of Watts's hymns, and observes, that to be sure Mr. Milton was a very fine poet, and that she has no fault to find with him, but that in her humble opinion, laying great stress on the word humble, Dr. Watts is prettier. If she is the mother of divers daughters, she is most partial to the married one, who generally happens to be the youngest and prettiest. In her the old lady sees the reflection of what she once was herself, and tells every one how very like they are considered. At Christmas she is in her glory; the family then meet round the dinner table; and the mince pies, things not to be lightly praised, display her abilities as caterer. Stories of by-gone years are then renewed; the compliments that were paid her in youth serve as whet-stones to her age, and she is not unfrequently the most cheerful and active member of the circle. All her notions are peculiar. She dislikes starched collars, Lord Byron, and Little's poems, and says that they inculcate a principle of dishonesty-the first, by their deceptive appearance, the other two by their writings. Pope is her favourite author. She thinks his Rape of the Lock the quintessence of perfection; and, in allusion to her own antiquated exterior, quotes triumphantly— “Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll, Charms strike.the sight-but merit wins the soul." "This passage," says she, "is an elegant paraphrase of the old proverb, Handsome is as handsome does." The books in her library, which is nothing more than a couple of melancholy-looking shelves placed in her bed-room, are Blair's Sermons, Kitchener's Art of Cookery, the Spectator, an odd volume of Shakspeare, with the page turned down at Juliet's midnight interview with Romeo; and a receipt-book with the two covers torn off. In her sanctum sanctorum, or bandbox, there are some of her earliest poetical specimens; most of which begin with "Strike up, my muse. She is sadly addicted to the vice of physicking, and persuades herself that she is dying whenever the rheumatism honours her with a visit. In the evening she sits down to her favourite two-penny whist; and woe be to him who stakes his illfated pence against her. In conversation she is slow and pompous-hates music, except that of her own cat-and goes to sleep in the arm-chair while the young ones are romping about ROSALIE: A Welch Talt. * 11 den lovely woman stoops to felly, IN the heart of South Wales, and in the neighbour hood of the village of Langabock, there is a beautiful common, known by the name of Carrick Southey. Encircled on every side by s, some of which soar boldly, wille others rise in gentiest elevations from the distore, it presents a picturesque anion of sublimity and softness. The river Southey glides through it, and arched by a wooden bridge of the simplest construction, enhances the inherent beauty A of the landscape. As I am an idle, good-for-nothing sort of gentleman, nature has been my sole deity :the happiest moments of my youth have been spent in wandering; and even now, I can dream away many pleasant hours by the gurgling waters of the Southey. Sometimes, however, a few bitter recollections, which had better be forgotten, elicit the reluctant sigh; but when I see the gentle air of peace that reigns around me, my thoughts subside into contentment-the tranquillity of nature passes into my soul-and with satisfaction I reflect, that though happiness be dead, her image still exists. In the centre of Carrick Southey, and contiguous to a meeting-house, whose fanaticism has vulgarized the whole neighbourhood, stands a little cottage environed by copse-wood. A few years ago it was the ornament of the landscape, but, like its once happy tenants, has now gone to decay. Still it is an interesting ruin, and, when viewed in connexion with my tale, arrests the sympathy of the inquisitive stranger. By the decreasing light of a summer sun, a young English officer of Dragoons was pursuing his route of pleasure and romance along the wood-fringed banks of the Southey. The twilight surprised him in his excursion; and he had just attained the extreme ROSALIE: A Welch Tale. "When lovely woman stoops to folly, IN the heart of South Wales, and in the neighbourhood of the village of Llangadock, there is a beautiful common, known by the name of Carrick Southey. Encircled on every side by hills, some of which soar boldly, while others rise in gentlest elevations from the distance, it presents a picturesque union of sublimity and softness. The river Southey glides through it, and, arched by a wooden bridge of the simplest construction, enhances the inherent beauty |