Literature, the immortality of speech, embalms all monarchs of thought, and guards their repose in the eternal pyramids of fame. "What is writing?" asked Pepin, the son of Charlemagne. Alcuin replied, "It is the guardian of history." The sumptuous cities which have lighted the world since the beginning of time, and all the progressive heroes who have constituted the vanguard of national improvement, are now seen only in the light furnished by the great annalists of early triumphs. The dart that pierced the Persian breast-plate molders in the dust of Marathon, and the gleam of the battle-axe, wielded by the impassioned crusader, has passed away; but the arrow of Pindar still quivers with the life of his bow, and the romantic adventures of mediæval zeal are perpetuated in the unwasting freshness of new-born letters. When Gothic night descended, the ancient classics were for a time forgotten; but in secluded retreats the ritual of genius continued to be solemnized, and the sacred fire of learning burned upon its shattered shrines, until torch after torch carried the flame to the remotest quarter in the track of the sun. That light never sets, but sheds itself upon succeeding generations in diversified hues of splendor. Homer glows in the softened beauty of Virgil, and Dantè passed the purified flambeau to Milton's mightier hand. Literature, like art, suffers fearful vicissitudes and mutilations; but, unlike her more fragile sister, she can not be easily destroyed. A casualty may shatter into dust that statue of Minerva whose limbs seemed to breathe under the flowing robe, and her lips to move; but the fierceness of the Goth, the fanaticism of the crusader, and the frenzy of the iconoclast, have not extirpated Penelope and Electra, nor defaced the calm beauty of sublime martyr worth. Poetry is the making of thought, and not the least interesting are the primitive productions of those who created the vernacular dialects of modern Europe. They call glorious shadows into the crystal of memory, as the Charmer of their day peopled his glass with faces of the absent. Mirrors of magic represent the inventions of the minstrel; and with the thrill of national affinity in our heart, our eyes perhaps lend a fascinating brightness to the providential wonders they behold.