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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 doubtfle 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.

"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" "Wal 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.

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Says he, "I'd better call agin";
Says she, Think likely, Mister";
Thet last word pricked him like a pin,
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, And 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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It is not from any idle wish to obtrude my humble person with undue prominence upon the publick view that resume my pen upon the present occasion. Funiores 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


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 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 and was beginning a catalogue of the various 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 " Occupy an honored place upon my shelves. The journal itself I have never seen; but if this be so, it might seem that the recommendation of a brother-clergyman (though par magis quam similis) should carry a greater weight. I suppose that you have a department for historical lucubrations, and should be glad, if deemed desirable, to forward for publication my "Collections for the Antiquities of Jaalam," and my (now happily complete) pedigree of the Wilbur family from its fons et origo, the Wild Boar of Ardennes. Withdrawn from the active duties of my profession by the settlement of a colleague-pastor, the Reverend Jeduthun Hitchcock, formerly of Brutus Four-Corners, I might find time for further contributions to gen

eral literature on similar topicks. I have made large advances towards a completer genealogy of Mrs. Wilbur's family, the Pilcoxes, not, if I know myself, from any idie vanity, but with the sole desire of rendering myself useful in my day and generation. Nulla dies sine lineâ. I inclose a meteorological register, a list of the births, deaths, and marriages, and a few me morabilia of longevity in Jaalam East Parish for the last hall-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 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

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tempting of Providence. Neque in summâ inopiâ 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 dangerous on a full stom ach, no less so is writing on a full repu tation. Beset as he has been on all sides, he could not refrain, and would only imprecate patience till he shal again have "got the hang" (as he call 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 dubitate. was always distinguished for a tendency to exaggeration,- it might almost be qualified by a stronger term. Fortiter



mentire, aliquid hæret, seemed to be his favourite rule of rhetorick. That he is actually where he says he is the postmark would seem to confirm; that he was received with the publick demonstrations he describes would appear consonant with what we know of the habits of those regions; but further than this I venture not to decide. have sometimes suspected a vein of humour in him which leads him to speak by contraries; but since, in the unrestrained intercourse of private life, I have never observed in him any striking powers of invention, I am the more willing to put a certain qualified faith in the incidents and the details of life and manners which give to his narratives some portion of the interest and entertainment which characterizes a Century Sermon.

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 alloving 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, tamenusque 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 according 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 ani mam meam, I have sought refuge in my own soul; nor would I be shamed by the heathen comedian with his Ne

quam illud verbum, bene vult, nisi bene facit. During our dark days, 1 read constantly in the inspired book of Job, which I believe to contain more tood to maintain the fibre of the soul for right living and high thinking than all pagan literature together, though I would by no means vilipend the study of the classicks. There I read that Job said in his despair, even as the fool saith in his heart there is no God,

66 The tabernacles of robbers prosper, and they that provoke God are secure. (Fob xii. 6.) But I sought farther till I found this Scripture also, which I would have those perpend who have striven to turn our Israel aside to the worship of strange gods:- "If I did despise the cause of my man-servant or of my maid-servant when they contended with me, what then shall I do when God riseth up? and when he visiteth, what shall I answer him?" (Fob xxxi. 13, 14.) On this text I preached a discourse on the last day of Fasting and Humiliation with general acceptance, though there were not wanting one or two Laodiceans who Isaid that I should have waited till the President announced his policy. But let us hope and pray, remembering this of Saint Gregory, Vult Deus rogari, vult cogi, vult quâdam importunitate vinci.

We had our first fall of snow on Friday last. Frosts have been unusually backward this fall. A singular circumstance occurred in this town on the 20th October, in the family of Deacon Pelatiah Tinkham. On the previous evening, a few moments before family-prayers,

[The editors of the Atlantic find it necessary here to cut short the letter of their valued correspondent, which seemed calculated rather on the rates of longevity in Jaalam than for less favored localities. They have every encouragement to hope that he will write again.]

with esteem and respect.
Your obedien, servant,


IT's some consid❜ble of a spell sence
I hain't writ no letters,
An' ther''s gret changes hez took
place in all polit'cle metters:
Some canderdates air dead an' gone,

an' some hez ben defeated, Which 'mounts to pooty much the same; fer it's ben proved repeated A betch o' bread thet hain't riz once ain't goin' to rise agin,

An' it's jest money throwed away to put the emptins in:

But thet's wut folks wun't never larn; they dunno how to go, Arter you want their room, no more 'n a bullet-headed beau ; Ther''s ollers chaps a-hangin' roun' thet can't see peatime 's past, Mis'ble as roosters in a rain, heads down an' tails half-mast:

It ain't disgraceful bein' beat, when a holl nation doos it,

But Chance is like an amberill,- it don't take twice to lose it.

I spose you're kin' o' cur'ous, now, to know why I hain't writ. Wal, I've ben where a litt❜ry taste don't somehow seem to git Th' encouragement a feller 'd think, thet's used to public schools, An' where sech things ez paper 'n' ink air clean agin the rules:

A kind o' vicyvarsy house, built dreffle strong an' stout,

So 's 't honest people can't get in, ner t'other sort git out,

An' with the winders so contrived, you'd prob'ly like the view Better alookin' in than out, though it seems sing'lar, tu;

But then the landlord sets by ye, can't bear ye out o' sight,

And locks ye up ez reg'lar ez an outside door at night.

This world is awfle contrary: the rope may stretch your neck

Thet mebby kep' another chap frum washin' off a wreck;

An' you may see the taters grow in one poor feller's patch,

So small no self-respectin' hen thct vallied time 'ould scratch,

So small the rot can't find 'em out, an' then agin, nex' door,

Ez big ez wut hogs dream on when they 're 'most too fat to snore. But groutin' ain't no kin' o' use; an' ef the fust throw fails,

Why, up an' try agin, thet's all,- the coppers ain't all tails;

Though I hev seen 'em when I thought they hed n't no more head Than 'd sarve a nussin' Brigadier thet gits some ink to shed.

When I writ last, I'd ben turned loose by thet blamed nigger, Pomp, Ferlorner than a musquash, ef you'd took an' dreened his swamp:

But I ain't o' the meechin' kind, thet sets an' thinks fer weeks

The bottom's out o' th' univarse coz their own gillpot leaks.

I hed to cross bayous an' criks, (wal, it did beat all natur',)

Upon kin' o' corderoy, fust log, then alligator:

Luck'ly, the critters warn't sharp-sot;

I guess 't wuz overruled They'd done their mornin's marketin' an' gut their hunger cooled ;

Fer missionaries to the Creeks an' runaways are viewed

By them an' folks ez sent express to be their reg'lar food:

Wutever 't wuz, they laid an' snoozed ez peacefully ez sinners,

Meek ez disgestin' deacons be at ordination dinners;

Ef any on 'em turned an' snapped, I let 'em kin' o' taste

My live-oak leg, an' so, ye see, ther' warn't no gret o' waste;

Fer they found out in quicker time than ef they'd ben to college

'T warn't heartier food than though 't wuz made out o' the tree o' knowl edge.

But I tell you my other leg hed larned wut pizon-nettle meant,

An' var'ous other usefle things, afore I reached a settlement,

An' all o' me thet wuz n't sore an' sendin' prickles thru me

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