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 his fettered hands, And thinks of the fruitful Northern lands. Between his fingers' wasted lines, Tear after tear into sunlight shines, As, wandering in a dream, he treads The ripened honey of clover heads; Or watches the sea of yellow grain Break into waves on the windy plain; Or sees the orchard's grassy gloom Spotted with globes of rosy bloom. Through the shimmer of shadowy haze Redden the hills with their autumn blaze. The oxen stand in the loaded teams; The cider bubbles in amber streams; And child-like laughter and girlish song Float with the reaper's shout along. He stirs his hands, and the jealous chain Wakes him once more to his tyrant pain-- To festered wounds, and to dungeon taint, And hunger's agony, fierce and faint.