New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1870-04-01
THE LITERATURE OF TIE G4LLOWG

f. There was time when the Last Dying
Speeches and Confessions of Homieldes and OF
Highwaymen were composed to order by the
garreteers of Grub-st.. and were hawked about
the alleys of London for penny. The gen
tleman who was awaiting The expiatory hemp
had better business on hand than rhetoric or
penitence; for, like Mr.. Jonathan Wild, he
might be drinking punch with the Chaplain /;
and he was not unlikely to advance to his
fate with large nosegay in his button hole
and with free and easy swagger which won
the admiration of all beholders. But execu-
tions, considered merely as exhibitions, have,
in our time, greatly degenerated. Our system
affords to the wretches who suffer under it
but limited chance of dramatic display. 1t 5
but i'll playing game to sheritfs posse in
jail-yard it cannot be very exhilarating to
hold long palavers with the newspaper re-
porters; and the spiritual adviser" good
man, is, no doubt often considered por-
tentous bore. But one thing, if supplied with
pen and ink and paper the mOribund prisoner
can do-he can write letters with a reasonable
assurance that they will find their way into
the public journals, and achieve for him q
surviving notoriety. however short.
We have, in our time, read hundreds of these
vaedictory epistles; but we admit that We have
never read anything more curious than a last
letter sent to his mother, father, brothers and
sisters by Nickas, who was executed at Little
Valley. n. Y, on the 18th of March. This pro-
duction is. indeed, most singular mixture of
pathos and profanity; there are not wanting
the usual and conventional expressions of a
spiritual comfort and certainty, which good
Ii e.
wrestled in vain; while, every now and then.
breaks out the savage instinct of beast howl
ing for q revenge of which he has been thwarted
"Oh, dearest mother" writes Nicklas in one
sentence, "my heart is full of pain and
"sorrow these lonely hours of approaching
death" This is promising; but the promise
is broken in the very next lines. "But
1T is not" the prisoner hurries to add,
cit is not Sheriff Cooper that Is going
" to take my life; it is -, the miserable
hound of murderer, dirty thief and scandal
"Of humanity, and pretends to be Christian
." man. If he don't go to HI. there will not
anybody, the murderer and lying dog In
stantly follows: "Oh, dear mother, don't cry.
Don't put sorrow in your heart for your
"pOOr lost son, for he will soon meet the angels
to ask all theOlOgians, whether they be dog
matte or mystic, and whatever may be the
views which they hold of future state of ex.
istencc, what they consider to be the precise
value Of the faith in his own triumphant sal
walton entertained by this unhappy mani At
best, it seems to be only the coarse. material
faith of the barbarian who promises himself
in the next world succession of endless and
intensified physical enjoyments-a faith quite
compatible with every unholy and unclean
passion which can defe the human heart-a faith
which does not comprehend even the simplest
elements of the Christian scheme. Here is
a man going out of the world, denouncing
a fellow creature as "a miserable houndr and
"a dirty dog and in the same breath de-
caring that che will soon meet the angels in
"Ileaycn, and De saved forever If it were
not so serious it would be little humorous;
as it is, the comedy is rather grim. We do
not say that it brings the most inspiring and
the dearest of our convictions into disrepute:
but We do say emphaticaly that 1t insults
them by "A low parody Of familiar but rcvered
formulas. and by tho presumption that such