THIS is truly an age of books. They swarm as did the locusts of Egypt. Numerous and copious volumns, containing the ancient lore, revised, corrected and supplied with additional notes, together with later and recent literary and scientific productions load the shelves of the book-seller, as well as those of some of our public libraries. An unprecedented number of presses are likewise kept in constant operation, from which issue daily, books and periodicals of all sorts. Surely many of the sons of Science and Literature pay their devoirs at learnings altar. Law, politics, theology, history, biography, natural, moral and mental philosophy, receive constant attention. Especially do fictitious writings abound. They exceed calculation. Poetical productions are not a few. Incessant additions are made to the world of Literature.

By assiduous investigation and careful examination, scattered facts and materials are discovered and brought together, so as to afford a methodical and comprehensive view of the peculiarities of different ages and counties, and of the lives and characters of various distinguished personages. Out of great but isolated principles long established, together with those recently inducted from generalTM and undeniable facts, new sciences are created.

Yet the body politic of letters is not altogether rid of those who are charmed by Platonic dreams, and those fascinated with the rev eries of the alchemist. Among certain classes, a spirit of speculation upon the future exists. The phenomena of the heavens, and the great and rapid changes amongst us on this footstool, excite their serious attention; they are ready to conclude, that something anomalous is about to succeed. Would not the case be well with them, and the world at large, were the waves of their expectations circumscribed by the principles of inductive philosophy?

No theory of whatever materials framed, or however absurd, provided it has once taken root, has wanted patrons and advocates.— Phrenology and idealism, though to most, subjects of ridicule and merriment, are, notwithstanding, to some, in a degree at least, what alchemy was to a class of scientific enthusiasts of the dark ages.

2

The Press must needs lend its aid to any science, art, speculation or theory, that interests any considerable part of the community; no proverb more unquestionable, than that, "in the making of books, there is no end." Notwithstanding the numerous authors, whose names environed with imperishable fame, have come down to us from antiquity; notwithstanding those, who, in later times, have become distinguished for achievements in science, literature and the arts; notwithstanding the copious writings, that do excite, the whole circle of knowledge allowed to man is by no means carefully explored, and minutely examined: advancements are still to be made, and errors to be eradicated, in almost every department of learning. Heroes, who will have become distinguished on the drama of life, are yet to be the themes of song. Rocks, bills and dales, oceans, lakes and cataracts, now obscure, will yet be cele brated in verse. New fields of literature will be laid open to the delighted view of admirers in after time.

Many of the writings of the day are evidently inadequate, in respect either of amusement or information, the grand requisites of all type, and need, therefore, nothing but the revolution of time, to gather them into the gulf of oblivion. Many books contain mere ingenious speculations. Many, from their very nature and design, are no longer useful; and very many, the world might do as well, and perhaps, better without than with them, by reason of the manner in which they are written. Fictitious writings occupy a wide and conspicuous place in the literature of the present time. They are sought after and read with the utmost avidity. Consequently, many able talents are employed in novel writings. That the Grecian Gods would have dashed to pieces their golden bowls of nectar, could not, with reason, have been expected; but, no doubt, they mingled a considerable portion of the crystal element with their most precious drink, or suffered from excess. The idea of doing away fictitious writings is wholly absurd. The literary productions of the arch magician, the far-famed SCOTT will long exist, to amuse and delight.* But there may be excess in novel reading as well as many other things. How does excessive devotedness to novels affect a person whose employments is reading and study? Does it not cause him to be dissatisfied with the real state of things, and to long for some visionary land, the offspring of dreams? Does it

*The novelist affords us the means of pleasure, and of cultivating the taste and imagination.

not lead to an abuse of the imagination ?—and does it not create an excessive sensibility, that enemy to happiness, and to a manly and efficient character? Is it not the source of the many specimens of Byronic poetry, that may be witnessed in almost every periodical? Does it not, in fine, hold up to the eye of fancy, those strange and confused images, which blunt the reason, and thus render the man incapable of clearly distinguishing between truth and error?

Excess creates aversion, and is, therefore often, for a time at least, its own cure. Appearances in the horizon of Letters indicate a change in the literature of the day. Lardners Cabinet Cyclopedia, the Family Library, the Library of Useful Knowledge, and others of a similar kind, are sure indications of an extensive reform.

Indeed, after all that may be said to the contrary, this is a period, in which many are awake to the true interests of learning. It was ushered in, connected with all the benefits, which the master spirits, Bacon, Newton, Locke, and the many mighty and illustrious, intellects, have bestowed upon mankind. The maxim, "that knowledge is power," is now almost universally received; and the inquisition, the crusades, the horrors of credulity, and the civil and eclesiastical tyranny in all their forms, have taught men to beware of ignorance, as of a fatal foe.

