enormous collection of my critical writings I almost feel inclined to call them Twentyfive Years of Tomahawking; or, the Scalps of my Contemporaries. And yet I say with all sincerity that never in my life did I do an unkind action; when I seemed cruel it was only to be kind, and at the time I deemed myself merciful. Severe as some of these articles seem, they might have been severer; the possessor of immense powers must restrain them, and those who complain that many of my writ ings are dull should understand that I frequently expunge much withering satire and biting wit, out of pure good nature to the subject. Thus I sacrifice myself to save others.

Yet whoever presumes to criticise must give great pain to others, and I have been well assured that many of my articles have greatly distressed the public. It was perhaps because I had been thinking of this very deeply, that the other night as I sat alone in my study I had a remarkable dream.

Methought the souls of all that I had murdered, Came to my tent.

The fact is, I had just finished a goodnatured review of a new volume of poems, and was wondering whether I had been too severe in saying that the book must have been written by an idiot, published by a fool, and would only be read by madmen, when I was overpowered by irresistible sleep. The room seemed unchanged, the light burned brightly, and I thought I was awake in my chair, gazing at the picture of the martyrdom of St. Stephen, whom I fancied in my vision to be an ancient author being reviewed by the critics of Jerusalem. While I was admiring the energy of a little critic in the foreground, the door opened and a tall and dignified person in black entered, and seated himself before me. I recognized him as a professor in one of our colleges, a man reputed to have great learning, and by his scowling face imagined that his visit was not one of compliment. I was not long in doubt, for pulling a newspaper from his pocket he inquired if I had writen a certain article, and before I could reply, he burst out in a tirade of wrath. You have criticised my Greek Lexicon," he said, " work on which I have spent twenty years of research and labor, with as much au

dacity as if you understood it. What do you know of Greek? Construe me one passage in Euripides! Translate me one line of this book! Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta, Epsilon-can you, sir, proceed with the rest? No sir, you are an ignoramus, a Baotian, and yet you undertake to criticise my book. You say it is a pity that Prof. Helos should have challenged comparison with the Greek Lexicons of Niebuhr and Strauss.' Niebuhr never wrote one. You say of the formation of the Greek verb Prof. Helos is altogether ignor. ant, and the entire work is characterized by slovenliness, inaccuracy, presumption, and dulness. It is a disgrace to American scholarship, and a Greek of the time of Pericles, reading this book, would not know his own language, and might with reason imagine it to be a cilapidated Choctaw grammar.' This is infamous sir!" I was about to reply and say that an independent press would not be threatened, when a face I well knew appeared before the professor. The new comer was the leading tragedian at a principal theatre, and he too was armed with a newspaper, which he shook in my face. "Ten thousand furies!" he exclaimed, "you say of my Hamlet that it might do for low comedy, but that it no more resembles tragedy than a cow on its hind legs resembles the Greek Slave. You tell me that I don't know how to read the soliloquy; that I never empha size the right word except by accident, and then you add that I am so perversely wrong, that I should only act when drunk, as then I might be unconsciously right. You advise me to leave the stage for an omnibus, and say I drive so many people from the theatre that I would make a valuable coachman. Finally, you declare that my performance last night was the worst you ever saw, though I positively know you were not within a mile of the theatre. Sir, you have done me a grievous wrong with the public. You are damaging my business and my reputation. I insist upon an apology." But just at this moment the actor was pushed aside by a little man with a big portfolio under his arm, who also produced a newspaper, and launched at once into an eloquent complaint. He was a painter, whose picture at the Exhibition I dreamed I had criticised in my impartial style. "So you think," he cried, "that if

