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 of 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 world to the other, were more common.
They had found out, at least, the great military secret that soul weighs
more than body.--But I am suddenly called to a sick-bed in the household
of a valued parishioner.

With esteem and respect,

Your obedient servant,

HOMER WILBUR.

Once git a smell o' musk into a draw,
An' it clings hold like precerdents in law:
Your gra'ma'am put it there,--when, goodness knows,--
To jes' this-worldify her Sunday-clo'es;
But the old chist wun't sarve her gran'son's wife,
(For, 'thout new funnitoor, wut good in life?)
An' so ole clawfoot, from the precinks dread
O' the spare chamber, slinks into the shed,
Where, dim with dust, it fust or last subsides
To holdin' seeds an' fifty things besides; 10
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 doosn'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,-- 20
(Why, I'd give more for one live bobolink
Than a square mile o' larks in printer's ink,)--
This makes 'em think our fust o' May is May,
Which 'tain't, for all the almanicks can say.

O little city-gals, don't never go it
Blind on