majesty of Christian virtue; nor could the prince at first find words to address the tortured mortal, who stood at his feet with the serene deportment which would have beseemed the judge upon his tribunal, no less than the martyr at the stake.

"Has the Nazarene yet learned experience from the bitter sting of adversity?—The skill of the leech may yet assuage thy wounds, and the honors which shall be poured upon thee may yet efface thine injuries--even as the rich grain conceals in its luxuriance the furrows of the ploughshare.---Will the Nazarene live--or will he die the death of a dog?"

"The Lord is on my side,"---was the low but firm reply---" the Lord is on my side; I will not fear what man doeth unto me." On swept the monarch's train, and again the iron shower fell fast and fatally, not as before on the members, but on the broad chest and manly trunk; the blood gushed forth in blacker streams---the warrior's life was ebbing fast away,--- ́ when from the rear of the broken hills, a sudden trumpet blew a point of war in notes so thrilling, that it pierced the ears like the thrust of some sharp weapon. Before the astonishment of the crowd had time to vent itself, in word or deed, the eminences were crowded with the mail-clad myriads of the Christian force. Down they came, like the blast of the tornado on some frail and scattered fleet, with war cry and the clang of instruments, and the thick trampling of twice ten thousand hoofs. Wo! to the sons of the desert in that hour! They were swept away before the mettled steeds and levelled lances of the Templars, like dust before the wind, or stubble before the devouring flame!

The eye of the dying hero lightened as he saw the banners of his countrymen. His whole form dilated with exultation and triumph. He tore his arm from its fetters, waved it around his blood-stained forehead, and for the last time, shouted forth his cry of battle, "Ha Beauseant! A Vermandois for the temple!" Then, in a lower tone, he cried, "Lord now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word; for mine eyes have seen thy salvation." He bowed his head, and his undaunted spirit passed away. H.

SONNET.

LOVE is no phantom of the youthful brain

No, wayward power,-thy smiles, I often woo
Heart wounded, and, if half thy dreams were true,
Would push the world aside, and lose all pain
In her soft bosom, who alone can bless

My days, and make my pillow of the down
Of innocence.-Then would I spurn renown,
And kiss the rosy lips of happiness.
Visions like these but haunt the broken sleep

Of feverish love, and with the warring night
Are fled; for oft when fondest hearts unite,
Parental eyes o'er children's graves will weep;
And e'en affections purest heaven will low'r
With clouds, that hang upon the parting hour.

M.

DECLINE OF LITERATURE IN THE PRESENT DAY.

TRULY We live in an age of invention! The art might be said to have reached its "ne plus ultra" point, had we not daily proof of the fertility of the human brain, in devising expedients to relieve our purses now and then of a straggling dollar, in the purchase of something new, something now only apparently brought before us, and that too in such a tempting form, that we are fain led to believe it worth the money laid out in the bargain. Nothing can be more true than this idea transferred to the subject of literature. Time was, when men wrote as the impulse of 'genius directed them, unfettered, and with imaginations soaring far beyond the realms of mammon; time was, also, when they reaped a fair reward, not only in the approbation of their fellow men, but in the feelings of conscious worth, that they had used the talent with which God had blessed them, to the edification and instruction of the human race-"Heu quantum mutati." Now, the brains of every scribbler are taxed, and heavily too, to bring his modicum of literary commodity to the market, and there look for the best purchaser he can find; well may it be called a market, for there you can find caterers of every kind to meet the various appetites of the public. Economy however being the order of the day, cheap food, without regard to its quality, is in great abundance, and finds ready purchasers; while that of a more costly and delicate kind is left, if not unheeded, at least unbought, and returns to the owner's hands, giving him a lesson of wisdom, and warning him to expend no more of his time and labor, in rearing fruits for which there are no tastes. But to be more explanatory; we really cannot help feeling that the present rage for printing whole cart-loads of trash, and sending them adrift into the world, will, in all likelihood, in a short time, so undermine and sink the character of literature, that a man will almost be ashamed to confess himself a reader of the every day volumes which teem from the press. All we want, in fact, is some new invention, some elegant steam apparatus, for writing our thoughts more quickly than they come into the head. No doubt such a one will soon be among the number of the latest discoveries, and then what oceans of nonsense will flow in upon the already half inundated regions of science and letters.