I knew how to draw, understood perspective, had any eye for color, that I might be an artist in time. You think my 'Scene on the Mediterranean' a daub, and that the sea looks like indigo water in a wash-tub, and the snow-clad mountains like dirty shirts. My Death of Dido' reminds you of an intoxicated Irishwoman, and you say that according to all the laws of perspective her left leg is a mile long, and that she might kick Æneas out of his ship. And then you wonder that the directors admit such trash, and express the opinion that I am not artist enough to whitewash a fence." Here a hubbub began which effectually drowned any individual complaint; the room seemed filled with writers, actors, musicians, painters, artists of all kinds, all vociferating at once, and crowding upon me with indignant rage. Strong-minded women waved their umbrellas; fascinating actresses wept those tears which had so often softened the critical heart; philosophers behaved in the most unphilosophic manner. I was in a worse case than the Egyptian opium dreamer, whom Osiris cursed, and from whom Isis fled in horror. I hurled an ink-stand at the head of the Greek professor, and, rushing towards the door-awoke. Cold drops of sweat were on my trembling brow, and never did I feel more joy than in finding it was only dream.

I

Of course, these critiques had only an imaginary existence, but they were disagreeably like articles I had really written, seen in sleep like the distorted reflection of a face in a moving undulating wave. could not help admitting (to myself only, of course) that the personages of my dream would not be wholly without excuse if they repeated their actions in real life. How often had I written upon subjects I did not understand, uttering my absolute judgments with all the gravity of an owl and the volubility of a parrot! Had I not frequently viewed the outside world through the color of my own moods, and thought a book dull because I had a headache, or an actor destitute of feeling in his part because I had too much in a tooth! The more I thought of these things, the more thoroughly was I convinced that greater ability of a certain kind is needed to justly appraise than merely to produce; and that so much. moderation, sympathy, insight, humanity,

wisdom, humility, and Christianity are required to make a good critic, that no one but a clergyman should be allowed to undertake the work.

GALLOWS LITERATURE.

The old lady who liked to enjoy her murders ought certainly to have been a subscriber to the New York Herald. The readers of that famous journal have lately supped full of horrors. Hanging, we are told, is by no means "played out" in New York, and the faculty of writing about hanging was never developed to such perfection. We have before remarked the admirable manner in which the powers of imagination and observation are made to co-operate in producing the Herald's reports of interesting Occurrences. The bewildered reader is tossed hither and thither on the flood of eloquence, and, like "the pale pilot" at the mouth of the Oronoco, he seeks in vain

Where rolls the river, where the main ;

or in other words, he cannot separate fact from fiction in the exciting narrative. We have before us an article headed "Nixon's Nemesis," which begins by stating in plain prose that Michael Nixon died on the gallows at New York on the morning of the 16th of May. He quarrelled about the right of the road with Charles H. Phyfer, pulled out a revolver and shot him through the head, so that he died within ten minutes. He was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to be hanged, and found, to his astonishment and dismay, that the sentence would be carried into effect. The respectable inhabitants of New York, who, according to the Herald, were lately inquiring "what they should do to be saved," have answered their own question by hanging a few of the atrocious ruffians by whom their city was infested. Nixon sank to abject terror when he lost hope. He held affecting interviews with his wife and children, and a reporter was present, or dreamed that he was present, with a note-book all the time. "The Herald of yesterday contained an account of his farewell to his children, of his affectionate parting from his wife. It was not his last." The market was propitious for a few more parting words. A positively last final interview was held. Speech was almost choked by emotion, and yet the reporter managed to catch every word. After parting from his wife Nixon returned sadly to his cell. He looked around. "All was so still and silent." He sat down, and was evidently still thinking of his wife. "He murmured her name and spoke to her." He was recalled to himself by Father Duranquet, who began praying. Nixon prayed too. His eyes shone with a strange light. He sighed. "What a deep, deep sigh!"

