whose wretchedness of destitution my humble hospitality can for a while alleviate. My immediate neighbors, including my landlord of fifteen years, know me but by externals, and take no note of my loiterings; and I much doubt if Hays himself could syllable my name, or point the way to my hermitage. I have no occasion for the 'magic robe' of Prospero; for the deep guise of poverty renders me invisible at noon-day, even to those who once lived on my bounty; and I pass on through the crowd unquestioned and unnoticed, yet scanning with thoughtful curiousness its living phases. No one stops me to inquire whence I came, or whither I go. No one knows, or cares to know, the quality of my bread and butter, or whether I eat my egg from a tumbler, or have a penchant for a silver fork. No one points me out to his wondering neighbor as an ungrateful anathematizer of the blessings of a bountiful Providence, or an epicurian abuser of those same multifold blessings. "Therefore commend me to a city life, for as solitude consists not so much in loneliness as in being let alone, it is here that loaferism, which is but another name for the philosophy of enjoyment, finds its amplest charter, its calmest, sunniest, and most congenial home. Yet, think not I despise the dwellers of the country, or am ignorant of their many excellencies. Though I like not their reciprocal inquisitiveness, and the consequent mutuality of knowledge which is too prone to gossip of the fire-side concernments of every household, I do like their simplicity of manners, their keen moral sense, their expansive community of sympathy, their cordial interest in each other's welfare, and the visible assurance of peacefulness, innocence, and content, which beams from the general aspect of rural society. Yet is there no hermitage within that quiet Eden for him who would commune with meditation alone. But in the city, every dwelling is a cloister, and its inmates, to all but a favored few, are as a different caste of anchorets, as inaccessible and uncompanionable to all others, as the Brahman to the Pariah. Here he may be a recluse indeed - as forgotten of the world around him, as if it had bathed in the waters of Lethe, or fed on the fabled mandragora whose taste was oblivion. 'Did you observe,' inquired the eremite, after a momentary pause, that gentlemanly person who just passed up the avenue?' 'I did,' said I, and I noticed that he kept his eyes averted the while, as if he did not care to look on the face of strangers.' 'Stranger!' repeated the old man, with a brief, sad smile, it is even so. Yet that same genteel stranger in my sunnier days, I took from the alms-house an outcast and anonymous foundling, gave him a home and a name, clothed, educated, and at last established him in honorable business, and every thing has flourished with him, as you see, except the grateful memory of a stranger's kindness: that has faded inversely with the bloom of his prosperity, till at length it has vanished in such utter forgetfulness of his benefactor, that to recognise me now, would seem marvellously like a miracle. And after all, had I the mnemonic power of an upbraiding conscience, I would not seek to reestablish myself in his memory. My wounded pride indeed prompts me at times to disquiet the obliviousness of those who have had cause to remember my friendship; but I soon soothe the importunate passion with the assurance, that their recognition would but disturb the calm enjoyment of that solitude which is dearer to my heart than the favor of princes. Surely, I ought not to blame those whose slumbering memories serve only to enhance the happiness of my closer seclusion. Experti sumus ego ac amici; and since indigence and affluence are rarely boon companions, let us hope we may meet rarely, and part speedily, or, in the language of Shakspeare, I do desire we may be better strangers.' And can it be,' said I,' that you thus stand aloof from all with whom you once associated in friendly intimacy?' 'It is not I that stand aloof from my former companions, but rather they from me. There are, however, among the many thousands of this metropolis, three of my early mates whose companionship I still cherish as the sweetest solace of my darkling age. We were all once classmates at the university; in after years all equally affluent; and still later in life, all reduced by a kindred misfortune to that fellowship of indigence so conducive to the best development of friendship. The wreck of our former affluence left us still the means of a humble competence, and having none left to toil for, each bade adieu to the excitements of ambition, and retired to the quiet seclusion of an attic. Naturally drawn together by mutual sympathies and associations, we soon after united ourselves in a sort of club, which meets on every new moon at some one of our quaternian cloisters. On these occasions, each throws aside at the threshhold the pack of cares which the last month may have accumulated on his shoulders, and brings in for the evening's entertainment only the flowers and fruits it has been his fortune to gather during the last stage of his pilgrimage. And while the song is sung, the tale told, or the essay read; while the aroma of Cuba mingles its sweet effluence with the rosy breath of Madeira; we who there luxuriate, if not venerably wise, are at least innocently merry; and when the hour of retiring comes, the shadow of a guilty conscience never darkens the path to our peaceful dwellings. The world calls us loafers, and not dissatisfied with the appellation, we have styled our fraternity the Loafers' Club.' Would that a youthful stranger,' said I, inquiringly, 'might be admitted to your feasts of reason and flow of soul.' 