ieft nothing of his in them. I should not, perhaps, have felt entitled to take so great liberties with them, had I not more than suspected an hereditary vein of poetry in myself, a very near ancestor having written a Latin poem in the Harvard Gratulatio on the accession of George the Third. Suffice it to say, that, whether not satisfied with such limited approbation as I could conscientiously bestow, or from a sense of natural inaptitude, certain it is that my young friend could never be induced to any further essays in this kind. He affirmed that it was to him like writing in a foreign tongue, that Mr. Pope's versification was like the regular ticking of one of Willard's clocks, in which one could fancy, after long listening, a certain kind of rhythm or tune, but which yet was only a poverty-stricken tick, tick, after all,-and that he had never seen a sweet-water on a trellis growing so fairly, or in forms so pleasing to his eye, as a foxgrape over a scrub-oak in a swamp. He added I know not what, to the effect that the sweet-water would only be the more disfigured by having its leaves starched and ironed out, and that Pegāsus (so he called him) hardly looked right with his mane and tail in curl-papers. These and other such opinions I did not long strive to eradicate, attributing them rather to a defective education and senses untuned by too long familiarity with purely natural objects, than to a perverted moral sense. I was the more inclined to this leniency since sufficient evidence was not to seek, that his verses, as wanting as they certainly were in classic polish and point, had somehow taken hold of the public ear in a surprising manner. So, only setting him right as to the quantity of the proper name Pegasus, I left him to follow the bent of his natural genius. Yet could I not surrender him wholly to the tutelage of the pagan (which, literally interpreted, signifies village) muse without yet a farther effort for his conversion, and to this end I resolved that whatever of poetic fire yet burned in myself, aided by the assiduous bellows of correct models, should be put in requisition. Accordingly, when my ingenious young parishioner brought to my study a copy of verses which he had written touching the acquisition of territory resulting from the Mexican war, and the folly of leaving the question of slavery or freedom to the adjudication of chance, I dia myself indite a short fable or apologue after the manner of Gay and Prior, to the end that he might see how easily even such subjects as he treated of were capable of a more refined style and more elegant expression. Mr. Biglow's production was as follows: THE TWO GUNNERS, A FABLE. I'wo fellers, Isrel named and Joe, So'st no one wouldn't be about Joe didn't want to go a mite; He felt ez though 'twarnt skeercely right, An' then arubbin' on it in, Till Joe, less skeered o' doin' wrong Than bein' laughed at, went along. Past noontime they went trampin' round An' nary thing to pop at found, Till, fairly tired o' their spree, They leaned their guns agin a tree, To take their noonin', Joe looked roun' That warn't more'n twenty rod beyond,) Ez ef awaitin' to be shot. Isrel he ups and grabs his gun; Sez he, "By ginger, here's some fun!" "Don't fire," sez Joe, it aint no use, Thet's Deacon Peleg's tame wild-goose;" Sez Isrel, "I don't care a cent, I've sighted an' I'll let her went;" Bang! went queen's-arm, ole gander flopped His wings a spell, an' quorked, an' dropped. Sez Joe, "I wouldn't ha' been hired But, sence it's clean gin up the ghost, "I won't agree to no such bender," I'd eat what makes me hole my nose!" So they disputed to an' fro Till cunnin' Isrel sez to Joe "Don't less stay here an' play the fool, Now 'twuz the hottest kind o' weather, Fer all the mischief hed ben done: The goose wuz there, but, fer his soul, Joe wouldn't ha' tetched it with a pole; My own humble attempt was in manner and form following, and I print it here, I sincerely trust, out of no vain-glory, but solely with the hope of doing good. LEAVING THE MATTER OPEN. A TALE. BY HOMER WILBUR, A. M. Two brothers once, an ill-matched pair, To whom an Uncle Sam, or some one, Not scorning with hard sun-browned hands Whatever thing he had to do He did, and made it pay him, too; His drains made water-wheels spin round, His wood brought profit when 'twas cold, |