sang--a sob, deep, single, struck my ear; Wondering, I gazed on Arthur, bending low-- His features were concealed, but many a tea, Quick gushing forth, continued fast to flow, Stood where they fell, then sank like dew-drops on the snow.

Oh yes! however cold in after years, At least it cost thee sorrow _then_ to leave me; And for those few sincere, remorseful tears, I do forgive (though thou couldst thus deceive me) The years of peace of which thou didst bereave me. Yes--as I saw those gushing life-drops come Back to the heart which yet delayed to grieve me, Thy love returned a moment to its home, Far, far away from me for ever then to roam.

He deserts her:

Still hope was left me, and each tedious hour Was counted as it brought his coming near; And joyfully I watched each fading flower; Each tree, whose shadowy boughs grew red and sear; And hailed sad Autumn, favourite of the year. At length my time of sorrow came--'twas over, A beauteous boy was brought me, doubly dear, For all the Tears that promise caused to hover Round him--'twas past--I claimed a husband in my lover.

On her return to her paternal cottage:

"My father' oh, my father!" vain the cry-- I had no father now; no need to say "Thou art alone!." I _felt_ my misery-- My father, yet return,--_return_! the day When sorrow had availed is passed away: Tears cannot raise the dead, grief cannot call Back to the earthy corse the spirit's ray-- Vainly eternal tears of blood might fall; One short year since, he lived--my hopes now perished all!

The tale then concludes:

Years have gone by--my thoughts have risen higher-- I sought for refuge at the Almighty's throne; And when I sit by this low mould'ring fire, With but my Bible, feel not quite alone. Lingering in peace, till I can lay me down, Quiet and cold in that last dwelling place, By him o'er whose young head the grass is grown-- By him who yet shall rise with angel face, Pleading for me, the lost and sinful of my race. And if I still heave one reluctant sigh-- If earthly sorrows still will cross my heart-- If still to my now dimmed and sunken eye The bitter tear, half checked, in vain will start; I hid the dreams of other days depart, And turn, with clasping hands, and lips compress'd, To pray that Heaven will soothe sad memory's smart; Teach me to bear and calm my troubled breast; And grant _her_ peace in Heaven who not on earth may rest.

The author of this exquisite volume is the daughter of the late Thomas Sheridan, and is described as a young and lovely woman, moving in a fashionable sphere.

In this edition are several minor pieces, and others not before published, some of which are of equal merit with the specimens we have here quoted.

* * * * *

PILGRIMAGE TO MEKKA.

Of the numerous pilgrims who arrive at Mekka before the caravan, some are professed merchants; many others bring a few articles for sale, which they dispose of without trouble. They then pass the interval of time before the Hadj, or pilgrimage, very pleasantly; free from cares and apprehensions, and enjoying that supreme happiness of an Asiatic, the _dolce far niente_. Except those of a very high rank, the pilgrims live together in a state of freedom and equality. They keep but few servants; many, indeed, have none, and divide among themselves the various duties of housekeeping, such as bringing the provisions from market and cooking them, although accustomed at home to the services of an attendant. The freedom and oblivion of care which accompany travelling, render it a period of enjoyment among the people of the East as among Europeans; and the same kind of happiness results from their residence at Mekka, where reading the Koran, smoking in the streets or coffee-houses, praying or conversing in the mosque, are added to the indulgence of their pride in being near the holy house, and to the anticipation of the honours attached to the title of hadjy for the remainder of their lives; besides the gratification of religious feelings, and the hopes of futurity, which influence many of the pilgrims. The hadjys who come by the caravans pass their time very differently. As soon as they have finished their tedious journey, they must undergo the fatiguing ceremonies of visiting the Kaaba and Omra; immediately after which, they are hurried away to Arafat and Mekka, and, still heated from the effects of the journey, are exposed to the keen air of the Hedjaz mountains under the slight and inadequate covering of the ihram: then returning to Mekka, they have only a few days left to recruit their strength, and to make their repeated visits to the Beitullah, when the caravan sets off on its return; and thus the whole pilgrimage is a severe trial of bodily strength, and a continual series of fatigues and privations. This mode of visiting the holy city is, however, in accordance with the opinions of many most learned Moslem divines, who thought that a long residence in the Hedjaz, however meritorious the intention, is little conducive to true belief, since the daily sight of the holy places weakened the first impressions made by them. Notwithstanding the general decline of Musselman zeal, there are still found Mohammedans whose devotion induces them to visit repeatedly the holy places.--_Burckhardt's Travels in Arabia_.

* * * * *

RUSSIAN BOTANICAL GARDEN.