In olden days, our ancestors (poor antiquated and Gothic race,) were content to pore over whole volumes of sense, and what was then deemed interest; but, ignorant souls! had they only been able to look through the vista of some eighty or a hundred years, how would they have blushed at their want of taste, judgment, and discrimination. To read, and from thence to become sounder reasoners, better citizens, and more useful members of society, were then deemed objects worthy of an intellectual mind; but to the march of improvement in the world of letters it is now owing, that the great mass of those who look for enjoyment at all in this pursuit, are supplied with matter which bears no more resemblance to the substantial food of our fathers, than does the panada of infancy, or the syllabub which whiles away the time of many an empty popinjay at an entertainment, to the wholesome viands of the dinner table.

In sober earnestness, we ought to inquire whether the present aspect of

affairs in the literary world, does not augur rather the downfal of this vast empire over the human mind, than the extension of it with beneficial results. Bookmaking has now become so much of a trade, that almost any man with a moderate share of talent, and a sufficient stock of assurance, may produce his one or two volumes, and pass current for an author; while in all likelihood he has no more claim to the title, than he has to be emperor of China.

All that is looked to is, simply to devise schemes and plans for torturing, somehow or other, a certain sum from the public. Inquire into the motives of those who are daily sending forth from the press, the results of their calculations, and it will be clearly seen, that they are no more than mere speculations in literature,-wholesale and retail buyers and sellers of sense and nonsense,-nothing too bad to be rejected, provided it will only yield a dollar's profit,-nothing good enough to command a just remuneration. The fact is, the reading part of the community are, literally speaking, at the mercy of a formidable band, organized as well throughout Europe, as in our own country ;-whose influence extends far and wide, and whose object appears to be, not the diffusion of knowledge, but of that debit and credit character, between themselves and the public, which smells rankly of the leaven of usury and extortion. Look again at the names of those, hired by booksellers and publishers to soil the fair surface of some quires of foolscap, and it will then be seen how few there are, whose talents can instruct, or whose wit delight mankind! How few can stand the test of comparison with the mighty dead, whose works live after them,--those giants of literature, who seem to have visited this nether world, only to impress us more strongly with the conviction and certainty of the real pigmy race which now exists! True, there are amongst us still, some that may well claim exception to this sweeping clause, but when they shall have passed off the stage, there will be a dreary void indeed. Whence comes this gloomy foreboding? We answer, from the mistaken course pursued by the trade, and from the unfair patronage bestowed by the community at large, upon the ephemeral productions of the press,-whilst works of sterling merit are passed unheeded by. In a great measure we have none to blame but ourselves. Had genius been fostered, and folly discountenanced some years back, there would be now little need to declaim against the continued introduction of those unedifying, unamusing, chalk and water kind of books, which every newspaper and periodical, be it from town or country, announces as "just published." To particularize, would be a task far beyond the limits of our time, our patience, or our space; moreover, the very mention of such productions would be a temporary rescuing of them from oblivion, which we certainly had rather not be instrumental in doing; all the solace we have, is, that they, with the rapid mushroom growth of similar works, which each revolution of the moon would call upon us to notice, are really intended as articles of commerce, to be shipped from some of the ports of this mighty nation, to meet the demands of trunk-makers, snuff-dealers, and other consumers of waste paper, in various parts of the globe. But who are to stem this overwhelming torrent? Who to cause a revolution in literature? Surely it must commence with the public themselves; and our object, we will not deny, is to rouse the attention of those who are its patrons and supVOL. I.

