thus implying a degree of incipient guilt. His exquisitely pathetic allusions to his domestic relations, penned just prior to his execution, are almost equal to any thing of their class in the language:

"My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,
My crop of corn is but a field of tares,
And all my goods are but vain hopes of gain.
The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

"My spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung;
The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green;
My youth is past, and yet I am but young;

I saw the world, and yet I was not seen;
My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun,
And now I live, and now my life is done!

"I sought for death, and found it in the wombe,
I lookt for life, and yet it was a shade,
I trade the ground, and yet it was my tombe;
And now I die, and now I am but made,-
The glass is full, and yet the glass is run;

And now I live, and now my life is done."

These beautiful stanzas were at first erroneously ascribed to Sir Walter Raleigh, but their true authorship has since been assigned to the pen of this noble-hearted youth, who, if he wrote no others, has thus secured for his name the shrine of a lasting memorial. It is not necessary to swell the list of the resplendent names of those who beguiled their sorrows and imprisonment with their pen, they having been already referred to; and although the character of modern authorship seems to have suffered some mutation, books of an utilitarian caste having usurped the place of those formerly devoted to the higher flights of poetry and philosophy, yet the love of literature is doubtless still a no less inherent principle at the present day.

There is

It may well be doubted, says an ingenious writer in an English periodical, whether the temper of the present age permits it to enjoy all those refined and entrancing pleasures which pure literature is capable of affording. The popular pulse throbs with each varying stimulant of the moment. little contemplativeness in modern literature:-instead of the Fairie Queene, we consult the matter-of-fact Dictionaries of McCulloch-the knighthood of genius yields to the aristocracy of commerce. The age of intellectual chivalry is over and gone: but its exploits remain forever speaking to those who, with a gentle and reverent spirit, pause to listen and to love. If we turn to books of elegant criticism, we find the like indifference in the popular taste. In an atmosphere so heavy and lowering, we ought not to be astonished to behold

'Fancy's gilded clouds decay,

And all her varying rainbows die away.'

Bishop Berkeley nobly and justly asserted the supremacy of literature, declaring that a man who devotes his time to the pursuit of truth, is a better friend to mankind than the greatest statesman or hero, whose labors and exploits are confined to a small portion of the world; while a ray of imagination, or of wisdom, may enlighten the universe, and glow into remotest centuries. Much of its unity of purpose has been lost with the independence of authorship. The age of patronage had its evils, but they rarely infected the book beyond its preface. A regular trader in literary wares at the present day-such as some of our fecund novelists, French and English-seem

to aim less at writing well, than writing much. We might refer to two prominent names which occur to us, as flagrant instances, but we forbear any invidiousness, although such desperate cases might be the better for a little dressing. How forcibly are such writers censured by the modest obscurity with which the authorship of many of the earlier scribes sought to enrich their literature and language? Among these worthies were Selden, Sackville, Sidney and Surrey, with many others, whose names have vanished like their own slow-moving shadows upon the illuminated curtains, but who yet found, amidst all their poverty, privations and sorrows, their lowest resource and pleasure in their patient literary pursuits. The essayist from whom we have already quoted, thus continues:

"Literature has its solitary pleasures, and they are many; it has also its social pleasures, and they are more. The Persian poet, Saadi, teaches a moral in one of his pleasing apologues. Two friends passed a summer day in a garden of roses; one satisfied himself with admiring their colors and inhaling their fragrance; the other filled his bosom with the leaves, and enjoyed at home, during several days, with his family, the deliciousness of the perfume. The first was the solitary, the second the social student. He wanders among many gardens of thought, but always brings back some flower in his hand. Who can estimate the advantages that may result from this toil and this application of it?"

"The domestic life of virtuous genius has many delightful pictures to soothe and engage our eyes. We like to see Richardson reading chapters of his novels to his listening friends in his favorite grotto; and Sterne never looks so amiable and captivating as when he appears by his own fireside with his daughter copying and his wife knitting. His own description is a very lively sketch." Writing to a friend, September 21, 1761 :—

"I am scribbling away at my Tristram. These two volumes are, I think, the best I shall write as long as I live; 'tis, in fact, my hobby-horse, and so much am I delighted with my uncle Toby's imaginary character, that I am become an enthusiast. My Lydia helps to copy for me, and my wife knits and listens as I read her chapters."

The domestic history of the amiable Cowper, notwithstanding his abiding melancholy, presents us with some placid and even glowing pictures :—when contemplated seated on his sofa, rehearsing each newly constructed passage to his faithful Mary Unwin.

