themselves than males, it certainly much astonished me to hear those Welch pseudo-females in the act of conversation. No barbarisin can by possibility be more grating than theirs ;-no remote Hotentotism, nor Susquehanah alphabet can be more monstrous in the pronunciation than the Welch dialect-dialect it must bo called, for language it never can be, which is not civilized and is not a polite mode of conveying sentiments. I fear, however, that in continuing this subject, I may be unfortunate enough to hurt irritable feelings of these ancient Britons, and as I always entertain great horror of violating that extreme respect which is due from all men to the "ladies of creation," I must here stop my diatribes. And now for Mr. Gilpin. This gentleman was in his day a great man among travellers. It was he who divided the Wye into "three grand scenes "—and in continuation of his narrative he has written much to perplex and more to disgust regarding South Wales. The only part I shall mention here-and distinctly do I remember almost the words, for I read them on September the 10th at the town of Built, in the evening of a very fine day—Mr. Gilpin then asserts that mountain scenery is dull and stupid, that he sees no great merit in crags and precipices, that those great arks of the past, swelling their peaks even into the thunder cloud, have for him no particular charm, and that in truth he prefers vale scenery infinitely to these things; that for him the purling brook, the flowery garden, and the geese runing about a village green, have a far more inestimable appearance. CLEVELAND SKETCHES. IMPROMPTU LINES ON A YOUNG LADY VISITING FRANCE AND THE RHINE. "O, saw ye bonnie Lesley As she gaed o'er the border, She's gane like Alexander To spread her conquests farther. Return again fair Lesley Return to Caledonie, That we may brag we hae a lass There's nane again sae bonnie."-BURNS. The ship that bears thee o'er the salt sea-foam, Breasting the Kentish shore thou wilt behold And Dover's castle-walls still towering high Fast roll the waves along that Channel free, Thou'lt see Boulogne's bright shore,-where, long ago, Dear that lone beach, erst sanctified to love, Where Naiads once, and sea-nymphs seem'd to rove. And thou wilt wander the gay realm of France, Through vales sweet-smiling, and majestic towns, Would I were with thee in th' Imperial town, + Referring to the lovely and unfortunate Queen Mary Stuart. To roam with thee along the gentle Seine, 'Mid pleasant vineyards, bright with summer rain, No more the clanging trumpet frights each street, No longer stir each palpitating breast: And love-adoring whispers kiss the air, Wondering from what blest sphere sprang one so fair. And thou wilt view majestic and divine, Grim forests spectre-haunted, dark and dun The silvery waters of Geneva's lake |