A Magazine is certainly a delightful invention for a very idle or a very busy man.

He is not compelled to complete his plan or to adhere to his subject.

He may ramble as far as he is inclined, and stop as soon as he is tired.
No one takes the trouble to recollect his contradictory opinions or his unredeemed pledges.

He may be as superficial, as inconsistent, and as careless as he chooses.

Magazines resemble those little angels, who, according to the pretty Rabbinical tradition, are generated every morning by the brook which rolls over the flowers of Paradise,--whose life is a song,--who warble till sunset, and then sink back without regret into nothingness.