In their method of economising time, we find a certain uniformity in the practice of authors and students of gathering up their spare minutes. Some writers yielding to their pleasing toils over the midnight lamp; others again devoting the early dawn of day to their sweet and silent communings of their muse. Says the ingenious writer :

"The morning has been especially consecrated to study by the example of the Christian scholar. Hacket calls it, very prettily, and in the spirit of Cowley or Carew, the "mother of honey dews and pearls which drop upon the paper from the student's pen." The learned and excellent Bishop Jewell affords a very delightful specimen of the day of an English scholar, who not only lived among his books but among men. He commonly rose at four o'clock, had private prayers at five, and attended the public service of the church in the cathedral at six. The remainder of the morning was given to study. One of his biographers has drawn a very interesting sketch of Jewell during the day. At meals, a chapter being first read, he recreated himself with scholastic wars between young scholars whom he entertained at his table. After meals his doors and ears were open to all suits and causes; at these times, for the most part, he dispatched all those businesses which either his place or others' importunity forced upon him, making gain of the residue of this time for his study. About the hour of nine at night he called his servants to an account how they had spent the day, and admonished them accordingly. From this examination to his study (how long it is uncertain, oftentimes after

midnight,) und so to bed; wherein, after some part of an author read to him by the gentlemen of his bed-chamber, commending himself to the protection of his Saviour, he took his rest.""

But of all writers, the poet, says Washington Irving, becomes the most fascinated with his gentle vocation. Others may write from the head, but he writes from the heart, and the heart will always understand him. He is the faithful portrayer of Nature, whose features are always the same, and always interesting. Prose writers are voluminous and unwieldy; their pages crowded with commonplaces, and their thoughts expanded into tediousness. But with the true poet every thing is terse, touching, or brilliant. He gives the choicest thoughts in the choicest language. He illustrates them by every thing that he sees most striking in nature and art. He enriches them by pictures of human life, such as it is passing before him. His writings, therefore, contain the spirit, the aroma, if I may use the phrase, of the age in which he lives. They are caskets which enclose within a small compass the wealth of the language--its family jewels, which are thus transmitted in a portable form to posterity. The setting may occasionally be antiquated, and require now and then to be renewed, as in the case of Chaucer; but the brilliancy and intrinsic value of the gems continue unaltered. Cast a look back over the long reach of literary history. What vast valleys of dulness, filled with monkish legends and academical controversies! What bogs of theological speculations! What dreary wastes of metaphysics! Here and there only do we behold the heaven-illumined bards, elevated like beacons on their widely-separated heights, to transmit the pure light of poetical intelligence from age to age.

"Thorow earth, and waters deepe,
The pen by skill doth passe;
And featly nyps the worldes abuse,
And shoes us in a glasse,

The vertu and the vice

Of every wight alyve;

The honey combe that bee doth make,

Is not so sweet in hyve,

As are the golden leves

That drope from poet's head;

Which doth surmount our common talke,

As farre as dross doth lead.

"He that enlarges his curiosity after the works of nature," says Johnson, "demonstrably multiplies the inlets of happiness; therefore we should cherish ardor in the pursuit of knowledge, remembering that a blighted spring makes a barren year, and that the vernal flowers, however beautiful and gay, are only intended by nature as preparatory to autumnal fruits." The works of genius are always full of magic; rings upon which the genii ever wait; such books, in a pre-eminent sense, combine the utile et dulce. "Books are not seldom talismans and spells." There is a kind of analogy between the love of certain books, and that of particular individuals,-derived, doubtless, from associations common to all. This feeling often dims the eye of riper years, when it chances to wander again over the favorite pages of our school days,-over such works as Robinson Crusoe, or the Vicar of Wakefield, each leaf then brings back from the well-guarded stores of memory the cherished forms, now passed away, of those who shared with us the relish of their first perusal, the hilarious melody of whose voices are now no longer vocal in their praise. How tenaciously the pleasant recollection of some choice book will stick to us through life; we feel more than a fraternal love for them. Is it not surprising, therefore,

that the true devotees to literature and literary pursuits should become the willing, if not eager victims of the passion, in a still stronger degree? If men are characterized by their company, why then may they not be by their choice of books? Doubtless many a dormant genius has received its first impulse and direction from some particular author; and in some cases, to this cause may be primarily ascribed the beneficial and important purposes to which that genius has been applied. Our allusion to that old favorite, Robinson Crusoe, reminds us of many illustrious men of letters with whom it became a first and favorite book. Among these might be named Marmontel, Rousseau, Blair, Beattie, Johnson, Chalmers, Scott, Clare, and Charles Lamb; the last of whom, in his confession of the fact, says, "That its deep interest and familiar style, render it alike delightful to all ranks and classes." Johnson also admitted more, adding, he believed "Nobody ever laid down the book without wishing it longer;" and Marmontel's testimony is no less decidedly approving; for he states that Robinson Crusoe was the first book he ever read with exquisite pleasure; and he believed every boy in Europe would say the same thing. Would it be believed, however, that the MS. of this identical production was refused when offered for publication, by nearly the entire body of the publishers of London? although the one that bought it soon cleared one thousand guineas by its sales.