The botanical garden of St. Petersburg, like all the rest of the institutions, is of gigantic dimensions. It contains sixty-five acres: a parallelogram formed by three parallel lines of hot-houses and conservatories, united at the extremities by covered corridors, constitutes the grand feature of this establishment. The south line contains green-house plants in the centre, and hot-house plants at each end; the middle line has hot-house plants only, and the north line is filled with green-house plants. The connecting corridors are two hundred and forty-five feet. The north and south line contain respectively five different compartments of one hundred toises each, that is to say, they are together six thousand feet. The middle line has seven compartments, that is, three thousand more, making in the whole length nine thousand feet!--_Granville's Travels_.

* * * * *

THE HIRLAS HORN.

The engraving represents an elegant complimentary piece of plate, presented by the Committee for managing the Eisteddvod, held at Denbigh, September, 1828, to Dr. Jones, their Honorary Secretary, for his valuable services on that occasion.

Mr. Ellis, of John-street, Oxford-street, Medalist to the Royal Cambrian institution, was requested to execute (for this purpose) after his own design, a drinking goblet of an ancient form. Mr. E. thought of the _Hirlas Horn_, and he has completed a beautiful and unique piece of workmanship. It is an elegantly carved horn, about eighteen inches long, brilliantly polished, and richly mounted, the cover highly ornamented with chased oak leaves, and the tip adorned with an acorn; the horn resting on luxuriant branches of an oaken tree, exquisitely finished in chased silver. Around the cover is engraved the following inscription:--"_Presented by the Cymmrodorion in Gwynedd, to_ RICHARD PHILLIPS JONES, M.D. _for his unwearied exertions in promoting the Royal Eisteddvod, held at Denbigh_, 1828." The horn (the inside of which is lined with silver,) will contain about three half pints; and we doubt not that it will be often passed around, filled with _Cwrw da_, in remembrance of the interesting event which it is intended to commemorate--

"And former times renew in converse sweet."

The origin of the _Hirlas Horn_ is as follows:--

About 1160, Owain Cyveiliog, one of the most distinguished Princes of Powis, flourished; he was a great warrior and an eminent poet; several specimens of his writings are given in the _Archaiology of Wales_, published by the late patriotic Owain Jones Myfyr. His poem called the _Hirlas Horn_ (the long blue horn,) is a masterpiece. It used to be the custom with the prince, when he had gained a battle, to call for the horn, filled with metheglin, or mead, and drink the contents at one draught, then sound it to show that there was no deception; each of his officers following his example. Mrs. Hemans has given a beautiful song, in Parry's second volume of _Welsh Melodies_, on the subject, concluding thus:--

"Fill higher the HIRLAS' forgetting not those Who shar'd its bright draught in the days which are fled! Tho' cold on their mountains the valiant repose, Their lot shall be lovely--renown to the dead! While harps in the hall of the feast shall be strung, While regal ERYRI[3] with snow shall be crown'd-- So long by the bard shall their battles be sung, And the heart of the hero shall burn at the sound: The free winds of Cambria shall swell with their name, And OWAIN's rich HIRLAS be fill'd to their fame!"

[3] Snowdon.

* * * * *

THE NATURALIST.

* * * * *

BIRDS OF LONDON.

It may be observed, that although many of the bird tribe seem to prefer the vicinity of the residence of man for their domicile, yet they, for the most part, avoid cities and large towns, for one, among other reasons, because there is no food for them. There are, notwithstanding, some remarkable exceptions to this. The _House Sparrow_ is to be seen, I believe, in every part of London. There is a rookery in the Tower; and another was, till lately, in Carlton Palace Gardens; but the trees having been cut down to make room for the improvements going on there, the rooks removed in (1827,) to some trees behind the houses in New-street, Spring-gardens. There was also, for many years, a rookery on the trees in the churchyard of St. Dunstan's in the East, a short distance from the Tower; the rooks for some years past deserted that spot, owing, it is believed, to the fire that occurred a few years ago at the old Custom House. But in 1827, they began again to build on those trees, which are not elm, but a species of plane. There was also, formerly, a rookery on some large elm trees in the College Garden behind the Ecclesiastical Court in Doctors' Commons, a curious anecdote concerning which has been recorded.

The _Stork_, and some other of the tribe of waders, are occasionally also inhabitants of some of the continental towns.

Rooks appear to be peculiarly partial to building their nests in the vicinity of the residence of man. Of the numerous rookeries of which I have any recollection, most of them were a short distance from dwelling houses. In March, 1827, there was a rookery on some trees, neither very lofty nor very elegant, in the garden of the Royal Naval Asylum, at Greenwich; and although many very fine and lofty elms are in the park near, which one might naturally suppose the rooks would prefer, yet, such is the fact, there is not even one rook's nest in Greenwich Park. Possibly the company of so large a number of boys, and the noise which they make, determine these birds in the choice of such a place for their procreating domicile.

There is also a remarkable fact related by Mr. French, on the authority of Dr. Spurgin, in the second volume of the _Zoological Journal_, which merits attention, in regard to the rook.