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Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells-"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" All is, he could n't love 'em.

But long o' her his veins 'ould run All crinkly like curled maple, The side she breshed felt full o' sun Ez a south slope in Ap'il.

She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing Ez hisn in the choir;

My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring, She knowed the Lord was nigher.

An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer,

When her new meetin'-bunnet Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair O' blue eyes sot upun it.

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some! She seemed to 've gut a new soul, For she felt sartin-sure he 'd come, Down to her very shoe-sole.

She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu,
A-raspin' on the scraper,-
All ways to once her feelins flew
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, Some doubtile o' the sekle. His heart kep goin' pity-pat, But hern went pity Zekle.

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk
Ez though she wished him furder,
An' on her apples kep' to work,
Parin' away like murder.

Wal.

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no. . . . I come da "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin clo'es

Agin to-morrer's i'nin'."

To say why gals acts so or so,

Or don't, 'ould be presumin'; Mebby to mean yes an' say no

Comes nateral to women.

He stood a spell on one foot fust, Then stood a spell on t' other, An' on which one he felt the wust

He could n't ha' told ye nuther.

Says he, "I'd better call agin";

Says she, "Think likely, Mister": Thet last word pricked him like a pin, An'. . . . Wal, he up an' kist her. When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips,

Huldy sot pale ez ashes,
All kin' o' smily roun' the lips
An' teary roun' the lashes.

For she was jes' the quiet kind
Whose naturs never vary,
Like streams that keep a summer mind
Snowhid in Jenooary.

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued
Too tight for all expressin',
Tell mother see how metters stood,

An' gin 'em both her blessin'.

Then her red come back like the tide
Down to the Bay o' Fundy,
An' all I know is they was cried
In meetin' come nex' Sunday.

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THE BIGLOW PAPERS.

No. I.

BIRDOFREDUM SAWIN, ESQ., TO MR. HOSEA BIGLOW.

LETTER FROM THE REVEREND HOMER WIL

manuscripts which have been submitted to my literary judgment (though an epick in twenty-four books on the "Taking of Jericho" might, save for the prudent forethought of Mrs. Wilbur in secreting the same just as I had arrived beneath the walls

BUR, M. A., ENCLOSING THE EPISTLE and was beginning a catalogue of the various

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It is not from any idle wish to obtrude my humble person with undue prominence upon the publick view that I resume my pen upon the present occasion. Juniores ad labores. But having been a main instrument in rescuing the talent of my young parishioner from being buried in the ground, by giving it such warrant with the world as could be derived from a name already widely known by several printed discourses (all of which I may be permitted without immodesty to state have been deemed worthy of preservation in the Library of Harvard College by my esteemed friend Mr. Sibley), it seemed becoming that I should not only testify to the genuineness of the following production, but call attention to it, the more as Mr. Biglow had so long been silent as to be in danger of absolute oblivion. I insinuate no claim to any share in the authorship (vix ea nostra voco) of the works already published by Mr. Biglow, but merely take to myself the credit of having fulfilled toward them the office of taster (experto crede), who, having first tried, could afterward bear witness (credenzen it was aptly named by the Germans), an office always arduous, and sometimes even dangerous, as in the case of those devoted persons who venture their lives in the deglutition of patent medicines (dolus latet in generalibus, there is deceit in the most of them) and thereafter are wonderfully preserved long enough to append their signatures to testimonials in the diurnal and hebdomadal prints. I say not this as covertly glancing at the authors of certain

horns and their blowers, too ambitiously emulous in longanimity of Homer's list of ships, might, I say, have rendered frustrate any hope I could entertain vacare Musis for the small remainder of my days), but only the further to secure myself against any imputation of unseemly forthputting. I will barely subjoin, in this connexion, that, whereas Job was left to desire, in the soreness of his heart, that his adversary had written a book, as perchance misanthropically wishing to indite a review thereof, yet was not Satan allowed so far to tempt him as to send Bildad, Eliphaz, and Zophar each with an unprinted work in his wallet to be submitted to his censure. But of this enough. Were I in need of other excuse, I might add that I write by the express desire of Mr. Biglow himself, whose entire winter leisure is occupied, as he assures me, in answering demands for autographs, a labor exacting enough in itself, and egregiously so to him, who, being no ready penman, cannot sign so much as his name without strange contortions of the face (his nose, even, being essential to complete success) and painfully suppressed Saint-Vitus-dance of every muscle in his body. This, with his having been put in the Commission of the Peace by our excellent Governor (0, si sic omnes !) immediately on his accession to office, keeps him continually employed. Haud inexpertus loquor, having for many years written myself J. P., and being not seldom applied to for specimens of my chirography, a request to which I have sometimes over weakly assented, believing as I do that nothing written of set purpose can properly be called an autograph, but only those unpremeditated sallies and lively runnings which betray the fireside Man instead

of the hunted Notoriety doubling on his pursuers. But it is time that I should bethink me of St. Austin's prayer, libera me a meipso, if I would arrive at the matter in hand.

