eded mainly from its cost of production being so slight, owing to
its paste-and-scissors character, and also because it freely opens its
columns to correspondents _de rebus omnibus_, who are willing to buy any
number of copies for the pleasure of seeing themselves in print. _The
Literary Times_, in addition to reviews of books, professed to criticize
the leading articles in the various papers, but, after an existence of
some six months or so, one Saturday morning _The Literary Times_ was
_non est inventus_.

In concluding this series of articles, which has run to a much greater
length than he originally intended, the writer is conscious of many
shortcomings and omissions, which he trusts will be pardoned and
overlooked when his principal object is borne in mind. That object has
been to give a general outline of the history of the press, and
especially of its struggles against 'the powers which be;' and, though
tempted now and again--he fears too often for the patience of his
readers--to wander away into particularities, he has always endeavored
to keep that object in view. Above all, he hopes he has at least been
successful in showing the truth of that sentiment which was first
publicly expressed as a toast at a Whig dinner, at the Crown and Anchor
tavern, in 1795: 'The liberty of the press--it is like the air we
breathe--if we have it not, we die!'

OUR MARTYRS.

Lightly the river runs between
Hanging cliffs and meadows green.

Blackly the prison, looking down,
Frowns at its shadow's answering frown.

Shut from life in his life's fresh morn,
Crouches a soldier, wounded and worn.

Chained and starved in the dungeon grim,
Day and night are alike to him;

Save that the murmurous twilight air
Stings his soul with a deeper despair.

Day by day, as the taunting breeze
Wafts him the breath of orange trees,

He fancies in meadows far away
The level lines of odorous hay;

And sees the scythes of the mowers run
In and out of the steady sun.

Night by night, as the mounting moon
Climbs from his eager gaze too soon,

The gleams that across the gratings fall,
Broken and bright, on the prison wall,

Seem the tangles of Northern rills,
Like threads of silver winding the hills.

When, sinking into the western skies,
The sun aslant on the window lies;

And motes that hovered dusty and dim,
Golden-winged through the glory swim:

He drops his head on