permit any man to become his patron. Respecting himself as a man, he cannot be mean, though he may be poor; and recognizing the same manhood in others, he cannot be arrogant, however far above them in merely external things.

Such are the people of New-York, the denizens of the Empire City and of the Empire State. They compose an illustrious sub-species of the great American family, instinct with energy, and gifted with an almost unlimited spirit of enterprise, and endowed with the most exalted attributes of humanity. A native race, derived from no ancestral prototype, and copying servilely no exemplar, they must attain to a more glorious destiny than has yet been achieved among mankind. The name assumed and conceded by common consent shall be abundantly justified alike in the matériel and the personnel of the Empire City. This native energy of the New-York character also displays itself in its power to assimilate other forms to itself. From whatever point the denizen of that city may have come, a residence in New-York surely and speedily makes him a NEW-YORKER. The eastern, the southern, the western man soon loses his peculiarities, and becomes like his neighbors. The plastic Hibernian forgets that he is an exile; and even the implastic Teutons insensibly yield to the impalpable but irresistible influences that surround them. Thus are our immigrant denizens transformed, in character as well as in political rights, into genuine Americans, and New-York energy acts as a solvent to fuse the motley masses that Europe is pouring upon our shores into a consistent body of valuable and happy freemen.

For it told of pure affection,
Maiden freshness, manly truth,
Till the sleeper's recollection
Wandered backward to his youth.

Thus it is, that thoughts so tender
Through his numbers faintly gleam,
Lost amid barbaric splendor,
Incoherent as a dream.

HOURS IN A NEW ENGLAND LIBRARY.

BY THE AUTHOR OF PEN-AND-INK SKETCHES.'

CHARLES LAMB, in one of his fascinating essays, says: 'I dream away my life in others' speculations. I love to lose myself in other men's minds. When I am not walking, I am reading; I cannot sit and think. Books think for me.'

I am, just at this moment, much inclined to dream away an hour or two in others' speculations also. It is a dark, stormy evening without; the driving, dashing rain patters against the windows, and the wind makes mournful music among the elm-boughs without. But within, all is light and peace. The ruddy blaze leaps up, and golden vistas, and glittering caverns, and fiery dragons gleam in the glowing coals. On the table stands one of those green-shaded lamps which studious men love, and all around us are books.

Books from the floor to the ceiling; books on shelves over doors; books in niches; books on the Oxford reading-table; books on the bureau-cover; books on the sofa; books on the floor, and heaped up confusedly in corners; books on the mantel-piece; books, indeed, wherever one can be conveniently or inconveniently put. Next the floor are stately old folios, some in ancient veritable boards, with huge ridges on their broad backs, brazen hasps on their covers, and some rare ones, to which are attached links of the broken chain which once confined them to the shelves of some suspicious old library. Over these are the quartos; then comes a row of octavos; and the higher we go the less bulky are the tomes. But whether they be big or little, thick or thin, ancient or modern, we, like Southey, hail them as 'never-failing friends,' and claim boon companionship with each and all.

How luxurious! A quiet evening, a heart at peace with all the world, and for our companions the embodied thoughts of the great and wise of all times. As I sit in my easy chair, I can, by my 'so potent power,' summon around me a glorious company of immortals, and become in a certain sense a necromancer, since, in their works, I hold converse with and take counsel of the dead. Pleasantest of superstitions this! Surrounded by books, I ask for no other associates; even the presence of the

dearest friend just now would be an intrusion on my voiceful yet speechless solitude.

The library in which I now sit is just such an one as I am sure Elia would have rejoiced to be imprisoned in. It belongs to one whose eyes twinkle at the sight of black-letter, and who regards with reverence a scarce copy. An Elzivir to him is a more excellent thing than the gaudiest gilded thing that ever issued from fashionable publisher's shelf. Yet hath he a love, too, for choice modern literature; and dainty poetry delighteth him. I mean not so much Tennysonian jingle as the solid stuff of such as Dryden, and Ben Jonson, and Marlowe, and such like true poets, men whose sterling literary coin had the ring as well as the shine. Well, such a library as such a book-lover could collect with infinite pains is, during a life-time, a pro tempore mine, and it is just such an one to enjoy; for, although national collections of books are invaluable, one cannot be said to luxuriate in them as we do in a snug, well-assorted chamber of learning. For my part, I never could read to advantage in big halls lined with learning. A Brobdignagian Bodleian is well enough to sit and quote in; but for enjoyability commend me to a silent snuggery like this.

