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REVIEW OF THE YEAR 1863.

i EXECUTION of a WOMAN-DREADFUL…

GARIBALDI AND VICTOR HUGO.

A MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY.

A SAD CHRISTMAS.

* MAKING THE BEST OF IT.

THE RANK OF SERGEANT-COOK…

TWO HISTORICAL PARALLELS.

THE DEATH OF MR. THACKERAY.

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THE DEATH OF MR. THACKERAY. Mr. Thackeray was found dead in his bed on Tuesday morning, December 24th. Sudden as the loss of Peel, or of Talfourd, or of Lord Macaulay, whose death saddened the Christmas holi- days three years ago,âsudden, also, as other recent deaths of able men who laboured worthily in the world's eye, but whose calling did not bring them so near as that of the foremost novelist to «ie world's heart, has been this new cause of public gner (says the Examiner). For a few days past Mr. Thackeray has been slightly unwell, yet he was about among his friends, and he was out even on Wednesday evening. But when called at about 9 o'clock on Thursday morning he was found dead in his bed, with placid face, having apparently died without suffering pain. Mr. Thackeray's age was but fifty-two, and he seemed a man large, vigorous, cheerful, with yet a quarter of a century of life in him. There were some parts of his character that never felt the touch of his years, and these were tenderly remembered yesterday at many a Christmas fireside. There was to the last in him the sensibility of a child's generous heart that time had not sheathed against light touches of pleasure and pain. His sympathy was prompt and keen, but the same quick feeling made him also over-sensitive to the small annoyances that men usually learn to take for granted as but one form of friction to his sensitiveness, and did in his writings what thousands of men do in their lives, shrouded an over-tender heart in a transparent veil of cynicism. Often he seemed to his readers to be trifling or nervously obtruding himself into his story when he was but shrinking from the full discovery of his own simple intensity of feeling. In his most polished works, "Vanity Fair," "Es- mond," or the Newcomes," in which book the affected cynicism,that, after all, could not strike deeper than into the mere surface of things, is set aside, and more nearly than in any other of his works, discharge is made of the whole true mind of William Thackerayâin these his masterpieces there is nothing better, nothing more absolutely genuine and perfect in its way than the pure spirit of frolic in some of his comic rhymes. He could play with his "Pleaseman X," very much as a happy child plays with a toy and how freely and delightfully the strength of his wit flowed into the child's panto- mime tale of The Hose and the Ring." It is not now the time for taking exact measure of the genius of the true writer we have lost. What sort of hold it took upon the English mind and heart his countrymen knew by the sad and gentle words that yesterday connected the sense of his loss in almost every household with the great English festival of lovingkindness. There are men who, appealing to widely-spread forms of ignorance or prejudice, have more readers than Mr. Thackeray, and yet the loss of one of these writers on the eve of Christmas would have struck home nowhere beyond the private circle of his friends. Whatever the extent or limit of his genius, Mr. Thackeray found the way to the great generous English heart. And the chief secret of his power was the simple strength of sympathy within him, that he might flinch from expressing fully, but that was none the less the very soul of his successful v ork. Quickly impressible, his mind was raw to a rough touch but the same quality gave all the force of the truth to his writing, all the lively grace to his style. That part of him which was the mere blind he put up at the inconveniently large window to his breast, degenerated into formula; and there were "orne who might be pardoned for becoming weary at the repetition of old patterns of sarcasm at the skin-deep vanities of life. But the eye was a dull one that could not look through the muslin work into a mind that, so to speak, was always making Christmas, although half ashamed to be known at the clubs as guilty of so much indul- gence in the luxuries of kindly fellowship, and so con- tinual an enjoyment of the purest side of life. Whatever little fends may have gathered about Mr. Thackeray's public life lay lightly on the surface of the minds that chanced to be in contest with him. They could be thrown off in a moment, at the first shock of the news that he was dead. In the course of his active career there are few of his literary brethren with whom he has not been brought into contact. At one time he was a fellow-worker with us in this journal. He worked much and variously; many and various also were his friends. To some of the worthiest in the land he was joined in friendship that had endured throughout the lifetime of a generation, and there are very humble rooms in London where there were tears yesterday for him whose left hand did not know what his right hand had done in silent charity.

A JEWISH BREACH OF PROMISE.

: THE COST OF THE AMERICAN…

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THE MARKETS.