"Vice is a monster of so hideous mien,

That to be hated needs but to be seen:

But seen too oft-familiar with her face

We first endure, then pity, then embrace."

Although we esteem highly the spirit of the poet-philosopher in the above lines, yet we cannot fully agree with him in the sequence which he has established; to wit: "pity" follows "endurance;” but are inclined to think that the two emotions are dependent on different causes and circumstances, and that here one line of separation can be drawn between Byron and Bulwer. The latter, by his specious attempts to gloss over and cancel great crimes, by compounding them with remarkable virtues, may lead us imperceptibly to endure vice-to survey it with complacency-which state of feeling is of itself without any intermediate step, the harbinger of our speedily loving depravity. Byron, by deepening the dye of the injustice, which, as he strives to convince us, is heaped upon the devoted head of him, who has madly given passion the reins; and by picturing the remorse of the voluptuary with a pen dipped in the breathings of his own heart, awakens every morbid sensibility, and excites in many minds an imbecile compassion for the most abandoned roue. Some writer has remarked, that the feeling most akin to love is pity, and, deeming this to be true, the greater condemnation, in this view of the respective influence of Byron and Bulwer, falls upon the poet.

Thus we see that the writings of Bulwer, by acting directly on the common mind, make a wide wreck of morality. Those of Byron, although they exert their full influence on but few, yet as those few are most capable of transmitting the evil to others, also open a channel wide and deep for the tide of corruption. Byron is the less insidious. Bulwer strews both ingress and egress of the libertine's course with the brightest flowers from the lap of fancy, and thus entices us to tread the same gay path. As a father, who would cheer his son to chivalrous deeds, does not tell him that all is secure and pleasant in the warrior's life, but displays the scars which he has himself received in many a fearful encounter, and then enjoins upon him to despise such things, so does Byron set forth in the boldest relief the torments of a "mind diseased," and all the harrowing consequences of an abandoned career, and thus, as it were, dares us to follow him. But whoever strives to emulate either, will find occasion to exclaim, in the words of him, whose nurslings both poet and novelist have been,

LINES

ON THE DEATH OF JOHN R. ADAMS, A MEMBER OF THE SENIOR CLASS, WHO DIED AT BOS

Hath breathed his soul away

'Mid other scenes, where other hands than ours

Must train the vine and plant the flowers

Above his grave. Yet love

Shall wreath his memory with thoughts more bright and fair,
Than brightest flowers that e'er shall blossom there.

J. A. P.

EDITORS' TABLE.

We expect to see some wry faces upon the delivery of this number of the Magazine; but we are not so sleek, velvet-pawed, or hypocritical yet, as to care a farthing for what may be said by those who have labored ineffectually to gain admission into our columns. It would seem that some individuals are still disposed to write, merely to fill up the Magazine. This is certainly very benevolent in them, and ought to be sufficient to satisfy us of the intense interest they feel in our literary welfare. We return our thanks, however, to those only, who have favored us with their productions. We would inform our young poet (?) of sixteen, that Chatterton wrote the following when but a boy :

"See! the whyte moon sheenes onne hie;

Whyterre ys mie true love's shroude;

Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie,

Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude!

Mie Love ys dedde,

Gon to hys dethe-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe-tree."

"A Legend of Home."

Some how or other, we have a vague impression that this

is an old acquaintance of ours.

The dry humor and gossiping familiarity of " Scriblerus," might be regarded as tolerable, under a less imposing title.

"The Sleeping Beauty" is indeed a rare piece of absurdity. We advise the author to examine the production of one Mr. Sheffleton, who stands immortalized in the Modern Dunciad.

"A Few Fresh Shrubs from Parnassus"! Fresh, indeed! "Ah, Bozzy, I smell you in the dark!" as Doctor Johnson said to his friend, while wading through the mud one night, in the streets of Auld Reikie. Such wretched gallimaufry is not to be played off upon us so easily, Mr. Quiz.

"Hignaniota" would probably have met with a more favorable reception, had it not been for its execrable chirography. It is a most ridiculous affectation, and one in reference to which we have become perfectly intolerant of late, to indulge in a miserable scrawl, especially when, as in the present instance, there are indications of superior penmanship.

"Sorrow for the Dead" is respectfully declined.

The poetry of "F." is in type, but has been unavoidably crowded out by articles previously accepted.

"The Leap" is under consideration for our next number.

"Love," and other trifling matters, are dispensed with for the present.

All communications intended for the next number, must be handed in immediately.