So wrapped up am I in measureless content,' that I fancy, if the cricket chirping on the hearth were to become a visible fairy, and offer me a crown, I do not think I would accept the offer. I do not sigh for greatness of that kind, but kings have sighed for learned repose. Stay: here in this splendid fourth edition of Burton's 'Anatomy of Melancholy,' which I handle lovingly, we read that 'King James, in 1605, when he came to see our University of Oxford, and, amongst other Edifices, now went to view that famous library, renewed by Sir Thomas Bodley, in imitation of Alexander, at his departure brake out into that noble speech: If I were not a King, I could be an University man; and if it were so that I was a prisoner, if I might have my wish, I would desire to have no other prison than that library, and to be chained together with so many good authors.'' Had his Majesty been blessed with such company, he would have fared far better than among the courtiers who surrounded him.

The library I am now pleasantly prisoned in belongs to one of our New-England clergymen, and therefore, as may be expected, it is peculiarly rich in works on theology. But these do not crowd out history, or biography, or science, or learning indeed of any sort. As I sit, I see, or seem to see, looking out from the backs of the books, the spirits of Shakspeare, Cervantes, Milton, Jeremy Taylor, Bunyan, De Foe, and hosts of other bookmen. As the fire flashes now and then, the books seem endued with vitality, and, with eyes half closed and dreaming, I regard them as actual living things, as brains Pythagorized into books.

And how strange it is to observe the company in which some of these books find themselves! Just opposite is Hannah More cheek-by-jowl with Albert Smith's 'Ballet Girl; and Mrs. Opie is as close as close can be to the same sprightly author's 'Gent.' Lord Byron is leaning familiarly on Southey, apparently enjoying his Table-Talk;' and Jeremy Taylor, in a falling position, is supported by an original Joe

เ

Miller. The author of 'Paradise Lost' has got close to Robert Montgomery's 'Satan;' and Henry Smith, the silver-tongued preacher of Elizabeth's time, is nearly crushed by 'Five Hundred Skeletons of Sermons' and twenty-three bulky Pulpits.' The fiercest polemics and the meekest Christians, lamb-and-lion-like, stand harmoniously on one shelf; reviewers and victims placidly survey each other from opposite corners; High Churchmen and Low Churchmen join in goodly rows; Bonner and Cranmer dwell together in unity; William Penn and Napoleon Bonaparte are almost arm-in-arm; Cromwell and Charles are at peace; and Lord Chief Justice Jefferies seems greatly to enjoy the society of his many victims. Here kings meet their subjects without etiquette, and Alfred the Great and Bamfylde Moore Carew tell each other their widely different stories; Nelson and Fighting Fitzgerald fight their battles o'er again; and GEORGE WASHINGTON, in close contiguity to George the Third, appears to be on the best of terms with that stubborn old gentleman.

I have, almost at random, selected a book which lies within my arm's reach; and lo! here are some thoughts about books, which, had I read them before, would have saved me from the above speculations. And by whom is this following written? Why, by none other than the owner of this very library. Hear what he says, and if you do not admire its book-loving spirit, I pray you proceed no farther in my company. 'I never,' writes my friend, enter a library without a feeling of reverence for the company in which I am placed. I regard a volume as the very spirit of its author, the actual being of the man who thought it, wrote it, left it, and sent it forth for all its purposes of might and mercy.' And again: What strange reflections rush upon the mind of a thinking man when he gazes upon the shelves of a richly-stored library! For instance, what queer juxtaposition will authors find upon tables and shelves! Men who in life were sadly hostile and divided in judgment and affection, here sit down side by side. The lion and the lamb, the vulture and the dove, keep quiet company. I am now gazing upon Featley's Dippers Dipt' and Paget's 'Heresiography' on a table, while directly over them I see Keach and Kiffin, Tombs and the venerable Jesse. These men wrote and controverted for all coming ages; and yet, no doubt, they are all happy and united in fraternal love in that heaven where the spirits of just men made perfect are delivered from error, prejudice, and rancor. There, on that shelf, is that glorious folio, 'Reliquiæ Baxterianæ,' and a few niches off, the Bloody Assizes' and the life of that arrant scoundrel, George, Lord Jefferies, the supple tool of all the cruelties of James the Second. Lloyd's Worthies of Charles the First's Reign' are cheek-by-jowl with Lord Nugent's capital 'Life of John Hampden' and Foster's Lives of the Statesmen of the Commonwealth.' Then some books seem to get together by the principle of elective affinity. Dr. Chalmers' works will keep close by Andrew Fuller, and Jay's Sermons will be found very near to old Jeremiah Burroughs.'

Mark, gentle reader, how delicate, yet how sharp, is the satire in this presumed companionship of Chalmers and Fuller, and Jay and Burroughs; for students well enough know that the Scotch divine was not a