volumes and manuscripts-and also by a little fraternity, of zealous students, who, in utter disregard of fashion pay their ardent homage to the productions of all ages, and of all nations, are still, comparatively, forsaken halls, because the general public have, of late, too much encouraged the notion that nearly all that dates beyond the present century, should be consigned to the oblivion of dusty shelves, as fit only for professors, for bookworms, and biblio-maniacs-curious to look at, but unfit to be read, except by such devotees !

I repeat, then, were readers to select with judgment, uninfluenced by fashion, by the love of novelty, and by a mawkish taste for mere excitement, authors would feel a just pride at then seeing these libraries crowded with readers; each taking, as it were from a sea of volumes, to suit his individual taste. Then would the BODLEIAN, at Oxford, the Library of the BRITISH MUSEUM, at London, the Bibliothèque du Roi, of Paris, the IMPERIAL LIBRARIES at Vienna and St. Petersburg, the ROYAL LIBRARY, at Dresden, and that of the VATICAN, be no longer the occasional resort of the idle and merely curious, but the habitual rendezvous of crowds of zealous students, offering at the shrine of the congregated genius and learning of all ages, their deepest devotions, without inquiring whether their productions are wet from the press-are in gorgeous binding-or enriched with splendid engravings! These would, indeed be halcyon days for authors: and then, even the meritorious primer, would receive its

meed of notice, and of praise. But, alas! as matters now are, we are compelled to fear that even Sir Walter, and all who aspire to be classed with him, cannot but have often sighed, when passing through the avenues of these extensive libraries, to find countless volumes of great excellence, and once so famous, now resting in undisturbed and dusty oblivion; some of them, perhaps, for ages, and many of equal worth, though but a few years old, already placed on remote shelves, among past and nearly forgotten literature ! Did they not therein perceive their own inevitable doom? and was there not a still, small voice that whispered, 'see! to this we must all come at last-nay shortly!' Who, then, let me again ask, would write for fame?

But books, unto some men, and especially unto authors, are as so many idols: and if they be, to a few, even loathsome, and to others, things of indifference, and to many, objects of an unmeaning fashion, occasioning them to be purchased, and, possibly, to be hastily read; yet all this deters not an author from writing and publishing, so long as he delights in intellectual exertion, and hopes his works may prove useful, even to a select few! Such an author will remember how often he hath seen (maugre the alleged redundancy of the press) a libraryless scholar of great worth, on the one hand, and a vast collection made by some wealthy, but illiterate and selfish biblio-maniac, on the other, to whom, with old Fuller, he might have said-Salve doctor, sine libris, unto the

former, and Salvite libri, sine doctore, unto the latter: the one he would strongly encourage with every soothing language; the other's proud crest he would razee down, until he found for him, his true and ignoble level! With what exultation, moreover, would such author throw open to the bookless scholar, the recherché library of one of these churlish collectors, whose only connection with books is to see them magnificently bound, fancifully arranged, and caligraphically catalogued! And how different would be the emotions (if any) of such a mere collector, when contemplating his books, from the enthusiasm of RICHARD De Bury, who, when surveying his library, exclaimed-Hi sunt magistri qui nos instruunt sine vergis et ferula, sine verbis et colera, sine pane et pecunia. Si accedis non dormiunt; si enquiris non se abscondunt; non remurmurant si oberres; cachinos si ignores. The like feelings also actuated BARTHOLINI, in his dissertation De libris legendi, when he thus naively and laconically declares, the praises of books-Sine libris, Deus jam silet, Justitia quiescit, torpet Medicina, Philosophia manca est, Letteræ multæ, omnia tenebris involuta cimmeriis: and Cicero, contemplating a friend surrounded by a library, evidently regarded it as among the most enviable of conditions-Eum vidi in Bibliotheca sedentem, multis circumfusis LIBRIS. Est enim, ut sis, in eo INEXHAUSTA AVIDITAS legendi, nec sactiari protest.

An author, then, has both an abstract, and a practical delight in books; and possesses none of

those niggard motives, which a crude and miscellaneous world would impute to him. Even fame, with its silvery sounds, and golden promises to the ear, comes late, if it comes at all; and passes but feebly over his mind, as an incitement to exertion. And, be he an author of primers, or of folios-of fancy's tales, or of the weightier matters of Law or of Metaphysics, his own gratification is ever sufficient for him, without the adscititious aid of a fame, which, if it happen to extend much beyond his own localities, is still very sure to perish, long before his paternal dwelling, though of wood, has sought its kindred earth!!

I have said thus much to account, as well as it may, for the small share I have had, or may have, in authorship: but, GENTLE READER, of this be assured; I care not a carlino what thy opinion may be; for, if this volume, the preceding ones, and those which may follow, be without merit, I should be the last to desire to see them valued; but, if they prove worthy, they will not be neglected, by some few-at least, among people of judgment, and, as to the rest, they are a 'profanum vulgus,' of whom, if I do not say 'odi et arceo,' it is not because I do not feel so; for truly, it is not in my nature to covet their admiration.

DAVID HOFFMAN.

Baltimore, June, 1839.

Α

PEEP INTO MY NOTE BOOK.

CHAPTER I.

I. THE LONDON CROSSINGS.-II. CHRISTIAN BURIAL-on terms. III. SECLUSION FROM THE WORLD.-IV. THE YOUNG

INEBRIATE.

NOTE I.-THE LONDON CROSSINGS.

It is said that nature abhors a vacuum, and, of course, that she loves a plenum! Now, as it seems to me, there is in this more than, at once, meets the eye; for in truth, this principle is the copious source of all the action and vitality of life. Hence is it that the infinitesimal interstices of time, which by the idle are not only thrown away, but are to them absolutely invisible, are to the industrious, fragments of great moment, out of which they compose hours, days, and weeks of usefulness; and, by collecting them, they 'let no particle of time fall useless to the ground.' So, likewise, in crowded communities, thousands, nay millions, live on the very refuse and parings of the innu