We are quoting, with almost verbal accuracy, from what we should call, if we were speaking of an English newspaper, a report. There has been no change of type, except an occasional introduction of capitals, which is a common practice of the Herald, since the verdict and sentence in open Court, and now we find ourselves in the condemned cell. Was the reporter really peeping and listening through a chink or trou? If he was, we think that the respectable inhabitants of New York should once more bestir themselves for the credit of their city and put an end to an indecent practice. "No words could have expressed the anguish he (Nixon) must have felt." We are glad to find that the reporter had some little modesty, although he appears to have stripped himself of delicacy. Even he could not undertake to paint the scene between the murderer and the priest. After a few minutes Nixon listened to the reverend Father's words, and became calm. He was prevailed upon to go out into the corridor. He smoked for half an hour. "He seemed to enjoy it." Then he prayed again with the priest. At midnight he ate supper in the corridor. "He could not eat much-a piece of bread and coffee-that was all." He returned to the cell, lay down and tried to sleep. The lamp threw a ghastly light upon the different objects in the cell. He shut his eyes, but a horrible sight rose up before him. There was blood upon the wall-a human form-deathly glassy eyes--blood-blood--everywhere blood. He started up with a shriek. All was quiet, all was dark. No blood, no terrible vision; but the kind Father spoke gentle words of love that sank into his soul. He lay down again, but could not sleep. He jumped up and clutched the iron bars. "Yes, he was a prisoner." Then he went to sleep, and dreamed he was standing under the gallows and a reprieve was brought by his wife. He awoke, and presently went again to sleep, and dreamed that he witnessed his own hanging.

All this is written with considerable power, and it might furnish Mr. Irving, or any other actor in the homicidal line of business, with an effective recitation. But is it or is it not a newspaper report? There is nothing to prevent a continuation of the same narrative after Nixon was actually hanged. If a reporter can see and hear through stone walls and iron doors, perhaps he can look behind the veil of death. The eye which searches the Tombs at midnight ought to be capable of penetrating beyond the grave.

We may suppose either that the reporter peeped and listened, or that he picked up a few hints from a warder and arranged and adorned them, or that he drew upon his imagination for the whole description. American readers do not perhaps care for these pedantries of detail. They like their daily reading to be hot, strong, and highly spiced, and they care little to inquire into its origin and process of

manufacture. But in England it has been hitherto the custom to expect that a special correspondent who described a battle, should at any rate be somewhere near the baggage of one of the contending armies. No doubt battles are very much alike, and, to borrow Sir Robert Peel's translation of a Latin adage, one is a good deal safer in the Middle Temple, where also pens, ink, paper, and books of reference are more plentiful than they could be on a campaign. But still it has been usual to regard the special correspondent and the leader-writer as belonging to different departments of journalism. The gentlemen employed by the New York Herald appear, however, to be able to turn their hands to everything at the same time. The narrative proceeds from night to morning; the prisoner washes and dresses himself and goes to chapel; the sheriff, under-sheriff, and deputy sheriffs arrive. They were all dressed in black, wore high hats, and had a solemn air." The reporter has

descended from omniscience to the exercise of ordinary human faculties. We even feel ourselves equal to observing and describing the sheriff's hat, and there have been English writers capable of observing and describing hangings. But this reporter cannot be content even with the last "dreadful struggle." He followed, or supposed himself to follow, the dead body to Mrs. Nixon's house, and he describes her reception of it.

Murderers can be hanged quite as effectually in Illinois or California as in New York, but they must not expect to have their last hours described with as much particularity and brilliancy as if they lay in prison in the Tombs. The reporters of the Herald at those distant places are fully equal to the occasion, although not so manifestly superior to it as are their more accomplished brethren at home. They can, however, make free use of capitals, and it is interesting to know that "a heartless, determined, cold-blooded murderer" named O'Neal was able to make “a hearty meal before dying." His breakfast consisted of beefsteak, fried eggs, coffee, bread, butter, and cherry sauce. He died an easy death, whereas Nixon underwent "horrible convulsions." If we could be sure that these convulsions were not invented by the reporter, we should incline to draw an inference that hanging, like sea-sickness, is borne better by those who feed generously. The reporter in Nixon's case does not say a word about breakfast, and we may surmise that he mentions everything that did happen, and perhaps something that did not. An Italian named Lusignani, who murdered his wife, was so fortunate as to receive the attentions of one of the most gifted reporters of the Herald; but this murder was committed in New Jersey, which is near New York, and besides, the victim was Lusignani's wife, "a splendid type of the peculiar style of beauty for which the peasant women of Italy are so justly

