Thus the idea of legal restrictions on the press passes away, and the law of libel becomes a law of the press in any case where defamation or false report is charged, and to a jury is committed the task of deciding whether the statement made was justified and proper. As Prof. Dicey aptly puts it,[46] “freedom of discussion is, then, in England, little else than the right to write or say anything which a jury, consisting of twelve shopkeepers, think it expedient should be said or written.... Whether in any particular case a given individual is to be convicted of libel depends wholly on their judgment, and they have to determine the questions of truth, fairness, intention, and the like, which affect the legal character of a published statement.” But this point of view, which is the position in England, and to a large extent in our own land, has not been reached without a struggle, and it is to that struggle, so far as it was carried on in the American Colonies, that we must now turn out attention. LIVINGSTON ROWE SCHUYLER. NEW YORK CITY. (_To be continued._) THE AUTOGRAPH UNPUBLISHED POEM BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH [The MS. was sold in New York recently.] Some hunt the tiger in his jungle deep, Some chase the altitudinous giraffe, Some fight the grizzly bear on mountain steep And all of these their cup of pleasure quaff. But fiercer rapture theirs who forward leap To meet the grim, ferocious Autograph. A terrible brute! but not so dangerous when The prudent author keeps him in his—pen. THE THIRTIETH OF MAY. [Uncle John in the Cemetery, after the Decoration] These are not all! Here by the wall Is the grave of one who died in the war, Though her body hadn’t a wound nor scar. Her hope and heart was broken, when In a mass o’ men Her lover fell in a pool of gore With the flag he bore. Her life and her love together fled When he was dead. Any vi’lets left, girls? Let them fall Here by the wall. These are not all! Go back, and call The boys that carry the evergreen. Here is a grave you men hain’t seen. It’s old man Brown’s. His heart clean broke ’Most as if he was women-folk. He had five sons—his wife was dead— Nothin’ could keep ’em to home, he said. An’ every last one o’ that whole lot Had to get shot! Th’ old man hadn’t no grit, no pride— Jest up and died! Lay the evergreen softly down Over the grave of old man Brown.