"The Pilgrim's Progress," of Bunyan, is another universal favoriteperhaps the most perfect and picturesque specimen of allegorical writing in any language; the peculiarity of which, is its striking versimilitude, imparting to the pure creations of the author's rich, exuberant imagination, the strong impress of reality. Modern criticism, indeed, has ventured to assign to this work a rank even equal with that of Homer, the sublime epic of Milton, and the mighty genius of the world's great poet! Coleridge, referring to Bunyan's "Pilgrim," observes, that "though composed in the lowest style of English, it is without slang or false grammar. This wonderful work is one of the few which may be read over repeatedly at different times, and each time with a new and different pleasure. I read it once as a theologian, and let me assure you there is great theological acumen in the work; once with devotional feeling, and once as a poet. I would not have believed beforehand, that Calvanism could be painted in such exquisitely delightful colors. I know of no book, (the Bible being excepted, as above all comparison) which, according to my judgment and experience, I could so safely recommend, as teaching and enforcing the whole system of saving truth, as the Pilgrim's Progress. I am convinced that it is incomparably the best summary of evangelical Christianity ever produced by a writer not miraculously inspired." Little dreamed the poor, despised, oppressed preaching tinker, what an almost superhuman influence his humble pen was destined to exert in all after time, upon the best interests of mankind. And it might prove an ingenious problem for the curious to solve, to enumerate the almost incalculable amount of copies of this extraordinary production, which have already been presented to the public in the several languages of the civilized world.

Sidney's Arcadia, so ripe with apophthegmatic lore, and the pure fount of song of that "true and gentle poet," Spenser, were the well-known chosen associates of many master minds of old-such as Milton, Shakspeare, Waller, Cowley, etc. Dr. Johnson loved old Isaac Walton's life of Dr. Donne, and Lady Wortley Montague's Letters. He says, according to Boswell, that the reader who does not relish the first fruits of the first named work is no philosopher, and he who does not enjoy the second, is no Christian.

Benjamin Franklin says that Plutarch's Lives, Defoe's Essay on Projects, and a work entitled Essays to do Good, were his three favorite books, and

those from which he derived the most advantage. Speaking of the last, he states "When I was a boy, I met with this book, which was written, I think, by the father of Dr. Mather, of Boston. It gave me such a turn of thinking, as to have an influence on my conduct through life; for I have always set a greater value on the character of a doer of good, than any other kind of reputation; and if I have been a useful citizen, the public owes the advantage of it to that book." Franklin, again, has been the favorite of many young persons, who have had to thank his sagacious pages and his maxims of industry and economy for their future success in life. It is beautiful thus to see wisdom become traditionary, says the writer above alluded to. "When at school," writes Dr. Alexander Murray, the celebrated orientalist, "I read Paradise Lost, which from that time has influenced and inflamed my imagination. I cannot describe the ardor or various feelings with which I perused, studied, and admired that first-rate work."

Speaking of this sublime production of Milton,-a work, by the way, every body admires, but scarce any body reads,-what a vast mine of poetic wealth does it enclose? which, unlike that of its great compeer, seems in the present day, more than ever, to lie undisturbed, unfathomed, and the deep treasures of which appear altogether too massive and gorgeous for the purposes of our modern mercenary and unpoetic age.

Ossian was the favorite of two distinguished characters, who certainly appear very dissimilar in all other respects, except in that of their literary tastes-Napoleon and Dr. Parr. The latter says, "I read Ossian when a boy, and was enamored with it. When at college, I again read Ossian with increased delight. I now, although convinced of the imposture, find pleasure in reading Macpherson." Hudibras was a great favorite with Dr. Blair, author of the celebrated "Sermons." He used to read it through

once every year.

Bos

We forgot to mention Chaucer's text book-it was Aristotle's Philosophy Shelley's choice was Sophocles, and Keat's also a copy of which was found clasped to his breast, under his vest, when he was drowned. Homer, Virgil, and Horace, have charmed and inspired a host of illustrious men, whose names are too many here to cite. suet, the French divine, was once found with Homer on his table, while preparing one of his famous orations, when he exclaimed to his visitor, “I have always Homer beside me when I compose my sermons; for I love to light my lamp at the sun." Hume and Fox both sought their relaxation from severer toils, in luxuriating over the glowing pages of Virgil and Euripides. Burns' first and fondly cherished tome was the Life of William Wallace, and his next the Life of Hannibal. "Hannibal," says he, "gave my young ideas such a turn, that I used to strut in raptures up and down after the recruiting drum and bagpipe, and wish myself tall enough to be a soldier; while the story of Wallace poured a Scottish prejudice into my veins, which will boil along there till the flood-gates of life shut in eternal rest." Shakspeare has been the universal favorite of the sons of genius; but the enthusiasm of one humble admirer, Joseph Blacket, the shoemaker poet, is too interesting to be passed over. In his twelfth year, Blacket witnessed Kemble's performance of Richard III. Before this he had neither read nor beheld a play; but thenceforth Shakspeare was his favorite author. "I robbed the pillow of its due," says he, "and in the summer season, would read till the sun had far retired, then wait with anxious expectation for his earliest gleam, to discover to my enraptured fancy the sublime beauties of that great master." In consequence of this close study of Shakspeare, a dramatic tone, observes his biographer, "pervaded the whole mass of his papers. I have traced it on bills, receipts, backs of letters, shoe-patterns, slips of paperhangings, grocery wrappers, magazine covers, battalion orders for the volun