celebrated." The reporter may have seen Lusignani's wife either alive or dead, and he may not, but he has seen other Italian women, and this is one of the tip-top artists of the press, who is not to be fettered in his composition by any petty regard for fact. "She was of medium height, but her form was rounded to perfection, and her step was like that of a queen. She had glorious black hair, a set of pearly teeth, small hands and feet, and a broad intelligent forehead." This would read very well in a novel and look very well in a picture, and a report in the New York Herald, by a first-rate hand, combines the advantages of both. The story which follows of the wife's adultery and the husband's revenge is sufficiently commonplace. "The people of Morristown had become greatly attached to Lusignani during his imprisonment and trial in their city, and delicacies of all kinds had been freely supplied to him since sentence was passed. Admitting that there were extenuating circumstances in this murder, we yet see nothing in the murderer to excite attachment, unless it were the deep, rich voice in which he sang the patriotic songs of his country in prison so as to be heard by passers-by. The reporter, by the prisoner's invitation, passed the night before the execution in the condemned cell along with three priests, and he describes all that he saw and heard. In this case, therefore, there need have been no drawing upon imagination, and indeed the narrative of the last night has a matter of fact aspect which is, if possible, more disgusting than the poetic halo thrown around the last hours of Nixon. We are surprised, not that such things should be done by the New York Herald, but that they should be permitted by the authorities of a civilized and Christian city. The reporter quitted the cell at six o'clock and returned at seven. He was fortunately in time to see Lusignani take his breakfast, which consisted of beafsteak and toast. "He made a hearty meal, observing it was the last he should ever eat." He also "gave utterance to many beautiful sentiments, some of which were very poetical." It was perhaps the prisoner's ability to do his poetry himself that induced this reporter to confine himself to prose.

The necessity had become manifest of hanging murderers in New York and elsewhere, and the accompanying evil of descriptions of hangings in newspapers must therefore be patiently endured. It may be instructive to abolitionists of capital punishment to observe the present reaction against their doctrine in America. In quiet orderly times and places they may gain a hearing, but when it comes to shooting or braining passengers in Broadway, respect. able society instinctively agrees to hanging a few rowdies. The Herald knew quite well what it was about when it "put down its foot" that Foster, the car-hook murderer, should be hanged. Foster was

hanged accordingly, to the general satisfaction of mankind. But it is unsatisfactory to find that there cannot be public hanging without gallows literature, and if New York desires to preserve respectability, she must not only hang murderers, but endeavor to hang them decently.—Saturday Review.

SHAKESPEARE'S MULBERRY TREE.

SUNG BY MR. GARRICK, WITH A CUP IN HIS HAnd made OF THE TREE.

Behold this fair goblet, 'twas carved from the tree, Which, O! my sweet Shakespeare, was planted by thee!

As a relic I kiss it and bow at the shrine-
What comes from thy hand must be ever divine.

CHORUS-All shall yield to the Mulberry Tree;
Bend to thee, blest Mulberry,

Matchless was he who planted thee,

And thou like him immortal shall be.

Ye trees of the forest, so rampant and high,
Who spread round your branches, whose heads sweep
the sky,

Ye curious exotics, whom taste has brought here,
To root out the natives at prices so dear.

All shall yield, &c.

The oak is held royal, in Britain's great boast,
Preserv'd once our king, and will always our coast;
But of fir we make ships, we have thousands that fight,
While one, only one, like our Shakespeare can write.
All shall yield, &c.

Let Venus delight in her gay myrtle bowers,
Pomona in fruit trees, and Flora in flowers,
The garden of Shakespeare all fancies will suit,
With the sweetest of flowers and fairest of fruit.
All shall yield, &c.

