has thrown a little more of pastoral sentiment than usual,) some passages from my sermon on the day of the National Fast, from the text, "Remember them that are in bonds, as bound with them," Heb. xiii. 3. But I have not leisure sufficient at present for the copying of them, even were I altogether satisfied with the production as it stands. I should prefer, I confess, to contribute the entire discourse to the pages of your respectable miscellany, if it should be found acceptable upon perusal, especially as I find the difficulty of selection of greater magnitude than I had anticipated. What passes without challenge in the fervour of oral delivery, cannot always stand the colder criticism of the closet. I am not so great an enemy of Eloquence as my friend Mr. Biglow would appear to be from some passages in his contribution for the current month. I would not, indeed, hastily suspect him of covertly glancing at myself in his somewhat caustick animadversions, albeit some of the phrases he girds at are not entire strangers to my lips. I am a more hearty admirer of the Puritans than seems now to be the fashion, and believe, that, if they Hebraized a little too much in their speech, they showed remarkable practical sagacity as statesmen and founders. But such phenomena as Puritanism are the results rather of great religious than merely social convulsions, and do not long survive them. So soon as an earnest conviction has cooled into a phrase, its work is over, and the best that can be done with it is to bury it. Ite, missa est. I am inclined to agree with Mr. Biglow that we cannot settle the great political questions which are now presenting themselves to the nation by the opinions of Jeremiah or Ezekiel as to the wants and duties of the Jews in their time, nor do I believe that an entire community with their feelings and views would be practicable or even agreeable at the present day. At the same time I could wish that their habit of subordinating the actual to the moral, the flesh to the spirit, and this

O' the spare chamber, slinks into the shed,

Where, dim with dust, it fust or last subsides

To holdin' seeds an' fifty things besides;

But better days stick fast in heart an' husk,

An' all you keep in 't gits a scent o' musk.

Jes' so with poets: wut they've airly read

Gits kind o' worked into their heart an' head,

So's 't they can't seem to write but jest on sheers

With furrin countries or played-out ideers,

Nor hev a feelin', ef it doos n't smack O' wut some critter chose to feel 'way back:

This makes 'em talk o' daisies, larks, an' things,

Ez though we'd nothin' here that blows an' sings,

(Why, I'd give more for one live bobolink

Than a square mile o' larks in printer's ink,)

Then all the waters bow themselves an' come,

Suddin, in one gret slope o' shedderin' foam,

Jes' so our Spring gits everythin' in

tune

An' gives one leap from April into June: Then all comes crowdin' in; afore you think,

Young oak-leaves mist the side-hi" woods with pink;

The catbird in the laylock-bush is loud; The orchards turn to heaps o' rosy cloud;

Red-cedars blossom tu, though few folks know it,

An' look all dipt in sunshine like a poet;

The lime-trees pile their solid stacks ' shade

An' drows'ly simmer with the bees' sweet trade;

In ellum-shrouds the flashin' hangbird clings

An' for the summer vy'ge his hammock slings;

All down the loose-walled lanes in

We're curus critters: Now ain't jes' the minute

Thet ever fits us easy while we 're in it:

Long ez 't wuz futur', 't would be perfect bliss,

Soon ez it's past, thet time 's wuth ten o' this:

An' yit there ain't a man thet need be told

Thet Now's the only bird lays eggs o' gold.

A knee-high lad, I used to plot an' plan An' think 't wuz life's cap-sheaf to be a

Thet I sot out to tramp myself in tune, I found me in the school'us' on my seat,

Drummin' the march to No-wheres with my feet.

Thinkin' o' nothin', I've heerd ole folks say

Is a hard kind o' dooty in its way:
It's thinkin' everythin' you ever knew,
Or ever hearn, to make your feelin's
blue.

I sot there tryin' thet on for a spell :
I thought o' the Rebellion, then o'
Hell,

Which some folks tell ye now is jest a metterfor

(A the'ry, p'raps, it wun't feel none the better for);

I thought o' Reconstruction, wut we'd