Coz we du things in England, 't ain't for you
To git a notion you can du 'em tu:

I'm told you write in public prints: ef true, It's nateral you should know a thing or two." "Thet air 's an argymunt I can't endorse, 't would prove, coz you wear spurs, you kep' a horse :

For brains," sez I, "wutever you may think, Ain't boun' to cash the drafs o' pen-an'-ink, Though mos' folks write ez ef they hoped jes'

quickenin'

The churn would argoo skim-milk into thickenin';
But skim-milk ain't a thing to change its view
O' wut it's meant for more 'n a smoky flue.
But du pray tell me, 'fore we furder go,
How in all Natur' did you come to know
'bout our affairs," sez I, "in Kingdom-Come?"-
"Wal, I worked round at sperrit-rappin' some,
An' danced the tables till their legs wuz gone,
In hopes o' larnin' wut wuz goin' on,"
Sez he, "but mejums lie so like all-split
Thet I concluded it wuz best to quit.

But, come now, ef you wun't confess to knowin', You've some conjectures how the thing's a-goin'."

"Gran'ther," sez I, "a vane warn't never known
Nor asked to hev a jedgment of its own;
An' yit, ef 't ain't gut rusty in the jints,
It's safe to trust its say on certin pints:
It knows the wind's opinions to a T,

An' the wind settles wut the weather 'll be." "I never thought a scion of our stock

Could grow the wood to make a weather-cock ; When I wuz younger 'n you, skurce more 'n a shaver,

No airthly wind," sez he, "could make me waver!"

(Ez he said this, he clinched his jaw an' fore

head,

Hitchin' his belt to bring his sword-hilt for

rard.)

"Jes' so it wuz with me," sez I, "I swow,

When I wuz younger 'n wut you see me now,
Nothin' from Adam's fall to Huldy's bonnet,
Thet I warn't full-cocked with my jedgment on
it;

But now I'm gittin' on in life, I find

It's a sight harder to make up my mind,
Nor I don't often try tu, when events
Will du it for me free of all expense.
The moral question 's ollus plain enough, -
It's jes' the human-natur' side thet's tough;
Wut's best to think may n't puzzle me nor

The pinch comes in decidin' wut to du ;

Ef
you read History, all runs smooth ez grease,
Coz there the men ain't nothin' more 'n idees,
But come to make it, ez we must to-day,
Th' idees hev arms an' legs an' stop the way:
It's easy fixin things in facts an' figgers,

They can't resist, nor warn't brought up with

niggers;

But come to try your the'ry on,

why, then

Your facts an' figgers change to ign'ant men
Actin' ez ugly "Smite 'em hip an' thigh!"
Sez gran❜ther," and let every man-child die!
Oh for three weeks o' Crommle an' the Lord!
Up, Isr❜el, to your tents an' grind the sword!".
"Thet kind o' thing worked wal in ole Judee,
But you forgit how long it's ben A. D.;

You think thet 's ellerkence, I call it shoddy,
A thing," sez I, "wun't cover soul nor body;
I like the plain all-wool o' common-sense,
Thet warms ye now, an' will a twelvemonth
hence.

You took to follerin' where the Prophets beckoned,

An', fust

you knowed on, back come Charles the Second;

Now wut I want 's to hev all we gain stick,
An' not to start Millennium too quick;
We hain't to punish only, but to keep,
An' the cure 's gut to go a cent'ry deep."
"Wal, milk-an' water ain't the best o' glue,"
Sez he, "an' so you'll find before you 're thru ;
Ef reshness venters sunthin', shilly-shally
Loses ez often wut 's ten times the vally.

Thet exe of ourn, when Charles's neck gut split,
Opened a gap thet ain't bridged over yit:

Slav'ry's your Charles, the Lord hez gin the

"Our Charles," sez I, "hez gut eight million

necks.

The hardest question ain't the black man's right,
The trouble is to 'mancipate the white;
One 's chained in body an' can be sot free,
But t'other's chained in soul to an idee :
It's a long job, but we shall worry thru it;
Ef bag'nets fail, the spellin'-book must du it.”
"Hosee," sez he, "I think you're goin' to fail :
The rettlesnake ain't dangerous in the tail;
This 'ere rebellion 's nothin' but the rettle,
You'll stomp on thet an' think you've won the
bettle;

It's Slavery thet's the fangs an' thinkin' head,
An' ef you want selvation, cresh it dead,

An' cresh it suddin, or you 'll larn by waitin'
Thet Chance wun't stop to listen to debatin'!"
"God's truth!" sez I, "an' ef I held the club,

An' knowed jes' where

the rub!"

to strike, but there's

"Strike soon," sez he, 66 or you 'll be deadly

ailin',

-

Folks thet 's afeared to fail are sure o' failin';
God hates your sneakin' creturs thet believe
He'll settle things they run away an' leave!
He brought his foot down fercely, ez he spoke,
An' give me sech a startle thet I woke.

and will to firs

No. VII.

LATEST VIEWS OF MR. BIGLOW.

PRELIMINARY NOTE.

[IT is with feelings of the liveliest pain that we inform our readers of the death of the Reverend Homer Wilbur, A. M., which took place suddenly, by an apoplectic stroke, on the afternoon of Christmas day, 1862. Our venerable friend (for so we may venture to call him, though we never enjoyed the high privilege of his personal acquaintance) was in his eighty-fourth year, having been born June 12, 1779, at Pigsgusset Precinct (now West Jerusha) in the then District of Maine. Graduated with distinction at Hubville College in 1805, he pursued his theological studies with the late Reverend Preserved Thacker, D. D., and was called to the charge of the First Society in Jaalam in 1809, where he remained till his death.

"As an antiquary he has probably left no