With learning and knowledge, the well-letter'd birch
Supplies law and physic, and grace for the church,
But law and the gospel in Shakespeare we find,
And he gives the best physic for body and mind.
All shall yield, &c.

The fame of the patron gives fame to the tree,
From him and his merits this takes its degree;
Let Phœbus and Bacchus their glories resign,
Our tree shall surpass both the laurel and vine.
All shall yield, &c.

The genius of Shakespeare outshines the bright day,
More rapture than wine to the heart can convey;
So the tree which he planted, by making his own,
His laurel, and bays, and the vine, all in one.
All shall yield, &c.

Then take each a relic of this hallowed tree,
From folly and fashion, a charm let it be;
Fill, fill to the planter, the cup to the brim;
To honor the country, do honor to him!

All shall yield, &c.

THACKERAY.

Continued from page 66.

With this novel, then so surprising in its frankness and in its knowledge of human nature, commenced a career which could know no repression. A mine of gold had been struck, and the nuggets were cast up freely by the hands of the hard and honest worker. In the writing of books admired by every hater of pretence, and the delivery of lectures which were as new in their style and treatment as his novels, the rest of the life of Thackeray passed away. The last fifteen years of it were years of success, celebrity, and comparative affluence. He had attained a commanding position in literature and in society, though it must be acknowledged that, except in a very small circle of intimate friends, he rarely put forth any brilliant social qualities. How he impaled snobbery in Punch, and gave a new impetus to serial literature by his editorship of the Cornbill Magazine, are facts too widely disseminated to be dilated upon. A most good-natured editor, conscientious as well as kind, was Thackeray ; but the work was not to his taste, and after a short period he relinquished it at a large pecuniary sacrifice. To that terrible person, the owner of a "rejected contribution," he was frequently most generous, breaking the literary disappointment with the solace of a bank-note in many instances. But he found it painfully difficult to say "No" when it became imperative to reject would-be contributors, and fled from the field in despair accordingly. To a friend he said on one occasion, "How can I go into society with comfort? I dined the other day at 's, and at the table were four gentlemen whose masterpieces of literary art I had been compelled to decline with thanks." So he informed his readers for the last time that he would “not be responsible for rejected communications." On Christmas Eve, 1863, came the event which touched the heart of Britain with genuine grief. The not altogether uneventful career of one of the truest and best of men was closed. When it was

known that the author of "Vanity Fair" would charm the world no longer by his truthful pictures of English life, the grief was what we would always have it be when a leader of the people in war, arts, or letters, is stricken down in battle-deep, general, and sincere.

Postponing for the moment a consideration of what we conceive to be the leading characteristics of Thackeray's genius, a certain measure of insight into the author's mind may be gained by a glance at his works-premising that they are not taken in strict chronological order. First, with regard to his more important novels. The key with which he opened the door of fame was undoubtedly "Vanity Fair." Though other writings of a less ambitious nature had previously come from his pen, until the production of this book there was no evidence that Thackeray would ever assume the high position in letters now unanimously awarded to him. But here, at any rate, was demonstrative proof that a new star had arisen. And yet, general as was this belief, no intelligible grounds were for a time assigned for it. The novelist himself always regarded his first work as his best; though we think that in this respect he has followed the example of Milton and other celebrated authors, and chosen as his favorite that which is not obsolutely the best, though it may be equal to any which succeeded it. Probably the book was one round whose pages a halo had been thrown by various personal circumstances. But the famous yellow covers, in which the "Novel without a Hero" originally appeared, were not at first sought atter with much avidity. Soon, however, it became known that a new delineator of life was at work in society, and one whose pen was as keen as the dissecting knife of the surgeon. An author had sprung up who dared to shame society by a strong and manly scorn, and by proclaiming that it ought to loathe itself in dust and ashes. The world was not unwilling to read the reflection of its foibles and its vices mirrored with so much wit, originality, and genius. How account otherwise for the favor which the work subsequently attained, when it lacked as a novel many of those characteristics for which novels are most eagerly read? To the initial difficulty of a story without a