the establishment of the Atlantic Monthly, Lowell was made ita aditan and exercised the functions of this office for racy a flavor in his phrase as if he had newly plucked it from the fields, and it were part of the great life of skies and woods and seas on which, in its relation to that of man, dwells with so true a love.” † he 66 Lowell's prose-writings are as remarkable as his poetry: copiousness of his illustrations, the richness of his the imagery, the easy flow of his sentences, the keenness of his wit, and the force and clearness of his reasoning, give to his reviews and essays a fascinating charm that would *Lippincott's Pronouncing Dictionary of Biography. Atlantic Monthly, Feb., '69. place him in the front rank of our prose-writers, if he did not occupy a similar position among our poets."* A LETTER From Mr. Ezekiel Biglow of Jaalam to the Hon. Joseph T. Buckingham, Editor of the Boston Courier, inclosing a poem of his son, Mr. Hosea Biglow. JAYLEM, june, 1846. MISTER EDDYTER: Our Hosea wuz down to Boston last week, and he see a cruetin sarjunt a struttin round as popler as a hen with 1 chicking, with 2 fellers a drummin and fifin arter him like all nater. the sarjunt he thout Hosea hedn't gut his i teeth cut cos he looked a kindo's though he'd jist come down, so he cal'lated to hook him in, but Hosy woodn't take none o' his sarse for all he hed much as 20 Rooster's tales stuck onto his hat and eenamost enuf brass a bobbin up and down on his shoulders and figured onto his coat and trousis, let alone wut nater hed sot in his featers, to make a 6 pounder out on. wal, Hosea he com home considerabal riled, and arter I'd gone to bed I heern Him a thrashin round like a short-tailed Bull in fli-time. The old Woman ses she to me ses she, Zekle, ses she, our Hosee's gut the chollery or suthin anuther ses she, don't you Bee skeered, ses I, he's oney amakin pottery ses i, he's ollers on hand at that ere busynes like Da & martin, and shure enuf, cum mornin, Hosy he cum down stares full chizzle, hare on eend and cote tales flyin, and sot rite of to go reed his varses to Parson Wilbur, bein he haint aney grat a shows o' book larnin himself, bimeby he cum back and sed the parson wuz dreffle tickled with 'em as i hoop you will Be, and said they wuz True grit. Hosea ses taint hardly fair to call 'em hisn now, cos the parson kind o' slicked off sum o' the last varses, but he told Hosee he didn't want to put his ore in to tetch to the Rest on 'em, bein they wuz verry well As they wuz, and then Hosy ses he sed suthin a nuther about Simplex Mundishes or sum sech feller, but I guess Hosea kind o' didn't hear him, for I never hearn o' nobody o' that name in the villadge, and I've lived here man and boy 76 year cum next tater diggin, and thair aint no wheres a kitting spryer 'n I be. If you print 'em I wish you'd jest let folks know who hosy's father is, cos my ant Keziah used to say it's nater to be curus ses she, she aint livin though and he's a likely kind o' lad. EZEKIEL BIGLOW. *The Homes of American Authors. THRASH away, you'll hev to rattle On them kittle drums o' yourn,"Taint a knowin kind o' cattle Thet is ketched with mouldy corn; Put in stiff, you fifer feller, Let folks see how spry you be,Guess you'll toot till you are yeller 'Fore you git ahold o' me! Thet air flag's a leetle rotten, Ef you must wear humps like these, "Twouldn't suit them Southern fellers, Them that rule us, them slave-traders, Haint they cut a thunderin' swarth, (Helped by Yankee renegaders,) Thru the vartu o' the North! We begin to think it's nater To take sarse an' not be riled; Who'd expect to see a tater All on eend at bein' biled? Ez fer war, I call it murder,- I don't want to go no furder An' you've gut to get up airly "Taint your eppyletts an' feathers Make the thing a grain more right· Wut's the use o' meeting-goin' They may talk o' Freedom's airy Fer the barthrights of our race; Aint it cute to see a Yankee Take such everlastin' pains Wy, it's jest ez clear ez figgers, Clear ez one an' one make two, Tell ye jest the eend I've come to Laborin' man an' laborin' woman Taint by turnin' out to hack folks "Taint the hide that makes it wus, All it keers fer in a feller 'S jest to make him fill its pus. Want to tackle me in, du ye? 'Spose the crows wun't fall to pickin' Jest go home an' ask our Nancy Take them editors thet's crowin' Don't ketch any on 'em goin', 'Fore they think on't they will spout, (Like a peach thet's got the yellers,) With the meanness bustin' out. Wal, go 'long to help 'em stealin' Bigger pens to cram with slaves, |