How much is it to be lamented that the tyro should be left amidst the wide domain of letters without any guide, except what is afforded by his own short sighted observation, crude faculties of discrimination, and perhaps a few friends, he may have in the circle of his acquaintance? Do not the reading community lack one thing very needful, viz. a well written, full and correct treaties, showing the peculiar excelencies, defects, and the general influence of the writings of the most prominent authors; in fine, something constructed on a plan similar to that of Knapp's Advice in the Pursuits of Literature? C. A. S.

ERRATUM.

The second line in the fourth stanza of the "Pirates Night Cruise" should read,

"And on the berded wale le poising stood."

Sue Winingate.

Cedar Street, B—n.

"Dick was ever a time so lovely-Your little heart beat right merily in that cotillion, eh?"

"Ah dear Ned--no call for that sarcastic grin-but those keen eyes!--My poor heart was not encoffined in its usual invincibles, else defiance would have been enthroned upon my brow.-0 ye bright spirits of yonder radiant bourn, is she your offspring?— Such powers--Pardon Ned, but”-

"Ye Gods! lunatic?--Man, do you forget the club--the room in Hs hotel--the scene in L street? Up! up--What yield--ye coward-worsted by a soft girl! O, Chivalry, this your might?-Your boasted firmness-with all your stoicism, and good fellows indifference, could you not stand the assault a little longer? Two days-O Furies!".

"Talk not of two days-Go tell the dying man to delay but two days-the wounded Soldier to stanch his wound as longbut tell not the wounded heart to forbear agonizing that time'Twas Sue-Come greedy-eared world, know wherefore my head is bowed, my cheek suffused!--Yes--and she saw the wound— and when my hearts blood rushed thro' my burning visage, OI did mark delight well kindled in her eye-'Twas joyous !"-

"Sue Winningate-Monstrous! Dick, you must not, cannot,— Renegado! Remember your promise Sir- and then the club ;Will this little gust of feeling conquer reason! -surely you forget yourself!"

"O Folly-Never to love. What fools-who then had seen the lovely Sue? All commonalty I renounce-nay detest-they're not congenial.--A bad promise broken is half repented."-

"Was never hope withered--constancy never broken in the test act?-Ah luctus memorabilis! I loved-away--memory? 'tis a blighting curse-and yet 'tis sweet. Loved! Oh tell it not in Gath--'twas my bane--I'll no more, no, though 'twould save ten thousand from unearthly gloom. Wolves--Ah Dick to the Res

cue !".

How Madcap, 'dye think all vile, all by habit, constitution, and primitively by Nature herself, weak crafty, deceitful?--I will not hear it-preach to the winds.-A rake has yet a heart and so has Sue Winingate-Let them be joined.

U

January 1, 1834.

A happy and prosperous NEW YEAR to thee, most gentle and courteous reader. Joyfully do I greet you on this occasion of good feelings and well-wishing-nay, wonder not so to see my brow sparkling with the frost of a winter's night, nor shrink back from the chilling grasp of my icy hand, but sit down for a moment, (with the PHILOMATHESIAN in hand,) and I will tell you how all this has happened.

Now I have always believed that dame Nature, or whoever it may have been that had the mixing of my fantastic mould, took care to spice it with, at least, twice the usual quantum of curiosity, for it is utterly impossible for me to refrain from exercising a Paul-Pry curiosity upon every subject which smacks of the marvellous. I know not how it may appear to you, Mr. Phile-Philomathesian, but in my mind, there was always something "passing strange" in the shifting of the Year; how the Old Year could consign over the manage ment of affairs to its successor, with so little ceremony or bustle, that no one could explain the process by which it was performed.-At night, we sink quietly to rest upon the bosom of the Old Year, and upon waking in the morning, find ourselves carried swiftly forward in the arms of the New; while the former is, in the space of six hours, entirely forgotten, or spoken of as something which pertains to antiquity. My mind has never failed to be agitated on this subject, upon the recurrence of every anniversary since the day when I listened to the nursery tales, or instructed in the legendary lore of certain wise wiseacres in the neighbourhood, who had read the thousand and one stories of the Arabian Nights, could relate a "thousand and one" witch stories of their own, and several of whom had experienced something more than the inkling of a glimpse at a bona fide witch while busy at her tantrums. But eschewing all digressions, I wish to ask you reader, if there be not something in this metamorphosis marvellously strange, and hitherto, unaccountable? Why, I have heard them say, that just at midnight, when the Old Year gave up the ghost, the clock ceased its ticking, for an unmeasured space of time-that the moon and stars all stopt, abrupt, in their course for as long a period, to gather breath for a new start on their yearly career--some affirmed there