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porters throughout the country, and to induce them to reflect a little on the consequences of giving, by their aid and countenance, currency to spurious and tinselled trash, thereby driving men of real talents in disgust from the arena, where instead of encouragement and approbation, they meet with coldness and apathy. We certainly cannot close the present article, without adverting to another detrimental foe which literature has to encounter, and against which we mark our unqualified censure. We allude to the mania there is for reprinting works of every kind, which emanate so incessantly from our trans-atlantic brethren; there is a pruriency of taste, a morbid pandering to (imaginary we would hope) false appetites, in thus taking for granted, that all which comes from that nation of bookmakers, will not only be acceptable, but find ready sale here. One example will better explain our meaning, than a dozen pages on the subject,-and it is only one from amongst a thousand others, which might as readily be adduced,—for what class of readers, we would ask, were the two volumes lately sent forth, under the title of "The Lives and Exploits of Celebrated Robbers," intended? Was it supposed that a father would allow his daughter to read such records of crime and villany? Sensible men would surely despise such food; and if the youth of the present day were expected to be the purchasers of the work, it is, to say the best of it, paying them but a sorry compliment; indeed, if we except the moral philosopher, who might find therein matter for reflection, in tracing the various workings of the human mind, and its progress in the steps of wickedness, we know of none who would either be gratified, or instructed after a perusal of them; we would blush to hear that such a work has had an extensive sale,-blush for the taste of the age, which would encourage productions of the kind,-blush to think we were sunk so low in the scale of intellectual beings. Why not as well reprint the Newgate Calendar? We are sure it would be to the full as interesting, and no doubt as edifying; but, as we said before, this is only a solitary example, that we have chanced to light upon. Time would fail, to enumerate all that deserve censure; and these few remarks hastily thrown together, will be closed with a sincere wish, that such of our readers as think the subject one deserving consideration, will use their influence in amending the present state of literature, by discountenancing as far as in them lies, the printing or reprinting works, from which neither the present generation, nor their children, will derive the slightest benefit; we might rather say, from which they will imbibe a false and vitiated taste. We hope to recur to this subject in a succeeding number.

THE HOME OF THE HEART.

Where my heart finds a home, says the heartless Voltaire,
The abode of my choice, and my country is there!
Oh! fool! not to know, that wherever we roam,
The home of our youth, must be still the heart's home.

K.

COULEUR DE ROSE.

How sad a sight is human happiness,

To those, whose thought can pierce beyond an hour!
O thou! whate'er thou art, whose heart exults!
Woulds't thou I should congratulate thy fate?

Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?-

Sleep when he wakes? And creep into the jaundice
By being peevish?

YOUNG.

SHAKSPEARE.

"DEVIL take your 'Coleur de Rose,' sir," said Sedley in the most accrimonious tone, and with a frowning aspect,--" don't tell me of your 'Couleur de Rose,'—that ridiculous canting expression has been got up, I do believe, to throw in my teeth, as if I were a monster,—a misanthropical monster."

"My good fellow," replied Hanbury, laughing, "what ails you;-your visage is sourer than ever,-what's the matter, what have-"

"Matter?-oh! matter enough," retorted Sedley angrily,"-"you have got the parrot-phrase like all the rest. Go where one will, there one finds people laughing and grinning, as if they had not human reason, and if a sedate man like myself drop a reflection upon such flippancy, and point out to them anything of the enormity of the world,-I am told, that I fret myself unnecessarily, forsooth, and that I should try to see things 'Couleur de Rose.' The blockheads, do they think human beings are to pass through the world dancing and singing, and viewing the world 'Couleur de Rose' as they express it ?---You, even you, Hanbury, condescend to such cant; I had hoped you were above such follies."

"Ha! ha! ha! why, my dear Sedley, you grow more atribilious than ever. Really, you will be expelled from all good society, unless you will get off your stilts, and endeavor to make yourself more an earthly being. Positively, you are too good for us poor mortals, who are content to find pleasure in our condition, and make the most of our own happiness, by thinking well of our neighbors."

"You are a confident fool, Frank,-how often have I told you so? Your blindness, your wilful blindness, to the duplicity of mankind, will cause you regret, and remorse too, before you are much older. Remember, I have warned you."

"Remember?-'O! how can I forget,' Harry, when your friendly warning comes as frequently as your friendly self?—But a truce to levity,—I see your choler is rising, and for once I'll talk the matter over with you, your own way,—that is, to say 'scholarly and wisely.""

Now, whilst the two friends are settling the preliminaries of their arguments, and preliminaries, we fear will be the extent of their argreement,― we will introduce them more intimately to the acquaintance of our readers, and endeavor to show the origin of those very different dispositions, which held place in the bosoms of these two really attached friends.

Sedley lost his father before he could be sensible of the magnitude of such a loss; and the misfortune was not a little increased, by the circumstance of his mother being left with very slender means for their maintenance, and for the education of the boy. The friends of the family did certainly step forward, and offer to educate him for the counting-house, but