The Biglow Papers | Page 9

seen no more.... Of "Rev. Homer Wilbur,
A. M., Pastor of the First Church in Jaalam," we have small care to
speak here. Spare touch in him of his Melesigenes namesake, save,
haply, the--blindness! A tolerably caliginose, nephelegeretous elderly
gentleman, with infinite faculty of sermonizing, muscularized by long
practice, and excellent digestive apparatus, and, for the rest,
well-meaning enough, and with small private illuminations (somewhat
tallowy, it is to be feared) of his own. To him, there, "Pastor of the First
Church in Jaalam," our Hosea presents himself as a quiet inexplicable
Sphinx-riddle. A rich, poverty of Latin and Greek,--so far is clear
enough, even to eyes peering myopic through horn-lensed editorial
spectacles,--but naught farther? O purblind, well-meaning, altogether
fuscous Melesigenes-Wilbur, there are things in him incommunicable
by stroke of birch! Did it ever enter that old bewildered head of thine
that there was the Possibility of the Infinite in him? To thee, quite
wingless (and even featherless) biped, has not so much even as a dream
of wings ever come? "Talented young parishioner"? Among the Arts
whereof thou art Magister, does that of seeing happen to be one?
Unhappy Artium Magister! Somehow a Nemean lion, fulvous,
torrid-eyed, dry-nursed in broad-howling sand-wildernesses of a
sufficiently rare spirit-Libya (it may be supposed) has got whelped
among the sheep. Already he stands wild-glaring, with feet clutching
the ground as with oak-roots, gathering for a Remus-spring over the
walls of thy little fold. In Heaven's name, go not near him with that
flybite crook of thine! In good time, thou painful preacher, thou wilt go
to the appointed place of departed Artillery-Election Sermons,
Right-Hands of Fellowship, and Results of Councils, gathered to thy
spiritual fathers with much Latin of the Epitaphial sort; thou, too, shalt
have thy reward; but on him the Eumenides have looked, not Xantippes
of the pit, snake-tressed, finger-threatening, but radiantly calm as on
antique gems; for him paws impatient the winged courser of the gods,
champing unwelcome bit: him the starry deeps, the empyrean glooms,
and far-flashing splendors await.
* * * * *
From the Onion Grove Ph[oe]nix.

A talented young townsman of ours, recently returned from a
Continental tour, and who is already favourably known to our readers
by his sprightly letters from abroad which have graced our columns,
called at our office yesterday. We learn from him, that, having enjoyed
the distinguished privilege, while in Germany, of an introduction to the
celebrated Von Humbug, he took the opportunity to present that
eminent man with a copy of the "Biglow Papers." The next morning he
received the following note, which he has kindly furnished us for
publication. We prefer to print verbatim, knowing that our readers will
readily forgive the few errors into which the illustrious writer has fallen,
through ignorance of our language.
"HIGH-WORTHY MISTER!
"I shall also now especially happy starve, because I have more or less a
work of one those aboriginal Red-Men seen in which have I so deaf an
interest ever taken fullworthy on the self shelf with our Gottsched to be
upset.
"Pardon my in the English-speech unpractice!
"VON HUMBUG."
He also sent with the above note a copy of his famous work on
"Cosmetics," to be presented to Mr. Biglow; but this was taken from
our friend by the English custom-house officers, probably through a
petty national spite. No doubt, it has by this time found its way into the
British Museum. We trust this outrage will be exposed in all our
American papers. We shall do our best to bring it to the notice of the
State Department. Our numerous readers will share in the pleasure we
experience at seeing our young and vigorous national literature thus
encouragingly patted on the head by this venerable and
world-renowned German. We love to see these reciprocations of
good-feeling between the different branches of the great Anglo-Saxon
race.
* * * * *

From the Jaalam Independent Blunderbuss.
... But, while we lament to see our young townsman thus mingling in
the heated contests of party politics, we think we detect in him the
presence of talents which, if properly directed, might give an innocent
pleasure to many. As a proof that he is competent to the production of
other kinds of poetry, we copy for our readers a short fragment of a
pastoral by him, the manuscript of which was loaned us by a friend.
The title of it is "The Courtin'."
Zekle crep' up, quite unbeknown, An' peeked in thru the winder, An'
there sot Huldy all alone, 'ith no one nigh to hender.
Agin' the chimbly crooknecks hung, An' in amongst 'em rusted The ole
queen's arm thet gran'ther Young Fetched back frum Concord busted.
The wannut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her! An'
leetle fires danced all