Moreover, I had yet another reason for taking up the pen myself. I am informed that the Atlantic Monthly is mainly indebted for its success to the contributions and editorial supervision of Dr. Holmes, whose excellent "Annals of America

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gerous on a full stomach, no less so is writing on a full reputation. Beset as he has been on all sides, he could not refrain, and would only imprecate patience till he shall again have 'got the hang" (as he calls it) of an accomplishment long disused. The letter of Mr. Sawin was received some time in last June, and others have followed which will in due season be submitted to the publick. How largely his statements are to be depended on, I more than merely cupy an honored place upon my shelves. dubitate. He was always distinguished for The journal itself I have never seen; but if a tendency to exaggeration, it might althis be so, it might seem that the recommen- most be qualified by a stronger term. Fordation of a brother-clergyman (though partiter mentire, aliquid hæret, seemed to be magis quam similis) should carry a greater his favourite rule of rhetorick. That he weight. I suppose that you have a de- is actually where he says he is the postpartment for historical lucubrations, and mark would seem to confirm; that he was should be glad, if deemed desirable, to for- received with the publick demonstrations ward for publication my "Collections for he describes would appear consonant with the Antiquities of Jaalam," and my (now what we know of the habits of those rehappily complete) pedigree of the Wilbur gions; but further than this I venture not family from its fons et origo, the Wild Boar to decide. I have sometimes suspected a of Ardennes. Withdrawn from the active vein of humor in him which leads him to duties of my profession by the settlement speak by contraries; but since, in the unof a colleague-pastor, the Reverend Jedu- restrained intercourse of private life, I have thun Hitchcock, formerly of Brutus Four- never observed in him any striking powers Corners, I might find time for further con- of invention, I am the more willing to put tributions to general literature on similar a certain qualified faith in the incidents and topicks. I have made large advances to- the details of life and manners which give wards a completer genealogy of Mrs. Wil- to his narratives some portion of the interbur's family, the Pilcoxes, not, if I know my-est and entertainment which characterizes self, from any idle vanity, but with the sole a Century Sermon. desire of rendering myself useful in my day and generation. Nulla dies sine lined. I inclose a meteorological register, a list of the births, deaths, and marriages, and a few memorabilia of longevity in Jaalam East Parish for the last half-century. Though spared to the unusual period of more than eighty years, I find no diminution of my faculties or abatement of my natural vigor, except a scarcely sensible decay of memory and a necessity of recurring to younger eyesight or spectacles for the finer print in Cruden. It would gratify me to make some further provision for declining years from the emoluments of my literary labors. I had intended to effect an insurance on my life, but was deterred therefrom by a circular from one of the offices, in which the sudden death of so large a proportion of the insured was set forth as an inducement, that it seemed to me little less than a tempting of Providence, Neque in summa inopia levis esse senectus potest, ne sapienti quidem.

Thus far concerning Mr. Biglow; and so much seemed needful (brevis esse laboro) by way of preliminary, after a silence of fourteen years. He greatly fears lest he may in this essay have fallen below himself, well knowing that, if exercise be dan

It may be expected of me that I should say something to justify myself with the world for a seeming inconsistency with my well-known principles in allowing my youngest son to raise a company for the war, a fact known to all through the medium of the publick prints. I did reason with the young man, but expellas naturam furcâ, tamen usque recurrit. Having myself been a chaplain in 1812, I could the less wonder that a man of war had sprung from my loins. It was, indeed, grievous to send my Benjamin, the child of my old age; but after the discomfiture of Manassas, I with my own hands did buckle on his armour, trusting in the great Comforter and Commander for strength accord. ing to my need. For truly the memory of a brave son dead in his shroud were a greater staff of my declining years than a living coward (if those may be said to have lived who carry all of themselves into the grave with them), though his days might be long in the land, and he should get much goods. It is not till our earthen vessels are broken that we find and truly possess the treasure that was laid up in them. Migravi in animam meam, I have sought refuge in my own. soul; nor would I be shamed by the

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