secure." _Job_ 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?" _Job_ 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 said 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 quadam
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 obedient servant,

HOMER WILBUR, A.M.

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 pea-time'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