'This may not be,' was the expected reply: 'our magic circle is impassable to all but that grim Phantom, whose advent none can bar. Since, however, your frequent loiterings of a summer afternoon in this our chosen paradise, prove you not devoid of the leaven of loaferism, we may grant you this questionable favor, to examine at leisure the record of our motley communings. It is a kind of literary blotter, where I have jotted down the minutes of our 'sayings and doings' tales, essays, translations, glimpses of biography and topography, dramatic adumbrations, excerpts from our college portfolios, songs, sonnets, and other symptoms of prose run mad — interspersed with criticisms, and garnished with quotations. The perusal of this odd medley is not interdicted to so promising a brother Easy as yourself. So come to my sky-parlor in- street, whenever your curiosity prompts you to enter upon the unpromising task.' 'Thanks to your generous confidence, I will do so this very even ing,' I gratefully replied, ' and with the hope moreover, that you will permit me to make an occasional extract for the public eye.' 'Be that as you will,' smiled the quiet dreamer, evidently pleased with the suggestion; and after a warm pressure of the hand, I left him to the wrapt enjoyment of those auroral visions of fame, those bright, brief meteors of the mind, which play so illusorily with the ready credulity of untried authorship. Alas, human vanity! in what one bosom of all earth's many millions, hast thou not an altar and a home! New-York, August, 1836. AN AUTUMN LAY. In life's proud dreams I have no part, AWAY!-away, from book and pen! I cannot be the slave of men; I cannot be their - What care they! The mind this mortal frame may wear With constant effort - Thought may plough And dim the eye, and bleach the hair- And struggled with the strong and bold- Yet, if we heap and hoard not gold, And marvel why we had our birth: Is wealth of purse, not wealth of mind. Away!-from book and pen away! That tinkle down their sides forever! Of what they are, and what should be- One moment on futurity: The Past has had so much of strife, The present hath so much of gloom: OTWAY CURRY. "Tis but the mockery of life! The tomb! dear mother, unto thine Throng up, like whispered words from Heaven; Mother dear mother-from my heart, While threading life's bewildering path, Art with me in these silent shades, Mother dear mother-it may be! A tone of mind, till now unknown - Which lulls me with its fitful moan, A voice, heard last when many a tear Joy! joy!-though wildering paths be mine, I feel that thou wilt ever be Cincinnati, October, 1836. VOL. VIII. 77 W. D. G. LITERARY NOTICES. THE MAGNOLIA FOR 1837. Edited by HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT. pp. 352. NewYork: BANCROFT AND HOLLEY. We have already spoken in terms of deserved praise of this last and yet first of the American annuals for 1837. As our encomiums, however, were expressed in general terms, we may be pardoned for offering a few running comments upon the merits of the volume, both in a pictorial and literary point of view. There are eleven plates, from the hands of native painters and engravers of acknowledged skill; and they present an aggregate of excellence not before reached in this country. We proceed to glance briefly at a few of them. Esperanza,' the first picture, is not misplaced. It is a face of a serene and heavenly beauty, from the pencil and graver of CUMMINGS and CHENEY. Its execution could not be improved; but to our eye there is manifested a sin against taste in the extra profusion of side-curls. The vignette, designed and engraved by CASILEAR, is neat, well drawn, and tasteful. The Rover's Triumph,' painted by CHAPMAN, and engraved by OSBORNE, has but one fault- it is too light, or indistinct. 'Castella,' a portrait, engraved by PARKER, is from a painting by INMAN. It needs no farther laud. Exquisitely soft, and admirable in all respects, is 'Sunset on the Hudson' heretofore noticed in these pages - painted by WEIR, and engraved by ROLPH. This last-named artist is winning for himself deserved repute. Storm Coming On,' is a vivid picture of the scene indicated by the title, and exhibits the artist (H. INMAN) in a very favorable light, as a landscape painter. It is a near and palpable communion with nature. To the 'Wrath of Peter Stuyvesant,' by DURAND, we have before referred. The burly trumpeter is to the life; and in the two remaining portraits, the artist has been true to the expression as well as the want of it. Mr. CASILEAR has done good justice to the engraving. The Freshet,' by CHAPMAN, is worthy his reputation. It is well conceived and well executed; nor has the engraver, Mr. HINSHELWOOD, failed in his portion of the performance. The Lake of the Dismal Swamp,' by CHAPMAN, required just such an engraver as Mr. SMILLIE to transfer its beauties to the steel. Of all the productions of both artists, we do not remember any thing more highly creditable to either. The literary contents of the 'Magnolia' are of a superior character. 'Three Days from the Life of Cavendish the Rover' is marked by those graphic touches and stirring incident, which distinguish nearly all the productions of the writer's pen. His language is always nervous and well chosen, and his conception of dramatic effect correct and forcible. But for the intimate connexion between the several parts of the extended narrative, we should be tempted to justify our opinions by liberal extracts. 'A Winter's Tale' is the title of a story by GRENVILLE MELLEN, wherein is woven much of exciting and romantic adventure, together with the reflections of a poetical and sensitive mind, unweaned from that childhood of the soul which is the true elixir vitæ. An Unsolved Riddle,' by Miss SEDGWICK, who touches nothing that she does not ornament, will remind the reader of IRVING'S 'Stout Gentleman,' though written in a somewhat different vein. 'Maria Jeanne,' by THEODORE S. FAY, is a charming sketch, the incidents of which we remember to have seen in the original French. It |